“I’m sure you’re right,” he said, humoring her. Through his ever-present link with Saphira, he sensed her approval of the phrase “a thunder of dragons,” an opinion he shared; it was a fitting description.

He thought for a moment longer, then asked, “And why did Garzhvog call you Uluthrek?”

“It is the title the Urgals gave me long, long ago, when I traveled among them.”

“What does it mean?”

“Mooneater.”

“Mooneater? What a strange name. How did you come by it?”

“I ate the moon, of course. How else?”

Eragon frowned and concentrated on petting the werecat for a minute. Then: “Why did Garzhvog give you that stone?”

“Because I told him a story. I thought that was obvious.”

“But what is it?”

“A piece of rock. Didn’t you notice?” She clucked with disapproval. “Really, you ought to pay better attention to what’s going on around you. Otherwise, someone’s liable to stick a knife in you when you’re not looking. And then whom would I exchange cryptic remarks with?” She tossed her hair. “Go on, ask me another question. I’m rather enjoying this game.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her and, although he was certain it was pointless, he said, “Cheep cheep?”

The herbalist brayed with laughter, and some of the werecats opened their mouths in what appeared to be toothy smiles. However, Shadowhunter seemed displeased, for she dug her claws into Eragon’s legs, making him wince.

“Well,” said Angela, still laughing, “if you must have answers, that’s as good a story as any. Let’s see.… Several years ago, when I was traveling along the edge of Du Weldenvarden, way out to the west, miles and miles from any city, town, or village, I happened upon Grimrr. At the time, he was only the leader of a small tribe of werecats, and he still had full use of both his paws. Anyway, I found him toying with a fledgling robin that had fallen out of its nest in a nearby tree. I wouldn’t have minded if he had just killed the bird and eaten it—that’s what cats are supposed to do, after all—but he was torturing the poor thing: pulling on its wings; nibbling its tail; letting it hop away, then knocking it over.” Angela wrinkled her nose with distaste. “I told him that he ought to stop, but he only growled and ignored me.” She fixed Eragon with a stern gaze. “I don’t like it when people ignore me. So, I took the bird away from him, and I wiggled my fingers and cast a spell, and for the next week, whenever he opened his mouth, he chirped like a songbird.”

“He chirped?”

Angela nodded, beaming with suppressed mirth. “I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. None of the other werecats would go anywhere near him for the whole week.”

“No wonder he hates you.”

“What of it? If you don’t make a few enemies every now and then, you’re a coward—or worse. Besides, it was worth it to see his reaction. Oh, he was angry!”

Shadowhunter uttered a soft warning growl and tightened her claws again.

Grimacing, Eragon said, “Maybe it would be best to change the subject?”

“Mmm.”

Before he could suggest a new topic, a loud scream rang out from somewhere in the middle of the camp. The cry echoed three times over the rows of tents before fading into silence.

Eragon looked at Angela, and she at him, and then they both began to laugh.

RUMORS AND WRITING

t’s late, said Saphira as Eragon sauntered toward his tent, beside which she lay coiled, sparkling like a mound of azure coals in the dim light of the torches. She regarded him with a single, heavy-lidded eye.

He crouched by her head and pressed his brow against hers for several moments, hugging her spiky jaw. So it is, he said at last. And you need your rest after flying into the wind all day. Sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.

She blinked once in acknowledgment.

Inside his tent, Eragon lit a single candle for comfort. Then he pulled off his boots and sat on his cot with his legs folded under him. He slowed his breathing and allowed his mind to open and expand outward to touch all of the living things around him, from the worms and the insects in the ground to Saphira and the warriors of the Varden, and even the few remaining plants nearby, the energy from which was pale and hard to see compared with the burning brilliance of even the smallest animal.

For a long while, he sat there, empty of thoughts, aware of a thousand sensations, the sharp and the subtle, concentrating on nothing but the steady inflow and outflow of air in his lungs.

Off in the distance, he heard men talking as they stood around a watchfire. The night air carried their voices farther than they intended, far enough that his keen ears were able to make out their words. He could sense their minds as well, and he could have read their thoughts had he wanted, but instead he chose to respect their innermost privacy and merely listen.

A deep-voiced fellow was saying, “—and the way they stare down their noses at you, as if you’re the lowest of the low. Half the time they won’t even talk to you when you ask them a friendly question. They just turn their shoulder and walk away.”

“Aye,” said another man. “And their women—as beautiful as statues and about half as inviting.”

“That’s because you’re a right ugly bastard, Svern, that’s why.”

“It’s not my fault my father had a habit of seducing milkmaids wherever he went. Besides, you’re hardly one to point fingers; you could give children nightmares with that face of yours.”