“And you won’t do it again?”

He suppressed a humorless laugh. “It wouldn’t get me anywhere if I did, now would it?” When she remained silent, he said, “No matter. I don’t want to trouble you, even if you—” He bit off the end of his sentence before he made a remark he knew he would regret.

Arya’s expression softened. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Eragon. You must understand that.”

“I understand,” he said, but without conviction.

An awkward pause stretched between them. “Your flight went well, I trust?”

“Well enough.”

“You encountered no difficulty in the desert?”

“Should we have?”

“No. I only wondered.” Then, in an even gentler voice, Arya asked, “What of you, Eragon? How have you been since the celebration? I heard what you said to Nasuada, but you mentioned nothing other than your back.”

“I . . .” He tried to lie—not wanting her to know how much he had missed her—but the ancient language stopped the words dead in his mouth and rendered him mute. Finally, he resorted to a technique of the elves: telling only part of the truth in order to create an impression opposite the whole truth. “I’m better than before,” he said, meaning, in his mind, the condition of his back.

Despite his subterfuge, Arya appeared unconvinced. She did not press him on the subject, though, but rather said, “I am glad.” Nasuada’s voice emanated from inside the pavilion, and Arya glanced toward it before facing him again. “I am needed elsewhere, Eragon. . . . We are both needed elsewhere. A battle is about to take place.” Lifting the canvas flap, she stepped halfway into the gloomy tent, then hesitated and added, “Take care, Eragon Shadeslayer.”

Then she was gone.

Dismay rooted Eragon in place. He had accomplished what he wanted to, but it seemed to have changed nothing between him and Arya. He balled his hands into fists and hunched his shoulders and glared at the ground without seeing it, simmering with frustration.

He started when Saphira nosed him on the shoulder.Come on, little one, she said gently.You can’t stay here forever, and this saddle is beginning to itch .

Going to her side, Eragon pulled on her neck strap, muttering under his breath when it caught in the buckle. He almost hoped the leather would break. Undoing the rest of the straps, he let the saddle and everything tied to it fall to the ground in a jumbled heap.It feels good to have that off, said Saphira, rolling her massive shoulders.

Digging his armor out of the saddlebags, Eragon outfitted himself in the bright dress of war. First he pulled his hauberk over his elven tunic, then strapped his chased greaves to his legs and his inlaid bracers to his forearms. On his head went his padded leather cap, followed by his coif of tempered steel and then his gold and silver helm. Last of all, he replaced his regular gloves with his mail-backed gauntlets.

Zar’roc he hung on his left hip using the belt of Beloth the Wise. Across his back, he placed the quiver of white swan feathers Islanzadí had given him. The quiver, he was pleased to find, could also hold the bow the elf queen had sung for him, even when it was strung.

After depositing his and Orik’s belongings into the pavilion, Eragon and Saphira set out together to find Trianna, the current leader of Du Vrangr Gata. They had gone no more than a few paces when Eragon sensed a nearby mind that was shielded from his view. Assuming that it was one of the Varden’s magicians, they veered toward it.

Twelve yards from their starting point, they came upon a small green tent with a donkey picketed in front. To the left of the tent, a blackened iron cauldron hung from a metal tripod placed over one of the malodorous flames birthed deep within the earth. Cords were strung about the cauldron, over which were draped nightshade, hemlock, rhododendron, savin, bark of the yew tree, and numerous mushrooms, such as death cap and spotted cort, all of which Eragon recognized from Oromis’s lessons on poison. And standing next to the cauldron, wielding a long wood paddle with which she stirred the brew, was Angela the herbalist. At her feet sat Solembum.

The werecat uttered a mournful meow, and Angela looked up from her task, her corkscrew hair forming a billowing thundercloud around her glistening face. She frowned, and her expression became positively ghoulish, for it was lit from beneath by the flickering green flame. “So you’ve returned, eh!”

“We have,” said Eragon.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself? Have you seen Elva yet? Have you seen what you did to that poor girl?”

“Aye.”

“Aye!”cried Angela. “How inarticulate can a person be? All this time in Ellesméra being tutored by the elves, andaye is the best you can manage? Let me tell you something, blockhead: anyone who is stupid enough to do what you did deserves—”

Eragon clasped his hands behind his back and waited as Angela informed him, in many explicit, detailed, and highly inventive terms, exactly how great a blockhead he was; what kind of ancestors he must possess to be such a monumental blockhead—she even went so far as to insinuate that one of his grandparents had mated with an Urgal—and the quite hideous punishments he ought to receive for his idiocy. If anyone else had insulted him in that manner, Eragon would have challenged them to a duel, but he tolerated her spleen because he knew he could not judge her behavior by the same standards as he did others, and because he knew her outrage was justified; he had made a dreadful mistake.

When she finally paused for breath, he said, “You’re quite right, and I’m going to try to remove the spell once the battle is decided.”