“I do.”

“Come.” Keeping his ale in hand, Gannel took Eragon from the sparring room and conveyed him through five grand corridors, stopping in the archway to a dim chamber hazy with incense. Facing them, the squat outline of a statue swelled ponderously from floor to ceiling, a faint light cast across the brooding dwarf face hacked with uncharacteristic crudeness from brown granite.

“Who is he?” asked Eragon, intimidated.

“Gûntera, King of the Gods. He is a warrior and a scholar, though fickle in his moods, so we burn offerings to assure his affection at the solstices, before sowing, and at deaths and births.” Gannel twisted his hand in a strange gesture and bowed to the statue. “It is to him we pray before battles, for he molded this land from the bones of a giant and gives the world its order. All realms are Gûntera’s.”

Then Gannel instructed Eragon how to properly venerate the god, explaining the signs and words that were used for homage. He elucidated the meaning of the incense—how it symbolized life and happiness—and spent long minutes recounting legends about Gûntera, how the god was born fully formed to a she-wolf at the dawn of stars, how he had battled monsters and giants to win a place for his kin in Alagaësia, and how he had taken Kílf, the goddess of rivers and the sea, as his mate.

Next they went to Kílf’s statue, which was carved with exquisite delicacy out of pale blue stone. Her hair flew back in liquid ripples, rolling down her neck and framing merry amethyst eyes. In her hands, she cupped a water lily and a chunk of porous red rock that Eragon did not recognize.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing.

“Coral taken from deep within the sea that borders the Beors.”

“Coral?”

Gannel took a draught of ale, then said, “Our divers found it while searching for pearls. It seems that, in brine, certain stones grow like plants.”

Eragon stared with wonder. He had never thought of pebbles or boulders as alive, yet here was proof that all they needed was water and salt to flourish. It finally explained how rocks had continued to appear in their fields in Palancar Valley, even after the soil had been combed clean each spring.They grew!

They proceeded to Urûr, master of the air and heavens, and his brother Morgothal, god of fire. At the carmine statue of Morgothal, the priest told how the brothers loved each other so much, neither could exist independently. Thus, Morgothal’s burning palace in the sky during the day, and the sparks from his forge that appeared overhead every night. And also thus, how Urûr constantly fed his sibling so he would not die.

Only two more gods were left after that: Sindri—mother of the earth—and Helzvog.

Helzvog’s statue was different from the rest. The nude god was bowed in half over a dwarf-sized lump of gray flint, caressing it with the tip of his forefinger. The muscles of his back bunched and knotted with inhuman strain, yet his expression was incredibly tender, as if a newborn child lay before him.

Gannel’s voice dropped to a low rasp: “Gûntera may be King of the Gods, but it is Helzvog who holds our hearts. It was he who felt that the land should be peopled after the giants were vanquished. The other gods disagreed, but Helzvog ignored them and, in secret, formed the first dwarf from the roots of a mountain.

“When his deed was discovered, jealousy swept the gods and Gûntera created elves to control Alagaësia for himself. Then Sindri brought forth humans from the soil, and Urûr and Morgothal combined their knowledge and released dragons into the land. Only Kílf restrained herself. So the first races entered this world.”

Eragon absorbed Gannel’s words, accepting the clan chief’s sincerity but unable to quell a simple question:How does he know? Eragon sensed that it would be an awkward query, however, and merely nodded as he listened.

“This,” said Gannel, finishing the last of his ale, “leads to our most important rite, which I know Orik has discussed with you. . . . All dwarves must be buried in stone, else our spirits will never join Helzvog in his hall. We are not of earth, air, or fire, but ofstone. And as Ingeitum, it is your responsibility to assure a proper resting place for any dwarf who may die in your company. If you fail—in the absence of injury or enemies—Hrothgar will exile you, and no dwarf will acknowledge your presence until after your death.” He straightened his shoulders, staring hard at Eragon. “You have much more to learn, yet uphold the customs I outlined today and you will do well.”

“I won’t forget,” said Eragon.

Satisfied, Gannel led him away from the statues and up a winding staircase. As they climbed, the clan chief dipped a hand into his robe and withdrew a simple necklace, a chain threaded through the pommel of a miniature silver hammer. He gave it to Eragon.

“This is another favor Hrothgar asked of me,” Gannel explained. “He worries that Galbatorix may have gleaned an image of you from the minds of Durza, the Ra’zac, or any number of soldiers who saw you throughout the Empire.”

“Why should I fear that?”

“Because then Galbatorix could scry you. Perhaps he already has.”

A shiver of apprehension wormed down Eragon’s side, like an icy snake.I should have thought of that, he berated himself.

“The necklace will prevent anyone from scrying you or your dragon, as long as you wear it. I placed the spell myself, so it should hold before even the strongest mind. But be forewarned, when activated, the necklace will draw upon your strength until you either take it off or the danger has passed.”