“What if I’m asleep? Could the necklace consume all my energy before I was aware of it?”

“Nay. It will wake you.”

Eragon rolled the hammer between his fingers. It was difficult to avert another’s spells, least of all Galbatorix’s.If Gannel is so accomplished, what other enchantments might be hidden in his gift? He noticed a line of runes cut along the hammer’s haft. They spelledAstim Hefthyn. The stairs ended as he asked, “Why do dwarves write with the same runes as humans?”

For the first time since they met, Gannel laughed, his voice booming through the temple as his large shoulders shook. “It is the other way around; humans write withour runes. When your ancestors landed in Alagaësia, they were as illiterate as rabbits. However, they soon adopted our alphabet and matched it tothis language. Some of your words even come from us, likefather, which was originallyfarthen. ”

“So then Farthen Dûr means . . . ?” Eragon slipped the necklace over his head and tucked it under his tunic.

“Our Father.”

Stopping at a door, Gannel ushered Eragon through to a curved gallery located directly below the cupola. The passageway banded Celbedeil, providing a view through the open archways of the mountains behind Tarnag, as well as the terraced city far below.

Eragon barely glanced at the landscape, for the gallery’s inner wall was covered with a single continuous painting, a gigantic narrative band that began with a depiction of the dwarves’ creation under Helzvog’s hand. The figures and objects stood in relief from the surface, giving the panorama a feeling of hyperrealism with its saturated, glowing colors and minute detail.

Captivated, Eragon asked, “How was this made?”

“Each scene is carved out of small plates of marble, which are fired with enamel, then fitted into a single piece.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to use regular paint?”

“It would,” said Gannel, “but not if we wanted it to endure centuries—millennia—without change. Enamel never fades or loses its brilliancy, unlike oil paint. This first section was carved only a decade after the discovery of Farthen Dûr, well before elves set foot on Alagaësia.”

The priest took Eragon by the arm and guided him along the tableau. Each step carried them through uncounted years of history.

Eragon saw how the dwarves were once nomads on a seemingly endless plain, until the land grew so hot and desolate they were forced to migrate south to the Beor Mountains.That was how the Hadarac Desert was formed, he realized, amazed.

As they proceeded down the mural, heading toward the back of Celbedeil, Eragon witnessed everything from the domestication of Feldûnost to the carving of Isidar Mithrim, the first meeting between dwarves and elves, and the coronation of each new dwarf king. Dragons frequently appeared, burning and slaughtering. Eragon had difficulty restraining comment during those sections.

His steps slowed as the painting shifted to the event he had hoped to find: the war between elves and dragons. Here the dwarves had devoted a vast amount of space to the destruction wreaked upon Alagaësia by the two races. Eragon shuddered with horror at the sight of elves and dragons killing each other. The battles continued for yards, each image more bloody than the last, until the darkness lifted and a young elf was shown kneeling on the edge of a cliff, holding a white dragon egg.

“Is that . . . ?” whispered Eragon.

“Aye, it’s Eragon, the First Rider. It’s a good likeness too, as he agreed to sit for our artisans.”

Drawn forward by his fascination, Eragon studied the face of his namesake.I always imagined him older. The elf had angled eyes that peered down a hooked nose and narrow chin, giving him a fierce appearance. It was an alien face, completely different from his own . . . and yet the set of his shoulders, high and tense, reminded Eragon of how he had felt upon finding Saphira’s egg.We’re not so different, you and I, he thought, touching the cool enamel.And once my ears match yours, we shall truly be brothers through time. . . . I wonder, would you approve of my actions? He knew they had made at least one identical choice; they had both kept the egg.

He heard a door open and close and turned to see Arya approaching from the far end of the gallery. She scanned the wall with the same blank expression Eragon had seen her use when confronting the Council of Elders. Whatever her specific emotions, he sensed that she found the situation distasteful.

Arya inclined her head. “Grimstborith.”

“Arya.”

“You have been educating Eragon in your mythology?”

Gannel smiled flatly. “One should always understand the faith of the society that one belongs to.”

“Yet comprehension does not imply belief.” She fingered the pillar of an archway. “Nor does it mean that those who purvey such beliefs do so for more than . . . material gain.”

“You would deny the sacrifices my clan makes to bring comfort to our brethren?”

“I deny nothing, only ask what good might be accomplished if your wealth were spread among the needy, the starving, the homeless, or even to buy supplies for the Varden. Instead, you’ve piled it into a monument to your own wishful thinking.”

“Enough!” The dwarf clenched his fists, his face mottled. “Without us, the crops would wither in drought. Rivers and lakes would flood. Our flocks would give birth to one-eyed beasts. The very heavens would shatter under the gods’ rage!” Arya smiled. “Onlyour prayers and service prevent that from happening. If not for Helzvog, where—”