With excruciating slowness, he looped Zar’roc over his head and brought it back down with both hands, as if to cleave an enemy’s helm. He held the pose for a second. Keeping his motion under complete control, he pivoted to the right—twisting Zar’roc’s point to parry an imaginary blow—then stopped with rigid arms.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eragon noticed Orik, Arya, and Thorv watching. He ignored them and focused only on the ruby blade in his hands; he held it as if it were a snake that could writhe out of his grip and bite his arm.

Turning again, he commenced a series of forms, flowing from one to another with disciplined ease as he gradually increased his speed. In his mind, he was no longer in the shadowy cove, but surrounded by a knot of ferocious Urgals and Kull. He ducked and slashed, parried, riposted, jumped to the side, and stabbed in a whirl of activity. He fought with mindless energy, as he had in Farthen Dûr, with no thought for the safety of his own flesh, dashing and tearing aside his imagined enemies.

He spun Zar’roc around—in an attempt to flip the hilt from one palm to another—then dropped the sword as a jagged line of pain bisected his back. He staggered and fell. Above him, he could hear Arya and the dwarves babbling, but all he saw was a constellation of sparkling red haze, like a bloody veil dropped over the world. No sensation existed other than pain. It blotted out thought and reason, leaving only a feral animal that screamed for release.

When Eragon recovered enough to notice his whereabouts, he found that he had been placed inside his tent and wrapped tightly with blankets. Arya sat beside him, while Saphira’s head stuck through the entrance flaps.

Was I out long?asked Eragon.

A while. You slept a little at the end. I tried to draw you from your body into mine and shield you from the pain, but I could do little with you unconscious.

Eragon nodded and closed his eyes. His entire body throbbed. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at Arya and quietly asked, “How can I train? . . . How can I fight, or use magic? . . . I am a broken vessel.” His face felt heavy with age as he spoke.

She answered just as softly: “You can sit and watch. You can listen. You can read. And you can learn.”

Despite her words, he heard a hitch of uncertainty, even fear, in her voice. He rolled onto his side to avoid meeting her eyes. It shamed him to appear so helpless before her. “How did the Shade do this to me?”

“I have no answers, Eragon. I am neither the wisest nor the strongest elf. We all do our best, and you cannot be blamed for it. Perhaps time will heal your wound.” Arya pressed her fingers to his brow and murmured, “Sé mor’ranr ono finna,” then left the tent.

Eragon sat and winced as his cramped back muscles stretched. He stared at his hands without seeing them.I wonder if Murtagh’s scar ever pained him like mine does.

I don’t know,said Saphira.

A dead silence followed. Then:I’m afraid.

Why?

Because . . .He hesitated.Because nothing I do will prevent another attack. I don’t know when or where it will happen, but I do know that it’s inevitable. So I wait, and every moment I fear that if I lift something too heavy or stretch in the wrong way, the pain will return. My own body has become the enemy.

Saphira hummed deep in her throat.I have no answers either. Life is both pain and pleasure. If this is the price you must pay for the hours you enjoy, is it too much?

Yes,he snapped. He pulled off the blankets and shoved past her, stumbling into the center of the camp, where Arya and the dwarves sat around a fire. “Is there food left?” asked Eragon.

Dûthmér wordlessly filled a bowl and handed it to him. With a deferential expression, Thorv asked, “Are you better now, Shadeslayer?” He and the other dwarves seemed awed by what they had seen.

“I’m fine.”

“You bear a heavy burden, Shadeslayer.”

Eragon scowled and abruptly walked to the edge of the tents, where he seated himself in darkness. He could sense Saphira nearby, but she left him in peace. He swore under his breath and jabbed Dûthmér’s stew with dull anger.

Just as he took a bite, Orik said from beside him, “You should not treat them so.”

Eragon glared at Orik’s shadowed face. “What?”

“Thorv and his men were sent to protect you and Saphira. They will die for you if need be, and trust their sacred burial to you. You should remember that.”

Eragon bit back a sharp retort and gazed at the black surface of the river—always moving, never stopping—in an attempt to calm his mind. “You’re right. I let my temper get away from me.”

Orik’s teeth gleamed in the night as he smiled. “It’s a lesson that every commander must learn. I had it beaten into me by Hrothgar after I threw my boot at a dwarf who left his halberd where someone could step on it.”

“Did you hit him?”

“I broke his nose,” chuckled Orik.

Despite himself, Eragon laughed as well. “I’ll remember not to do that.” He held the bowl with both hands to keep them warm.

Eragon heard the jangle of metal as Orik extracted something from a pouch. “Here,” said the dwarf, dropping a knot of intertwined gold rings on Eragon’s palm. “It’s a puzzle we use to test cleverness and dexterity. There are eight bands. If you arrange them properly, they form a single ring. I’ve found it useful for distracting myself when I’m troubled.”

“Thank you,” murmured Eragon, already entranced by the complexity of the gleaming nest.