“With Arya’s return and your arrival, I expect the queen’s hostility will abate. The fact that you rescued Arya will greatly help our case with her. Your training, however, is going to present a problem for both Varden and elves. Brom obviously had a chance to teach you, but we need to know how thorough he was. For that reason, you’ll have to be tested to determine the extent of your abilities. Also, the elves will expect you to finish your training with them, though I’m not sure if there’s time for that.”

“Why not?” asked Eragon.

“For several reasons. Chief among them, the tidings you brought about the Urgals,” said Ajihad, his eyes straying to Saphira. “You see, Eragon, the Varden are in an extremely delicate position. On one hand, we have to comply with the elves’ wishes if we want to keep them as allies. At the same time, we cannot anger the dwarves if we wish to lodge in Tronjheim.”

“Aren’t the dwarves part of the Varden?” asked Eragon.

Ajihad hesitated. “In a sense, yes. They allow us to live here and provide assistance in our struggle against the Empire, but they are loyal only to their king. I have no power over them except for what Hrothgar gives me, and even he often has trouble with the dwarf clans. The thirteen clans are subservient to Hrothgar, but each clan chief wields enormous power; they choose the new dwarf king when the old one dies. Hrothgar is sympathetic to our cause, but many of the chiefs aren’t. He can’t afford to anger them unnecessarily or he’ll lose the support of his people, so his actions on our behalf have been severely circumscribed.”

“These clan chiefs,” said Eragon, “are they against me as well?”

“Even more so, I’m afraid,” said Ajihad wearily. “There has long been enmity between dwarves and dragons—before the elves came and made peace, dragons made a regular habit of eating the dwarves’ flocks and stealing their gold—and the dwarves are slow to forget past wrongs. Indeed, they never fully accepted the Riders or allowed them to police their kingdom. Galbatorix’s rise to power has only served to convince many of them that it would be better never to deal with Riders or dragons ever again.” He directed his last words at Saphira.

Eragon said slowly, “Why doesn’t Galbatorix know where Farthen Dûr and Ellesméra are? Surely he was told of them when he was instructed by the Riders.”

“Told of them, yes—shown where they are, no. It’s one thing to know that Farthen Dûr lies within these mountains, quite another to find it. Galbatorix hadn’t been taken to either place before his dragon was killed. After that, of course, the Riders didn’t trust him. He tried to force the information out of several Riders during his rebellion, but they chose to die rather than reveal it to him. As for the dwarves, he’s never managed to capture one alive, though it’s only a matter of time.”

“Then why doesn’t he just take an army and march through Du Weldenvarden until he finds Ellesméra?” asked Eragon.

“Because the elves still have enough power to resist him,” said Ajihad. “He doesn’t dare test his strength against theirs, at least not yet. But his cursed sorcery grows stronger each year. With another Rider at his side, he would be unstoppable. He keeps trying to get one of his two eggs to hatch, but so far he’s been unsuccessful.”

Eragon was puzzled. “How can his power be increasing? The strength of his body limits his abilities—it can’t build itself up forever.”

“We don’t know,” said Ajihad, shrugging his broad shoulders, “and neither do the elves. We can only hope that someday he will be destroyed by one of his own spells.” He reached inside his vest and somberly pulled out a battered piece of parchment. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, placing it on the desk.

Eragon bent forward and examined it. Lines of black script, written in an alien language, were inked across the page. Large sections of the writing had been destroyed by blots of blood. One edge of the parchment was charred. He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“It was taken from the leader of the Urgal host we destroyed last night. It cost us twelve men to do so—they sacrificed themselves so that you might escape safely. The writing is the king’s invention, a script he uses to communicate with his servants. It took me a while, but I was able to devise its meaning, at least where it’s legible. It reads:

. . . gatekeeper at Ithrö Zhâda is to let this bearer and his minions pass. They are to be bunked with the others of their kind and by . . . but only if the two factions refrain from fighting. Command will be given under Tarok, under Gashz, under Durza, under Ushnark the Mighty.

“Ushnark is Galbatorix. It means ‘father’ in the Urgal tongue, an affectation that pleases him.

Find what they are suitable for and . . . The footmen and . . . are to be kept separate. No weapons are to be distributed until . . . for marching.

“Nothing else can be read past there, except for a few vague words,” said Ajihad.

“Where’s Ithrö Zhâda? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Nor have I,” confirmed Ajihad, “which makes me suspect that Galbatorix has renamed an existing place for his own purposes. After deciphering this, I asked myself what hundreds of Urgals were doing by the Beor Mountains where you first saw them and where they were going. The parchment mentions ‘others of their kind,’ so I assume there are even more Urgals at their destination. There’s only one reason for the king to gather such a force—to forge a bastard army of humans and monsters to destroy us.