“Why do you want to travel with me?” asked Eragon.

A cloud of smoke left Brom’s lips and spiraled up through the trees until it disappeared. “I have a vested interest in keeping you alive,” he said.

“What do you mean?” demanded Eragon.

“To put it bluntly, I’m a storyteller and I happen to think that you will make a fine story. You’re the first Rider to exist outside of the king’s control for over a hundred years. What will happen? Will you perish as a martyr? Will you join the Varden? Or will you kill King Galbatorix? All fascinating questions. And I will be there to see every bit of it, no matter what I have to do.”

A knot formed in Eragon’s stomach. He could not see himself doing any of those things, least of all becoming a martyr.I want my vengeance, but for the rest . . . I have no ambition. “That may be, but tell me, how can you talk with Saphira?”

Brom took his time putting more tobacco in his pipe. Once it was relit and firmly in his mouth, he said, “Very well, if it’s answers you want, it’s answers you’ll get, but they may not be to your liking.” He got up, brought his pack over to the fire, and pulled out a long object wrapped in cloth. It was about five feet long and, from the way he handled it, rather heavy.

He peeled away the cloth, strip by strip, like a mummy being unswathed. Eragon gazed, transfixed, as a sword was revealed. The gold pommel was teardrop shaped with the sides cut away to reveal a ruby the size of a small egg. The hilt was wrapped in silver wire, burnished until it gleamed like starlight. The sheath was wine red and smooth as glass, adorned solely by a strange black symbol etched into it. Next to the sword was a leather belt with a heavy buckle. The last strip fell away, and Brom passed the weapon to Eragon.

The handle fit Eragon’s hand as if it had been made for him. He slowly drew the sword; it slid soundlessly from the sheath. The flat blade was iridescent red and shimmered in the firelight. The keen edges curved gracefully to a sharp point. A duplicate of the black symbol was inscribed on the metal. The balance of the sword was perfect; it felt like an extension of his arm, unlike the rude farm tools he was used to. An air of power lay over it, as if an unstoppable force resided in its core. It had been created for the violent convulsions of battle, to end men’s lives, yet it held a terrible beauty.

“This was once a Rider’s blade,” said Brom gravely. “When a Rider finished his training, the elves would present him with a sword. Their methods of forging have always remained secret. However, their swords are eternally sharp and will never stain. The custom was to have the blade’s color match that of the Rider’s dragon, but I think we can make an exception in this case. This sword is named Zar’roc. I don’t know what it means, probably something personal to the Rider who owned it.” He watched Eragon swing the sword.

“Where did you get it?” asked Eragon. He reluctantly slipped the blade back into the sheath and attempted to hand the sword back, but Brom made no move to take it.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Brom. “I will only say that it took me a series of nasty and dangerous adventures to attain it. Consider it yours. You have more of a claim to it than I do, and before all is done, I think you will need it.”

The offer caught Eragon off guard. “It is a princely gift, thank you.” Unsure of what else to say, he slid his hand down the sheath. “What is this symbol?” he asked.

“That was the Rider’s personal crest.” Eragon tried to interrupt, but Brom glared at him until he was quiet. “Now, if you must know, anyone can learn how to speak to a dragon if they have the proper training. And,” he raised a finger for emphasis, “it doesn’t mean anything if they can. I know more about the dragons and their abilities than almost anyone else alive. On your own it might take years to learn what I can teach you. I’m offering my knowledge as a shortcut. As for how I know so much, I will keepthat to myself.”

Saphira pulled herself up as he finished speaking and prowled over to Eragon. He pulled out the blade and showed her the sword.It has power, she said, touching the point with her nose. The metal’s iridescent color rippled like water as it met her scales. She lifted her head with a satisfied snort, and the sword resumed its normal appearance. Eragon sheathed it, troubled.

Brom raised an eyebrow. “That’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. Dragons will constantly amaze you. Things . . . happen around them, mysterious things that are impossible anywhere else. Even though the Riders worked with dragons for centuries, they never completely understood their abilities. Some say that even the dragons don’t know the full extent of their own powers. They are linked with this land in a way that lets them overcome great obstacles. What Saphira just did illustrates my earlier point: there is much you don’t know.”

There was a long pause. “That may be,” said Eragon, “but I can learn. And the strangers are the most important thing I need to know about right now. Do you have any idea who they are?”

Brom took a deep breath. “They are called the Ra’zac. No one knows if that’s the name of their race or what they have chosen to call themselves. Either way, if they have individual names, they keep them hidden. The Ra’zac were never seen before Galbatorix came to power. He must have found them during his travels and enlisted them in his service. Little or nothing is known about them. However, I can tell you this: they aren’t human. When I glimpsed one’s head, it appeared to have something resembling a beak and black eyes as large as my fist—though how they manage our speech is a mystery to me. Doubtless the rest of their bodies are just as twisted. That is why they cover themselves with cloaks at all times, regardless of the weather.