Eragon spread his hands, palms upward. “Maybe we can’t. Nothing is certain in life, much less in war. However, if the combined spellcasters of our five races can’t kill him, then we might as well accept that Galbatorix is going to rule as long as he pleases, and nothing we can do is going to change that.”

Silence pervaded the tent, short and profound.

Then Roran stepped forward. “I would speak,” he said.

Eragon saw the others around the table exchange glances.

“Say what you will, Stronghammer,” said Orik, to King Orrin’s evident annoyance.

“It is this: too much blood and too many tears have been shed for us to turn back now. It would be disrespectful, both to the dead and to those who remember the dead. This may be a battle between gods”—he appeared perfectly serious to Eragon as he said this—“but I for one will keep fighting until the gods strike me down, or until I strike them down. A dragon might kill ten thousand wolves one at a time, but ten thousand wolves together can kill a dragon.”

Not likely, Saphira snorted in the privacy of her and Eragon’s shared mind space.

Roran smiled without humor. “And we have a dragon of our own. Decide as you wish. But I, for one, am going to Urû’baen, and I’ll face Galbatorix, even if I have to do it by myself.”

“Not by yourself,” said Arya. “I know I speak for Queen Islanzadí when I say that our people will stand with you.”

“As will ours,” rumbled Garzhvog.

“And ours,” affirmed Orik.

“And ours,” Eragon said in a tone that he hoped would discourage dissent.

When, after a pause, the four of them turned toward Grimrr, the werecat sniffed and said, “Well, I suppose we’ll be there too.” He inspected his sharp nails. “Someone has to sneak past enemy lines, and it certainly won’t be the dwarves bumbling around in their iron boots.”

Orik’s eyebrows rose, but if he was offended, he hid it well.

Two more drinks Orrin quaffed; then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Very well, as you wish; we’ll continue on to Urû’baen.” His cup empty, he reached for the bottle in front of him.

A MAZE WITHOUT END

ragon and the others spent the rest of the conclave discussing practicalities: lines of communication—who was supposed to answer to whom; assignments of duty; rearrangements of the camp wards and sentinels to prevent Thorn or Shruikan from sneaking up on them again; and how to secure new equipment for the men whose belongings had been burned or squashed during the attack. By consensus they decided to hold off announcing what had happened to Nasuada until the following day; it was more important for the warriors to get what sleep they could before dawn brightened the horizon.

And yet, the one thing they never discussed was whether they should try to rescue Nasuada. It was obvious that the only way to free her would be to seize Urû’baen, and by then she would probably be dead, injured, or bound to Galbatorix in the ancient language. So they avoided the subject entirely, as if to mention it was forbidden.

Nevertheless, she was a constant presence in Eragon’s thoughts. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Murtagh striking her, then the scaly fingers of Thorn’s paw closing round her, and then the red dragon flying off into the night. The memories only made Eragon more miserable, but he could not stop himself from reliving them.

As the conclave dispersed, Eragon motioned to Roran, Jörmundur, and Arya. They followed him without question back to his tent, where Eragon spent some time asking their advice and planning for the day to come.

“The Council of Elders will give you some trouble, I’m sure,” Jörmundur said. “They don’t consider you as skilled at politics as Nasuada, and they’ll try to take advantage of that.” The long-haired warrior had appeared preternaturally calm since the attack, so much so that Eragon suspected he was on the verge of either tears or rage, or perhaps a combination of both.

“I’m not,” Eragon said.

Jörmundur inclined his head. “Nevertheless, you must hold strong. I can help you some, but much will depend on how you comport yourself. If you allow them to unduly influence your decisions, they’ll think they have inherited the leadership of the Varden, not you.”

Eragon glanced at Arya and Saphira, concerned.

Never fear, said Saphira to them all. No one shall get the better of him while I stand watch.

When their smaller, secondary meeting came to an end, Eragon waited until Arya and Jörmundur had filed out of the tent; then he caught Roran by the shoulder. “Did you mean what you said about this being a battle of the gods?”

Roran stared at him. “I did.… You and Murtagh and Galbatorix—you’re too powerful for any normal person to defeat. It’s not right. It’s not fair. But so it is. The rest of us are like ants under your boots. Have you any idea how many men you’ve killed single-handedly?”

“Too many.”

“Exactly. I’m glad you’re here to fight for us, and I’m glad to count you as my brother in all but name, but I wish we didn’t have to rely on a Rider or an elf or any sort of magician to win this war for us. No one should be at the mercy of another person. Not like this. It unbalances the world.”

Then Roran strode out of the tent.

Eragon sank onto his cot, feeling as if he had been struck in the chest. He sat there for a while, sweating and thinking, until the strain of his overactive thoughts caused him to spring upright and hurry outside.