Eragon cocked his head, unsure to whom the dragon was speaking.

I know I can do it, said Saphira.

You have never before been to Vroengard, said Glaedr. And if there is a storm, it might drive you far out to sea, or worse. More than one dragon has perished because of overweening confidence. The wind is not your friend, Saphira. It can help you, but it can also destroy you.

I am not a hatchling to be instructed about the wind!

No, but you are still young, and I do not think you are ready for this.

The other way would take too long!

Perhaps, but better to get there safely than not at all.

“What are you talking about?” Eragon asked.

The sand under Saphira’s front feet made a gritty, rustling sound as she flexed her claws, sinking them deep into the earth.

We have a choice to make, said Glaedr. From here, Saphira can either fly straight to Vroengard or follow the coastline north until she reaches the point on the mainland closest to the island and then—only then—turn west and cross the sea.

Which path would be faster? Eragon asked, although he had already guessed the answer.

Flying straight there, said Saphira.

But if she does, then she would be over the water the whole time.

Saphira bristled. It’s no farther than it was from the Varden to here. Or am I wrong?

You’re more tired now, and if there is a storm—

Then I’ll fly around it! she said, and huffed, releasing a spike of blue and yellow flame from her nostrils.

The flame branded itself into Eragon’s vision, leaving behind a flashing afterimage. “Ah! Now I can’t see.” He rubbed his eyes as he tried to help the afterimage fade away. Would flying straight there really be all that dangerous?

It could be, rumbled Glaedr.

How much longer would it take to go along the coastline?

Half a day, maybe a bit more.

Eragon scratched the stubble on his chin as he stared at the forbidding mass of water. Then he looked up at Saphira and, in a low voice, said, “Are you sure you can do this?”

She twisted her neck and returned his gaze with one huge eye. Her pupil had expanded until it was nearly circular; it was so large and black, Eragon felt as if he could crawl into it and disappear altogether.

As sure as I can be, she said.

He nodded and ran his hands through his hair as he accustomed himself to the idea. Then we have to chance it.… Glaedr, if need be, you can guide her? You can help her?

The old dragon was quiet for a while; then he surprised Eragon by humming in his mind, even as Saphira hummed when she was pleased or amused. Very well. If we are to tempt fate, then let us not be cowards about it. Across the sea it is.

The matter settled, Eragon climbed back onto Saphira, and with a single bound, she left behind the safety of solid land and took flight over the trackless waves.

THE SOUND OF HIS VOICE,

THE TOUCH OF HIS HAND

ggghhh!”

“Will you swear your fealty to me in the ancient language?”

“Never!”

His question and her answer had become a ritual between them, a call-and-response such as children might use in a game, except that in this game she lost even when she won.

Rituals were all that allowed Nasuada to maintain her sanity. By them, she ordered her world—by them, she was able to endure from one moment to the next, for they gave her something to hold on to when all else had been stripped from her. Rituals of thought, rituals of action, rituals of pain and relief: these had become the framework upon which her life depended. Without them, she would have been lost, a sheep without a shepherd, a devotee bereft of faith … a Rider separated from her dragon.

Unfortunately, this particular ritual always ended in the same way: with another touch of the iron.

She screamed and bit her tongue, and blood filled her mouth. She coughed, trying to clear her throat, but there was too much blood and she began to choke. Her lungs burned from a lack of air, and the lines on the ceiling wavered and grew dim, and then her memory ceased and there was nothing, not even darkness.

Afterward, Galbatorix spoke to her while the irons heated.

This too had become one of their rituals.

He had healed her tongue—at least, she thought it had been him and not Murtagh—for as he said, “It wouldn’t do if you were unable to speak, now would it? How else will I know when you are ready to serve me?”

As before, the king sat to her right, at the very edge of her vision, where all she could see of him was a gold-edged shadow, his form partially hidden beneath the long, heavy cape he wore.

“I met your father, you know, when he was steward of Enduriel’s chief estate,” said Galbatorix. “Did he tell you of that?”

She shuddered and closed her eyes and felt tears seep from the corners. She hated listening to him. His voice was too powerful, too seductive; it left her wanting to do whatever he desired just so she could hear him utter a tiny morsel of praise.

“Yes,” she murmured.

“I took little notice of him at the time. Why would I? He was a servant, no one of significance. Enduriel allowed him a fair bit of freedom, the better to manage the affairs of the estate—too much freedom, as it turned out.” The king made a dismissive gesture, and the light caught his lean, clawlike hand. “Enduriel always was overly permissive. It was his dragon who was the cunning one; Enduriel merely did as he was told.… What a strange, amusing series of events fate has arranged. To think, the man who saw to it that my boots were brightly polished went on to become my foremost enemy after Brom, and now here you are, his daughter, returned to Urû’baen and about to enter my service, even as did your father. How very ironic, would you not agree?”