It took a half day of searching, but at last Saphira found the cluster of sandstone hills and, among them, one hill in particular: a tall, sloping mound of reddish stone with a cave halfway up its side. And upon its crest, a glittering tomb of diamond.

The hill looked exactly as Eragon remembered. When he gazed upon it, he felt his chest grow tight.

Saphira landed next to the tomb. Her claws scraped against the pitted stone, chipping off flakes.

With slow fingers, Eragon unbuckled his legs. Then he slid to the ground. A wave of dizziness passed through him at the smell of the warm stone, and for a moment, he felt as if he were in the past.

Then he shook himself, and his mind cleared. He walked to the tomb and looked into its crystal depths, and there he saw Brom.

There he saw his father.

Brom’s appearance had not changed. The diamond that encased his body protected him from the ravages of time, and his flesh showed no hint of decay. The skin of his lined face was firm, and it had a rosy tint, as if hot blood still coursed beneath the surface. At any moment, it seemed as if Brom might open his eyes and rise to his feet, ready to continue on their unfinished journey. In a way, he had become deathless, for he no longer aged as others did, but would remain forever the same, caught in a dreamless sleep.

Brom’s sword lay atop his chest and the long white pennant of his beard, with his hands folded over the hilt, just as Eragon had placed them. By his side was his gnarled staff, carved, Eragon now realized, with dozens of glyphs from the ancient language.

Tears welled in Eragon’s eyes. He fell to his knees and wept quietly for a timeless while. He heard Saphira join him, felt her with his mind, and he knew that she too mourned Brom’s passing.

At last Eragon got to his feet and leaned against the edge of the tomb as he studied the shape of Brom’s face. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the similarities between their features, blurred and obscured by age and by Brom’s beard, but still unmistakable. The angle of Brom’s cheekbones, the crease between his eyebrows, the way his upper lip curved; all those Eragon recognized. He had not inherited Brom’s hooked nose, however. His nose he had gotten from his mother.

Eragon looked down, breathing heavily as his eyes again grew blurry. “It’s done,” he said in an undertone. “I did it.… We did it. Galbatorix is dead, Nasuada is on the throne, and both Saphira and I are unharmed. That would please you, wouldn’t it, you old fox?” He laughed shortly and wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “What’s more, there are dragon eggs in Vroengard. Eggs! The dragons aren’t going to die out. And Saphira and I will be the ones to raise them. You never foresaw that, now did you?” He laughed again, feeling silly and grief-stricken at the same time. “What would you think of this all, I wonder? You’re the same as ever, but we’re not. Would you even recognize us?”

Of course he would, said Saphira. You are his son. She touched him with her snout. Besides, your face isn’t so different that he would mistake you for someone else, even if your scent has changed.

“It has?”

You smell more like an elf now.… Anyway, he would hardly think I was Shruikan or Glaedr, now would he?

“No.”

Eragon sniffed and pushed himself off the tomb. Brom looked so lifelike within the diamond, the sight of him inspired an idea: a wild, improbable idea that he almost dismissed but that his emotions would not let him ignore. He thought of Umaroth and the Eldunarí—of all their collected knowledge and of what they had accomplished with his spell in Urû’baen—and a spark of desperate hope kindled within his heart.

Speaking both to Saphira and Umaroth, he said, Brom had only just died when we buried him. Saphira didn’t turn the stone to diamond until the following day, but he was still encased in stone, away from the air, through the night. Umaroth, with your strength and your knowledge, maybe … maybe we could still heal him. Eragon shivered as if he were in the grip of a fever. I didn’t know how to mend his wound before, but now—now I think I could.

It would be more difficult than you imagine, said Umaroth.

Yes, but you could do it! said Eragon. I’ve seen you and Saphira accomplish amazing things with magic. Surely this isn’t beyond you!

You know that we cannot use magic on command, said Saphira.

And even if we succeeded, said Umaroth, there is every chance that we would be unable to restore Brom’s mind to what it was. Minds are complicated things, and he might easily end up with his wits muddled or his personality altered. And then what? Would you want him to live like that? Would he? No, it is best to let him be, Eragon, and to honor him with your thoughts and actions, as you have. You wish it were otherwise. So do all who have lost one they care about. However, it is the way of things. Brom lives on in your memories, and if he was the man you showed us, he would be content with that. Let you be content with that as well.

But—

It was not Umaroth who interrupted, but the oldest of the Eldunarí, Valdr. He surprised Eragon by speaking not in images or feelings, but in words of the ancient language, strained and labored, as if each was foreign to him. And he said, Leave the dead to the earth. They are not for us. Then he spoke no more, but Eragon felt from him a great sadness and sympathy.

Eragon let out a long sigh and closed his eyes for a moment. Then, in his heart, he allowed himself to release his misguided hope and again accept the fact that Brom was gone.

“Ah,” he said to Saphira. “I didn’t think this would be so difficult.”