“He never mentioned it.”

“I suppose there were other matters that needed talking about.… Still, as one of the Ingeitum, and as an adopted knurla, you should know the import and symbology of the Erôthknurln. It is not just a way to focus the mind, pass the time, and create an interesting keepsake. No. The act of making a stone out of earth is a sacred one. By it, we reaffirm our faith in Helzvog’s power and offer tribute to him. One should approach the task with reverence and purpose. Crafting an Erôthknurl is a form of worship, and the gods do not look kindly on those who perform the rites in a frivolous manner.… From stone, flesh; from flesh, earth; and from earth, stone again. The wheel turns and we see but a glimpse of the entirety.”

Only then did Eragon appreciate the depth of Orik’s disquiet. “You ought to have Hvedra with you,” he said. “She would keep you company and prevent you from becoming so grim. I’ve never seen you as happy as when you were with her at Bregan Hold.”

The lines around Orik’s downcast eyes deepened as he smiled. “Aye.… But she is the grimstcarvlorss of the Ingeitum, and she cannot abandon her duties just to comfort me. Besides, I could not rest easy if she were within a hundred leagues of Murtagh and Thorn or, worse, Galbatorix and his accursed black dragon.”

In an attempt to cheer Orik up, Eragon said, “You remind me of the answer to a riddle: a dwarf king sitting on the ground, making a stone out of dirt. I’m not sure how the riddle itself would go, but perhaps, something along the lines of:

Strong and stout,

Thirteen stars upon his brow,

Living stone sat shaping dead earth into dead stone.

“It doesn’t rhyme, but then, you can’t expect me to compose proper verse on the spur of the moment. I would imagine that a riddle like that would be quite a head-scratcher for most people.”

“Humph,” said Orik. “Not for a dwarf. Even our children could solve it quick as you please.”

A dragon too, said Saphira.

“I suppose you’re right,” said Eragon.

Then he asked Orik about everything that had happened among the dwarves after he and Saphira had left Tronjheim for their second trip to the forest of the elves. Eragon had not had an opportunity to talk with Orik for any great length of time since the dwarves had arrived at Dras-Leona, and he was eager to hear how his friend had gotten along since assuming the throne.

Orik did not seem to mind explaining the intricacies of the dwarves’ politics. Indeed, as he spoke, his expression brightened and he became increasingly animated. He spent nearly an hour recounting the bickering and maneuvering that had gone on between the dwarf clans prior to assembling their army and marching to join the Varden. The clans were a fractious lot, as Eragon well knew, and even as king, Orik had difficulty commanding their obedience.

“It’s like trying to herd a flock of geese,” said Orik. “They’re always trying to go off on their own, they make an obnoxious noise, and they’ll bite your hand first chance they get.”

During the course of Orik’s narration, Eragon thought to ask about Vermûnd. He had often wondered what had become of the dwarf chief who had plotted to assassinate him. He liked to know where his enemies were, especially one as dangerous as Vermûnd.

“He returned to his home village of Feldarast,” Orik said. “There, by all accounts, he sits and drinks and rages about what is and what might have been. But none now listen to him. The knurlan of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin are proud and stubborn. In most cases, they would remain loyal to Vermûnd regardless of what the other clans might do or say, but attempting to kill a guest is an unforgivable offense. And not all of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin hate you like Vermûnd does. I cannot believe that they will agree to remain cut off from the rest of their kind just to protect a grimstborith who has lost every scrap of his honor. It may take years, but eventually they will turn against him. Already I have heard that many of the clan shun Vermûnd, even as they themselves are shunned.”

“What do you think will happen to him?”

“He will accept the inevitable and step down, or else one day someone will slip poison into his mead, or perhaps a dagger between his ribs. Either way, he is no longer a threat to you as the leader of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.”

They continued to talk until Orik had finished the first few stages of shaping his Erôthknurl and was ready to take the ball of dirt and set it to rest upon a piece of cloth by his tent to dry. As Orik rose to his feet and gathered up his bucket and stick, he said, “I appreciate you being so kind as to listen to me, Eragon. And you as well, Saphira. Strange as it may seem, you are the only ones besides Hvedra to whom I can talk freely. Everyone else …” He shrugged. “Bah.”

Eragon got to his feet as well. “You’re our friend, Orik, whether you are king of the dwarves or not. We’re always happy to talk with you. And you know, you don’t have to worry about us telling others what you’ve said.”

“Aye, I know that, Eragon.” Orik squinted up at him. “You participate in the goings-on of the world, and yet you haven’t gotten caught up in all the petty scheming around you.”

“It doesn’t interest me. Besides, there are more important things to deal with at the moment.”

“That’s good. A Rider should stand apart from everyone else. Otherwise, how can you judge things for yourself? I never used to appreciate the Riders’ independence, but now I do, if only for selfish reasons.”