Her self-mastery was a trait Eragon had noticed was common among the elves. Foremost in that regard had been Oromis, who, it seemed to Eragon, had been in such perfect command of himself, never the slightest doubt or worry had bothered him. Eragon considered the elves’ restraint an innate characteristic of their race, as well as a natural outcome of their rigorous upbringing, education, and use of the ancient language. Speaking and thinking in a language that prevented one from lying—and every word of which contained the potential to unlock a spell—discouraged carelessness in thought or speech and fostered an aversion to allowing one’s emotions to sweep one away. As a rule, then, elves possessed far more self-control than the members of other races.

He and Arya wrestled with their minds for a few minutes—he seeking to escape her all-encompassing grip, she seeking to pin and hold him so that she could impose her will on his thoughts. She caught him several times, but he always wiggled free after a second or two, though he knew, had she meant him harm, it would have been too late to save himself.

And the whole time their minds were touching, Eragon was aware of the wild strains of music that wafted through the dark spaces of Arya’s consciousness. They lured him away from his own body and threatened to snare him in a web of strange and eerie melodies that had no counterparts among earthly songs. He would have happily succumbed to the bewitchment of the music had it not been for the distraction of Arya’s attacks and the knowledge that humans did not often fare well if they became too fascinated with the workings of an elf’s mind. He might escape unscathed. He was a Rider, after all. He was different. But it was a risk he was not willing to take, not so long as he valued his sanity. He had heard that delving into Blödhgarm’s mind had reduced Nasuada’s guard Garven to a slack-jawed dreamer.

So he resisted the temptation, hard as it was.

Then Glaedr had Saphira join the fray, sometimes in opposition to Eragon and sometimes in support of him, for as the elder dragon said, You must be as skilled in this as Eragon, Brightscales. The addition of Saphira substantially altered the outcome of their mental struggles. Together she and Eragon were able to fend off Arya with regularity, if not ease. Their combined might even allowed them to subdue Arya on two separate occasions. When Saphira was allied with Arya, however, the two of them so outstripped Eragon that he gave up any attempt at offense and, instead, retreated deep inside himself, curling into a tight ball like a wounded animal while he recited scraps of verse and waited for the waves of mental energy they hurled at him to subside.

Lastly, Glaedr had them pair off—he with Arya, and Eragon with Saphira—and they fought a duel like that, as if they were two sets of Riders and dragons met in combat. For the first few strenuous minutes, they were fairly matched, but in the end, Glaedr’s strength, experience, and cunning combined with Arya’s rigorous proficiency proved too much for Eragon and Saphira to overcome, and they had no choice but to concede defeat.

Afterward, Eragon sensed discontent emanating from Glaedr. Stung by it, he said, We’ll do better tomorrow, Master.

Glaedr’s mood darkened further. Even he seemed weary from their practice. You did well enough, youngling. I could not have asked any more from either of you had you been placed under my wing as apprentices in Vroengard. However, it is impossible for you to learn what you need to learn in a matter of days or weeks. Time gushes between our teeth like water, and soon it will all be gone. It takes years to master the art of fighting with your mind: years and decades and centuries, and even then, there is still more to learn, more to discover—about yourself, about your enemies, and about the very underpinnings of the world. With an angry growl, he fell silent.

Then we will learn what we can and let fate decide the rest, said Eragon. Besides, Galbatorix may have had a hundred years to train his mind, but it has also been over a hundred years since you last taught him. He’s sure to have forgotten something in the interim. With you helping us, I know we can beat him.

Glaedr snorted. Your tongue grows ever smoother, Eragon Shadeslayer. Nevertheless, he sounded pleased. He admonished them to eat and rest, and then he withdrew from their minds and said no more.

Eragon was sure that the golden dragon was still watching them, but Eragon could no longer feel his presence, and an unexpected sense of emptiness settled over him.

A chill crept through his limbs, and he shivered.

He, Saphira, and Arya sat in the darkening tent, none of them willing to speak. Then, rousing himself, Eragon said, “He seems better.” His voice creaked from disuse, and he again reached for the waterskin.

“This is good for him,” said Arya. “You are good for him. Without something to give him purpose, his grief would have killed him. That he has survived at all is … impressive. I admire him for it. Few beings—human, elf, or dragon—could continue to function rationally after such a loss.”

“Brom did.”

“He was equally remarkable.”

If we kill Galbatorix and Shruikan, how do you think Glaedr will react? Saphira asked. Will he keep going, or will he just … stop?

Arya’s pupils reflected a shimmer of light as she looked past Eragon toward Saphira. “Only time will tell. I hope not, but if we are triumphant in Urû’baen, it may very well be that Glaedr will find he is no longer able to continue on his own, without Oromis.”

“We can’t just let him give up!”

I agree.

“It is not our place to stop him if he decides to enter the void,” Arya said sternly. “The choice is his to make, and his alone.”