As her vassal, he ought to be searching for a way to rescue her, to the exclusion of all else. But he also knew that she would not want him to abandon the Varden just for her sake. She would rather suffer and die than allow her absence to harm the cause to which she had devoted her life.
Eragon cursed again and began to pace back and forth within the confines of the tent.
I’m the leader of the Varden.
Only now that she was gone did Eragon realize that Nasuada had become more than just his liegelord and commander; she had become his friend, and he felt the same urge to protect her that he often felt with Arya. If he tried, however, he could end up costing the Varden the war.
I’m the leader of the Varden.
He thought of all the people who were now his responsibility: Roran and Katrina and the rest of the villagers from Carvahall; the hundreds of warriors whom he had fought alongside, and many more as well; the dwarves; the werecats; and even the Urgals. All now under his command and dependent on him to make the right decisions in order to defeat Galbatorix and the Empire.
Eragon’s pulse surged, causing his vision to flicker. He stopped pacing and clutched at the pole in the center of the tent, then dabbed the sweat from his brow and upper lip.
He wished he had someone to talk to. He considered waking Saphira but discounted the idea. Her rest was more important than listening to him complain. Nor did he want to burden Arya or Glaedr with problems they could do nothing to solve. In any event, he doubted he would find a sympathetic listener in Glaedr when their last exchange had been so barbed.
Eragon resumed his monotonous circuit: three steps forward, turn, three steps back, turn, and repeat.
He had lost the belt of Beloth the Wise. He had allowed Murtagh and Thorn to capture Nasuada. And now he was in charge of the Varden.
Again and again, the same few thoughts kept running through his mind, and with each repetition, his sense of anxiety increased. He felt as if he were caught in a maze without end, and round every unseen corner lurked monsters waiting to pounce. Despite what he had said during the meeting with Orik, Orrin, and the others, he could not see how he, the Varden, or their allies could defeat Galbatorix.
I wouldn’t even be able to rescue Nasuada, assuming I had the freedom to chase after her and try. Bitterness welled up inside him. The task before them seemed hopeless. Why did this have to fall to us? He swore and bit the inside of his mouth until he could not bear the pain.
He stopped pacing and crumpled to the ground, wrapping his hands around the back of his neck. “It can’t be done. It can’t be done,” he whispered, rocking from side to side upon his knees. “It can’t.”
In his despair, Eragon thought of praying to the dwarf god Guntera for help, even as he had done before. To lay his troubles at the feet of one greater than himself and to trust his fate to that power would be a relief. Doing so would allow him to accept his fate-as well as the fates of those he loved-with greater equanimity, for he would no longer be directly responsible for whatever happened.
But Eragon could not bring himself to utter the prayer. He was responsible for their fates, whether he liked it or not, and he felt it would be wrong to pass off his responsibility to anyone else, even a god-or the idea of a god.
The problem was, he did not think he could do what needed to be done. He could command the Varden; of that, he was reasonably sure. But as for how he might go about capturing Uru’baen and killing Galbatorix, there he was at a loss. He did not have the strength to go up against Murtagh, much less the king, and it seemed unlikely in the extreme that he could think of a way around either of their wards. Capturing their minds, or at least Galbatorix’s, seemed equally improbable.
Eragon dug his fingers into the nape of his neck, stretching and scratching his skin as he frantically considered every possibility, no matter how unlikely.
Then he thought of the advice Solembum had given him in Teirm, so long ago. The werecat had said, Listen closely and I will tell you two things. When the times comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.
His words concerning the Menoa tree had proven true; under it Eragon had found the brightsteel he needed for the blade of his sword. Now a desperate hope flared inside Eragon as he pondered the second of the werecat’s pronouncements.
If ever my power was insufficient, and if ever all seemed lost, it is now, thought Eragon. However, he still had no idea where or what the Rock of Kuthian or the Vault of Souls were. He had asked both Oromis and Arya at different times, but they had never returned an answer.
Eragon reached out with his mind then, and searched through the camp until he found the distinctive feel of the werecat’s mind. Solembum, he said, I need your help! Please come to my tent.
After a moment, he felt a grudging acknowledgment from the werecat, and he severed the contact.
Then Eragon sat alone in the dark … and waited.
FRAGMENTS, HALF-SEEN AND INDISTINCT
Over a quarter of an hour passed before the flap to Eragon’s tent stirred and Solembum pushed his way inside, his padded feet nearly silent upon the ground.
The tawny werecat walked past Eragon without looking at him, jumped onto his cot, and settled among his blankets, whereupon he began to lick the webbing between the claws of his right paw. Still not looking at Eragon, he said, I am not a dog to come and go at your summons, Eragon.
“I never thought you were,” Eragon replied. “But I have need of you, and it is urgent.”
Mmh. The rasping of Solembum’s tongue grew louder as he concentrated on the leathery palm of his foot. Speak then, Shadeslayer. What do you want?
“One moment.” Eragon stood and went over to the pole where his lantern hung. “I’m going to light this,” he warned Solembum. Then Eragon spoke a word in the ancient language, and a flame sprang to life atop the wick of the lantern, filling the tent with a warm, flickering illumination.
Both Eragon and Solembum squinted while they waited for their eyes to adjust to the increase in brightness. When the light no longer felt quite so uncomfortable, Eragon seated himself on his stool, not far from the cot.
The werecat, he was puzzled to see, was watching him with ice-blue eyes.
“Weren’t your eyes a different color?” he asked.
Solembum blinked once, and his eyes changed from blue to gold. Then he resumed cleaning his paw. What do you want, Shadeslayer?The night is for the doing of things, not sitting and talking. The tip of his tasseled tail lashed from side to side.
Eragon wet his lips, his hope making him nervous. “Solembum, you told me that when all seemed lost and my power was insufficient, I should go to the Rock of Kuthian and open the Vault of Souls.”
The werecat paused in his licking. Ah, that.
“Yes, that. And I need to know what you meant by it. If there’s anything that can help us against Galbatorix, I need to know about it now-not later, not once I manage to solve one riddle or another, but now. So, where can I find the Rock of Kuthian, how do I open the Vault of Souls, and what will I find inside it?”
Solembum’s black-tipped ears angled backward slightly, and the claws on the paw he was cleaning extended halfway from their sheaths. I don’t know.
“You don’t know?!” exclaimed Eragon in disbelief.
Must you repeat everything I say?
“How can you not know?”
I don’t know.
Leaning forward, Eragon grabbed Solembum’s large, heavy paw. The werecat’s ears flattened, and he hissed and curled his paw inward, digging his claws into Eragon’s hand. Eragon smiled tightly and ignored the pain. The werecat was stronger than he had expected, almost strong enough to pull him off the stool.
“No more riddles,” Eragon said. “I need the truth, Solembum. Where did you get this information and what does it mean?”
The fur along Solembum’s
spine bristled. Sometimes riddles are the truth, you thick-headed human. Now let me go, or I’ll tear your face off and feed your guts to the crows.
Eragon maintained his grip for a moment longer, then he released Solembum’s paw and leaned back. He clenched his hand to help dull the pain and stop the bleeding.
Solembum glared at him with slitted eyes, all pretense of detachment gone. I said I don’t know because, despite what you might think, I do not know. I have no knowledge of where the Rock of Kuthian might lie, nor how you might open the Vault of Souls, nor what the vault might contain.
“Say that in the ancient language.”
Solembum’s eyes narrowed even farther, but he repeated himself in the tongue of the elves, and then Eragon knew he was speaking the truth.
So many questions occurred to Eragon, he hardly knew which to ask first. “How did you learn of the Rock of Kuthian, then?”
Again Solembum’s tail lashed from side to side, flattening wrinkles in the blanket. For the last time, I do not know. Nor do any of my kind.
“Then how …?” Eragon trailed off, overcome by confusion.
Soon after the fall of the Riders, a certain conviction came upon the members of our race that, should we encounter a new Rider, one who was not beholden to Galbatorix, we should tell him or her what I told you: of the Menoa tree and of the Rock of Kuthian.
“But … where did the information come from?”
Solembum’s muzzle wrinkled as he bared his teeth in an unpleasant smile. That we cannot say, only that whoever or whatever was responsible for it meant well.
“How can you know that?” exclaimed Eragon. “What if it was Galbatorix? He could be trying to trick you. He could be trying to trick Saphira and me, so as to capture us.”
No, said Solembum, and his claws sank into the blanket under him. Werecats are not so easily fooled as others. Galbatorix is not the one behind this. Of that, I am sure. Whoever wanted you to have this information is the same person or creature who arranged for you to find the brightsteel for your sword. Would Galbatorix have done that?
Eragon frowned. “Haven’t you tried to find out who is behind this?”
We have.
“And?”
We failed. The werecat ruffled his fur. There are two possibilities. One, that our memories were altered against our will and we are the pawns of some nefarious entity. Or two, that we agreed to the alteration, for whatever reason. Perhaps we even excised the memories ourselves. I find it difficult and distasteful to believe that anyone could have succeeded in meddling with our minds. A few of us, I could understand. But our entire race? No. It cannot be.
Why would you, the werecats, have been entrusted with this information?
Because, I would guess, we have always been friends of the Riders and friends of the dragons.… We are the watchers. The listeners. The wanderers. We walk alone in the dark places of the world, and we remember what is and what has been.
Solembum’s gaze shifted away. Understand this, Eragon. None of us have been happy with the situation. We long debated whether it would cause more harm than good to pass on this information should the moment arise. In the end, the decision was mine, and I decided to tell you, for it seemed you needed all the help you could get. Make of it what you will.
“But what am I supposed to do?” said Eragon. “How am I supposed to find the Rock of Kuthian?”
That I cannot say.
“Then what use is the information? I might as well have never heard it.”
Solembum blinked, once. There is one other thing I can tell you. It may mean nothing, but perhaps it can show you the way.
“What? What is it?”
If you but wait, I will tell you. When I first met you in Teirm, I had a strange feeling that you ought to have the book Domia abr Wyrda. It took me time to arrange it, but it was I who was responsible for Jeod giving the book to you. Then the werecat lifted his other paw and, after a cursory examination, began to lick it.
“Have you gotten any other strange feelings in the past few months?” asked Eragon.
Only the urge to eat a small red mushroom, but it passed quickly enough.
Eragon grunted and bent down to retrieve the book from under his cot, where he kept it with the rest of his writing supplies. He stared at the large, leather-bound volume before opening it to a random page. As usual, the thicket of runes within made little sense to him at first glance. It was only with a concerted effort that he was able to decipher even a few of them:
… which, if Taladorous is to be believed, would mean that the mountains themselves were the result of a spell. That, of course, is absurd, for …
Eragon growled with frustration and closed the book. “I don’t have time for this. It’s too big, and I’m too slow of a reader. I’ve already gone through a fair number of chapters, and I’ve seen nothing having to do with the Rock of Kuthian or the Vault of Souls.”
Solembum eyed him for a moment. You could ask someone else to read it for you, but if there is a secret hidden in Domia abr Wyrda, you may be the only one who can see it.
Eragon resisted the desire to curse. Springing up from the stool, he began to pace again. “Why didn’t you tell me about all this sooner?”
It didn’t seem important. Either my advice concerning the vault and the rock would be of help or it wouldn’t, and knowing the origins of that information-or lack thereof-would … have … changed … nothing!
“But if I had known it had something to do with the Vault of Souls, I would have spent more time reading it.”
But we don’t know that it does, said Solembum. His tongue slipped out of his mouth and passed over the whiskers on each side of his face, smoothing them. The book may have nothing to do with the Rock of Kuthian or the Vault of Souls. Who can say? Besides, you were already reading it. Would you really have spent more time with it if I had said that I had a feeling-and mind you, nothing more-that the book was of some significance to you? Hmm?
“Maybe not … but you still should have told me.”
The werecat tucked his front paws under his breast and did not answer.
Eragon scowled, gripping the book and feeling as if he wanted to tear it apart. “This can’t be everything. There has to be some other piece of information that you’ve forgotten.”
Many, but none, I think, related to this.
“In all your travels around Alagaesia, with Angela and without, you’ve never found anything that might explain this mystery? Or even just something that might be of use against Galbatorix.”
I found you, didn’t I?
“That’s not funny,” growled Eragon. “Blast it, you have to know something more.”
I do not.
“Think, then! If I can’t find some sort of help against Galbatorix, we’ll lose, Solembum. We’ll lose, and most of the Varden, including the werecats, will die.”
Solembum hissed again. What do you expect of me, Eragon? I cannot invent help where none exists. Read the book.
“We’ll be at Uru’baen before I can finish it. The book might as well not exist.”
Solembum’s ears flattened again. That is not my fault.
“I don’t care if it is. I just want a way to keep us from ending up dead or enslaved. Think! You have to know something else!”
Solembum uttered a low, warbling growl. I do not. And-
“You have to, or we’re doomed!”
Even as Eragon uttered the words, he saw a change come over the werecat. Solembum’s ears swiveled until they were upright, his whiskers relaxed, and his gaze softened, losing its hard-edged brilliance. At the same time, the werecat’s mind grew unusually empty, as if his consciousness had been stilled or removed.
Eragon froze, uncertain.
Then he felt Solembum say, with thoughts that were as flat and colorless as a pool of water beneath a wintry, cloud-ridden sky: Chapter forty-seven. Page three. Start with the second passage thereon.
Solembum’s gaze sharpened, and his ears returned to the
ir previous position. What? he said with obvious irritation. Why are you gaping at me like that?
“What did you just say?”
I said that I do not know anything else. And that-
“No, no, the other thing, about the chapter and page.”
Do not toy with me. I said no such thing.
“You did.”
Solembum studied him for several seconds. Then, with thoughts that were overly calm, he said, Tell me exactly what you heard, Dragon Rider.
So, Eragon repeated the words as closely as he could. When he finished, the werecat was silent for a while. I have no memory of that, he said.
“What do you think it means?”
It means that we should look and see what’s on page three of chapter forty-seven.
Eragon hesitated, then nodded and began to flip through the pages. As he did, he remembered the chapter in question; it was the one devoted to the aftermath of the Riders’ secession from the elves, following the elves’ brief war with the humans. Eragon had read the beginning of the section, but it had seemed to be nothing more than a dry discussion of treaties and negotiations, so he had left it for another time.
Soon enough, he arrived at the proper page. Tracing the lines of runes with the tip of his finger, Eragon slowly read out loud:
… The island is remarkably temperate compared with areas of the mainland at the same latitude. Summers are often cool and rainy, but then the winters are mild and tend not to assume the brutal cold of the northern reaches of the Spine, which means that crops could be grown for a goodly portion of the year. By all accounts, the soil is rich and fertile-the one benefit of the fire mountains that are known to erupt from time to time and cover the island with a thick layer of ash-and the forests were full of large game such as the dragons preferred to hunt, including many species not found elsewhere in Alagaesia.
Eragon paused. “None of this seems relevant.”
Keep reading.
Frowning, Eragon continued on to the next paragraph:
It was there, in the great cauldron at the center of Vroengard, that the Riders built their far-famed city, Doru Araeba.
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