Doru Araeba! The only city in history designed to house dragons as well as elves and humans. Doru Araeba! A place of magic and learning and ancient mysteries. Doru Araeba! The very name seems to hum with excitement. Never was there a city like it before, and never shall there be again, for now it is lost, destroyed-ground to dust by the usurper Galbatorix.
The buildings were constructed in the elvish style-with some influence from human Riders in later years-but out of stone, not wood; wooden buildings, as must be obvious to the reader, fare poorly around creatures with razor-sharp claws and the ability to breathe fire. The most notable feature of Doru Araeba, however, was its enormous scale. Every street was wide enough for at least two dragons to walk abreast, and with few exceptions, rooms and doorways were large enough to accommodate dragons of most any size.
As a result, Doru Araeba was a vast, sprawling affair, dotted with buildings of such immense proportions, even a dwarf would have been impressed. Gardens and fountains were common throughout the city, on account of the elves’ irrepressible love of nature, and there were many soaring towers among the Riders’ halls and holds.
Upon the peaks surrounding the city, the Riders placed watchtowers and eyries-to guard against attack-and more than one dragon and Rider had a well-appointed cave high in the mountains, where they lived apart from the rest of their order. The older, larger dragons were especially partial to this arrangement, as they often preferred solitude, and living above the floor of the cauldron made it easier for them to take flight.
Frustrated, Eragon broke off. The description of Doru Araeba was interesting enough, but he had read other, more detailed accounts of the Riders’ city during his time in Ellesmera. Nor did he enjoy having to decipher the cramped runes, a painstaking process even at the best of times.
“This is pointless,” he said, lowering the book.
Solembum looked as annoyed as Eragon felt. Don’t give up yet. Read another two pages. If there’s nothing by then, then you can stop.
Eragon took a breath and agreed. He ran his finger down the page until he found his place, whereupon he began to again pick out the sounds of the words:
The city contained many marvels, from the Singing Fountain of Eldimirim to the crystal fortress of Svellhjall to the rookeries of the dragons themselves, but for all their splendor, I believe that Doru Araeba’s greatest treasure was its library. Not, as one might assume, because of its imposing structure-although it was indeed imposing-but because over the centuries the Riders collected one of the most comprehensive stores of knowledge in the whole of the land. By the time of the Riders’ fall, there were only three libraries that rivaled it-that of Ilirea, that of Ellesmera, and that of Tronjheim-and none of those three contained as much information about the workings of magic as did the one in Doru Araeba.
The library was located on the northwestern edge of the city, near the gardens that surrounded Moraeta’s Spire, also known as the Rock of Kuthian …
Eragon’s voice died in his throat as he stared at the name. After a moment, he began again, even slower:
… also known as the Rock of Kuthian (see chapter twelve), and not far from the high seat, where the leaders of the Riders held court when various kings and queens came to petition them.
A sense of awe and fear came over Eragon. Some person or some thing had arranged for him to learn this particular piece of information, the same person or thing that had made it possible for him to find the brightsteel for his sword. The thought was intimidating, and now that Eragon knew where to go, he was no longer quite so sure that he wanted to.
What, he wondered, lay waiting for them on Vroengard? He was afraid to speculate, lest he raise hopes that were impossible to fulfill.
QUESTIONS UNANSWERED
Eragon searched through Domia abr Wyrda until he found the reference to Kuthian in the twelfth chapter. To his disappointment, all it said was that Kuthian had been one of the first Riders to explore Vroengard Island.
Afterward, he closed the book and sat staring at it, thumbing a ridge embossed across the spine. On the cot, Solembum was silent as well.
“Do you think that the Vault of Souls contains spirits?” asked Eragon.
Spirits are not the souls of the dead.
“No, but what else could they be?”
Solembum rose from where he had been sitting and stretched, a wave of motion moving through his body from his head to his tail. If you find out, I would be interested to hear what you discover.
“Do you think Saphira and I should go, then?”
I cannot tell you what you should do. If this is a trap, then most of my race has been broken and enslaved without them realizing it, and the Varden might as well surrender now, because they will never outwit Galbatorix. If not, then this may be an opportunity to find assistance where we thought none was to be had. I cannot say. You have to decide on your own whether it is a chance worth taking. As for me, I have had enough of this mystery.
He jumped down from the cot and walked over to the opening of the tent, where he paused and glanced back at Eragon. There are many strange forces at work in Alagaesia, Shadeslayer. I have seen things that defy belief: whirlwinds of light spinning in caverns deep belowthe ground, men who age backward, stones that speak, and shadows that creep. Rooms that are bigger on the inside than the outside.… Galbatorix is not the only power in the world to be reckoned with, and he may not even be the strongest. Choose carefully, Shadeslayer, and if you choose to go, walk softly.
And then the werecat slipped out of the tent and vanished into the darkness.
Eragon released his breath and leaned back. He knew what he had to do; he had to go to Vroengard. But he could not make that decision without consulting Saphira.
With a gentle nudge of his mind, he woke her, and once he had assured her that nothing was amiss, he shared his memories of Solembum’s visit. Her astonishment was as great as his.
When he finished, she said, I do not like the thought of playing the puppet to whoever has enchanted the werecats.
Neither do I, but what other choice do we have? If Galbatorix is behind this, then we’ll be placing ourselves in his hands. But if we stay, then we’ll be doing exactly the same, only when we arrive at Uru’baen.
The difference is, we would have the Varden and the elves with us.
That’s true.
Silence fell between them for a time. Then Saphira said, I agree. I agree; we should go. We need longer claws and sharper teeth if we are to best Galbatorix and Shruikan in addition to Murtagh and Thorn. Besides, Galbatorix expects us to rush straight to Uru’baen in hope of rescuing Nasuada. And if there is one thing that makes my scales itch, it is doing what our enemies expect.
Eragon nodded. And if this is a trap?
A soft growl sounded outside the tent. Then we will teach whoever set it to fear our names, even if it is Galbatorix.
He smiled. For the first time since Nasuada’s abduction, he felt a sense of purposeful direction. Here was something they could do-a means by which they could influence the unfolding of events, instead of just sitting by as passive observers. “Right, then,” he muttered.
Arya arrived at his tent mere seconds after he contacted her. Her speed puzzled him until she explained that she had been keeping watch with Blodhgarm and the other elves, lest Murtagh and Thorn return.
With her there, Eragon reached out with his mind to Glaedr and coaxed him into joining their conversation, though the surly dragon was in no mood to talk.
Once the four of them, including Saphira, were all joined by their thoughts, Eragon finally burst out, I know where the Rock of Kuthian is!
What rock is this? Glaedr rumbled, his tone sour.
The name seems familiar, said Arya, but I cannot place it.
Eragon frowned slightly. Both of them had heard him speak of Solembum’s advice before. It was not like either of them to forget.
Nevertheless, Eragon repeated the story of his encounter with Solembum in Teirm, and then he told
them about the werecat’s most recent revelations and read them the pertinent section from the book Domia abr Wyrda.
Arya tucked a strand of hair behind one of her pointed ears. Speaking both with her mind and her voice, she said, “And what is the name of this place again?”
“… Moraeta’s Spire, or the Rock of Kuthian,” replied Eragon in the same manner. He hesitated for a half second, briefly thrown by her question. “It’s a long flight, but-”
– if Eragon and I leave forthwith- said Saphira.
“-we can travel there and back-”
– before the Varden arrive at Uru’baen. This-
“-is our only chance to go.”
We’ll not have the time-
“-to make the trip later on.”
Where would you be flying to, though? asked Glaedr.
“What … what do you mean?”
Exactly what I said, the dragon growled, the field of his mind darkening. For all your yammering, you’ve yet to tell us where this mysterious … thing is located.
“I have, though!” said Eragon, bewildered. “It’s on Vroengard Island!”
At last, a straightforward answer …
A frown creased Arya’s brow. “But what would you do on Vroengard?”
“I don’t know!” said Eragon, his temper rising. He debated whether it was worth confronting Glaedr about his remarks; the dragon seemed to be needling Eragon on purpose. “It depends on what we find. Once we’re there, we’ll try to open the Rock of Kuthian and discover whatever secrets it contains. If it’s a trap …” He shrugged. “Then we’ll fight.”
Arya’s expression grew increasingly troubled. “The Rock of Kuthian … The name seems weighted with significance, but I cannot say why; it echoes in my mind, like a song I once knew but have since forgotten.” She shook her head and put her hands to her temples. “Ah, now it is gone.…” She looked up. “Forgive me, what were we speaking of?”
“Going to Vroengard,” Eragon said slowly.
“Ah, yes … but for what purpose? You’re needed here, Eragon. In any case, nothing of value remains on Vroengard.”
Aye, said Glaedr. It is a dead and abandoned place. After the destruction of Doru Araeba, the few of us who had escaped returned to search for anything that might be of use, but the Forsworn had already picked the ruins clean.
Arya nodded. “Whatever put this idea in your head in the first place? I don’t understand how you could believe deserting the Varden now, when they’re at their most vulnerable, could possibly be wise. And for what? To fly to the far ends of Alagaesia without cause or reason? I had thought better of you.… You cannot leave just because you are uncomfortable with your new station, Eragon.”
Eragon decoupled his mind from Arya and Glaedr, and signaled to Saphira to do the same. They don’t remember! … They can’t remember!
It is magic. Deep magic, like the spell that hides the names of the dragons who betrayed the Riders.
But you haven’t forgotten about the Rock of Kuthian, have you?
Of course not, she said, her mind flashing green with pique. How could I when we are so closely joined?
A sense of vertigo gripped Eragon as he considered the implications. In order to be effective, the spell would have to erase the memories of everyone who knew about the rock in the first place and also the memories of anyone who heard or read about it thereafter. Which means … the whole of Alagaesia is in the thrall of this enchantment. No one can escape its reach.
Except for us.
Except for us, he agreed. And the werecats.
And, perhaps, Galbatorix.
Eragon shivered; it felt as if spiders made of ice crystals were crawling up and down his spine. The size of the deception astounded him and left him feeling small, vulnerable. To cloud the minds of elves, dwarves, humans, and dragons alike, and without arousing the slightest hint of suspicion, was a feat so difficult, he doubted it could have been accomplished by a deliberate application of craft; rather, he believed it could only have been done by instinct, for such a spell would be far too complicated to put into words.
He had to know who was responsible for manipulating the minds of everyone in Alagaesia, and why. If it was Galbatorix, then Eragon feared that Solembum was right and the Varden’s defeat was inevitable.
Do you think this was the work of dragons, as was the Banishing of the Names? he asked.
Saphira was slow to answer. Perhaps. But then, as Solembum said to you, there are many powers in Alagaesia. Until we go to Vroengard, we won’t know for certain one way or another.
If ever we do.
Aye.
Eragon ran his fingers through his hair. He suddenly felt exceptionally tired. Why does everything have to be so hard? he wondered.
Because, said Saphira, everyone wants to eat, but no one wants to be eaten.
He snorted, grimly amused.
Despite the speed with which he and Saphira could exchange thoughts, their conversation had lasted long enough for Arya and Glaedr to notice.
“Why have you closed your minds to us?” asked Arya. Her gaze flicked toward one wall of the tent-the wall nearest to where Saphira lay curled in the darkness beyond. “Is something wrong?”
You seem perturbed, Glaedr added.
Eragon stifled a humorless chuckle. “Perhaps because I am.” Arya watched with concern as he went over to the cot and sat on the edge. He let his arms hang limp and heavy between his legs. He was silent for a moment as he made the shift from the language of his birth to that of the elves and magic, whereupon he said, “Do you trust Saphira and me?”
The resulting pause was gratifyingly brief.
“I do,” replied Arya, also in the ancient language.
As do I, Glaedr likewise said.
Shall I, or shall you? Eragon quickly asked Saphira.
You want to tell them, so tell them.
Eragon looked up at Arya. Then, still in the ancient language, he said to both her and Glaedr, “Solembum has told me the name of a place, a place on Vroengard, where Saphira and I may find someone or something to help us defeat Galbatorix. However, the name is enchanted. Every time I say the name, you soon forget it.” A faint expression of shock appeared on Arya’s face. “Do you believe me?”
“I believe you,” Arya slowly said.
I believe that you believe what you are saying, Glaedr growled. But that does not necessarily make it so.
“How else can I prove it? You won’t remember if I tell you the name or share my memories with you. You could question Solembum, but again, what good would it do?”
What good? For one, we can prove that you haven’t been tricked or deceived by something that only appeared to be Solembum. And as for the spell, there may be a way to demonstrate its existence. Summon the werecat, and then we shall see what can be done.
Will you? Eragon asked Saphira. He thought that the werecat would be more likely to come if Saphira asked him.
A moment later, he felt her searching with her mind through the camp, and then he sensed the touch of Solembum’s consciousness against Saphira’s. After she and the werecat exchanged a brief, wordless communication, Saphira announced, He is on his way.
They waited in silence, Eragon staring down at his hands as he compiled a list of supplies he would need for the trip to Vroengard.
When Solembum pushed aside the flaps to the tent and entered, Eragon was surprised to see that he was now in his human form: that of a young boy, dark-eyed and insolent. In his left hand, the werecat held a leg of roast goose, on which he was gnawing. A ring of grease coated his lips and chin, and drops of melted fat had splattered his bare chest.
As he chewed on a strip of flesh, Solembum motioned with his sharp, pointed chin toward the patch of dirt where Glaedr’s heart of hearts lay buried. What is it you want, firebreather? he asked.
To know if you are who you seem to be! said Glaedr, and the dragon’s consciousness seemed to surround Solembum’s, pressing inward like piles of black clouds ar
ound a brightly burning but wind-battered flame. The dragon’s strength was immense, and from personal experience, Eragon knew that few could hope to withstand him.
With a gargled yowl, Solembum spat out his mouthful of meat and sprang backward, as if he had stepped on a viper. He stood where he was, then, trembling with effort, his sharp teeth bared, and a look of such fury in his tawny eyes, Eragon placed his hand on the hilt of Brisingr as a precaution. The flame dimmed but held: a white-hot point of light amid a sea of churning thunderheads.
After a minute, the storm diminished and the clouds withdrew, although they did not disappear entirely.
My apologies, werecat, said Glaedr, but I had to know for certain.
Solembum hissed, and the hair on his head fluffed and spiked so that it resembled the blossom of a thistle. If you still had your body, old one, I would cut off your tail for that.
You, little cat? You could not have done more than scratch me.
Again Solembum hissed, and then he turned on his heel and stalked toward the entrance, his shoulders hunched close to his ears.
Wait, said Glaedr. Did you tell Eragon about this place on Vroengard, this place of secrets that none can remember?
The werecat paused, and without turning around, he growled and brandished the goose leg over his head in an impatient, dismissive gesture. I did.
And did you tell him the page in Domia abr Wyrda wherein he found the location of this place?
So it seems, but I have no memory of it, and I hope that whatever is on Vroengard singes your whiskers and burns your paws.
The entrance to the tent made a loud flapping sound as Solembum swatted it aside; then his small form melted into the shadows, as if he had never existed.
Eragon stood and, with the toe of his boot, pushed the scrap of half-eaten meat out of the tent.
“You should not have been so rough with him,” said Arya.
I had no other choice, said Glaedr.
“Didn’t you? You could have asked his permission first.”
And given him the opportunity to prepare? No. It is done; let it be, Arya.
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