Angela tossed her curls. “Do you expect me to explain every decision I make? … Oh, very well, if it’ll satisfy your curiosity, let’s say I have a grudge against the priests of Helgrind, and I’d like the chance to do them some mischief. And besides, if Murtagh puts in an appearance, I have a trick or two up my sleeve that might give him a bit of a turn.”
“We should ask Elva to go with us as well,” said Eragon. “If anyone can help us avoid danger …”
Nasuada frowned. “Last we spoke, she made her position clear enough. I’ll not go bowing and scraping to her in an attempt to convince her otherwise.”
“I’ll talk with her,” said Eragon. “I’m the one she’s angry with, and I’m the one who should ask her.”
Nasuada plucked at the fringe of her golden dress. She rolled several strands between her fingers, then abruptly said, “Do as you wish. I dislike the thought of sending a child—even one as gifted as Elva—into battle. However, I suppose she is more than capable of protecting herself.”
“As long as the pain of those around her doesn’t overwhelm her,” said Angela. “The last few battles have left her curled in a ball, barely able to move or breathe.”
Nasuada stilled her fingers and peered at Eragon with a serious expression. “She’s unpredictable. If she does choose to go along, be careful of her, Eragon.”
“I will,” he promised.
Then Nasuada began to discuss questions of logistics with Orrin and Orik, and Eragon withdrew somewhat from the conversation, for he had little to contribute.
In the privacy of his mind, he reached out to Saphira, who had been listening, through him, to the goings-on. Well? he asked. What do you think? You’ve been awfully quiet. I thought for sure you would say something when Nasuada proposed sneaking into Dras-Leona.
I said nothing because I had nothing to say. It is a good plan.
You agree with her?!
We are no longer awkward younglings, Eragon. Our enemies may be fearsome, but so are we. It is time we remind them of that.
Does it bother you that we’ll be apart?
Of course it bothers me, she growled. Wherever you go, enemies flock to you like flies to flesh. However, you are not as helpless as you once were. And she almost seemed to purr.
Me, helpless? he said with mock outrage.
Only a little bit. But your bite is more dangerous than before.
So is yours.
Mmm.… I go to hunt. A wing-breaking storm is building, and I’ll not have a chance to eat again until after we attack.
Fly safely, he said.
As he felt her presence receding from him, Eragon returned his attention to the conversation within the tent, for he knew his life, and that of Saphira, would depend on the decisions Nasuada, Orik, and Orrin would make.
UNDER HILL AND STONE
ragon rolled his shoulders, trying to get his mail hauberk to rest comfortably under the tunic he wore to hide the armor.
Darkness lay all around them, heavy and oppressive. A thick layer of clouds obscured the moon and the stars. Without the red werelight Angela held in the palm of her hand, even Eragon and the elves would have been unable to see.
The air was humid, and once or twice, Eragon felt a few cold drops of rain strike his cheeks.
Elva had laughed and refused when he had asked for her help. He had argued with her long and hard, but to no avail. Saphira had even intervened, flying down to the tent where the witch-child was staying and placing her massive head just feet away from the girl, forcing her to look into one of Saphira’s brilliant, unblinking eyes.
Elva had not had the temerity to laugh then, but she remained obdurate in her refusal. Her stubbornness frustrated Eragon. Still, he could not help but admire her strength of character; to say no to both a Rider and a dragon was no small thing. Then again, she had endured an incredible amount of pain in her short life, and the experience had hardened her to a degree rarely seen even in the most jaded of warriors.
Beside him, Arya fastened a long cloak around her neck. Eragon wore one as well, as did Angela and the black-haired elf Wyrden, whom Blödhgarm had chosen to accompany them. The cloaks were needed to protect them against the night chill, as well as to conceal their weapons from anyone they might encounter in the city, if they got that far.
Nasuada, Jörmundur, and Saphira had accompanied them to the edge of the camp, where they now stood. Among the tents, the men of the Varden, dwarves, and Urgals were busy preparing to march forth.
“Don’t forget,” said Nasuada, her breath steaming in front of her, “if you can’t reach the gates by dawn, find somewhere to wait until tomorrow morning, and we’ll try again then.”
“We may not have the luxury of waiting,” said Arya.
Nasuada rubbed her arms and nodded. She appeared unusually worried. “I know. Either way, we’ll be ready to attack as soon as you contact us, no matter the time of day. Your safety is more important than capturing Dras-Leona. Remember that.” Her gaze drifted toward Eragon as she spoke.
“We should be off,” said Wyrden. “The night grows old.”
Eragon pressed his forehead against Saphira for a moment. Good hunting, she said softly.
And you as well.
They reluctantly parted, and Eragon joined Arya and Wyrden as they followed Angela away from the camp, heading toward the eastern edge of the city. Nasuada and Jörmundur murmured well-wishes and farewells as they strode past, and then all was quiet, save the sounds of their breathing and of their boots on the ground.
Angela dimmed the light in her palm until it was barely bright enough for Eragon to see his feet. He had to strain his eyes to spot rocks and branches that lay in the way.
They walked in silence for nearly an hour, at which point the herbalist stopped and whispered, “We’re here, as best I can tell. I’m fairly good at reckoning distances, but we might be off by more than a thousand feet. It’s hard to be certain of anything in this gloom.”
Off to their left, a half-dozen pinpricks of light floated above the horizon, the only evidence that they were anywhere near Dras-Leona. The lights seemed close enough to pluck from the air.
He and the two women gathered around Wyrden as the elf knelt and pulled the glove off his right hand. Placing his palm against the bare earth, Wyrden began to croon the spell he had learned from the dwarven magician whom—ere they left on their mission—Orik had sent to instruct them in the ways of detecting underground chambers.
While the elf sang, Eragon stared into the surrounding blackness, listening and watching for enemies. The fall of raindrops on his face increased. He hoped the weather would improve before battle was joined, if battle was to be joined.
An owl hooted somewhere, and he reached for Brisingr, only to stop himself and clench his fist. Barzûl, he said to himself, using Orik’s favorite curse. He was more nervous than he ought to be. The knowledge that he might be about to fight Murtagh and Thorn again—singly or together—had put him on edge.
I’ll be sure to lose if I keep on like this, he thought. So he slowed his breathing and initiated the first of the mental exercises Glaedr had taught him for establishing control over his emotions.
The old dragon had not been enthusiastic about the mission when Eragon told him about it, but neither had he opposed it. After discussing various contingencies, Glaedr had said: Beware of the shadows, Eragon. Strange things lurk in dark places, which, Eragon thought, was hardly an encouraging statement.