And then nothing but silence and blackness.
Eragon’s sight cleared, and he again found himself looking at the underside of Saphira’s wing. He released his pent-up breath—which he had not realized he was holding—and with a shaky hand wiped the tears from his eyes. He could not understand why the vision had affected him so strongly.
Was that a premonition? he wondered. Or something actually happening at this very moment? And why is it of any importance to me?
Thereafter, he was unable to continue resting. His worries returned in force and assailed him without reprieve, gnawing at his mind like a host of rats, each bite of which seemed to infect him with a creeping poison.
At last he crawled out from under Saphira’s wing—taking care not to wake her—and wandered back to his tent.
As before, the Nighthawks rose when they saw him. Their commander, a thickset man with a crooked nose, came forward to meet Eragon. “Is there anything you need, Shadeslayer?” he asked.
Eragon dimly remembered that the man’s name was Garven and something Nasuada had told him about the man losing his senses after examining the minds of the elves. The man appeared well enough now, although his gaze had a certain dreamy quality. Still, Eragon assumed Garven was capable of carrying out his duties; otherwise, Jörmundur would never have allowed him to return to his post.
“Not at the moment, Captain,” Eragon said, keeping his voice low. He took another step forward, then paused. “How many of the Nighthawks were killed tonight?”
“Six, sir. An entire watch. We’ll be shorthanded for a few days until we can find suitable replacements. And we’ll need more recruits in addition to that. We want to double the force around you.” A look of anguish perturbed Garven’s otherwise distant gaze. “We failed her, Shadeslayer. If there had been more of us there, maybe—”
“We all failed her,” said Eragon. “And if there had been more of you there, more of you would have died.”
The man hesitated, then nodded, his expression miserable.
I failed her, thought Eragon as he ducked into his tent. Nasuada was his liegelord; it was his duty to protect her even more than it was that of the Nighthawks. And yet the one time she had needed his help, he had been unable to save her.
He cursed once, viciously, to himself.
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 Gûntera 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 Urû’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.