That red runt is no match for me, said Saphira. If he did not have Murtagh protecting him, I would trap him against the ground and shake him by the neck until he submitted to me and acknowledged me as leader of the hunt.

“I am sure you would,” said Nasuada, smiling.

Eragon asked, “What course of action have you decided upon, then?”

“I have decided upon several courses, and we must undertake them all simultaneously if any are to be successful. First, we cannot push farther into the Empire, leaving cities behind us that Gal batorix still controls. To do that would be to expose ourselves to attacks from both the front and the rear and to invite Galbatorix to invade and seize Surda while we were absent. So I have already ordered the Varden to march north, to the nearest place where we can safely cross the Jiet River. Once we are on the other side of the river, I will send warriors south to capture Aroughs while King Orrin and I continue with the remainder of our forces to Feinster, which, with your help and Saphira’s, should fall before us without too much trouble.

“While we are engaged in the tedious business of tramping across the countryside, I have other responsibilities for you, Eragon.” She leaned forward in her seat. “We need the full help of the dwarves. The elves are fighting for us in the north of Alagaësia, the Surdans have joined with us body and mind, and even the Urgals have allied themselves with us. But we need the dwarves. We cannot succeed without them. Especially now that we must contend with soldiers who cannot feel pain.”

“Have the dwarves chosen a new king or queen yet?”

Nasuada grimaced. “Narheim assures me that the process is moving apace, but like the elves, dwarves take a longer view of time than we do. Apace for them might mean months of deliberations.”

“Don’t they realize the urgency of the situation?”

“Some do, but many oppose helping us in this war, and they seek to delay the proceedings as long as possible and to install one of their own upon the marble throne in Tronjheim. The dwarves have lived in hiding for so long, they have become dangerously suspicious of outsiders. If someone hostile to our aims wins the throne, we shall lose the dwarves. We cannot allow that to happen. Nor can we wait for the dwarves to resolve their differences at their usual pace. But”—she raised a finger—“from so far away, I cannot effectively intervene in their politics. Even if I were in Tronjheim, I could not ensure a favorable outcome; the dwarves do not take kindly to anyone who is not of their clans meddling in their government. So I want you, Eragon, to travel to Tronjheim in my stead and do what you can to ensure that the dwarves choose a new monarch in an expeditious manner—and that they choose a monarch who is sympathetic to our cause.”

“Me! But—”

“King Hrothgar adopted you into Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. According to their laws and customs, you are a dwarf, Eragon. You have a legal right to participate in the hallmeets of the Ingeitum, and as Orik is set to become their chief, and as he is your foster brother and a friend of the Varden’s, I am sure he will agree to let you accompany him into the secret councils of the thirteen clans where they elect their rulers.”

Her proposal seemed preposterous to Eragon. “What about Murtagh and Thorn? When they return, as they surely will, Saphira and I are the only ones who can hold our own against them, albeit with some assistance. If we are not here, no one will be able to stop them from killing you or Arya or Orrin or the rest of the Varden.”

The gap between Nasuada’s eyebrows narrowed. “You dealt Murtagh a stinging defeat yesterday. Most likely, he and Thorn are winging their way back to Urû’baen even as we speak so Galbatorix may interrogate them about the battle and chastise them for their failure. He will not send them to attack us again until he is confident that they can overwhelm you. Murtagh is surely uncertain about the true limits of your strength now, so that unhappy event may yet be some while off. Between now and then, I believe you will have enough time to travel back and forth between Farthen Dûr.”

“You could be wrong,” argued Eragon. “Besides, how would you keep Galbatorix from learning about our absence and attacking while we are gone? I doubt you have found all of the spies he has seeded among us.”

Nasuada tapped her fingers on the arms of her chair. “I said I wanted you to go to Farthen Dûr, Eragon. I did not say I wanted Saphira to go as well.” Turning her head, Saphira released a small puff of smoke that drifted toward the peak of the tent.

“I’m not about to—”

“Let me finish, please, Eragon.”

He clamped shut his jaw and glared at her, his left hand tight around the pommel of the falchion.

“You are not beholden to me, Saphira, but my hope is that you will agree to stay here while Eragon journeys to the dwarves so that we can deceive the Empire and the Varden as to Eragon’s whereabouts. If we can hide your departure”—she gestured at Eragon—“from the masses, no one will have any reason to suspect you are not still here. We will only have to devise a suitable excuse, then, to account for your sudden desire to remain in your tent during the day—perhaps that you and Saphira are flying sorties into enemy territory at night and so must rest while the sun is up.

“In order for the ruse to work, however, Blödhgarm and his companions will have to stay here as well, both to avoid arousing suspicion and for reasons of defense. If Murtagh and Thorn reappear while you are gone, Arya can take your place on Saphira. Between her, Blödhgarm’s spellcasters, and the magicians of Du Vrangr Gata, we should have a fair chance of thwarting Murtagh.”