Eragon gave his word, and then Lord Fiolr led him and Saphira to a long, polished table grown out of the living wood of the floor. At one end of the table was an ornate stand, and resting upon the stand was the sword Támerlein and its sheath.

The blade of Támerlein was colored a dark, rich green, as was its sheath. A large emerald adorned the pommel. The furniture of the sword had been wrought of blued steel. A line of glyphs adorned the crossguard. In Elvish, they said, I am Támerlein, bringer of the final sleep. In length, the sword was equal to Zar’roc, but the blade was wider and the tip rounder and the build of the hilt was heavier. It was a beautiful, deadly weapon, but just by looking at it, Eragon could see that Rhunön had forged Támerlein for a person with a fighting style different from his own, a style that relied more on cutting and slashing than the faster, more elegant techniques Brom had taught him.

As soon as Eragon’s fingers closed around Támerlein’s hilt, he realized that the hilt was too large for his hand, and at that moment he knew that Támerlein was not the sword for him. It did not feel like an extension of his arm, as had Zar’roc. And yet, despite his realization, Eragon hesitated, for where else could he hope to find so fine a sword? Arvindr, the other blade Oromis had mentioned, lay in a city hundreds of miles distant.

Then Saphira said, Do not take it. If you are to carry a sword into battle, if your life and mine are to depend upon it, then the sword must be perfect. Nothing else will suffice. Besides, I do not like the conditions Lord Fiolr has attached to his gift.

And so Eragon replaced Támerlein on its stand and apologized to Lord Fiolr, explaining why he could not accept the sword. The narrow-faced elf did not appear overly disappointed; to the contrary, Eragon thought he saw a flash of satisfaction appear in Fiolr’s fierce eyes.

From the halls of the family Valtharos, Eragon and Saphira made their own way through the dim caverns of the forest to the tunnel of dogwood trees that led to the open atrium in the center of Rhunön’s house. As they emerged from the tunnel, Eragon heard the clink of a hammer on a chisel, and he saw Rhunön sitting at a bench by the open-walled forge in the middle of the atrium. The elf woman was busy carving a block of polished steel that lay before her. Whatever she was sculpting, Eragon could not guess, for the piece was still rough and indistinct.

“So, Shadeslayer, you are still alive,” said Rhunön, without taking her eyes off her work. Her voice grated like pitted millstones. “Oromis told me that you lost Zar’roc to the son of Morzan.”

Eragon winced and nodded, even though she was not looking at him. “Yes, Rhunön-elda. He took it from me on the Burning Plains.”

“Hmph.” Rhunön concentrated on her hammering, tapping the back of her chisel with inhuman speed, then she paused and said, “The sword has found its rightful owner, then. I do not like the use to which—what is his name? ah yes—Murtagh is putting Zar’roc, but every Rider deserves a proper sword, and I can think of no better sword for the son of Morzan than Morzan’s own blade.” The elf woman glanced up at Eragon from underneath her lined brow. “Understand me, Shadeslayer, I would prefer it if you had kept hold of Zar’roc, but it would please me even more if you had a sword that was made for you. Zar’roc may have served you well, but it was the wrong shape for your body. And do not even speak to me of Támerlein. You would have to be a fool to think you could wield it.”

“As you can see,” said Eragon, “I did not bring it with me from Lord Fiolr.”

Rhunön nodded and resumed chiseling. “Well then, good.”

“If Zar’roc is the right sword for Murtagh,” said Eragon, “wouldn’t Brom’s sword be the right weapon for me?”

A frown pinched Rhunön’s eyebrows together. “Undbitr? Why would you think of Brom’s blade?”

“Because Brom was my father,” said Eragon, and felt a thrill at being able to say that.

“Is that so now?” Laying down her hammer and chisel, Rhunön walked out from under the roof of her forge until she stood opposite Eragon. Her posture was slightly stooped from the centuries she had spent hunched over her work, and because of it, she appeared an inch or two shorter than he. “Mmh, yes, I can see the similarity. He was a rude one, he was, Brom; he said what he meant and wasted no words. I rather liked it. I cannot abide how my race has become. They are too polite, too refined, too precious. Ha! I remember when elves used to laugh and fight like normal creatures. Now they have become so withdrawn, some seem to have no more emotion than a marble statue!”

Saphira said, Are you referring to how elves were before our races joined themselves to one another?

Rhunön turned her scowl onto Saphira. “Brightscales. Welcome. Yes, I was speaking of a time before the bond between elves and dragons was sealed. The changes I have seen in our races since, you would hardly credit as possible, but so they are, and here I am, one of the few still alive who can remember what we were like before.”

Then Rhunön whipped her gaze back to Eragon. “Undbitr is not the answer to your need. Brom lost his sword during the fall of the Riders. If it does not reside in Galbatorix’s collection, then it may have been destroyed or it may be buried in the earth somewhere, underneath the crumbling bones of a long-forgotten battlefield. Even if it could be found, you could not retrieve it before you would have to face your enemies again.”

“What, then, should I do, Rhunön-elda?” asked Eragon. And he told her of the falchion he had chosen when he was among the Varden and of the spells he had reinforced the falchion with and of how it had failed him in the tunnels underneath Farthen Dûr.