The scales on Saphira’s chest, as well as on the underside of her head and neck, sparkled with dazzling flashes of light as the flames in the smelter danced. She crouched several yards away, her eyes fixed upon the molten heart of the fire. I could help with this, you know, she said. It would take me but a minute to melt the ore.

“Yes,” said Rhunön, “but if we melt it too quickly, the metal will not combine with the charcoal and become hard and flexible enough for a sword. Save your fire, dragon. We shall need it later.”

The heat from the smelter and the effort of pumping the bellows soon had Eragon covered in a sheen of sweat; his bare arms shone in the light from the fire.

Every now and then, he or Rhunön would abandon their bellows to shovel a new layer of charcoal over the fire.

The work was monotonous, and as a result, Eragon soon lost track of the time. The constant roar of the fire, the feel of the bellows’ handle in his hands, the whoosh of rushing air, and Saphira’s vigilant presence were the only things he was aware of.

It came as a surprise to him, then, when Rhunön said, “That should be sufficient. Leave the bellows.”

Wiping his brow, Eragon helped as she shoveled the incandescent coals out of the smelter and into a barrel filled with water. The coals sizzled and emitted an acrid smell as they struck the liquid.

When they finally exposed the glowing pool of white-hot metal at the bottom of the trough—the slag and other impurities having run off during the process—Rhunön covered the metal with an inch of fine white ash, then leaned her shovel against the side of the smelter and went to sit on the bench by her forge. “What now?” Eragon asked as he joined her.

“Now we wait.”

“For what?”

Rhunön gestured toward the sky, where the light from the setting sun painted a tattered array of clouds red and purple and gold. “It must be dark when we work the metal if we are to correctly judge its color. Also, the brightsteel needs time to cool so that it will be soft and easy to shape.”

Reaching around behind her head, Rhunön undid the cord that held back her hair, then gathered up her hair again and retied the cord. “In the meantime, let us talk about your sword. How do you fight, with one hand or two?”

Eragon thought for a minute, then said, “It varies. If I have a choice, I prefer to wield a sword with one hand and carry a shield with my other. However, circumstances have not always been favorable to me, and I have often had to fight without a shield. Then I like being able to grip the hilt with both hands, so I can deliver a more powerful stroke. The pommel on Zar’roc was large enough to grasp with my left hand if I had to, but the ridges around the ruby were uncomfortable and they did not afford me a secure hold. It would be nice to have a slightly longer hilt.”

“I take it you do not want a true two-handed sword?” said Rhunön.

Eragon shook his head. “No, it would be too big for fighting indoors.”

“That depends upon the size of the hilt and the blade combined, but in general, you are correct. Would you be amenable to a hand-and-a-half sword instead?”

An image flashed in Eragon’s mind of Murtagh’s original sword, and he smiled. Why not? thought Eragon. “Yes, a hand-and-a-half sword would be perfect, I think.”

“And how long would you like the blade?”

“No longer than Zar’roc’s.”

“Mmh. Do you want a straight blade or a curved blade?”

“Straight.”

“Have you any preferences as to the guard?”

“Not especially.”

Crossing her arms, Rhunön sat with her chin touching her breastbone, her eyes heavy-lidded. Her lips twitched. “What of the width of the blade? Remember, no matter how narrow it is, the sword shall not break.”

“Perhaps it could be a little wider at the guard than Zar’roc was.”

“Why?”

“I think it might look better.”

A harsh, cracked laugh broke from Rhunön’s throat. “But how would that improve the use of the sword?”

Embarrassed, Eragon shifted on the bench, at a loss for words.

“Never ask me to alter a weapon merely in order to improve its appearance,” admonished Rhunön. “A weapon is a tool, and if it is beautiful, then it is beautiful because it is useful. A sword that could not fulfill its function would be ugly to my eyes no matter how fair its shape, not even if it were adorned with the finest jewels and the most intricate engraving.” The elf woman pursed her lips, pushing them out as she thought. “So, a sword equally suited for the unrestrained bloodshed of a battlefield as it is for defending yourself in the narrow tunnels under Farthen Dûr. A sword for all occasions, of middling length, but for the hilt, which shall be longer than average.”

“A sword for killing Galbatorix,” said Eragon.

Rhunön nodded. “And as such, it must be well protected against magic. . . .” Her chin sank to her chest again. “Armor has improved a great deal in the past century, so the tip will need to be narrower than I used to make them, the better to pierce plate and mail and to slip into the gaps between the various pieces. Mmh.” From a pouch by her side, Rhunön withdrew a knotted piece of twine, with which she took numerous measurements of Eragon’s hands and arms. Afterward, she retrieved a wrought-iron poker from the forge and tossed it toward Eragon. He caught it with one hand and raised an eyebrow at the elf woman. She motioned toward him with a finger and said, “Go on now. Up on your feet and let me see how you move with a sword.”