As Oromis served the midday meal, Eragon said, “I know why fighting Galbatorix is worth it, though thousands of people may die.”

“Oh?” Oromis seated himself. “Do tell me.”

“Because Galbatorix has already caused more suffering over the past hundred years than we ever could in a single generation. And unlike a normal tyrant, we cannot wait for him to die. He could rule for centuries or millennia—persecuting and tormenting people the entire time—unless we stop him. If he became strong enough, he would march on the dwarves and you here in Du Weldenvarden and kill or enslave both races. And . . . ,” Eragon rubbed the heel of his palm against the edge of the table, “. . . because rescuing the two eggs from Galbatorix is the only way to save the dragons.”

The strident warble of Oromis’s teakettle intruded, escalating in volume until Eragon’s ears rang. Standing, Oromis hooked the kettle off the cookfire and poured the water for blueberry tea. The creases around his eyes softened. “Now,” he said, “you understand.”

“I understand, but I take no pleasure in it.”

“Nor should you. But now we can be confident that you won’t shrink from the path when you are confronted by the injustices and atrocities that the Varden will inevitably commit. We cannot afford to have you consumed by doubts when your strength and focus are most needed.” Oromis steepled his fingers and gazed into the dark mirror of his tea, contemplating whatever he saw in its tenebrous reflection. “Do you believe that Galbatorix is evil?”

“Of course!”

“Do you believe that he considers himself evil?”

“No, I doubt it.”

Oromis tapped his forefingers against each other. “Then you must also believe that Durza was evil?”

The fragmented memories Eragon had gleaned from Durza when they fought in Tronjheim returned to him now, reminding him how the young Shade—Carsaib, then—had been enslaved by the wraiths he had summoned to avenge the death of his mentor, Haeg. “He wasn’t evil himself, but the spirits that controlled him were.”

“And what of the Urgals?” asked Oromis, sipping his tea. “Are they evil?”

Eragon’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his spoon. “When I think of death, I see an Urgal’s face. They’re worse than beasts. The things they have done . . .” He shook his head, unable to continue.

“Eragon, what kind of opinion would you form of humans if all you knew of them were the actions of your warriors on the field of battle?”

“That’s not . . .” He took a deep breath. “It’s different. Urgals deserve to be wiped out, every last one of them.”

“Even their females and children? The ones who haven’t harmed you and likely never will? The innocents? Would you kill them and condemn an entire race to the void?”

“They wouldn’t spare us, given the chance.”

“Eragon!” exclaimed Oromis in biting tones. “I never want to hear you use that excuse again, that because someone else has done—or would do—something means that you should too. It’s lazy, repugnant, and indicative of an inferior mind. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Master.”

The elf raised his mug to his lips and drank, his bright eyes fixed on Eragon the entire time. “What do you actually know of Urgals?”

“I know their strengths, weaknesses, and how to kill them. It’s all I need to know.”

“Why do they hate and fight humans, though? What about their history and legends, or the way in which they live?”

“Does it matter?”

Oromis sighed. “Just remember,” he said gently, “that at a certain point, your enemies may have to become your allies. Such is the nature of life.”

Eragon resisted the urge to argue. He swirled his own tea in its mug, accelerating the liquid into a black whirlpool with a white lens of foam at the bottom of the vortex. “Is that why Galbatorix enlisted the Urgals?”

“That is not an example I would have chosen, but yes.”

“It seems strange that he befriended them. After all, they were the ones who killed his dragon. Look what he did to us, the Riders, and we weren’t even responsible for his loss.”

“Ah,” said Oromis, “mad Galbatorix may be, but he’s still as cunning as a fox. I guess that he intended to use the Urgals to destroy the Varden and the dwarves—and others, if he had triumphed in Farthen Dûr—thereby removing two of his enemies while simultaneously weakening the Urgals so that he could dispose of them at his leisure.”

Study of the ancient language devoured the afternoon, whereupon they took up the practice of magic. Much of Oromis’s lectures concerned the proper way in which to control various forms of energy, such as light, heat, electricity, and even gravity. He explained that since these forces consumed strength faster than any other type of spell, it was safer to find them already in existence in nature and then shape them with gramarye, instead of trying to create them from nothing.

Abandoning the subject, Oromis asked, “How would you kill with magic?”

“I’ve done it many ways,” said Eragon. “I’ve hunted with a pebble—moving and aiming it with magic—as well as using the wordjierda to break Urgals’ legs and necks. Once, withthrysta, I stopped a man’s heart.”

“There are more efficient methods,” revealed Oromis. “What does it take to kill a man, Eragon? A sword through the chest? A broken neck? The loss of blood? All it takes is for a single artery in the brain to be pinched off, or for certain nerves to be severed. With the right spell, you could obliterate an army.”