“I don’t stand entirely apart,” said Eragon. “I’m sworn both to you and to Nasuada.”

Orik inclined his head. “True enough. But you are not fully part of the Varden—or the Ingeitum either, for that matter. Whatever the case may be, I’m glad I can trust you.”

A smile crept across Eragon’s face. “As am I.”

“After all, we’re foster brothers, aren’t we? And brothers ought to watch each other’s backs.”

That they should, thought Eragon, though he did not say it out loud. “Foster brothers,” he agreed, and clapped Orik on the shoulder.

THE WAY OF KNOWING

ater that afternoon, when it seemed increasingly unlikely that the Empire would launch an attack from Dras-Leona in the few remaining hours of sunlight, Eragon and Saphira went to the sparring field at the rear of the Varden camp.

There Eragon met with Arya, as he had done every day since arriving at the city. He asked after her, and she answered briefly—she had been stuck in a tiresome conference with Nasuada and King Orrin since before dawn. Then Eragon drew his sword and Arya hers, and they took up positions opposite each other. For a change, they had agreed beforehand to use shields; it was closer to the reality of actual combat, and it introduced a welcome element of variety into their duels.

They circled each other with short, smooth steps, moving like dancers over the uneven ground, feeling their way with their feet and never looking down, never looking away from one another.

This was Eragon’s favorite part of their fights. There was something profoundly intimate about staring into Arya’s eyes, without blinking, without wavering, and having her stare back at him with the same degree of focus and intensity. It could be disconcerting, but he enjoyed the sense of connection it created between them.

Arya initiated the first attack, and within the span of a second, Eragon found himself standing hunched over at an awkward angle, her blade pressed against the left side of his neck, tugging painfully at his skin. Eragon remained frozen until Arya saw fit to release the pressure and allow him to stand upright.

“That was sloppy,” she said.

“How is it you keep besting me?” he growled, far from pleased.

“Because,” she replied, and feinted toward his right shoulder, causing him to raise his shield and leap backward in alarm, “I’ve had over a hundred years of practice. It would be odd if I weren’t better than you, now wouldn’t it? You should be proud that you’ve managed to mark me at all. Few can.”

Brisingr whistled through the air as Eragon struck at her lead thigh. A loud clang resounded as she stopped the blow with her shield. She countered with a clever twisting stab that caught him on his sword wrist and sent icy needles shooting up his arm and shoulder to the base of his skull.

Wincing, he disengaged, seeking a temporary reprieve. One of the challenges of fighting elves was that because of their speed and strength, they could lunge forward and engage an enemy at distances far greater than any human could. Therefore, to be safe from Arya, he had to move nearly a hundred feet away from her.

Before he could put much distance between them, Arya sprang after him, taking two flying steps, her hair streaming behind her. Eragon swung at her while she was still airborne, but she turned so that his sword passed along the length of her body, without touching it. Then she slipped the edge of her shield underneath his and yanked it away, leaving his chest completely exposed. Fast as could be, she brought her sword up and again pressed it against his neck, this time underneath his chin.

She held him in that position, her large, wide-set eyes only inches away from his. There was a ferocity and intentness to her expression that he was uncertain how to interpret, but it gave him pause.

A shadow seemed to flit across Arya’s face then, and she lowered her sword and stepped away.

Eragon rubbed his throat. “If you know so much about swordsmanship,” he said, “then why can’t you teach me to be better?”

Her emerald eyes burned with even greater force. “I’m trying,” she said, “but the problem is not here.” She tapped her sword against his right arm. “The problem is here.” She tapped his helm, metal clinking against metal. “And I don’t know how else to teach you what you need to learn except by showing you your mistakes over and over again until you stop making them.” She rapped his helm once more. “Even if it means I have to beat you black-and-blue in order to do it.”

That she continued to defeat him with such regularity hurt his pride far more than he was willing to admit, even to Saphira, and it made him doubt whether he would ever be able to triumph over Galbatorix, Murtagh, or any other truly formidable opponent, should he be so unfortunate as to face them in single combat without the help of Saphira or his magic.

Wheeling away from Arya, Eragon stomped over to a spot some ten yards distant.

“Well?” he said through clenched teeth. “Get on with it, then.” And he settled into a low crouch as he readied himself for another onslaught.

Arya narrowed her eyes to slits, which gave her angled face an evil look. “Very well.”

They rushed at each other, both shouting war cries, and the field echoed with the sounds of their furious clash. Match after match they fought, until they were tired, sweaty, and coated with dust, and Eragon was striped with many painful welts. And still they continued to dash themselves against one another with a grim-faced determination that had hitherto been absent from their duels. Neither of them asked to end their brutal, bruising contest, and neither of them offered to.