Who was a Dragon Rider And like a father
To me.
May his name live on in glory.
Then he bowed his head and mourned freely. He stood like a living statue until evening, when light faded from the land.
That night he dreamed of the imprisoned woman again.
He could tell that something was wrong with her. Her breathing was irregular, and she shook—whether from cold or pain, he did not know. In the semidarkness of the cell, the only thing clearly illuminated was her hand, which hung over the edge of the cot. A dark liquid dripped from the tips of her fingers. Eragon knew it was blood.
