"It must have fallen," said Eragon, examining the side of the
gulch. He allowed the werelight to fade into oblivion.
 Roran nodded and stood, brushing dirt from his pants.
 As he walked back to Saphira, Eragon considered the speed with
which they had reacted. His heart still contracted into a hard,
painful knot with each beat, his hands shook, and he felt like dash-
ing into the wilderness and running several miles without stopping.
We wouldn't have jumped like that before, he thought. The reason for
their vigilance was no mystery: every one of their fights had chipped
away at their complacency, leaving behind nothing but raw nerves
that twitched at the slightest touch.
 Roran must have been entertaining similar thoughts, for said,
"Do you see them?"
 "Who?"
 "The men you've killed. Do you see them in your dreams?"
 "Sometimes."
 The pulsing glow from the coals lit Roran's face from below,
forming thick shadows above his mouth and across his forehead
and giving his heavy, half-lidded eyes a baleful aspect. He spoke
slowly, as if he found the words difficult. "I never wanted to be a
warrior. I dreamed of blood and glory when I was younger, as every
boy does, but the land was what was important to me. That and our
family... And now I have killed... I have killed and killed, and
you have killed even more." His gaze focused on some distant place
only he could see. "There were these two men in Narda... Did I
tell you this before?"
 He had, but Eragon shook his head and remained silent.
 "They were guards at the main gate... Two of them, you know,
and the man on the right, he had pure white hair. I remember be-
cause he couldn't have been more than twenty-four, twenty-five.
They wore Galbatorix's sigil but spoke as if they were from Narda.
They weren't professional soldiers. They were probably just men
who had decided to help protect their homes from Urgals, pirates,
brigands... We weren't going to lift a finger against them. I swear

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