inheritance
Inheritance
Cover
Inheritance
CONTENTS
Cover
About the Book
Map
Title Page
Dedication
In the Beginning: A History of Eragon, Eldest, and Brisingr
Into the Breach
Hammerfall
Shadows on the Horizon
King Cat
Aftermath
Memories of the Dead
What Is a Man?
The Price of Power
Rudely into the Light …
A Cradle Song
No Rest for the Weary
Dancing with Swords
No Honor, No Glory, Only Blisters in Unfortunate Places
Mooneater
Rumors and Writing
Aroughs
Dras-Leona
A Toss of the Bones
My Friend, My Enemy
A Flour Made of Flame
Dust and Ashes
Interregnum
Thardsvergûndnzmal
The Way of Knowing
A Heart-to-Heart
Discovery
Decisions
Under Hill and Stone
To Feed a God
Infidels on the Loose
The Tolling of the Bell
Black-Shrike-Thorn-Cave
Hammer and Helm
And the Walls Fell …
By the Banks of Lake Leona
The Word of a Rider
Conclave of Kings
A Maze Without End
Fragments, Half-Seen and Indistinct
Questions Unanswered
Departure
The Torment of Uncertainty
The Hall of the Soothsayer
On the Wings of a Dragon
The Sound of His Voice, the Touch of His Hand
Small Rebellions
A Crown of Ice and Snow
Burrow Grubs
Amid the Ruins
Snalglà for Two
The Rock of Kuthian
And All the World a Dream
A Question of Character
The Vault of Souls
Lacuna, Part the First
Lacuna, Part the Second
Return
The City of Sorrows
War Council
A Matter of Duty
Fire in the Night
Over the Wall and into the Maw
The Storm Breaks
That Which Does Not Kill …
The Heart of the Fray
The Name of All Names
Muscle Against Metal
The Gift of Knowledge
Death Throes
A Sea of Nettles
Heir to the Empire
A Fitting Epitaph
Pieces on a Board
FÃrnen
A Man of Conscience
Blood Price
Promises, New and Old
Leave-Taking
Pronunciation Guide and Glossary
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Inheritance
ABOUT THE BOOK
Not so very long ago, Eragon – Shadeslayer, Dragon Rider – was nothing more than a
poor farm boy, and his dragon, Saphira, only a blue stone in the forest. Now, the fate of an
entire civilization rests on their shoulders.
Long months of training and battle have brought victories and hope, but they have also
brought heartbreaking loss. And still the real battle lies ahead: they must confront Galbatorix.
When they do, they will have to be strong enough to defeat him. And if they cannot, no one
can. There will be no second chances.
The Rider and his dragon have come farther than anyone dared to hope. But can they
topple the evil king and restore justice to Alagaësia? And if so, at what cost?
Inheritance
Inheritance
Inheritance
Inheritance
As always, this book is for my family.
And also for the dreamers of dreams:
the many artists, musicians, and storytellers
who have made this journey possible.
Inheritance
IN THE BEGINNING:
A History of Eragon, Eldest, and Brisingr
In the beginning, there were dragons: proud, fierce, and independent. Their scales were
like gems, and all who gazed upon them despaired, for their beauty was great and terrible.
And they lived alone in the land of Alagaësia for ages uncounted.
Then the god Helzvog made the stout and sturdy dwarves from the stone of the Hadarac
Desert.
And their two races warred much.
Then the elves sailed to Alagaësia from across the silver sea. They too warred with the
dragons. But the elves were stronger than the dwarves, and they would have destroyed the
dragons, even as the dragons would have destroyed the elves.
And so a truce was struck and a pact was sealed between the dragons and the elves. And
by this joining, they created the Dragon Riders, who kept the peace throughout Alagaësia for
thousands of years.
Then humans sailed to Alagaësia. And the horned Urgals. And the Ra’zac, who are the
hunters in the dark and the eaters of men’s flesh.
And the humans also joined the pact with the dragons.
Then a young Dragon Rider, Galbatorix, rose up against his own kind. He enslaved the
black dragon Shruikan and he convinced thirteen other Riders to follow him. And the thirteen
were called the Forsworn.
And Galbatorix and the Forsworn cast down the Riders and burnt their city on the isle of
Vroengard and slew every dragon not their own, save for three eggs: one red, one blue, one
green. And from each dragon they could, they took the heart of hearts—the Eldunar×that
holds the might and mind of the dragons, apart from their flesh.
And for two-and-eighty years, Galbatorix reigned supreme among the humans. The
Forsworn died, but not he, for his strength was that of all the dragons, and none could hope to
strike him down.
In the eighty-third year of Galbatorix’s rule, a man stole from his castle the blue dragon
egg. And the egg passed into the care of those who still fought against Galbatorix, those who
are known as the Varden.
The elf Arya carried the egg between the Varden and the elves in search of the human or
elf for whom it would hatch. And in this manner, five-and-twenty years passed.
Then, as Arya traveled to the elven city of Osilon, a group of Urgals attacked her and her
guards. With the Urgals was the Shade Durza: a sorcerer possessed by the spirits he had
summoned to do his bidding. After the death of the Forsworn, he had become Galbatorix’s
most feared servant. The Urgals slew Arya’s guards, and before they and the Shade captured
her, Arya sent the egg away with magic, toward one who she hoped could protect it.
But her spell went awry.
And so it came to pass that Eragon, an orphan of only five-and-ten years, found the egg
within the mountains of the Spine. He took the egg to the farm where he lived with his uncle,
Garrow, and his only cousin, Roran. And the egg hatched for Eragon, and he raised the
dragon therein. And her name was Saphira.
Then Galbatorix sent two of the Ra’zac to find and retrieve the egg, and they slew Garrow
and burnt Eragon’s home. For Galbatorix had enslaved the Ra’zac, and of them only a few remained.
Eragon and Saphira set out to avenge themselves on the Ra’zac. With them went the
storyteller Brom, who had once been a Dragon Rider himself, ere the fall of the Riders. It was
to Brom that the elf Arya had meant to send the blue egg.
Brom taught Eragon much about swordsmanship, magic, and honor. And he gave to
Eragon Zar’roc, that had once been the sword of Morzan, first and most powerful of the
Forsworn. But the Ra’zac slew Brom when next they met, and Eragon and Saphira only escaped
with the help of a young man, Murtagh, son of Morzan.
During their travels, the Shade Durza captured Eragon in the city of Gil’ead. Eragon managed
to free himself, and as he did, he freed Arya from her cell. Arya was poisoned and
gravely wounded, so Eragon, Saphira, and Murtagh took her to the Varden, who lived among
the dwarves in the Beor Mountains.
There Arya was healed, and there Eragon blessed a squalling infant by the name of Elva,
blessed her to be shielded from misfortune. But Eragon spoke badly, and without realizing it,
he cursed her, and his curse forced her to instead become a shield for others’ misfortune.
Soon thereafter, Galbatorix sent a great army of Urgals to attack the dwarves and the
Varden. And it was in the battle that followed that Eragon slew the Shade Durza. But Durza
gave Eragon a grievous wound across his back, and Eragon suffered terrible pain because of
it, despite the spells of the Varden’s healers.
And in his pain, he heard a voice. And the voice said, Come to me, Eragon. Come to me,
for I have answers to all you ask.
Three days after, the leader of the Varden, Ajihad, was ambushed and killed by Urgals under
the command of a pair of magicians, twins, who betrayed the Varden to Galbatorix. The
twins also abducted Murtagh and spirited him away to Galbatorix. But to Eragon and everyone
in the Varden, it looked as if Murtagh had died, and Eragon was much saddened.
And Ajihad’s daughter, Nasuada, became leader of the Varden.
From Tronjheim, the seat of the dwarves’ power, Eragon, Saphira, and Arya traveled to
the northern forest of Du Weldenvarden, where live the elves. With them went the dwarf Orik,
nephew of the dwarf king, Hrothgar.
In Du Weldenvarden, Eragon and Saphira met with Oromis and Glaedr: the last free Rider
and dragon, who had lived in hiding all the past century, waiting to instruct the next generation
of Dragon Riders. And Eragon and Saphira also met with Queen IslanzadÃ, ruler of the elves
and mother to Arya.
While Oromis and Glaedr trained Eragon and Saphira, Galbatorix sent the Ra’zac and a
group of soldiers to Eragon’s home village of Carvahall, this time to capture his cousin, Roran.
But Roran hid, and they would not have found him if not for the hatred of the butcher Sloan.
For Sloan murdered a watchman so as to let the Ra’zac into the village, where they might
take Roran unawares.
Roran fought his way free, but the Ra’zac stole from him Katrina: Roran’s beloved and
Sloan’s daughter. Then Roran convinced the villagers to leave with him, and they journeyed
through the mountains of the Spine, down the coast of Alagaësia, and to the southern country
of Surda, which yet existed independent of Galbatorix.
The wound upon Eragon’s back continued to torment him. But during the elves’ Bloodoath
Celebration, wherein they celebrate the pact between the Riders and the dragons, his
wound was healed by the spectral dragon the elves invoke upon the conclusion of the festival.
Moreover, the apparition gave Eragon strength and speed equal to those of the elves themselves.
Then Eragon and Saphira flew to Surda, where Nasuada had taken the Varden to launch
an attack against Galbatorix’s Empire. There the Urgals allied themselves with the Varden, for
they claimed that Galbatorix had clouded their minds, and they would have their revenge
against him. With the Varden, Eragon met again the girl Elva, who had grown with prodigious
speed because of his spell. From a squalling infant to a girl of three or four she had become,
and her gaze was dire indeed, for she knew the pain of all those around her.
And not far from the border of Surda, upon the blackness of the Burning Plains, Eragon,
Saphira, and the Varden fought a great and bloody battle against Galbatorix’s army.
In the midst of the battle, Roran and the villagers joined the Varden, as did the dwarves,
who had marched after them from the Beor Mountains.
But out of the east rose a figure clad in polished armor. And he rode upon a glittering red
dragon. And with a spell, he slew King Hrothgar.
Then Eragon and Saphira fought the Rider and his red dragon. And they discovered the
Rider was Murtagh, now bound to Galbatorix with oaths unbreakable. And the dragon was
Thorn, second of the three eggs to hatch.
Murtagh defeated Eragon and Saphira with the strength of the Eldunarà that Galbatorix
had given him. But Murtagh allowed Eragon and Saphira to go free, for Murtagh still bore
friendship for Eragon. And because, as he told Eragon, they were brothers, both born of
Morzan’s favored consort, Selena.
Then Murtagh took Zar’roc, their father’s sword, from Eragon, and he and Thorn withdrew
from the Burning Plains, as did the rest of Galbatorix’s forces.
Upon completion of the battle, Eragon, Saphira, and Roran flew to the dark tower of stone,
Helgrind, that served as the Ra’zac’s hiding place. They slew one of the Ra’zac—and the
Ra’zac’s foul parents, the Lethrblaka—and from Helgrind rescued Katrina. And in one of the
cells, Eragon discovered Katrina’s father, blind and half-dead.
Eragon considered killing Sloan for his betrayal, but rejected the idea. Instead, he put
Sloan into a deep sleep and told Roran and Katrina that her father was dead. Then he asked
Saphira to take Roran and Katrina back to the Varden while he hunted down the final Ra’zac.
Alone, Eragon slew the last remaining Ra’zac. Then he took Sloan away from Helgrind.
After much thought, Eragon discovered Sloan’s true name in the ancient language, the language
of power and magic. And Eragon bound Sloan with his name and forced the butcher to
swear that he would never see his daughter again. Then Eragon sent him to live among the
elves. But what Eragon did not tell the butcher was that the elves would repair his eyes if he
repented of his treason and murder.
Arya met Eragon halfway to the Varden, and together they returned, on foot and through
enemy territory.
At the Varden, Eragon learned that Queen Islanzadà had sent twelve elven spellcasters,
led by an elf named Blödhgarm, to protect him and Saphira. Eragon then removed as much of
his curse as he could from the girl Elva, but she retained her ability to feel the pain of others,
though she no longer felt the compulsion to save them from their misery.
And Roran married Katrina, who was pregnant, and for the first time in a long while,
Eragon was happy.
Then Murtagh, Thorn, and a group of Galbatorix’s men attacked the Varden. With the help
of the elves, Eragon and Saphira were able to hold them off, but neither Eragon nor Murtagh
could defeat the other. It was a difficult battle, for Galbatorix had enchanted the soldiers so
that they felt no pain, and the Varden suffered many casualties.
Afterward, Nasuada sent Eragon to represent the Varden among the dwarves while they
chose their new king. Eragon was loath to go, for Saphira had to stay and protect the
Varden’s camp. But go he did.
And Roran served alongside the Varden, and he rose through their ranks, for he proved
himself a skilled warrior and a leader of men.
While Eragon was among the dwarves, seven of them tried to assassinate him. An investigation
revealed that the clan Az Sweldn rak Anhûin was behind the attack. The clanmeet
continued, however, and Orik was chosen to succeed his uncle. Saphira joined Eragon for the
coronation. And during it, she fulfilled her promise to repair the dwarves’ cherished star sapphire,
which she had broken during Eragon’s battle with the Shade Durza.
Then Eragon and Saphira returned to Du Weldenvarden. There Oromis revealed the truth
about Eragon’s heritage: that he was not, in fact, Morzan’s son but Brom’s, though he and
Murtagh did share the same mother, Selena. Oromis and Glaedr also explained the concept
of the EldunarÃ, which a dragon may choose to disgorge while living, though this must be
done with great care, for whosoever owns the Eldunarà may use it to control the dragon it
came from.
While in the forest, Eragon decided that he needed a sword to replace Zar’roc. Remembering
the advice he had gotten from the werecat Solembum during his journeys with Brom,
Eragon went to the sentient Menoa tree in Du Weldenvarden. He spoke with the tree, and the
tree agreed to give up the brightsteel beneath its roots in exchange for an unnamed price.
Then the elf smith Rhunön—who had forged all of the Riders’ swords—worked with
Eragon to make a new blade for him. The sword was blue, and Eragon named it Brisingr—“
fire.†And the blade burst into flame whenever he spoke its name.
Then Glaedr gave trust of his heart of hearts to Eragon and Saphira, and they made their
way back to the Varden, while Glaedr and Oromis joined the rest of their kind as they attacked
the northern part of the Empire.
At the siege of Feinster, Eragon and Arya encountered three enemy magicians, one of
whom was transformed into the Shade Varaug. And with Eragon’s help, Arya slew Varaug.
As they did, Oromis and Glaedr fought Murtagh and Thorn. And Galbatorix reached out
and took command of Murtagh’s mind. And with Murtagh’s arm, Galbatorix struck down
Oromis, and Thorn slew Glaedr’s body.
And though the Varden were victorious at Feinster, Eragon and Saphira mourned the loss
of their teacher, Oromis. But still the Varden continued, and even now they march deeper into
the Empire, toward the capital, Urû’baen, wherein sits Galbatorix, proud, confident, and disdainful,
for his is the strength of the dragons.
Inheritance
INTO THE BREACH
THE DRAGON SAPHIRA roared, and the soldiers before her quailed.
“With me!†shouted Eragon. He lifted Brisingr over his head, holding it aloft for all to see.
The blue sword flashed bright and iridescent, stark against the wall of black clouds building in
the west. “For the Varden!â€
An arrow whizzed past him; he paid it no mind.
The warriors gathered at the base of the slope of rubble Eragon and Saphira were standing
upon answered him with a single, full-throated bellow: “The Varden!†They brandished
their own weapons and charged forward, scrambling up the tumbled blocks of stone.
Eragon turned his back to the men. On the other side of the mound lay a wide courtyard.
Two hundred or so of the Empire’s soldiers stood huddled within. Behind them rose a tall,
dark keep with narrow slits for windows and several square towers, the tallest of which had a
lantern shining in its upper rooms. Somewhere within the keep, Eragon knew, was Lord Bradburn,
governor of Belatona—the city the Varden had been fighting to capture for several long
hours.
With a cry, Eragon leaped off the rubble toward the soldiers. The men shuffled backward,
although they kept their spears and pikes trained on the ragged hole Saphira had torn in the
castle’s outer wall.
Eragon’s right ankle twisted as he landed. He fell to his knee and caught himself on the
ground with his sword hand.
One of the soldiers seized the opportunity to dart out of formation and stab his spear at
Eragon’s exposed throat.
Eragon parried the thrust with a flick of his wrist, swinging Brisingr faster than either a human
or an elf could follow. The soldier’s face grew slack with fear as he realized his mistake.
He tried to flee, but before he could move more than a few inches, Eragon lunged forward
and took him in the gut.
With a pennant of blue and yellow flame streaming from her maw, Saphira jumped into the
courtyard after Eragon. He crouched and tensed his legs as she struck the paved ground.
The impact shook the entire courtyard. Many of the chips of glass that formed a large, colorful
mosaic in front of the keep popped loose and flew spinning upward like coins bounced off a
drum. Above, a pair of shutters banged open and closed in a window of the building.
The elf Arya accompanied Saphira. Her long black hair billowed wildly around her angular
face as she sprang off the pile of rubble. Lines of splattered blood striped her arms and neck;
gore smeared the blade of her sword. She alit with a soft scuff of leather against stone.
Her presence heartened Eragon. There was no one else whom he would rather have
fighting alongside him and Saphira. She was, he thought, the perfect shield mate.
He loosed a quick smile at her, and Arya responded in kind, her expression fierce and joyous.
In battle, her reserved demeanor vanished, replaced by an openness that she rarely displayed
elsewhere.
Eragon ducked behind his shield as a rippling sheet of blue fire appeared between them.
From beneath the rim of his helm, he watched as Saphira bathed the cowering soldiers in a
torrent of flames that flowed around them, yet caused them no harm.
A line of archers on the battlements of the castle keep let fly a volley of arrows at Saphira.
The heat above her was so intense that a handful of the arrows burst into fire in midair and
crumbled to ash, while the magical wards Eragon had placed around Saphira deflected the
rest. One of the stray arrows rebounded off Eragon’s shield with a hollow thud, denting it.
The plume of flame suddenly enveloped three of the soldiers, killing them so quickly, they
did not even have time to scream. The other soldiers clustered in the center of the inferno, the
blades of their spears and pikes reflecting flashes of bright blue light.
Try though she might, Saphira could not so much as singe the survivors. At last she abandoned
her efforts and closed her jaws with a definitive snap. The fire’s absence left the courtyard
startlingly quiet.
It occurred to Eragon, as it had several times before, that whoever had given the soldiers
their wards must have been a skilled and powerful magician. Was it Murtagh? he wondered. If
so, why aren’t he and Thorn here to defend Belatona? Doesn’t Galbatorix care to keep control
of his cities?
Eragon ran forward and, with a single stroke of Brisingr, lopped off the tops of a dozen
polearms as easily as he had flicked off the seed heads of barley stalks when he was younger.
He slashed the nearest soldier across the chest, slicing through his mail as if it were the
flimsiest of cloth. A fountain of blood arose. Then Eragon stabbed the next soldier in line and
struck the soldier to his left with his shield, knocking the man into three of his companions and
bowling them over.
The soldiers’ reactions seemed slow and clumsy to Eragon as he danced through their
ranks, cutting them down with impunity. Saphira waded into the fray to his left—batting the
soldiers into the air with her enormous paws, lashing them with her spiked tail, and biting and
killing them with a shake of her head—while, to his right, Arya was a blur of motion, every
swing of her sword signaling death for another servant of the Empire. When Eragon spun
around to evade a pair of spears, he saw the fur-covered elf Blödhgarm close behind, as well
as the eleven other elves whose task it was to guard him and Saphira.
Farther back, the Varden poured into the courtyard through the gap in the castle’s outer
wall, but the men refrained from attacking; it was too dangerous to go anywhere near Saphira.
Neither she nor Eragon nor the elves required assistance in disposing of the soldiers.
The battle soon swept Eragon and Saphira apart, carrying them to opposite ends of the
courtyard. Eragon was not concerned. Even without her wards, Saphira was more than capable
of defeating a large group of twenty or thirty humans by herself.
A spear thudded against Eragon’s shield, bruising his shoulder. He whirled toward the
thrower, a big, scarred man missing his lower front teeth, and sprinted at him. The man
struggled to draw a dagger from his belt. At the last moment, Eragon twisted, tensed his arms
and chest, and rammed his sore shoulder into the man’s sternum.
The force of the impact drove the soldier backward several yards, whereupon he collapsed,
clutching at his heart.
Then a hail of black-fletched arrows fell, killing or injuring many of the soldiers. Eragon
shied away from the missiles and covered himself with his shield, even though he was confident
his magic would protect him. It would not do to become careless; he never knew when an
enemy spellcaster might fire an enchanted arrow that could breach his wards.
A bitter smile twisted Eragon’s lips. The archers above had realized that their only hope of
victory lay in somehow killing Eragon and the elves, no matter how many of their own they
had to sacrifice to do so.
You’re too late, thought Eragon with grim satisfaction. You should have left the Empire
while you still had the chance.
The onslaught of clattering arrows gave him the chance to rest for a moment, which he
welcomed. The attack on the city had begun at daybreak, and he and Saphira had been at its
forefront the whole while.
Once the arrows ceased, Eragon transferred Brisingr to his left hand, picked up one of the
soldiers’ spears, and heaved it at the archers forty feet above. As Eragon had discovered,
spears were difficult to throw accurately without substantial practice. It did not surprise him,
then, when he missed the man he was aiming for, but he was surprised when he missed the
entire line of archers on the battlements. The spear sailed over them and shattered against
the castle wall overhead. The archers laughed and jeered, making rude gestures.
A swift movement at the periphery of his vision caught Eragon’s attention. He looked just
in time to see Arya launch her own spear at the archers; it impaled two who were standing
close together. Then Arya pointed at the men with her sword and said, “Brisingr!†and the
spear burst into emerald-green fire.
The archers shrank from the burning corpses and, as one, fled from the battlements,
crowding through the doorways that led to the upper levels of the castle.
“That’s not fair,†Eragon said. “I can’t use that spell, not without my sword flaring up like a
bonfire.â€
Arya gazed at him with a faint hint of amusement.
The fighting continued for another few minutes, whereupon the remaining soldiers either
surrendered or tried to flee.
Eragon allowed the five men in front of him to run away; he knew they would not get far.
After a quick examination of the bodies that lay sprawled around him to confirm that they were
indeed dead, he looked back across the courtyard. Some of the Varden had opened the gates
in the outer wall and were carrying a battering ram through the street leading to the castle.
Others were assembling in ragged lines next to the keep door, ready to enter the castle and
confront the soldiers within. Among them stood Eragon’s cousin, Roran, gesturing with his
ever-present hammer while he issued orders to the detachment under his command. At the
far end of the courtyard, Saphira crouched over the corpses of her kills, the area around her a
shambles. Beads of blood clung to her gemlike scales, the spots of red in startling contrast to
the blue of her body. She threw back her spiky head and roared her triumph, drowning out the
clamor of the city with the ferocity of her cry.
Then, from inside the castle, Eragon heard the rattle of gears and chains, followed by the
scrape of heavy wooden beams being drawn back. The sounds attracted everyone’s gaze to
the doors of the keep.
With a hollow boom, the doors parted and swung open. A thick cloud of smoke from the
torches within billowed outward, causing the nearest of the Varden to cough and cover their
faces. From somewhere in the depths of the gloom came the drumming of iron-clad hooves
against the paving stones; then a horse and rider burst forth from the center of the smoke. In
his left hand, the rider held what Eragon first took to be a common lance, but he soon noticed
that it was made of a strange green material and had a barbed blade forged in an unfamiliar
pattern. A faint glow surrounded the head of the lance, the unnatural light betraying the presence
of magic.
The rider tugged on the reins and angled his horse toward Saphira, who began to rear
onto her hind legs, in preparation for delivering a terrible, killing blow with her right front paw.
Concern clutched at Eragon. The rider was too sure of himself, the lance too different, too
eerie. Though her wards ought to protect her, Eragon was certain Saphira was in mortal
danger.
I won’t be able to reach her in time, he realized. He cast his mind toward the rider, but the
man was so focused on his task that he did not even notice Eragon’s presence, and his unwavering
concentration prevented Eragon from gaining more than superficial access to his
consciousness. Withdrawing into himself, Eragon reviewed a half-dozen words from the ancient
language and composed a simple spell to stop the galloping war-horse in his tracks. It
was a desperate act—for Eragon knew not if the rider was a magician himself or what precautions
he might have taken against being attacked with magic—but Eragon was not about to
stand by idly when Saphira’s life was at risk.
Eragon filled his lungs. He reminded himself of the correct pronunciation of several difficult
sounds in the ancient language. Then he opened his mouth to deliver the spell.
Fast as he was, the elves were faster still. Before he could utter a single word, a frenzy of
low chanting erupted behind him, the overlapping voices forming a discordant and unsettling
melody.
“Mäe—†he managed to say, and then the elves’ magic took effect.
The mosaic in front of the horse stirred and shifted, and the chips of glass flowed like water.
A long rift opened up in the ground, a gaping crevice of uncertain depth. With a loud
scream, the horse plunged into the hole and pitched forward, breaking both of its front legs.
As horse and rider fell, the man in the saddle drew back his arm and threw the glowing
lance toward Saphira.
Saphira could not run. She could not dodge. So she swung a paw at the dart, hoping to
knock it aside. She missed, however—by a matter of inches—and Eragon watched with horror
as the lance sank a yard or more into her chest, just under her collarbone.
A pulsing veil of rage descended over Eragon’s vision. He drew upon every store of energy
available to him—his body; the sapphire set in the pommel of his sword; the twelve diamonds
hidden in the belt of Beloth the Wise wrapped round his waist; and the massive store
within Aren, the elf ring that graced his right hand—as he prepared to obliterate the rider,
heedless of the risk.
Eragon stopped himself, however, when Blödhgarm appeared, leaping over Saphira’s left
foreleg. The elf landed on the rider like a panther pouncing on a deer, and knocked the man
onto his side. With a savage twist of his head, Blödhgarm tore open the man’s throat with his
long white teeth.
A shriek of all-consuming despair emanated from a window high above the open entrance
to the keep, followed by a fiery explosion that ejected blocks of stone from within the building,
blocks that landed amid the assembled Varden, crushing limbs and torsos like dry twigs.
Eragon ignored the stones raining on the courtyard and ran to Saphira, barely aware of
Arya and his guards accompanying him. Other elves, who had been closer, were already
clustering around her, examining the lance that projected from her chest.
“How badly—Is she—†Eragon said, too upset to complete his sentences. He yearned to
speak to Saphira with his mind, but as long as enemy spellcasters might be in the area, he
dared not expose his consciousness to her, lest his foes spy on his thoughts or assume command
over his body.
After a seemingly interminable wait, Wyrden, one of the male elves, said, “You may thank
fate, Shadeslayer; the lance missed the major veins and arteries in her neck. It hit only
muscle, and muscle we can mend.â€
“Can you remove it? Does it have any spells that would keep it from being—â€
“We shall attend to it, Shadeslayer.â€
Grave as priests gathered before an altar, all the elves, save Blödhgarm, placed the palms
of their hands on Saphira’s breast and, like a whisper of wind ghosting through a stand of willow
trees, they sang. Of warmth and growth they sang, of muscle and sinew and pulsing
blood they sang, and of other, more arcane subjects. With what must have been an enormous
effort of will, Saphira held her position throughout the incantation, though fits of tremors shook
her body every few seconds. A thread of blood rolled down her chest from the shaft embedded
within.
As Blödhgarm moved to stand next to him, Eragon spared a glance for the elf. Gore matted
the fur on his chin and neck, darkening its shade from midnight blue to solid black.
“What was that?†Eragon asked, indicating the flames still dancing in the window high
above the courtyard.
Blödhgarm licked his lips, baring his catlike fangs, before answering. “In the moment before
he died, I was able to enter the soldier’s mind, and through it, the mind of the magician
who was assisting him.â€
“You killed the magician?â€
“In a manner of speaking; I forced him to kill himself. I would not normally resort to such
an extravagant display of theatrics, but I was … aggravated.â€
Eragon started forward, then checked himself when Saphira uttered a long, low moan as,
without anyone touching it, the lance began to slide out of her chest. Her eyelids fluttered and
she took a series of quick, shallow breaths while the last six inches of the lance emerged from
her body. The barbed blade, with its faint nimbus of emerald light, fell to the ground and
bounced against the paving stones, sounding more like pottery than metal.
When the elves stopped singing and lifted their hands from Saphira, Eragon rushed to her
side and touched her neck. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her how frightened he had been,
to join his consciousness with hers. Instead, he settled for looking up into one of her brilliant
blue eyes and asking, “Are you all right?†The words seemed paltry when compared with the
depth of his emotion.
Saphira replied with a single blink, then lowered her head and caressed his face with a
gentle puff of warm air from her nostrils.
Eragon smiled. Then he turned to the elves and said, “Eka elrun ono, älfya, wiol förn thornessa,â€
thanking them in the ancient language for their help. The elves who had participated
in the healing, including Arya, bowed and twisted their right hands over the center of their
chests in the gesture of respect peculiar to their race. Eragon noticed that more than half of
the elves assigned to protect him and Saphira were pale, weak, and unsteady on their feet.
“Fall back and rest,†he told them. “You’ll only get yourselves killed if you stay. Go on,
that’s an order!â€
Though Eragon was sure they hated to leave, the seven elves responded with, “As you
wish, Shadeslayer,†and withdrew from the courtyard, striding over the corpses and rubble.
They appeared noble and dignified, even when at the limits of their endurance.
Then Eragon joined Arya and Blödhgarm, who were studying the lance, a strange expression
on both their faces, as if they were uncertain how they ought to react. Eragon squatted
next to them, careful not to allow any part of his body to brush against the weapon. He stared
at the delicate lines carved around the base of the blade, lines that seemed familiar to him, although
he was not sure why; at the greenish haft, which was made of a material neither wood
nor metal; and again at the smooth glow that reminded him of the flameless lanterns that the
elves and the dwarves used to light their halls.
“Is it Galbatorix’s handiwork, do you think?†Eragon asked. “Maybe he’s decided he would
rather kill Saphira and me instead of capturing us. Maybe he believes we’ve actually become
a threat to him.â€
Blödhgarm smiled an unpleasant smile. “I would not deceive myself with such fantasies,
Shadeslayer. We are no more than a minor annoyance to Galbatorix. If ever he truly wanted
you or any of us dead, he only needs to fly forth from Urû’baen and engage us directly in
battle, and we would fall before him like dry leaves before a winter storm. The strength of the
dragons is with him, and none can withstand his might. Besides, Galbatorix is not so easily
turned from his course. Mad he may be, but cunning also, and above all else, determined. If
he desires your enslavement, then he shall pursue that goal to the point of obsession, and
nothing save the instinct of self-preservation shall deter him.â€
“In any event,†said Arya, “this is not Galbatorix’s handiwork; it is ours.â€
Eragon frowned. “Ours? This wasn’t made by the Varden.â€
“Not by the Varden, but by an elf.â€
“But—†He stopped, trying to find a rational explanation. “But no elf would agree to work
for Galbatorix. They would rather die than—â€
“Galbatorix had nothing to do with this, and even if he did, he would hardly give such a
rare and powerful weapon to a man who could not better guard it. Of all the instruments of
war scattered throughout Alagaësia, this is the one Galbatorix would least want us to have.â€
“Why?â€
With a hint of a purr in his low, rich voice, Blödhgarm said, “Because, Eragon Shadeslayer,
this is a Dauthdaert.â€
“And its name is Niernen, the Orchid,†said Arya. She pointed at the lines carved into the
blade, lines that Eragon then realized were actually stylized glyphs from the elves’ unique
system of writing—curving, intertwined shapes that terminated in long, thornlike points.
“A Dauthdaert?†When both Arya and Blödhgarm looked at him with incredulity, Eragon
shrugged, embarrassed by his lack of education. It frustrated him that, while growing up, the
elves had enjoyed decades upon decades of study with the finest scholars of their race, and
yet his own uncle, Garrow, had not even taught him his letters, deeming it unimportant. “I
could only do so much reading in Ellesméra. What is it? Was it forged during the fall of the
Riders, to use against Galbatorix and the Forsworn?â€
Blödhgarm shook his head. “Niernen is far, far older than that.â€
“The Dauthdaertya,†said Arya, “were born out of the fear and the hate that marked the final
years of our war with the dragons. Our most skilled smiths and spellcasters crafted them
out of materials we no longer understand, imbued them with enchantments whose wordings
we no longer remember, and named them, all twelve of them, after the most beautiful of
flowers—as ugly a mismatch as ever there was—for we made them with but one purpose in
mind: we made them to kill dragons.â€
Revulsion overtook Eragon as he gazed at the glowing lance. “And did they?â€
“Those who were present say that the dragons’ blood rained from the sky like a summer
downpour.â€
Saphira hissed, loud and sharp.
Eragon glanced back at her for a moment and saw out of the corner of his eye that the
Varden were still holding their position before the keep, waiting for him and Saphira to retake
the lead in the offensive.
“All of the Dauthdaertya were thought to have been destroyed or lost beyond recovery,â€
said Blödhgarm. “Obviously, we were mistaken. Niernen must have passed into the hands of
the Waldgrave family, and they must have kept it hidden here in Belatona. I would guess that
when we breached the city walls, Lord Bradburn’s courage failed him and he ordered Niernen
brought from his armory in an attempt to stop you and Saphira. No doubt Galbatorix would be
angry beyond reason if he knew that Bradburn had tried to kill you.â€
Although he was aware of the need for haste, Eragon’s curiosity would not let him leave
just yet. “Dauthdaert or not, you still haven’t explained why Galbatorix wouldn’t want us to
have this.†He motioned toward the lance. “What makes Niernen any more dangerous than
that spear over there, or even Bris—†he caught himself before he uttered the entire name, “or
my own sword?â€
It was Arya who answered. “It cannot be broken by any normal means, cannot be harmed
by fire, and is almost completely impervious to magic, as you yourself saw. The Dauthdaertya
were designed to be unaffected by whatever spells the dragons might work and to protect
their wielder from the same—a daunting prospect, given the strength, complexity, and unexpected
nature of dragons’ magic. Galbatorix may have wrapped Shruikan and himself in more
wards than anyone else in Alagaësia, but it is possible that Niernen could pass through their
defenses as if they don’t even exist.â€
Eragon understood, and elation filled him. “We have to—â€
A squeal interrupted him.
The sound was stabbing, slicing, shivering, like metal scraping against stone. Eragon’s
teeth vibrated in sympathy and he covered his ears with his hands, grimacing as he twisted
around, trying to locate the source of the noise. Saphira tossed her head, and even through
the din, he heard her whine in distress.
Eragon swept his gaze over the courtyard two separate times before he noticed a faint
puff of dust rising up the wall of the keep from a foot-wide crack that had appeared beneath
the blackened, partially destroyed window where Blödhgarm had killed the magician. As the
squeal increased in intensity, Eragon risked lifting one of his hands off his ears to point at the
crack.
“Look!†he shouted to Arya, who nodded in acknowledgment. He replaced his hand over
his ear.
Without warning or preamble, the sound stopped.
Eragon waited for a moment, then slowly lowered his hands, for once wishing that his
hearing were not quite so sensitive.
Just as he did, the crack jerked open wider—spreading until it was several feet
across—and raced down the wall of the keep. Like a bolt of lightning, the crack struck and
shattered the keystone above the doors to the building, showering the floor below with
pebbles. The whole castle groaned, and from the damaged window to the broken keystone,
the front of the keep began to lean outward.
“Run!†Eragon shouted at the Varden, though the men were already scattering to either
side of the courtyard, desperate to get out from under the precarious wall. Eragon took a
single step forward, every muscle in his body tense as he searched for a glimpse of Roran
somewhere in the throng of warriors.
At last Eragon spotted him, trapped behind the last group of men by the doorway, bellowing
madly at them, his words lost in the commotion. Then the wall shifted and dropped several
inches—leaning even farther away from the rest of the building—pelting Roran with rocks,
knocking him off balance, and forcing him to stumble backward under the overhang of the
doorway.
As Roran straightened from a crouch, his eyes met Eragon’s, and in his gaze Eragon saw
a flash of fear and helplessness, quickly followed by resignation, as if Roran knew that, no
matter how fast he ran, he could not possibly reach safety in time.
A wry smile touched Roran’s lips.
And the wall fell.
Inheritance
HAMMERFALL
“NO!†SHOUTED ERAGON as the wall of the keep tumbled down with a thunderous
crash, burying Roran and five other men beneath a mound of stone twenty feet high and
flooding the courtyard with a dark cloud of dust.
Eragon’s shout was so loud, his voice broke, and slick, copper-tasting blood coated the
back of his throat. He inhaled and doubled over, coughing.
“Vaetna,†he gasped, and waved his hand. With a sound like rustling silk, the thick gray
dust parted, leaving the center of the courtyard clear. Concerned as he was for Roran,
Eragon barely noticed the strength the spell took from him.
“No, no, no, no,†Eragon muttered. He can’t be dead. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. … As if
repetition might make it true, Eragon continued to think the phrase. But with every repetition, it
became less a statement of fact or hope and more a prayer to the world at large.
Before him, Arya and the other warriors of the Varden stood coughing and rubbing their
eyes with the palms of their hands. Many were hunched over, as if expecting a blow; others
gaped at the front of the damaged keep. The rubble from the building spilled into the middle of
the courtyard, obscuring the mosaic. Two and a half rooms on the second story of the keep,
and one on the third—the room where the magician had expired so violently—stood exposed
to the elements. The chambers and their furnishings seemed dirty and rather shabby in the
full light of the sun. Within, a half-dozen soldiers armed with crossbows were scrambling back
from the drop they now found themselves standing by. With much pushing and shoving, they
hurried through the doors at the far ends of the rooms and vanished into the depths of the
keep.
Eragon tried to guess the weight of a block in the pile of rubble; it must have been many
hundreds of pounds. If he, Saphira, and the elves all worked together, he was sure that they
could shift the stones with magic, but the effort would leave them weak and vulnerable.
Moreover, it would take an impractically long time. For a moment, Eragon thought of
Glaedr—the golden dragon was more than strong enough to lift the whole pile at once—but
haste was of the essence, and Glaedr’s Eldunarà would take too long to retrieve. In any case,
Eragon knew that he might not even be able to convince Glaedr to talk with him, much less to
help rescue Roran and the other men.
Then Eragon pictured Roran as he had appeared just before the deluge of stones and
dust had hidden him from view, standing underneath the eaves of the doorway to the keep,
and with a start, he realized what to do.
“Saphira, help them!†Eragon shouted as he cast aside his shield and bounded forward.
Behind him, he heard Arya say something in the ancient language—a short phrase that
might have been “Hide this!†Then she had caught up to him, running with her sword in hand,
ready to fight.
When he reached the base of the rubble, Eragon leaped as high as he could. He alit with
a single foot upon the slanting face of a block and then jumped again, bounding from point to
point like a mountain goat scaling the side of a gorge. He hated to risk disturbing the blocks,
but climbing the pile was the fastest way to reach his destination.
With one last lunge, Eragon cleared the edge of the second story, then raced across the
room. He shoved the door in front of him with such force that he broke the latch and hinges
and sent the door flying into the wall of the corridor beyond, splitting the heavy oak planks.
Eragon sprinted down the corridor. His footsteps and his breathing sounded strangely
muted to him, as if his ears were filled with water.
He slowed as he drew near an open doorway. Through it, he saw a study with five armed
men pointing at a map and arguing. None of them noticed Eragon.
He kept running.
He sped around a corner and collided with a soldier walking in the opposite direction.
Eragon’s vision flashed red and yellow as his forehead struck the rim of the man’s shield. He
clung to the soldier, and the two of them staggered back and forth across the corridor like a
pair of drunk dancers.
The soldier uttered an oath as he struggled to regain his balance. “What’s wrong with you,
you thrice-blasted—†he said, and then he saw Eragon’s face, and his eyes widened. “You!â€
Eragon balled his right hand and punched the man in the belly, directly underneath his rib
cage. The blow lifted the man off his feet and smashed him into the ceiling. “Me,†Eragon
agreed as the man dropped to the floor, lifeless.
Eragon continued down the corridor. His already rapid pulse seemed to have doubled
since he entered the keep; he felt as if his heart were about to burst out of his chest.
Where is it? he thought, frantic as he glanced through yet another doorway and saw nothing
but an empty room.
At last, at the end of a dingy side passage, he caught sight of a winding staircase. He took
the stairs five at a time, heedless of his own safety as he descended toward the first story,
pausing only to push a startled archer out of his way.
The stairs ended, and he emerged into a high-vaulted chamber reminiscent of the cathedral
in Dras-Leona. He spun around, gathering quick impressions: shields and arms and red
pennants hung on the walls; narrow windows close under the ceiling; torches mounted in
wrought-iron brackets; empty fireplaces; long, dark trestle tables stacked along both sides of
the hall; and a dais at the head of the room, where a robed and bearded man stood before a
high-backed chair. Eragon was in the main hall of the castle. To his right, between him and
the doors that led to the entrance of the keep, was a contingent of fifty or more soldiers. The
gold thread in their tunics glittered as they stirred with surprise.
“Kill him!†the robed man ordered, sounding more frightened than lordly. “Whosoever kills
him shall have a third of my treasure! So I promise!â€
A terrible frustration welled up inside Eragon at being delayed once again. He tore his
sword from its scabbard, lifted it over his head, and shouted:
“Brisingr!â€
With a rush of air, a cocoon of wraithlike blue flames sprang into existence around the
blade, running up toward the tip. The heat from the fire warmed Eragon’s hand, arm, and the
side of his face.
Then Eragon lowered his gaze to the soldiers. “Move,†he growled.
The soldiers hesitated a moment more, then turned and fled.
Eragon charged forward, ignoring the panicked laggards within reach of his burning
sword. One man tripped and fell before him; Eragon jumped completely over the soldier, not
even touching the tassel on his helm.
The wind from Eragon’s passage tore at the flames on the blade, stretching them out behind
the sword like the mane of a galloping horse.
Hunching his shoulders, Eragon bulled past the double doors that guarded the entrance to
the main hall. He dashed through a long, wide chamber edged with rooms full of soldiers—as
well as gears, pulleys, and other mechanisms used for raising and lowering the gates of the
keep—and then ran full tilt into the portcullis that blocked the way to where Roran had been
standing when the keep wall collapsed.
The iron grating bent as Eragon slammed into it, but not enough to break the metal.
He staggered back a step.
He again channeled energy stored within the diamonds of his belt—the belt of Beloth the
Wise—and into Brisingr, emptying the gemstones of their precious store as he stoked the
sword’s fire to an almost unbearable intensity. A wordless shout escaped him as he drew
back his arm and struck at the portcullis. Orange and yellow sparks sprayed him, pitting his
gloves and tunic and stinging his exposed flesh. A drop of molten iron fell sizzling onto the tip
of his boot. With a twitch of his ankle, he shook it off.
Three cuts he made, and a man-sized section of the portcullis fell inward. The severed
ends of the grating glowed white-hot, lighting the area with their soft radiance.
Eragon allowed the flames rising from Brisingr to die out as he proceeded through the
opening he had created.
First to the left, then to the right, and then to the left again he ran as the passage alternated
directions, the convoluted path designed to slow the advance of troops if they managed
to gain access to the keep.
When he rounded the last corner, Eragon saw his destination: the debris-choked vestibule.
Even with his elflike vision, he could make out only the largest shapes in the darkness,
for the falling stones had extinguished the torches on the walls. He heard an odd huffing and
scuffling, as if some sort of clumsy beast were rooting through the rubble.
“Naina,†said Eragon.
A directionless blue light illuminated the space. And there before him, covered in dirt,
blood, ash, and sweat, with his teeth bared in a fearsome snarl, appeared Roran, grappling
with a soldier over the corpses of two others.
The soldier winced at the sudden brightness, and Roran took advantage of the man’s distraction
to twist and push him to his knees, whereupon he grabbed the soldier’s dagger from
his belt and drove it up under the corner of his jaw.
The soldier kicked twice and then was still.
Panting for breath, Roran rose from the body, blood dripping from his fingers. He looked
over at Eragon with a curiously glazed expression.
“About time you—†he said, and then his eyes rolled back into his head as he fainted.
Inheritance
SHADOWS ON THE HORIZON
IN ORDER TO catch Roran before he struck the floor, Eragon had to drop Brisingr, which
he was reluctant to do. Nevertheless, he opened his hand, and the sword clattered against
the stones even as Roran’s weight settled into his arms.
“Is he badly hurt?†Arya asked.
Eragon flinched, surprised to find her and Blödhgarm standing next to him. “I don’t think
so.†He patted Roran’s cheeks several times, smearing the dust on his skin. In the flat, iceblue
glare of Eragon’s spell, Roran appeared gaunt, his eyes surrounded by bruised shadows,
and his lips a purplish color, as if stained with the juice from berries. “Come on, wake
up.â€
After a few seconds, Roran’s eyelids twitched; then he opened them and looked at
Eragon, obviously confused. Relief washed over Eragon, so strong he could taste it. “You
blacked out for a moment,†he explained.
“Ah.â€
He’s alive! Eragon said to Saphira, risking a brief moment of contact.
Her pleasure was obvious. Good. I will stay here and help the elves move the stones
away from the building. If you need me, shout, and I’ll find a way to reach you.
Roran’s mail tinkled as Eragon helped him onto his feet. “What of the others?†Eragon
asked, and gestured toward the mound of rubble.
Roran shook his head.
“Are you sure?â€
“No one could have survived under there. I only escaped because … because I was partially
sheltered by the eaves.â€
“And you? You’re all right?†Eragon asked.
“What?†Roran frowned, seeming distracted, as if the thought had not even occurred to
him. “I’m fine. … Wrist might be broken. It’s not bad.â€
Eragon cast a meaningful glance at Blödhgarm. The elf’s features tightened with a faint
display of displeasure, but he went over to Roran and, in a smooth voice, said, “If I may. …â€
He extended a hand toward Roran’s injured arm.
While Blödhgarm labored over Roran, Eragon picked up Brisingr, then stood guard with
Arya at the entrance in case any soldiers were so foolhardy as to launch an attack.
“There, all done,†Blödhgarm said. He moved away from Roran, who rolled his wrist in a
circle, testing the joint.
Satisfied, Roran thanked Blödhgarm, then lowered his hand and cast about the rubblestrewn
floor until he found his hammer. He readjusted the position of his armor and looked out
the entrance. “I’ve about had my fill of this Lord Bradburn,†he said in a deceptively calm tone.
“He has held his seat overlong, I think, and ought to be relieved of his responsibilities.
Wouldn’t you agree, Arya?â€
“I would,†she said.
“Well then, let’s find the soft-bellied old fool; I would give him a few gentle taps from my
hammer in memory of everyone we have lost today.â€
“He was in the main hall a few minutes ago,†Eragon said, “but I doubt he stayed to await
our return.â€
Roran nodded. “Then we’ll have to hunt him down.†And with that, he strode forward.
Eragon extinguished his illuminating spell and hurried after his cousin, holding Brisingr at
the ready. Arya and Blödhgarm stayed as close beside him as the convoluted passageway
would allow.
The chamber that the passageway led to was abandoned, as was the main hall of the
castle, where the only evidence of the dozens of soldiers and officials who had populated it
was a helmet that lay on the floor, rocking back and forth in ever-decreasing arcs.
Eragon and Roran ran past the marble dais, Eragon restricting his speed so as not to
leave Roran behind. They kicked down a door just to the left of the platform and rushed up
the stairs beyond.
At each story, they paused so that Blödhgarm could search with his mind for any trace of
Lord Bradburn and his retinue, but he found none.
As they reached the third level, Eragon heard a stampede of footsteps and saw a thicket
of jabbing spears fill the curved archway in front of Roran. The spears cut Roran on the cheek
and on his right thigh, coating his knee with blood. He bellowed like a wounded bear and
rammed into the spears with his shield, trying to push his way up the last few steps and out of
the stairwell. Men shouted frantically.
Behind Roran, Eragon switched Brisingr to his left hand, then reached around his cousin,
grabbed one of the spears by the haft, and yanked it out of the grip of whoever was holding it.
He flipped the spear around and threw it into the center of the men packed in the archway.
Someone screamed, and a gap appeared in the wall of bodies. Eragon repeated the process,
and his throws soon reduced the number of soldiers enough that, step by step, Roran was
able to force the mass of men back.
As soon as Roran won clear of the stairs, the twelve remaining soldiers scattered across a
wide landing fringed with balustrades, each man seeking room to swing his weapon without
obstruction. Roran bellowed again and leaped after the nearest soldier. He parried the man’s
sword, then stepped past his guard and struck the man on his helm, which rang like an iron
pot.
Eragon sprinted across the landing and tackled a pair of soldiers who were standing close
together. He knocked them to the ground, then dispatched each of them with a single thrust of
Brisingr. An ax hurtled toward him, whirling end over end. He ducked and pushed a man over
a balustrade before engaging two others who were trying to disembowel him with billed pikes.
Then Arya and Blödhgarm were moving among the men, silent and deadly, the elves’ inherent
grace making the violence appear more like an artfully staged performance than the
sordid struggle most fights were.
In a rush of clanging metal, broken bones, and severed limbs, the four of them killed the
rest of the soldiers. As always, the combat exhilarated Eragon; it felt to him like being
shocked with a bucket of cold water, and it left him with a sense of clarity unequaled by any
other activity.
Roran bent over and rested his hands on his knees, gasping for air as if he had just finished
a race.
“Shall I?†asked Eragon, gesturing at the cuts on Roran’s face and thigh.
Roran tested his weight on the wounded leg a few times. “I can wait. Let’s find Bradburn
first.â€
Eragon took the lead as they filed back into the stairwell and resumed their climb. At last,
after another five minutes of searching, they found Lord Bradburn barricaded within the
highest room of the keep’s westernmost tower. With a series of spells, Eragon, Arya, and
Blödhgarm disassembled the doors and the tower of furniture piled behind them. As they and
Roran entered the chambers, the high-ranking retainers and castle guards who had gathered
in front of Lord Bradburn blanched, and many began to shake. To Eragon’s relief, he only had
to kill three of the guards before the rest of the group placed their weapons and shields on the
floor in surrender.
Then Arya marched over to Lord Bradburn, who had remained silent throughout, and said,
“Now, will you order your forces to stand down? Only a few remain, but you can still save their
lives.â€
“I would not even if I could,†said Bradburn in a voice of such hate and sneering derision,
Eragon almost struck him. “You’ll have no concessions from me, elf. I’ll not give up my men to
filthy, unnatural creatures such as you. Death would be preferable. And do not think you can
beguile me with honeyed words. I know of your alliance with the Urgals, and I would sooner
trust a snake than a person who breaks bread with those monsters.â€
Arya nodded and placed her hand over Bradburn’s face. She closed her eyes, and for a
time, both she and Bradburn were motionless. Eragon reached out with his mind, and he felt
the battle of wills that was raging between them as Arya worked her way past Bradburn’s defenses
and into his consciousness. It took a minute, but at last she gained control of the
man’s mind, whereupon she set about calling up and examining his memories until she discovered
the nature of his wards.
Then she spoke in the ancient language and cast a complex spell designed to circumvent
those wards and to put Bradburn to sleep. When she finished, Bradburn’s eyes closed and,
with a sigh, he collapsed into her arms.
“She killed him!†shouted one of the guards, and cries of fear and outrage spread among
the men.
As Eragon attempted to convince them otherwise, he heard one of the Varden’s trumpets
being winded far off in the distance. Soon another trumpet sounded, this one much closer,
then another, and then he caught snatches of what he would have sworn were faint, scattered
cheers rising from the courtyard below.
Puzzled, he exchanged glances with Arya; then they turned in a circle, looking out each of
the windows set within the walls of the chamber.
To the west and south lay Belatona. It was a large, prosperous city, one of the largest in
the Empire. Close to the castle, the buildings were imposing structures made of stone, with
pitched roofs and oriel windows, while farther away they were constructed of wood and
plaster. Several of the half-timbered buildings had caught fire during the fighting. The smoke
filled the air with a layer of brown haze that stung eyes and throats.
To the southwest, a mile beyond the city, was the Varden’s camp: long rows of gray
woolen tents ringed by stake-lined trenches, a few brightly colored pavilions sporting flags
and pennants, and stretched out on the bare ground, hundreds of wounded men. The healers’
tents were already filled to capacity.
To the north, past the docks and warehouses, was Leona Lake, a vast expanse of water
dotted with the occasional whitecap.
Above, the wall of black clouds that was advancing from the west loomed high over the
city, threatening to envelop it within the folds of rain that fell skirtlike from its underside. Blue
light flickered here and there in the depths of the storm, and thunder rumbled like an angry
beast.
But nowhere did Eragon see an explanation for the commotion that had attracted his attention.
He and Arya hurried over to the window directly above the courtyard. Saphira and the men
and elves working with her had just finished clearing away the stones in front of the keep.
Eragon whistled, and when Saphira looked up, he waved. Her long jaws parted in a toothy
grin, and she blew a streamer of smoke toward him.
“Ho! What news?†Eragon shouted.
One of the Varden standing on the castle walls raised an arm and pointed eastward.
“Shadeslayer! Look! The werecats are coming! The werecats are coming!â€
A cold tingle crawled down Eragon’s spine. He followed the line of the man’s arm eastward,
and this time he saw a host of small, shadowy figures emerging from a fold in the land
several miles away, on the other side of the Jiet River. Some of the figures went on four legs
and some on two, but they were too far away for him to be sure if they were werecats.
“Could it be?†asked Arya, sounding amazed.
“I don’t know. … Whatever they are, we’ll find out soon enough.â€
Inheritance
KING CAT
ERAGON STOOD ON the dais in the main hall of the keep, directly to the right of Lord
Bradburn’s throne, his left hand on the pommel of Brisingr, which was sheathed. On the other
side of the throne stood Jörmundur—senior commander of the Varden—holding his helmet in
the crook of his arm. The hair at his temples was streaked with gray; the rest was brown, and
all of it was pulled back into a long braid. His lean face bore the studiously blank expression
of a person who had extensive experience waiting on others. Eragon noticed a thin line of red
running along the underside of Jörmundur’s right bracer, but Jörmundur showed no sign of
pain.
Between them sat their leader, Nasuada, resplendent in a dress of green and yellow,
which she had donned just moments before, exchanging the raiment of war for garb more
suited to the practice of statecraft. She too had been marked during the fighting, as was evidenced
by the linen bandage wrapped around her left hand.
In a low voice that only Eragon and Jörmundur could hear, Nasuada said, “If we can but
gain their support …â€
“What will they want in return, though?†asked Jörmundur. “Our coffers are near empty,
and our future uncertain.â€
Her lips barely moving, she said, “Perhaps they wish nothing more of us than a chance to
strike back at Galbatorix.†She paused. “But if not, we shall have to find means other than
gold to persuade them to join our ranks.â€
“You could offer them barrels of cream,†said Eragon, which elicited a chortle from
Jörmundur and a soft laugh from Nasuada.
Their murmured conversation came to an end as three trumpets sounded outside the
main hall. Then a flaxen-haired page dressed in a tunic stitched with the Varden’s standard—
a white dragon holding a rose above a sword pointing downward on a purple
field—marched through the open doorway at the far end of the hall, struck the floor with his
ceremonial staff, and, in a thin, warbling voice, announced, “His Most Exalted Royal Highness,
Grimrr Halfpaw, King of the Werecats, Lord of the Lonely Places, Ruler of the Night
Reaches, and He Who Walks Alone.â€
A strange title, that: He Who Walks Alone, Eragon observed to Saphira.
But well deserved, I would guess, she replied, and he could sense her amusement, even
though he could not see her where she lay coiled in the castle keep.
The page stepped aside, and through the doorway strode Grimrr Halfpaw in the shape of
a human, trailed by four other werecats, who padded close behind him on large, shaggy
paws. The four resembled Solembum, the one other werecat Eragon had seen in the guise of
an animal: heavy-shouldered and long-limbed, with short, dark ruffs upon their necks and
withers; tasseled ears; and black-tipped tails, which they waved gracefully from side to side.
Grimrr Halfpaw, however, looked unlike any person or creature Eragon had ever seen. At
roughly four feet tall, he was the same height as a dwarf, but no one could have mistaken him
for a dwarf, or even for a human. He had a small pointed chin, wide cheekbones, and, underneath
upswept brows, slanted green eyes fringed with winglike eyelashes. His ragged black
hair hung low over his forehead, while on the sides and back it fell to his shoulders, where it
lay smooth and lustrous, much like the manes of his companions. His age was impossible for
Eragon to guess.
The only clothes Grimrr wore were a rough leather vest and a rabbit-skin loincloth. The
skulls of a dozen or so animals—birds, mice, and other small game—were tied to the front of
the vest, and they rattled against one another as he moved. A sheathed dagger protruded at
an angle from under the belt of his loincloth. Numerous scars, thin and white, marked his nutbrown
skin, like scratches on a well-used table. And, as his name indicated, he was missing
two fingers on his left hand; they looked to have been bitten off.
Despite the delicacy of his features, there was no doubt that Grimrr was male, given the
hard, sinewy muscles of his arms and chest, the narrowness of his hips, and the coiled power
of his stride as he sauntered down the length of the hall toward Nasuada.
None of the werecats seemed to notice the people lined up on either side of their path
watching them until Grimrr came level with the herbalist Angela, who stood next to Roran,
knitting a striped tube sock with six needles.
Grimrr’s eyes narrowed as he beheld the herbalist, and his hair rippled and spiked, as did
that of his four guards. His lips drew back to reveal a pair of curved white fangs, and to
Eragon’s astonishment, he uttered a short, loud hiss.
Angela looked up from the sock, her expression languid and insolent. “Cheep cheep,†she
said.
For a moment, Eragon thought the werecat was going to attack her. A dark flush mottled
Grimrr’s neck and face, his nostrils flared, and he snarled silently at her. The other werecats
settled into low crouches, ready to pounce, their ears pressed flat against their heads.
Throughout the hall, Eragon heard the slither of blades being partially drawn from their
scabbards.
Grimrr hissed once more, then turned away from the herbalist and continued walking. As
the last werecat in line passed Angela, he lifted a paw and took a surreptitious swipe at the
strand of yarn that drooped from Angela’s needles, just like a playful house cat might.
Saphira’s bewilderment was equal to Eragon’s own. Cheep cheep? she asked.
He shrugged, forgetting that she could not see him. Who knows why Angela does or says
anything?
At last Grimrr arrived before Nasuada. He inclined his head ever so slightly, displaying
with his bearing the supreme confidence, even arrogance, that was the sole province of cats,
dragons, and certain highborn women.
“Lady Nasuada,†he said. His voice was surprisingly deep, more akin to the low, coughing
roar of a wildcat than the high-pitched tones of the boy he resembled.
Nasuada inclined her head in turn. “King Halfpaw. You are most welcome to the Varden,
you and all your race. I must apologize for the absence of our ally, King Orrin of Surda; he
could not be here to greet you, as he wished, for he and his horsemen are even now busy defending
our westward flank from a contingent of Galbatorix’s troops.â€
“Of course, Lady Nasuada,†said Grimrr. His sharp teeth flashed as he spoke. “You must
never turn your back on your enemies.â€
“Even so … And to what do we owe the unexpected pleasure of this visit, Your Highness?
Werecats have always been noted for their secrecy and their solitude, and for remaining apart
from the conflicts of the age, especially since the fall of the Riders. One might even say that
your kind has become more myth than fact over the past century. Why, then, do you now
choose to reveal yourselves?â€
Grimrr lifted his right arm and pointed at Eragon with a crooked finger topped by a clawlike
nail.
“Because of him,†growled the werecat. “One does not attack another hunter until he has
shown his weakness, and Galbatorix has shown his: he will not kill Eragon Shadeslayer or
Saphira Bjartskular. Long have we waited for this opportunity, and seize it we will. Galbatorix
will learn to fear and hate us, and at the last, he will realize the extent of his mistake and know
that we were the ones responsible for his undoing. And how sweet that revenge will taste, as
sweet as the marrow of a tender young boar.
“Time has come, human, for every race, even werecats, to stand together and prove to
Galbatorix that he has not broken our will to fight. We would join your army, Lady Nasuada,
as free allies, and help you achieve this.â€
What Nasuada was thinking, Eragon could not tell, but he and Saphira were impressed by
the werecat’s speech.
After a brief pause, Nasuada said, “Your words fall most pleasantly upon my ears, Your
Highness. But before I can accept your offer, there are answers I must have of you, if you are
willing.â€
With an air of unshakable indifference, Grimrr waved a hand. “I am.â€
“Your race has been so secretive and so elusive, I must confess, I had not heard tell of
Your Highness until this very day. As a point of fact, I did not even know that your race had a
ruler.â€
“I am not a king like your kings,†said Grimrr. “Werecats prefer to walk alone, but even we
must choose a leader when to war we go.â€
“I see. Do you speak for your whole race, then, or only for those who travel with you?â€
Grimrr’s chest swelled, and his expression became, if possible, even more self-satisfied. “I
speak for all of my kind, Lady Nasuada,†he purred. “Every able-bodied werecat in Alagaësia,
save those who are nursing, has come here to fight. There are few of us, but none can equal
our ferocity in battle. And I can also command the one-shapes, although I cannot speak for
them, for they are as dumb as other animals. Still, they will do what we ask of them.â€
“One-shapes?†Nasuada inquired.
“Those you know as cats. Those who cannot change their skins, as we do.â€
“And you command their loyalty?â€
“Aye. They admire us … as is only natural.â€
If what he says is true, Eragon commented to Saphira, the werecats could prove to be incredibly
valuable.
Then Nasuada said, “And what is it you desire of us in exchange for your assistance, King
Halfpaw?†She glanced at Eragon and smiled, then added, “We can offer you as much cream
as you want, but beyond that, our resources are limited. If your warriors expect to be paid for
their troubles, I fear they will be sorely disappointed.â€
“Cream is for kittens, and gold holds no interest for us,†said Grimrr. As he spoke, he lifted
his right hand and inspected his nails with a heavy-lidded gaze. “Our terms are thus: Each of
us will be given a dagger to fight with, if we do not already have one. Each of us shall have
two suits of armor made to fit, one for when on two legs we stand, and one for when on four.
We need no other equipment than that—no tents, no blankets, no plates, no spoons. Each of
us will be promised a single duck, grouse, chicken, or similar bird per day, and every second
day, a bowl of freshly chopped liver. Even if we do not choose to eat it, the food will be set
aside for us. Also, should you win this war, then whoever becomes your next king or
queen—and all who claim that title thereafter—will keep a padded cushion next to their
throne, in a place of honor, for one of us to sit on, if we so wish.â€
“You bargain like a dwarven lawgiver,†said Nasuada in a dry tone. She leaned over to
Jörmundur, and Eragon heard her whisper, “Do we have enough liver to feed them all?â€
“I think so,†Jörmundur replied in an equally hushed voice. “But it depends on the size of
the bowl.â€
Nasuada straightened in her seat. “Two sets of armor is one too many, King Halfpaw.
Your warriors will have to decide whether they want to fight as cats or as humans and then
abide by the decision. I cannot afford to outfit them for both.â€
If Grimrr had had a tail, Eragon was sure it would have twitched back and forth. As it was,
the werecat merely shifted his position. “Very well, Lady Nasuada.â€
“There is one more thing. Galbatorix has spies and killers hidden everywhere. Therefore,
as a condition of joining the Varden, you must consent to allow one of our spellcasters to examine
your memories, so we may assure ourselves that Galbatorix has no claim on you.â€
Grimrr sniffed. “You would be foolish not to. If anyone is brave enough to read our
thoughts, let them. But not herâ€â€”and he twisted to point at Angela. “Never her.â€
Nasuada hesitated, and Eragon could see that she wanted to ask why but restrained herself.
“So be it. I will send for magicians at once, that we may settle this matter without delay.
Depending on what they find—and it will be nothing untoward, I’m sure—I am honored to form
an alliance between you and the Varden, King Halfpaw.â€
At her words, all of the humans in the hall broke out cheering and began to clap, including
Angela. Even the elves appeared pleased.
The werecats, however, did not react, except to tilt their ears backward in annoyance at
the noise.
Inheritance
AFTERMATH
ERAGON GROANED AND leaned back against Saphira. Bracing his hands on his knees,
he slid down over her bumpy scales until he was sitting on the ground, then stretched out his
legs in front of him.
“I’m hungry!†he exclaimed.
He and Saphira were in the courtyard of the castle, away from the men who were laboring
to clear it—piling stones and bodies alike into carts—and from the people streaming in and
out of the damaged building, many of whom had been present at Nasuada’s audience with
King Halfpaw and were now leaving to attend to other duties. Blödhgarm and four elves stood
nearby, watching for danger.
“Oi!†someone shouted.
Eragon looked up to see Roran walking toward him from the keep. Angela trailed a few
steps behind, yarn flapping in the air as she half ran to keep up with his longer stride.
“Where are you off to now?†Eragon asked as Roran stopped before him.
“To help secure the city and organize the prisoners.â€
“Ah …†Eragon’s gaze wondered across the busy courtyard before returning to Roran’s
bruised face. “You fought well.â€
“You too.â€
Eragon shifted his attention to Angela, who was once again knitting, her fingers moving so
quickly, he could not follow what she was doing. “Cheep cheep?†he asked.
An impish expression overtook her face, and she shook her head, her voluminous curls
bouncing. “A story for another time.â€
Eragon accepted her evasion without complaint; he had not expected her to explain herself.
She rarely did.
“And you,†said Roran, “where are you going?â€
We’re going to get some food, said Saphira, and nudged Eragon with her snout, her
breath warm on him as she exhaled.
Roran nodded. “That sounds best. I’ll see you at camp this evening, then.†As he turned to
leave, he added, “Give my love to Katrina.â€
Angela tucked her knitting into a quilted bag that hung at her waist. “I guess I’ll be off as
well. I have a potion brewing in my tent that I must attend to, and there’s a certain werecat I
want to track down.â€
“Grimrr?â€
“No, no—an old friend of mine: Solembum’s mother. If she’s still alive, that is. I hope she
is.†She raised her hand to her brow, thumb and forefinger touching in a circle, and, in an
overly cheerful voice, said, “Be seeing you!†And with that, she sailed off.
On my back, said Saphira, and rose to her feet, leaving Eragon without support.
He climbed into the saddle at the base of her neck, and Saphira unfolded her massive
wings with the soft, dry sound of skin sliding over skin. The motion created a gust of nearsilent
wind that spread out like ripples in a pond. Throughout the courtyard, people paused to
look at her.
As Saphira lifted her wings overhead, Eragon could see the web of purplish veins that
pulsed therein, each one becoming a hollow worm track as the flow of blood subsided
between the beats of her mighty heart.
Then with a surge and a jolt, the world tilted crazily around Eragon as Saphira jumped
from the courtyard to the top of the castle wall, where she balanced for a moment on the merlons,
the stones cracking between the points of her claws. He grabbed the neck spike in front
of him to steady himself.
The world tilted again as Saphira launched herself off the wall. An acrid taste and smell
assaulted Eragon, and his eyes smarted as Saphira passed through the thick layer of smoke
that hung over Belatona like a blanket of hurt, anger, and sorrow.
Saphira flapped twice, hard, and then they emerged from the smoke into the sunshine and
soared over the fire-dotted streets of the city. Stilling her wings, Saphira glided in circles, allowing
the warm air from below to lift her ever higher.
Tired as he was, Eragon savored the magnificence of the view: the growling storm that
was about to swallow the whole of Belatona glowed white and brilliant along its leading edge,
while farther away, the thunderhead wallowed in inky shadows that betrayed nothing of their
contents, save when bolts of lightning shot through them. Elsewhere the gleaming lake and
the hundreds of small, verdant farms that were scattered across the landscape also commanded
his attention, but none were so impressive as the mountain of clouds.
As always, Eragon felt privileged to be able to look upon the world from so high above, for
he was aware of how few people had ever had the chance to fly on a dragon.
With a slight shift of her wings, Saphira began to glide down toward the rows of gray tents
that composed the Varden’s camp.
A strong wind sprang up from the west, heralding the imminent arrival of the storm.
Eragon hunched over and wrapped his hands even more securely around the spike on her
neck. He saw glossy ripples race across the fields below as the stalks bent under the force of
the rising gale. The shifting grass reminded him of the fur of a great green beast.
A horse screamed as Saphira swept over the rows of tents to the clearing that was reserved
for her. Eragon half stood in the saddle as Saphira flared her wings and slowed to a
near standstill over the torn earth. The impact as she struck knocked Eragon forward.
Sorry, she said. I tried to land as softly as I could.
I know.
Even as he dismounted, Eragon saw Katrina hurrying toward him. Her long auburn hair
swirled about her face as she walked across the clearing, and the press of the wind exposed
the bulge of her growing belly through the layers of her dress.
“What news?†she called, worry etched into every line of her face.
“You heard about the werecats …?â€
She nodded.
“There’s no real news other than that. Roran’s fine; he said to give you his love.â€
Her expression softened, but her worry did not entirely disappear. “He’s all right, then?â€
She motioned toward the ring she wore on the third finger of her left hand, one of the two
rings Eragon had enchanted for her and Roran so they might know if one or the other was in
danger. “I thought I felt something, about an hour ago, and I was afraid that …â€
Eragon shook his head. “Roran can tell you about it. He got a few nicks and bruises, but
other than that, he’s fine. Scared me half to death, though.â€
Katrina’s look of concern intensified. Then, with visible struggle, she smiled. “At least
you’re safe. Both of you.â€
They parted, and Eragon and Saphira made their way to one of the mess tents close to
the Varden’s cookfires. There they gorged themselves on meat and mead while the wind
howled around them and bursts of rain pummeled the sides of the flapping tent.
As Eragon bit into a slab of roast pork belly, Saphira said, Is it good? Is it scrumptious?
“Mmm,†said Eragon, rivulets of juice running down his chin.
Inheritance
MEMORIES OF THE DEAD
“GALBATORIX IS MAD
and therefore unpredictable, but he also has gaps in his reasoning that an ordinary person
would not. If you can find those, Eragon, then perhaps you and Saphira can defeat him.â€
Brom lowered his pipe, his face grave. “I hope you do. My greatest desire, Eragon, is that
you and Saphira will live long and fruitful lives, free from fear of Galbatorix and the Empire. I
wish that I could protect you from all of the dangers that threaten you, but alas, that is not
within my ability. All I can do is give you my advice and teach you what I can now while I am
still here. … My son. Whatever happens to you, know that I love you, and so did your mother.
May the stars watch over you, Eragon Bromsson.â€
Eragon opened his eyes as the memory faded. Above him, the ceiling of the tent sagged
inward, as loose as an empty waterskin, after the battering it had received during the nowdeparted
storm. A drop of water fell from the belly of a fold, struck his right thigh, and soaked
through his leggings, chilling the skin beneath. He knew he would have to go tighten up the
tent’s support ropes, but he was reluctant to move from the cot.
And Brom never said anything to you about Murtagh? He never told you that Murtagh and
I were half brothers?
Saphira, who was curled up outside the tent, said, Asking again won’t change my answer.
Why wouldn’t he, though? Why didn’t he? He must have known about Murtagh. He
couldn’t not have.
Saphira’s response was slow to come. Brom’s reasons were ever his own, but if I had to
guess, I imagine he thought it more important to tell you how he cared for you, and to give
you what advice he could, than to spend his time talking about Murtagh.
He could have warned me, though! Just a few words would have sufficed.
I cannot say for certain what drove him, Eragon. You have to accept that there are some
questions you will never be able to answer about Brom. Trust in his love for you, and do not
allow such concerns to disturb you.
Eragon stared down his chest at his thumbs. He placed them side by side, to better compare
them. His left thumb had more wrinkles on its second joint than did his right, while his
right had a small, ragged scar that he could not remember getting, although it must have
happened since the Agaetà Blödhren, the Blood-oath Celebration.
Thank you, he said to Saphira. Through her, he had watched and listened to Brom’s message
three times since the fall of Feinster, and each time he had noticed some detail of
Brom’s speech or movement that had previously escaped him. The experience comforted and
satisfied him, for it fulfilled a desire that had plagued him his entire life: to know the name of
his father and to know that his father cared for him.
Saphira acknowledged his thanks with a warm glow of affection.
Though Eragon had eaten and then rested for perhaps an hour, his weariness had not entirely
abated. Nor had he expected it to. He knew from experience that it could take weeks to
fully recover from the debilitating effects of a long, drawn-out battle. As the Varden approached
Urû’baen, he and everyone else in Nasuada’s army would have less and less time
to recover before each new confrontation. The war would wear them down until they were
bloody, battered, and barely able to fight, at which point they would still have to face Galbatorix,
who would have been waiting for them in ease and comfort.
He tried not to think about it too much.
Another drop of water struck his leg, cold and hard. Irritated, he swung his legs off the
edge of the cot and sat upright, then went over to the bare patch of dirt in one corner and
knelt next to it.
“Deloi sharjalvÃ!†he said, as well as several other phrases in the ancient language that
were necessary to disarm the traps he had set the previous day.
The dirt began to seethe like water coming to a boil, and rising out of the churning fountain
of rocks, insects, and worms, there emerged an ironbound chest a foot and a half in length.
Reaching out, Eragon took hold of the chest and released his spell. The ground grew calm
once more.
He set the chest on the now-solid dirt. “Ládrin,†he whispered, and waved his hand past
the lock with no keyhole that secured the hasp. It popped open with a click.
A faint golden glow filled the tent as he lifted the lid of the chest.
Nestled securely within the velvet-lined interior lay Glaedr’s EldunarÃ, the dragon’s heart of
hearts. The large, jewel-like stone glittered darkly, like a dying ember. Eragon cupped the Eldunar
between his hands, the irregular, sharp-edged facets warm against his palms, and
stared into its pulsing depths. A galaxy of tiny stars swirled within the center of the stone, although
their movement had slowed and there seemed to be far fewer than when Eragon had
first beheld the stone in Ellesméra, when Glaedr had discharged it from his body and into
Eragon and Saphira’s care.
As always, the sight fascinated Eragon; he could have sat watching the ever-changing
pattern for days.
We should try again, said Saphira, and he agreed.
Together they reached out with their minds toward the distant lights, toward the sea of
stars that represented Glaedr’s consciousness. Through cold and darkness they sailed, then
heat and despair and indifference so vast and so great, it sapped their will to do anything other
than to stop and weep.
Glaedr … Elda, they cried over and over, but there was no answer, no shifting of the indifference.
At last they withdrew, unable to withstand the crushing weight of Glaedr’s misery any
longer.
As he returned to himself, Eragon became aware of someone knocking on the front pole
of his tent, and then he heard Arya say, “Eragon? May I enter?â€
He sniffed and blinked to clear his eyes. “Of course.â€
The dim gray light from the cloudy sky fell upon him as Arya pushed aside the entrance
flap. He felt a sudden pang as his eyes met hers—green, slanted, and unreadable—and an
ache of longing filled him.
“Has there been any change?†she asked, and came to kneel by him. Instead of armor,
she was wearing the same black leather shirt, trousers, and thin-soled boots as when he had
rescued her in Gil’ead. Her hair was damp from washing and hung down her back in long,
heavy ropes. The scent of crushed pine needles attended her, as it so often did, and it occurred
to Eragon to wonder whether she used a spell to create the aroma or if that was how
she smelled naturally. He would have liked to ask her, but he did not dare.
In answer to her question, he shook his head.
“May I?†She indicated Glaedr’s heart of hearts.
He moved out of the way. “Please.â€
Arya placed her hands on either side of the Eldunarà and then closed her eyes. While she
sat, he took the opportunity to study her with an openness and intensity that would have been
offensive otherwise. In every aspect, she seemed the epitome of beauty, even though he
knew that another might say her nose was too long, or her face too angled, or her ears too
pointed, or her arms too muscled.
With a sharp intake of breath, Arya jerked her hands away from the heart of hearts, as if it
had burned her. Then she bowed her head, and Eragon saw her chin quiver ever so faintly.
“He is the most unhappy creature I have ever met. … I would we could help him. I do not think
he will be able to find his way out of the darkness on his own.â€
“Do you think …†Eragon hesitated, not wanting to give voice to his suspicion, then continued:
“Do you think he will go mad?â€
“He may have already. If not, then he dances on the very cusp of insanity.â€
Sorrow came over Eragon as they both gazed at the golden stone.
When at last he was able to bring himself to speak again, he asked, “Where is the Dauthdaert?â€
“Hidden within my tent even as you have hidden Glaedr’s EldunarÃ. I can bring it here, if
you want, or I can continue to safeguard it until you need it.â€
“Keep it. I can’t carry it around with me, or Galbatorix may learn of its existence. Besides,
it would be foolish to store so many treasures in one place.â€
She nodded.
The ache inside of Eragon intensified. “Arya, I—†He stopped as Saphira saw one of the
blacksmith Horst’s sons—Albriech, he thought, although it was difficult to tell him from his
brother, Baldor, because of the distortions in Saphira’s vision—running toward the tent. The
interruption relieved Eragon, as he had not known what he was going to say.
“Someone’s coming,†he announced, and closed the lid of the chest.
Loud, wet footsteps sounded in the mud outside. Then Albriech, for it was Albriech,
shouted, “Eragon! Eragon!â€
“What!â€
“Mother’s birth pains have just begun! Father sent me to tell you and to ask if you will wait
with him, in case anything goes wrong and your skill with magic is needed. Please, if you
can—â€
Whatever else he said was lost to Eragon as he rushed to lock and bury the chest. Then
he cast his cloak over his shoulders and was fumbling with the clasp when Arya touched him
on the arm and said, “May I accompany you? I have some experience with this. If your people
will let me, I can make the birth easier for her.â€
Eragon did not even pause to consider his decision. He motioned toward the entrance of
the tent. “After you.â€
Inheritance
WHAT IS A MAN?
THE MUD CLUNG to Roran’s boots each time he lifted his feet, slowing his progress and
making his already-tired legs burn from the effort. It felt as if the very ground were trying to
pull off his shoes. Thick as it was, the mud was also slippery. It gave way under his heels at
the worst moments, just when his position was the most precarious. And it was deep, too. The
constant passage of men, animals, and wagons had turned the top six inches of earth into a
nigh on impassable morass. A few patches of crushed grass remained along the edges of the
track—which ran straight through the Varden’s camp—but Roran suspected they would soon
vanish as men sought to avoid the center of the lane.
Roran made no attempt to evade the muck; he no longer cared if his clothes stayed clean.
Besides, he was so exhausted, it was easier to keep plodding in the same direction than to
worry about picking a path from one island of grass to the next.
As he stumbled forward, Roran thought of Belatona. Since Nasuada’s audience with the
werecats, he had been setting up a command post in the northwest quarter of the city and doing
his best to establish control over the quadrant by assigning men to put out fires, build barricades
in the streets, search houses for soldiers, and confiscate weapons. It was an immense
task, and he despaired of accomplishing what was needed, fearing that the city might
erupt into open battle again. I hope those idiots can make it through the night without getting
killed.
His left side throbbed, causing him to bare his teeth and suck in his breath.
Blasted coward.
Someone had shot at him with a crossbow from the roof of a building. Only the sheerest of
luck had saved him; one of his men, Mortenson, had stepped in front of him at the exact moment
the attacker had fired. The bolt had punched through Mortenson from back to belly and
had still retained enough force to give Roran a nasty bruise. Mortenson had died on the spot,
and whoever had shot the crossbow had escaped.
Five minutes later, an explosion of some sort, possibly magical, had killed two more of his
men when they entered a stable to investigate a noise.
From what Roran understood, such attacks were common throughout the city. No doubt,
Galbatorix’s agents were behind many of them, but the inhabitants of Belatona were also responsible—
men and women who could not bear to stand by idly while an invading army
seized control of their home, no matter how honorable the Varden’s intentions might be. Roran
could sympathize with the people who felt they had to defend their families, but at the
same time, he cursed them for being so thick-skulled that they could not recognize the
Varden were trying to help them, not hurt them.
He scratched at his beard while he waited for a dwarf to pull a heavily laden pony out of
his way, then continued slogging forward.
As he drew near their tent, he saw Katrina standing over a tub of hot, soapy water, scrubbing
a bloodstained bandage against a washboard. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows,
her hair tied in a messy bun, and her cheeks flushed from her work, but she had never
looked so beautiful to him. She was his comfort—his comfort and his refuge—and just seeing
her helped ease the sense of numb dislocation that gripped him.
She noticed him and immediately abandoned her washing and ran toward him, drying her
pink hands on the front of her dress. Roran braced himself as she threw herself at him, wrapping
her arms around his chest. His side flared with pain, and he uttered a short grunt.
Katrina loosened her hold and leaned away, frowning. “Oh! Did I hurt you?â€
“No … no. I’m just sore.â€
She did not question him but hugged him again, more gently, and looked up at him, her
eyes glistening with tears. Holding her by the waist, he bent and kissed her, inexpressibly
grateful for her presence.
Katrina slipped his left arm over her shoulders, and he allowed her to support part of his
weight as they returned to their tent. With a sigh, Roran sat on the stump they used for a
chair, which Katrina had placed next to the small fire she had built to heat the tub of water and
over which a pot of stew was now simmering.
Katrina filled a bowl with stew and handed it to him. Then, from within the tent, she
brought him a mug of ale and a plate with a half loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. “Is
there anything else you need?†she asked, her voice unusually hoarse.
Roran did not answer, but cupped her cheek and stroked it twice with his thumb. She
smiled tremulously and laid a hand over his, then returned to washing and began to scrub
with renewed vigor.
Roran stared at the food for a long time before he took a bite; he was still so tense, he
doubted he could stomach it. After a few mouthfuls of bread, however, his appetite returned,
and he began to consume the stew with eagerness.
When he was done, he placed the dishes on the ground and then sat warming his hands
over the fire while he nursed the last few sips of beer.
“We heard the crash when the gates fell,†said Katrina, wringing a bandage dry. “They
didn’t hold for very long.â€
“No. … It helps to have a dragon on your side.â€
Roran gazed at her belly as she draped the bandage over the makeshift clothesline that
ran from the peak of their tent across to a neighboring one. Whenever he thought of the child
she was carrying, the child that the two of them had created, he felt an enormous sense of
pride, but it was tinged with anxiety, for he did not know how he could hope to provide a safe
home for their baby. Also, if the war was not over by the time Katrina gave birth, she intended
to leave him and go to Surda, where she might raise their child in relative safety.
I can’t lose her, not again.
Katrina immersed another bandage in the tub. “And the battle in the city?†she asked,
churning the water. “How went it?â€
“We had to fight for every foot. Even Eragon had a hard time of it.â€
“The wounded spoke of ballistae mounted on wheels.â€
“Aye.†Roran wet his tongue with ale, then quickly described how the Varden had moved
through Belatona and the setbacks they had encountered along the way. “We lost too many
men today, but it could have been worse. Much worse. Jörmundur and Captain Martland
planned the attack well.â€
“Their plan wouldn’t have worked, though, if not for you and Eragon. You acquitted yourself
most bravely.â€
Roran loosed a single bark of laughter: “Ha! And do you know why that is? I’ll tell you. Not
one man in ten is actually willing to attack the enemy. Eragon doesn’t see it; he’s always at
the forefront of the battle, driving the soldiers before him, but I see it. Most of the men hang
back and don’t fight unless they are cornered. Or they wave their arms about and make a lot
of noise but don’t actually do anything.â€
Katrina looked appalled. “How can that be? Are they cowards?â€
“I don’t know. I think … I think that, perhaps, they just can’t bring themselves to look a
man in the face and kill him, although it seems easy enough for them to cut down soldiers
whose backs are turned. So they wait for others to do what they cannot. They wait for people
like me.â€
“Do you think Galbatorix’s men are equally reluctant?â€
Roran shrugged. “They might be. But then, they have no choice but to obey Galbatorix. If
he orders them to fight, they fight.â€
“Nasuada could do the same. She could have her magicians cast spells to ensure that no
one shirks their duty.â€
“What difference would there be between her and Galbatorix, then? In any case, the
Varden wouldn’t stand for it.â€
Katrina left her washing to come and kiss him on the forehead. “I’m glad you can do what
you do,†she whispered. She returned to the tub and began scrubbing another strip of soiled
linen over the washboard. “I felt something earlier, from my ring. … I thought maybe
something had happened to you.â€
“I was in the middle of a battle. It wouldn’t be surprising if you had felt a twinge every few
minutes.â€
She paused with her arms in the water. “I never have before.â€
He drained the mug of ale, seeking to delay the inevitable. He had hoped to spare her the
details of his misadventure in the castle, but it was plain that she would not rest until she
knew the truth. Attempting to convince her otherwise would only lead her to imagine calamities
far worse than what had actually occurred. Besides, it would be pointless for him to hold
back when news of the event would soon be common throughout the Varden.
So he told her. He gave her a brief account and tried to make the collapse of the wall
seem more like a minor inconvenience rather than something that had almost killed him. Still,
he found it difficult to describe the experience, and he spoke haltingly, searching for the right
words. When he finished, he fell silent, troubled by the remembrance.
“At least you weren’t hurt,†said Katrina.
He picked at a crack in the lip of the mug. “No.â€
The sound of sloshing water ceased, and he could feel her eyes heavy upon him.
“You’ve faced far greater danger before.â€
“Yes … I suppose.â€
Her voice softened. “What’s wrong, then?†When he did not answer, she said, “There’s
nothing so terrible you can’t tell me, Roran. You know that.â€
The edge of his right thumbnail tore as he picked at the mug again. He rubbed the sharp
flap against his forefinger several times. “I thought I was going to die when the wall fell.â€
“Anyone might have.â€
“Yes, but the thing is, I didn’t mind.†Anguished, he looked at her. “Don’t you understand? I
gave up. When I realized I couldn’t escape, I accepted it as meekly as a lamb led to
slaughter, and I—†Unable to continue, he dropped the mug and hid his face in his hands. The
swelling in his throat made it hard to breathe. Then he felt Katrina’s fingers light upon his
shoulders. “I gave up,†he growled, furious and disgusted with himself. “I just stopped fighting.
… For you … For our child.†He choked on the words.
“Shh, shh,†she murmured.
“I’ve never given up before. Not once. … Not even when the Ra’zac took you.â€
“I know you haven’t.â€
“This fighting has to end. It can’t go on like this. … I can’t … I—†He raised his head and
was horrified to see that she too was on the verge of tears. Standing, he wrapped his arms
around her and held her close. “I’m sorry,†he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. … It
won’t happen again. Never again. I promise.â€
“I don’t care about that,†she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
Her reply stung him. “I know I was weak, but my word still ought to be worth something to
you.â€
“That’s not what I meant!†she exclaimed, and drew back to look at him accusingly.
“You’re a fool sometimes, Roran.â€
He smiled slightly. “I know.â€
She clasped her hands behind his neck. “I wouldn’t think any less of you, regardless of
what you felt when the wall came down. All that matters is that you’re still alive. … There
wasn’t anything you could do when the wall fell, was there?â€
He shook his head.
“Then you have nothing to be ashamed of. If you could have stopped it, or if you could
have escaped but you didn’t, then you would have lost my respect. But you did everything you
could, and when you could do no more, you made peace with your fate, and you didn’t rail
needlessly against it. That is wisdom, not weakness.â€
He bowed and kissed her on the brow. “Thank you.â€
“And as far as I am concerned, you are the bravest, strongest, kindest man in all of
Alagaësia.â€
This time he kissed her on the mouth. Afterward, she laughed, a short, quick release of
pent-up tension, and they stood swaying together, as if dancing to a melody only they could
hear.
Then Katrina gave him a playful push and went to finish the washing, and he settled back
on the stump, content for the first time since the battle, despite his numerous aches and
pains.
Roran watched the men, horses, and the occasional dwarf or Urgal slog past their tent,
noting their wounds and the condition of their weapons and armor. He tried to gauge the general
mood of the Varden; the only conclusion he reached was that everyone but the Urgals
needed a good sleep and a decent meal, and that everyone, including the Urgals—especially
the Urgals—needed to be scoured from head to foot with a hog’s-hair brush and buckets of
soapy water.
He also watched Katrina, and he saw how, as she worked, her initial good cheer gradually
faded and she became ever more irritable. She kept scrubbing and scrubbing at several
stains, but with little success. A scowl darkened her face, and she began to make small
noises of frustration.
At last, when she had slapped the wad of fabric against the washboard, splashing foamy
water several feet into the air, and leaned on the tub, her lips pressed tightly together, Roran
pushed himself off the stump and made his way to her side.
“Here, let me,†he said.
“It wouldn’t be fitting,†she muttered.
“Nonsense. Go sit down, and I’ll finish. … Go on.â€
She shook her head. “No. You should be the one resting, not me. Besides, this isn’t man’s
work.â€
He snorted with derision. “By whose decree? A man’s work, or a woman’s, is whatever
needs to be done. Now go sit down; you’ll feel better once you’re off your feet.â€
“Roran, I’m fine.â€
“Don’t be silly.†He gently tried to push her away from the tub, but she refused to budge.
“It’s not right,†she protested. “What would people think?†She gestured at the men hurrying
along the muddy lane next to their tent.
“They can think whatever they want. I married you, not them. If they believe I’m any less of
a man for helping you, then they’re fools.â€
“But—â€
“But nothing. Move. Shoo. Get out of here.â€
“But—â€
“I’m not going to argue. If you don’t go sit, I’m going to carry you over there and tie you to
that stump.â€
A bemused expression replaced her scowl. “Is that so?â€
“Yes. Now go!†As she reluctantly ceded her position at the tub, he made a noise of exasperation.
“Stubborn, aren’t you?â€
“Speak for yourself. You could teach a mule a thing or two.â€
“Not me. I’m not stubborn.†Undoing his belt, he removed his mail shirt and hung it on the
front pole of the tent, then peeled off his gloves and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. The air
was cool against his skin, and the bandages were colder still—they had grown chill while lying
exposed on the washboard—but he did not mind, for the water was warm, and soon the cloth
was as well. Frothy mounds of iridescent bubbles built up around his wrists as he pushed and
pulled the material across the full length of the knobby board.
He glanced over and was pleased to see that Katrina was relaxing on the stump, at least
as much as anyone could relax on such a rough seat.
“Do you want some chamomile tea?†she asked. “Gertrude gave me a handful of fresh
sprigs this morning. I can make a pot for both of us.â€
“I’d like that.â€
A companionable silence developed between them as Roran proceeded to wash the rest
of the laundry. The task lulled him into a pleasant mood; he enjoyed doing something with his
hands other than swinging his hammer, and being close to Katrina gave him a deep sense of
satisfaction.
He was in the middle of wringing out the last item, and his freshly poured tea was waiting
for him next to Katrina, when someone shouted their names from across the busy way. It took
Roran a moment to realize it was Baldor running toward them through the mud, weaving
between men and horses. He wore a pitted leather apron and heavy, elbow-length gloves that
were smeared with soot and were so worn that the fingers were as hard, smooth, and shiny
as polished tortoise shells. A scrap of torn leather held back his dark, shaggy hair, and a
frown creased his forehead. Baldor was smaller than his father, Horst, and his older brother,
Albriech, but by any other comparison, he was large and well muscled, the result of having
spent his childhood helping Horst in his forge. None of the three had fought that day—skilled
smiths were normally too valuable to risk in battle—although Roran wished Nasuada had let
them, for they were able warriors and Roran knew he could count on them even in the most
dire circumstances.
Roran put down the washing and dried his hands, wondering what could be amiss. Rising
from the stump, Katrina joined him by the tub.
When Baldor reached them, they had to wait several seconds for him to regain his breath.
Then, in a rush, he said, “Come quickly. Mother just went into labor, and—â€
“Where is she?†asked Katrina in a sharp tone.
“At our tent.â€
She nodded. “We’ll be there as fast as we can.â€
With a grateful expression, Baldor turned and sprinted away.
As Katrina ducked inside their tent, Roran poured the contents of the tub over the fire, extinguishing
it. The burning wood hissed and cracked under the deluge, and a cloud of steam
jetted upward in place of smoke, filling the air with an unpleasant smell.
Dread and excitement quickened Roran’s movements. I hope she doesn’t die, he thought,
remembering the talk he had heard among the women concerning her age and overlong
pregnancy. Elain had always been kind to him and to Eragon, and he was fond of her.
“Are you ready?†asked Katrina as she emerged from the tent, knotting a blue scarf
around her head and neck.
He grabbed his belt and hammer from where they hung. “Ready. Let’s go.â€
Inheritance
THE PRICE OF POWER
“THERE NOW, MA’AM. You won’t be needing these anymore. And good riddance, I say.â€
With a soft rustle, the last strip of linen slid off Nasuada’s forearms as her handmaid,
Farica, removed the wrappings. Nasuada had worn bandages such as those since the day
she and the warlord Fadawar had tested their courage against one another in the Trial of the
Long Knives.
Nasuada stood staring at a long, ragged tapestry dotted with holes while Farica attended
to her. Then she steeled herself and slowly lowered her gaze. Since winning the Trial of the
Long Knives, she had refused to look at her wounds; they had appeared so horrendous when
fresh, she could not bear to see them again until they were nearly healed.
The scars were asymmetrical: six lay across the belly of her left forearm, three on her
right. Each of the scars was three to four inches long and straight as could be, save the bottom
one on the right, where her self-control had faltered and the knife had swerved, carving a
jagged line nearly twice the length of the others. The skin around the scars was pink and
puckered, while the scars themselves were only a little bit lighter than the rest of her body, for
which she was grateful. She had feared that they might end up white and silvery, which would
have made them far more noticeable. The scars rose above the surface of her arm about a
quarter of an inch, forming hard ridges of flesh that looked exactly as if smooth steel rods had
been inserted underneath her skin.
Nasuada regarded the marks with ambivalence. Her father had taught her about the customs
of their people as she was growing up, but she had spent her whole life among the
Varden and the dwarves. The only rituals of the wandering tribes that she observed, and then
only irregularly, were associated with their religion. She had never aspired to master the Drum
Dance, nor participate in the arduous Calling of Names, nor—and this most particularly—best
anyone in the Trial of the Long Knives. And yet now here she was, still young and still beautiful,
and already bearing these nine large scars upon her forearms. She could order one of the
magicians of the Varden to remove them, of course, but then she would forfeit her victory in
the Trial of the Long Knives, and the wandering tribes would renounce her as their liegelord.
While she regretted that her arms were no longer smooth and round and would no longer
attract the admiring glances of men, she was also proud of the scars. They were a testament
to her courage and a visible sign of her devotion to the Varden. Anyone who looked at her
would know the quality of her character, and she decided that meant more to her than appearance.
“What do you think?†she asked, and held out her arms toward King Orrin, who stood
framed in the open window of the study, looking down at the city.
Orrin turned and frowned, his eyes dark beneath his furrowed brow. He had traded his armor
of earlier for a thick red tunic and a robe trimmed with white ermine. “I find it unpleasant
to look at,†he said, and returned his attention to the city. “Cover yourself; it is inappropriate
for polite society.â€
Nasuada studied her arms for a moment longer. “No, I don’t think I will.†She tugged on
the lace cuffs of her half sleeves to straighten them, then dismissed Farica. She crossed the
sumptuous dwarf-woven rug in the center of the room to join Orrin in inspecting the battle-torn
city, where she was pleased to see that all but two of the fires along the western wall had
been extinguished. Then she shifted her gaze to the king.
In the short while since the Varden and the Surdans had launched their attack against the
Empire, Nasuada had watched Orrin grow ever more serious, his original enthusiasm and eccentricities
vanishing beneath a grim exterior. At first she had welcomed the change, for she
had felt he was becoming more mature, but as the war dragged on, she began to miss his
eager discussions of natural philosophy, as well as his other quirks. In retrospect, she realized
these had often brightened her day, even if she had sometimes found them aggravating.
Moreover, the change had made him more dangerous as a rival; in his current mood, she
could quite easily imagine him attempting to displace her as leader of the Varden.
Could I be happy if I married him? she wondered. Orrin was not unpleasant to look at. His
nose was high and thin, but his jaw was strong and his mouth was finely carved and expressive.
Years of martial training had given him a pleasing build. That he was intelligent was
without doubt, and for the most part his personality was agreeable. However, if he had not
been the king of Surda, and if he had not posed such a great threat to her position and to the
Varden’s independence, she knew that she would never have considered a match with him.
Would he make a good father?
Orrin put his hands on the narrow stone sill and leaned against it. Without looking at her,
he said, “You have to break your pact with the Urgals.â€
His statement took her aback. “And why is that?â€
“Because they are hurting us. Men who would otherwise join us now curse us for allying
ourselves with monsters and refuse to lay down their weapons when we arrive at their homes.
Galbatorix’s resistance seems just and reasonable to them because of our concord with the
Urgals. The common man does not understand why we joined with them. He does not know
that Galbatorix used the Urgals himself, nor that Galbatorix tricked them into attacking Tronjheim
under the command of a Shade. These are subtleties that you cannot explain to a
frightened farmer. All he can comprehend is that the creatures he has feared and hated his
whole life are marching toward his home, led by a huge, snarling dragon and a Rider who appears
more elf than human.â€
“We need the Urgals’ support,†said Nasuada. “We have too few warriors as it is.â€
“We do not need them as badly as all that. You already know what I say is the truth; why
else did you prevent the Urgals from participating in the attack on Belatona? Why else have
you ordered them not to enter the city? Keeping them away from the battlefield isn’t enough,
Nasuada. Word of them still spreads throughout the land. The only thing you can do to improve
the situation is to end this ill-fated scheme before it causes us more harm.â€
“I cannot.â€
Orrin spun toward her, anger distorting his face. “Men are dying because you chose to accept
Garzhvog’s help. My men, your men, those in the Empire … dead and buried. This alliance
isn’t worth their sacrifice, and for the life of me, I cannot fathom why you continue to defend
it.â€
She could not hold his gaze; it reminded her too strongly of the guilt and recrimination that
so often afflicted her when she was trying to fall asleep. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the
smoke rising from a tower by the edge of the city. Speaking slowly, she said, “I defend it because
I hope that preserving our union with the Urgals will save more lives than it will cost. …
If we should defeat Galbatorix—â€
Orrin uttered an exclamation of disbelief.
“It is by no means certain,†she said, “I know. But we must plan for the possibility. If we
should defeat him, then it will fall to us to help our race recover from this conflict and build a
strong new country out of the ashes of the Empire. And part of that process will be ensuring
that, after a hundred years of strife, we finally have peace. I will not overthrow Galbatorix only
to have the Urgals attack us when we are at our weakest.â€
“They might anyway. They always have before.â€
“Well, what else can we do?†she said, annoyed. “We have to try to tame them. The closer
we bind them to our cause, the less likely they will be to turn on us.â€
“I’ll tell you what to do,†he growled. “Banish them. Break your pact with Nar Garzhvog and
send him and his rams away. If we win this war, then we can negotiate a new treaty with
them, and we will be in a position to dictate whatever terms we want. Or better yet, send
Eragon and Saphira into the Spine with a battalion of men to wipe them out once and for all,
as the Riders should have done centuries ago.â€
Nasuada looked at him with disbelief. “If I ended our pact with the Urgals, they would likely
be so angry, they would attack us forthwith, and we cannot fight both them and the Empire at
the same time. To invite that upon ourselves would be the height of folly. If, in their wisdom,
the elves, the dragons, and the Riders all decided to tolerate the existence of the Urgals—
even though they could have destroyed them easily enough—then we ought to follow
their example. They knew it would be wrong to kill all the Urgals, and so should you.â€
“Their wisdom—Bah! As if their wisdom has done them any good! Fine, leave some of the
Urgals alive, but kill enough of them that they won’t dare leave their haunts for a hundred
years or more!â€
The obvious pain in his voice and in the strained lines of his face puzzled Nasuada. She
examined him with greater intensity, trying to determine the reason for his vehemence. After a
few moments, an explanation presented itself that, upon reflection, seemed self-evident.
“Whom did you lose?†she asked.
Orrin balled up a fist and slowly, haltingly, brought it down upon the windowsill, as if he
wanted to pound it with all his strength but did not dare. He thumped the sill twice more, then
said, “A friend I grew up with in Borromeo Castle. I don’t think you ever met him. He was one
of the lieutenants in my cavalry.â€
“How did he die?â€
“As you might expect. We had just arrived at the stables by the west gate and were securing
them for our own use when one of the grooms ran out of a stall and stabbed him right
through with a pitchfork. When we cornered the groom, he kept screaming stuff and nonsense
about the Urgals and how he would never surrender. … It wouldn’t have done the fool any
good even if he had. I struck him down with my own hand.â€
“I’m sorry,†said Nasuada.
The gems in Orrin’s crown glittered as he nodded in acknowledgment.
“As painful as it is, you cannot allow your grief to dictate your decisions. … It isn’t easy, I
know—well I know it!—but you must be stronger than yourself, for the good of your people.â€
“Be stronger than myself,†he said in a sour, mocking voice.
“Yes. More is asked of us than of most people; therefore we must strive to be better than
most if we are to prove ourselves worthy of that responsibility. … The Urgals killed my father,
remember, but that did not prevent me from forging an alliance that could help the Varden. I
won’t let anything stop me from doing what is best for them and for our army as a whole, no
matter how painful it might be.†She lifted her arms, showing him the scars again.
“That is your answer, then? You will not break off with the Urgals?â€
“No.â€
Orrin accepted the news with an equanimity that unsettled her. Then he gripped the sill
with both hands and returned to his study of the city. Adorning his fingers were four large
rings, one of which bore the royal seal of Surda carved into the face of an amethyst: an
antlered stag with sprigs of mistletoe wound between his feet standing over a harp and opposite
an image of a tall, fortified tower.
“At least,†said Nasuada, “we didn’t encounter any soldiers who were enchanted not to
feel pain.â€
“The laughing dead, you mean,†Orrin muttered, using the term that she knew had become
widespread throughout the Varden. “Aye, and not Murtagh nor Thorn either, which
troubles me.â€
For a time, neither of them spoke. Then she said, “How went your experiment last night?
Was it a success?â€
“I was too tired to assay it. I went to sleep instead.â€
“Ah.â€
After a few more moments, they both, by tacit agreement, went to the desk pushed
against one wall. Mountains of sheets, tablets, and scrolls covered the desk. Nasuada surveyed
the daunting landscape and sighed. Only half an hour earlier, the desk had been
empty, swept clean by her aides.
She concentrated upon the all-too-familiar topmost report, an estimate of the number of
prisoners the Varden had taken during the siege of Belatona, with the names of persons of
importance noted in red ink. She and Orrin had been discussing the figures when Farica had
arrived to remove her bandages.
“I can’t think of a way out of this tangle,†she admitted.
“We could recruit guards from among the men here. Then we wouldn’t have to leave quite
so many of our own warriors behind.â€
She picked up the report. “Maybe, but the men we need would be difficult to find, and our
spellcasters are already dangerously overworked. …â€
“Has Du Vrangr Gata discovered a way to break an oath given in the ancient language?â€
When she answered in the negative, he asked, “Have they made any headway at all?â€
“None that is practical. I even asked the elves, but they have had no more luck in all their
long years than we have these past few days.â€
“If we don’t solve this, and soon, it could cost us the war,†said Orrin. “This one issue, right
here.â€
She rubbed her temples. “I know.†Before leaving the protection of the dwarves in Farthen
Dûr and Tronjheim, she had tried to anticipate every challenge the Varden might face once
they embarked on the offensive. The one they now confronted, however, had caught her completely
by surprise.
The problem had first manifested itself in the aftermath of the Battle of the Burning Plains,
when it had become apparent that all of the officers in Galbatorix’s army, and most of the ordinary
soldiers as well, had been forced to swear their loyalty to Galbatorix and the Empire in
the ancient language. She and Orrin had quickly realized they could never trust those men,
not so long as Galbatorix and the Empire still existed, and perhaps not even if they were destroyed.
As a result, they could not allow the men who wanted to defect to join the Varden, for
fear of how their oaths might compel them to behave.
Nasuada had not been overly concerned by the situation at the time. Prisoners were a
reality of war, and she had already made provisions with King Orrin to have their captives
marched back to Surda, where they would be put to work building roads, breaking rocks, digging
canals, and doing other hard labor.
It was not until the Varden seized the city of Feinster that she grasped the full size of the
problem. Galbatorix’s agents had extracted oaths of loyalty not only from the soldiers in Feinster
but also from the nobles, from many of the officials who served them, and from a seemingly
random collection of ordinary people throughout the city—a fair number of whom she
suspected the Varden had failed to identify. Those they knew of, however, had to be kept under
lock and key, lest they try to subvert the Varden. Finding people they could trust, then,
and who wanted to work with the Varden had proved far more difficult than Nasuada had ever
expected.
Because of all the people who needed to be contained, she had had no choice but to
leave twice the number of warriors in Feinster that she had intended. And, with so many imprisoned,
the city was effectively crippled, forcing her to divert much-needed supplies from the
main body of the Varden to keep the city from starving. They could not maintain the situation
for long, and it would only worsen now that they were also in possession of Belatona.
“A pity the dwarves haven’t arrived yet,†said Orrin. “We could use their help.â€
Nasuada agreed. There were only a few hundred dwarves with the Varden at the moment;
the rest had returned to Farthen Dûr for the burial of their fallen king, Hrothgar, and to wait for
their clan chiefs to choose Hrothgar’s successor, a fact that she had cursed countless times
since. She had tried to convince the dwarves to appoint a regent for the duration of the war,
but they were as stubborn as stone and had insisted upon carrying out their age-old ceremonies,
though doing so meant abandoning the Varden in the middle of their campaign. In any
event, the dwarves had finally selected their new king—Hrothgar’s nephew, Orik—and had
set out from the distant Beor Mountains to rejoin the Varden. Even at that moment, they were
marching across the vast plains just north of Surda, somewhere between Lake Tüdosten and
the Jiet River.
Nasuada wondered if they would be fit to fight when they arrived. As a rule, dwarves were
hardier than humans, but they had spent most of the past two months on foot, and that could
wear down the endurance of even the strongest creatures. They must be tired of seeing the
same landscape over and over again, she thought.
“We have so many prisoners already. And once we take Dras-Leona …†She shook her
head.
Appearing suddenly animated, Orrin said, “What if we bypass Dras-Leona entirely?†He
shuffled through the slew of papers on the desk until he located a large, dwarf-drawn map of
Alagaësia, which he draped over the scarps of administerial records. The tottering mounds
underneath gave the land an unusual topography: peaks in the west of Du Weldenvarden; a
bowl-like depression where the Beor Mountains lay; canyons and ravines throughout the
Hadarac Desert; and rolling waves along the northernmost part of the Spine, born of the rows
of scrolls below. “Look.†With his middle finger, he traced a line from Belatona to the capital of
the Empire, Urû’baen. “If we march straight there, we won’t come anywhere near Dras-Leona.
It would be difficult to traverse the whole stretch all at once, but we could do it.â€
Nasuada did not need to ponder his suggestion; she had already considered the possibility.
“The risk would be too great. Galbatorix could still attack us with the soldiers he has stationed
in Dras-Leona—which is no small number, if our spies are to be trusted—and then
we’d end up fending off attacks from two directions at once. I know of no quicker way to lose
a battle, or a war. No, we must capture Dras-Leona.â€
Orrin conceded the point with a slight dip of his head. “We need our men back from
Aroughs, then. We need every warrior if we are to continue.â€
“I know. I intend to make sure that the siege is brought to an end before the week is out.â€
“Not by sending Eragon there, I hope.â€
“No, I have a different plan.â€
“Good. And in the meantime? What shall we do with these prisoners?â€
“What we have done before: guards, fences, and padlocks. Maybe we can also bind the
prisoners with spells to restrict their movement, so that we don’t have to keep watch over
them so closely. Other than that, I see no solution, except to slaughter the whole lot of them,
and I would rather—†She tried to imagine what she would not do in order to defeat Galbatorix.
“I would rather not resort to such … drastic measures.â€
“Aye.†Orrin stooped over the map, hunching his shoulders like a vulture as he glared at
the squiggles of faded ink that marked the triangle of Belatona, Dras-Leona, and Urû’baen.
And so he remained until Nasuada said, “Is there anything else we must attend to?
Jörmundur is waiting for his orders, and the Council of Elders has requested an audience with
me.â€
“I worry.â€
“What about?â€
Orrin swept a hand over the map. “That this venture was ill conceived from the start. …
That our forces, and those of our allies, are dangerously scattered, and that if Galbatorix
should take it in his head to join in the fight himself, he could destroy us as easily as Saphira
could a herd of goats. Our entire strategy depends upon contriving a meeting between Galbatorix,
Eragon, Saphira, and as many spellcasters as we can muster. Only a small portion of
those spellcasters are currently among our ranks, and we won’t be able to gather the rest into
a single place until we arrive at Urû’baen and meet with Queen Islanzadà and her army. Until
that happens, we remain woefully vulnerable to attack. We are risking much on the assumption
that Galbatorix’s arrogance will hold him in check until our trap has sprung shut around
him.â€
Nasuada shared his concerns. However, it was more important to shore up Orrin’s confidence
than to commiserate with him, for if his resolve weakened, it would interfere with his duties
and undermine the morale of his men. “We are not entirely defenseless,†she said. “Not
anymore. We have the Dauthdaert now, and with it, I think we might actually be able to kill
Galbatorix and Shruikan, should they emerge from within the confines of Urû’baen.â€
“Perhaps.â€
“Besides, it does no good to worry. We cannot hasten the dwarves here, nor speed our
own progress toward Urû’baen, nor turn tail and flee. So I would not let our situation trouble
you excessively. All we can do is strive to accept our fate with grace, whatever it might be.
The alternative is to allow the thought of Galbatorix’s possible actions to unsettle our minds,
and that I won’t do. I refuse to give him such power over me.â€
Inheritance
RUDELY INTO THE LIGHT …
A SCREAM RANG out: high, jagged, and piercing, almost inhuman in pitch and volume.
Eragon tensed as if someone had stabbed him with a needle. He had spent the better part
of the day watching men fight and die—killing scores himself—yet he could not help but feel
concern as he heard Elain’s cries of anguish. The sounds she made were so terrible, he had
begun to wonder if she would survive the birth.
Next to him, beside the barrel that served as his seat, Albriech and Baldor squatted on
their hams, picking at the tattered blades of grass between their shoes. Their thick fingers
shredded each scrap of leaf and stalk with methodical thoroughness before groping for the
next. Sweat glistened on their foreheads, and their eyes were hard with anger and despair.
Occasionally, they exchanged glances or looked across the lane at the tent where their mother
was, but otherwise they stared at the ground and ignored their surroundings.
A few feet away, Roran sat on his own barrel, which lay on its side and wobbled whenever
he moved. Clustered along the edge of the muddy lane were several dozen people from
Carvahall, mostly men who were friends of Horst and his sons or whose wives were helping
the healer Gertrude attend to Elain. And towering behind them was Saphira. Her neck was
arched like a drawn bow, the tip of her tail twitched as if she were hunting, and she kept flicking
her ruby-red tongue in and out of her mouth, tasting the air for any scents that might
provide information about Elain or her unborn child.
Eragon rubbed a sore muscle in his left forearm. They had been waiting for several hours,
and dusk was drawing near. Long black shadows stretched out from every object, reaching
eastward as if striving to touch the horizon. The air had turned cool, and mosquitoes and lacewinged
damselflies from the nearby Jiet River darted to and fro around them.
Another scream rent the silence.
The men stirred with unease, then made gestures to ward off bad luck and murmured to
one another in voices intended only for those closest to them but which Eragon could hear
with perfect clarity. They whispered about the difficulty of Elain’s pregnancy; some solemnly
stated that if she did not give birth soon, it would be too late for both her and the child. Others
said things like “Hard for a man to lose a wife even in the best of times, but ’specially here,
’specially now,†or “It’s a shame, it is. …†Several blamed Elain’s troubles on the Ra’zac or on
events that had occurred during the villagers’ journey to the Varden. And more than one
muttered a distrustful remark about Arya being allowed to assist with the birth. “She’s an elf,
not a human,†said the carpenter Fisk. “She ought to stick with her own kind, she should, and
not go around meddling where she’s not wanted. Who knows what it is she really wants, eh?â€
All that and more Eragon heard, but he hid his reactions and kept his peace, for he knew it
would only make the villagers uncomfortable if they were aware of how sharp his hearing had
become.
The barrel underneath Roran creaked as he leaned forward. “Do you think we should—â€
“No,†said Albriech.
Eragon tugged his cloak closer around him. The chill was beginning to sink into his bones.
He would not leave, though, not until Elain’s ordeal was over.
“Look,†said Roran with sudden excitement.
Albriech and Baldor swiveled their heads in unison.
Across the lane, Katrina exited the tent, carrying a bundle of soiled rags. Before the entrance
flap fell shut again, Eragon caught a glimpse of Horst and one of the women from
Carvahall—he was not sure who—standing at the foot of the cot where Elain was lying.
Without so much as a single sideways glance at those watching, Katrina half ran and half
walked toward the fire where Fisk’s wife, Isold, and Nolla were boiling rags for reuse.
The barrel creaked twice more as Roran shifted his position. Eragon half expected him to
start after Katrina, but he remained where he was, as did Albriech and Baldor. They, and the
rest of the villagers, followed Katrina’s movements with unblinking attentiveness.
Eragon grimaced as Elain’s latest scream pierced the air, the cry no less excruciating than
those previous.
Then the entrance to the tent was swept aside for a second time, and Arya stormed out,
bare-armed and disheveled. Her hair fluttered about her face as she trotted over to three of
Eragon’s elven guards, who were standing in a pool of shadow behind a nearby pavilion. For
a few moments, she spoke urgently with one of them, a thin-faced elf woman named Invidia,
then hurried back the way she had come.
Eragon caught up with her before she had covered more than a few yards. “How goes it?â€
he asked.
“Badly.â€
“Why is it taking so long? Can’t you help her give birth any faster?â€
Arya’s expression, which was already strained, became even more severe. “I could. I
could have sung the child out of her womb in the first half hour, but Gertrude and the other
women will only let me use the simplest of spells.â€
“That’s absurd! Why?â€
“Because magic frightens them—and I frighten them.â€
“Then tell them you mean no harm. Tell them in the ancient language, and they’ll have no
choice but to believe you.â€
She shook her head. “It would only make matters worse. They would think I was trying to
charm them against their will, and they would send me away.â€
“Surely Katrina—â€
“She is the reason I was able to cast the spells I did.â€
Again Elain screamed.
“Won’t they at least let you ease her pain?â€
“No more than I already have.â€
Eragon spun toward Horst’s tent. “Is that so,†he growled between clenched teeth.
A hand closed around his left arm and held him in place. Puzzled, he looked back at Arya
for an explanation. She shook her head. “Don’t,†she said. “These are customs older than
time itself. If you interfere, you will anger and embarrass Gertrude and turn many of the females
from your village against you.â€
“I don’t care about that!â€
“I know, but trust me: right now the wisest thing you can do is to wait with the others.†As if
to emphasize her point, she released his arm.
“I can’t just stand by and let her suffer!â€
“Listen to me. It’s better if you stay. I will help Elain however I can, that I promise, but do
not go in there. You will only cause strife and anger where none are needed. … Please.â€
Eragon hesitated, then snarled with disgust and threw up his hands as Elain screamed yet
again. “Fine,†he said, and leaned close to Arya, “but whatever happens, don’t let her or the
child die. I don’t care what you have to do, but don’t let them die.â€
Arya studied him with a serious gaze. “I would never allow a child to come to harm,†she
said, and resumed walking.
As she disappeared inside Horst’s tent, Eragon returned to where Roran, Albriech, and
Baldor were gathered and sank back down onto his barrel.
“Well?†Roran asked.
Eragon shrugged. “They’re doing all they can. We just have to be patient. … That’s all.â€
“Seemed as if she had a fair bit more than that to say,†said Baldor.
“The meaning was the same.â€
The color of the sun shifted, becoming orange and crimson as it approached the terminating
line of the earth. The few tattered clouds that remained in the western sky, remnants of
the storm that had blown past earlier, acquired similar hues. Flocks of swallows swooped
overhead, making their supper out of the moths and flies and other insects flitting about.
Over time, Elain’s cries gradually decreased in strength, fading from her earlier, fullthroated
screams to low, broken moans that made Eragon’s hackles prickle. More than anything,
he wanted to free her from her torments, but he could not bring himself to ignore Arya’s
advice, so he stayed where he was and fidgeted and bit his bruised nails and engaged in
short, stilted conversations with Saphira.
When the sun touched the earth, it spread out along the horizon, like a giant yolk oozing
free of its skin. Bats began to mingle among the swallows, the flapping of their leathery wings
faint and frantic, their high-pitched squeaks almost painfully sharp to Eragon.
Then Elain uttered a shriek that drowned out every other sound in the vicinity, a shriek the
likes of which Eragon hoped he would never hear again.
A brief but profound silence followed.
It ended as the loud, hiccupping wail of a newborn child emanated from within the
tent—the age-old fanfare that announced the arrival of a new person into the world. At the
sound, Albriech and Baldor broke out grinning, as did Eragon and Roran, and several of the
waiting men cheered.
Their jubilation was short-lived. Even as the last of the cheers died out, the women in the
tent began to keen, a shrill, heart-rending sound that made Eragon go cold with dread. He
knew what their lamentations meant, what they had always meant: that tragedy of the worst
kind had struck.
“No,†he said, disbelieving, as he hopped off the barrel. She can’t be dead. She can’t be.
… Arya promised.
As if in response to his thought, Arya tore back the flap to the tent and ran toward him,
bounding across the lane with impossibly long strides.
“What’s happened?†Baldor asked as she slowed to a halt.
Arya ignored him and said, “Eragon, come.â€
“What’s happened?†Baldor exclaimed angrily, and reached for Arya’s shoulder. In a flash
of seemingly instantaneous movement, she caught his wrist and twisted his arm behind his
back, forcing him to stand hunched over, like a cripple. His face contorted with pain.
“If you want your baby sister to live, then stand aside and do not interfere!†She released
him with a push, sending him sprawling into Albriech’s arms, then whirled about and strode
back toward Horst’s tent.
“What has happened?†Eragon asked as he joined her.
Arya turned to face him, eyes burning. “The child is healthy, but she was born with a cat
lip.â€
Then Eragon understood the reason for the women’s outpouring of grief. Children cursed
with a cat lip were rarely allowed to live; they were difficult to feed, and even if the parents
could feed them, such children would suffer a miserable lot: shunned, ridiculed, and unable to
make a suitable match for marriage. In most cases, it would have been better for all if the
child had been stillborn.
“You have to heal her, Eragon,†said Arya.
“Me? But I’ve never … Why not you? You know more about healing than I do.â€
“If I rework the child’s appearance, people will say I have stolen her and replaced her with
a changeling. Well I know the stories your kind tells about my race, Eragon—too well. I will do
it if I must, but the child will suffer for it ever after. You are the only one who can save her
from such a fate.â€
Panic clutched at him. He did not want to be responsible for the life of another person; he
was already responsible for far too many.
“You have to heal her,†Arya said, her tone forceful. Eragon reminded himself how dearly
elves treasured their children, as well as children of all races.
“Will you assist me if I need it?â€
“Of course.â€
As will I, said Saphira. Must you even ask?
“Right,†said Eragon, and gripped Brisingr’s pommel, his mind made up. “I’ll do it.â€
With Arya trailing slightly behind, he marched over to the tent and pushed his way past the
heavy woolen flaps. Candle smoke stung his eyes. Five women from Carvahall stood
bunched together close to the wall. Their keening struck him like a physical blow. They
swayed, trance-like, and tore at their clothes and hair as they wailed. Horst was by the end of
the cot, arguing with Gertrude, his face red, puffy, and lined with exhaustion. For her part, the
plump healer held a bundle of cloth against her bosom, a bundle that Eragon assumed contained
the infant—although he could not see its face—for it wriggled and squalled, adding to
the din. Gertrude’s round cheeks shone with perspiration, and her hair clung to her skin. Her
bare forearms were streaked with various fluids. At the head of the cot, Katrina knelt on a
round cushion, wiping Elain’s brow with a damp cloth.
Eragon hardly recognized Elain; her face was gaunt, and she had dark rings under her
wandering eyes, which seemed incapable of focusing. A line of tears streamed from the outer
corner of each eye, over her temples, and then vanished underneath the tangled locks of her
hair. Her mouth opened and closed, and she moaned unintelligible words. A bloodstained
sheet covered the rest of her.
Neither Horst nor Gertrude noticed Eragon until he approached them. Eragon had grown
since he had left Carvahall, but Horst still stood a head taller. As they both looked at him, a
flicker of hope brightened the smith’s bleak expression.
“Eragon!†He clapped a heavy hand on Eragon’s shoulder and leaned against him, as if
events had left him barely able to stand. “You heard?†It was not really a question, but Eragon
nodded anyway. Horst glanced at Gertrude—a quick, darting glance—then his large, shovellike
beard moved from side to side as his jaw worked, and his tongue appeared between his
lips as he wet them. “Can you … can you do anything for her, do you think?â€
“Maybe,†said Eragon. “I’ll try.â€
He held out his arms. After a moment’s hesitation, Gertrude deposited the warm bundle in
his hold, then backed away, her demeanor troubled.
Buried within the folds of fabric was the girl’s tiny, wrinkled face. Her skin was dark red,
her eyes were swollen shut, and she appeared to be grimacing, as if she was angry at her recent
mistreatment—a response that Eragon thought was perfectly reasonable. Her most striking
feature, however, was the wide gap that extended from her left nostril to the middle of her
upper lip. Through it, her small pink tongue was visible; it lay like a soft, moist slug, occasionally
twitching.
“Please,†said Horst. “Is there any way you can …â€
Eragon winced as the women’s keening struck a particularly shrill note. “I can’t work here,â€
he said.
As he turned to leave, Gertrude spoke up behind him, saying, “I’ll come with you. One of
us who knows how to care for a child needs to stay with her.â€
Eragon did not want Gertrude hovering about him while he tried to mend the girl’s face,
and he was about to tell her just that when he remembered what Arya had said about
changelings. Someone from Carvahall, someone the rest of the villagers trusted, ought to
bear witness to the girl’s transformation, so that they could later assure people that the child
was still the same person as she had been before.
“As you wish,†he said, stifling his objections.
The baby squirmed in his arms and uttered a plaintive cry as he exited the tent. Across the
lane, the villagers stood and pointed, and Albriech and Baldor started toward him. Eragon
shook his head, and they stopped where they were and gazed after him with helpless expressions.
Arya and Gertrude took up positions on either side of Eragon as he walked through the
camp to his tent, and the ground trembled under their feet as Saphira followed. Warriors in
the path quickly moved aside to let them pass.
Eragon strove to keep his steps as smooth as possible, in order to avoid jostling the child.
A strong, musty aroma clung to the girl, like the smell of a forest floor on a warm summer day.
They had almost reached their destination when Eragon saw the witch-child, Elva, standing
between two rows of tents next to the path, solemn-faced as she stared at him with her
large violet eyes. She wore a black and purple dress with a long veil of lace that was folded
back over her head, exposing the silvery, star-shaped mark, similar to his gedwëy ignasia, on
her forehead.
Not a word did she say, nor did she attempt to slow or stop him. Nevertheless, Eragon understood
her warning, for her very presence was a rebuke to him. Once before he had
tampered with the fate of an infant, and with dire consequences. He could not allow himself to
make such a mistake again, not only because of the harm it would cause, but because if he
did, Elva would become his sworn enemy. Despite all his power, Eragon feared Elva. Her
ability to peer into people’s souls and divine everything that pained and troubled them—and to
foresee everything that was about to hurt them—made her one of the most dangerous beings
in all of Alagaësia.
Whatever happens, Eragon thought as he entered his dark tent, I don’t want to hurt this
child. And he felt a renewed determination to give her a chance to live the life that circumstances
would have denied her.
Inheritance
A CRADLE SONG
FAINT LIGHT FROM the dying sun seeped into Eragon’s tent. Everything within was gray,
as if it were carved from granite. With his elf vision, Eragon could see the shape of objects
easily enough, but he knew that Gertrude would have trouble, so for her sake he said, “Naina
hvitr un böllr,†and set a small, glowing werelight floating in the air by the peak of the tent. The
soft white orb produced no discernible heat but as much illumination as a bright lantern. He
refrained from using the word brisingr in the spell, so as to avoid setting the blade of his
sword on fire.
He heard Gertrude pause behind him, and he turned to see her staring at the werelight
and clutching at the bag she had brought with her. Her familiar face reminded him of home
and Carvahall, and he felt an unexpected lurch of homesickness.
She slowly lowered her gaze to his. “How you have changed,†she said. “The boy I once
sat watch over as he fought off a fever is long gone, I think.â€
“You know me still,†he replied.
“No, I don’t believe I do.â€
Her statement troubled him, but he could not afford to dwell on it, so he pushed it out of
his mind and went to his cot. Gently, ever so gently, he transferred the newborn from his arms
onto the blankets, as carefully as if she were made of glass. The girl waved a clenched fist at
him. He smiled and touched it with the tip of his right forefinger, and she burbled softly.
“What do you intend to do?†asked Gertrude as she sat on the lone stool near the tent
wall. “How will you heal her?â€
“I’m not sure.â€
Just then, Eragon noticed that Arya had not accompanied them into the tent. He called her
name, and a moment later, she answered from outside, her voice muffled by the thick fabric
that separated them. “I am here,†she said. “And here I shall wait. If you have need of me, you
have but to cast your thoughts in my direction and I shall come.â€
Eragon frowned slightly. He had counted on having her close at hand during the procedure,
to help him where he was ignorant and to correct him if he made any mistake. Well, no
matter. I can still ask her questions if I want to. Only this way, Gertrude will have no reason to
suspect that Arya had anything to do with the girl. He was struck by the precautions that Arya
was taking in order to avoid arousing suspicion that the girl was a changeling, and he
wondered if she had once been accused of stealing someone’s child.
The frame of the cot creaked as he slowly lowered himself onto it, facing the infant. His
frown deepened. Through him, he felt Saphira watching the girl as she lay on the blankets,
now dozing, seemingly oblivious to the world. Her tongue glistened within the cleft that split
her upper lip.
What do you think? he asked.
Go slowly, so that you do not bite your tail by accident.
He agreed with her, then, feeling impish, asked, And have you ever done that? Bitten your
tail, I mean?
She remained silently aloof, but he caught a brief flash of sensations: a medley of images—
trees, grass, sunshine, the mountains of the Spine—as well as the cloying scent of red
orchids and a sudden painful, pinching sensation, as if a door had slammed shut on her tail.
Eragon chuckled quietly to himself, then concentrated on composing the spells he thought
he would need to heal the girl. It took quite a while, almost a half hour. He and Saphira spent
most of that time going over the arcane sentences again and again, examining and debating
every word and phrase—and even his pronunciation—in an attempt to ensure that the spells
would do what he intended and nothing more.
In the midst of their silent conversation, Gertrude shifted in her seat and said, “She looks
the same as ever. The work goes badly, doesn’t it? There is no need to hide the truth from
me, Eragon; I have dealt with far worse in my day.â€
Eragon raised his eyebrows and, in a mild voice, said, “The work has not yet begun.â€
And Gertrude sank back, subdued. From within her bag, she removed a ball of yellow
yarn, a half-finished sweater, and a pair of polished birch knitting needles. Her fingers moved
with practiced speed, quick and deft, as she began to knit and purl. The steady clacking of her
needles comforted Eragon; it was a sound he had heard often during his childhood, one that
he associated with sitting around a kitchen fireplace on cool autumn evenings, listening to the
adults tell stories while they smoked a pipe or savored a draught of dark brown ale after a
large dinner.
At last, when he and Saphira were satisfied that the spells were safe, and Eragon was
confident that his tongue would not trip over any of the strange sounds of the ancient language,
Eragon drew upon the combined strength of both their bodies and prepared to cast
the first of the enchantments.
Then he hesitated.
When the elves used magic to coax a tree or a flower to grow in the shape they desired,
or to alter their body or that of another creature, they always, so far as he knew, couched the
spell in the form of a song. It seemed only fitting that he should do the same. But he was acquainted
with only a few of the elves’ many songs and none of them well enough to accurately—
or even adequately—reproduce such beautiful and complex melodies.
So, instead, he chose a song from the deepest recesses of his memory, a song that his
aunt Marian had sung to him when he was little, before the sickness had taken her, a song
that the women of Carvahall had crooned to their children from time immemorial when they
tucked them under the covers for a long night’s sleep: a lullaby—a cradle song. The notes
were simple, easy to remember, and had a soothing quality that he hoped would help keep
the infant calm.
He began, soft and low, letting the words roll forth slowly, the sound of his voice spreading
through the tent like warmth from a fire. Before he used magic, he told the girl in the ancient
language that he was her friend, that he meant her well, and that she should trust him.
She stirred in her sleep, as if in response, and her clenched expression softened.
Then Eragon intoned the first of the spells: a simple incantation that consisted of two short
sentences, which he recited over and over again, like a prayer. And the small pink hollow
where the two sides of the girl’s divided lip met shimmered and crawled, as if a dormant
creature were stirring beneath the surface.
What he was attempting was far from easy. The infant’s bones, like those of every newborn
child, were soft and cartilaginous, different from those of an adult and thus different from
all of the bones he had mended during his time with the Varden. He had to be careful not to
fill the gap in her mouth with the bone, flesh, and skin of an adult, or those areas would not
grow properly along with the rest of her body. Also, when he repaired the gap in her upper
palate and gums, he would have to move, straighten, and make symmetrical the roots of what
would become her two front teeth, something he had never done before. And further complicating
the process was the fact that he had never seen the girl without her deformity, so he
was uncertain how her lip and mouth ought to appear. She looked like every other baby he
had seen: round, pudgy, and lacking definition. He worried, then, that he might give her a face
that appeared pleasant enough at the moment, but that would become strange and unattractive
as the years passed.
So he proceeded cautiously, making only small changes at a time and pausing after each
one to ponder the result. He started with the deepest layers of the girl’s face, with the bones
and cartilage, and slowly worked his way outward, singing all the while.
At a certain point, Saphira began to hum along with him from where she lay outside, her
deep voice making the air vibrate. The werelight brightened and dimmed in accordance with
the volume of her humming, a phenomenon that Eragon found exceedingly curious. He resolved
to ask Saphira about it later.
Word by word, spell by spell, hour by hour, the night wore on, though Eragon paid no attention
to the time. When the girl cried from hunger, he fed her with a trickle of energy. He
and Saphira tried to avoid touching her mind with theirs—not knowing how the contact might
affect her immature consciousness—but they still brushed against it occasionally; her mind
felt vague and indistinct to Eragon, a thrashing sea of unmoderated emotions that reduced
everything else in the world to insignificance.
Beside him, Gertrude’s needles continued to clack, the only interruption in the rhythm
coming when the healer lost count of her stitches or had to tink back several knits or purls in
order to correct a mistake.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the fissure in the girl’s gums and palate fused into a seamless
whole, the two sides of her cat lip pulled together—her skin flowing like liquid—and her upper
lip gradually formed a pink bow free of flaws.
Eragon fiddled and tweaked and worried over the shape of her lip for the longest while,
until at last Saphira said, It is done. Leave it, and he was forced to admit that he could not improve
the girl’s appearance any more, only make it worse.
Then he let the cradle song fade to silence. His tongue felt thick and dry, his throat raw.
He pushed himself off the cot and stood half crouched over it, too stiff to straighten up entirely.
In addition to the illumination from the werelight, a pale glow pervaded the tent, the same
as when he had started. At first he was confused—surely the sun had already set!—but then
he realized that the glow was coming from the east, not the west, and he understood. No
wonder I’m so sore. I’ve been sitting here the whole night through!
And what about me? said Saphira. My bones ache as much as yours. Her admission surprised
him; she rarely acknowledged her own discomfort, no matter how extreme. The fighting
must have taken a greater toll on her than had first been apparent. As he reached that conclusion,
and Saphira became aware of it, she withdrew from him slightly and said, Tired or not, I
can still crush however many soldiers Galbatorix sends against us.
I know.
Returning the knitting to her bag, Gertrude stood and hobbled over to the cot. “Never did I
think to see such a thing,†she said. “Least of all from you, Eragon Bromsson.†She peered at
him inquiringly. “Brom was your father, wasn’t he?â€
Eragon nodded, then croaked, “That he was.â€
“It seems fitting, somehow.â€
Eragon was not inclined to discuss the topic further, so he merely grunted and extinguished
the werelight with a glance and a thought. Instantly, all went dark, save for the predawn
glow. His eyes adjusted to the change faster than Gertrude’s; she blinked and frowned
and swung her head from side to side, as if unsure of where he stood.
The girl was warm and heavy in Eragon’s arms as he picked her up. He was uncertain
whether his weariness was due to the magic he had wrought or to the sheer length of time the
task had taken him.
He gazed down at the girl and, feeling suddenly protective, murmured, “Sé ono waÃse ilia.â€
May you be happy. It was not a spell, not properly, but he hoped that maybe it could help her
avoid some of the misery that afflicted so many people. Failing that, he hoped it would make
her smile.
It did. A wide smile spread across her diminutive face, and with great enthusiasm, she
said, “Gahh!â€
Eragon smiled as well, then turned and strode outside.
As the entrance flaps fell away, he saw a small crowd gathered in a semicircle around the
tent, some standing, some sitting, others squatting. Most he recognized from Carvahall, but
Arya and the other elves were also there—somewhat apart from the rest—as well as several
warriors of the Varden whose names he did not know. He spotted Elva lurking behind a
nearby tent, her black lace veil lowered, hiding her face.
The group, Eragon realized, must have been waiting for hours, and he had not sensed
anything of their presence. He had been safe enough with Saphira and the elves keeping
watch, but that was no excuse for allowing himself to become so complacent.
I have to do better, he told himself.
At the forefront of the crowd stood Horst and his sons, looking worried. Horst’s brow knotted
as he gazed at the bundle in Eragon’s arms, and he opened his mouth as if to say
something, but no sound came forth.
Without pomp or ceremony, Eragon walked over to the smith and turned the girl so that he
could see her face. For a moment, Horst did not move; then his eyes began to glisten and his
expression changed to one of joy and relief so profound, it could have been mistaken for grief.
As he gave the girl to Horst, Eragon said, “My hands are too bloody for this kind of work,
but I’m glad I was able to help.â€
Horst touched the girl’s upper lip with the tip of his middle finger, then shook his head. “I
can’t believe it. … I can’t believe it.†He looked at Eragon. “Elain and I are forevermore in your
debt. If—â€
“There is no debt,†Eragon said gently. “I only did what anyone would if they had the ability.â€
“But you were the one who healed her, and it’s to you I’m grateful.â€
Eragon hesitated, then bowed his head, accepting Horst’s gratitude. “What will you name
her?â€
The smith beamed at his daughter. “If it’s agreeable to Elain, I thought we might call her
Hope.â€
“Hope … A good name, that.†And don’t we need some hope in our lives? “And how is
Elain?â€
“Tired, but well.â€
Then Albriech and Baldor clustered around their father, peering at their new sister, as did
Gertrude—who had emerged from the tent soon after Eragon—and once their shyness faded,
the rest of the villagers joined them. Even the group of curious warriors pressed close to
Horst, craning their necks in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the girl.
After a while, the elves unfolded their long limbs and approached as well. Seeing them,
people quickly stepped out of the way, clearing a path to Horst. The smith stiffened and
pushed his jaw out like a bulldog’s as, one by one, the elves bent and examined the girl,
sometimes whispering a word or two in the ancient language to her. They did not seem to notice
or mind the suspicious stares that the villagers cast at them.
When only three elves were left in line, Elva darted out from behind the tent where she
had been concealing herself and joined the end of the procession. She did not have to wait
long before it was her turn to stand before Horst. Although he appeared reluctant, the smith
lowered his arms and bent his knees, but he was so much taller than Elva, she had to rise up
on the tips of her toes in order to see the infant. Eragon held his breath as she gazed at the
formerly deformed child, unable to guess her reaction through her veil.
After a few seconds, Elva dropped back onto her heels. With a deliberate pace, she started
down the path that ran past Eragon’s tent. Twenty yards away, she stopped and turned
toward him.
He tilted his head and lifted an eyebrow.
She nodded, a short, abrupt movement, then continued on her way.
As Eragon watched her go, Arya sidled up to him. “You should be proud of what you have
accomplished,†she murmured. “The child is sound and well formed. Not even our most skilled
enchanters could improve on your gramarye. It is a great thing, what you have given this
girl—a face and a future—and she will not forget it, I am sure. … None of us will.â€
Eragon saw that she and all the elves were regarding him with a look of newfound respect—
but it was Arya’s admiration and approval that meant the most to him. “I had the best
of teachers,†he replied in an equally low voice. Arya did not dispute his assertion. Together
they watched the villagers mill around Horst and his daughter, talking excitedly. Without taking
his eyes off them, Eragon leaned toward Arya and said, “Thank you for helping Elain.â€
“You’re welcome. I would have been remiss not to.â€
Horst turned then and carried the child into the tent so that Elain might see her newborn
daughter, but the knot of people showed no signs of dispersing. When Eragon was fed up
with shaking hands and answering questions, he said farewell to Arya, then slipped off to his
tent and tied the flaps closed behind him.
Unless we’re under attack, I don’t want to see anyone for the next ten hours, not even
Nasuada, he said to Saphira as he threw himself onto his cot. Will you tell Blödhgarm,
please?
Of course, she said. Rest, little one, as will I.
Eragon sighed and draped an arm over his face to block the morning light. His breathing
slowed, his mind began to wander, and soon the strange sights and sounds of his waking
dreams enveloped him—real, yet imaginary; vivid, yet transparent, as if the visions were
made of colored glass—and, for a time, he was able to forget his responsibilities and the harrowing
events of the past day. And all through his dreams, there wound the cradle song, like a
whisper of wind, half heard, half forgotten, and it lulled him, with memories of his home, into a
childlike peace.
Inheritance
NO REST FOR THE WEARY
TWO DWARVES, TWO men, and two Urgals—members of Nasuada’s personal guard,
the Nighthawks—were stationed outside the room in the castle where Nasuada had set up
her headquarters. They stared at Roran with flat, empty eyes. He kept his face equally as
blank as he stared back.
It was a game they had played before.
Despite the Nighthawks’ lack of expression, he knew they were busy figuring out the fastest
and most efficient ways to kill him. He knew, because he was doing the same with regard
to them, as he always did.
I’d have to backtrack as fast as I could … spread them out a bit, he decided. The men
would get to me first; they’re faster than the dwarves, and they’d slow the Urgals behind them.
… Have to get those halberds away from them. It’d be tricky, but I think I could—one of them,
at least. Might have to throw my hammer. Once I had a halberd, I could keep the rest at a distance.
The dwarves wouldn’t stand much of a chance, then, but the Urgals would be trouble.
Ugly brutes, those. … If I used that pillar as cover, I could—
The ironbound door that stood between the two lines of guards creaked as it swung open.
A brightly dressed page of ten or twelve stepped out and announced, louder than was necessary,
“Lady Nasuada will see you now!â€
Several of the guards twitched, distracted, and their stares wavered for a second. Roran
smiled as he swept past them and into the room beyond, knowing that their lapse, slight as it
was, would have allowed him to kill at least two before they could have retaliated. Until next
time, he thought.
The room was large, rectangular, and sparsely decorated: a too-small rug lay on the floor;
a narrow, moth-eaten tapestry hung from the wall to his left; and a single lancet window
pierced the wall to his right. Other than that, the room was devoid of ornamentation. Shoved
into one corner was a long wooden table piled high with books, scrolls, and loose sheets of
paper. A few massive chairs—upholstered with leather fastened with rows of tarnished brass
tacks—stood scattered about the table, but neither Nasuada nor the dozen people who
bustled around her deigned to use them. Jörmundur was not there, but Roran was familiar
with several of the other warriors present: some he had fought under, others he had seen in
action during battle or heard tell of from the men in his company.
“—and I don’t care if it does give him a ‘pain in his goiter’!†she exclaimed, and brought her
right hand down flat on the table with a loud slap. “If we don’t have those horseshoes, and
more besides, we might as well eat our horses for all the good they’ll do us. Do I make myself
understood?â€
As one, the men she addressed answered in the affirmative. They sounded somewhat intimidated,
even abashed. Roran found it both strange and impressive that Nasuada, a woman,
was able to command such respect from her warriors, a respect that he shared. She
was one of the most determined and intelligent people he had ever known, and he was convinced
that she would have succeeded no matter where she had been born.
“Now go,†said Nasuada, and as eight men filed past her, she motioned Roran to the table.
He waited patiently as she dipped a quill in an inkpot and scribbled several lines onto a
small scroll, then handed it to one of the pages and said, “For the dwarf Narheim. And this
time, make sure you get his reply before you return, or I’ll send you over to the Urgals to fetch
and clean for them.â€
“Yes, my Lady!†said the boy, and sprinted off, half frightened out of his wits.
Nasuada began to leaf through a stack of papers in front of her. Without looking up, she
said, “Are you well rested, Roran?â€
He wondered why she was interested. “Not particularly.â€
“That’s unfortunate. Were you up all night?â€
“Part of it. Elain, the wife of our smith, gave birth yesterday, but—â€
“Yes, I was informed. I take it that you didn’t stand vigil until Eragon healed the child?â€
“No, I was too tired.â€
“At least you had that much sense.†Reaching across the table, she picked up another
sheet of paper and scrutinized it before adding it to her pile. In the same matter-of-fact tone
she had been using, she said, “I have a mission for you, Stronghammer. Our forces at
Aroughs have encountered stiff resistance—more than we anticipated. Captain Brigman has
failed to resolve the situation, and we need those men back now. Therefore, I am sending you
to Aroughs to replace Brigman. A horse is waiting for you by the south gate. You will ride fast
as you can to Feinster, then from Feinster to Aroughs. Fresh horses will be waiting for you
every ten miles between here and Feinster. Past there, you will have to find replacements on
your own. I expect you to reach Aroughs within four days. Once you have caught up on your
rest, that will leave you approximately … three days to end the siege.†She glanced up at him.
“A week from today, I want our banner flying over Aroughs. I don’t care how you do it,
Stronghammer; I just want it done. If you can’t, then I’ll have no choice but to send Eragon
and Saphira to Aroughs, which will leave us barely able to defend ourselves should Murtagh
or Galbatorix attack.â€
And then Katrina would be in danger, thought Roran. An unpleasant feeling settled in his
gut. Riding to Aroughs in only four days would be a miserable ordeal, especially given how
sore and bruised he was. Having to also capture the city in so little time would be compounding
misery with madness. All in all, the mission was about as appealing as wrestling a bear
with his hands tied behind his back.
He scratched his cheek through his beard. “I don’t have any experience with sieges,†he
said. “Leastways, not like this. There must be someone else in the Varden who would be better
suited to the task. What about Martland Redbeard?â€
Nasuada made a dismissive motion. “He can’t ride at full gallop with only one hand. You
should have more confidence in yourself, Stronghammer. There are others among the Varden
who know more about the arts of war, it’s true—men who have been in the field longer, men
who received instruction from the finest warriors of their father’s generation—but when
swords are drawn and battle is joined, it’s not knowledge or experience that matters most, it’s
whether you can win, and that’s a trick you seem to have mastered. What’s more, you’re
lucky.â€
She put down the topmost papers and leaned on her arms. “You’ve proven that you can
fight. You’ve proven that you can follow orders … when it pleases you, that is.†He resisted
the urge to hunch his shoulders as he remembered the bitter, white-hot bite of the whip cutting
into his back after he had been disciplined for defying Captain Edric’s orders. “You’ve
proven that you can lead a raiding party. So, Roran Stronghammer, let us see if you are capable
of something more, shall we?â€
He swallowed. “Yes, my Lady.â€
“Good. I am promoting you to captain for the time being. If you succeed in Aroughs, you
may consider the title permanent, at least until you demonstrate that you are deserving of
either greater or lesser honors.†Returning her gaze to the table, she began to sort through a
morass of scrolls, evidently searching for something hidden underneath.
“Thank you.â€
Nasuada responded with a faint, noncommittal sound.
“How many men will I have under my command at Aroughs?†he asked.
“I gave Brigman a thousand warriors to capture the city. Of those, no more than eight hundred
remain who are still fit for duty.â€
Roran nearly swore out loud. So few.
As if she had heard him, Nasuada said in a dry voice, “We were led to believe that
Aroughs’s defenses would be easier to overwhelm than has been the case.â€
“I see. May I take two or three men from Carvahall with me? You said once that you would
let us serve together if we—â€
“Yes, yesâ€â€”she waved a hand—“I know what I said.†She pursed her lips, considering.
“Very well, take whomever you want, just so long as you leave within the hour. Let me know
how many are going with you, and I’ll see to it that the appropriate number of horses are waiting
along the way.â€
“May I take Carn?†he asked, naming the magician he had fought alongside on several occasions.
She paused and stared at the wall for a moment, her eyes unfocused. Then, to his relief,
she nodded and resumed digging in the jumble of scrolls. “Ah, here we are.†She pulled out a
tube of parchment tied with a leather thong. “A map of Aroughs and its environs, as well as a
larger map of Fenmark Province. I suggest you study them both most carefully.â€
She handed him the tube, which he slipped inside his tunic. “And here,†she said, giving
him a rectangle of folded parchment sealed with a blob of red wax, “is your commission,
andâ€â€”a second rectangle, thicker than the first—“here are your orders. Show them to Brigman,
but don’t let him keep them. If I remember correctly, you’ve never learned to read, have
you?â€
He shrugged. “What for? I can count and figure as well as any man. My father said that
teaching us to read made no more sense than teaching a dog to walk on his hind legs: amusing,
but hardly worth the effort.â€
“And I might agree, had you stayed a farmer. But you didn’t, and you’re not.†She motioned
toward the pieces of parchment he held. “For all you know, one of those might be a writ
ordering your execution. You are of limited use to me like this, Stronghammer. I cannot send
you messages without others having to read them to you, and if you need to report to me, you
will have no choice but to trust one of your underlings to record your words accurately. It
makes you easy to manipulate. It makes you untrustworthy. If you hope to advance any further
in the Varden, I suggest you find someone to teach you. Now begone; there are other
matters that demand my attention.â€
She snapped her fingers, and one of the pages ran over to her. Placing a hand on the
boy’s shoulder, she bent down to his level and said, “I want you to fetch Jörmundur directly
here. You’ll find him somewhere along the market street, where those three houses—†In the
midst of her instructions, she stopped and raised an eyebrow as she noticed that Roran had
not budged. “Is there something else, Stronghammer?†she asked.
“Yes. Before I leave, I’d like to see Eragon.â€
“And why is that?â€
“Most of the wards he gave me before the battle are gone now.â€
Nasuada frowned, then said to the page, “On the market street, where those three houses
were burned. Do you know the place I mean? Right, off you go, then.†She patted the boy on
the back and stood upright as he ran out of the room. “It would be better if you didn’t.â€
Her statement confused Roran, but he kept quiet, expecting that she would explain herself.
She did, but in a roundabout way: “Did you notice how tired Eragon was during my audience
with the werecats?â€
“He could barely stay on his feet.â€
“Exactly. He’s spread too thin, Roran. He can’t protect you, me, Saphira, Arya, and who
knows who else and still do what he has to. He needs to husband his strength for when he
will have to fight Murtagh and Galbatorix. And the closer we get to Urû’baen, the more important
it is that he be ready to face them at any given moment, night or day. We can’t allow all of
these other worries and distractions to weaken him. It was noble of him to heal the child’s cat
lip, but his doing so could have cost us the war!
“You fought without the advantage of wards when the Ra’zac attacked your village in the
Spine. If you care about your cousin, if you care about defeating Galbatorix, you must learn to
fight without them again.â€
When she finished, Roran bowed his head. She was right. “I’ll depart at once.â€
“I appreciate that.â€
“By your leave …â€
Turning, Roran strode toward the door. Just as he crossed the threshold, Nasuada called
out, “Oh, and Stronghammer?â€
He looked back, curious.
“Try not to burn down Aroughs, would you? Cities are rather hard to replace.â€
Inheritance
DANCING WITH SWORDS
ERAGON DRUMMED HIS heels against the side of the boulder he was sitting on, bored
and impatient to be gone.
He, Saphira, and Arya—as well as Blödhgarm and the other elves—were lounging on the
bank next to the road that ran eastward from the city of Belatona: eastward through fields of
ripe, verdant crops; over a wide stone bridge that arched across the Jiet River; and then
around the southernmost point of Leona Lake. There the road branched, one fork turning to
the right, toward the Burning Plains and Surda, the other turning north, toward Dras-Leona
and eventually Urû’baen.
Thousands of men, dwarves, and Urgals milled about before Belatona’s eastern gate, as
well as within the city itself, arguing and shouting as the Varden tried to organize itself into a
cohesive unit. In addition to the ragtag blocks of warriors on foot, there was King Orrin’s cavalry—
a mass of prancing, snorting horses. And strung out behind the fighting part of the army
was the supply train: a mile-and-a-half-long line of carts, wagons, and wheeled pens, flanked
by the vast herds of horned cattle the Varden had brought from Surda and supplemented by
what animals they had been able to appropriate from farmers along their path. From the herds
and the supply train came the lowing of oxen, the braying of mules and donkeys, the honking
of geese, and the whinnies and neighs of draft horses.
It was enough to make Eragon want to plug his ears.
You would think we would be better at this, considering how many times we’ve done it before,
he commented to Saphira as he hopped down off the boulder.
She sniffed. They ought to put me in charge; I could scare them into position in less than
an hour, and then we wouldn’t have to waste so much time waiting.
The thought amused him. Yes, I’m sure you could. … Be careful what you say, though, or
Nasuada might just make you do it.
Then Eragon’s mind turned to Roran, whom he had not seen since the night he had
healed Horst and Elain’s child, and he wondered how his cousin was doing and worried about
leaving him so far behind.
“Blasted fool thing to do,†Eragon muttered, remembering how Roran had left without letting
him renew his wards.
He’s an experienced hunter, Saphira pointed out. He will not be so foolish as to allow his
prey to claw him.
I know, but sometimes it can’t be helped. … He had best be careful, that’s all. I don’t want
him to come back a cripple or, worse, wrapped in a shroud.
A grim mood descended upon Eragon, then he shook himself and bounced up and down
on his feet, restless and eager to do something physical before spending the next few hours
sitting on Saphira. He welcomed the opportunity to fly with her, but he disliked the prospect of
being tethered to the same twelve or so miles for the whole day, circling vulture-like over the
slow-moving troops. On their own, he and Saphira could have reached Dras-Leona by late
that very afternoon.
He trotted away from the road to a relatively flat stretch of grass. There, ignoring the looks
from Arya and the rest of the elves, he drew Brisingr and assumed the on-guard position
Brom had first taught him so long ago. He inhaled slowly and settled into a low stance, feeling
the texture of the ground through the soles of his boots.
With a short, hard exclamation, he swept the sword up around his head and brought it
down in a slanting blow that would have halved any man, elf, or Urgal, regardless of their armor.
He stopped the sword less than an inch above the ground and held it there, the blade
trembling ever so slightly in his grip. Against the backdrop of the grass, the blue of the metal
appeared vivid, almost unreal.
Eragon inhaled again and lunged forward, stabbing the air as if it were a deadly enemy.
One by one, he practiced the basic moves of sword fighting, focusing not so much on speed
or strength but on precision.
When he was pleasantly warm from his skill work, he glanced round at his guards, who
stood in a semicircle some distance away. “Will one of you cross swords with me for a few
minutes?†he asked, raising his voice.
The elves looked at one another, their expressions unreadable; then the elf Wyrden
stepped forward. “I will, Shadeslayer, if it pleases you. However, I would ask that you wear
your helm while we spar.â€
“Agreed.â€
Eragon returned Brisingr to its sheath, then ran to Saphira and clambered up her side, cutting
the pad of his left thumb on one of her scales as he did so. He was wearing his mail tunic,
and his greaves and bracers too, but he had stowed his helm in one of the saddlebags, so
that it would not roll off Saphira and become lost in the grass.
As he retrieved the helm, he saw the casket that contained Glaedr’s heart of hearts
wrapped in a blanket and nestled at the bottom of the saddlebag. He reached down and
touched the knotted bundle, silently paying tribute to what remained of the majestic golden
dragon, then closed the saddlebag and swung down from Saphira’s back.
Eragon donned his arming cap and helm as he strode back to the greensward. He licked
the blood off his thumb, then pulled on his gauntlets, hoping that the cut would not bleed too
much into the glove. Using slight variations of the same spell, he and Wyrden placed thin barriers—
invisible, save for the faint, rippling distortion they caused in the air—over the edges of
their swords, so they could not cut anything. They also lowered the wards that protected them
from physical danger.
Then he and Wyrden took up positions opposite each other, bowed, and raised their
blades. Eragon stared into the elf’s black, unblinking eyes, even as Wyrden stared at him.
Keeping his gaze fixed on his opponent, Eragon felt his way forward and tried to inch around
Wyrden’s right side, where the right-handed elf would have more difficulty defending himself.
The elf slowly turned, crushing the grass beneath his heels as he kept his front oriented
toward Eragon. After a few more steps, Eragon stopped. Wyrden was too alert and too experienced
for Eragon to flank him; he would never catch the elf off balance. Unless, of course, I
can distract him.
But before he could decide how to proceed, Wyrden feinted toward Eragon’s right leg, as
if to skewer him in the knee, then in midstroke, changed directions, twisting his wrist and arm
to slash Eragon across his chest and neck.
Fast as the elf was, Eragon was faster still. As he spotted the shift in Wyrden’s posture
that betrayed his intentions, Eragon retreated a half step while bending his elbow and whipping
his sword up past his face.
“Ha!†shouted Eragon as he caught Wyrden’s sword on Brisingr. The blades produced a
piercing clang as they collided.
With an effort, Eragon shoved Wyrden back, then leaped after him, battering him with a
series of furious blows.
For several minutes, they fought upon the sward. Eragon landed the first touch—a light
rap on Wyrden’s hip—and the second as well, but thereafter, their duel was more equally
matched, as the elf got the measure of him and began to anticipate his patterns of attack and
defense. Eragon rarely had the opportunity to test himself against anyone as fast or strong as
Wyrden, so he enjoyed the contest with the elf.
His pleasure, however, vanished when Wyrden landed four touches in quick succession:
one on Eragon’s right shoulder, two on his ribs, and a wicked draw cut across his abdomen.
The blows smarted, but Eragon’s pride smarted even more. It worried him that the elf had
been able to slip past his guard so easily. If they had been fighting in earnest, Eragon knew
that he would have been able to defeat Wyrden in their first few exchanges, but that thought
was of little comfort.
You shouldn’t let him hit you so much, observed Saphira.
Yes, I realize that, he growled.
Do you want me to knock him over for you?
No … not today.
His mood soured, Eragon lowered his blade and thanked Wyrden for sparring. The elf
bowed and said, “You’re welcome, Shadeslayer,†then returned to his place among his comrades.
Eragon planted Brisingr in the ground between his boots—something he never would
have done with a sword made of ordinary steel—and rested his hands on the pommel while
he watched the men and animals jostling within the confines of the road that led from the vast
stone city. The turbulence within the ranks had diminished substantially, and he guessed that
it would not be long before the horns signaled the Varden to advance.
In the meantime, he was still restless.
He looked over at Arya, where she stood next to Saphira, and a smile gradually spread
across his face. Resting Brisingr on his shoulder, he sauntered over and motioned toward her
sword. “Arya, what about you? We’ve only sparred together that one time in Farthen Dûr.†His
grin widened, and he flourished Brisingr. “I’ve gotten a bit better since then.â€
“So you have.â€
“What say you, then?â€
She cast a critical glance toward the Varden, then shrugged. “Why not?â€
As they walked to the level patch of grass, he said, “You won’t be able to best me quite so
easily as before.â€
“I am sure you are right.â€
Arya prepared her sword, then they faced each other, some thirty feet apart. Feeling confident,
Eragon advanced swiftly, already knowing where he was going to strike: at her left
shoulder.
Arya held her ground and made no attempt to evade him. When he was less than four
yards away, she smiled at him, a warm, brilliant smile that so enhanced her beauty, Eragon
faltered, his thoughts dissolving into a muddle.
A line of steel flashed toward him.
He belatedly lifted Brisingr to deflect the blow. A jolt ran up his arm as the tip of the sword
glanced off something solid—hilt, blade, or flesh he was not sure, but whatever it was, he
knew that he had misjudged the distance and that his response had left him open to attack.
Before he could do much more than slow his forward momentum, another impact dashed
his sword arm to the side; then a knot of pain formed in his midsection as Arya stabbed him,
knocking him to the ground.
Eragon grunted as he landed on his back and the air rushed out of him. He gaped at the
sky and tried to inhale, but his abdomen was cramped as hard as a stone, and he could not
draw air into his lungs. A constellation of crimson spots appeared before his eyes, and for a
few uncomfortable seconds, he feared he would lose consciousness. Then his muscles released,
and with a loud gasp, he resumed breathing.
Once his head cleared, he slowly got back to his feet, using Brisingr for support. He
leaned on the sword, standing hunched like an old man while he waited for the ache in his
stomach to subside.
“You cheated,†he said between gritted teeth.
“No, I exploited a weakness in my opponent. There is a difference.â€
“You think … that is a weakness?â€
“When we fight, yes. Do you wish to continue?â€
He answered by yanking Brisingr out of the sod, marching back to where he had started,
and raising his sword.
“Good,†said Arya. She mirrored his pose.
This time Eragon was much more wary as he closed with her, and Arya did not stay in the
same place. With careful steps, she advanced, her clear green eyes never leaving him.
She twitched, and Eragon flinched.
He realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to relax.
Another step forward, then he swung with all his speed and might.
She blocked his cut to her ribs and replied with a jab toward his exposed armpit. The blunted
edge of her sword slid across the back of his free hand, scraping against the mail sewn
onto his gauntlet as he slapped the blade away. At that moment, Arya’s torso was exposed,
but they were too close for Eragon to effectively slash or stab.
Instead, he lunged forward and struck at her breastbone with the pommel of his sword,
thinking to knock her to the ground, as she had done to him.
She twisted out of the way, and the pommel went through the space where she had been
as Eragon stumbled forward.
Without knowing quite how it had happened, he found himself standing motionless with
one of Arya’s arms wrapped around his neck and the cool, slippery surface of her spell-bound
blade pressed against the side of his jaw.
From behind him, Arya whispered into his right ear, “I could have removed your head as
easily as plucking an apple from a tree.â€
Then she released her hold and shoved him away. Angry, he whirled around and saw that
she was already waiting for him, her sword at the ready and her expression determined.
Giving in to his anger, Eragon sprang after her.
Four blows they exchanged, each more terrible than the last. Arya struck first, chopping at
his legs. He parried and slashed crosswise at her waist, but she skipped out of reach of
Brisingr’s glittering, sunlit edge. Without giving her an opportunity to retaliate, he followed up
with a looping underhand cut, which she blocked with deceptive ease. Then she stepped forward
and, with a touch as light as a hummingbird’s wing, drew her sword across his belly.
Arya held her position at the conclusion of the stroke, her face mere inches from his. Her
forehead glistened and her cheeks were flushed.
With exaggerated care, they disengaged.
Eragon straightened his tunic, then squatted next to Arya. His battle rage had burned itself
out and left him focused, if not entirely at ease.
“I don’t understand,†he said quietly.
“You have become too accustomed to fighting Galbatorix’s soldiers. They cannot hope to
match you, so you take chances that would otherwise prove your undoing. Your attacks are
too obvious—you should not rely on brute strength—and you have grown lax in your defense.â€
“Will you help me?†he asked. “Will you spar with me when you can?â€
She nodded. “Of course. But if I cannot, then go to Blödhgarm for instruction; he is as
skilled with a blade as I am. Practice is the only remedy you need, practice with the proper
partners.â€
Eragon had just opened his mouth to thank her when he felt the presence of a consciousness
other than Saphira’s pressing against his mind, vast and frightening and filled with the
most profound melancholy: a sadness so great, Eragon’s throat tightened and the colors of
the world seemed to lose their luster. And, in a slow, deep voice, as if speaking was a
struggle of almost unbearable proportions, the golden dragon Glaedr said:
You must learn … to see what you are looking at.
Then the presence vanished, leaving behind a black void.
Eragon looked at Arya. She appeared as stricken as he was; she had heard Glaedr’s
words as well. Beyond her, Blödhgarm and the other elves stirred and murmured, while by the
edge of the road, Saphira craned her neck as she tried to look at the saddlebags tied to her
back.
They had all heard, Eragon realized.
Together he and Arya rose from the ground and sprinted over to Saphira, who said, He
will not answer me; wherever he was, he has returned, and he will not listen to anything but
his sorrow. Here, see. …
Eragon joined his mind with hers, and with Arya’s, and the three of them reached out with
their thoughts toward Glaedr’s heart of hearts, where it lay hidden within the saddlebags.
What remained of the dragon felt more robust than before, but his mind was still closed to outside
communication, his consciousness listless and indifferent, as it had been ever since Galbatorix
slew his Rider, Oromis.
Eragon, Saphira, and Arya tried to rouse the dragon from his stupor. However, Glaedr
steadfastly ignored them, taking no more notice of them than a sleeping cave bear might of a
few flies buzzing around his head.
And yet Eragon could not help but think that Glaedr’s indifference was not as complete as
it seemed, given his comment.
At last the three of them admitted defeat and withdrew to their respective bodies. As
Eragon returned to himself, Arya said, “Perhaps if we could touch his Eldunarà …?â€
Eragon sheathed Brisingr, then hopped onto Saphira’s right foreleg and pulled himself into
the saddle perched on the crest of her shoulders. He twisted round in his seat and began to
work on the buckles of the saddlebags.
He had unfastened one of the buckles and was picking at the other when the brazen call
of a horn rang forth from the head of the Varden, sounding the advance. At the signal, the
vast train of men and animals lurched forward, their movements hesitant at first, but becoming
smoother and more confident with every step.
Eragon glanced down at Arya, torn. She solved his dilemma by waving and saying,
“Tonight, we will speak tonight. Go! Fly with the wind!â€
He quickly rebuckled the saddlebag, then slid his legs through the rows of straps on either
side of the saddle and pulled them tight, so he would not fall off Saphira in midair.
Then Saphira crouched and, with a roar of joy, leaped out over the road. The men below
her ducked and cringed, and horses bolted as she unfurled her huge wings and flapped, driving
herself away from the hard, unfriendly ground, up into the smooth expanse of the sky.
Eragon closed his eyes and tilted his face up, glad to finally be leaving Belatona. After
spending a week in the city with nothing to do but eat and rest—for so Nasuada had insisted—
he was eager to resume their journey toward Urû’baen.
When Saphira leveled off, hundreds of feet above the peaks and towers of the city, he
said, Will Glaedr recover, do you think?
He will never be as he was.
No, but I hope that he will find a way to overcome his grief. I need his help, Saphira. There
are so many things I still don’t know. Without him, I have no one else to ask.
She was silent for a while, the only sound that of her wings. We cannot hurry him, she
said. He has been hurt in the worst way a dragon or Rider can be. Before he can help you,
me, or anyone else, he must decide that he wants to continue living. Until he does, our words
cannot reach him.
Inheritance
NO HONOR, NO GLORY, ONLY BLISTERS IN UNFORTUNATE PLACES
THE BELLING OF the hounds grew louder behind them, the pack of dogs howling for
blood.
Roran tightened his grip on the reins and bent lower over the neck of his galloping charger.
The pounding of the horse’s hooves rolled through him like thunder.
He and his five men—Carn, Mandel, Baldor, Delwin, and Hamund—had stolen fresh
horses from the stable of a manor house less than a half mile away. The grooms had not
taken kindly to the theft. A show of swords had been sufficient to overcome their objections,
but the grooms must have alerted the manor guards as soon as Roran and his companions
had departed, for ten of the guards had set out after them, led by a pack of hunting dogs.
“There!†he shouted, and pointed toward a narrow strip of birch trees that extended from
between two nearby hills, no doubt following the path of a stream.
At his word, the men pulled their horses off the well-traveled road and headed in the direction
of the trees. The rough ground forced them to slow their headlong pace, but only slightly,
despite the risk that the horses would step in a hole and break a leg or throw a rider. Dangerous
as it was, allowing the hounds to catch them would be more dangerous still.
Roran dug his spurs into the sides of the horse and shouted “Yah!†as loudly as he could
through his dust-clogged throat. The gelding leaped forward and, stride by stride, began to
gain on Carn.
Roran knew that his horse would soon reach a point where it could no longer produce
such bursts of speed, no matter how hard he jabbed it with his spurs or whipped it with the
ends of his reins. He hated to be cruel, and he had no desire to ride the animal to death, but
he would not spare the horse if it meant the failure of their mission.
As he drew level with Carn, Roran shouted, “Can’t you hide our trail with a spell?â€
“Don’t know how!†Carn replied, barely audible over the rush of wind and the sound of the
galloping horses. “It’s too complicated!â€
Roran swore and glanced over his shoulder. The hounds were rounding the last bend in
the road. They seemed to fly over the ground, their long, lean bodies lengthening and contracting
at a violent rate. Even at that distance, Roran could make out the red of their tongues,
and he fancied he saw a gleam of white fangs.
When they reached the trees, Roran turned and began to ride back into the hills, staying
as close as he could to the line of birches without hitting low-hanging branches or fallen logs.
The others did likewise, shouting at their horses to keep them from slowing as they raced up
the incline.
To his right, Roran glimpsed Mandel hunched over his speckled mare, a feral snarl on his
face. The younger man had impressed Roran with his stamina and fortitude over the past
three days. Ever since Katrina’s father, Sloan, had betrayed the villagers of Carvahall and
killed Mandel’s father, Byrd, Mandel had seemed desperate to prove himself the equal of any
man in the village; he had acquitted himself with honor in the last two battles between the
Varden and the Empire.
A thick branch hurtled toward Roran’s head. He ducked, hearing and feeling the tips of dry
twigs snapping against the top of his helm. A torn leaf tumbled down his face and covered his
right eye for a moment; then the wind snatched it away.
The gelding’s breathing became increasingly labored as they followed the rift deeper into
the hills. Roran peeked under his arm and saw that the pack of hounds was less than a
quarter mile away. Another few minutes, and they would surely overtake the horses.
Blast it, he thought. He raked his gaze back and forth across the densely packed trees to
his left and the grassy hill to his right, searching for something—anything—that could help
them lose their pursuers.
He was so fuzzy-headed from exhaustion, he almost missed it.
Twenty yards ahead of him, a crooked deer trail ran down the side of the hill, crossed his
path, then disappeared into the trees.
“Whoa! … Whoa!†Roran shouted, leaning back in his stirrups and hauling on the reins.
The gelding slowed to a trot, though it snorted with protest and tossed its head, trying to get
the bit between its teeth. “Oh no you don’t,†Roran growled, and tugged on the reins even
harder.
“Hurry!†he called to the rest of the group as he turned his horse and entered the thicket.
The air was cool under the trees, almost chilly, which was a welcome relief, hot as he was
from his exertion. He only had a moment to savor the sensation before the gelding pitched
forward and began to stumble down the side of the bank toward the stream below. Dead
leaves crackled under its iron-shod hooves. In order not to fall over the horse’s neck and
head, Roran had to lie almost flat against its back, his legs stuck out straight in front of him,
knees locked.
When they reached the bottom of the gorge, the gelding clattered across the stony creek,
splashing wings of water as high as Roran’s knees. Roran paused at the far side to see
whether the others were still with him. They were, riding nose to tail, down through the trees.
Above them, where they had entered the thicket, he could hear the yapping of the dogs.
We’re going to have to turn and fight, he realized.
He swore again and spurred the gelding away from the stream, climbing the soft, mosscovered
bank as he continued along the faintly marked trail.
Not far from the stream was a wall of ferns, and beyond that, a hollow. Roran spotted a
fallen tree that he thought might serve as a makeshift barrier if it could be dragged into place.
I just hope they don’t have bows, he thought.
He waved at his men. “Here!â€
With a slap of the reins, he drove the gelding through the bracken and into the hollow,
then slid out of the saddle, though he kept a tight hold on it. As his feet struck the ground, his
legs gave out beneath him, and he would have fallen if not for the support. He grimaced and
pressed his forehead against the shoulder of the horse, panting as he waited for the tremors
in his legs to subside.
The rest of the group crowded around him, filling the air with the stink of sweat and the
jingle of harnesses. The horses shuddered, their chests heaving, and yellow foam dripped
from the corners of their mouths.
“Help me,†he said to Baldor, and motioned at the fallen tree. They fit their hands under
the thick end of the log and heaved it off the ground. Roran gritted his teeth as his back and
thighs screamed with pain. Riding at full gallop for three days—combined with less than three
hours of sleep for every twelve spent in the saddle—had left him frighteningly weak.
I might as well be going into battle drunk, sick, and beaten half out of my senses, Roran
realized as he let go of the log and straightened upright. The thought unnerved him.
The six men positioned themselves in front of the horses, facing the trampled wall of ferns,
and drew their weapons. Outside the hollow, the hunting cries of the hounds sounded louder
than ever, their overeager yelps echoing off the trees in a raucous din.
Roran tensed and lifted his hammer higher. Then, interspersed with the barking of the
dogs, he heard the strange, lilting melody of the ancient language emanating from Carn, and
the power contained within the phrases caused the back of Roran’s neck to prickle with alarm.
The spellcaster uttered several lines in a short, breathless manner, speaking so quickly, the
words melded together into an indistinct babble. As soon as he finished, he gestured at Roran
and the others and said in a strained whisper, “Get down!â€
Without question, Roran dropped to his haunches. Not for the first time, he cursed the fact
that he was unable to use magic himself. Of all the skills a warrior could possess, none was
more useful; lacking it left him at the mercy of those who could reshape the world with nothing
more than their will and a word.
The ferns in front of him rustled and shook; then a hound pushed its black-tipped snout
through the foliage and peered at the hollow, nose twitching. Delwin hissed and raised his
sword, as if to behead the dog, but Carn made an urgent noise in his throat and waved at him
until he lowered his blade.
The dog furrowed its brow, appearing puzzled. It scented the air again, then licked its
jowls with its engorged, purplish tongue, and withdrew.
As the fronds sprang back over the dog’s face, Roran slowly released the breath he had
been holding. He looked at Carn and raised an eyebrow, hoping for an explanation, but Carn
just shook his head and placed a finger over his lips.
A few seconds later, two more dogs wiggled their way through the undergrowth to inspect
the hollow; then, like the first one, they backed out after a short while. Soon the pack began to
whine and yip as they cast about among the trees, trying to figure out where their prey had
gone.
As he sat waiting, Roran noticed that his leggings were mottled with several dark blotches
along the inside of his thighs. He touched one of the discolored areas, and his fingers came
away with a film of bloody liquid. Each blotch marked the location of a blister. Nor were they
his only ones; he could feel blisters on his hands—where the reins had chafed the web of skin
between his thumbs and forefingers—and on his heels, and in other, more uncomfortable
places.
With an expression of distaste, he wiped his fingers against the ground. He looked at his
men, at how they crouched and knelt, and he saw the discomfort on their faces whenever
they moved and the slightly twisted grips with which they held their weapons. They were in no
better condition than he was.
Roran decided that when they next stopped to sleep he would have Carn heal their sores.
If the magician seemed too tired, however, Roran would refrain from having his own blisters
healed; he would rather endure the pain than allow Carn to expend all of his strength before
they arrived at Aroughs, for Roran suspected that Carn’s skills might very well prove useful in
capturing the city.
Thinking of Aroughs and of the siege he was somehow supposed to win caused Roran to
press his free hand against his breast to check that the packet containing the orders he could
not read and the commission he doubted he would be able to keep were still safely tucked in
his tunic. They were.
After several long, tense minutes, one of the hounds began to bark excitedly somewhere
in the trees upstream. The other dogs rushed in that direction and resumed the deep-chested
baying that meant they were in close pursuit of their quarry.
When the clamor had receded, Roran slowly rose to his full height and swept his gaze
over the trees and bushes. “All clear,†he said, keeping his voice subdued.
As the others stood, Hamund—who was tall and shaggy-haired and had deep lines next to
his mouth, although he was only a year older than Roran—turned on Carn, scowling, and
said, “Why couldn’t you have done that before, instead of letting us go riding willy-nilly over
the countryside and almost breaking our necks coming down that hill?†He motioned back toward
the stream.
Carn responded with an equally angry tone: “Because I hadn’t thought of it yet, that’s why.
Given that I just saved you the inconvenience of having a host of small holes poked in your
hide, I would think you might show a bit of gratitude.â€
“Is that so? Well, I think that you ought to spend more time working on your spells before
we’re chased halfway to who-knows-where and—â€
Fearing that their argument could turn dangerous, Roran stepped between them.
“Enough,†he said. Then he asked Carn, “Will your spell hide us from the guards?â€
Carn shook his head. “Men are harder to fool than dogs.†He cast a disparaging look at
Hamund. “Most of them, at least. I can hide us, but I can’t hide our trail.†And he indicated the
crushed and broken ferns, as well as the hoofprints gouged into the damp soil. “They’ll know
we’re here. If we leave before they catch sight of us, the dogs will draw them off and we’ll—â€
“Mount up!†Roran ordered.
With an assortment of half-muttered curses and poorly concealed groans, the men
climbed back onto their steeds. Roran glanced over the hollow one last time to make sure that
they had not forgotten anything, then guided his charger to the head of the group and tapped
the horse with his spurs.
And together they galloped out from under the shadow of the trees and away from the ravine
as they resumed their seemingly never-ending journey to Aroughs. What he would do
once they reached the city, though, Roran had not the slightest idea.
Inheritance
MOONEATER
ERAGON ROLLED HIS shoulders as he walked through the Varden’s camp, trying to
work out the kink in his neck that he had acquired while sparring with Arya and Blödhgarm
earlier that afternoon.
As he topped a small hill, which stood like a lone island amid the sea of tents, he rested
his hands on his hips and paused to take in the view. Before him lay the dark spread of Leona
Lake, gleaming in the twilight as the crests of the shallow waves reflected the orange torchlight
from the camp. The road the Varden had been following lay between the tents and the
shore: a broad strip of paving stones set with mortar that had been constructed, or so Jeod
had informed him, long before Galbatorix had overthrown the Riders. A quarter mile to the
north, a small, squat fishing village sat close against the water; Eragon knew its inhabitants
were far from happy that an army was camped on their doorstep.
You must learn … to see what you are looking at.
Since leaving Belatona, Eragon had spent hours pondering Glaedr’s advice. He was not
certain exactly what the dragon had meant by it, as Glaedr had refused to say anything more
after delivering his enigmatic statement, so Eragon had chosen to interpret his instruction literally.
He had striven to truly see everything before him, no matter how small or apparently insignificant,
and to understand the meaning of that which he beheld.
Try though he might, he felt as if he failed miserably. Wherever he looked, he saw an
overwhelming amount of detail, but he was convinced there was even more that he was not
perceptive enough to notice. Worse, he was rarely able to make sense of what he was
aware of, like why there was no smoke rising from three of the chimneys in the fishing village.
Despite his sense of futility, the effort had proved helpful in at least one regard: Arya no
longer defeated him every time they crossed blades. He had watched her with redoubled attention—
studying her as closely as a deer he was stalking—and as a result, he had won a
few of their matches. However, he still was not her equal, much less her better. And he did
not know what he needed to learn—nor who could teach him—in order to become as skilled
with a blade as she was.
Perhaps Arya is right, and experience is the only mentor that can help me now, Eragon
thought. Experience requires time, though, and time is what I have the least of. We’ll be at
Dras-Leona soon, and then Urû’baen. A few months, at the most, and we’ll have to face Galbatorix
and Shruikan.
He sighed and rubbed his face, trying to turn his mind in other, less troubling directions.
Always he returned to the same set of doubts, worrying at them like a dog with a marrow
bone, only with nothing to show for it other than a constant and increasing sense of anxiety.
Lost in rumination, he continued down the hill. He wandered among the shadowy tents,
heading generally toward his own, but paying little attention to his exact path. As it invariably
did, walking helped calm him. The men who were still about moved aside for him when they
met and clapped a fist against their chests, usually accompanied by a soft greeting of
“Shadeslayer,†to which Eragon responded with a polite nod.
He had been walking for a quarter hour, stopping and starting in counterpoint to his
thoughts, when the high-pitched tone of a woman describing something with great enthusiasm
interrupted his reverie. Curious, he followed the sound until he arrived at a tent set apart
from the rest, near the base of a gnarled willow tree, the only tree near the lake that the army
had not chopped down for firewood.
There, under the ceiling of branches, was the strangest sight he had ever seen.
Twelve Urgals, including their war chief, Nar Garzhvog, sat in a semicircle around a low,
flickering campfire. Fearsome shadows danced on their faces, emphasizing their heavy
brows, broad cheekbones, and massive jaws, as well as the ridges on their horns, which
sprouted from their foreheads and curved back and around the sides of their heads. The Urgals
were bare-armed and bare-chested, except for the leather cuffs on their wrists and the
woven straps they wore slung from shoulder to waist. In addition to Garzhvog, three other Kull
were present. Their hulking size made the rest of the Urgals—not one of whom was under six
feet tall—appear childishly small.
Scattered among the Urgals—among and on them—were several dozen werecats in their
animal forms. Many of the cats sat upright before the fire, utterly still, not even moving their
tails, their tufted ears pricked forward attentively. Others lay sprawled on the ground, or on the
Urgals’ laps, or in their arms. To Eragon’s astonishment, he even spotted one werecat—a
slim white female—resting curled atop the broad head of a Kull, her right foreleg draped over
the edge of his skull and her paw pressed possessively against the middle of his brow. Tiny
though the werecats were compared to the Urgals, they looked equally savage, and Eragon
had no doubt whom he would rather face in battle; Urgals he understood, whereas werecats
were … unpredictable.
On the other side of the fire, in front of the tent, was the herbalist Angela. She was sitting
cross-legged on a folded blanket, spinning a pile of carded wool into fine thread using a drop
spindle, which she held out before her as if to entrance those who were watching. Both
werecats and Urgals stared at her intently, their eyes never leaving her as she said:
“—but he was too slow, and the raging, red-eyed rabbit ripped out Hord’s throat, killing
him instantly. Then the hare fled into the forest, and out of recorded history. Howeverâ€â€”and
here Angela leaned forward and lowered her voice—“if you travel through those parts, as I
have … sometimes, even to this day, you will come across a freshly killed deer or Feldûnost
that looks as if it has been nibbled at, like a turnip. And all around it, you’ll see the prints of an
unusually large rabbit. Every now and then, a warrior from Kvôth will go missing, only to be
found lying dead with his throat torn out … always with his throat torn out.â€
She resumed her former position. “Terrin was horribly upset by the loss of his friend, of
course, and he wanted to chase after the hare, but the dwarves still needed his help. So he
returned to the stronghold, and for three more days and three more nights the defenders held
the walls, until their supplies were low and every warrior was covered in wounds.
“At last, on the morning of the fourth day, when all seemed hopeless, the clouds parted,
and far in the distance, Terrin was amazed to see Mimring flying toward the stronghold at the
head of a huge thunder of dragons. The sight of the dragons frightened the attackers so
much, they threw down their weapons and fled into the wilderness.†Angela’s mouth quirked.
“This, as you can imagine, made the dwarves of Kvôth rather happy, and there was much rejoicing.
“And when Mimring landed, Terrin saw, much to his surprise, that his scales had become
as clear as diamonds, which, it is said, happened because Mimring flew so close to the
sun—for in order to fetch the other dragons in time, he had had to fly over the peaks of the
Beor Mountains, higher than any dragon has ever flown before or since. From then on, Terrin
was known as the hero of the Siege of Kvôth, and his dragon was known as Mimring the Brilliant,
on account of his scales, and they lived happily ever after. Although, if truth be told, Terrin
always remained rather afraid of rabbits, even into his old age. And that is what really
happened at Kvôth.â€
As she fell silent, the werecats began to purr, and the Urgals uttered several low grunts of
approval.
“You tell a good story, Uluthrek,†Garzhvog said, his voice sounding like the rumble of falling
rock.
“Thank you.â€
“But not as I have heard it told,†Eragon commented as he stepped into the light.
Angela’s expression brightened. “Well, you can hardly expect the dwarves to admit they
were at the mercy of a rabbit. Have you been lurking in the shadows this whole time?â€
“Only for a minute,†he confessed.
“Then you missed the best part of the story, and I’m not about to repeat myself tonight. My
throat is too dry now for talking at length.â€
Eragon felt the vibration through the soles of his boots as the Kull and the other Urgals got
to their feet, much to the displeasure of the werecats resting on them, several of whom
uttered yowls of protest as they dropped to the ground.
As he gazed at the collection of grotesque horned faces gathered around the fire, Eragon
had to suppress the urge to grasp the hilt of his sword. Even after having fought, traveled, and
hunted alongside the Urgals, and even after having sifted through the thoughts of several of
them, being in their presence still gave him pause. He knew in his mind that they were allies,
but his bones and his muscles could not forget the visceral terror that had gripped him during
the numerous occasions when he had confronted their kind in battle.
Garzhvog removed something from the leather pouch he wore on his belt. Extending his
thick arm over the fire, he handed it to Angela, who set down her spinning to accept the object
with cupped hands. It was a rough orb of sea-green crystal, which twinkled like crusted snow.
She slipped it inside the sleeve of her garment, then picked up her drop spindle.
Garzhvog said, “You must come to our camp sometime, Uluthrek, and we will tell you
many stories of our own. We have a chanter with us. He is good; when you listen to him recite
the tale of Nar Tulkhqa’s victory at Stavarosk, your blood grows hot and you feel like bellowing
at the moon and locking horns with even the strongest of your foes.â€
“That would depend on whether you have horns to lock,†said Angela. “I would be honored
to sit story with you. Perhaps tomorrow evening?â€
The giant Kull agreed; then Eragon asked, “Where is Stavarosk? I’ve not heard of it before.â€
The Urgals shifted uneasily, and Garzhvog lowered his head and snorted like a bull. “What
trickery is this, Firesword?†he demanded. “Do you seek to challenge me by insulting us so?â€
He opened and closed his hands with unmistakable menace.
Wary, Eragon said, “I meant no harm, Nar Garzhvog. It was an honest question; I’ve never
heard the name of Stavarosk before.â€
A murmur of surprise spread among the Urgals. “How can this be?†said Garzhvog. “Do
not all humans know of Stavarosk? Is it not sung of in every hall from the northern wastes to
the Beor Mountains as our greatest triumph? Surely, if nowhere else, the Varden must speak
of it.â€
Angela sighed and, without looking up from her spinning, said, “You’d best tell them.â€
In the back of his mind, Eragon felt Saphira watching their exchange, and he knew that
she was readying herself to fly from their tent to his side if a fight became unavoidable.
Choosing his words with care, he said: “No one has mentioned it to me, but then I have
not been with the Varden for very long, and—â€
“Drajl!†swore Garzhvog. “The lack-horned betrayer does not even have the courage to
admit his own defeat. He is a coward and liar!â€
“Who? Galbatorix?†Eragon asked cautiously.
A number of the werecats hissed at the mention of the king.
Garzhvog nodded. “Aye. When he came to power, he sought to destroy our race forever.
He sent a vast army into the Spine. His soldiers crushed our villages, burned our bones, and
left the earth black and bitter behind them. We fought—at first with joy, then with despair, but
still we fought. It was the only thing we could do. There was nowhere for us to run, nowhere to
hide. Who would protect the Urgralgra when even the Riders had been brought to their
knees?
“We were lucky, though. We had a great war chief to lead us, Nar Tulkhqa. He had once
been captured by humans, and he had spent many years fighting them, so he knew how you
think. Because of that, he was able to rally many of our tribes under his banner. Then he lured
Galbatorix’s army into a narrow passage deep within the mountains, and our rams fell upon
them from either side. It was a slaughter, Firesword. The ground was wet with blood, and the
piles of bodies stood higher than my head. Even to this day, if you go to Stavarosk, you will
feel the bones cracking under your feet, and you will find coins and swords and pieces of armor
under every patch of moss.â€
“So it was you!†Eragon exclaimed. “All my life I’ve heard it said that Galbatorix once lost
half his men in the Spine, but no one could tell me how or why.â€
“More than half his men, Firesword.†Garzhvog rolled his shoulders and made a guttural
noise in the back of his throat. “And now I see we must work to spread word of it if any are to
know of our victory. We will track down your chanters, your bards, and we will teach them the
songs concerning Nar Tulkhqa, and we will make sure that they remember to recite them often
and loudly.†He nodded once, as if his mind was made up—an impressive gesture considering
the ponderous size of his head—then said, “Farewell, Firesword. Farewell, Uluthrek.â€
Then he and his warriors lumbered off into the darkness.
Angela chuckled, startling Eragon.
“What?†he asked, turning to her.
She smiled. “I’m imagining the expression some poor lute player is going to have in a few
minutes when he looks out his tent and sees twelve Urgals, four of them Kull, standing outside,
eager to give him an education in Urgal culture. I’ll be impressed if we don’t hear him
scream.†She chuckled again.
Similarly amused, Eragon lowered himself to the ground and stirred the coals with the end
of a branch. A warm, heavy weight settled in his lap, and he looked down to see the white
werecat curled up on his legs. He raised a hand to pet her, then thought better of it and asked
the cat, “May I?â€
The werecat flicked her tail but otherwise ignored him.
Hoping that he was not doing the wrong thing, Eragon tentatively began to rub the
creature’s neck. A moment later, a loud, throbbing purr filled the night air.
“She likes you,†Angela observed.
For some reason, Eragon felt inordinately pleased. “Who is she? I mean, that is, who are
you? What is your name?†He cast a quick glance at the werecat, worried that he had offended
her.
Angela laughed quietly. “Her name is Shadowhunter. Or rather, that is what her name
means in the language of the werecats. Properly, she is …†Here the herbalist uttered a
strange coughing, growling sound that made the nape of Eragon’s neck crawl. “Shadowhunter
is mated to Grimrr Halfpaw, so one might say that she is queen of the werecats.â€
The purring increased in volume.
“I see.†Eragon looked around at the other werecats. “Where is Solembum?â€
“Busy chasing a long-whiskered female who is half his age. He’s acting as foolish as a kitten
… but then, everyone’s entitled to a little foolishness once in a while.†Catching the
spindle with her left hand, she stopped its motion and wound the newly formed thread around
the base of the wooden disk. Then she gave the spindle a twist to start it spinning again and
resumed drafting from the batt of wool in her other hand. “You look as if you are full to bursting
with questions, Shadeslayer.â€
“Whenever I meet you, I always end up feeling more confused than before.â€
“Always? That’s rather absolutist of you. Very well, I will attempt to be informative. Ask
away.â€
Skeptical of her apparent openness, Eragon considered what he would like to know. Finally:
“A thunder of dragons? What did you—â€
“That is the proper term for a flock of dragons. If ever you had heard one in full flight, you
would understand. When ten, twelve, or more dragons flew past overhead, the very air would
reverberate around you, as if you were sitting inside a giant drum. Besides, what else could
you call a group of dragons? You have your murder of ravens, your convocation of eagles,
your gaggle of geese, your raft of ducks, your band of jays, your parliament of owls, and so
on, but what about dragons? A hunger of dragons? That doesn’t sound quite right. Nor does
referring to them as a blaze or a terror, although I’m rather fond of terror, all things considered:
a terror of dragons. … But no, a flock of dragons is called a thunder. Which you
would know if your education had consisted of more than just learning how to swing a sword
and conjugate a few verbs in the ancient language.â€
“I’m sure you’re right,†he said, humoring her. Through his ever-present link with Saphira,
he sensed her approval of the phrase “a thunder of dragons,†an opinion he shared; it was a
fitting description.
He thought for a moment longer, then asked, “And why did Garzhvog call you Uluthrek?â€
“It is the title the Urgals gave me long, long ago, when I traveled among them.â€
“What does it mean?â€
“Mooneater.â€
“Mooneater? What a strange name. How did you come by it?â€
“I ate the moon, of course. How else?â€
Eragon frowned and concentrated on petting the werecat for a minute. Then: “Why did
Garzhvog give you that stone?â€
“Because I told him a story. I thought that was obvious.â€
“But what is it?â€
“A piece of rock. Didn’t you notice?†She clucked with disapproval. “Really, you ought to
pay better attention to what’s going on around you. Otherwise, someone’s liable to stick a
knife in you when you’re not looking. And then whom would I exchange cryptic remarks with?â€
She tossed her hair. “Go on, ask me another question. I’m rather enjoying this game.â€
He cocked an eyebrow at her and, although he was certain it was pointless, he said,
“Cheep cheep?â€
The herbalist brayed with laughter, and some of the werecats opened their mouths in what
appeared to be toothy smiles. However, Shadowhunter seemed displeased, for she dug her
claws into Eragon’s legs, making him wince.
“Well,†said Angela, still laughing, “if you must have answers, that’s as good a story as
any. Let’s see. … Several years ago, when I was traveling along the edge of Du Weldenvarden,
way out to the west, miles and miles from any city, town, or village, I happened upon
Grimrr. At the time, he was only the leader of a small tribe of werecats, and he still had full
use of both his paws. Anyway, I found him toying with a fledgling robin that had fallen out of
its nest in a nearby tree. I wouldn’t have minded if he had just killed the bird and eaten
it—that’s what cats are supposed to do, after all—but he was torturing the poor thing: pulling
on its wings; nibbling its tail; letting it hop away, then knocking it over.†Angela wrinkled her
nose with distaste. “I told him that he ought to stop, but he only growled and ignored me.†She
fixed Eragon with a stern gaze. “I don’t like it when people ignore me. So, I took the bird away
from him, and I wiggled my fingers and cast a spell, and for the next week, whenever he
opened his mouth, he chirped like a songbird.â€
“He chirped?â€
Angela nodded, beaming with suppressed mirth. “I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.
None of the other werecats would go anywhere near him for the whole week.â€
“No wonder he hates you.â€
“What of it? If you don’t make a few enemies every now and then, you’re a coward—or
worse. Besides, it was worth it to see his reaction. Oh, he was angry!â€
Shadowhunter uttered a soft warning growl and tightened her claws again.
Grimacing, Eragon said, “Maybe it would be best to change the subject?â€
“Mmm.â€
Before he could suggest a new topic, a loud scream rang out from somewhere in the
middle of the camp. The cry echoed three times over the rows of tents before fading into silence.
Eragon looked at Angela, and she at him, and then they both began to laugh.
Inheritance
RUMORS AND WRITING
IT’S LATE, SAID Saphira as Eragon sauntered toward his tent, beside which she lay
coiled, sparkling like a mound of azure coals in the dim light of the torches. She regarded him
with a single, heavy-lidded eye.
He crouched by her head and pressed his brow against hers for several moments, hugging
her spiky jaw. So it is, he said at last. And you need your rest after flying into the wind all
day. Sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.
She blinked once in acknowledgment.
Inside his tent, Eragon lit a single candle for comfort. Then he pulled off his boots and sat
on his cot with his legs folded under him. He slowed his breathing and allowed his mind to
open and expand outward to touch all of the living things around him, from the worms and the
insects in the ground to Saphira and the warriors of the Varden, and even the few remaining
plants nearby, the energy from which was pale and hard to see compared with the burning
brilliance of even the smallest animal.
For a long while, he sat there, empty of thoughts, aware of a thousand sensations, the
sharp and the subtle, concentrating on nothing but the steady inflow and outflow of air in his
lungs.
Off in the distance, he heard men talking as they stood around a watchfire. The night air
carried their voices farther than they intended, far enough that his keen ears were able to
make out their words. He could sense their minds as well, and he could have read their
thoughts had he wanted, but instead he chose to respect their innermost privacy and merely
listen.
A deep-voiced fellow was saying, “—and the way they stare down their noses at you, as if
you’re the lowest of the low. Half the time they won’t even talk to you when you ask them a
friendly question. They just turn their shoulder and walk away.â€
“Aye,†said another man. “And their women—as beautiful as statues and about half as inviting.â€
“That’s because you’re a right ugly bastard, Svern, that’s why.â€
“It’s not my fault my father had a habit of seducing milkmaids wherever he went. Besides,
you’re hardly one to point fingers; you could give children nightmares with that face of yours.â€
The deep-voiced warrior grunted; then someone coughed and spat, and Eragon heard the
sizzle of moisture evaporating as it struck a piece of burning wood.
A third speaker entered the conversation: “I don’t like the elves any more than you do, but
we need them to win this war.â€
“What if they turn on us afterward, though?†asked the deep-voiced man.
“Hear, hear,†added Svern. “Look what happened at Ceunon and Gil’ead. All his men, all
his power, and Galbatorix still couldn’t stop them from swarming over the walls.â€
“Maybe he wasn’t trying,†suggested the third speaker.
A long pause followed.
Then the deep-voiced man said, “Now, there’s a singularly unpleasant thought. … Still,
whether he was or wasn’t, I don’t see how we could hold off the elves if they decided to reclaim
their old territories. They’re faster and stronger than we are, and unlike us, there’s not
one of them who can’t use magic.â€
“Ah, but we have Eragon,†Svern countered. “He could drive them back to their forest all
by himself, if he wanted to.â€
“Him? Bah! He looks more like an elf than he does his own flesh and blood. I wouldn’t
count on his loyalty any more than the Urgals’.â€
The third man spoke up again: “Have you noticed, he’s always freshly shaven, no matter
how early in the morning we break camp?â€
“He must use magic for a razor.â€
“Goes against the natural order of things, it does. That and all the other spells being
tossed around nowadays. Makes you want to hide in a cave somewhere and let the magicians
kill each other off without any interference from us.â€
“I don’t seem to recall you complaining when the healers used a spell instead of a pair of
tongs to remove that arrow from your shoulder.â€
“Maybe, but the arrow never would have ended up in my shoulder if it weren’t for Galbatorix.
And it’s him and his magic that’s caused this whole mess.â€
Someone snorted. “True enough, but I’d bet every last copper I have that, Galbatorix or
no, you still would’ve ended up with an arrow sticking out of you. You’re too mean to do anything
other than fight.â€
“Eragon saved my life in Feinster, you know,†said Svern.
“Aye, and if you bore us with the story one more time, I’ll have you scrubbing pots for a
week.â€
“Well, he did. …â€
There was another silence, which was broken when the deep-voiced warrior sighed. “We
need a way to protect ourselves. That’s the problem. We’re at the mercy of the elves, the magicians—
ours and theirs—and every other strange creature that roams the land. It’s all well
and fine for the likes of Eragon, but we’re not so fortunate. What we need is—â€
“What we need,†said Svern, “are the Riders. They’d put the world in order.â€
“Pfft. With what dragons? You can’t have Riders without dragons. Besides, we still
wouldn’t be able to defend ourselves, and that’s what bothers me. I’m not a child to go hiding
behind my mother’s skirts, but if a Shade were to appear out of the night, there isn’t a blasted
thing we could do to keep it from tearing our heads off.â€
“That reminds me, did you hear about Lord Barst?†asked the third man.
Svern uttered a sound of agreement. “I heard he ate his heart afterward.â€
“What’s this now?†asked the deep-voiced warrior.
“Barst—â€
“Barst?â€
“You know, the earl with an estate up by Gil’ead—â€
“Isn’t he the one who drove his horses into the Ramr just to spite—â€
“Aye, that’s the one. Anyway, so he goes to this village and orders all the men to join Galbatorix’s
army. Same story as always. Only, the men refuse, and they attack Barst and his
soldiers.â€
“Brave,†said the deep-voiced man. “Stupid, but brave.â€
“Well, Barst was too clever for them; he had archers posted around the village before he
went in. The soldiers kill half the men and thrash the rest within an inch of their lives. No surprise
there. Then Barst takes the leader, the man who started the fight, and he grabs him by
the neck, and with his bare hands, he pulls his head right off!â€
“No.â€
“Like a chicken. And what’s worse, he ordered the man’s family burned alive as well.â€
“Barst must be as strong as an Urgal to tear off a man’s head,†said Svern.
“Maybe there’s a trick to it.â€
“Could it be magic?†asked the deep-voiced man.
“By all accounts, he’s always been strong—strong and smart. When he was just a young
man, he’s said to have killed a wounded ox with a single blow of his fist.â€
“Still sounds like magic to me.â€
“That’s because you see evil magicians lurking in every shadow, you do.â€
The deep-voiced warrior grunted, but did not speak.
After that, the men dispersed to walk their rounds, and Eragon heard nothing more from
them. At any other time, their conversation might have disturbed him, but because of his meditation,
he remained unperturbed throughout, although he made an effort to remember what
they said, so that he could consider it properly later.
Once his thoughts were in order, and he felt calm and relaxed, Eragon closed off his mind,
opened his eyes, and slowly unfolded his legs, working the stiffness out of his muscles.
The motion of the candle flame caught his eye, and he stared at it for a minute, enthralled
by the contortions of the fire.
Then he went over to where he had dropped Saphira’s saddlebags earlier and removed
the quill, the brush, the bottle of ink, and the sheets of parchment that he had begged off Jeod
several days before, as well as the copy of Domia abr Wyrda that the old scholar had given
him.
Returning to the cot, Eragon placed the heavy book well away from him, so as to minimize
the chances of spilling ink on it. He laid his shield across his knees, like a tray, and spread the
sheets of parchment over the curved surface. A sharp, tannic odor filled his nostrils as he unstoppered
the bottle and dipped the quill into the oak-gall ink.
He touched the nib of the feather against the lip of the bottle, to draw off the excess liquid,
then carefully made his first stroke. The quill produced a faint scratching sound as he wrote
out the runes of his native language. When he finished, he compared them to his efforts from
the previous night, to see if his handwriting had improved—only a small amount—as well as
to the runes in Domia abr Wyrda, which he was using as his guide.
He went through the alphabet three more times, paying special attention to the shapes
that he had the most difficulty forming. Then he began to write down his thoughts and observations
concerning the day’s events. The exercise was useful not only because it provided
him with a convenient means of practicing his letters, but also because it helped him better
understand everything he had seen and done over the course of the day.
Laborious as it was, he enjoyed the writing, for he found the challenges it presented stimulating.
Also, it reminded him of Brom, of how the old storyteller had taught him the meaning of
each rune, which gave Eragon a sense of closeness with his father that otherwise eluded him.
After he had said everything he wished to say, he washed the quill clean, then exchanged
it for the brush and selected a sheet of parchment that was already half covered with rows of
glyphs from the ancient language.
The elves’ mode of writing, the Liduen KvaedhÃ, was far harder to reproduce than the
runes of his own race, owing to the glyphs’ intricate, flowing shapes. Nevertheless, he persisted
for two reasons: He needed to maintain his familiarity with the script. And if he was going
to write anything in the ancient language, he thought it wiser to do it in a form that most
people were unable to understand.
Eragon had a good memory, but even so, he had found he was starting to forget many of
the spells Brom and Oromis had taught him. Thus he had decided to compile a dictionary of
every word he knew in the ancient language. Although it was hardly an original idea, he had
not appreciated the value of such a compendium until very recently.
He worked on the dictionary for another few hours, whereupon he returned his writing supplies
to the saddlebags and took out the chest containing Glaedr’s heart of hearts. He tried to
rouse the old dragon from his stupor, as he had so many times before, and as always, he
failed. Eragon refused to give up, however. Sitting next to the open chest, he read aloud to
Glaedr from Domia abr Wyrda about the dwarves’ many rites and rituals—few of which
Eragon was familiar with—until it was the coldest, darkest part of the night.
Then Eragon set aside the book, extinguished the candle, and lay down on the cot to rest.
He wandered through the fantastic visions of his waking dreams for only a short while; once
the first hint of light appeared in the east, he rolled upright to begin the whole cycle anew.
Inheritance
AROUGHS
IT WAS MIDMORNING when Roran and his men arrived at the cluster of tents next to the
road. The camp appeared gray and indistinct through the haze of exhaustion that clouded
Roran’s vision. A mile to the south lay the city of Aroughs, but he was able to make out only
the most general features: glacier-white walls, yawning entryways containing barred gates,
and many thickly built square stone towers.
He clung to the front of the saddle as they trotted into the camp, their horses near to collapsing.
A scraggly-looking youngster ran up to him and grabbed the bridle of his mare,
pulling on it until the animal stumbled to a stop.
Roran stared down at the boy, not sure what had just happened, and after a long moment
croaked, “Bring me Brigman.†Without a word, the boy took off between the tents, kicking up
dust with his bare heels.
It seemed to Roran that he sat waiting for over an hour. The mare’s uncontrollable panting
matched the rushing of blood in his ears. When he looked at the ground, it appeared as if it
were still moving, receding tunnel-like toward a point infinitely far away. Somewhere, spurs
clinked. A dozen or so warriors gathered nearby, leaning on spears and shields, their faces
open displays of curiosity.
From across the camp, a broad-shouldered man in a blue tunic limped toward Roran, using
a broken spear as a staff. He had a large, full beard, though his upper lip was shaved and
it glittered with perspiration—whether from pain or heat Roran could not tell.
“You’re Stronghammer?†he said.
Roran grunted an affirmative. He released his cramped grip on the saddle, reached inside
his tunic, and handed Brigman the battered rectangle of parchment that contained his orders
from Nasuada.
Brigman broke the wax seal with his thumbnail. He studied the parchment, then lowered it
and gazed at Roran with a flat expression.
“We’ve been expecting you,†he said. “One of Nasuada’s pet spellcasters contacted me
four days ago and said you had departed, but I didn’t think you would arrive so soon.â€
“It wasn’t easy,†said Roran.
Brigman’s bare upper lip curled. “No, I’m sure it wasn’t … sir.†He handed the parchment
back. “The men are yours to command, Stronghammer. We were about to launch an attack
on the western gate. Perhaps you would care to lead the charge?†The question was as pointed
as a dagger.
The world seemed to tilt around Roran, and he gripped the saddle tighter. He was too tired
to bandy words with anyone and do it well, and he knew it.
“Order them to stand down for the day,†he said.
“Have you lost your wits? How else do you expect us to capture the city? It took us all
morning to prepare the attack, and I’m not going to sit here twiddling my thumbs while you
catch up on your sleep. Nasuada expects us to end the siege within a few days, and by Angvard,
I’ll see it done!â€
In a voice pitched so low that only Brigman could hear, Roran growled, “You’ll tell the men
to stand down, or I’ll have you strung up by your ankles and whipped for breaking orders. I’m
not about to approve any sort of attack until I’ve had a chance to rest and look at the situation.â€
“You’re a fool, you are. That would—â€
“If you can’t hold your tongue and do your duty, I’ll thrash you myself—right here and
now.â€
Brigman’s nostrils flared. “In your state? You wouldn’t stand a chance.â€
“You’re wrong,†said Roran. And he meant it. He was not sure how he might beat Brigman
right then, but he knew in the deepest fibers of his being that he could.
Brigman seemed to struggle with himself. “Fine,†he spat. “It wouldn’t be good for the men
to see us sprawling in the dirt anyway. We’ll stay where we are, if that’s what you want, but I
won’t be held accountable for the waste of time. Be it on your head, not mine.â€
“As it always is,†said Roran, his throat tight with pain as he swung down from the mare.
“Just as you’re responsible for the mess you’ve made of this siege.â€
Brigman’s brow darkened, and Roran saw the man’s dislike of him curdle and turn to hate.
He wished that he had chosen a more diplomatic response.
“Your tent is this way.â€
It was still morning when Roran woke.
A soft light diffused through the tent, lifting his spirits. For a moment, he thought he had
only fallen asleep for a few minutes. Then he realized he felt too bright and alert for that to be
the case.
He cursed quietly to himself, angry that he had allowed an entire day to slip through his
fingers.
A thin blanket covered him, mostly unneeded in the balmy southern weather, especially
since he was wearing his boots and clothes underneath. He pulled it off, then tried to sit upright.
A choked groan escaped him as his entire body seemed to stretch and tear. He fell back
and lay gasping at the fabric above. The initial shock soon subsided, but it left behind a multitude
of throbbing aches—some worse than others.
It took him several minutes to gather his strength. With a massive effort, he rolled onto his
side and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. He stopped to catch his breath before attempting
the seemingly impossible task of standing.
Once he was on his feet, he smiled sourly. It was going to be an interesting day.
The others were already up and waiting for him when he made his way out of the tent.
They looked worn and haggard; their movements were as stiff as his own. After exchanging
greetings, Roran motioned toward the bandage on Delwin’s forearm, where a tavern keeper
had cut him with a paring knife. “Has the pain gone down?â€
Delwin shrugged. “It’s not so bad. I can fight if need be.â€
“Good.â€
“What do you intend to do first?†Carn asked.
Roran eyed the rising sun, calculating how much time remained until noon. “Take a walk,â€
he said.
Starting from the center of the camp, Roran led his companions up and down each row of
tents, inspecting the condition of the troops as well as the state of their equipment. Occasionally,
he stopped to question a warrior before moving on. For the most part, the men were tired
and disheartened, although he noticed their mood seemed to improve when they caught sight
of him.
Roran’s tour ended at the southern edge of the camp, as he had planned. There he and
the others stopped to gaze at the imposing edifice that was Aroughs.
The city had been built in two tiers. The first was low and spread out and contained the
majority of buildings, while the second, smaller tier occupied the top of a long, gentle rise,
which was the tallest point for miles around. A wall encircled both levels of the city. Five gates
were visible within the outer wall: two of them opened to roads that entered the city—one from
the north and one from the east—and the other three sat astride canals that flowed southward,
into the city. On the other side of Aroughs lay the restless sea, where the canals presumably
emptied.
At least they don’t have a moat, he thought.
The north-facing gate was scratched and scarred from a battering ram, and the ground in
front of it was torn up with what Roran recognized as the tracks of battle. Three catapults, four
ballistae of the sort he had knowledge of from his time on the Dragon Wing, and two ramshackle
siege towers were arrayed before the outer wall. A handful of men hunkered next to
the machines of war, smoking pipes and playing dice on patches of leather. The machines
appeared pitifully inadequate compared with the monolithic mass of the city.
The low, flat land surrounding Aroughs sloped downward toward the sea. Hundreds of
farms dotted the green plain, each marked by a wooden fence and at least one thatched hut.
Sumptuous estates stood here and there: sprawling stone manors protected by their own high
walls and, Roran assumed, by their own guards. No doubt they belonged to the nobles of
Aroughs, and perhaps certain well-off merchants.
“What do you think?†he asked Carn.
The magician shook his head, his drooping eyes even more mournful than usual. “We
might as well lay siege to a mountain for all the good it’ll do.â€
“Indeed,†observed Brigman, walking up to them.
Roran kept his own observations to himself; he did not want the others to know how discouraged
he was. Nasuada is mad if she believes we can capture Aroughs with only eight
hundred men. If I had eight thousand, and Eragon and Saphira to boot, then I might be sure
of it. But not like this. …
Yet he knew he had to find a way, for Katrina’s sake, if nothing else.
Without looking at him, Roran said to Brigman, “Tell me about Aroughs.â€
Brigman twisted his spear several times, grinding the butt of it into the ground, before he
replied: “Galbatorix had foresight; he saw to it that the city was fully stocked with food before
we cut off the roads between here and the rest of the Empire. Water, as you can see, they
have no shortage of. Even if we diverted the canals, they would still have several springs and
wells inside the city. They could conceivably hold out until winter, if not longer, although I’d
wager they’d be right sick of eating turnips before all was said and done. Also, Galbatorix garrisoned
Aroughs with a fair number of soldiers—more than twice what we have—in addition to
their usual contingent.â€
“How do you know this?â€
“An informant. However, he had no experience with military strategy, and he provided us
with an overly confident assessment of Aroughs’s weaknesses.â€
“Ah.â€
“He also promised us that he would be able to let a small force of men into the city under
the cover of dark.â€
“And?â€
“We waited, but he never appeared, and we saw his head mounted over the parapet the
following morning. It’s still there, by the eastern gate.â€
“So it is. Are there other gates besides these five?â€
“Aye, three more. By the docks, there’s a water gate wide enough for all three streams to
run out at once, and next to it a dry gate for men and horses. Then there’s another dry gate
over at that endâ€â€”he pointed toward the western side of the city—“same as the others.â€
“Can any of them be breached?â€
“Not quickly. By the shore, we haven’t room to maneuver properly or withdraw out of
range of the soldiers’ stones and arrows. That leaves us with these gates, and the western
one as well. The lay of the land is much the same all around the city, except for the shore, so
I chose to concentrate our attack on the nearest gate.â€
“What are they made of?â€
“Iron and oak. They’ll stand for hundreds of years unless we knock them down.â€
“Are they protected by any spells?â€
“I wouldn’t know, seeing as how Nasuada didn’t see fit to send one of her magicians with
us. Halstead has—â€
“Halstead?â€
“Lord Halstead, ruler of Aroughs. You must have heard of him.â€
“No.â€
A brief pause followed, wherein Roran could sense Brigman’s contempt for him growing.
Then the man continued, “Halstead has a conjurer of his own: a mean, sallow-looking
creature we’ve seen atop the walls, muttering into his beard and trying to strike us down with
his spells. He seems to be singularly incompetent, because he hasn’t had much luck, save for
two of the men I had on the battering ram, whom he managed to set on fire.â€
Roran exchanged glances with Carn—the magician appeared even more worried than before—
but he decided it would be better to discuss the matter in private.
“Would it be easier to break through the gates on the canals?†he asked.
“Where would you stand? Look at how they’re recessed within the wall, without so much
as a step for purchase. What’s more, there are slits and trapdoors in the roof of the entryway,
so they can pour boiling oil, drop boulders, or fire crossbows at anyone foolish enough to venture
in there.â€
“The gates can’t be solid all the way down, or they would block the water.â€
“You’re right about that. Below the surface is a latticework of wood and metal with holes
large enough that they don’t impede the flow overly much.â€
“I see. Are the gates kept lowered into the water most of the time, even when Aroughs
isn’t under siege?â€
“At night for certain, but I believe they were left open during the daylight hours.â€
“Mmh. And what of the walls?â€
Brigman shifted his weight. “Granite, polished smooth, and fit so closely together, you
can’t even slide a knife blade between the blocks. Dwarf work, I’d guess, from before the fall
of the Riders. I’d also guess that the walls are filled with packed rubble, but I can’t say for
sure, since we haven’t cracked the outer sheathing yet. They extend at least twelve feet below
ground and probably more, which means we can’t tunnel under them or weaken them
with sapping.â€
Stepping forward, Brigman pointed at the manors to the north and west. “Most of the
nobles have retreated into Aroughs, but they left men behind to protect their property. They’ve
given us some trouble, attacking our scouts, stealing our horses, that sort of thing. We captured
two of the estates early onâ€â€”he indicated a pair of burnt-out husks a few miles
away—“but holding them was more trouble than it was worth, so we sacked them and put
them to the torch. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough men to secure the rest.â€
Baldor spoke then. “Why do the canals feed into Aroughs? It doesn’t look as if they’re
used for watering crops.â€
“You don’t need to water here, lad, any more than a northman needs to cart in snow during
the winter. Staying dry is more a problem than not.â€
“Then what are they used for?†Roran inquired. “And where do they come from? You can’t
expect me to believe the water is drawn from the Jiet River, so many leagues away.â€
“Hardly,†scoffed Brigman. “There are lakes in the marshes north of us. It’s brackish, unwholesome
water, but the people here are accustomed to it. A single channel carries it from
the marshes to a point about three miles away. There the channel divides into the three
canals you see here, and they run over a series of falls, which power the mills that grind flour
for the city. The peasants cart their grain to the mills at harvesttime, and then the sacks of
flour are loaded onto barges and floated down to Aroughs. It’s also a handy way of moving
other goods, like timber and wine, from the manor houses to the city.â€
Roran rubbed the back of his neck as he continued to examine Aroughs. What Brigman
had told him intrigued him, but he was not sure how it could help. “Is there anything else of
significance in the surrounding countryside?†he asked.
“Only a slate mine farther south along the coast.â€
He grunted, still thinking. “I want to visit the mills,†he said. “But first I want to hear a full
account of your time here, and I want to know how well provisioned we are with everything
from arrows to biscuits.â€
“If you’ll follow me … Stronghammer.â€
The next hour Roran spent in conference with Brigman and two of his lieutenants, listening
and asking questions as they recounted each of the assaults they had launched against
the city walls, as well as cataloging the stocks of supplies left to the warriors under his command.
At least we’re not short of weapons, Roran thought as he counted the number of dead.
Yet even if Nasuada had not set a time limit upon his mission, the men and horses did not
have enough food to stay camped before Aroughs for more than another week.
Many of the facts and figures that Brigman and his lackeys related came from writing on
scrolls of parchment. Roran strove to conceal the fact that he could not decipher the rows of
angular black marks by insisting that the men read everything to him, but it irritated him that
he was at the mercy of others. Nasuada was right, he realized. I have to learn to read, else I
cannot tell if someone is lying to me when they say that a piece of parchment says one thing
or another. … Maybe Carn can teach me on our return to the Varden.
The more Roran learned about Aroughs, the more he began to sympathize with Brigman’s
plight; capturing the city was a daunting task with no obvious solution. Despite his dislike for
the man, Roran thought that the captain had done as well as could be expected under the circumstances.
He had failed, Roran believed, not because he was an incompetent commander,
but because he lacked the two qualities that had granted Roran victory time and time again:
daring and imagination.
Upon finishing his review, Roran and his five companions rode with Brigman to inspect
Aroughs’s walls and gates from a closer, but still safe, distance. Sitting in a saddle again was
incredibly painful for Roran, but he bore it without complaint.
As their steeds clattered onto the stone-paved road next to the camp and began to trot toward
the city, Roran noticed that, on occasion, the horses’ hooves produced a peculiar noise
when they struck the ground. He remembered hearing a similar sound, and being bothered by
it, during their final day of traveling.
Looking down, he saw that the flat stones that formed the surface of the road seemed to
be set within tarnished silver, the veins of which formed an irregular, cobweb-like pattern.
Roran called out to Brigman and asked him about it, whereupon Brigman shouted, “The
dirt here makes for poor mortar, so instead they use lead to hold the stones in place!â€
Roran’s initial reaction was disbelief, but Brigman appeared serious. He found it astonishing
that any metal could be so common that people would squander it on building a road.
So they trotted down the lane of stone and lead toward the gleaming city beyond.
They studied Aroughs’s defenses with great attentiveness. But their increased proximity
revealed nothing new and only served to reinforce Roran’s impression that the city was nigh
on impregnable.
He guided his horse over to Carn’s. The magician was staring at Aroughs with a glazed
expression, his lips moving silently, as if he were talking to himself. Roran waited until he
stopped, then quietly asked, “Are there any spells on the gates?â€
“I think so,†Carn replied, equally subdued, “but I’m not sure how many or what their intended
purpose is. I’ll need more time to tease out the answers.â€
“Why is it so difficult?â€
“It’s not, really. Most spells are easy to detect, unless someone has made an effort to hide
them, and even then, the magic usually leaves certain telltale traces if you know what to look
for. My concern is that one or more of the spells might be traps set to prevent people from
meddling with the gates’ enchantments. If that’s so, and I approach them directly, I’ll be sure
to trigger them, and then who knows what will happen? I might dissolve into a puddle before
your very eyes, which is a fate I would rather avoid, if I have my way.â€
“Do you want to stay here while we continue on?â€
Carn shook his head. “I don’t think it would be wise to leave you unguarded while we’re
away from camp. I’ll return after sundown and see what I can do then. Besides, it would help
if I were closer to the gates, and I don’t dare go any nearer now, when I’m in plain sight of the
sentinels.â€
“As you wish.â€
When Roran was satisfied they had learned everything they could by looking at the city,
he had Brigman lead them to the nearest set of mills.
They were much as Brigman had described. The water in the canal flowed over three consecutive
twenty-foot falls. At the base of each fall was a waterwheel, edged with buckets. The
water splashed into the buckets, driving the machine round and round. The wheels were connected
by thick axles to three identical buildings that stood stacked one above the other along
the terraced bank and which contained the massive grindstones needed to produce the flour
for Aroughs’s population. Though the wheels were moving, Roran could tell they were disengaged
from the complex arrangement of gears hidden inside the buildings, for he did not hear
the rumble of the grindstones turning in their places.
He dismounted by the lowest mill and walked up the path between the buildings, eyeing
the sluice gates that were above the falls and that controlled the amount of water released into
them. The gates were open, but a deep pool of water still lay beneath each of the three
slowly spinning wheels.
He stopped halfway up the hill and planted his feet on the edge of the soft, grassy bank,
crossed his arms, and tucked his chin against his chest while he pondered how he could possibly
capture Aroughs. That there was a trick or a strategy that would allow him to crack open
the city like a ripe gourd, he was confident, but the solution eluded him.
He thought until he was tired of thinking, and then he gave himself over to the creaking of
the turning axles and the splashing of the falling water.
Soothing as those sounds were, a thorn of unease still rankled him, for the place reminded
him of Dempton’s mill in Therinsford, where he had gone to work the day the Ra’zac had
burned down his home and tortured his father, mortally wounding him.
Roran tried to ignore the memory, but it stayed with him, twisting in his gut.
If only I had waited another few hours to leave, I could have saved him. Then the more
practical part of Roran replied: Yes, and the Ra’zac would have killed me before I could have
even raised a hand. Without Eragon to protect me, I would have been as helpless as a newborn
babe.
With a quiet step, Baldor joined him by the edge of the canal. “The others are wondering:
have you decided on a plan?†he asked.
“I have ideas, but no plan. What of you?â€
Baldor crossed his arms as well. “We could wait for Nasuada to send Eragon and Saphira
to our aid.â€
“Bah.â€
For a while, they watched the never-ending motion of the water below them. Then Baldor
said, “What if you just asked them to surrender? Maybe they’ll be so frightened when they
hear your name, they’ll throw open the gates, fall at your feet, and beg for mercy.â€
Roran chuckled briefly. “I doubt word of me has reached all the way to Aroughs. Still …â€
He ran his fingers through his beard. “It might be worth a try, to put them off balance if nothing
else.â€
“Even if we gain entrance to the city, can we hold it with so few men?â€
“Maybe, maybe not.â€
A pause grew between them; then Baldor said, “How far we have come.â€
“Aye.â€
Again, the only sound was that of the water and of the turning wheels. Finally, Baldor said,
“The snowmelt must not be as great here as it is at home. Otherwise, the wheels would be
half underwater come springtime.â€
Roran shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how much snow or rain they get. The sluice
gates can be used to limit the amount of water that runs over the wheels, so they don’t turn
too fast.â€
“But once the water rises to the top of the gates?â€
“Hopefully, the day’s grinding is finished by then, but in any case, you uncouple the gears,
raise the gates, and …†Roran trailed off as a series of images flashed through his mind, and
his whole body flushed with warmth, as if he had drunk an entire tankard of mead in a single
gulp.
Could I? he thought wildly. Would it really work, or … It doesn’t matter; we have to try.
What else can we do?
He strode out to the center of the berm that held back the middlemost pond and grasped
the spokes that stuck out from the tall wooden screw used to raise and lower the sluice gate.
The screw was stiff and hard to move, even though he set his shoulder against it and pushed
with all his weight.
“Help me,†he said to Baldor, who had remained on the bank, watching with puzzled interest.
Baldor carefully made his way to where Roran stood. Together they managed to close the
sluice gate. Then, refusing to answer any questions, Roran insisted that they do the same
with both the uppermost and the lowermost gates.
When all three were firmly shut, Roran walked back to Carn, Brigman, and the others and
motioned for them to climb off their horses and gather around him. He tapped the head of his
hammer while he waited, suddenly feeling unreasonably impatient.
“Well?†Brigman demanded once they were in place.
Roran looked each of them in the eyes, to make sure that he had their undivided attention,
then he said, “Right, this is what we’re going to do—†And he began to talk, quickly and intensely,
for a full half hour, explaining everything that had occurred to him in that one, revelatory
instant. As he spoke, Mandel began to grin, and though they remained more serious,
Baldor, Delwin, and Hamund also appeared excited by the audacious nature of the scheme
he outlined.
Their response gratified Roran. He had done much to earn their trust, and he was pleased
to know that he could still count on their support. His only fear was that he might let them
down; of all the fates he could imagine, only losing Katrina seemed worse.
Carn, on the other hand, appeared somewhat doubtful. This Roran had expected, but the
magician’s doubt was slight compared with Brigman’s incredulity.
“You’re mad!†he exclaimed once Roran had finished. “It’ll never succeed.â€
“You take that back!†said Mandel, and jumped forward, his fists clenched. “Why, Roran’s
won more battles than you’ve ever fought in, and he did it without all the warriors you’ve had
to order around!â€
Brigman snarled, his bare upper lip curling like a snake. “You little whelp! I’ll teach you a
lesson in respect you’ll never forget.â€
Roran pushed Mandel back before the younger man could attack Brigman. “Oi!†growled
Roran. “Behave yourself.†With a surly look, Mandel ceased resisting, but he continued to
glower at Brigman, who sneered at him in return.
“It’s an outlandish plan, to be sure,†said Delwin, “but then, your outlandish plans have
served us well in the past.†The other men from Carvahall made sounds of agreement.
Carn nodded and said, “Maybe it will work and maybe it won’t. I don’t know. In any event,
it’s certain to catch our enemies by surprise, and I have to admit, I’m rather curious to see
what will happen. Nothing like this has ever been tried before.â€
Roran smiled slightly. Addressing Brigman, he said, “To continue as before, now that
would be mad. We have only two and a half days to seize Aroughs. Ordinary methods won’t
suffice, so we must hazard the extraordinary.â€
“That may be,†muttered Brigman, “but this is a ridiculous venture that will kill many a good
man, and for no reason other than to demonstrate your supposed cleverness.â€
His smile widening, Roran moved toward Brigman until only a few inches separated them.
“You don’t have to agree with me, Brigman; you only have to do what you’re told. Now, will
you follow my orders or not?â€
The air between them grew warm from their breath and from the heat radiating off their
skin. Brigman gritted his teeth and twisted his spear even more vigorously than before, but
then his gaze wavered and he backed away. “Blast you,†he said. “I’ll be your dog for the
while, Stronghammer, but there’ll be a reckoning on this soon enough, just you watch, and
then you’ll have to answer for your decisions.â€
As long as we capture Aroughs, thought Roran, I don’t care. “Mount up!†he shouted. “We
have work to do, and little time to do it in! Hurry, hurry, hurry!â€
Inheritance
DRAS-LEONA
THE SUN WAS climbing into the sky, as was Saphira, when from his place on her back,
Eragon spotted Helgrind on the edge of the northern horizon. He felt a surge of loathing as he
beheld the distant spike of rock, which rose from the surrounding landscape like a single
jagged tooth. So many of his most unpleasant memories were associated with Helgrind, he
wished he could destroy it and see its bare gray spires fall crashing to the ground. Saphira
was more indifferent to the dark tower of stone, but he could tell that she too disliked being
near it.
By the time evening arrived, Helgrind lay behind them, while Dras-Leona lay before them,
next to Leona Lake, where dozens of ships and boats bobbed at anchor. The low, broad city
was as densely built and inhospitable as Eragon remembered, with its narrow, crooked
streets, the filthy hovels packed close together against the yellow mud wall that ringed the
center of the city, and behind the wall, the towering shape of Dras-Leona’s immense cathedral,
black and barbed, where the priests of Helgrind conducted their gruesome rituals.
A stream of refugees trailed along the road to the north—people fleeing the soon-to-bebesieged
city for Teirm or Urû’baen, where they might find at least temporary safety from the
Varden’s inexorable advance.
Dras-Leona seemed as foul and evil to Eragon as when he had first visited it, and it
aroused in him a lust for destruction such as he had not felt at either Feinster or Belatona.
Here he wanted to lay waste with fire and sword; to lash out with all of the terrible, unnatural
energies that were at his disposal; and to indulge in every savage urge and leave behind him
nothing but a pit of smoking, blood-soaked ashes. For the poor and the crippled and the enslaved
who lived within the confines of Dras-Leona, he had some sympathy. But he was
wholly convinced of the city’s corruption and believed that the best thing would be to raze it
and rebuild it without the taint of perversity the religion of Helgrind had infected it with.
As he fantasized about tearing down the cathedral with Saphira’s help, it occurred to him
to wonder if the religion of the priests who practiced self-mutilation had a name. His study of
the ancient language had taught him to appreciate the importance of names—names were
power, names were understanding—and until he knew the name of the religion, he would not
be able to fully apprehend its true nature.
In the waning light, the Varden settled on a series of cultivated fields just southeast of
Dras-Leona, where the land rose up to a slight plateau, which would provide them with a
modicum of protection should the enemy charge their position. The men were weary from
marching, but Nasuada put them to work fortifying the camp, as well as assembling the
mighty engines of war they had brought with them all the long way from Surda.
Eragon threw himself into the work with a will. First, he joined a team of men who were
flattening the fields of wheat and barley, using planks with long loops of rope attached. It
would have been faster to scythe the grain, either with steel or magic, but the stubble that remained
would be dangerous and uncomfortable to walk over, much less to sleep upon. As it
was, the compacted stalks formed a soft, springy surface as fine as any mattress, and one far
preferable to the bare ground they were accustomed to.
Eragon labored alongside the other men for almost an hour, at which point they had
cleared enough space for the tents of the Varden.
Then he helped in the construction of a siege tower. His greater-than-normal strength allowed
him to shift beams that otherwise would have taken several warriors to move; thus, he
was able to speed the process. A few of the dwarves who were still with the Varden oversaw
the raising of the tower, for the engines were of their design.
Saphira helped as well. With her teeth and claws, she gouged deep trenches in the
ground and piled the removed earth into embankments around the camp, accomplishing more
in a few minutes than a hundred men could have in a whole day. And, with the fire from her
maw and mighty sweeps of her tail, she leveled trees, fences, walls, houses, and everything
else around the Varden that might give their foes cover. In all, she presented a picture of fearsome
devastation sufficient to inspire trepidation in even the bravest of souls.
It was late at night when the Varden finally finished their preparations and Nasuada
ordered the men, dwarves, and Urgals to bed.
Retiring to his tent, Eragon meditated until his mind was clear, as had become his habit.
Instead of practicing his penmanship afterward, he spent the next few hours reviewing the
spells he thought he might need the following day, as well as inventing new ones to address
the specific challenges Dras-Leona presented.
When he felt ready for the battle to come, he abandoned himself to his waking dreams,
which were more varied and energetic than usual, for despite his meditation, the prospect of
the approaching action stirred his blood and would not allow him to relax. As always, the waiting
and the uncertainty were the most difficult parts for him to bear, and he wished he were
already in the midst of the fray, where he would have no time to worry about what might happen.
Saphira was equally restless. From her, he caught snatches of dreams that involved biting
and tearing, and he could tell that she was looking forward to the fierce pleasure of battle. Her
mood influenced his to a certain degree, but not enough to make him entirely forget his apprehension.
All too soon, morning arrived, and the Varden assembled before the exposed outskirts of
Dras-Leona. The army was an imposing sight, but Eragon’s admiration was tempered by his
observation of the warriors’ notched swords, dented helms, and battered shields, as well as
the poorly repaired rents in their padded tunics and mail hauberks. If they succeeded in capturing
Dras-Leona, they would be able to replace some of their equipment—as they had at
Belatona, and before that, Feinster—but there was no replacing the men who bore them.
The longer this drags on, he said to Saphira, the easier it will be for Galbatorix to defeat us
when we arrive at Urû’baen.
Then we must not delay, she replied.
Eragon sat astride her, next to Nasuada, who was garbed in full armor and mounted upon
her fiery black charger, Battle-storm. Arrayed around them were his twelve elven guards, as
well as an equal number of Nasuada’s guards, the Nighthawks, increased from her normal allotment
of six for the duration of the battle. The elves were on foot—for they refused to ride
any steeds but those they had raised and trained themselves—while all of the Nighthawks
were mounted, including the Urgals. Ten yards to the right were King Orrin and his handpicked
retinue of warriors, each of whom had a colorful plume attached to the crest of his
helm. Narheim, the commander of the dwarves, and Garzhvog were both with their respective
troops.
After exchanging nods, Nasuada and King Orrin spurred their mounts forward and trotted
away from the main body of the Varden, toward the city. With his left hand, Eragon clutched
the neck spike in front of him as Saphira followed.
Nasuada and King Orrin drew to a halt before they passed among the ramshackle buildings.
At their signal, two heralds—one carrying the Varden’s standard, the other
Surda’s—rode forth up the narrow street that ran through the maze of hovels to Dras-Leona’s
southern gate.
Eragon frowned as he watched the heralds advance. The city seemed unnaturally empty
and quiet. No one was visible in the whole of Dras-Leona, not even upon the battlements of
the thick yellow wall, where hundreds of Galbatorix’s soldiers ought to be stationed.
The air smells wrong, said Saphira, and she growled ever so slightly, drawing Nasuada’s
attention.
At the base of the wall, the Varden’s herald called forth in a voice that carried all the way
back to Eragon and Saphira: “Hail! In the name of Lady Nasuada of the Varden and King Orrin
of Surda, as well as all free peoples of Alagaësia, we bid you open your gates so we may
deliver a message of import unto your lord and master, Marcus Tábor. By it, he may hope to
profit greatly, as may every man, woman, and child within Dras-Leona.â€
From behind the wall, a man who could not be seen replied: “These gates shall not open.
State your message where you stand.â€
“Speak you for Lord Tábor?â€
“I do.â€
“Then we charge you to remind him that discussions of statesmanship are more properly
pursued in the privacy of one’s own chambers rather than in the open, where any might hear.â€
“I take no orders from you, lackey! Deliver your message—and quickly, too!—ere I lose
patience and fill you with arrows.â€
Eragon was impressed; the herald did not appear flustered or cowed by the threat but
continued without hesitation. “As you wish. Our liegelords offer peace and friendship to Lord
Tábor and all the people of Dras-Leona. We have no argument with you, only with Galbatorix,
and we would not fight you if we had the choice. Have we not a common cause? Many of us
once lived in the Empire, and we left only because Galbatorix’s cruel reign drove us from our
lands. We are your kin, in blood and in spirit. Join forces with us, and we may yet free
ourselves of the usurper who now sits in Urû’baen.
“Should you accept our offer, our liegelords do guarantee the safety of Lord Tábor and his
family, as well as whoever else may now be in the service of the Empire, although none will
be allowed to maintain their position if they have given oaths that cannot be broken. And if
your oaths will not let you aid us, then at least do not hinder us. Raise your gates and lay
down your swords, and we promise you will come to no harm. But try to bar us, and we shall
sweep you aside like so much chaff, for none can withstand the might of our army, nor that of
Eragon Shadeslayer and the dragon Saphira.â€
At the sound of her name, Saphira raised her head and loosed a terrifying roar.
Above the gate, Eragon saw a tall, cloaked figure climb onto the battlements and stand
between two merlons, staring over the heralds toward Saphira. Eragon squinted, but he could
not make out the man’s face. Four other black-robed people joined the man, and those
Eragon knew for priests of Helgrind by their truncated forms: one was missing a forearm, two
were missing a leg each, and the last of their company was missing an arm and both legs,
and was carried by his or her companions on a small padded litter.
The cloaked man threw back his head and uttered a peal of laughter that crashed and
boomed with thunderous force. Below him, the heralds struggled to control their mounts as
the horses reared and tried to bolt.
Eragon’s stomach sank, and he gripped the hilt of Brisingr, ready to draw it at a moment’s
notice.
“None can withstand your might?†said the man, his voice echoing off the buildings. “You
have an overly high opinion of yourselves, I think.†And with a gigantic bellow, the glittering
red mass of Thorn leaped from the streets below onto the roof of a house, piercing the
wooden shingles with his talons. The dragon spread his huge, claw-tipped wings, opened his
crimson maw, and raked the sky with a sheet of rippling flame.
In a mocking voice, Murtagh—for it was Murtagh, Eragon realized—added, “Dash
yourselves against the walls all you want; you will never take Dras-Leona, not so long as
Thorn and I are here to defend it. Send your finest warriors and magicians to fight us, and
they will die, each and every one. That I promise. There isn’t a man among you who can best
us. Not even you … Brother. Run back to your hiding places before it is too late, and pray that
Galbatorix does not venture forth to deal with you himself. Otherwise, death and sorrow will
be your only reward.â€
Inheritance
A TOSS OF THE BONES
“SIR, SIR! THE gate’s opening!â€
Roran looked up from the map he was studying as one of the camp sentinels burst into
the tent, red-faced and panting.
“Which gate?†Roran asked, a deadly calm settling over him. “Be precise.†He put aside
the rod he had been using to measure distances.
“The one closest to us, sir … on the road, not the canal.â€
Pulling his hammer out from under his belt, Roran left the tent and ran through the camp
to its southern edge. There he trained his gaze on Aroughs. To his dismay, he saw several
hundred horsemen pouring out of the city, their brightly colored pennants snapping in the
wind as they assembled in a broad formation before the black maw of the open gateway.
They’ll cut us to pieces, Roran thought, despairing. Only a hundred fifty or so of his men
remained in the camp, and many were wounded and unable to fight. All the rest were at the
mills he had visited the previous day, or at the slate mine farther down the coast, or along the
banks of the westernmost canal, searching for the barges that were needed if his plan was to
succeed. None of the warriors could be recalled in time to fend off the horsemen.
When he sent the men on their missions, Roran had been aware that he was leaving the
camp vulnerable to a counterattack. However, he had hoped that the city folk would be too
cowed by the recent assaults on their walls to attempt anything so daring—and that the warriors
he had kept with him would be sufficient to convince any distant observers that the main
body of his force was still stationed among the tents.
The first of those assumptions, it seemed, had most definitely proven to be a mistake.
Whether the defenders of Aroughs were aware of his ruse, he was not entirely sure, but he
thought it likely, given the rather limited number of horsemen gathering in front of the city. If
the soldiers or their commanders had anticipated facing the full strength of Roran’s company,
he would have expected them to field twice as many troops. In either event, he still had to figure
out a way to stave off their attack and save his men from being slaughtered.
Baldor, Carn, and Brigman ran up, weapons in hand. As Carn hastily donned a mail shirt,
Baldor said, “What do we do?â€
“There’s nothing we can do,†said Brigman. “You’ve doomed this whole expedition with
your foolishness, Stronghammer. We have to flee—now—before those cursed riders are
upon us.â€
Roran spat on the ground. “Retreat? We’ll not retreat. The men can’t escape on foot, and
even if they could, I won’t abandon our wounded.â€
“Don’t you understand? We’ve lost here. If we stay, we’ll be killed—or worse, taken prisoner!â€
“Leave it, Brigman! I’m not about to turn tail and run!â€
“Why not? So you don’t have to admit you failed? Because you hope to salvage
something of your honor in one final, pointless battle? Is that it? Can’t you see that you’ll only
be causing the Varden even greater harm?â€
By the base of the city, the horsemen raised their swords and spears over their heads
and—with a chorus of whoops and shouts that were audible even over the distance—dug
their spurs into their steeds and began to thunder across the sloping plain toward the
Varden’s encampment.
Brigman resumed his tirade: “I won’t let you squander our lives merely to assuage your
pride. Stay if you must, but—â€
“Quiet!†Roran bellowed. “Keep your muzzle shut, or I’ll shut it for you! Baldor, watch him.
If he does anything you don’t like, let him feel the point of your sword.†Brigman swelled with
anger, but he held his tongue as Baldor raised his sword and aimed it at Brigman’s breast.
Roran guessed that he had maybe five minutes to decide upon a course of action. Five
minutes in which so much hung in the balance.
He tried to imagine how they could kill or maim enough of the horsemen to drive them
away, but almost immediately he discounted the possibility. There was nowhere to herd the
onrushing cavalry where his men might have the advantage. The land was too flat, too empty,
for any such maneuvers.
We can’t win if we fight, so—What if we scare them? But how? Fire? Fire might prove as
deadly to friend as to foe. Besides, the damp grass would only smolder. Smoke? No, that’s of
no help.
He glanced over at Carn. “Can you conjure up an image of Saphira and have her roar and
breathe fire, as if she were really here?â€
The spellcaster’s thin cheeks drained of color. He shook his head, his expression panicky.
“Maybe. I don’t know, I’ve never tried before. I’d be creating an image of her from memory. It
might not even look like a living creature.†He nodded toward the line of galloping horsemen.
“They’d know something was wrong.â€
Roran dug his nails into his palm. Four minutes remained, if that.
“It might be worth a try,†he muttered. “We just need to distract them, confuse them. …â€
He glanced at the sky, hoping to see a curtain of rain sweeping toward the camp, but alas, a
pair of attenuated clouds drifting high above was the only formation visible. Confusion, uncertainty,
doubt … What is it people fear? The unknown, the things they don’t understand, that’s
what.
In an instant, Roran thought of a half-dozen schemes to undermine the confidence of their
foes, each more outlandish than the last, until he struck upon an idea that was so simple and
so daring, it seemed perfect. Besides, unlike the others, it appealed to his ego, for it required
the participation of only one other person: Carn.
“Order the men to hide in their tents!†he shouted, already beginning to move. “And tell
them to keep quiet; I don’t want to hear so much as a peep from them unless we’re attacked!â€
Going to the nearest tent, which was empty, Roran jammed his hammer back under his
belt and grabbed a dirty woolen blanket from one of the piles of bedding on the ground. Then
he ran to a cookfire and scooped up a wide, stumplike section of log the warriors had been
using as a stool.
With the log under one arm and the blanket thrown over the opposite shoulder, Roran
sprinted out of the camp toward a slight mound perhaps a hundred feet in front of the tents.
“Someone get me a set of knucklebones and a horn of mead!†he called. “And fetch me the
table my maps are on. Now, blast it, now!â€
Behind him, he heard a tumult of footsteps and jangling equipment as the men rushed to
conceal themselves inside their tents. An eerie silence fell over the camp a few seconds later,
save for the noise created by the men collecting the items he had requested.
Roran did not waste time looking back. At the crest of the mound, he set the log upright on
its thicker end and twisted it back and forth several times to ensure that it would not wobble
beneath him. When he was satisfied it was stable, he sat on it and looked out over the sloping
field toward the charging horsemen.
Three minutes or less remained until they would arrive. Through the wood beneath him,
he could feel the drumming of the horses’ hooves—the sensation growing stronger every
second.
“Where are the knucklebones and mead?!†he shouted without taking his eyes off the cavalry.
He smoothed his beard with a quick pass of his hand and tugged on the hem of his tunic.
Fear made him wish that he were wearing his mail hauberk, but the colder, more cunning part
of his mind reasoned that it would cause his enemies even greater apprehension to see him
sitting there with no armor, as if he were totally at his ease. The same part of his mind also
convinced him to leave his hammer tucked in his belt, so it would appear he felt safe in the
presence of the soldiers.
“Sorry,†Carn said breathlessly as he ran up to Roran, along with a man who was carrying
the small folding table from Roran’s tent. They placed the table before him and spread the
blanket over it, whereupon Carn handed Roran a horn half-full of mead, as well as a leather
cup containing the usual five knucklebones.
“Go on, get out of here,†he said. Carn turned to leave, but Roran caught him by the arm.
“Can you make the air shimmer on either side of me, as it does above a fire on a cold winter’s
day?â€
Carn’s eyes narrowed. “Possibly, but what good—â€
“Just do it if you can. Now go, hide yourself!â€
As the lanky magician sprinted back toward the camp, Roran shook the knucklebones in
the cup, then poured them out onto the table and began to play by himself, tossing the bones
into the air—first one, then two, then three, and so forth—and catching them on the back of
his hand. His father, Garrow, had often amused himself in a like manner while smoking his
pipe and sitting in a rickety old chair on the porch of their house during the long summer
evenings of Palancar Valley. Sometimes Roran had played with him, and when he did, he
usually lost, but mostly Garrow had preferred to compete against himself.
Though his heart was thumping hard and fast and his palms were slick with sweat, Roran
strove to maintain a calm demeanor. If his gambit was to have the slightest chance of success,
he had to comport himself with an air of unbreakable confidence, regardless of his actual
emotions.
He kept his gaze focused on the knucklebones and refused to look up even as the horsemen
drew closer and closer. The sound of the galloping animals swelled until he became convinced
that they were going to ride right over him.
What a strange way to die, he thought, and smiled grimly. Then he thought of Katrina and
of their unborn child, and he took comfort in the knowledge that, should he die, his bloodline
would continue. It was not immortality such as Eragon possessed, but it was an immortality of
a sort, and it would have to suffice.
At the last moment, when the cavalry was only a few yards away from the table, someone
shouted, “Whoa! Whoa there! Rein in your horses. I say, rein in your horses!†And, with a clatter
of buckles and creaking leather, the champing line of animals reluctantly slowed to a halt.
And still, Roran kept his eyes angled downward.
He sipped the pungent mead, then tossed the bones again and caught two of them on the
back of his hand, where they lay rocking on the ridges of his tendons.
The aroma of freshly overturned soil wafted over him, warm and comforting, along with the
distinctly less pleasant smell of lathered horseflesh.
“Ho there, my fine fellow!†said the same man who had ordered the soldiers to halt. “Ho
there, I say! Who are you to sit here this splendid morning, drinking and enjoying a merry
game of chance, as if you hadn’t a care in the world? Do we not merit the courtesy of being
met with drawn swords? Who are you, I say?â€
Slowly, as if he had just noticed the presence of the soldiers and considered it to be of
little importance, Roran raised his gaze from the table to regard a small bearded man with a
flamboyantly plumed helm who sat before him on an enormous black war-horse, which was
heaving like a pair of bellows.
“I’m nobody’s fine fellow, and certainly not yours,†Roran said, making no effort to conceal
his dislike at being addressed in such a familiar manner. “Who are you, I might ask, to interrupt
my game so rudely?â€
The long, striped feathers mounted atop the man’s helm bobbed and fluttered as he
looked Roran over, as if Roran were an unfamiliar creature he had encountered while hunting.
“Tharos the Quick is my name, Captain of the Guard. Rude as you are, I must tell you, it
would grieve me mightily to kill a man as bold as yourself without knowing his name.†As if to
emphasize his words, Tharos lowered the spear he held until it was pointing at Roran.
Three rows of riders were clustered close behind Tharos. Among their numbers, Roran
spied a slim, hook-nosed man with the emaciated face and arms—which were bare to the
shoulders—that Roran had come to associate with the spellcasters of the Varden. Very suddenly,
he found himself hoping that Carn had succeeded in making the air shimmer. However,
he dared not turn his head to look.
“Stronghammer is my name,†he said. With a single deft movement, he gathered up the
knucklebones, tossed them skyward, and caught three on his hand. “Roran Stronghammer,
and Eragon Shadeslayer is my cousin. You might have heard mention of him, if not of me.â€
A rustle of unease spread among the line of horsemen, and Roran thought he saw Tharos’s
eyes widen for an instant. “An impressive claim, that, but how can we be sure of its veracity?
Any man might say he is another if it served his purpose.â€
Roran drew his hammer and slammed it down on the table with a muffled thump. Then, ignoring
the soldiers, he resumed his game. He uttered a noise of disgust as two of the bones
fell from the back of his hand, costing him the round.
“Ah,†said Tharos, and coughed, clearing his throat. “You have a most illustrious reputation,
Stronghammer, although some argue that it has been exaggerated beyond all reason. Is
it true, for example, that you single-handedly felled nigh on three hundred men in the village
of Deldarad in Surda?â€
“I never learned what the place was called, but if Deldarad it was, then yes, I slew many a
soldier there. It was only a hundred ninety-three, however, and I was well guarded by my own
men while I fought.â€
“Only a hundred ninety-three?†Tharos said in a wondering tone. “You are too modest,
Stronghammer. Such a feat might earn a man a place in many a song and story.â€
Roran shrugged and lifted the horn to his mouth, feigning the action of swallowing, for he
could not afford to have his mind clouded by the potent dwarf brew. “I fight to win, not to lose.
… Let me offer you a drink, as one warrior to another,†he said, and extended the horn toward
Tharos.
The short warrior hesitated, and his eyes darted toward the spellcaster behind him for a
second. Then he wet his lips and said, “Perhaps I will at that.†Dismounting his charger, Tharos
handed his spear to one of the other soldiers, pulled off his gauntlets, and walked over to
the table, where he cautiously accepted the horn from Roran.
Tharos sniffed at the mead, then downed a hearty quaff. The feathers on his helm
quivered as he grimaced.
“It’s not to your liking?†Roran asked, amused.
“I confess, these mountain drinks are too harsh for my tongue,†Tharos said, returning the
horn to Roran. “I much prefer the wines of our fields; they are warm and mellow and less
likely to strip a man of his senses.â€
“’Tis sweet as mother’s milk to me,†Roran lied. “I drink it morning, noon, and night.â€
Donning his gloves once again, Tharos returned to the side of his horse, hauled himself
into the saddle, and took back his spear from the soldier who had been holding it for him. He
directed another glance toward the hook-nosed spellcaster behind him, whose complexion,
Roran noticed, had acquired a deathly cast in the brief span since Tharos had set foot on the
ground. Tharos must have noticed the change in his magician as well, for his own expression
became strained.
“My thanks for your hospitality, Roran Stronghammer,†he said, raising his voice so that
his entire troop could hear. “Mayhap I will soon have the honor of entertaining you within the
walls of Aroughs. If so, I promise to serve you the finest wines from my family’s estate, and
perhaps with them I will be able to wean you off such barbaric milk as you have there. I think
you will find our wine has much to recommend it. We let it age in oaken casks for months or
sometimes even years. It would be a pity if all that work were wasted and the casks were
knocked open and the wine were allowed to run out into the streets and paint them red with
the blood of our grapes.â€
“That would indeed be a shame,†Roran replied, “but sometimes you cannot avoid spilling
a bit of wine when cleaning your table.†Holding the horn out to one side, he tipped it over and
poured what little mead remained onto the grass below.
Tharos was utterly still for a moment—even the feathers on his helm were motionless—
then, with an angry snarl, he yanked his horse around and shouted at his men, “Form
up! Form up, I say. … Yah!†And with that final yell, he spurred his horse away from Roran,
and the rest of the soldiers followed, urging their steeds to a gallop as they retraced their
steps to Aroughs.
Roran maintained his pretense of arrogance and indifference until the soldiers were well
away, then he slowly released his breath and rested his elbows on his knees. His hands were
trembling slightly.
It worked, he thought, amazed.
He heard men running toward him from the camp, and he looked over his shoulder to see
Baldor and Carn approaching, accompanied by at least fifty of the warriors who had been hiding
within the tents.
“You did it!†exclaimed Baldor as they drew near. “You did it! I can’t believe it!†He laughed
and slapped Roran on the shoulder hard enough to knock him against the table.
The other men crowded around him, also laughing, as well as praising him with extravagant
phrases, boasting that under his leadership they would capture Aroughs without so much
as a single casualty, and belittling the courage and character of the city’s inhabitants.
Someone shoved a warm, half-full wineskin into his hand, which he stared at with unexpected
loathing, then passed to the man directly to his left.
“Did you cast any spells?†he asked Carn, his words barely audible over the hubbub of the
celebrations.
“What?†Carn leaned closer, and Roran repeated his question, whereupon the magician
smiled and nodded vigorously. “Aye. I managed to make the air shimmer as you wanted.â€
“And did you attack their enchanter? When they left, he looked as if he was about to faint.â€
Carn’s smile broadened. “It was his own doing. He kept trying to break the illusion he
thought I had created—to pierce the veil of shimmering air so he could see what lay behind—
but there was nothing to break, nothing to pierce, so he expended all his strength in
vain.â€
Then Roran chuckled, and his chuckle grew into a long, full-bodied laugh that rose above
the excited clamor and rolled out over the fields in the direction of Aroughs.
For several minutes, he allowed himself to bask in the admiration of his men, until he
heard a loud warning cry from one of the sentries stationed at the edge of the camp.
“Move aside! Let me see!†said Roran, and sprang to his feet. The warriors complied, and
he beheld a lone man off to the west—whom he recognized as one of the party he had sent to
search the banks of the canals—riding hard over the fields, heading toward the camp. “Have
him come here,†instructed Roran, and a lanky, red-haired swordsman ran off to intercept the
rider.
While they waited for the man to arrive, Roran picked up the knucklebones and dropped
them, one by one, into the leather cup. The bones made a satisfying clatter as they landed.
As soon as the warrior was within hailing distance, Roran called out, “Ho there! Is all well?
Were you attacked?â€
To Roran’s annoyance, the man remained silent until he was only a few yards away,
whereupon he jumped off his mount and presented himself before Roran, standing as stiff
and straight as a sun-starved pine, and, in a loud voice, exclaimed, “Captain, sir!†Upon closer
inspection, Roran realized that the man was actually more of a boy—that, in fact, he was the
same scraggly youth who had grabbed his reins when he had first ridden into the camp. The
realization did nothing to sate Roran’s frustrated curiosity, though.
“Well, what is it? I haven’t got all day.â€
“Sir! Hamund sent me to tell you that we found all the barges we need and that he’s building
the sleds to transport them across to the other canal.â€
Roran nodded. “Good. Does he need any more help to get them there in time?â€
“Sir, no sir!â€
“And is that all?â€
“Sir, yes sir!â€
“You don’t have to keep calling me sir. Once is enough. Understood?â€
“Sir, yes—Uh, yes s—Uh, I mean, yes, of course.â€
Roran suppressed a smile. “You’ve done well. Get yourself something to eat and then ride
out to the mine and report back to me. I want to know what they’ve accomplished so far.â€
“Yes si—Sorry, sir—That is, I didn’t … I’ll be going at once, Captain.†Two spots of crimson
appeared on the youth’s cheeks as he stammered. He ducked his head in a quick bow,
then hurried back to his steed and trotted off toward the tents.
The visit left Roran in a more serious mood, for it reminded him that, as fortunate as they
were to have won a reprieve from the soldiers’ blades, there was much that still needed doing,
and any of the tasks that lay before them might cost them the siege if handled badly.
To the warriors at large, he said, “Back to the camp with the lot of you! I want two rows of
trenches dug around the tents by nightfall; those yellow-bellied soldiers might change their
minds and decide to attack anyway, and I want to be prepared.†A few of the men groaned at
the mention of digging trenches, but the rest appeared to accept the order with good humor.
In a low voice, Carn said, “You don’t want to tire them out too much before tomorrow.â€
“I know,†Roran replied, also in a soft tone. “But the camp needs fortifying, and it’ll help
keep them from brooding. Besides, no matter how worn out they may be tomorrow, battle will
give them new strength. It always does.â€
The day passed quickly for Roran when he was concentrating on some immediate problem
or occupied with intense physical exertion, and slowly whenever his mind was free to
ponder their situation. His men worked valiantly—by saving them from the soldiers, he had
won their loyalty and devotion in a way that words never could—but it seemed ever more obvious
to him that, despite their efforts, they would not be able to finish the preparations in the
brief span of hours that remained.
All through the late morning, afternoon, and early evening, a sense of sick hopelessness
grew within Roran, and he cursed himself for deciding upon such a complicated and ambitious
plan.
I should have known from the start that we didn’t have the time for this, he thought. But it
was too late to try some other scheme. The only option left was to strive their utmost and
hope that, somehow, it would be enough to wrest victory from the mistakes of his incompetence.
When dusk arrived, a faint spark of optimism leavened his pessimism, for all of a sudden,
the preparations began to come together with unexpected speed. And a few hours later, when
it was fully dark and the stars shone bright overhead, he found himself standing by the mills
along with almost seven hundred of his men, having completed all of the arrangements
needed if they were to capture Aroughs before the end of the following day.
Roran uttered a short laugh of relief, pride, and incredulousness as he gazed upon the object
of their toils.
Then he congratulated the warriors around him and bade them return to their tents. “Rest
now, while you can. We attack at dawn!â€
And the men cheered, despite their evident exhaustion.
Inheritance
MY FRIEND, MY ENEMY
THAT NIGHT, RORAN’S sleep was shallow and troubled. It was impossible for him to entirely
relax, knowing the importance of the upcoming battle and that he might very well be
wounded during the fighting, as he often had been before. Those two thoughts caused a line
of vibrating tension to form between his head and the base of his spine, a line that pulled him
out of his dark, weird dreams at regular intervals.
As a result, he woke easily when a soft, dull thud sounded outside his tent.
He opened his eyes and stared at the panel of fabric above his head. The interior of the
tent was barely visible, and only because of the faint line of orange torchlight that seeped
through the gap between the flaps at the entrance. The air felt cold and dead against his skin,
as if he were buried in a cave deep underground. Whatever the time, it was late, very late.
Even the animals of the night would have returned to their lairs and gone to sleep. No one
ought to be up, save the sentinels, and the sentinels were stationed nowhere near his tent.
Roran kept his breathing as slow and shallow as he could while he listened for any other
noises. The loudest thing he heard was the beating of his own heart, which grew stronger and
faster as the line of tension within him thrummed like a plucked lute string.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Then, just when he began to think there was no cause for alarm and the hammering in his
veins began to slow, a shadow fell across the front of the tent, blocking the light from the
torches beyond. Roran’s pulse tripled, his heart pounding as hard as if he were running up the
side of a mountain. Whoever was there could not have come to rouse him for the assault on
Aroughs, nor to bring him some piece of intelligence, for they would not have hesitated to call
his name and barge inside.
A black-gloved hand—only a shade darker than the surrounding murk—slid between the
entrance flaps and groped for the tie that held them closed.
Roran opened his mouth to raise the alarm, then changed his mind. It would be foolish to
waste the advantage of surprise. Besides, if the intruder knew he had been spotted, he might
panic, and panic could make him even more dangerous.
With his right hand, Roran carefully pulled his dagger from under the rolled-up cloak he
used as a pillow and hid the weapon by his knee, beneath a fold in the blanket. At the same
time, he grasped the edge of the blankets with his other hand.
A rim of golden light outlined the shape of the intruder as he slipped into the tent. Roran
saw that the man was wearing a padded leather jerkin, but no plate or mail armor. Then the
flap fell shut, and darkness enveloped them again.
The faceless figure crept toward where Roran lay.
Roran felt as if he was going to pass out from lack of air as he continued to restrict his
breathing so that it would appear he was still asleep.
When the intruder was halfway to the cot, Roran tore his blankets off, threw them over the
man, and, with a wild yell, leaped toward him, drawing back the dagger to stab him in the gut.
“Wait!†cried the man. Surprised, Roran stayed his hand, and the two of them crashed to
the ground together. “Friend! I’m a friend!â€
A half second later, Roran gasped as he felt two hard blows to his left kidney. The pain
nearly incapacitated him, but he forced himself to roll away from the man, trying to put some
distance between them.
Roran pushed himself to his feet, then he again charged at his attacker, who was still
struggling to free himself from the blanket.
“Wait, I’m your friend!†cried the man, but Roran was not about to trust him a second time.
It was well he did not, for as he slashed at the intruder, the man trapped Roran’s right arm
and dagger with a twirl of the blankets, then slashed at Roran with a knife he had produced
from his jerkin. There was a faint tugging sensation across Roran’s chest, but it was so slight,
he paid it no mind.
Roran bellowed and yanked on the blanket as hard as he could, pulling the man off his
feet and throwing him against one side of the tent, which collapsed on top of them, trapping
them under the heavy wool. Roran shook the twisted blanket off his arm, then crawled toward
the man, feeling his way through the darkness.
The hard sole of a boot struck Roran’s left hand, and the tips of his fingers went numb.
Lunging forward, Roran caught the man by an ankle as he was trying to turn to face him
head-on. The man kicked like a rabbit and broke Roran’s grip, but Roran grabbed his ankle
again and squeezed it through the thin leather, digging his fingers into the tendon at the back
of the heel until the man roared in pain.
Before he could recover, Roran clawed his way up the man’s body and pinned his knife
hand to the ground. Roran tried to drive his dagger into the man’s side, but he was too slow;
his opponent found his wrist and seized it with a grip of iron.
“Who are you?†Roran growled.
“I’m your friend,†the man said, his breath warm in Roran’s face. It smelled like wine and
mulled cider. Then he kneed Roran in the ribs three times in quick succession.
Roran bashed his forehead against the assassin’s nose, breaking it with a loud snap. The
man snarled and thrashed underneath him, but Roran refused to let him go.
“You’re … no friend of mine,†said Roran, grunting as he bore down on his right arm and
slowly pushed the dagger toward the man’s side. As they strained against one another, Roran
was vaguely aware of people shouting outside the fallen tent.
At last the man’s arm buckled, and with sudden ease, the dagger plunged through his jerkin
and into the softness of living flesh. The man convulsed. Fast as he could, Roran stabbed
him several more times, then buried the dagger in his chest.
Through the hilt of the dagger, Roran felt the birdlike flutters of the man’s heart as it cut itself
to pieces on the razor-sharp blade. Twice more the man shuddered and jerked, then
ceased resisting and simply lay there, panting.
Roran continued to hold him as the life drained out of him, their embrace as intimate as
any lovers’. Though the man had tried to kill him, and though Roran knew nothing about him
besides that fact, he could not help but feel a sense of terrible closeness to him. Here was another
human being—another living, thinking creature—whose life was ending because of
what he had done.
“Who are you?†he whispered. “Who sent you?â€
“I … I almost killed you,†said the man, sounding perversely satisfied. Then he uttered a
long, hollow sigh, his body went limp, and he was no more.
Roran let his head fall forward against the man’s chest and gasped for air, shaking from
head to toe as the shock of the attack racked his limbs.
People began to pull at the fabric resting on top of him. “Get it off me!†Roran shouted, and
lashed out with his left arm, unable to bear any longer the oppressive weight of the wool, and
the darkness, and the cramped space, and the stifling air.
A rent appeared in the panel above him as someone cut through the wool. Warm, flickering
torchlight poured through the opening.
Frantic to escape his confinement, Roran lurched to his feet, grabbed at the edges of the
slit, and dragged himself out of the collapsed tent. He staggered into the light, wearing nothing
but his breeches, and looked round in confusion.
Baldor was standing there, as were Carn, Delwin, Mandel, and ten other warriors, all of
whom held swords and axes at the ready. None of the men were fully dressed, save for two,
whom Roran recognized as sentinels posted on the night watch.
“Gods,†someone exclaimed, and Roran turned to see one of the warriors peeling back the
side of the ruined tent to expose the corpse of the assassin.
The dead man was of an unimposing size, with long, shaggy hair gathered in a ponytail
and a leather patch mounted over his left eye. His nose was crooked and squashed
flat—broken by Roran—and a mask of blood covered the lower part of his shaved face. More
blood caked his chest and side and the ground beneath him. It appeared almost too much to
have come from a single person.
“Roran,†said Baldor. Roran continued to stare at the assassin, unable to tear his gaze
away. “Roran,†Baldor said again, but louder. “Roran, listen to me. Are you hurt? What
happened? … Roran!â€
The concern in Baldor’s voice finally caught Roran’s attention. “What?†he asked.
“Roran, are you hurt?!â€
Why would he think that? Puzzled, Roran looked down at himself. The hair on his torso
was matted with gore from top to bottom, while streaks of blood covered his arms and stained
the upper part of his breeches.
“I’m fine,†he said, though he had difficulty forming the words. “Has anyone else been attacked?â€
In response, Delwin and Hamund moved apart, revealing a slumped body. It was the
youth who had been running messages for him earlier.
“Ah!†groaned Roran, and sorrow filled him. “What was he doing wandering about?â€
One of the warriors stepped forward. “I shared a tent with him, Captain. He always had to
step out to relieve himself at night, ’cause he drank so much tea before turning in. His mother
told him it would keep him from getting sick. … He was a good sort, Captain. He didn’t deserve
to be cut down from behind by some sneaking coward.â€
“No, he didn’t,†Roran murmured. If he hadn’t been there, I would be dead now. He motioned
toward the assassin. “Are there any more of these killers on the loose?â€
The men stirred, glancing at each other; then Baldor said, “I don’t think so.â€
“Have you checked?â€
“No.â€
“Well then check! But try not to wake up everyone else; they need their sleep. And see to
it that guards are stationed at the tents of all the commanders from now on.†… Should have
thought of that before.
Roran stayed where he was, feeling dull and stupid as Baldor issued a series of quick orders,
and everyone but Carn, Delwin, and Hamund dispersed. Four of the warriors picked up
the crumpled remains of the boy and carried him away to bury, while the rest set out to search
the camp.
Going over to the assassin, Hamund nudged the man’s knife with the tip of his boot. “You
must have scared those soldiers more than we thought this morning.â€
“Must have.â€
Roran shivered. He was cold all over, especially his hands and feet, which were like ice.
Carn noticed and fetched him a blanket. “Here,†said Carn, and wrapped it around Roran’s
shoulders. “Come sit by one of the watchfires. I’ll have some water heated so you can clean
yourself. All right?â€
Roran nodded, not trusting his tongue to work.
Carn started to lead him away, but before they had gone more than a few feet, the magician
abruptly halted, forcing Roran to stop as well. “Delwin, Hamund,†said Carn, “bring me a
cot, something to sit on, a jug of mead, and several bandages as fast as you can. Now, if you
please.â€
Startled, the two men sprang into action.
“Why?†asked Roran, confused. “What’s wrong?â€
His expression grim, Carn pointed at Roran’s chest. “If you’re not wounded, then what’s
that, pray tell?â€
Roran looked where Carn was pointing and saw, hidden amid the hair and the gore on his
breast, a long, deep cut that started in the middle of his right chest muscle, ran across his
sternum, and ended just below his left nipple. At its widest, the gash hung open over a quarter
of an inch, and it resembled nothing so much as a lipless mouth stretched wide in a huge,
ghastly grin. The most disturbing feature of the cut, however, was the complete lack of blood;
not so much as a single drop oozed out of the incision. Roran could clearly see the thin layer
of yellow fat underneath his skin and, below it, the dark red muscle of his chest, which was
the same color as a slice of raw venison.
Accustomed as he was to the horrific damage that swords, spears, and other weapons
could wreak on flesh and bone, Roran still found the sight unnerving. He had suffered numerous
injuries in the course of fighting the Empire—most notably when one of the Ra’zac had
bitten his right shoulder during their capture of Katrina in Carvahall—but never before had he
received such a large or uncanny wound.
“Does it hurt?†Carn asked.
Roran shook his head without looking up. “No.†His throat tightened, and his heart—which
was still racing from the fight—redoubled in speed, pounding so fast that one beat could not
be distinguished from the next. Was the knife poisoned? he wondered.
“Roran, you have to relax,†said Carn. “I think I can heal you, but you’re only going to
make this more difficult if you pass out.†Taking him by the shoulder, he guided Roran back to
the cot that Hamund had just dragged out of a tent, and Roran obediently sat.
“How am I supposed to relax?†he asked with a short, brittle laugh.
“Breathe deeply and imagine you’re sinking into the ground each time you exhale. Trust
me; it’ll work.â€
Roran did as he was told, but the moment he released his third breath, his knotted
muscles began to unclench and blood sprayed from the cut, splashing Carn on the face. The
magician recoiled and uttered an oath. Fresh blood spilled down Roran’s stomach, hot
against his bare skin.
“Now it hurts,†he said, gritting his teeth.
“Oi!†shouted Carn, and waved at Delwin, who was running toward them, his arms full of
bandages and other items. As the villager deposited the mound of objects on one end of the
cot, Carn grabbed a wad of lint and pressed it against Roran’s wound, stopping the bleeding
for the moment. “Lie down,†he ordered.
Roran complied, and Hamund brought over a stool for Carn, who seated himself, keeping
pressure on the lint the whole while. Extending his free hand, Carn snapped his fingers and
said, “Open the mead and give it to me.â€
Once Delwin passed him the jug, Carn looked directly at Roran and said, “I have to clean
out the cut before I can seal it with magic. Do you understand?â€
Roran nodded. “Give me something to bite.â€
He heard the sound of buckles and straps being undone, then either Delwin or Hamund
placed a thick sword belt between his teeth, and he clamped down on it with all his strength.
“Do it!†he said as best he could past the obstruction in his mouth.
Before Roran had time to react, Carn plucked the lint off his chest and, in the same motion,
poured mead across his wound, washing the hair, gore, and other accumulated filth out
of the incision. As the mead struck, Roran uttered a strangled groan and arched his back,
scrabbling at the sides of the cot.
“There, all done,†said Carn, and put aside the jug.
Roran stared up at the stars, every muscle in his body quivering, and tried to ignore the
pain as Carn placed his hands over the wound and began to murmur phrases in the ancient
language.
After a few seconds, although it seemed more like minutes to Roran, he felt an almost unbearable
itch deep within his chest as Carn repaired the damage the assassin’s knife had
caused. The itch crawled upward, toward the surface of his skin, and where it passed, the
pain vanished. Still, the sensation was so unpleasant, it made him want to scratch at himself
until he tore his flesh.
When it was over, Carn sighed and slumped over, holding his head in his hands.
Forcing his rebellious limbs to do as he wished, Roran swung his legs over the edge of the
cot and sat upright. He ran a hand over his chest. Aside from the hair, it was perfectly smooth.
Whole. Unblemished. Exactly as it had been before the one-eyed man had snuck into his tent.
Magic.
Off to the side, Delwin and Hamund stood staring. They appeared a bit wide-eyed, though
he doubted anyone else would have noticed.
“Take yourselves to bed,†he said, and waved. “We’ll be leaving in a few hours, and I need
you to be alert.â€
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?†Delwin asked.
“Yes, yes,†he lied. “Thank you for your help, but go now. How am I supposed to rest with
the two of you hovering over me like mother hens?â€
After they had departed, Roran rubbed his face and then sat looking at his trembling,
bloodstained hands. He felt wrung out. Empty. As if he had done an entire week’s worth of
work in just a few minutes.
“Will you still be able to fight?†he asked Carn.
The magician shrugged. “Not so well as before. … It was a price that had to be paid,
though. We can’t go into battle without you to lead us.â€
Roran did not bother to argue. “You should get some rest. Dawn isn’t far off.â€
“What of you?â€
“I’m going to wash, find a tunic, and then check with Baldor and see if he’s ferreted out
any more of Galbatorix’s killers.â€
“Aren’t you going to lie down?â€
“No.†Without meaning to, he scratched at his chest. He stopped himself when he realized
what he was doing. “I couldn’t sleep before, and now …â€
“I understand.†Carn slowly rose from the stool. “I’ll be in my tent if you need me.â€
Roran watched him stumble heavy-footed into the darkness. When he was no longer visible,
Roran closed his eyes and thought of Katrina, in an attempt to calm himself. Summoning
what little remained of his strength, he went over to his collapsed tent and dug through it until
he located his clothes, weapons, armor, and a waterskin. The whole while, he studiously
avoided looking at the body of the assassin, though he sometimes caught a glimpse as he
moved about the pool of tangled cloth.
Finally, Roran knelt and, with eyes averted, yanked his dagger out of the corpse. The
blade came free with the slithery sound of metal scraping against bone. He gave the dagger a
hard shake, to remove any loose blood, and heard the splatter of several droplets striking the
ground.
In the cold silence of the night, Roran slowly prepared himself for battle. Then he sought
out Baldor—who assured him that no one else had gotten past the sentinels—and walked the
perimeter of the camp, reviewing every aspect of their upcoming assault on Aroughs. Afterward,
he found half a cold chicken left uneaten from dinner and sat gnawing on it and gazing
at the stars.
Yet, no matter what he did, his mind returned again and again to the sight of the young
man lying dead outside his tent. Who is it who decides that one man should live and another
should die? My life wasn’t worth any more than his, but he’s the one who’s buried, while I get
to enjoy at least a few more hours above the ground. Is it chance, random and cruel, or is
there some purpose or pattern to all this, even if it lies beyond our ken?
Inheritance
A FLOUR MADE OF FLAME
“HOW DO YOU like having a sister?†Roran asked Baldor as they rode side by side toward
the nearest set of mills in the gray half-light that precedes dawn.
“There’s not much to like, is there? I mean, there’s not much of her yet, if you take my
meaning. She’s as small as a kitten.†Baldor tugged on his reins as his horse tried to veer toward
a patch of particularly lush grass next to the trail. “It’s strange to have another sibling—
brother or sister—after so long.â€
Roran nodded. Twisting in the saddle, he glanced back over his shoulder, checking to
make sure that the column of six hundred and fifty men who were following them on foot were
keeping pace. At the mills, Roran dismounted and tethered his horse to a hitching post before
the lowest of the three buildings. One warrior stayed behind to escort the animals back to
camp.
Roran walked over to the canal and descended the wooden steps set within the muddy
bank, which brought him to the edge of the water. Then he stepped out onto the rearmost of
the four barges that were floating together in a line.
The barges were more like crude rafts than the flat-bottomed boats the villagers had ridden
down the coast from Narda to Teirm, for which Roran was grateful, because it meant that
they did not have pointed prows. This had made it relatively easy to fasten the four barges
end to end with boards, nails, and ropes, thus creating a single rigid structure almost five hundred
feet long.
The slabs of cut slate that the men had, at Roran’s direction, hauled in wagons from the
mine lay piled at the front of the lead barge, as well as along the sides of both the first and
second barges. On top of the slate, they had heaped sacks of flour—which they had found
stored within the mills—until they had built a wall level with their waists. Where the slate
ended on the second barge, the wall continued on, composed entirely of the sacks: two deep
and five high.
The immense weight of the slate and the densely packed flour, combined with that of the
barges themselves, served to transform the entire floating structure into a massive, waterborne
battering ram, which Roran hoped would be capable of plowing through the gate at the
far end of the canal as if it were made of so many rotted sticks. Even if the gate was enchanted—
though Carn did not believe it was—Roran didn’t think any one magician, save Galbatorix,
would be strong enough to negate the forward momentum of the barges once they
began to move downstream.
Also, the mounds of stone and flour would provide a measure of protection from spears,
arrows, and other projectiles.
Roran carefully made his way across the shifting decks to the head of the barges. He
wedged his spear and his shield against a pile of slate, then turned to watch as the warriors
filed into the corridor between the walls.
Every man who boarded pushed the heavily laden barges deeper and deeper into the water,
until they rode only a few inches above the surface.
Carn, Baldor, Hamund, Delwin, and Mandel joined Roran where he stood. They had all, by
unspoken consent, elected to take for themselves the most dangerous position on the floating
ram. If the Varden were to force their way into Aroughs, it would require a high degree of luck
and skill, and none of them were willing to trust the attempt to anyone else.
Toward the rear of the barges, Roran glimpsed Brigman standing among the men he had
once commanded. After Brigman’s near insubordination the previous day, Roran had stripped
him of all remaining authority and confined him to his tent. However, Brigman had begged to
be allowed to join the final attack on Aroughs, and Roran had reluctantly agreed; Brigman
was handy with a blade, and every sword would make a difference in the upcoming fight.
Roran still wondered if he had made the right decision. He was fairly confident that the
men were now loyal to him, not to Brigman, but Brigman had been their captain for many
months, and such bonds were not easily forgotten. Even if Brigman did not try to cause
trouble in the ranks, he had proved willing and able to ignore orders, at least when they came
from Roran.
If he gives me any reason to distrust him, I’ll strike him down on the spot, Roran thought.
But the resolution was a futile one. If Brigman did turn on him, it would most likely be in the
midst of such confusion that Roran would not even notice until it was too late.
When all but six of the men were packed onto the barges, Roran cupped his hands
around his mouth and shouted, “Pry them loose!â€
Two men stood upon the berm at the very top of the hill—the berm that slowed and held
back the flow of water down the canal from the marshes to the north. Twenty feet below them
lay the first waterwheel and the pool beneath it. At the front of that pool was the second berm,
whereon stood two more men. Another twenty feet below them was the second waterwheel
and the second deep, still pool. At the far end of the pool was the final berm and the final pair
of men. And at the base of the final berm was the third and last waterwheel. From it, the current
then flowed smoothly over the land until it arrived at Aroughs.
Built into the berms were the three sluice gates Roran had insisted upon closing, with
Baldor’s help, during his first visit to the mills. Over the course of the past two days, teams of
men wielding shovels and pickaxes had dived under the rising water and cut away at the
berms from the backsides until the layers of packed earth were nearly ready to give way.
Then they had driven long, stout beams into the dirt on either side of the sluice gates.
The men on the middle and topmost berms now grasped those beams—which protruded
several feet from the embankments—and began to work them back and forth with a steady
rhythm. In accordance with their plan, the duo stationed on the lowest berm waited several
moments before they, too, joined in the effort.
Roran gripped a flour sack as he watched. If their timing was off by even a few seconds,
disaster would ensue.
For almost a minute, nothing happened.
Then, with an ominous rumble, the topmost sluice gate was pried free. The berm bulged
outward, the earth cracking and crumbling, and a huge tongue of muddy water poured over
the waterwheel below, spinning it faster than it was ever intended to turn.
As the berm collapsed, the men standing on top of it jumped to shore, landing with only
inches to spare.
Spray shot up thirty feet or more as the tongue of water plunged into the smooth black
pool underneath the waterwheel. The impact sent a frothing wave several feet high rushing
toward the next berm.
Seeing it coming, the middlemost pair of warriors abandoned their posts, also leaping for
the safety of solid ground.
It was well they did. When the wave struck, needle-thin jets erupted around the frame of
the next sluice gate, which then flew out of its setting as if a dragon had kicked it, and the
churning contents of the pool swept away what remained of the berm.
The raging torrent crashed against the second waterwheel with even more force than it
had the previous one. The timbers groaned and creaked under the onslaught, and for the first
time, it occurred to Roran that one or more of the wheels might break loose. If that happened,
it would pose a serious danger to his men, as well as to the barges, and could very well end
the attack on Aroughs before it had even begun.
“Cut us loose!†he shouted.
One of the men chopped through the rope that tethered them to the bank, while others
bent to pick up ten-foot-long poles, which they stuck into the canal and pushed on with all
their might.
The heavily laden barges inched forward, gaining speed far slower than Roran would have
liked.
Even as the avalanche of water bore down upon them, the two men standing on the lowest
berm continued to pull on the beams embedded within the weakened rampart. Less than
a second before the avalanche washed over them, the berm shuddered and sagged, and the
men threw themselves off of it.
The water punched a hole in the earthen dam as easily as if it were made of sodden bread
and slammed into the final waterwheel. Wood shattered—the sound as loud and sharp as
breaking ice—and the wheel canted outward several degrees, but to Roran’s relief, it held.
Then, with a thunderous roar, the pillar of water dashed itself against the base of the terraced
hill with an explosion of mist.
A gust of cold wind slapped Roran in the face, more than two hundred yards downstream.
“Faster!†he shouted to the men poling the barge, as a turbulent mass of water emerged
from within the folds of mist and hurtled down the canal.
The flood overtook them with incredible speed. When it collided with the back of the four
conjoined barges, the entire craft jolted forward, throwing Roran and the warriors toward the
stern and knocking a number of them off their feet. Some sacks of flour dropped into the
canal or rolled inward, against the men.
As the surging water lifted the rearmost barge several feet above the rest, the nearly fivehundred-
foot-long vessel began to slue sideways. If the trend continued, Roran knew they
would soon become wedged between the banks of the canal, and that, moments later, the
force of the current would tear the barges apart.
“Keep us straight!†he bellowed, pushing himself off the sacks of flour he had fallen on.
“Don’t let us turn!â€
At the sound of his voice, the warriors scrambled to push the lumbering vessel away from
the sloping banks and toward the center of the canal. Springing atop the piles of slate at the
prow, Roran shouted directions, and together they successfully steered the barges down the
curving channel.
“We did it!†Baldor exclaimed, a stupid grin on his face.
“Don’t crow yet,†Roran warned. “We still have a ways to go.â€
The eastern sky had turned straw yellow by the time they were level with their camp, a
mile from Aroughs. At the speed they were moving, they would reach the city before the sun
peeked over the horizon, and the gray shadows that covered the land would help shroud
them from the lookouts stationed on the walls and towers.
Although the leading edge of the water had already outstripped them, the barges were still
gathering speed, as the city lay below the mills and there was not a single hill or hummock
between to slow their progress.
“Listen,†said Roran, cupping his hands around his mouth and raising his voice so that all
the men could hear. “We may fall into the water when we hit the outer gate, so be prepared to
swim. Until we can get onto dry land, we’ll make easy targets. Once we’re ashore, we have
but one goal: to make our way up to the inner wall before they think to close the gates there,
because if they do, we’ll never capture Aroughs. If we can get past that second wall, it should
be a simple matter to find Lord Halstead and force his surrender. Failing that, we’ll secure the
fortifications at the center of the city, then move outward, street by street, until all of Aroughs
is under our control.
“Remember, we’ll be outnumbered by more than two to one, so stay close to your shield
mate and be on your guard at all times. Don’t wander off by yourself, and don’t let yourself be
separated from the rest of the group. The soldiers know the streets better than we do, and
they’ll ambush you when you least expect it. If you do end up alone, head for the center, because
that’s where we’ll be.
“Today we strike a mighty blow for the Varden. Today we win honor and glory such as
most men dream about. Today … today we grave our mark onto the face of history. What we
accomplish in the next few hours, the bards will sing about for a hundred years to come.
Think of your friends. Think of your families, of your parents, your wives, your children. Fight
well, for we fight for them. We fight for freedom!â€
The men roared in response.
Roran let them work themselves into a frenzy; then he lifted a hand and said, “Shields!â€
And, as one, the men crouched and lifted their shields, covering themselves and their companions
so that it looked as if the middle of the makeshift battering ram were clad in scale armor
made to fit the limb of a giant.
Satisfied, Roran hopped down from the pile of slate and looked at Carn, Baldor, and the
four other men who had traveled with him from Belatona. The youngest, Mandel, appeared
apprehensive, but Roran knew his nerves would hold.
“Ready?†he asked, and they each answered in the affirmative.
Then Roran laughed, and when Baldor pressed him for an explanation, he said, “If only
my father could see me now!â€
And Baldor laughed as well.
Roran kept a keen eye on the main swell of the water. Once it entered the city, the soldiers
might notice that something was amiss and raise the alarm. He wanted them to raise the
alarm, but not for that reason, and so, when it appeared the swell was about five minutes
away from Aroughs, he motioned to Carn and said, “Send the signal.â€
The magician nodded and hunched over, his lips moving as they formed the strange
shapes of the ancient language. After a few moments, he straightened and said, “It is done.â€
Roran looked off to the west. There, on the field before Aroughs, stood the Varden’s catapults,
ballistae, and siege towers. The siege towers remained motionless, but the other engines
of war stirred into action, casting their darts and stones in high, arcing paths toward the
pristine white walls of the city. And he knew that fifty of his men on the far side of the city were
even then blowing trumpets, yelling war cries, firing flaming arrows, and doing everything they
could to draw the attention of the defending soldiers and make it appear as if a far larger force
were attempting to storm the city.
A deep calm settled over Roran.
Battle was about to be joined.
Men were about to die.
He might be one of them.
Knowing this gave him a clarity of thought, and every trace of exhaustion vanished, along
with the faint tremor that had plagued him since the attempt on his life just hours before. Nothing
was so invigorating as fighting—not food, not laughter, not working with his hands, not
even love—and though he hated it, he could not deny the power of its attraction. He had never
wanted to be a warrior, but a warrior he had become, and he was determined to best all
who came before him.
Squatting, Roran peered between two sharp-edged slabs of slate at the rapidly approaching
gate that barred their path. To the surface of the water and somewhat below, for the water
had risen, the gate was made of solid oak planks, stained dark with age and moisture. Beneath
the surface, he knew there was a grid of iron and wood, much like a portcullis, through
which the water was free to pass. The upper part would be the most difficult to breach, but he
guessed that long periods of immersion had weakened the grid below, and if part of it could
be torn away, breaking through the oak boards above would be far easier. Thus, he had
ordered two stout logs attached to the underside of the lead barge. Since these were submerged,
they would strike the lower half of the gate even as the prow rammed into the upper.
It was a clever plan, but he had no idea if it would really work.
“Steady,†he whispered more to himself than anyone else as the gate drew near.
A few of the warriors near the rear of the craft continued to steer the barges with their
poles, but the rest remained hidden beneath the lapped carapace of shields.
The mouth of the archway that led to the gate loomed large before them, like the entrance
to a cave. As the tip of the vessel slid underneath the shadowed archway, Roran saw the face
of a soldier, as round and white as a full moon, appear over the edge of the wall, more than
thirty feet above, and peer down at the barges with an expression of horrified astonishment.
The barges were moving so fast by then, Roran only had time to utter a single pungent
curse before the current swept them into the cool darkness of the passageway, and the vaulted
ceiling cut off his view of the soldier.
The barges struck the gate.
The force of the impact threw Roran forward against the wall of slate he squatted behind.
His head bounced off the stone, and though he wore a helm and arming cap, his ears rang.
The deck shuddered and reared, and even through the noise in his ears, he heard wood
cracking and breaking, and the shriek of twisting metal.
One of the slate slabs slipped backward and fell onto him, bruising his arms and
shoulders. He grabbed the slab by the edges and, with a burst of furious strength, threw it
overboard, where it shattered against the side of the passageway.
In the gloom that surrounded them, it was difficult to see what was happening; all was
shifting confusion and echoing clamor. Water poured over his feet, and he realized that the
barge was awash, though whether it would sink, he could not tell.
“Give me an ax!†he shouted, holding a hand out behind him. “An ax, give me an ax!â€
He staggered as the barge lurched forward half a foot, nearly knocking him over. The gate
had caved inward somewhat, but it was still holding firm. In time, the continued pressure of
the water might push the barge through the gate, but he could not wait for nature to take its
course.
As someone pressed the smooth haft of an ax into his outstretched hand, six glowing rectangles
appeared in the ceiling as covers were drawn back from murder holes. The rectangles
flickered, and crossbow bolts hissed down upon the barges, adding loud thumps to the tumult
wherever they struck wood.
Somewhere a man screamed.
“Carn!†shouted Roran. “Do something!â€
Leaving the magician to his devices, Roran started to crawl up the heaving deck and over
the piles of slate toward the prow of the barge. And the barge lurched forward several more
inches. Another deafening groan emanated from the center of the gate, and light shone
through cracks in the oaken planks.
A quarrel skipped off the slate next to Roran’s right hand, leaving a smear of iron on the
stone.
He redoubled his speed.
Just as he reached the very front of the barge, a piercing, grating, tearing sound forced
him to clap his hands over his ears and pull back.
A heavy wave washed over him, blinding him for a moment. Blinking to clear his vision, he
saw that part of the gate had collapsed into the canal; there was now enough space for the
barge to gain access to the city. Above the prow of the vessel, however, jagged spars of
wood stuck out from the remnants of the gate at the same height as a man’s chest, neck, or
head.
Without hesitation, Roran rolled backward and dropped behind the breastwork of slate.
“Heads down!†he roared, covering himself with his shield.
The barges glided forward, out of the hail of deadly crossbow bolts and into an enormous
stone room lit by torches mounted on the walls.
At the far end of the room, the water in the canal flowed through another lowered gate,
this one a portcullis from top to bottom. Through the latticework of wood and metal, Roran
could see buildings within the city proper.
Extending from both sides of the room were stone quays for loading and unloading cargo.
Pulleys, ropes, and empty nets hung from the ceiling, and a crane was mounted upon a high
stone platform in the middle of each artificial shore. At the front of the room and at the back,
stairs and walkways protruding from the mold-covered walls would allow a person to cross
over the water without getting wet. The rear walkway also granted access to the guardrooms
above the tunnel the barges had entered through, as well as, Roran assumed, to the upper
part of the city’s defenses, such as the parapet where he had seen the soldier.
Frustration welled up inside of Roran as he beheld the lowered gate. He had hoped to be
able to sail straight into the main body of the city and avoid getting trapped on the water by
the guards.
Well, it can’t be helped now, he thought.
Behind them, crimson-clad soldiers poured out of the guardrooms onto the walkway,
where they knelt and began to crank on their crossbows, readying them for another volley.
“Over!†Roran shouted, waving his arm toward the docks on the left. The warriors grabbed
their poles once more and pushed the interlocked barges toward the edge of the canal. The
dozens and dozens of bolts that protruded from their shields gave the company the appearance
of a hedgehog.
As the barge neared the docks, twenty of the defending soldiers drew their swords and
ran down the stairs off the walkway to intercept the Varden before they could land.
“Hurry!†he shouted.
A bolt buried itself in his shield, the diamond-shaped tip boring through the inch-and-ahalf-
thick wood to protrude over his forearm. He stumbled and caught himself, knowing that
he had only moments before more archers fired on him.
Then Roran jumped for the dock, arms spread wide for balance. He landed heavily, one
knee striking the floor, and only just had time to pull his hammer from his belt before the soldiers
were upon him.
It was with a sense of relief and savage joy that Roran met them. He was sick of plotting
and planning and worrying about what might be. Here at last were honest foes—not creeping
assassins—that he could fight and kill.
The encounter was short, fierce, and bloody. Roran slew or incapacitated three of the soldiers
within the first few seconds. Then Baldor, Delwin, Hamund, Mandel, and others joined
him to force the soldiers away from the water.
Roran was no swordsman, so he made no attempt to fence with his opponents. Instead,
he let them hit his shield all they wanted, while he used his hammer to break their bones in return.
Occasionally, he had to parry a cut or a stab, but he tried to avoid exchanging more than
a few blows with any one person, because he knew his lack of experience would soon prove
fatal. The most useful trick of fighting, he had discovered, was not some fancy twirl of the
sword or some complicated feint that took years to master, but rather seizing the initiative and
doing whatever his enemy least expected.
Breaking free of the brawl, Roran sprinted toward the stairs that led to the walkway where
the archers knelt, firing at the men scrambling off the barges.
Roran bounded up the stairs three at a time and, swinging his hammer, caught the first
archer full in the face. The next soldier in line had already fired his crossbow, so he dropped it
and reached for the hilt of his short sword, retreating backward as he did.
The soldier only managed to pull his blade partway out of its sheath before Roran struck
him in the chest, breaking his ribs.
One of the things Roran liked about fighting with a hammer was that he did not have to
pay much attention to what kind of armor his opponents were wearing. A hammer, like any
blunt weapon, inflicted injuries by the strength of its impact, not by the cutting or piercing of
flesh. The simplicity of the approach appealed to him.
The third soldier on the walkway managed to shoot a bolt at him before he took another
step. This time the shaft of the quarrel made it halfway through his shield and almost poked
him in the chest. Keeping the deadly point well away from his body, Roran charged the man
and swung at his shoulder. The soldier used his crossbow to block the attack, so Roran immediately
followed with a backhand blow of his shield, which knocked the soldier screaming
and flailing over the railing of the walkway.
The maneuver left Roran wholly exposed, however, and as he returned his attention to the
five soldiers who remained on the walkway, he saw three of them aiming straight at his heart.
The soldiers fired.
Just before the bolts tore through him, they veered to the right and skittered across the
blackened walls, like giant angry wasps.
Roran knew it was Carn who had saved him, and he resolved to find some way to thank
the magician once they were no longer in mortal danger.
He charged the remaining soldiers and dispatched them with a furious volley of strikes, as
if they were so many bent nails he was hammering down. Then he broke off the crossbow
bolt that was sticking through his shield and turned to see how the battle below was progressing.
The last soldier on the docks crumpled to the blood-streaked floor at that very moment,
and his head rolled away from his body and dropped into the canal, where it sank beneath a
plume of bubbles.
Roughly two-thirds of the Varden had disembarked and were gathering in orderly ranks
along the edge of the water.
Roran opened his mouth, intending to order them to move back from the canal—so that
the men still on the barges had more room to get off—when the doors set into the left wall
burst open and a horde of soldiers poured into the room.
Blast it! Where are they coming from? And how many are there?
Just as Roran started toward the stairs to help his men fend off the newcomers,
Carn—who still stood at the head of the listing barges—raised his arms, pointed at the onrushing
soldiers, and shouted a series of harsh, twisted words in the ancient language.
At his eldritch command, two sacks of flour and a single slab of slate flew off the barges
and into the ranks of closely packed soldiers, cutting down over a dozen. The sacks burst
open after the third or fourth impact, and clouds of ivory flour billowed out over the soldiers,
blinding and choking them.
A second later, there was a flare of light next to the wall behind the soldiers, and a huge
roiling fireball, orange and sooty, raced through the clouds of flour, devouring the fine powder
with rapacious greed and producing a sound like a hundred flags flapping in a high wind.
Roran ducked behind his shield and felt searing heat against his legs and the bare skin of
his cheeks as the fireball burned itself out only yards away from the walkway, glowing motes
becoming ash that drifted downward: a black, charnel rain fitting only for a funeral.
Once the sullen glare had faded, he cautiously raised his head. A tendril of hot, foulsmelling
smoke tickled his nostrils and stung his eyes, and with a start, he realized that his
beard was on fire. He cursed and dropped his hammer and batted at the tiny grasping flames
until he had extinguished them.
“Oi!†he shouted down at Carn. “You singed my beard! Be more careful, or I’ll have your
head on a pike!â€
Most of the soldiers lay curled on the ground, cupping their burned faces. Others were
thrashing about with their clothes on fire or were flailing blindly in circles with their weapons,
in an attempt to fend off any attacks by the Varden. Roran’s own men appeared to have escaped
with only minor burns—most had been standing outside the radius of the fireball—
although the unexpected conflagration had left them disoriented and unsteady.
“Stop gaping like fools and get after those groping rascals before they regain their
senses!†he ordered, banging his hammer against the railing to ensure that he had their attention.
The Varden heavily outnumbered the soldiers, and by the time Roran reached the bottom
of the stairs, they had already put to death fully three-quarters of the defending force.
Leaving the disposal of the few remaining soldiers to his more-than-able warriors, Roran
made his way toward the large double doors to the left of the canal—doors wide enough for
two wagons to drive through abreast. As he did, he came upon Carn, who was sitting at the
base of the crane’s platform, eating out of a leather pouch he always carried. The pouch, Roran
knew, contained a mixture of lard, honey, powdered beef liver, lamb’s heart, and berries.
The one time Carn had given him a piece, he had gagged—but even a few bites could keep a
man on his feet for a whole day’s worth of hard work.
To Roran’s concern, the magician looked utterly exhausted. “Can you continue?†Roran
asked, pausing by him.
Carn nodded. “I just need a moment. … The bolts in the tunnel, and then the sacks of flour
and the piece of slate …†He pushed another morsel of food in his mouth. “It was a bit much
all at once.â€
Reassured, Roran started to move away, but Carn caught him by the arm. “I didn’t do it,â€
he said, and his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Singe your beard, that is. The torches must
have started the fire.â€
Roran grunted, and continued on to the doors. “Form up!†he shouted, and slapped his
shield with the flat of his hammer. “Baldor, Delwin, you take the lead with me. The rest of you,
line up behind us. Shields out, swords drawn, arrows nocked. Halstead probably doesn’t
know yet that we’re in the city, so don’t let anyone escape who could warn him. … Ready,
then? Right, with me!â€
Together he and Baldor—whose cheeks and nose were red from the explosion—unbarred
the doors and threw them open, revealing the interior of Aroughs.
Inheritance
DUST AND ASHES
DOZENS OF LARGE plaster-sided buildings stood clustered around the portal in the city’s
outer wall, where the canal entered Aroughs. All of the buildings—cold and forbidding with the
empty stare of their black windows—appeared to be warehouses or storage facilities, which,
coupled with the early-morning hour, meant it was unlikely that anyone had noticed the
Varden’s clash with the guards.
Roran had no intention of staying around to find out for sure.
Hazy rays of newborn light streaked horizontally across the city, gilding the tops of the
towers, the battlements, the cupolas, and the slanted roofs. The streets and alleyways were
cloaked in shadows the color of tarnished silver, and the water in its stone-lined channel was
dark and dismal and laced with streaks of blood. High above gleamed a lone wandering star,
a furtive spark in the brightening blue mantle, where the sun’s growing radiance had obscured
all of the other nighttime jewels.
Forward the Varden trotted, their leather boots scuffing against the cobblestone street.
Off in the distance, a cock crowed.
Roran led them through the warren of buildings toward the inner wall of the city, but not always
choosing the most obvious or direct route, so as to reduce their chances of encountering
someone in the streets. The lanes they followed were narrow and murky, and sometimes
he had difficulty seeing where he was placing his feet.
Filth clotted the gutters of the streets. The stench filled him with loathing and made him
wish for the open fields he was used to.
How can anyone bear to live in such conditions? he wondered. Even pigs won’t wallow in
their own dirt.
Away from the curtain wall, the buildings changed to houses and shops: tall, crossbeamed,
with whitewashed walls and wrought-iron fixtures upon the doors. Behind the
shuttered windows, Roran sometimes heard the sound of voices, or the clatter of dishes, or
the scrape of a chair being pulled across a wooden floor.
We’re running out of time, he thought. Another few minutes and the streets would be
teeming with the denizens of Aroughs.
As if to fulfill his prediction, two men stepped out of an alleyway in front of the column of
warriors. Both of the city dwellers carried yokes on their shoulders with buckets of fresh milk
hanging off the ends.
The men stopped with surprise as they saw the Varden, the milk sloshing out of the buckets.
Their eyes widened, and their mouths fell open in preparation of some exclamation.
Roran halted, as did the troop behind him. “If you scream, we’ll kill you,†he said in a soft,
friendly voice.
The men shivered and inched away.
Roran stepped forward. “If you run, we’ll kill you.†Without taking his eyes off the two
frightened men, he uttered Carn’s name and, when the magician arrived at his side, he said,
“Put them to sleep for me, if you would.â€
The magician quickly recited a phrase in the ancient language, ending with a word that
sounded to Roran something like slytha. The two men collapsed bonelessly to the ground,
their buckets tipping over as they struck the cobblestones. Milk sheeted down the lane, forming
a delicate web of white veins as it settled into the grooves between the stones of the
street.
“Pull them off to the side,†Roran said, “where they can’t be seen.â€
As soon as his warriors had dragged the two unconscious men out of the way, he ordered
the Varden forward once more, resuming their hurried march toward the inner wall.
Before they had gone more than a hundred feet, however, they turned a corner and ran
headlong into a group of four soldiers.
This time Roran showed no mercy. He sprinted across the space that separated them
and, while the soldiers were still trying to gather their wits, he buried the flat blade of his hammer
into the base of the lead soldier’s neck. Likewise, Baldor cut down one of the other soldiers,
swinging his sword with a strength few men could match, a strength born of years spent
working at his father’s forge.
The last two soldiers squawked with alarm, turned, and ran.
An arrow shot past Roran’s shoulder from somewhere behind him and took one soldier in
the back, knocking him to the ground. A moment later, Carn barked, “Jierda!†The neck of the
final soldier broke with an audible snap, and he tumbled forward to lie motionless in the center
of the street.
The soldier with the arrow in him began to scream: “The Varden are here! The Varden are
here! Sound the alarm, the—â€
Drawing his dagger, Roran ran over to the man and cut his throat. He wiped the blade
clean on the man’s tunic, then stood and said, “Move out, now!â€
As one, the Varden charged up the streets toward the inner wall of Aroughs.
When they were only a hundred feet away, Roran stopped in an alley behind a house and
raised a hand, signaling his men to wait. Then he crept along the side of the house and
peered around the corner at the portcullis set within the tall granite wall.
The gate was closed.
To the left of the gate, however, a small sally port stood wide open. Even as he watched,
a soldier ran out through it and headed off toward the western edge of the city.
Roran cursed to himself as he stared at the sally port. He was not about to give up, not
when they had made it this far, but their position was growing ever more precarious, and he
had no doubt that they had only a few more minutes before curfew lifted and their presence
became widely known.
He withdrew behind the side of the house and bowed his head as he thought furiously.
“Mandel,†he said, and snapped his fingers. “Delwin, Carn, and you three.†He pointed at a
trio of fierce-looking warriors—older men who, by their very age, he knew must have a knack
for winning battles. “Come with me. Baldor, you’re in charge of the rest. If we don’t make it
back, get yourselves to safety. That’s an order.â€
Baldor nodded, his expression grim.
With the six warriors he had selected, Roran circled the main thoroughfare that led to the
gate until they reached the rubbish-strewn base of the outward-slanting wall, perhaps fifty feet
from the portcullis and the open sally port.
A soldier was stationed on each of the two gate towers, but at the moment, neither was
visible, and unless they stuck their heads over the edges of the battlements, they would not
be able to see Roran and his companions approaching.
In a whisper, Roran said, “Once we’re through the door, you, you, and youâ€â€”he motioned
at Carn, Delwin, and one of the other warriors—“make for the guardhouse on the other side
fast as you can. We’ll take the near one. Do what you have to, but get that gate open. There
may be only one wheel to turn, or we may have to work together to raise it, so don’t think you
can go and die on me. Ready? … Now!â€
Running as quietly as he could, Roran dashed along the wall and, with a quick turn, darted
into the sally port.
Before him was a twenty-foot-long chamber that opened to a large square with a tiered
fountain in the center. Men in fine clothes were hurrying back and forth across the square,
many of them clutching scrolls.
Ignoring them, Roran turned to a closed door, which he unlatched by hand, restraining the
urge to kick it open. Through the door was a dingy guardroom with a spiral staircase built into
one wall.
He raced up the stairs and, after a single revolution, found himself in a low-ceilinged room,
where five soldiers were smoking and playing dice at a table set next to a huge windlass
wrapped with chains as thick as his arm.
“Greetings!†said Roran in a deep, commanding voice. “I have a most important message
for you.â€
The soldiers hesitated, then sprang to their feet, pushing back the benches they were sitting
on. The wooden legs screeched as they dragged over the floor.
They were too late. Brief though it was, their indecision was all Roran needed to cross the
distance between them before the soldiers could draw their weapons.
Roran bellowed as he waded into their midst, lashing out left and right with his hammer
and driving the five men back into a corner. Then Mandel and the two other warriors were at
his side, swords flashing. Together they made short work of the guards.
When he stood over the twitching body of the last soldier, Roran spat on the ground and
said, “Don’t trust strangers.â€
The fighting had polluted the room with a collection of horrific odors, which seemed to
press against Roran like a thick, heavy blanket made of the most unpleasant substance he
could imagine. He was barely able to breathe without being sick, so he covered his nose and
mouth with the sleeve of his tunic, trying to filter out some of the smells.
The four of them went to the windlass, being careful not to slip on the pools of blood, and
studied it for a moment as they figured out its workings.
Roran spun around, raising his hammer as he heard a clink of metal and then the loud
creak of a wooden trapdoor being pulled open, followed by a clatter of footsteps as a soldier
descended the winding staircase from the gate tower above.
“Taurin, what in the blazes is going—†The soldier’s voice died in his throat and he
stopped partway down the stairs as he caught sight of Roran and his companions, as well as
the mangled bodies in the corner.
A warrior to Roran’s right threw a spear at the soldier, but the soldier ducked and the
spear struck the wall above him. The soldier cursed and scrambled back up the stairs on all
fours, vanishing behind a curve of the wall.
A moment later, the trapdoor slammed shut with an echoing boom, and then they heard
the soldier wind a horn and shout frantic warnings to the people in the square.
Roran scowled and returned to the windlass. “Leave him,†he said, shoving his hammer
under his belt. He leaned against the spoked wheel used to raise and lower the portcullis and
pushed as hard as he could, straining every muscle. The other men added their strength to
his, and slowly, ever so slowly, the wheel began to turn, the ratchet on the side of the windlass
clicking loudly as the huge wooden catch slid over the teeth below.
The effort needed to turn the wheel became substantially easier a few seconds later, a
fact that Roran attributed to the team he had sent to infiltrate the other guardhouse.
They did not bother to raise the portcullis all the way; after a half minute of grunting and
sweating, the fierce war cries of the Varden reached their ears as the men waiting outside
charged through the gate and into the square.
Roran released the wheel, then pulled out his hammer again and made for the stairs with
the others in tow.
Outside the guardhouse, he spotted Carn and Delwin just as they emerged from the structure
on the other side of the gate. Neither appeared injured, but Roran noticed that the older
warrior who had accompanied them was now absent.
While they waited for Roran’s group to rejoin them, Baldor and the rest of the Varden organized
themselves into a solid block of men at the edge of the square. They stood five ranks
deep, shoulder to shoulder with their shields overlapping.
As he trotted over to them, Roran saw a large contingent of soldiers emerge from among
the buildings at the far side of the square. There they assumed a defensive formation, angling
their spears and pikes outward, so they resembled a long, low pincushion stuck full of
needles. He estimated that about one hundred fifty soldiers were present—a number that his
warriors could certainly overcome, but at a cost of both time and men.
His mood grew even more grim as the same hook-nosed magician whom he had seen on
the previous day stepped out in front of the rows of soldiers and spread his arms above his
head, a nimbus of black lighting crackling around each of his hands. Roran had learned
enough about magic from Eragon to know that the lightning was probably more for show than
anything else, but show or not, he had no doubt that the enemy spellcaster was enormously
dangerous.
Carn arrived at the head of the warriors seconds after Roran. Together they and Baldor
gazed at the magician and the ridge of soldiers assembled in opposition.
“Can you kill him?†Roran asked quietly, so the men behind him could not hear.
“I’ll have to try, now won’t I?†replied Carn. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Perspiration beaded his face.
“If you want, we can rush him. He can’t kill us all before we wear down his wards and put
a blade through his heart.â€
“You don’t know that. … No, this is my responsibility, and I have to deal with it.â€
“Is there anything we can do to help?â€
Carn uttered a nervous laugh. “You could shoot some arrows at him. Blocking them might
weaken him enough that he’ll make a mistake. But whatever you do, don’t get between us. …
It won’t be safe, for you or for me.â€
Roran transferred his hammer to his left hand, then placed his right on Carn’s shoulder.
“You’ll be fine. Remember, he’s not that clever. You tricked him before, and you can trick him
again.â€
“I know.â€
“Good luck,†said Roran.
Carn nodded once, then walked toward the fountain in the center of the square. The light
from the sun had reached the plume of dancing water, which glittered like handfuls of diamonds
tossed into the air.
The hook-nosed magician also walked toward the fountain, matching his steps to Carn’s
until they stood only twenty feet apart, whereupon they both stopped.
From where Roran was standing, Carn and his opponent appeared to be talking to each
other, but they were too far away for him to make out what they said. Then both of the
spellcasters went rigid, as if someone had jabbed them with poniards.
That was what Roran had been waiting for: a sign that they were dueling with their minds,
too busy to pay attention to their surroundings.
“Archers!†he barked. “Go there and there,†and he pointed at either side of the square.
“Put as many arrows into that traitorous dog as you can, but don’t you dare hit Carn or I’ll
have you fed alive to Saphira.â€
The soldiers shifted uneasily as the two groups of archers advanced partway across the
square, but none of Galbatorix’s crimson-clad troops broke formation or moved to engage the
Varden.
They must have a great deal of confidence in that pet viper of theirs, Roran thought, concerned.
Dozens of brown, goose-feather-fletched arrows arched spinning and whistling toward the
enemy magician, and for a moment, Roran hoped that they might be able to kill him. Five feet
from the hook-nosed man, however, every single shaft shattered and dropped to the ground,
as if they had run headlong into a wall of stone.
Roran bounced on his heels, too tense to stand still. He hated having to wait, doing nothing,
while his friend was in danger. Moreover, every passing moment gave Lord Halstead
more of an opportunity to figure out what was happening and devise an effective response. If
Roran’s men were to avoid being crushed by the Empire’s superior forces, they had to keep
their enemies off balance, unsure of where to turn or what to do.
“On your toes!†he said, turning to the warriors. “Let’s see if we can do some good while
Carn is fighting to save our necks. We’re going to flank those soldiers. Half of you come with
me; the rest follow Delwin here. They can’t block off every single street, so Delwin, you and
your men work your way past the soldiers, then loop back around and attack them from behind.
We’ll keep them busy on this front, so they won’t put up much resistance. If any of the
soldiers try to run, let them. It would take too long to kill them all anyway. Got it? … Go, go,
go!â€
The men quickly separated into two groups. Leading his, Roran ran up the right-hand
edge of the square, while Delwin did the same on the left.
When both bands of men were almost level with the fountain, Roran saw the enemy magician
look toward him. It was the merest flicker of a glance, sidelong and fleeting, but the distraction,
whether intended or not, seemed to have an immediate effect on his duel with Carn.
As the hook-nosed man returned his gaze to Carn, the snarl upon his face deepened into a
painful rictus, and veins began to bulge on his knotted brow and on his corded neck, and his
whole head flushed a dark, angry red, as if it were so swollen with blood that it might burst
asunder.
“No!†howled the man, and then he shouted something in the ancient language that Roran
could not understand.
A fraction of a second later, Carn shouted something as well and, for a moment, their two
voices overlapped with such a dire mixture of terror, desolation, hate, and fury that Roran
knew deep in his bones that the duel had somehow gone horribly wrong.
Carn vanished amid a blaze of blue light. Then a white, dome-like shell flashed outward
from where he had been standing and expanded across the square in less time than it took
Roran to blink.
The world went black. An unbearable heat pressed against Roran, and everything turned
and twisted around him as he tumbled through a formless space.
His hammer was wrenched out of his hand, and pain erupted in the side of his right knee.
Then a hard object smashed into his mouth, and he felt a tooth pop loose, filling his mouth
with blood.
When he finally came to rest, he remained where he was, lying on his belly, too stunned to
move. His senses gradually returned, and he saw the smooth, gray-green surface of a paving
stone underneath his nose, and he smelled the lead mortar that surrounded the stone, and all
throughout his body he became aware of aches and bruises clamoring for his attention. The
only sound he could hear was that of his pounding heart.
Some of the blood in his mouth and throat went into his lungs as he started to breathe
again. Desperate for air, he coughed and sat upright, spitting out gobs of black phlegm. He
saw the tooth, one of his incisors, fly out and bounce against the paving stone, startling white
against the splotches of spewed blood. He caught it and examined it; the end of the incisor
was chipped, but the root appeared intact, so he licked the tooth clean then pushed it back into
the hole in his gums, wincing as he poked the sore flesh.
Levering himself off the ground, he got to his feet. He had been thrown against the doorstep
of one of the houses that bordered the square. His men were scattered about him, arms
and legs askew, helmets lost, swords torn away.
Again Roran was grateful that he carried a hammer, for several of the Varden had managed
to stab themselves or their shield mates during the tumult.
Hammer? Where is my hammer? he belatedly thought. He cast about the ground until he
spotted the handle of his weapon protruding from beneath the legs of a nearby warrior. He
pulled it free, then turned to look at the square.
Soldiers and Varden alike had been tossed sprawling. Nothing remained of the fountain
except for a low pile of rubble from which water spurted at erratic intervals. Next to it, where
Carn had been, lay a blackened, withered corpse, its smoking limbs clenched tight, like those
of a dead spider, the whole thing so charred and pitted and burned away that it was barely recognizable
as anything that had once been alive or human. Inexplicably, the hook-nosed magician
still stood in the same place, though the explosion had robbed him of his outer clothes,
leaving him wearing nothing but his breeches.
Uncontrollable anger gripped Roran, and without a thought for his own preservation, he
staggered toward the center of the square, determined to kill the magician once and for all.
The bare-chested conjurer held his ground even as Roran drew near. Raising his hammer,
Roran broke out into a shambling run and shouted a war cry that he could hear but
dimly.
And yet the magician made no move to defend himself.
In fact, Roran realized that the spellcaster had not stirred so much as an inch since the explosion.
It was as if he were a statue of a man and not the thing itself.
The spellcaster’s seeming indifference to Roran’s approach tempted Roran to ignore the
man’s unusual behavior—or lack of behavior, as it was—and simply bash him over the head
before he recovered from whatever strange stupor ailed him. However, Roran’s wariness
cooled his lust for vengeance and caused him to slow to a stop not five feet from the magician.
He was glad he did.
While the magician had appeared normal from a distance, up close, Roran saw that his
skin was loose and wrinkled like that of a man thrice his age, and that it had acquired a
coarse, leathery texture. The color of his skin had darkened as well, and was continuing to
darken, moment by moment, as if his entire body had been bitten by frost.
The man’s chest was heaving and his eyeballs were rolling in their sockets, showing
white, but other than that, he seemed incapable of movement.
As Roran watched, the man’s arms, neck, and chest shriveled, and his bones appeared in
sharp relief—from the bowlike curve of his collarbones to the hollow saddle of his hips, where
his stomach hung like an empty waterskin. His lips puckered and drew back farther than they
were intended to over his yellow teeth, baring them in a grisly snarl, while his eyeballs deflated
as if they were engorged ticks being squished empty of blood, and the surrounding
flesh sank inward.
The man’s breathing—a panicked, high-pitched sawing—faltered then, but still did not entirely
cease.
Horrified, Roran stepped backward. He felt something slick beneath his boots and looked
down to see that he was standing in a spreading puddle of water. At first he thought it was
from the broken fountain, but then he realized that the water was flowing outward from the
feet of the paralyzed magician.
Roran cursed, revulsion filling him, and jumped to a dry patch of ground. Seeing the water,
he understood what it was Carn had done, and his already profound sense of horror increased.
Carn, it seemed, had cast a spell that was drawing every single drop of moisture
from the magician’s body.
Over the span of only another few seconds, the spell reduced the man to no more than a
knobby skeleton wrapped in a shell of hard black skin, mummifying him the same as if he had
been left in the Hadarac Desert, exposed to a hundred years of wind and sun and shifting
sands. Although he was most certainly dead by then, he did not fall, as Carn’s magic held him
upright: a ghastly, grinning specter that was the equal of the most terrible things Roran had
ever seen in his nightmares or on the battlefield—both being much the same.
Then the surface of the man’s desiccated body blurred as it dissolved into a fine gray dust,
which sifted downward in gauzy curtains and lay floating atop the water below, like ashes
from a forest fire. Muscle and bone soon followed, then the stony organs, and then the last
parts of the hook-nosed magician crumbled away, leaving behind only a small, conical mound
of powder rising out of the pool of water that had once sustained its life.
Roran looked over at Carn’s corpse, then looked away just as quickly, unable to bear the
sight. At least you had your revenge on him. Then he put aside thoughts of his slain friend, for
they were too painful to dwell on, and instead concentrated upon the most immediate problem
at hand: the soldiers at the southern end of the square, who were slowly picking themselves
up off the ground.
Roran saw the Varden doing much the same. “Oi!†he shouted. “With me! We’ll never
have a better chance than now.†He pointed at some of his men who were obviously
wounded. “Help them up and put them in the center of the formation. No one gets left behind.
No one!†His lips and mouth throbbed as he spoke, and his head ached as if he had been up
all night drinking.
The Varden rallied at the sound of his voice and hurried to join him. As the men gathered
into a broad column behind him, Roran took his place in the foremost rank of warriors,
between Baldor and Delwin, both of whom bore bloody scrapes from the explosion.
“Carn is dead?†Baldor asked.
Roran nodded and lifted his shield, as did the other men, so that they formed a solid, outward-
facing wall.
“Then we better hope Halstead doesn’t have another magician hidden away somewhere,â€
Delwin muttered.
When the Varden were all in place, Roran shouted, “Forward march!†and the warriors
tramped across the remainder of the courtyard.
Whether because their leadership was less effective than the Varden’s or because the
blast had dealt them a more severe blow, the Empire soldiers had failed to recover as quickly
and so were still disorganized when the Varden drove into their midst.
Roran grunted and staggered back a step as a spear embedded itself in his shield, numbing
his arm and dragging it down through sheer weight. Reaching around, he swept his hammer
across the face of the shield. It bounced off the haft of the spear, which refused to budge.
A soldier in front of him, perhaps the very one who had thrown the spear, seized the opportunity
to run at him and swing his sword at Roran’s neck. Roran started to lift his shield,
along with the spear lodged in it, but it was too heavy and cumbersome for him to protect himself
with. So he used his hammer instead, lashing out at the descending sword.
On edge, however, the blade was almost impossible for him to see, and he timed his parry
badly and missed the sword with his hammer. He would have died then, except that his
knuckles clipped the flat of the blade, deflecting it several inches to the side.
A line of fire cut through Roran’s right shoulder. Jagged bolts of lightning shot down his
side, and his vision flashed bright yellow. His right knee buckled and he fell forward.
Stone underneath him. Feet and legs around him, hemming him in so he could not roll
away to safety. His whole body sluggish and unresponsive, as if he were trapped in honey.
Too slow, too slow, he thought as he struggled to free his arm from the shield and get his
feet back under him. If he stayed on the ground, he would be either stabbed or trampled. Too
slow!
Then he saw the soldier collapse in front of him, clutching at his belly, and a second later,
someone pulled Roran up by the collar of his hauberk and held him upright while he regained
his footing. It was Baldor.
Twisting his neck, Roran looked at where the soldier had struck him. Five links in his mail
shirt had split open, but other than that, the armor had held. Despite the blood oozing out of
the rent, and the pain that racked his neck and arm, he did not think the wound was lifethreatening,
nor was he about to stop and find out. His right arm still worked—at least enough
to continue fighting—and that was all he cared about at the moment.
Someone passed him a replacement shield. He grimly shouldered it and pressed onward
with his men, forcing the soldiers to retreat along the wide street that led from the square.
The soldiers soon broke and ran in the face of the Varden’s overwhelming strength, fleeing
down the myriad side streets and alleys that branched off the thoroughfare.
Roran paused then and sent fifty of his men back to close the portcullis and sally port and
to guard them against any foes who might seek to follow the Varden into the heart of
Aroughs. Most of the soldiers in the city would be stationed close to the outer wall to repel besiegers,
and Roran had no desire to face them in open battle. To do so would be suicidal, given
the size of Halstead’s forces.
The Varden met little resistance thereafter as they progressed through the inner city to the
large, well-appointed palace where Lord Halstead ruled.
A spacious courtyard with an artificial pond—wherein swam geese and white swans—lay
before the palace, which towered several stories above the rest of Aroughs. The palace was a
beautiful, ornate structure of open arches, colonnades, and wide balconies intended for dancing
and parties. Unlike the castle in the heart of Belatona, it had obviously been built with
pleasure in mind, not defense.
They must have assumed no one could get past their walls, thought Roran.
Several dozen guards and soldiers in the courtyard charged haphazardly at the Varden
when they caught sight of them, shouting war cries the whole while.
“Stay in formation!†Roran ordered as the men rushed toward them.
For a minute or two, the sound of clashing arms filled the courtyard. The geese and the
swans honked with alarm at the commotion and beat the water with their wings, but none of
them dared leave the confines of their pond.
It did not take long for the Varden to rout the soldiers and guards. Then they stormed the
entryway of the palace, which was so richly decorated with paintings on the walls and ceilings—
as well as gilt moldings, carved furniture, and a patterned floor—that Roran found it difficult
to take in all at once. The wealth required to build and maintain such an edifice was
more than he could comprehend. The entire farm where he had grown up had not been equal
the worth of a single chair in that grand hall.
Through an open doorway, he saw three servingwomen running down another long corridor
as fast as their skirts would allow.
“Don’t let them get away!†he exclaimed.
Five swordsmen broke off from the main body of the Varden and dashed after the women,
catching them before they reached the end of the passageway. The women uttered piercing
screams and struggled ferociously, clawing at their captors, as the men dragged them back to
where Roran was waiting.
“Enough!†shouted Roran when they were in front of him, and the women ceased fighting,
although they continued to whimper and moan. The oldest of the three, a stout matron who
had her silver hair pulled back in an untidy bun and who carried a ring of keys at her waist,
appeared the most reasonable, so Roran asked her, “Where is Lord Halstead?â€
The woman stiffened and lifted her chin. “Do with me what you will, sir, but I’ll not betray
my master.â€
Roran moved toward her until they were only a foot apart. “Listen to me, and listen well,â€
he growled. “Aroughs has fallen, and you and everyone else in this city are at my mercy.
Nothing you can do will change that. Tell me where Halstead is, and we’ll let you and your
companions go. You can’t save him from his doom, but you can save yourselves.†His torn
lips were so swollen, he was barely able to make himself understood, and with every word,
flecks of blood flew from his mouth.
“My own fate doesn’t matter, sir,†said the woman, her expression as determined as any
warrior’s.
Roran cursed and slapped his hammer against his shield, producing a harsh crash that
echoed loudly in the cavernous hall. The women flinched at the sound. “Have you taken leave
of your senses? Is Halstead worth your life? Is the Empire? Is Galbatorix?â€
“I don’t know about Galbatorix or the Empire, sir, but Halstead has always been kind
enough to us serving folk, and I’ll not see him strung up by the likes of you. Filthy, ungrateful
muck, that’s what you are.â€
“Is that so?†He stared at her fiercely. “How long do you think you can hold your tongue if I
decide to let my men wring the truth out of you?â€
“You’ll never make me talk,†she declared, and he believed her.
“What about them?†He nodded toward the other women, the youngest of whom could not
have been more than seventeen. “Are you willing to let them be cut into pieces just to save
your master?â€
The woman sniffed disdainfully, then said, “Lord Halstead is in the east wing of the palace.
Take the corridor over there, go through the Yellow Room and Lady Galiana’s flower garden,
and you’ll find him sure as rain.â€
Roran listened with suspicion. Her capitulation seemed too quick and too easy given her
earlier resistance. Also, while she spoke, he noticed that the other two women reacted with
surprise and some other emotion he could not identify. Confusion? he wondered. In any
event, they did not react the way he would have expected if the silver-haired woman had just
delivered their lord into the arms of their enemies. They were too quiet, too subdued, as if
they were hiding something.
Of the two, the girl was the less skilled at masking her feelings, so Roran turned on her
with all the savagery he could muster. “You there, she’s lying, isn’t she? Where is Halstead?
Tell me!â€
The girl opened her mouth and shook her head, speechless. She tried to back away from
him, but one of the warriors held her in place.
Roran stomped over to her, jammed his shield flat against her chest, knocking the air out
of her, and leaned his weight against it, pinning her between him and the man behind her.
Lifting his hammer, Roran touched it to the side of her cheek. “You’re rather pretty, but you’ll
have a hard time finding anyone but old men to court you if I knock out your front teeth. I lost
a tooth myself today, but I managed to put it back in. See?†And he spread his lips in what he
was sure was a gruesome approximation of a smile. “I’ll keep your teeth, though, so you won’t
be able to do the same. They’ll make a fine trophy, eh?†And he made a threatening motion
with the hammer.
The girl cringed and cried, “No! Please, sir, I don’t know. Please! He was in his quarters,
meeting with his captains, but then he and Lady Galiana were going to go to the tunnel to the
docks, and—â€
“Thara, you fool!†exclaimed the matron.
“There’s a ship waiting for them, there is, and I don’t know where he is now, but please
don’t hit me, I don’t know anything else, sir, and—â€
“His quarters,†barked Roran. “Where are they?â€
Sobbing, the girl told him.
“Let them go,†he said when she finished, and the three women darted out of the entryway,
the hard heels of their shoes clattering against the polished floor.
Roran led the Varden through the enormous building in accordance with the girl’s instructions.
Scores of half-dressed men and women crossed their paths, but none paused to fight.
The palace rang with shouts and screams to the point where he wanted to plug his ears with
his fingers.
Partway to their destination, they came upon an atrium with a statue of a huge black
dragon in the middle. Roran wondered if it was supposed to be Galbatorix’s dragon, Shruikan.
As they trooped past the statue, Roran heard a twang, and then something struck him in the
back.
He fell against a stone bench next to the path and clutched at it.
Pain.
Agonizing, thought-destroying pain, the likes of which he had never experienced before.
Pain so intense, he would have cut off his own hand to make it stop. It felt as if a red-hot
poker were being pressed into his back.
He could not move. …
He could not breathe. …
Even the smallest shift in position caused him unbearable torment.
Shadows fell across him, and he heard Baldor and Delwin shouting, then Brigman, of all
people, was saying something as well, although Roran could not make sense of it.
The pain suddenly increased tenfold, and he bellowed, which only made it worse. With a
supreme effort of will, he forced himself to remain absolutely still. Tears ran from the corners
of his clenched eyes.
Then Brigman was talking to him. “Roran, you have an arrow in your back. We tried to
catch the archer, but he escaped.â€
“Hurts … ,†Roran gasped.
“That’s because the arrow hit one of your ribs. It would have gone right through you, otherwise.
You’re lucky it wasn’t an inch higher or lower and that it missed your spine and your
shoulder blade.â€
“Pull it out,†he said between gritted teeth.
“We can’t; the arrow has a barbed head. And we can’t push it through to the other side. It
has to be cut out. I have some experience with this, Roran. If you trust me to wield the knife, I
can do it here and now. Or, if you prefer, we can wait until we find you a healer. There must
be one or two somewhere in the palace.â€
Though he hated to put himself in Brigman’s power, Roran could bear the pain no longer,
so he said, “Do it here. … Baldor …â€
“Yes, Roran?â€
“Take fifty men and find Halstead. Whatever happens, he can’t escape. Delwin … stay
with me.â€
A brief discussion ensued between Baldor, Delwin, and Brigman, of which Roran heard
but a few scattered words. Then a large portion of the Varden departed the atrium, which was
noticeably quieter afterward.
At Brigman’s insistence, a team of warriors fetched chairs from a nearby room, broke
them into pieces, and built a fire on the gravel-lined path next to the statue. Into the fire was
placed the tip of a dagger, which Roran knew Brigman would use to cauterize the wound in
his back after removing the arrow, lest he bleed to death.
As he lay on the bench, stiff and trembling, Roran focused on controlling his breathing,
taking slow, shallow breaths to minimize the pain. Difficult as it was, he purged his mind of all
other thoughts. What had been and what might be did not matter, only the steady inflow and
outflow of air through his nostrils.
He almost passed out when four men lifted him from the bench and lowered him facedown
to the ground. Someone stuffed a leather glove into his mouth, aggravating the ache from his
torn lips, while at the same time, rough hands grasped each of his legs and arms, stretching
them out to their fullest extent and pinning them in place.
Roran glanced backward to see Brigman kneeling over him, holding a curved hunting
knife in one hand. The knife began to descend, and Roran closed his eyes again and bit down
hard on the glove.
He breathed in.
He breathed out.
And then time and memory ceased for him.
Inheritance
INTERREGNUM
RORAN SAT HUNCHED over the edge of the table, toying with a jewel-encrusted goblet
that he stared at without interest.
Night had fallen, and the only light in the lavish bedchamber came from the two candles
on the desk and the small fire glowing on the hearth by the empty four-poster bed. All was
quiet, save for an occasional crackle of burning wood.
A faint salty breeze wafted through the windows, parting the thin white curtains. He turned
his face to catch the draft, welcoming the touch of cool air against his fevered skin.
Through the windows, he could see Aroughs laid out before him. Watchfires dotted the
streets at intersections here and there, but otherwise the city was dark and motionless—
unusually so, for everyone who could was hiding in their homes.
When the breeze ceased, he took another sip from the goblet, pouring the wine directly
down his throat to avoid having to swallow. A drop fell onto the split in his lower lip, and he
tensed and sucked in his breath while he waited for the spike of pain to vanish.
He set the goblet on the desk, next to the plate of bread and lamb and the half-empty
bottle of wine, then glanced at the mirror propped upright between the two candles. It still reflected
nothing but his own haggard face, bruised, bloodied, and missing a goodly portion of
his beard on the right-hand side.
He looked away. She would contact him when she did. In the meantime he would wait. It
was all he could do; he hurt too much to sleep.
He picked up the goblet again and rolled it between his fingers.
Time passed.
Late that night, the mirror shimmered like a rippling pool of quicksilver, causing Roran to
blink and gaze at it through bleary, half-closed eyes.
The teardrop shape of Nasuada’s face took form before him, her expression as serious as
ever. “Roran,†she said by way of greeting, her voice clear and strong.
“Lady Nasuada.†He straightened off the table as far as he dared, which was only a few
inches.
“Have you been captured?â€
“No.â€
“Then I take it that Carn is either dead or wounded.â€
“He died while fighting another magician.â€
“I’m sorry to hear it. … He seemed a decent man, and we can ill afford to lose any of our
spellcasters.†She paused for a moment. “And what of Aroughs?â€
“The city is ours.â€
Nasuada’s eyebrows rose. “Truly? I am most impressed. Tell me, how went the battle?
Did everything go according to plan?â€
Opening his jaw as little as he could, so as to minimize the discomfort of talking, Roran
mumbled his way through an account of the past several days, from his arrival at Aroughs to
the one-eyed man who had attacked him in his tent to the breaking of the dams at the mills to
how the Varden had fought their way through Aroughs to the palace of Lord Halstead, including
Carn’s duel with the enemy magician.
Then Roran related how he had been shot in the back, and how Brigman had cut the arrow
out of him. “I’m lucky he was there; he did a good job of it. If not for him, I would have
been next to useless until we found a healer.†He cringed inwardly as, for a second, the
memory of his wounds being cauterized jumped to the forefront of his mind, and he again felt
the touch of hot metal against his flesh.
“I hope you did find a healer to look at you.â€
“Aye, later, but he was no spellcaster.â€
Nasuada leaned back in her chair and studied him for a while. “I’m astonished you still
have the strength to talk to me. The people of Carvahall are indeed made of stern stuff.â€
“Afterward, we secured the palace, as well as the rest of Aroughs, although there are still
a few places where our grip is weak. It was fairly easy to convince the soldiers to surrender
once they realized we had slipped behind their lines and captured the center of the city.â€
“And what of Lord Halstead? Did you capture him as well?â€
“He was attempting to escape the palace when some of my men chanced upon him. Halstead
had only a small number of guards with him, not enough to fight off our warriors, so he
and his retainers fled into a wine cellar and barricaded themselves inside. …†Roran rubbed
his thumb over a ruby set in the goblet before him. “They wouldn’t surrender, and I didn’t dare
storm the room; it would have been too costly. So … I ordered the men to fetch pots of oil
from the kitchens, light them on fire, and throw them against the door.â€
“Were you trying to smoke them out?†Nasuada asked.
He nodded slowly. “A few of the soldiers ran out once the door burned down, but Halstead
waited too long. We found him on the floor, suffocated.â€
“That is unfortunate.â€
“Also … his daughter, Lady Galiana.†In his mind, he could still see her: tiny, delicate,
garbed in a beautiful lavender dress covered with frills and ribbons.
Nasuada frowned. “Who succeeds Halstead as the earl of Fenmark?â€
“Tharos the Quick.â€
“The same who led the charge against you yesterday?â€
“The same.â€
It had been midafternoon when his men had brought Tharos before him. The small,
bearded man had appeared dazed, though uninjured, and he had been missing his helm with
its flamboyant plumes. To him, Roran—who was lying belly-down on a padded couch to save
his back—had said, “I believe you owe me a bottle of wine.â€
“How have you done this?!†Tharos had demanded in response, the sound of despair
ringing in his voice. “The city was impregnable. None but a dragon could have broken our
walls. And yet look what you wrought. You are something other than human, something other
than …†And he had fallen silent, unable to speak any longer.
“How did he react to the deaths of his father and sister?†Nasuada asked.
Roran leaned his head against his hand. His brow was slick with sweat, so he wiped it dry
with his sleeve. He shivered. Despite the perspiration, he felt cold all over, especially in his
hands and feet. “He didn’t seem to much care about his father. His sister, though …†Roran
winced as he remembered the torrent of abuse Tharos had directed at him after learning that
Galiana was dead.
“If ever I get the chance, I’ll kill you for this,†Tharos had said. “I swear it.â€
“You had best move quickly, then,†Roran had retorted. “Another has already claimed my
life, and if anyone is going to kill me, my guess is that it’ll be her.â€
“… Roran? … Roran!â€
With a faint sense of surprise, he realized that Nasuada was calling his name. He looked
at her again, framed in the mirror like a portrait, and struggled to find his tongue. At last he
said, “Tharos isn’t really the earl of Fenmark. He’s the youngest of Halstead’s seven sons, but
all of his brothers have fled or are hiding. So, for the time being, Tharos is the only one left to
claim the title. He makes a good envoy between us and the elders of the city. Without Carn,
though, there’s no way for me to tell who is sworn to Galbatorix and who isn’t. Most of the
lords and ladies are, I assume, and the soldiers, of course, but it’s impossible to know who
else.â€
Nasuada pursed her lips. “I see. … Dauth is the closest city to you. I’ll ask Lady
Alarice—whom I believe you’ve met—to send someone to Aroughs who is skilled in the art of
reading minds. Most nobles keep one such person in their retinue, so it should be easy
enough for Alarice to fulfill our request. However, when we marched for the Burning Plains,
King Orrin brought with him every spellcaster of note from Surda, which means that whoever
Alarice sends will most likely have no other skill with magic besides the ability to hear others’
thoughts. And without the proper spells, it will be difficult to prevent those who are loyal to
Galbatorix from opposing us at every turn.â€
While she spoke, Roran allowed his gaze to drift across the desk until it came to rest on
the dark bottle of wine. I wonder if Tharos poisoned it? The thought failed to alarm him.
Then Nasuada was speaking to him again: “… hope that you have kept tight rein over
your men and not let them run wild in Aroughs, burning, plundering, and taking liberties with
its people?â€
Roran was so tired, he found it difficult to marshal a coherent response, but at last he
managed to say, “There are too few of us for the men to make mischief. They know as well as
I do that the soldiers could retake the city if we gave them even the slightest opportunity.â€
“A mixed blessing, I suppose. … How many casualties did you suffer during the attack?â€
“Forty-two.â€
For a while, silence lay between them. Then Nasuada said, “Did Carn have any family?â€
Roran shrugged, a slight inward motion of his left shoulder. “I don’t know. He was from
somewhere in the north, I think, but neither of us really talked about our lives before … before
all of this. … It never seemed that important.â€
A sudden itch in Roran’s throat forced him to cough again and again, and he curled over
the table until his forehead touched the wood, grimacing as waves of pain assailed him from
his back, his shoulder, and his mangled mouth. His convulsions were so violent, the wine in
the goblet slopped over the rim and spilled onto his hand and wrist.
As he slowly recovered, Nasuada said, “Roran, you have to summon a healer to examine
you. You’re unwell, and you ought to be in bed.â€
“No.†He wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth, then looked up at her. “They’ve
done all they can, and I’m no child to be fussed over.â€
Nasuada hesitated, then dipped her head. “As you wish.â€
“Now what happens?†he asked. “Am I finished here?â€
“It was my intention to have you return as soon as we captured Aroughs—however that
was accomplished—but you’re in no condition to ride all the way to Dras-Leona. You’ll have to
wait until—â€
“I won’t wait,†Roran growled. He grabbed the mirror and pulled it toward him until it was
only a few inches from his face. “Don’t you coddle me, Nasuada. I can ride, and I can ride
fast. The only reason I came here is because Aroughs was a threat to the Varden. That threat
is gone now—I removed it—and I’m not about to stay here, injuries or no injuries, while my
wife and unborn child sit camped less than a mile away from Murtagh and his dragon!â€
Nasuada’s voice hardened for a moment. “You went to Aroughs because I sent you.â€
Then, in a more relaxed tone, she said, “However, your point is well taken. You may return at
once, if you are able. There’s no reason for you to ride night and day, as you did during the
journey there, but neither should you dawdle. Be sensible about it. I don’t want to have to explain
to Katrina that you killed yourself traveling. … Whom do you think I should select as your
replacement when you leave Aroughs?â€
“Captain Brigman.â€
“Brigman? Why? Didn’t you have some difficulties with him?â€
“He helped keep the men in line after I was shot. My head wasn’t very clear at the time—â€
“I imagine not.â€
“—and he saw to it that they didn’t panic or lose their nerve. Also, he led them on my behalf
while I was stuck in this miserable music box of a castle. He was the only one who had
the experience for it. Without him, we wouldn’t have been able to extend our control over the
whole of Aroughs. The men like him, and he’s skilled at planning and organizing. He’ll do well
at governing the city.â€
“Brigman it is, then.†Nasuada looked away from the mirror and murmured something to a
person he could not see. Turning back to him, she said, “I must admit, I never thought you
would actually capture Aroughs. It seemed impossible that anyone could breach the city’s defenses
in so little time, with so few men, and without the aid of either a dragon or Rider.â€
“Then why send me here?â€
“Because I had to try something before letting Eragon and Saphira fly so far away, and because
you have made a habit of confounding expectations and prevailing where others would
have faltered or given up. If the impossible were to happen, it seemed most likely that it would
occur under your watch, as indeed it did.â€
Roran snorted softly. And how long can I keep tempting fate before I end up dead like
Carn?
“Sneer if you want, but you cannot deny your own success. You have won a great victory
for us today, Stronghammer. Or rather, Captain Stronghammer, I ought to say. You have
more than earned the right to that title. I am immensely grateful for what you have done. By
capturing Aroughs, you have freed us from the prospect of fighting a war on two fronts, which
would have almost certainly meant our destruction. All of the Varden are in your debt, and I
promise you, the sacrifices you and your men have made will not be forgotten.â€
Roran tried to say something, failed, tried again, and failed a second time before he finally
managed to say: “I … I will be sure to let the men know how you feel. It will mean a lot to
them.â€
“Please do. And now I must bid you farewell. It is late, you are sick, and I have kept you
far too long as it is.â€
“Wait …†He reached toward her and struck the tips of his fingers against the mirror. “Wait.
You haven’t told me: How goes the siege of Dras-Leona?â€
She stared at him, her expression flat. “Badly. And it shows no signs of improving. We
could use you here, Stronghammer. If we don’t find a way to bring this situation to an end,
and soon, everything we have fought for will be lost.â€
Inheritance
THARDSVERGÛNDNZMAL
“YOU’RE FINE,†SAID Eragon, exasperated. “Stop worrying. There’s nothing you can do
about it anyway.â€
Saphira growled and continued to study her image in the lake. She turned her head from
side to side, then exhaled heavily, releasing a cloud of smoke that drifted out over the water
like a small, lost thundercloud.
Are you sure? she asked, and looked toward him. What if it doesn’t grow back?
“Dragons grow new scales all the time. You know that.â€
Yes, but I’ve never lost one before!
He did not bother to hide his smile; he knew she would sense his amusement. “You
shouldn’t be so upset. It wasn’t very big.†Reaching out, he traced the diamond-shaped hole
on the left side of her snout, where the object of her consternation had so recently been ensconced.
The gap in her sparkling armor was no larger than the end of his thumb and about
an inch deep. At the bottom of it, her leathery blue hide was visible.
Curious, he touched her skin with the tip of his index finger. It felt warm and smooth, like
the belly of a calf.
Saphira snorted and pulled her head away from him. Stop that; it tickles.
He chuckled and kicked at the water by the base of the rock he was sitting on, enjoying
the sensation against the bottom of his bare feet.
It may not have been very big, she said, but everyone will notice that it’s missing. How
could they not? One might as well overlook a bare patch of earth on the crest of a snowcovered
mountain. And her eyes rolled forward as she tried to peer down her long snout at
the small, dark hole above her nostril.
Eragon laughed and splashed a handful of water at her. Then, to soothe her injured pride,
he said, “No one will notice, Saphira. Trust me. Besides, even if they do, they’ll take it for a
battle wound and consider you all the more fearsome because of it.â€
You think so? She returned to examining herself in the lake. The water and her scales reflected
off each other in a dazzling array of rainbow-hued flecks. What if a soldier stabs me
there? The blade would go right through me. Perhaps I should ask the dwarves to make a
metal plate to cover the area until the scale regrows.
“That would look exceedingly ridiculous.â€
It would?
“Mm-hmm.†He nodded, on the verge of laughing again.
She sniffed. There’s no need to make fun of me. How would you like it if the fur on your
head started falling out, or you lost one of those silly little nubs you call teeth? I would end up
having to comfort you, no doubt.
“No doubt,†he agreed easily. “But then, teeth don’t grow back.†He pushed himself off the
rock and made his way up the shore to where he had left his boots, stepping carefully to avoid
hurting his feet on the stones and branches that littered the water’s edge. Saphira followed
him, the soft earth squishing between her talons.
You could cast a spell to protect just that spot, she said as he pulled on his boots.
“I could. Do you want me to?â€
I do.
He worked out the enchantment in his head while he laced up his boots, then placed the
palm of his right hand over the pit in her snout and murmured the necessary words in the ancient
language. A faint azure glow emanated from underneath his hand as he bound the ward
to her body.
“There,†he said when he finished. “Now you have nothing to worry about.â€
Except that I’m still missing a scale.
He gave her a push on the jaw. “Come on, you. Let’s go back to camp.â€
Together they left the lake and climbed the steep, crumbling bank behind them, Eragon
using the exposed tree roots as handholds.
At the top of the rise, they had an unobstructed view of the Varden’s camp a half mile to
the east, as well as, somewhat north of the camp, the sprawling mess of Dras-Leona. The
only signs of life within the city were the tendrils of smoke that rose from the chimneys of
many a house. As always, Thorn lay draped across the battlements above the southern gate,
basking in the bright afternoon light. The red dragon looked asleep, but Eragon knew from experience
that he was keeping a close eye on the Varden, and the moment anyone began to
approach the city, he would rouse himself and issue a warning to Murtagh and the others inside.
Eragon hopped onto Saphira’s back, and she carried him to the camp at a leisurely pace.
When they arrived, he slid to the ground and took the lead as they moved between the
tents. The camp was quiet, and everything about it felt slow and sleepy, from the low, drawling
tones of the warriors’ conversations to the pennants that hung motionless in the thick air.
The only creatures who appeared immune to the general lethargy were the lean, half-feral
dogs that ranged through the camp, constantly sniffing as they searched for discarded scraps
of food. A number of the dogs bore scratches on their muzzles and flanks, the result of making
the foolish, if understandable, mistake of thinking they could chase and torment a greeneyed
werecat as they would any other cat. When it had happened, their yelps of pain had attracted
the attention of the entire camp, and the men had laughed to see the dogs running
away from the werecat with their tails between their legs.
Conscious of the many looks he and Saphira attracted, Eragon kept his chin high and his
shoulders square and adopted a vigorous stride in an attempt to convey an impression of purpose
and energy. The men needed to see that he was still full of confidence, and that he had
not allowed the tedium of their present predicament to weigh him down.
If only Murtagh and Thorn would leave, thought Eragon. They wouldn’t have to be gone
for more than a day for us to capture the city.
So far, the siege of Dras-Leona had proven to be singularly uneventful. Nasuada refused
to attack the city, for as she had said to Eragon, “You barely managed to best Murtagh the
last time you met—do you forget how he stabbed you in the hip?—and he promised that he
would be stronger still when you next crossed paths. Murtagh may be many things, but I am
not inclined to believe he is a liar.â€
“Strength isn’t everything when it comes to a fight between magicians,†Eragon had pointed
out.
“No, but it’s not unimportant either. Also, he now has the support of the priests of Helgrind,
more than a few of whom I suspect are magicians. I won’t risk letting you face them and Murtagh
head-on in battle, not even with Blödhgarm’s spellcasters by your side. Until we can contrive
to lure Murtagh and Thorn away, or trap them, or otherwise gain an advantage over
them, we stay here, and we don’t move against Dras-Leona.â€
Eragon had protested, arguing that it was impractical to stall their invasion, and that if he
could not defeat Murtagh, what hope did she think he would have against Galbatorix? But
Nasuada had remained unconvinced.
They—along with Arya, Blödhgarm, and all the spellcasters of Du Vrangr Gata—had
planned and plotted and searched for ways to gain the advantage Nasuada had spoken of.
But every strategy they considered was flawed because it required more time and resources
than were at the Varden’s disposal, or else because it ultimately failed to resolve the question
of how to kill, capture, or drive off Murtagh and Thorn.
Nasuada had even gone to Elva and asked her if she would use her ability—which allowed
her to sense other people’s pain, as well as any pain they were about to suffer in the
immediate future—to overcome Murtagh or to surreptitiously gain entrance to the city. The silver-
browed girl had laughed at Nasuada and sent her away with gibes and insults, saying, “I
owe no bond of allegiance to you or anyone else, Nasuada. Find some other child to win your
battles for you; I’ll not do it.â€
And so, the Varden waited.
As day inexorably followed day, Eragon had watched the men grow sullen and discontent,
and Nasuada had become increasingly worried. An army, Eragon had learned, was a ravenous,
insatiable beast that would soon die and separate into its constituent elements unless
massive amounts of food were shoveled into its many thousands of stomachs upon a regular
basis. When marching into new territory, obtaining supplies for an army was a simple matter
of confiscating food and other essentials from the people they conquered, and stripping resources
from the surrounding countryside. Like a plague of locusts, the Varden left a barren
swath of land in their wake, a swath devoid of most everything needed to support life.
Once they stopped moving, they soon exhausted the stores of food close at hand and
were forced to subsist entirely on provisions brought to them from Surda and the several cities
they had captured. Generous as the inhabitants of Surda were, and rich as the vanquished
cities were, the regular deliveries of goods were not enough to sustain the Varden for
much longer.
Though Eragon knew the warriors were devoted to their cause, he had no doubt that,
when faced with the prospect of a slow, agonizing death by starvation that would accomplish
nothing besides giving Galbatorix the satisfaction of gloating over their defeat, most men
would elect to flee to some distant corner of Alagaësia, where they could live out the rest of
their lives in safety from the Empire.
That moment had not yet arrived, but it was fast approaching.
Fear of that fate, Eragon was sure, was what had been keeping Nasuada up at night, so
that she appeared increasingly haggard each morning, the bags under her eyes like small,
sad smiles.
The difficulties they had faced at Dras-Leona made Eragon grateful that Roran had
avoided becoming similarly bogged down at Aroughs and heightened his admiration and appreciation
for what his cousin had accomplished at the southern city. He’s a braver man than
I. Nasuada would disapprove, but Eragon was determined that once Roran returned—which,
if all went well, would be in just a few days—Eragon would once again provide him with a full
set of wards. Eragon had already lost too many members of his family to the Empire and Galbatorix,
and he was not about to let the same doom befall Roran.
He paused to let a trio of arguing dwarves cross the path in front of him. The dwarves
wore no helms or insignia, but he knew they were not of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, for their plaited
beards were trimmed with beads—a fashion he had never seen among the Ingeitum.
Whatever the dwarves were quarreling about was a mystery to him—he could not understand
more than a few words of their guttural language—but the topic was obviously of allconsuming
importance, judging by their loud voices, unrestrained gestures, exaggerated expressions,
and their failure to notice either him or Saphira standing in the path.
Eragon smiled as they passed; he found their preoccupation somewhat comical, despite
their evident seriousness. Much to the relief of everyone in the Varden, the dwarves’ army,
led by their new king, Orik, had arrived at Dras-Leona two days before. That, and Roran’s victory
at Aroughs, had since become the main topics of conversation throughout the camp. The
dwarves nearly doubled the size of the Varden’s allied forces and would substantially increase
the chances of the Varden reaching Urû’baen and Galbatorix if a favorable solution to
the impasse with Murtagh and Thorn could be found.
As he and Saphira walked through the camp, Eragon caught sight of Katrina sitting outside
her tent, knitting clothes for her child-to-be. She greeted him with a raised hand and by
calling, “Cousin!â€
He replied in kind, as had become their habit since her marriage.
After both he and Saphira enjoyed a leisurely lunch—which involved a fair amount of tearing
and crunching on Saphira’s part—they retired to the patch of soft, sunlit grass next to
Eragon’s tent. By order of Nasuada, the patch was always left open for Saphira’s use, a dictate
that the Varden observed with religious zeal.
There Saphira curled up to doze in the midday warmth, while Eragon fetched Domia abr
Wyrda from his saddlebags, then climbed under the overhang of her left wing to nestle in the
partially shaded hollow between the inner curve of her neck and her muscular foreleg. The
light that shone through the folds of her wing, as well as that cast off in winking highlights from
her scales, painted his skin a weird, purplish hue and covered the pages of the book with a
smattering of glowing shapes that made it difficult to read the thin, angular runes. But he did
not mind; the pleasure of sitting with Saphira more than made up for the inconvenience.
They sat together for an hour or two, until Saphira had digested her meal and Eragon was
tired of deciphering the convoluted sentences of Heslant the Monk. Then, bored, they
wandered through the camp, inspecting the defenses and occasionally exchanging words
with the sentinels stationed along the perimeter.
Near the eastern edge of the camp, where the bulk of the dwarves were situated, they
came across a dwarf who was squatting next to a bucket of water, his sleeves rolled up past
his elbows, molding a fist-sized ball of dirt with his hands. By his feet was a puddle of mud
and a stick that had been used to stir it.
The sight was so incongruous, several moments elapsed before Eragon realized that the
dwarf was Orik.
“Derûndânn, Eragon … Saphira,†said Orik without looking up.
“Derûndânn,†said Eragon, repeating the traditional dwarvish greeting, and squatted on
the other side of the puddle. He watched as Orik continued to refine the contours of the ball,
smoothing and shaping it with the outer curve of his right thumb. Every so often, Orik reached
down, grabbed a handful of dry dirt, and sprinkled it over the yellowish orb of earth, then
gently brushed off the excess.
“I never thought to see the king of the dwarves crouched on the ground, playing in the
mud like a child,†Eragon said.
Orik huffed, blowing out his mustache. “And I never thought to have a dragon and a Rider
staring at me while I made an Erôthknurl.â€
“And what is an Erôthknurl?â€
“A thardsvergûndnzmal.â€
“A thardsver—?†Eragon gave up halfway through the word, unable to remember the
whole of it, much less pronounce it. “And that is …?â€
“Something that appears to be other than what it actually is.†Orik raised the ball of dirt.
“Like this. This is a stone fashioned from earth. Or, rather, so it shall seem when I am done.â€
“A stone from earth. … Is it magic?â€
“No, it is mine own skill. Nothing more.â€
When Orik failed to explain further, Eragon asked, “How is it done?â€
“If you are patient, you will see.†Then, after a while, Orik relented and said, “First, you
must find some dirt.â€
“A hard task, that.â€
From under his bushy eyebrows, Orik gave him a look. “Some types of dirt are better than
others. Sand, for example, will not work. The dirt must have particles of varying size, so that it
will stick together properly. Also, it should have some clay in it, as this does. But most important,
if I do thisâ€â€”and he patted his hand against a bare strip of ground among the clumps of
trampled grass—“there must be lots of dust in the dirt. See?†He held up his hand, showing
Eragon the layer of fine powder that clung to his palm.
“Why is that important?â€
“Ah,†said Orik, and tapped the side of his nose, leaving behind a whitish smear. He resumed
rubbing the sphere with his hands, turning it so that it would remain symmetrical.
“Once you have good dirt, you wet it and you mix it like water and flour until you have a nice,
thick mud.†He nodded at the pool by his feet. “From the mud, you form a ball, like so, eh?
Then you squeeze it and wring out every drop you can. Then you make the ball perfectly
round. When it begins to feel sticky, you do as I am doing: you pour dirt over it, to draw out
more moisture from the interior. This you continue until the ball is dry enough to hold its
shape, but not so dry that it cracks.
“Mine Erôthknurl is almost to that point. When it gets there, I shall bear it to mine tent and
leave it in the sun for a goodly while. The light and the warmth will draw out even more moisture
from the center; then I shall again pour dirt over it and again clean it off. After three or
four times, the outside of mine Erôthknurl should be as hard as the hide of a Nagra.â€
“All that just to have a ball of dry mud?†said Eragon, puzzled. Saphira shared his sentiment.
Orik scooped up another handful of dirt. “No, because that’s not the end of it. Next is when
the dust becomes of use. I take it, and I smear the outside of the Erôthknurl with it, which
forms a thin, smooth shell. Then I will let the ball rest and wait for more moisture to seep to
the surface, then dust, then wait, then dust, then wait, and so on.â€
“And how long will that take?â€
“Until the dust no longer adheres to the Erôthknurl. The shell it forms is what gives an
Erôthknurl its beauty. Over the course of a day, it will acquire a brilliant sheen, as if it were
made of polished marble. With no buffing, no grinding, no magic—with only your heart, head,
and hands—you will have made a stone out of common earth … a fragile stone, it is true, but
a stone nevertheless.â€
Despite Orik’s insistence, Eragon still found it hard to believe that the mud at his feet could
be transformed into anything like what Orik had described without the use of magic.
Why are you making one, though, Orik dwarf king? Saphira asked. You must have many
responsibilities now that you are ruler of your people.
Orik grunted. “I have nothing I must needs do at the moment. My men are ready for battle,
but there is no battle for us to fight, and it would be bad for them if I were to fuss over them
like a mother hen. Nor do I want to sit alone in my tent, watching mine beard grow. … Thus
the Erôthknurl.â€
He fell silent then, but it seemed to Eragon that something was bothering Orik, so Eragon
held his tongue and waited to see if Orik would say anything else. After a minute, Orik cleared
his throat and said, “Used to be, I could drink and play dice with the others of mine clan, and it
mattered not that I was Hrothgar’s adopted heir. We could still talk and laugh together without
it feeling uncomfortable. I asked for no favors, nor did I show any. But now it is different. My
friends cannot forget that I am their king, and I cannot ignore how their behavior has changed
toward me.â€
“That is only to be expected,†Eragon pointed out. He empathized with Orik’s plight, for he
had experienced much the same thing since becoming a Rider.
“Perhaps. But knowing it makes it no easier to bear.†Orik made an exasperated sound.
“Ach, life is a strange, cruel journey sometimes. … I admired Hrothgar as a king, but it often
seemed to me that he was short with those he dealt with when he had no reason to be. Now I
understand better why he was the way he was.†Orik cupped the ball of dirt with both hands
and gazed at it, his brow knotted in a scowl. “When you met with Grimstborith Gannel in Tarnag,
did he explain to you the significance of the Erôthknurln?â€
“He never mentioned it.â€
“I suppose there were other matters that needed talking about. … Still, as one of the Ingeitum,
and as an adopted knurla, you should know the import and symbology of the
Erôthknurln. It is not just a way to focus the mind, pass the time, and create an interesting
keepsake. No. The act of making a stone out of earth is a sacred one. By it, we reaffirm our
faith in Helzvog’s power and offer tribute to him. One should approach the task with reverence
and purpose. Crafting an Erôthknurl is a form of worship, and the gods do not look kindly on
those who perform the rites in a frivolous manner. … From stone, flesh; from flesh, earth; and
from earth, stone again. The wheel turns and we see but a glimpse of the entirety.â€
Only then did Eragon appreciate the depth of Orik’s disquiet. “You ought to have Hvedra
with you,†he said. “She would keep you company and prevent you from becoming so grim.
I’ve never seen you as happy as when you were with her at Bregan Hold.â€
The lines around Orik’s downcast eyes deepened as he smiled. “Aye. … But she is the
grimstcarvlorss of the Ingeitum, and she cannot abandon her duties just to comfort me. Besides,
I could not rest easy if she were within a hundred leagues of Murtagh and Thorn or,
worse, Galbatorix and his accursed black dragon.â€
In an attempt to cheer Orik up, Eragon said, “You remind me of the answer to a riddle: a
dwarf king sitting on the ground, making a stone out of dirt. I’m not sure how the riddle itself
would go, but perhaps, something along the lines of:
Strong and stout,
Thirteen stars upon his brow,
Living stone sat shaping dead earth into dead stone.
“It doesn’t rhyme, but then, you can’t expect me to compose proper verse on the spur of
the moment. I would imagine that a riddle like that would be quite a head-scratcher for most
people.â€
“Humph,†said Orik. “Not for a dwarf. Even our children could solve it quick as you please.â€
A dragon too, said Saphira.
“I suppose you’re right,†said Eragon.
Then he asked Orik about everything that had happened among the dwarves after he and
Saphira had left Tronjheim for their second trip to the forest of the elves. Eragon had not had
an opportunity to talk with Orik for any great length of time since the dwarves had arrived at
Dras-Leona, and he was eager to hear how his friend had gotten along since assuming the
throne.
Orik did not seem to mind explaining the intricacies of the dwarves’ politics. Indeed, as he
spoke, his expression brightened and he became increasingly animated. He spent nearly an
hour recounting the bickering and maneuvering that had gone on between the dwarf clans prior
to assembling their army and marching to join the Varden. The clans were a fractious lot,
as Eragon well knew, and even as king, Orik had difficulty commanding their obedience.
“It’s like trying to herd a flock of geese,†said Orik. “They’re always trying to go off on their
own, they make an obnoxious noise, and they’ll bite your hand first chance they get.â€
During the course of Orik’s narration, Eragon thought to ask about Vermûnd. He had often
wondered what had become of the dwarf chief who had plotted to assassinate him. He liked
to know where his enemies were, especially one as dangerous as Vermûnd.
“He returned to his home village of Feldarast,†Orik said. “There, by all accounts, he sits
and drinks and rages about what is and what might have been. But none now listen to him.
The knurlan of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin are proud and stubborn. In most cases, they would remain
loyal to Vermûnd regardless of what the other clans might do or say, but attempting to
kill a guest is an unforgivable offense. And not all of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin hate you like
Vermûnd does. I cannot believe that they will agree to remain cut off from the rest of their kind
just to protect a grimstborith who has lost every scrap of his honor. It may take years, but
eventually they will turn against him. Already I have heard that many of the clan shun
Vermûnd, even as they themselves are shunned.â€
“What do you think will happen to him?â€
“He will accept the inevitable and step down, or else one day someone will slip poison into
his mead, or perhaps a dagger between his ribs. Either way, he is no longer a threat to you as
the leader of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.â€
They continued to talk until Orik had finished the first few stages of shaping his Erôthknurl
and was ready to take the ball of dirt and set it to rest upon a piece of cloth by his tent to dry.
As Orik rose to his feet and gathered up his bucket and stick, he said, “I appreciate you being
so kind as to listen to me, Eragon. And you as well, Saphira. Strange as it may seem, you are
the only ones besides Hvedra to whom I can talk freely. Everyone else …†He shrugged.
“Bah.â€
Eragon got to his feet as well. “You’re our friend, Orik, whether you are king of the
dwarves or not. We’re always happy to talk with you. And you know, you don’t have to worry
about us telling others what you’ve said.â€
“Aye, I know that, Eragon.†Orik squinted up at him. “You participate in the goings-on of
the world, and yet you haven’t gotten caught up in all the petty scheming around you.â€
“It doesn’t interest me. Besides, there are more important things to deal with at the moment.â€
“That’s good. A Rider should stand apart from everyone else. Otherwise, how can you
judge things for yourself? I never used to appreciate the Riders’ independence, but now I do,
if only for selfish reasons.â€
“I don’t stand entirely apart,†said Eragon. “I’m sworn both to you and to Nasuada.â€
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.â€
A smile crept across Eragon’s face. “As am I.â€
“After all, we’re foster brothers, aren’t we? And brothers ought to watch each other’s
backs.â€
That they should, thought Eragon, though he did not say it out loud. “Foster brothers,†he
agreed, and clapped Orik on the shoulder.
Inheritance
THE WAY OF KNOWING
LATER 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.â€
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?â€
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.â€
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.â€
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.
Saphira watched from the side of the field, where she lay sprawled across the springy mat
of grass. For the most part, she kept her thoughts to herself, so as to avoid distracting
Eragon, but every now and then she made a short observation about his technique or Arya’s,
observations that Eragon invariably found helpful. Also, he suspected that she had intervened
on more than one occasion to save him from a particularly dangerous blow, for at times his
arms and legs seemed to move slightly faster than they should have, or even slightly before
he intended to move them himself, and when that happened, he felt a tickle in the back of his
mind that he knew meant Saphira was meddling with some part of his consciousness.
At last he asked her to stop. I have to be able to do this myself, Saphira, he said. You
can’t help me every time I need it.
I can try.
I know. I feel the same way about you. But this is my mountain to climb, not yours.
The edge of her lip twitched. Why climb when you can fly? You’ll never get anywhere on
those short little legs of yours.
That’s not true and you know it. Besides, if I were flying, it would be on borrowed wings,
and I would gain nothing by it other than the cheap thrill of an unearned victory.
Victory is victory and dead is dead, however it is achieved.
Saphira … , he said warningly.
Little one.
Still, to his relief, she left him to his own devices after that, though she continued to watch
him with unceasing vigilance.
Along with Saphira, the elves assigned to guard her and Eragon had gathered along the
edge of the field. Their presence made Eragon uncomfortable—he disliked having anyone
other than Saphira or Arya witness his failures—but he knew the elves would never agree to
withdraw to the tents. In any event, they did serve one useful purpose aside from protecting
him and Saphira: keeping the other warriors on the field from wandering over to gawk at a
Rider and an elf going at it hammer and tongs. Not that Blödhgarm’s spellcasters did anything
specific to discourage onlookers, but their very aspect was intimidating enough to ward off
casual spectators.
The longer he fought with Arya, the more frustrated Eragon became. He won two of their
matches—barely, frantically, with desperate ploys that succeeded more by luck than skill, and
that he never would have attempted in a real duel unless he no longer cared for his own
safety—but except for those isolated victories, Arya continued to beat him with depressing
ease.
Eventually, Eragon’s anger and frustration boiled over, and all sense of proportion deserted
him. Inspired by the methods that had granted him his few successes, Eragon lifted his
right arm and prepared to throw Brisingr at Arya, even as he might a battle-ax.
Just at that moment, another mind touched Eragon’s, a mind that Eragon instantly knew
belonged to neither Arya nor Saphira, nor any of the other elves, for it was unmistakably
male, and it was unmistakably dragon. Eragon recoiled from the contact, racing to order his
thoughts so as to ward off what he feared was an attack by Thorn. But before he could, an immense
voice echoed through the shadowed byways of his consciousness, like the sound of a
mountain shifting under its own weight:
Enough, said Glaedr.
Eragon stiffened and stumbled forward a half step, rising onto the balls of his feet, as he
stopped himself from throwing Brisingr. He saw or sensed Arya, Saphira, and Blödhgarm’s
spellcasters react as well, stirring with surprise, and he knew that they too had heard Glaedr.
The dragon’s mind felt much the same as before—old and unfathomable and torn with
grief. But for the first time since Oromis’s death at Gil’ead, Glaedr seemed possessed of an
urge to do something other than sink ever deeper into the all-enveloping morass of his private
torments.
Glaedr-elda! Eragon and Saphira said at the same time.
How are you—
Are you all right—
Did you—
Others spoke as well—Arya; Blödhgarm; two more of the elves, whom Eragon could not
identify—and their mass of conflicting words clattered together in an incomprehensible discord.
Enough, Glaedr repeated, sounding both weary and exasperated. Do you wish to attract
unwanted attention?
At once everyone fell silent as they waited to hear what the golden dragon would say next.
Excited, Eragon exchanged glances with Arya.
Glaedr did not speak immediately, but watched them for another few minutes, his presence
weighing heavily against Eragon’s consciousness, even as Eragon was sure it did with
the others.
Then, in his sonorous, magisterial voice, Glaedr said, This has gone on long enough. …
Eragon, you should not spend so much time sparring. It is distracting you from more important
matters. The sword in Galbatorix’s hand is not what you need fear the most, nor the sword in
his mouth, but rather the sword in his mind. His greatest talent lies in his ability to worm his
way into the smallest parts of your being and force you to obey his will. Instead of these bouts
with Arya, you should concentrate on improving your mastery over your thoughts; they are still
woefully undisciplined. … Why, then, do you still persist with this futile endeavor?
A host of answers leaped to the forefront of Eragon’s mind: that he enjoyed crossing
blades with Arya, despite the aggravation it caused him; that he wanted to be the very best
sword fighter he could—the very best in the world, if possible; that the exercise helped calm
his nerves and shape his body; and many more reasons besides. He tried to suppress the
welter of thoughts, both to preserve some measure of privacy and to avoid inundating Glaedr
with unwanted information, thus confirming the dragon’s opinion about his lack of discipline.
He did not entirely succeed, however, and a faint air of disappointment emanated from
Glaedr.
Eragon chose his strongest arguments. If I can hold Galbatorix off with my mind—even if I
can’t beat him—if I can just hold him off, then this may still be decided by the sword. In any
case, the king isn’t the only enemy we should be worried about: there’s Murtagh, for one, and
who knows what other kinds of men or creatures Galbatorix has in his service? I wasn’t able
to defeat Durza by myself, nor Varaug, nor even Murtagh. Always I’ve had help. But I can’t
rely on Arya or Saphira or Blödhgarm to rescue me every time I get into trouble. I have to be
better with a blade, and yet I can’t seem to make any progress, no matter how hard I try.
Varaug? Glaedr queried. I have not heard that name before.
It fell to Eragon, then, to tell Glaedr about the capture of Feinster and how he and Arya
had killed the newly born Shade even as Oromis and Glaedr had met their deaths—differing
kinds of deaths, but both still mortal ends—while battling in the skies over Gil’ead. Eragon
also summarized the Varden’s activities thereafter, for he realized that Glaedr had kept himself
so isolated, he had little knowledge of them. The account took Eragon several minutes to
deliver, during which time he and the elves stood frozen on the field, staring past each other
with unseeing eyes, their attention turned inward as they concentrated on the rapid exchange
of thoughts, images, and feelings.
Another long silence followed as Glaedr digested what he had learned. When he again
deigned to speak, it was with a tinge of amusement: You are overly ambitious if your goal is to
be able to kill Shades with impunity. Even the oldest and wisest of the Riders would have hesitated
to attack a Shade alone. You have already survived encounters with two of them, which
is two more than most. Be grateful you have been so lucky and leave it at that. Trying to outmatch
a Shade is like trying to fly higher than the sun.
Yes, replied Eragon, but our foes are as strong as Shades or even stronger, and Galbatorix
may create more of them just to slow our progress. He uses them carelessly, without
heed for the destruction they could cause throughout the land.
Ebrithil, said Arya, he is right. Our enemies are deadly in the extreme … as you well
know—this she added in a gentle tone—and Eragon is not at the level he needs to be. To
prepare for what lies before us, he has to attain mastery. I have done my best to teach him,
but mastery ultimately must come from within, not without.
Her defense of him warmed Eragon’s heart.
As before, Glaedr was slow to respond. Nor has Eragon mastered his thoughts, as he
must also do. Neither of these abilities, mental or physical, is of much use alone, but of the
two, the mental is more important. One can win a battle against both a spellcaster and a
swordsman with the mind alone. Your mind and your body ought to be in balance, but if you
must choose which of them to train, you should choose your mind. Arya … Blödhgarm …
Yaela … you know this is true. Why have none of you taken it upon yourselves to continue
Eragon’s instruction in this area?
Arya cast her eyes at the ground, somewhat like a chastised child, while the fur on
Blödhgarm’s shoulders rippled and stood on end, and he pulled back his lips to reveal the tips
of his sharp white fangs.
It was Blödhgarm who finally dared reply. Speaking wholly in the ancient language, the
first to do so, he said, Arya is here as the ambassador of our people. I and my band are here
to protect the lives of Saphira Brightscales and Eragon Shadeslayer, and it has been a difficult
and time-consuming task. We have all tried to help Eragon, but it is not our place to train
a Rider, nor would we presume to attempt it when one of his rightful masters was still alive
and present … even if that master was neglecting his duty.
Dark clouds of anger gathered within Glaedr, like massive thunderheads building on the
horizon. Eragon distanced himself from Glaedr’s consciousness, wary of the dragon’s wrath.
Glaedr was no longer capable of physically harming anyone, but he was still incredibly dangerous,
and should he lose control and lash out with his mind, none of them would be able to
withstand his might.
Blödhgarm’s rudeness and insensitivity initially shocked Eragon—he had never heard an
elf speak to a dragon like that before—but after a moment’s reflection, Eragon realized that
Blödhgarm must have done it to draw Glaedr out and prevent him from retreating into his shell
of misery. Eragon admired the elf’s courage, but he wondered whether insulting Glaedr was
really the best approach. It certainly wasn’t the safest plan.
The billowing thunderheads swelled in size, illuminated by brief, lightning-like flashes, as
Glaedr’s mind jumped from one thought to another. You have overstepped your bounds, elf,
he growled, also in the ancient language. My actions are not for you to question. You cannot
even begin to comprehend what I have lost. If it were not for Eragon and Saphira and my duty
to them, I would have gone mad long ago. So do not accuse me of negligence, Blödhgarm,
son of Ildrid, unless you wish to test yourself against the last of the high Old Ones.
Baring his teeth even more, Blödhgarm hissed. In spite of that, Eragon detected a hint of
satisfaction in the elf’s visage. To Eragon’s dismay, Blödhgarm pressed on, saying, Then do
not blame us for failing to fulfill what are your responsibilities, not ours, Old One. Our whole
race mourns your loss, but you cannot expect us to make allowances for your self-pity when
we are at war with the most deadly enemy in our history—the same enemy who exterminated
nearly every one of your kind, and who also killed your Rider.
Glaedr’s fury was volcanic. Black and terrible, it battered against Eragon with such force,
he felt as if the fabric of his being might split asunder, like a sail caught in the wind. On the
other side of the field, he saw men drop their weapons and clutch at their heads, grimacing
with pain.
My self-pity? said Glaedr, forcing out each word, and each word sounding like a pronouncement
of doom. In the recesses of the dragon’s mind, Eragon sensed something unpleasant
taking shape that, if allowed to reach fruition, might be the cause of much sorrow
and regret.
Then Saphira spoke, and her mental voice cut through Glaedr’s churning emotions like a
knife through water. Master, she said, I have been worried about you. It is good to know that
you are well and strong again. None of us are your equal, and we have need of your help.
Without you, we cannot hope to defeat the Empire.
Glaedr rumbled ominously, but he did not ignore, interrupt, or insult her. Indeed, her praise
seemed to please him, even if only a little. After all, as Eragon reflected, if there was one thing
dragons were susceptible to, it was flattery, as Saphira was well aware.
Without pausing to allow Glaedr to respond, Saphira said, Since you no longer have use
of your wings, let me offer my own as a replacement. The air is calm, the sky is clear, and it
would be a joy to fly high above the ground, higher than even the eagles dare soar. After so
long trapped within your heart of hearts, you must yearn to leave all this behind and feel the
currents of air rising beneath you once more.
The black storm within Glaedr abated somewhat, although it remained vast and threatening,
teetering on the edge of renewed violence. That … would be pleasant.
Then we shall fly together soon. But, Master?
Yes, youngling?
There is something I wish to ask of you first.
Then ask it.
Will you help Eragon with his swordsmanship? Can you help him? He isn’t as skilled as he
needs to be, and I don’t want to lose my Rider. Saphira remained dignified throughout, but
there was a note of pleading in her voice that caused Eragon’s throat to tighten.
The thunderheads collapsed inward on themselves, leaving behind a bare gray landscape
that seemed inexpressibly sad to Eragon. Glaedr paused. Strange, half-seen shapes moved
slowly along the edge of the landscape—hulking monoliths that Eragon had no desire to meet
up close.
Very well, Glaedr said at long last. I will do what I can for your Rider, but after we are done
on this field, he must let me teach him as I see fit.
Agreed, said Saphira. Eragon saw Arya and the other elves relax, as if they had been
holding their breath.
Eragon withdrew from the others for a moment as Trianna and several other magicians
who served in the Varden contacted him, each demanding to know what they had just felt
tearing at their minds and what had so upset the men and animals in the camp. Trianna overrode
the others, saying, Are we under attack, Shadeslayer? Is it Thorn? Is it Shruikan?! Her
panic was so strong, it made Eragon want to throw down his sword and shield and run for
safety.
No, everything is fine, he said as evenly as he could. Glaedr’s existence was still a secret
to most of the Varden, including Trianna and the magicians who answered to her. Eragon
wanted to keep it that way, lest word of the golden dragon should reach the Empire’s spies.
Lying while in communication with another person’s mind was difficult in the extreme—since it
was nearly impossible to avoid thinking about whatever it was you wanted to keep hidden—so
Eragon kept the conversation as short as he could. The elves and I were practicing magic. I’ll
explain it later, but there’s no need to be worried.
He could tell that his reassurances did not entirely convince them, but they dared not
press him for a more detailed explanation and bade him farewell before walling off their minds
from his inner eye.
Arya must have noticed a change in his bearing, for she walked over to him and, in a low
murmur, asked, “Is everything all right?â€
“Fine,†Eragon replied in a similar undertone. He nodded toward the men who were picking
up their weapons. “I had to answer a few questions.â€
“Ah. You didn’t tell them who—â€
“Of course not.â€
Take up your positions as before, Glaedr rumbled, and Eragon and Arya separated and
paced off twenty feet in either direction.
Knowing that it might be a mistake but unable to restrain himself, Eragon said, Master,
can you really teach me what I need to know before we reach Urû’baen? So little time is left to
us, I—
I can teach you right now, if you will listen to me, said Glaedr. But you will have to listen
harder than ever before.
I am listening, Master. Still, Eragon could not help wondering how much the dragon really
knew about sword fighting. Glaedr would have learned a great deal from Oromis, even as
Saphira had learned from Eragon, but despite those shared experiences, Glaedr had never
held a sword himself—how could he have? Glaedr instructing Eragon on fencing would be
like Eragon instructing a dragon on how to navigate the thermals rising off the side of a mountain;
Eragon could do it, but he would not be able to explain it as well as Saphira, for his
knowledge was secondhand, and no amount of abstract contemplation could overcome that
disadvantage.
Eragon kept his doubts to himself, but something of them must have seeped past his barriers
to Glaedr, because the dragon made an amused sound—or rather, he imitated one within
his mind, the habits of the body being hard to forget—and said, All great fighting is the
same, Eragon, even as all great warriors are the same. Past a certain point, it does not matter
whether you wield a sword, a claw, a tooth, or a tail. It is true, you must be capable with your
weapon, but anyone with the time and the inclination can acquire technical proficiency. To
achieve greatness, though, that requires artistry. That requires imagination and thoughtfulness,
and it is those qualities that the best warriors share, even if, on the surface, they appear
completely different.
Glaedr fell silent for a moment, then said, Now, what was it I told you before?
Eragon did not have to even stop to consider. That I had to learn to see what I was looking
at. And I’ve tried, Master. I have.
But still you do not see. Look at Arya. Why has she been able to beat you again and
again? Because she understands you, Eragon. She knows who you are and how you think,
and that is what allows her to defeat you so consistently. Why is it Murtagh was able to
trounce you on the Burning Plains, even though he was nowhere near as fast or strong as
you?
Because I was tired and—
And how is it he succeeded in wounding you in the hip when last you met, and yet you
were only able to give him a scratch on the cheek? I will tell you, Eragon. It was not because
you were tired and he was not. No, it was because he understands you, Eragon, but you do
not understand him. Murtagh knows more than you, and thus he has power over you, as does
Arya.
And still Glaedr spoke: Look at her, Eragon. Look at her well. She sees you for who you
are, but do you see her in return? Do you see her clearly enough to defeat her in battle?
Eragon locked eyes with Arya and found within them a combination of determination and
defensiveness, as if she was challenging him to attempt to pry open her secrets, but she was
also afraid of what would happen if he did. Doubt welled up inside Eragon. Did he really know
her as well as he thought? Or had he deceived himself into mistaking the outer for the inner?
You have allowed yourself to become angrier than you should, said Glaedr softly. Anger
has its place, but it will not help you here. The way of the warrior is the way of knowing. If that
knowledge requires you to use anger, then you use anger, but you cannot wrest forth knowledge
by losing your temper. Pain and frustration will be your only reward if you try.
Instead, you must strive to be calm, even if a hundred ravening enemies are snapping at
your heels. Empty your mind and allow it to become like a tranquil pool that reflects
everything around it and yet remains untouched by its surroundings. Understanding will come
to you in that emptiness, when you are free of irrational fears about victory and defeat, life
and death.
You cannot predict every eventuality, and you cannot guarantee success every time you
face an enemy, but by seeing all and discounting nothing, you may adapt without hesitation to
any change. The warrior who can adapt the easiest to the unexpected is the warrior who will
live the longest.
So, look at Arya, see what you are looking at, and then take the action you deem most appropriate.
And once you are in motion, do not allow your thoughts to distract you. Think
without thinking, so that you act as if out of instinct and not reason. Go now, and try.
Eragon took a minute to collect himself and consider everything he knew about Arya: her
likes and dislikes, her habits and mannerisms, the important events of her life, what she
feared and what she hoped for, and most importantly, her underlying temperament—that
which dictated her approach to life … and to fighting. All that he considered, and from it he attempted
to divine the essence of her personality. It was a daunting task, especially since he
made an effort to view her not as he usually did—as a beautiful woman he admired and
longed for—but as the person she actually was, whole and complete and separate from his
own needs and wants.
He drew what conclusions he could within such a brief span of time, although he worried
that his observations were childish and overly simplistic. Then he set aside his uncertainty,
stepped forward, and raised his sword and shield.
He knew that Arya would be expecting him to try something different, so he opened their
duel as he had twice before: shuffling in a diagonal toward her right shoulder, as if to circumvent
her shield and attack her flank where it was unguarded. The ruse would not fool her, but
it would keep her guessing as to what he was actually up to, and the longer he could maintain
that uncertainty, the better.
A small, rough rock turned under the ball of his right foot. He shifted his weight to the side
so as to keep his balance.
The motion caused a nearly indiscernible hitch in his otherwise smooth stride, but Arya
spotted the irregularity and leaped at him, a clarion yell ringing from her lips.
Their swords glanced off one another, once, twice, and then Eragon turned
and—possessed of a sudden and deep-seated conviction that Arya was going to strike next
at his head—he stabbed at her chest, fast as he could, aiming for a spot near her breastbone
that she would have to leave open if she swung at his helm.
His intuition was right, but his reckoning was off.
He stabbed so quickly, Arya did not have an opportunity to move her arm out of the way,
and the hilt of her sword deflected Brisingr’s dark blue tip and sent it sailing harmlessly past
her cheek.
An instant later, the world tilted around Eragon and bursts of red and orange sparks appeared
scattered across his field of vision. He staggered and dropped to one knee, supporting
himself with both hands on the ground. A dull roaring filled his ears.
The sound gradually subsided, at which point Glaedr said, Do not try to move quickly,
Eragon. Do not try to move slowly. Only move at the correct moment and your blow will appear
neither fast nor slow but effortless. Timing is everything in battle. You must pay close attention
to the patterns and rhythms of your opponents’ bodies: where they are strong, where
they are weak, where stiff and where flexible. Match those rhythms when it serves your purpose
and confuse them when it does not, and you will be able to shape the flow of the battle
as it pleases you. This you should understand thoroughly. Fix it in your mind and think on it
more later. … Now try again!
Glaring at Arya, Eragon got back to his feet, shook his head to clear it, and, for what
seemed the hundredth time, assumed an on-guard position. His welts and bruises flared with
renewed pain, making him feel like an arthritic old man.
Arya tossed back her hair and smiled at him, baring her strong white teeth.
The gesture had no effect on him. He was focused on the task at hand and was not about
to allow himself to fall for the same trick twice.
Even before the smile began to fade from her lips, he was sprinting forward, Brisingr held
low and to the side while he led with his shield. As he hoped, the position of his sword tempted
Arya into a rash, preemptive strike: a slashing blow that would have taken him in the collarbone
if it had landed.
Eragon ducked underneath the blow, letting it bounce off his shield, and brought Brisingr
up and around, as if to cut her across the legs and hips. She blocked him with her shield, then
shoved him away, knocking the air from his lungs.
A brief lull followed as they circled each other, both searching for an opening to exploit.
The air between them was fraught with tension as he studied her and she him, their movements
quick and jerky, almost birdlike, from the overabundance of energy coursing through
their veins.
The strain broke like a glass rod snapping in two.
He struck at her and she parried, their blades moving with such speed, they were nearly
invisible. As they exchanged blows, Eragon kept his eyes riveted on hers, but he also
strove—as Glaedr had advised—to observe the rhythms and patterns of her body, while also
remembering who she was and how she was likely to act and react. He wanted to win so
badly, he felt as if he might burst if he didn’t.
And yet, despite all his efforts, Arya caught him by surprise with a reverse pommel strike
to his ribs.
Eragon stopped and swore an oath.
That was better, said Glaedr. Much better. Your timing was almost perfect.
But not quite.
No, not quite. You are still too angry, and your mind is still too cluttered. Keep hold of the
things you need to remember, but don’t let them distract you from what is happening. Find a
place of calm within yourself, and let the concerns of the world wash over you without sweeping
you away with them. You should feel as you did when Oromis had you listen to the
thoughts of the creatures in the forest. Then you were aware of everything that was going on
around you, yet you were not fixated on any one detail. Do not look at Arya’s eyes alone.
Your focus is too narrow, too detailed.
But Brom told me—
There are many ways of using the eyes. Brom had his, but it was not the most flexible of
styles, nor the most appropriate for large battles. He spent most of his life fighting one on one,
or in small groups, and his habits reflected that. Better to see widely than to see too closely
and allow some feature of place or situation to catch you unawares. Do you understand?
Yes, Master.
Then once more, and this time, allow yourself to relax and broaden your perception.
Eragon again reviewed his knowledge of Arya. When he had decided on a plan, he closed
his eyes, slowed his breathing, and sank deep within himself. His fears and anxieties gradually
drained out of him, leaving behind a profound emptiness that dulled the pain of his injuries
and gave him a sense of unusual clarity. Though he did not lose interest in winning, the prospect
of defeat no longer troubled him. What would be would be, and he would not struggle
unnecessarily against the decrees of fate.
“Ready?†asked Arya when he opened his eyes again.
“Ready.â€
They took up their starting positions, then stayed there, motionless, each of them waiting
for the other to attack first. The sun was to Eragon’s right, which meant that if he could maneuver
Arya in the opposite direction, the light would be in her eyes. He had tried before,
without success, but now he thought of a way he might be able to manage it.
He knew that Arya was confident she could beat him. He was sure she did not disregard
his abilities, but however conscious she was of his skill and his desire to improve, she had
won the overwhelming majority of their matches. Those experiences had shown her that he
would be easy to defeat, even if, intellectually, she might know better. Her confidence, therefore,
was also her weakness.
She thinks she’s better than me with a sword, he said to himself. And maybe she is, but I
can use her expectations against her. They’ll be her undoing, if anything is.
He sidled forward a few feet and smiled at Arya even as she had smiled at him. Her face
stayed impressively blank. A moment later, she charged him, as if she was going to tackle
him and drive him to the ground.
He sprang backward, edging to the right, so as to begin guiding her in the direction he
wanted.
Arya stopped short several yards away from him and remained as still as a wild animal
caught in a clearing. Then she traced a half circle in front of her with her sword while she
stared at him. He suspected that having Glaedr watching them made her all the more determined
to give a good showing of herself.
She shocked him then by uttering a soft, catlike growl. Like her smile before, the growl
was a weapon for unsettling him. And it worked, but only partly, for he had come to expect
such gestures, if not that particular one.
Arya crossed the intervening distance with a single bound and began swinging at him with
heavy, looping blows that he blocked with his shield. He let her attack without opposition, as if
her blows were too strong for him to do anything more than defend himself. With every loud,
painful jolt to his arm and shoulder, he retreated farther to the right, stumbling now and then
to increase the impression of being driven back.
And still he remained calm and composed—empty.
He knew that the opportune moment was going to arrive even before it did, and once it
had, he acted without thought or hesitation, without attempting to be fast or slow, seeking only
to fulfill the potential of that single, perfect instant.
As Arya’s sword descended toward him in a flashing arc, he pivoted to the right, sidestepping
the blade while also putting the sun squarely at his back.
The tip of her sword buried itself in the ground with a solid thunk.
Arya turned her head, so as to keep him in sight, and made the mistake of looking directly
into the sun. She squinted, and her pupils contracted to small, dark spots.
While she was blinded, Eragon stabbed Brisingr underneath her left arm, poking her in the
ribs. He could have struck her on the nape of her neck—and he would have if they had really
been fighting—but he refrained, for even with a dulled sword, such a blow could kill.
Arya let out a sharp cry as Brisingr made contact, and she fell back several steps. She
stood with her arm pressed against her side and her brow furrowed with pain and stared at
him with an odd expression.
Excellent! Glaedr crowed. And again!
Eragon felt a momentary glow of satisfaction; then he released his hold on the emotion
and returned to his previous state of detached watchfulness.
When Arya’s face cleared and she lowered her arm, she and Eragon carefully edged
around each other until neither had the sun in their eyes, at which point they began anew.
Eragon quickly noticed that Arya was treating him with greater caution than before. Most
times, that would have pleased him and inspired him to attack more aggressively, but he resisted
the urge, for it now seemed obvious to him that she was doing it on purpose. If he swallowed
her bait, he would soon find himself at her mercy, as he had so often before.
The duel lasted for only a few seconds, though it was still long enough for them to exchange
a flurry of blows. Shields cracked, chunks of torn sod flew over the ground, and sword
rang against sword as they flowed from one stance to another, their bodies twisting through
the air like twin columns of smoke.
In the end, the result was the same as before. Eragon slipped past Arya’s guard with an
adroit bit of footwork and a flick of his wrist, which resulted in him slashing Arya across her
chest, from shoulder to sternum.
The blow staggered Arya and she collapsed to one knee, where she remained, scowling
and breathing heavily through pinched nostrils. Her cheeks grew unusually pale, save for a
crimson blotch that appeared high on each side.
Again! ordered Glaedr.
Eragon and Arya complied without question. With his two victories, Eragon’s weariness
had diminished, though he could tell that the opposite was true for Arya.
The next match had no clear winner; Arya rallied and managed to foil all of Eragon’s tricks
and traps, even as he did hers. On and on they fought, until at last they were both so tired,
neither was able to continue, and they stood leaning on swords that were too heavy to lift,
panting, sweat dripping from their faces.
Again, said Glaedr in a low voice.
Eragon grimaced as he yanked Brisingr out of the ground. The more exhausted he became,
the harder it was to keep his mind uncluttered and to ignore the complaints of his
aching body. Also, he found it increasingly difficult to maintain an even temper and avoid falling
prey to the foul mood that usually beset him when he needed rest. Learning to deal with
that challenge, he supposed, was part of what Glaedr was trying to teach him.
His shoulders were burning too much for him to hold his sword and shield in front of him.
Instead, Eragon let them hang by his waist and hoped he could lift them fast enough when
needed. Arya did the same.
They shuffled toward each other in a crude imitation of their earlier grace.
Eragon was utterly spent, and yet he refused to give up. In a way that he did not entirely
understand, their sparring seemed to have become something more than just a test of arms; it
had become a test of who he was: of his character, of his strength, and of his resilience. Nor
was it Glaedr who was testing him, or so he felt, but rather Arya. It was as if she wanted
something from him, as if she wanted him to prove … what, he knew not, but he was determined
to acquit himself as well as he could. However long she was willing to keep sparring, so
too was he, no matter how much it hurt.
A drop of sweat rolled into his left eye. He blinked, and Arya lunged at him, shouting.
Once more they engaged in their deadly dance, and once more they fought to a standstill.
Fatigue made them clumsy, yet they moved together with a rough harmony that prevented
either from gaining victory.
Eventually, they ended up standing face to face, their swords locked at the hilts, pushing
at each other with what little remained of their strength.
Then, as they stood there, struggling back and forth without avail, Eragon said in a low,
fierce voice, “I … see … you.â€
A bright spark appeared in Arya’s eyes, then vanished just as quickly.
Inheritance
A HEART-TO-HEART
GLAEDR HAD THEM fight twice more. Each duel was shorter than the last, and each resulted
in a draw, which frustrated the golden dragon more than it did Eragon or Arya.
Glaedr would have kept them sparring until it became abundantly clear who was the better
warrior, but by the end of the last duel, they were both so tired that they dropped to the
ground and lay side by side, heaving for air, and even Glaedr had to admit that it would be
counterproductive, if not downright harmful, for them to continue.
Once they had recovered enough to stand and walk, Glaedr summoned them to Eragon’s
tent.
First, with energy from Saphira, they healed their more painful injuries. Then they returned
their ruined shields to the Varden’s weapon master, Fredric, who provided them with replacements,
although only after lecturing them on how they ought to take better care of their equipment.
When they arrived at the tent, they found Nasuada waiting for them, along with her usual
accompaniment of guards. “It’s about time,†she said in a tart voice. “If the two of you are
done trying to batter each other to pieces, we need to talk.†Without another word, she ducked
inside.
Blödhgarm and his fellow spellcasters arranged themselves in a large circle around the
tent, which Eragon could tell made Nasuada’s guards uneasy.
Eragon and Arya followed Nasuada into the tent; then Saphira surprised them by pushing
the front of her head past the entrance flaps and promptly filling the cramped space with the
smell of smoke and burnt meat.
The sudden appearance of Saphira’s scaly snout took Nasuada aback, but she quickly recovered.
Addressing herself to Eragon, she said, “That was Glaedr I felt, wasn’t it?â€
He glanced toward the front of the tent, hoping that her guards were too far away to hear,
then nodded. “It was.â€
“Ah, I knew it!†she exclaimed, sounding satisfied. Then her expression became uncertain.
“May I speak with him? Is it … allowed, or will he only communicate with an elf or a Rider?â€
Eragon hesitated and looked to Arya for guidance. “I don’t know,†he said. “He still hasn’t
entirely recovered. He may not want to—â€
I will speak with you, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, Glaedr said, his voice echoing in their
heads. Ask of me what you will, then leave us to our work; there is much that still needs to be
done in order to prepare Eragon for the challenges ahead.
Eragon had never seen Nasuada look awestruck before, but now she did. “Where?†she
mouthed, and spread her hands.
He pointed at a patch of dirt by his bed.
Nasuada raised her eyebrows; then she nodded, and drawing herself up, she formally
greeted Glaedr. An exchange of pleasantries followed, during the course of which Nasuada
inquired after Glaedr’s health and asked if there was anything the Varden could provide him
with. In response to the first question—which had made Eragon nervous—Glaedr politely explained
that his health was just fine, thank you; and as far as the second matter went, he
needed nothing from the Varden, though he appreciated her concern. I no longer eat, he said;
I no longer drink; and I no longer sleep as you would understand it. My only pleasure now, my
only indulgence, lies in contemplating how I might bring about Galbatorix’s downfall.
“That,†said Nasuada, “I can understand, for I feel much the same.â€
Then she asked Glaedr if he had any advice as to how the Varden could capture Dras-
Leona without it costing them an unacceptable amount of men and materiel, as well as, in her
words, “handing over Eragon and Saphira to the Empire, like so many trussed-up chickens.â€
She spent some time explaining the situation to Glaedr in greater specificity, whereupon,
after due consideration, he said, I have no easy solution for you, Nasuada. I will continue to
think on it, but at the moment, I cannot see a way clear for the Varden. If Murtagh and Thorn
were by themselves, I might easily overcome their minds. However, Galbatorix has given
them too many Eldunarà for me to do that. Even with Eragon, Saphira, and the elves to help,
victory would be no sure thing.
Visibly disappointed, Nasuada was silent for a brief while; then she pressed her hands flat
against the front of her dress and thanked Glaedr for his time. She bade them farewell and
took her leave, stepping carefully around Saphira’s head so as not to touch her.
Eragon relaxed somewhat as he sat on his cot, while Arya seated herself on a short,
three-legged stool. He wiped his palms on the knees of his trousers—for his hands felt sticky,
as did the rest of him—then offered Arya a drink from his waterskin, which she gratefully accepted.
When she was finished, he gulped down several mouthfuls himself. Their sparring
had left him ravenous. The water stifled the growls and rumbles coming from his stomach, but
he hoped that Glaedr would not detain them for much longer. The sun had nearly set, and he
wanted to get a hot meal from the Varden’s cooks before they damped their fires and turned
in for the night. Otherwise, he knew he would end up gnawing on stale bread, dried strips of
meat, moldy sheep cheese, and if he was lucky, a raw onion or two—hardly an appealing prospect.
Once they were both settled, Glaedr began to speak, lecturing Eragon on the principles of
mental combat. These Eragon was already familiar with, but he listened closely, and when the
golden dragon told him to do something, he followed Glaedr’s instructions without question or
complaint.
They soon progressed beyond maxims to applied practice. Glaedr started by testing
Eragon’s defenses with attacks of ever-increasing strength, which then led to them engaging
in all-out battles where they each struggled to obtain dominance, even if for only a moment,
over the other’s thoughts.
While they fought, Eragon lay on his back with his eyes closed, all of his energies concentrated
inward on the tempest that raged between him and Glaedr. His earlier exertions had
left him weak and thick-headed—whereas the golden dragon was fresh and well rested, in addition
to being immensely powerful—and that made it difficult for Eragon to do much more
than foil Glaedr’s attacks. Nevertheless, he managed to hold his own reasonably well, knowing
that, in a real fight, the winner would have undoubtedly been Glaedr.
Fortunately, Glaedr made some allowances for Eragon’s condition, although, as he said,
You must be ready to defend your innermost self at any given moment, even when you are
sleeping. It may very well be that you will end up facing Galbatorix or Murtagh when you are
as exhausted as you are now.
After two more bouts, Glaedr withdrew to the role of a—very vocal—spectator, while he
had Arya take his place as Eragon’s antagonist. She was just as tired as Eragon, but he
quickly found that, when it came to a wizard’s duel, she was more than his equal. It did not
surprise him. The one time before they had clashed in their minds, she had almost killed him,
and that was when she was still drugged from her captivity in Gil’ead. Glaedr’s thoughts were
disciplined and focused, but even he could not match the ironbound control Arya exerted over
her consciousness.
Her self-mastery was a trait Eragon had noticed was common among the elves. Foremost
in that regard had been Oromis, who, it seemed to Eragon, had been in such perfect command
of himself, never the slightest doubt or worry had bothered him. Eragon considered the
elves’ restraint an innate characteristic of their race, as well as a natural outcome of their rigorous
upbringing, education, and use of the ancient language. Speaking and thinking in a language
that prevented one from lying—and every word of which contained the potential to unlock
a spell—discouraged carelessness in thought or speech and fostered an aversion to allowing
one’s emotions to sweep one away. As a rule, then, elves possessed far more selfcontrol
than the members of other races.
He and Arya wrestled with their minds for a few minutes—he seeking to escape her allencompassing
grip, she seeking to pin and hold him so that she could impose her will on his
thoughts. She caught him several times, but he always wiggled free after a second or two,
though he knew, had she meant him harm, it would have been too late to save himself.
And the whole time their minds were touching, Eragon was aware of the wild strains of
music that wafted through the dark spaces of Arya’s consciousness. They lured him away
from his own body and threatened to snare him in a web of strange and eerie melodies that
had no counterparts among earthly songs. He would have happily succumbed to the bewitchment
of the music had it not been for the distraction of Arya’s attacks and the knowledge that
humans did not often fare well if they became too fascinated with the workings of an elf’s
mind. He might escape unscathed. He was a Rider, after all. He was different. But it was a
risk he was not willing to take, not so long as he valued his sanity. He had heard that delving
into Blödhgarm’s mind had reduced Nasuada’s guard Garven to a slack-jawed dreamer.
So he resisted the temptation, hard as it was.
Then Glaedr had Saphira join the fray, sometimes in opposition to Eragon and sometimes
in support of him, for as the elder dragon said, You must be as skilled in this as Eragon,
Brightscales. The addition of Saphira substantially altered the outcome of their mental
struggles. Together she and Eragon were able to fend off Arya with regularity, if not ease.
Their combined might even allowed them to subdue Arya on two separate occasions. When
Saphira was allied with Arya, however, the two of them so outstripped Eragon that he gave up
any attempt at offense and, instead, retreated deep inside himself, curling into a tight ball like
a wounded animal while he recited scraps of verse and waited for the waves of mental energy
they hurled at him to subside.
Lastly, Glaedr had them pair off—he with Arya, and Eragon with Saphira—and they fought
a duel like that, as if they were two sets of Riders and dragons met in combat. For the first few
strenuous minutes, they were fairly matched, but in the end, Glaedr’s strength, experience,
and cunning combined with Arya’s rigorous proficiency proved too much for Eragon and
Saphira to overcome, and they had no choice but to concede defeat.
Afterward, Eragon sensed discontent emanating from Glaedr. Stung by it, he said, We’ll
do better tomorrow, Master.
Glaedr’s mood darkened further. Even he seemed weary from their practice. You did well
enough, youngling. I could not have asked any more from either of you had you been placed
under my wing as apprentices in Vroengard. However, it is impossible for you to learn what
you need to learn in a matter of days or weeks. Time gushes between our teeth like water,
and soon it will all be gone. It takes years to master the art of fighting with your mind: years
and decades and centuries, and even then, there is still more to learn, more to discover—
about yourself, about your enemies, and about the very underpinnings of the world. With
an angry growl, he fell silent.
Then we will learn what we can and let fate decide the rest, said Eragon. Besides, Galbatorix
may have had a hundred years to train his mind, but it has also been over a hundred
years since you last taught him. He’s sure to have forgotten something in the interim. With
you helping us, I know we can beat him.
Glaedr snorted. Your tongue grows ever smoother, Eragon Shadeslayer. Nevertheless, he
sounded pleased. He admonished them to eat and rest, and then he withdrew from their
minds and said no more.
Eragon was sure that the golden dragon was still watching them, but Eragon could no
longer feel his presence, and an unexpected sense of emptiness settled over him.
A chill crept through his limbs, and he shivered.
He, Saphira, and Arya sat in the darkening tent, none of them willing to speak. Then, rousing
himself, Eragon said, “He seems better.†His voice creaked from disuse, and he again
reached for the waterskin.
“This is good for him,†said Arya. “You are good for him. Without something to give him
purpose, his grief would have killed him. That he has survived at all is … impressive. I admire
him for it. Few beings—human, elf, or dragon—could continue to function rationally after such
a loss.â€
“Brom did.â€
“He was equally remarkable.â€
If we kill Galbatorix and Shruikan, how do you think Glaedr will react? Saphira asked. Will
he keep going, or will he just … stop?
Arya’s pupils reflected a shimmer of light as she looked past Eragon toward Saphira.
“Only time will tell. I hope not, but if we are triumphant in Urû’baen, it may very well be that
Glaedr will find he is no longer able to continue on his own, without Oromis.â€
“We can’t just let him give up!â€
I agree.
“It is not our place to stop him if he decides to enter the void,†Arya said sternly. “The
choice is his to make, and his alone.â€
“Yes, but we can reason with him and try to help him see that life is still worth living.â€
She was still for a while, her face solemn; then she said, “I do not want him to die. No elf
does. However, if every waking moment is a torment to him, then won’t it be better for him to
seek release?â€
Neither Eragon nor Saphira had an answer for her.
The three of them continued to discuss the day’s events for a short while longer; then
Saphira pulled her head out of the tent and went to sit on the neighboring patch of grass. I
feel like a fox with her head stuck down a rabbit hole, she complained. It makes my scales
itch, not being able to see if someone is creeping up on me.
Eragon expected Arya to leave as well, but to his surprise, she stayed, seemingly content
to sit and talk with him about this and that. He was only too eager to comply. His earlier hunger
had vanished during his bouts of mental combat with her, Saphira, and Glaedr, and in any
case, he was more than willing to forgo a hot meal in exchange for the pleasure of her company.
Night closed in around them, and the camp grew ever quieter as their conversation meandered
from one topic to another. Eragon felt giddy from exhaustion and excitement—almost
as if he had drunk too much mead—and he noticed that Arya also seemed more at ease than
normal. They talked of many things: of Glaedr and of their sparring; of the siege of Dras-
Leona and what might be done about it; and of other, less important matters, such as the
crane Arya had seen hunting among the rushes by the edge of the lake, and the scale
Saphira had lost from her nose, and how the season was turning and the days were again
growing colder. But always they returned to the one topic that was ever present in their
thoughts, and that was Galbatorix and what awaited them in Urû’baen.
While they speculated, as they had so many times before, about the types of magical
traps Galbatorix might have set for them and how best to avoid them, Eragon thought of
Saphira’s question about Glaedr, and he said, “Arya?â€
“Yes?†She drew the word out, her voice rising and falling with a faint lilt.
“What do you want to do once this is all over?†If we’re still alive, that is.
“What do you want to do?â€
He fingered Brisingr’s pommel as he considered the question. “I don’t know. I haven’t let
myself think much past Urû’baen. … It would depend on what she wants, but I suppose
Saphira and I might return to Palancar Valley. I could build a hall on one of the foothills of the
mountains. We might not spend much time there, but at least we would have a home to return
to when we weren’t flying from one part of Alagaësia to another.†He half smiled. “I’m sure
there will be plenty to keep us busy, even if Galbatorix is dead. … But you still haven’t
answered my question: what will you do if we win? You must have some idea. You’ve had
longer to think about it than I have.â€
Arya drew one leg up onto the stool, wrapped her arms around it, and rested her chin on
her knee. In the dim half-light of the tent, her face appeared to float against a featureless
black background, like an apparition conjured out of the night.
“I have spent more time among humans and dwarves than I have among the älfakyn,†she
said, using the elves’ name in the ancient language. “I have grown used to it, and I would not
want to return to live in Ellesméra. Too little happens there; centuries can slip by without notice
while you sit and stare at the stars. No, I think I will continue to serve my mother as her
ambassador. The reason I first left Du Weldenvarden was because I wanted to help right the
balance of the world. As you said, there will still be much that needs doing if we manage to
topple Galbatorix, much that needs putting right, and I would be a part of it.â€
“Ah.†It was not exactly what he had hoped she might say, but at least it presented the
possibility that they would not entirely lose contact after Urû’baen, and that he would still be
able to see her now and then.
If Arya noticed his discontent, she gave no sign of it.
They talked for another few minutes, then Arya made her excuses and rose to leave.
As she stepped past him, Eragon reached toward her, as if to stop her, then quickly drew
back his hand. “Wait,†he said softly, unsure of what he hoped for, but hoping nevertheless.
The beat of his heart increased, pounding in his ears, and his cheeks grew warm.
Arya paused with her back to him by the entrance of the tent. “Good night, Eragon,†she
said. Then she slipped out between the entrance flaps and vanished into the night, leaving
him to sit alone in the dark.
Inheritance
DISCOVERY
THE NEXT THREE days passed quickly for Eragon, if not for the rest of the Varden, who
remained mired in lethargy. The standoff with Dras-Leona continued unabated, although there
was some excitement when Thorn altered his customary location from above the front gates
to a section of the rampart several hundred feet to the right. After much discussion—and after
consulting extensively with Saphira—Nasuada and her advisers concluded that Thorn had relocated
for no other reason than comfort; the other section of rampart was somewhat flatter
and longer. Aside from that, the siege lumbered on without change.
Meanwhile, Eragon spent the mornings and evenings studying with Glaedr and the afternoons
sparring with Arya and several other elves. His matches with the elves were not as
long or strenuous as his previous one with Arya—for it would have been foolish to push himself
that hard every day—but his sessions with Glaedr were as intense as ever. The ancient
dragon never flagged in his efforts to improve Eragon’s skills and knowledge, and he made no
allowances for mistakes or exhaustion.
Eragon was pleased to find that he was finally able to hold his own when dueling with the
elves. But it was mentally taxing, for if his concentration lapsed for even a moment, he would
end up with a sword jabbed in his ribs or pressed against his throat.
With his lessons from Glaedr, he made what would have been considered exemplary progress
under normal circumstances, but given the situation, both he and Glaedr were frustrated
with the pace of his learning.
On the second day, during his morning lesson with Glaedr, Eragon thought to say, Master,
when I first arrived at the Varden in Farthen Dûr, the Twins tested me—they tested my knowledge
of the ancient language, and of magic in general.
You told this to Oromis. Why repeat it to me now?
Because, it occurred to me … the Twins asked me to summon the true form of a silver
ring. At the time, I didn’t know how. Arya explained it to me later: how, with the ancient language,
you can conjure up the essence of any thing or creature. Yet Oromis never spoke of it,
and I was wondering … why not?
Glaedr seemed to sigh. Summoning the true form of an object is a difficult kind of magic.
In order for it to work, you must understand everything of importance about the object in question—
even as you must in order to guess the true name of a person or animal. Furthermore,
it’s of little practical value. And it’s dangerous. Very dangerous. The spell cannot be structured
as a continuing process that you can end at any time. Either you succeed in summoning the
true form of an object … or you fail and die. There was no reason for Oromis to have you try
anything so risky, nor were you advanced enough in your studies to even discuss the topic.
Eragon shuddered inwardly as he realized just how angry Arya must have been with the
Twins to summon the true form of the ring they held. Then he said, I would like to try it now.
Eragon felt the full force of Glaedr’s attention focused on him. Why?
I need to know if I have that level of understanding, even if only for one small thing.
Again: why?
Unable to explain with words, Eragon poured his jumble of thoughts and feelings into
Glaedr’s consciousness. When he finished, Glaedr was silent for a while, digesting the flow of
information. Am I right to say, began the dragon, that you equate this with defeating Galbatorix?
You believe that if you can do this and live, then you might be able to defeat the king?
Yes, said Eragon, relieved. He had been unable to articulate his motivation as clearly as
the dragon, but that was exactly it.
And are you determined to try this?
Yes, Master.
It may kill you, Glaedr reminded him.
I know.
Eragon! exclaimed Saphira, her thoughts faint in his mind. She was flying high above the
camp, watching for possible danger while he studied with Glaedr. It’s far too dangerous. I
won’t allow it.
I have to do this, he replied quietly.
To Saphira, but also to Eragon, Glaedr said, If he insists, then it is best he tries where I
can watch. If his knowledge fails him, I may be able to supply the needed information and
save him.
Saphira growled—an angry, ripping sound that filled Eragon’s mind—and then, from outside
the tent, Eragon heard a fearsome rush of air and startled cries from men and elves as
she dove to the ground. She landed with such force, the tent and everything in it shook.
A few seconds later, she stuck her head into the tent and glared at Eragon. She was panting,
and the wind from her nostrils ruffled his hair and made his eyes water from the odor of
burnt meat. You’re as thick-headed as a Kull, she said.
No more than you.
Her lip curled in a hint of a snarl. Why are we waiting? If you must do this, let us be done
with it!
What will you choose to summon? asked Glaedr. It must be something you are intimately
familiar with.
Eragon let his gaze drift over the interior of the tent, then down to the sapphire ring he
wore on his right hand. Aren …He had rarely taken the ring off since Ajihad had given it to
him from Brom. It had become a part of his body as surely as his arms or legs. During the
hours he had spent looking at it, he had memorized every curve and facet, and if he closed
his eyes, he could call up an image that was a perfect reproduction of the actual object. But
for all that, there was much he did not know about the ring—its history, how the elves had
made it, and, ultimately, what spells might or might not be woven into its fabric.
No … not Aren.
Then his gaze slid from the ring to the pommel of Brisingr, where the sword stood leaning
against the corner of his cot. “Brisingr,†he murmured.
A muffled whump emanated from the blade, and the sword rose a half inch out of its scabbard,
as if pushed from beneath, and small tongues of flame leaped up from the mouth of the
sheath, licking the underside of the hilt. The flames vanished and the sword slid back into the
scabbard as Eragon quickly ended the unintentional spell.
Brisingr, he thought, utterly certain of his choice. It had been Rhunön’s skill that had crafted
the sword, but it was he who had wielded the tools, and he had been joined with the elf
smith’s mind throughout the process. If there was any one object in the world he understood
through and through, it was his sword.
Are you sure? asked Glaedr.
Eragon nodded, then caught himself as he remembered the golden dragon could not see
him. Yes, Master. … A question, though: is Brisingr the true name of the sword, and if not, do
I need its true name for the spell to work?
Brisingr is the name of fire, as you well know. The true name of your sword is undoubtedly
something far more complicated, although it might very well include brisingr within its description.
If you wish, you could refer to the sword by its true name, but you could just as easily call
it Sword and achieve the same result, so long as you maintain the proper knowledge at the
forefront of your mind. The name is merely a label for the knowledge, and you do not need
the label in order to make use of the knowledge. It is a subtle distinction, but an important
one. Do you understand?
I do.
Then proceed as you will.
Eragon took a moment to collect himself. Then he found the nub in the back of his mind
and reached through it to tap his body’s store of energy. Channeling that energy into the word
he spoke, while also thinking about everything he knew of the sword, he said clearly and distinctly:
“Brisingr!â€
Eragon felt his strength ebb precipitously. Alarmed, he tried to speak, tried to move, but
the spell bound him in place. He could not even blink or breathe.
Unlike before, the sheathed sword did not burst into flame; it wavered, like a reflection in
water. Then, in the air next to the weapon, a transparent apparition appeared: a perfect, glowing
likeness of Brisingr free of its sheath. As well made as was the sword itself—and Eragon
had never found so much as a single flaw—the duplicate floating before him was even more
refined. It was as if he was seeing the idea of the sword, an idea that not even Rhunön, with
all her experience working metal, could hope to capture.
As soon as the manifestation became visible, Eragon was again able to breathe and
move. He maintained the spell for several seconds, so he could marvel at the beauty of the
summoning, and then he let the spell slip free of his grasp and the ghostly sword slowly faded
into oblivion.
In its absence, the inside of the tent seemed unexpectedly dark.
Only then did Eragon again become aware of Saphira and Glaedr pressing against his
consciousness, watching with steadfast attentiveness every thought that flickered through his
mind. Both of the dragons were as tense as Eragon had ever felt them. If he were to poke
Saphira, he guessed she would be so startled, she would twist herself in circles.
And if I were to poke you, nothing would be left but a smear, she commented.
Eragon smiled and lowered himself onto the cot, tired.
In his mind, Eragon heard a sound like wind rushing across a lonely plain as Glaedr relaxed.
You did well, Shadeslayer. Glaedr’s praise surprised Eragon; the old dragon had given
out few enough compliments since he had begun teaching Eragon. But let us not try it again.
Eragon shivered and rubbed his arms, trying to dispel the cold that had crept into his
limbs. Agreed, Master. It was not an experience he was eager to replicate. Still, he felt a deep
sense of satisfaction. He had proven without a doubt that there was at least one thing in
Alagaësia that he could do as well as anyone possibly could.
And that gave him hope.
On the morning of the third day, Roran arrived back at the Varden, along with his companions:
tired, wounded, and travel-worn. Roran’s return stirred the Varden from their torpor for a
few hours—he and the others with him were given a hero’s welcome—but an air of boredom
soon settled over the majority of the Varden again.
Eragon was relieved to see Roran. He had known his cousin was safe, as he had scryed
him several times while he was gone. Nevertheless, seeing him in person freed Eragon of an
anxiety that, until that very moment, he had not realized he was carrying. Roran was the only
family he had left—Murtagh did not count, as far as Eragon was concerned—and Eragon
could not bear the thought of losing him.
Now, seeing Roran up close, Eragon was shocked by his appearance. He had expected
Roran and the others to be exhausted, but Roran seemed far more haggard than his companions;
he looked as if he had aged five years over the course of the trip. His eyes were red and
dark-ringed, his brow was lined, and he moved stiffly, as if every inch of his body was covered
in bruises. And then there was his beard, which had been burned half off and which now had
a mottled, mangy appearance.
The five men—one less than their original number—went first to visit the healers of Du
Vrangr Gata, where the spellcasters attended to their wounds. Then they presented themselves
to Nasuada in her pavilion. After commending them for their bravery, Nasuada dismissed
all of the men except Roran, whom she asked to deliver a detailed account of his journey
to and from Aroughs, as well as the capture of the city itself. The telling took some time,
but both Nasuada and Eragon—who was standing by her right hand—listened with rapt and
sometimes horrified attention while Roran spoke. When he finished, Nasuada surprised both
him and Eragon by announcing that she was placing Roran in charge of one of the Varden’s
battalions.
Eragon expected the news to please Roran. Instead, he saw the lines in his cousin’s face
deepen and his brows draw together in a frown. Roran made no objection or complaint,
however, but bowed and said in his rough voice, “As you wish, Lady Nasuada.â€
Later, Eragon walked Roran to his tent, where Katrina was waiting for them. She greeted
Roran with such an obvious display of emotion that Eragon averted his eyes, embarrassed.
With Saphira, the three of them dined together, but Eragon and Saphira excused themselves
as soon as they could, for it was obvious that Roran had no energy for company and
Katrina wished to have him for herself.
As he and Saphira wandered through the camp in the deepening dusk, Eragon heard
someone behind him shout, “Eragon! Eragon! Wait a moment!â€
He turned to see the thin, gangly figure of the scholar Jeod running toward him, strands of
hair flying around his lean face. In his left hand, Jeod clutched a ragged scrap of parchment.
“What is it?†Eragon asked, worried.
“This!†exclaimed Jeod, his eyes gleaming. He held up the parchment and shook it. “I’ve
done it again, Eragon! I’ve found a way!†In the fading light, the scar on his scalp and temple
appeared startlingly pale against his tanned skin.
“You’ve done what again? You’ve found what way? Slow down; you’re not making sense!â€
Jeod glanced around furtively, then he leaned close to Eragon and whispered, “All my
reading and searching has paid off. I’ve discovered a hidden tunnel that leads straight into
Dras-Leona!â€
Inheritance
DECISIONS
“EXPLAIN IT TO me again,†said Nasuada.
Eragon shifted his weight, impatient, but he held his tongue.
From the piles of scrolls and books in front of him, Jeod picked up a slim volume bound in
red leather and began his narrative for the third time: “Some five hundred years ago, as best I
can tell—â€
Jörmundur interrupted him with a motion of his hand. “Leave out your qualifiers. We know
this is speculation.â€
Jeod began again: “Some five hundred years ago, Queen Forna sent Erst Graybeard to
Dras-Leona, or rather what was to become Dras-Leona.â€
“And why did she send him?†asked Nasuada while she toyed with the fringe of her
sleeve.
“The dwarves were in the midst of a clan war, and Forna hoped that she could secure the
support of our race by helping King Radgar with the planning and construction of the fortifications
for the city, even as the dwarves engineered the defenses for Aroughs.â€
Nasuada rolled a strand of cloth between her fingers. “And then Dolgrath Halfstave killed
Forna. …â€
“Aye. And Erst Graybeard had no choice but to return to the Beor Mountains as fast as he
could, to defend his clan from Halfstave’s predations. Butâ€â€”Jeod held up a finger, then
opened the red book—“before he left, it seems Erst did start on his work. King Radgar’s chief
adviser, Lord Yardley, wrote in his memoirs that Erst had begun to draw up plans for the sewer
system underneath the center of the city, since that would affect how the fortifications
would be built.â€
From his place at the far end of the table that filled the middle of Nasuada’s pavilion, Orik
nodded and said, “That’s true enough. You have to work out where and how the weight is distributed
and determine what’s appropriate for the kind of earth you’re dealing with. Otherwise,
you’re liable to have cave-ins.â€
Jeod continued: “Of course, Dras-Leona doesn’t have underground sewers, so I assumed
that nothing like Erst’s plans were ever put into effect. However, a few pages later, Yardley
says …†Peering down his nose at the book, Jeod read, “… and in a most lamentable turn of
events, the reavers burned many a house and made off with many a family treasure. The soldiers
were slow to respond, for they had been put to work underground, laboring like common
peasants.â€
Jeod lowered the book. “Now, what were they excavating? I was unable to find any further
mention of subterranean activities in or around Dras-Leona, until—†Putting down the red
volume, he selected another book, this one a massive, wood-paneled tome nearly a foot
thick. “I happened to be perusing The Acts of Taradas and Other Mysteries of Occult Phenomena
as Recorded Throughout the Ages of Men, Dwarves, and the Most Ancient Elves
when—â€
“It is a work filled with mistakes,†said Arya. She stood by the left side of the table, leaning
on both hands over a map of the city. “The author knew little of my people, and what he did
not know, he invented.â€
“That may be,†said Jeod, “but he knew a great deal about humans, and it is humans we
are interested in.†Jeod opened the book close to the middle and gently lowered the upper
half to the table, so it lay flat. “During his investigations, Othman spent some time in this region.
He mainly studied Helgrind and the strange happenings associated with it, but he also
had this to say about Dras-Leona: The people of the city also often complain of peculiar
sounds and odors wafting up from under their streets and floors, especially at night, which
they attribute to ghosts and spirits and other uncanny creatures, but if they are spirits, they
are unlike any I have heard of before, as spirits elsewhere seem to avoid enclosed spaces.â€
Jeod closed the book. “Fortunately, Othman was nothing if not thorough, and he marked
the locations of the sounds on a map of Dras-Leona, where, as you can see, they form a
nearly straight line through the old part of the city.â€
“And you think this indicates the presence of a tunnel,†said Nasuada. It was a statement,
not a question.
“I do,†said Jeod, bobbing his head.
Sitting next to Nasuada, King Orrin, who had said little, spoke. “Nothing you have shown
us so far, Goodman Jeod, has yet to prove that this is actually a tunnel. If there is a space under
the city, it might very well be a cellar or a catacomb or some other chamber that only
leads to the building above. Even if it is a tunnel, we do not know if it exits anywhere outside
of Dras-Leona, nor, assuming its existence, where it would lead. To the heart of the palace,
perhaps? What’s more, by your own account, it’s likely the construction of this hypothetical
tunnel was never completed in the first place.â€
“It seems unlikely it could be anything but a tunnel, given its shape, Your Majesty,†said
Jeod. “No cellar or catacomb would be so narrow or long. As for whether it was completed …
we know it was never used for its intended purpose, but we also know that it lasted at least up
until Othman’s time, which means the tunnel or passageway or what-have-you must have
been finished to some degree, otherwise the seep of water would have destroyed it long ago.â€
“What of the exit, then—or the entrance, if you will?†asked the king.
Jeod scrabbled among the piles of scrolls for a few moments before pulling out another
map of Dras-Leona, this one showing a portion of the surrounding landscape. “That I can’t be
sure about, but if it does lead out of the city, then it would exit somewhere around here—†He
placed his index finger on a spot close to the eastern side of the city. Most of the buildings
outside the walls that protected the heart of Dras-Leona were located on the western side of
the city, next to the lake. This meant that the location Jeod was pointing at, though empty
land, was closer to the center of Dras-Leona than one could get from any other direction
without encountering buildings. “But it’s impossible to tell without going there to look for it in
person.â€
Eragon frowned. He had thought Jeod’s discovery would be more certain.
“You are to be congratulated on your research, Goodman Jeod,†said Nasuada. “You may
have once again performed a great service for the Varden.†She rose from her high-backed
chair and walked over to look at the map. The hem of her dress rustled as it dragged across
the ground. “If we send a scout to investigate, we risk alerting the Empire to our interest in
that area. Assuming the tunnel exists, it would be of little value to us then; Murtagh and Thorn
would be expecting us on the other end.†She looked at Jeod. “How wide do you think this
tunnel would be? How many men could fit in it?â€
“I couldn’t say. It might be—â€
Orik cleared his throat, then said, “The earth here is soft and claylike, with a fair bit of silt
layered throughout it—horrible for tunneling. If Erst had any sense, he wouldn’t have planned
to have one large channel carry away the city’s waste; he would have laid down several smaller
passageways, to reduce the likelihood of a cave-in. I’d guess that none of them would be
wider than a yard or so.â€
“Too narrow for more than a single man to pass through at a time,†said Jeod.
“Too narrow for more than a single knurla,†added Orik.
Nasuada returned to her seat and stared at the map with unfocused eyes, as if she were
gazing at something far away.
After a few moments of silence, Eragon said, “I could search for the tunnel. I know how to
hide myself with magic; the sentries would never see me.â€
“Perhaps,†murmured Nasuada. “But I still don’t like the idea of having you or anyone else
running about. The likelihood of the Empire noticing is too high. What if Murtagh is watching?
Could you fool him? Do you even know what he is capable of now?†She shook her head.
“No, we must act as if the tunnel exists and make our decisions accordingly. If events prove
otherwise, it won’t have cost us anything, but if the tunnel is there … it should allow us to capture
Dras-Leona once and for all.â€
“What have you in mind?†asked King Orrin in a tone of caution.
“Something bold; something … unexpected.â€
Eragon snorted softly. “Perhaps you should consult Roran, then.â€
“I have no need of Roran’s help in devising my plans, Eragon.â€
Nasuada fell silent again, and everyone in the pavilion, including Eragon, waited to see
what she would come up with. At last she stirred and said, “This: we send a small team of
warriors to open the gates from the inside.â€
“And how is anyone supposed to manage that?†demanded Orik. “It would be tricky
enough if all they had to face were the hundreds of soldiers stationed in the area, but in case
you have forgotten, there’s also a giant, fire-breathing lizard lounging close by, and he’s sure
to take an interest in anyone foolish enough to pry open the gates. And that’s not even taking
Murtagh into account.â€
Before the discussion could devolve, Eragon said, “I can do it.â€
The words had an immediate, chilling effect on the conversation.
Eragon expected Nasuada to reject his suggestion out of hand, but she surprised him by
considering it. Then she surprised him further when she said, “Very well.â€
All the arguments Eragon had built up fell away as he stared at Nasuada with astonishment.
She had obviously followed the same chain of reasoning as he had.
The tent erupted in a confusion of overlapping voices as everyone began to speak at
once. Arya won out over the din: “Nasuada, you cannot allow Eragon to endanger himself so.
It would be unconscionable. Send some of Blödhgarm’s spellcasters instead; I know they
would agree to help, and they are as mighty warriors as any you can find, including Eragon.â€
Nasuada shook her head. “None of Galbatorix’s men would dare kill Eragon—not Murtagh,
not the king’s pet magicians, not even the lowest of soldiers. We should use that to our
advantage. Besides, Eragon is our strongest spellcaster, and it may require a great deal of
strength to force open the gates. Of all of us, he has the best chance of success.â€
“What if he is captured, though? He can’t hold his own against Murtagh. You know that!â€
“We’ll distract Murtagh and Thorn, and that will give Eragon the opportunity he needs.â€
Arya lifted her chin. “How? How will you distract them?â€
“We’ll make as though to attack Dras-Leona from the south. Saphira will fly around the
city, setting buildings on fire and killing soldiers on the walls. Thorn and Murtagh will have no
choice but to give chase, especially since it will appear as if Eragon is riding Saphira the
whole time. Blödhgarm and his fellow spellcasters can conjure up a facsimile of Eragon, as
they did before. As long as Murtagh doesn’t get too close, he’ll never discover our subterfuge.â€
“You are determined in this?â€
“I am.â€
Arya’s face hardened. “Then I will accompany Eragon.â€
Relief seeped through Eragon. He had hoped she would go with him, but he had been uncertain
whether to ask, for fear she would refuse.
Nasuada sighed. “You are IslanzadÃ’s daughter. I would not like to place you in such
danger. If you were to die … Remember how your mother reacted when she thought Durza
had killed you. We cannot afford to lose the help of your people.â€
“My mother—†Arya clamped her lips shut, cutting herself off, then began anew: “I can assure
you, Lady Nasuada, Queen Islanzadà shall not abandon the Varden, whatever may happen
to me. Of that, you need have no concern. I will accompany Eragon, as will two of
Blödhgarm’s spellcasters.â€
Nasuada shook her head. “No, you can only take one. Murtagh is familiar with the number
of elves who have been protecting Eragon. If he notices that two or more are missing, he may
suspect a trap of some sort. In any event, Saphira will need as much help as she can get if
she’s to keep out of Murtagh’s grasp.â€
“Three people are not enough to attempt such a mission,†insisted Arya. “We would be unable
to ensure Eragon’s safety, much less open the gates.â€
“Then one of Du Vrangr Gata can go with you as well.â€
A hint of derision colored Arya’s expression. “None of your spellcasters are strong or
skilled enough. We’ll be outnumbered a hundred to one, or worse. Both ordinary swordsmen
and trained magicians will be arrayed against us. Only elves or Riders—â€
“Or Shades,†Orik rumbled.
“Or Shades,†Arya conceded, though Eragon could tell she was irritated. “Only those could
hope to prevail against such odds. And even then it is no sure thing. Let us take two of
Blödhgarm’s spellcasters. No one else is fit for the task, not among the Varden.â€
“Oh, and what am I, chopped liver?â€
Everyone turned to look, surprised, as Angela stepped forward from a corner at the back
of the tent. Eragon had not even suspected she was there.
“What a strange expression,†said the herbalist. “Who would compare themselves to
chopped liver in the first place? If you have to choose an organ, why not pick a gallbladder or
a thymus gland instead? Much more interesting than a liver. Or what about chopped t—†She
smiled. “Well, I suppose that’s not important.†She stopped in front of Arya and looked up at
her. “Will you object if I accompany you, Älfa? I’m not a member of the Varden, not strictly
speaking, but I’m still willing to round out this quartet of yours.â€
Much to Eragon’s surprise, Arya bowed her head and said, “Of course, wise one. I meant
no offense. It would be an honor to have you with us.â€
“Good!†exclaimed Angela. “That is, assuming you don’t mind,†she said, directing her
words to Nasuada.
Appearing somewhat bemused, Nasuada shook her head. “If you are willing, and neither
Eragon nor Arya objects, then I can think of no reason why you shouldn’t go. I can’t imagine
why you’d want to, though.â€
Angela tossed her curls. “Do you expect me to explain every decision I make? … Oh, very
well, if it’ll satisfy your curiosity, let’s say I have a grudge against the priests of Helgrind, and
I’d like the chance to do them some mischief. And besides, if Murtagh puts in an appearance,
I have a trick or two up my sleeve that might give him a bit of a turn.â€
“We should ask Elva to go with us as well,†said Eragon. “If anyone can help us avoid
danger …â€
Nasuada frowned. “Last we spoke, she made her position clear enough. I’ll not go bowing
and scraping to her in an attempt to convince her otherwise.â€
“I’ll talk with her,†said Eragon. “I’m the one she’s angry with, and I’m the one who should
ask her.â€
Nasuada plucked at the fringe of her golden dress. She rolled several strands between
her fingers, then abruptly said, “Do as you wish. I dislike the thought of sending a child—even
one as gifted as Elva—into battle. However, I suppose she is more than capable of protecting
herself.â€
“As long as the pain of those around her doesn’t overwhelm her,†said Angela. “The last
few battles have left her curled in a ball, barely able to move or breathe.â€
Nasuada stilled her fingers and peered at Eragon with a serious expression. “She’s unpredictable.
If she does choose to go along, be careful of her, Eragon.â€
“I will,†he promised.
Then Nasuada began to discuss questions of logistics with Orrin and Orik, and Eragon
withdrew somewhat from the conversation, for he had little to contribute.
In the privacy of his mind, he reached out to Saphira, who had been listening, through
him, to the goings-on. Well? he asked. What do you think? You’ve been awfully quiet. I
thought for sure you would say something when Nasuada proposed sneaking into Dras-
Leona.
I said nothing because I had nothing to say. It is a good plan.
You agree with her?!
We are no longer awkward younglings, Eragon. Our enemies may be fearsome, but so
are we. It is time we remind them of that.
Does it bother you that we’ll be apart?
Of course it bothers me, she growled. Wherever you go, enemies flock to you like flies to
flesh. However, you are not as helpless as you once were. And she almost seemed to purr.
Me, helpless? he said with mock outrage.
Only a little bit. But your bite is more dangerous than before.
So is yours.
Mmm. … I go to hunt. A wing-breaking storm is building, and I’ll not have a chance to eat
again until after we attack.
Fly safely, he said.
As he felt her presence receding from him, Eragon returned his attention to the conversation
within the tent, for he knew his life, and that of Saphira, would depend on the decisions
Nasuada, Orik, and Orrin would make.
Inheritance
UNDER HILL AND STONE
ERAGON ROLLED HIS shoulders, trying to get his mail hauberk to rest comfortably under
the tunic he wore to hide the armor.
Darkness lay all around them, heavy and oppressive. A thick layer of clouds obscured the
moon and the stars. Without the red werelight Angela held in the palm of her hand, even
Eragon and the elves would have been unable to see.
The air was humid, and once or twice, Eragon felt a few cold drops of rain strike his
cheeks.
Elva had laughed and refused when he had asked for her help. He had argued with her
long and hard, but to no avail. Saphira had even intervened, flying down to the tent where the
witch-child was staying and placing her massive head just feet away from the girl, forcing her
to look into one of Saphira’s brilliant, unblinking eyes.
Elva had not had the temerity to laugh then, but she remained obdurate in her refusal. Her
stubbornness frustrated Eragon. Still, he could not help but admire her strength of character;
to say no to both a Rider and a dragon was no small thing. Then again, she had endured an
incredible amount of pain in her short life, and the experience had hardened her to a degree
rarely seen even in the most jaded of warriors.
Beside him, Arya fastened a long cloak around her neck. Eragon wore one as well, as did
Angela and the black-haired elf Wyrden, whom Blödhgarm had chosen to accompany them.
The cloaks were needed to protect them against the night chill, as well as to conceal their
weapons from anyone they might encounter in the city, if they got that far.
Nasuada, Jörmundur, and Saphira had accompanied them to the edge of the camp,
where they now stood. Among the tents, the men of the Varden, dwarves, and Urgals were
busy preparing to march forth.
“Don’t forget,†said Nasuada, her breath steaming in front of her, “if you can’t reach the
gates by dawn, find somewhere to wait until tomorrow morning, and we’ll try again then.â€
“We may not have the luxury of waiting,†said Arya.
Nasuada rubbed her arms and nodded. She appeared unusually worried. “I know. Either
way, we’ll be ready to attack as soon as you contact us, no matter the time of day. Your
safety is more important than capturing Dras-Leona. Remember that.†Her gaze drifted toward
Eragon as she spoke.
“We should be off,†said Wyrden. “The night grows old.â€
Eragon pressed his forehead against Saphira for a moment. Good hunting, she said softly.
And you as well.
They reluctantly parted, and Eragon joined Arya and Wyrden as they followed Angela
away from the camp, heading toward the eastern edge of the city. Nasuada and Jörmundur
murmured well-wishes and farewells as they strode past, and then all was quiet, save the
sounds of their breathing and of their boots on the ground.
Angela dimmed the light in her palm until it was barely bright enough for Eragon to see his
feet. He had to strain his eyes to spot rocks and branches that lay in the way.
They walked in silence for nearly an hour, at which point the herbalist stopped and
whispered, “We’re here, as best I can tell. I’m fairly good at reckoning distances, but we might
be off by more than a thousand feet. It’s hard to be certain of anything in this gloom.â€
Off to their left, a half-dozen pinpricks of light floated above the horizon, the only evidence
that they were anywhere near Dras-Leona. The lights seemed close enough to pluck from the
air.
He and the two women gathered around Wyrden as the elf knelt and pulled the glove off
his right hand. Placing his palm against the bare earth, Wyrden began to croon the spell he
had learned from the dwarven magician whom—ere they left on their mission—Orik had sent
to instruct them in the ways of detecting underground chambers.
While the elf sang, Eragon stared into the surrounding blackness, listening and watching
for enemies. The fall of raindrops on his face increased. He hoped the weather would improve
before battle was joined, if battle was to be joined.
An owl hooted somewhere, and he reached for Brisingr, only to stop himself and clench
his fist. Barzûl, he said to himself, using Orik’s favorite curse. He was more nervous than he
ought to be. The knowledge that he might be about to fight Murtagh and Thorn again—singly
or together—had put him on edge.
I’ll be sure to lose if I keep on like this, he thought. So he slowed his breathing and initiated
the first of the mental exercises Glaedr had taught him for establishing control over his
emotions.
The old dragon had not been enthusiastic about the mission when Eragon told him about
it, but neither had he opposed it. After discussing various contingencies, Glaedr had said: Beware
of the shadows, Eragon. Strange things lurk in dark places, which, Eragon thought, was
hardly an encouraging statement.
He wiped the accumulated moisture off his face, keeping his other hand close to the hilt of
his sword. The leather of his glove was warm and smooth against his skin.
Lowering his hand, he hooked his thumb under his sword belt, the belt of Beloth the Wise,
conscious of the weight of the twelve flawless diamonds concealed within. That morning, he
had gone to the livestock pens, and as the cooks killed the birds and sheep for the army’s
breakfast, he had transferred the animals’ dying energy into the gems. He hated doing so;
when he reached out with his mind to an animal—if it still had its head attached—the animal’s
fear and pain became his own, and as it slipped into the void, he felt as if he himself were dying.
It was a horrible, panic-inducing experience. Whenever he could, he had whispered
words in the ancient language to the animals in an attempt to comfort them. Sometimes it
worked, sometimes not. Though the creatures would have died in any case, and though he
needed the energy, he hated the practice, for it made him feel as if he were responsible for
their deaths. It made him feel unclean.
Now he fancied that the belt was slightly heavier than before, laden as it was with the energy
from so many animals. Even if the diamonds within had been worthless, Eragon would
have regarded the belt as valuable beyond gold, on account of the dozens of lives that had
gone into filling it.
As Wyrden ceased singing, Arya asked, “Have you found it?â€
“This way,†said Wyrden, standing.
Relief and trepidation swept through Eragon. Jeod was right!
Wyrden led them over a road and a series of small hills, then down into a shallow wash
hidden within the folds of the land. “The mouth of the tunnel should be somewhere here,†said
the elf, and gestured at the western bank of the depression.
The herbalist increased the brightness of her werelight enough for them to search by; then
Eragon, Arya, and Wyrden began to comb through the brush along the side of the bank, poking
at the ground with sticks. Twice Eragon barked his shins against the stumps of fallen birch
trees, causing him to suck in his breath with pain. He wished he was wearing bracers, but he
had left them behind, along with his shield, because they would have attracted too much attention
in the city.
For twenty minutes, they searched, ranging up and down the bank as they worked their
way out from their starting point. At last Eragon heard a ring of metal, and then Arya softly
called, “Here.â€
He and the others hurried toward her, where she stood by a small, overgrown hollow in
the side of the bank. Arya drew aside the brush to reveal a stone-lined tunnel five feet tall and
three feet wide. A rusting iron grate covered the gaping hole.
“Look,†said Arya, and she pointed at the ground.
Eragon looked, and he saw a path leading out of the tunnel. Even by the weird red illumination
of the herbalist’s werelight, Eragon could tell that the trail had been worn into place by
the passage of tramping feet. One or more people must have been using the tunnel to surreptitiously
enter and exit Dras-Leona.
“We should proceed with caution,†whispered Wyrden.
Angela made a faint noise in her throat. “How else were you planning to proceed? With
blaring trumpets and shouting heralds? Really.â€
The elf refrained from answering, but he appeared distinctly uncomfortable.
Arya and Wyrden pulled off the grating and cautiously moved into the tunnel. Both conjured
werelights of their own. The flameless orbs floated over their heads like small red suns,
though they emitted no more light than a handful of coals.
Eragon hung back and said to Angela, “Why do the elves treat you so respectfully? They
seem almost afraid of you.â€
“Am I not deserving of respect?â€
He hesitated. “One of these days, you know, you’re going to have to tell me about yourself.â€
“What makes you think that?†And she pushed past him to enter the tunnel, her cloak flapping
like the wings of a Lethrblaka.
Shaking his head, Eragon followed.
The short herbalist did not have to bend much in order to avoid bumping into the ceiling,
but Eragon had to hunch like an old man with rheumatism, as did the two elves. For the most
part, the tunnel was empty. A fine layer of caked dirt covered the floor. A few sticks and rocks,
and even a discarded snakeskin, were scattered near the mouth of the tunnel. The passageway
smelled like damp straw and moth wings.
Eragon and the others walked as quietly as they could, but the tunnel magnified sounds.
Every bump and scrape echoed, filling the air with a multitude of overlapping whispers that
seemed to murmur and sigh with a life of their own. The whispers made Eragon feel as if they
were surrounded by a host of disembodied spirits who were commenting on their every move.
So much for sneaking up on anyone, he thought as he scuffed his boot against a rock,
which bounced against the side of the tunnel with a loud clack that multiplied a hundredfold as
it spread through the tunnel.
“Sorry,†he mouthed as everyone looked at him.
A wry smile touched his lips. At least we know what causes the strange sounds underneath
Dras-Leona. He would have to tell Jeod on their return.
When they had gone a fair ways down the tunnel, Eragon paused and looked back at the
entrance, which was already lost in darkness. The gloom seemed almost palpable, like a
heavy cloth draped over the world. Combined with the close-set walls and low ceiling, it left
him feeling cramped and constricted. Normally, he did not mind being in enclosed places, but
the tunnel reminded him of the warren of rough-hewn passageways within Helgrind where he
and Roran had fought the Ra’zac—hardly a pleasant memory.
He took a deep breath, then released it.
Just as he was about to continue forward, he caught a glimpse of two large eyes gleaming
in the shadows, like a pair of copper-colored moonstones. He grabbed Brisingr and had
already drawn the sword several inches from its scabbard when Solembum appeared out of
the murk, padding along on silent paws.
The werecat stopped at the edge of the light. He twitched his black-tipped ears, and his
jaws parted in what seemed to be an expression of amusement.
Eragon relaxed and acknowledged the werecat’s presence with a dip of his head. I should
have guessed. Wherever Angela went, Solembum invariably followed. Again Eragon
wondered about the herbalist’s past: How did she ever win his loyalty?
As the rest of the party grew distant, the shadows crept over Solembum once more, hiding
him from Eragon’s sight.
Comforted by the knowledge that the werecat was watching his back, Eragon hurried to
catch up.
Before the group left the camp, Nasuada had briefed them on the exact number of soldiers
in the city, as well as where they were stationed and their duties and habits. She had
also given them details about Murtagh’s sleeping quarters, what he ate, and even his mood
the previous evening. Her information had been remarkably precise. When questioned, she
had smiled and explained that, since the Varden had arrived, the werecats had been spying
for her within Dras-Leona. Once Eragon and his companions emerged within the city, the
werecats would escort them to the southern gates but would not reveal their own presence to
the Empire if at all possible, else they would no longer be able to supply Nasuada with intelligence
as effectively. After all, who would suspect that the unusually large cat lounging nearby
was actually an enemy spy?
It occurred to Eragon then, as he reviewed Nasuada’s briefing, that one of Murtagh’s
greatest weaknesses was that he still had to sleep. If we don’t capture or kill him today, the
next time we meet, it might help us to find a way to wake him in the middle of the night—and
for more nights than one, if we could manage it. Three or four days without proper sleep and
he’d be in no fit shape to fight.
On and on they went through the tunnel, which ran straight as an arrow, never bending,
never turning. Eragon thought he detected a slight upward slant to the floor—which would
make sense, as it was designed to channel waste out of the city—but he was not entirely
sure.
After a while, the dirt beneath their feet began to soften and stick to their boots, like wet
clay. Water dripped from the ceiling, sometimes landing on the nape of Eragon’s neck and
rolling down his spine, like the touch of a cold finger. He slipped once on a patch of mud and,
when he put out a hand for balance, found the wall covered in slime.
An indeterminate amount of time passed. They might have spent an hour in the tunnel.
They might have spent ten. Or maybe it was only a few minutes. Whatever the case, Eragon’s
neck and shoulders hurt from standing half bent over, and he grew tired of staring at what
seemed to be the same twenty feet of rose-hued stone.
At last he noticed the echoes were waning and ever more of a delay was appearing
between each repetition of the sounds. Soon afterward, the tunnel disgorged them into a
large rectangular chamber with a ridged, half-dome ceiling over fifteen feet high at its apex.
The chamber was empty, except for a rotting barrel in one corner. Across from them, three
identical archways opened to three identical rooms, small and dark. Where those led, Eragon
could not see.
The group stopped, and Eragon slowly straightened his back, wincing as his sore muscles
stretched.
“This would not have been part of Erst Graybeard’s plans,†said Arya.
“Which path should we pick?†asked Wyrden.
“Isn’t it obvious?†asked the herbalist. “The left one. It’s always the left one.†And she
strode toward that selfsame arch even as she spoke.
Eragon could not help himself. “Left according to which direction? If you were starting from
the other side, left—â€
“Left would be right and right would be left, yes, yes,†said the herbalist. Her eyes narrowed.
“Sometimes you’re too clever for your own good, Shadeslayer. … Very well, we’ll try it
your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if we end up wandering around here for days on
end.â€
Eragon would actually have preferred to take the center archway, as it seemed the most
likely to lead them up to the streets, but he did not want to get into an argument with the herbalist.
Either way, we’ll find stairs soon enough, he thought. There can’t be that many chambers
under Dras-Leona.
Holding her werelight aloft, Angela took the lead. Wyrden and Arya followed while Eragon
brought up the rear.
The room through the rightmost archway was larger than it had first appeared, for it extended
to the side for twenty feet, then turned and continued for another few yards, whereupon it
ended at a corridor studded with empty sconces. Down the corridor was another small room
lined with three arches, each of which led to rooms with even more archways, and so on.
Who built these and why? Eragon wondered, bewildered. All the rooms they saw were
deserted and empty of furnishings. The only things they found within were a two-legged stool
that fell apart when he nudged it with the tip of his boot and a pile of broken pottery lying in a
corner beneath a veil of spiderwebs.
Angela never hesitated or seemed confused about which direction to go, for without fail,
she chose the path to the right. Eragon would have objected, except that he could think of no
better alternative to her method.
The herbalist stopped when they arrived at a circular room with seven equally spaced
archways placed along the walls. Seven corridors, including the one they had just traversed,
stretched out from the archways.
“Mark where we came from, or we’ll get completely turned around,†said Arya.
Eragon went to the corridor and, with the tip of Brisingr’s crossguard, scratched a line on
the stone wall. As he did, he peered into the darkness, searching for a glimpse of Solembum,
but he saw not so much as a whisker. Eragon hoped the werecat had not gotten lost somewhere
in the maze of rooms. He almost reached out with his mind to find him, but resisted the
urge; if anyone else felt him groping around, it might alert the Empire to their location.
“Ah!†exclaimed Angela, and the shadows around Eragon shifted as the herbalist stood on
tiptoe and raised her werelight as high as she could.
Eragon hurried to the center of the room, where she stood with Arya and Wyrden. “What is
it?†he whispered.
“The ceiling, Eragon,†murmured Arya. “Look at the ceiling.â€
He did as he was told, but saw only blocks of ancient, mold-covered stones crazed with so
many cracks, it seemed amazing the ceiling had not collapsed long ago.
Then his vision shifted and he gasped.
The lines were not cracks but rather deeply carved runes—rows of them. They were neat
and small, with sharp angles and straight stems. Mold and the passage of centuries had obscured
parts of the text, but most of it remained legible.
Eragon struggled with the runes for a short while, but he recognized only a few of the
words, and those were spelled differently than he was used to. “What does it say?†he asked.
“Is it Dwarvish?â€
“No,†said Wyrden. “It is the language of your people, but as it was spoken and written
long ago, and of a very particular dialect: that of the zealot Tosk.â€
The name struck a chord in Eragon. “When Roran and I rescued Katrina, we heard the
priests of Helgrind mention a book of Tosk.â€
Wyrden nodded. “It serves as the foundation of their faith. Tosk was not the first to offer up
prayers to Helgrind, but he was the first to codify his beliefs and practices, and many others
have imitated him since. Those who worship Helgrind regard him as a prophet of the divine.
And thisâ€â€”the elf cast his arms out wide—“is a history of Tosk, from his birth to his death: a
true history, such as his disciples have never shared with those outside their sect.â€
“We could learn much from this,†said Angela, never taking her eyes off the ceiling. “If only
we had the time …†Eragon was surprised to see her so enthralled.
Arya glanced at the seven corridors. “A moment, then, but read quickly.â€
While Angela and Wyrden perused the runes with avid intensity, Arya walked over to one
of the archways and, in an undertone, began to chant a spell for finding and locating. When
she finished, she waited a moment with her head cocked, then moved on to the next archway.
Eragon stared at the runes a bit longer. Then he returned to the mouth of the corridor that
had brought them to the room and leaned against a wall while he waited. The cold of the
stones seeped into his shoulder.
Arya stopped in front of the fourth archway. The now-familiar cadence of her recitation
rose and fell like a soft sigh of wind.
Again, nothing.
A faint tickling on the back of his right hand caused Eragon to look down. A huge, wingless
cricket clung to his glove. The insect was hideous: black and bulbous, with barbed legs
and a massive, skull-like head. Its carapace gleamed like oil.
Eragon shuddered, his skin crawling, and shook his arm, flinging the cricket into the darkness.
It landed with an audible thump.
The fifth corridor proved no more fruitful for Arya than the preceding four. She bypassed
the opening where Eragon stood and stationed herself in front of the seventh archway.
Before she could cast her spell, a guttural yowl echoed down the corridors, seemingly
from all directions at once; then there was a hiss and a spat and a screech that made every
hair on Eragon’s body stand on end.
Angela whirled around. “Solembum!â€
As one, the four of them drew their blades.
Eragon backed into the center of the room, his gaze darting from one archway to the next.
His gedwëy ignasia itched and tingled like a fleabite—a useless warning, for it did not tell him
where or what the danger was.
“This way,†said Arya, moving toward the seventh archway.
The herbalist refused to budge. “No!†she whispered vehemently. “We have to help him.â€
Eragon noticed that she held a short sword with a strange colorless blade that flashed gemlike
in the light.
Arya scowled. “If Murtagh learns we’re here, we’ll—â€
It happened so quickly and silently, Eragon would never have noticed had he not been
looking in the right direction: a half-dozen doors hidden within the walls of three different corridors
swung open, and thirty or so black-garbed men ran out toward them, swords in hand.
“Letta!†shouted Wyrden, and the men in one group collided with each other as if those in
front had run headlong into a wall.
Then the rest of the attackers fell upon them, and there was no time for magic. Eragon
easily parried a stab, and with a looping backhanded stroke, sliced off the attacker’s head.
Like all the others, the man wore a kerchief tied over his face, so only his eyes were exposed,
and the kerchief fluttered as the head fell spinning toward the floor.
Eragon was relieved when he felt Brisingr sink into flesh and blood. For a moment, he had
feared that their opponents were protected by spells or armor—or, worse, that they were
something other than human.
He skewered another man through the ribs and had just turned to deal with two more of
his attackers when a sword that should not have been there arced through the air toward his
throat. His wards saved him from certain death, yet with the blade an inch away from his
neck, Eragon could not help but stumble back.
To his astonishment, the man he had stabbed was still standing, blood streaming down
his side, seemingly oblivious to the hole Eragon had poked through him.
Dread settled over Eragon. “They can’t feel pain,†he shouted, even as he frantically
blocked swords from three different directions. If anyone heard him, they failed to respond.
He wasted no more time talking, but concentrated on fighting the men in front of him, trusting
his companions to protect his back.
Eragon lunged and parried and dodged, whipping Brisingr through the air as if it weighed
no more than a switch. Ordinarily, he could have killed any of the men in an instant, but the
fact that they were impervious to pain meant that he had to either behead them, stab them
through the heart, or cut them and hold them off until loss of blood rendered them unconscious.
Otherwise, the attackers kept trying to kill him, regardless of their injuries. The number
of men made it difficult to evade all of their blows and strike back in return. He could have
stopped defending himself and just let his wards protect him, but that would tire him just as
quickly as swinging Brisingr. And since he could not predict exactly when his wards would
fail—as they must at a certain point, else they would kill him—and he knew he might need
them later on, he fought just as carefully and cautiously as if he were facing men whose
swords could kill or maim with a single stroke.
More black-garbed warriors streamed out of the hidden doorways within the corridors.
They crowded around Eragon, pushing him back through sheer weight of numbers. Hands
clung to his legs and arms, threatening to immobilize him.
“Kverst,†he growled under his breath, uttering one of the twelve death words Oromis had
taught him. As he had suspected, his spell had no effect: the men were warded against direct
magical attacks. He quickly readied a spell Murtagh had once used on him: “Thrysta vindr!†It
was a roundabout way of striking at the men, as he was not actually hitting them but rather
pushing the air against them. In any case, it worked.
A howl of wind filled the chamber, clawing at Eragon’s hair and cloak and sending the men
closest to him flying back into their compatriots, clearing a space of ten feet in front of him.
His strength decreased commensurately, but not enough to incapacitate him.
He turned to see how the others were doing. He had not been the first to find a way to circumvent
the men’s wards; bolts of lightning extended from Wyrden’s right arm and wrapped
themselves around any warrior unfortunate enough to pass in front of him. The glowing
cables of energy appeared almost liquid as they writhed around their victims.
Still more men were forcing their way into the room, however.
“This way!†cried Arya, and sprang toward the seventh corridor—the one she had failed to
examine before the ambush.
Wyrden followed, as did Eragon. Angela brought up the rear, limping and clutching at a
bloody cut on her shoulder. Behind them, the black-garbed men hesitated, milling in the
chamber for a moment. Then, with a mighty roar, they gave chase.
As he sprinted down the corridor, Eragon strove to compose a variation of his earlier spell
that would allow him to kill the men instead of just knocking them away. He quickly devised
one and held it in readiness to use as soon as he could see a fair number of the attackers.
Who are they? he wondered. How many of them are there?
Up ahead, he glimpsed an opening through which shone a faint purplish light. He just had
time to feel apprehensive about its source before the herbalist uttered a loud cry, and there
was a dull orange flash and a teeth-jarring thud, and the smell of sulfur filled the air.
Eragon whirled around to see five men dragging the herbalist through a doorway that had
opened in the side of the corridor. “No!†yelled Eragon, but before he could stop it, the door
swung shut as silently as it had opened, and the wall appeared perfectly solid once more.
“Brisingr!†he shouted, and his sword erupted in flame. He placed the tip against the wall
and attempted to push it through the stone, intending to cut open the door. The stone was
thick, though, and slow to melt, and he soon realized it would take far more energy than he
was willing to sacrifice.
Then Arya appeared beside him, and she placed a hand where the door was and murmured,
“Ládrin.†Open. The door remained stubbornly closed, but Eragon was embarrassed
he had not thought to try that first.
Their pursuers were so close by now that he and Arya had no choice but to turn and face
them. Eragon wanted to cast the spell he had invented, but the corridor was only wide enough
for two men to approach at a time; he would not be able to kill the rest, as they were hidden
from sight. Better to keep the spell a secret, he decided, and save it for when he could wipe
out most of the warriors at once.
He and Arya beheaded the two lead men, then attacked the next pair of warriors as they
stepped over the bodies. In quick succession, they killed six more men, but there seemed to
be no end of them.
“Through here!†shouted Wyrden.
“Stenr slauta!†exclaimed Arya, and all along the corridor—up to a few yards from where
she stood—the stones in the walls exploded into the passageway. The hail of sharp fragments
caused the black-clad men to cower and falter, and more than one fell to the floor,
crippled.
Together Eragon and Arya turned to follow Wyrden, who was running toward the opening
at the end of the corridor. The elf was only thirty feet away from it.
Then ten …
Then five …
And then a thicket of amethyst spikes shot out of holes in the floor and the ceiling, catching
Wyrden between them. The elf seemed to float in the middle of the corridor, the spikes
less than an inch away from his skin as his wards repelled the crystal thorns. Then a crackling
discharge of energy ran the length of each spike and the needle-sharp tips flared painfully
bright, and with an unpleasant crunch, they slid home.
Wyrden screamed and thrashed, and then his werelight went out and he moved no more.
Eragon stared with disbelief as he stumbled to a stop before the spikes. For all his experience
in battle, he had never before been present at the death of an elf. Wyrden and
Blödhgarm and the rest of their cohort were so accomplished, Eragon had believed that the
only way they were likely to die was while fighting either Galbatorix or Murtagh.
Arya appeared equally stunned. She rallied quickly, however. “Eragon,†she said in an urgent
voice, “cut us a path with Brisingr.â€
He understood. His sword, unlike hers, would be impervious to whatever evil magic the
spikes contained.
He drew back his arm and swung as hard as he could. A half-dozen of the spikes
shattered beneath Brisingr’s adamantine edge. The amethyst emitted a bell-like tone as it
broke, and when the shards struck the ground, they tinkled like ice.
Eragon kept to the right of the corridor, making sure not to hit the blood-streaked spikes
that held up Wyrden’s body. Again and again he swung, hacking his way through the glittering
thicket. With every blow, he sent pieces of amethyst flying through the air. One sliced his left
cheek, and he winced, surprised and concerned that his wards had failed.
The jagged remnants of the broken spikes forced him to move carefully. The stumps below
could easily pierce his boots, while the ones above threatened to cut him about the head
and neck. Still, he managed to navigate to the far side of the thicket with only a small gash on
his right calf, which stung whenever he put his weight on the leg.
The black-clad warriors nearly caught up with them as he helped Arya past the last few
rows of spikes. Once she was free, they rushed through the opening and into the purplish
light, Eragon with every intention of then turning around and confronting their attackers headon
and killing every last one of them in retaliation for Wyrden’s death.
On the other side of the opening was a dark, heavily built chamber that reminded Eragon
of the caves under Tronjheim. A huge circular pattern of inlaid stone—marble and chalcedony
and polished hematite—occupied the center of the floor. Around the edge of the patterned
disk stood rough, fist-sized chunks of amethyst set within silver collars. Each piece of the
purple rock glowed softly—the source of the light they had seen from the corridor. Across the
disk, against the far wall, was a large black altar draped with a gold and crimson cloth. Pillars
and candelabra flanked the altar, with a closed door on each side.
All this Eragon saw as he barreled into the room, in the brief instant before he realized that
his momentum was going to carry him through the ring of amethysts and onto the disk. He
tried to stop himself, tried to turn aside, but he was moving too fast.
Desperate, he did the one thing he could: he jumped toward the altar, hoping he could
clear the disk in a single bound.
As he sailed over the nearest of the amethyst stones, his last feeling was regret, and his
last thought was of Saphira.
Inheritance
TO FEED A GOD
THE FIRST THING Eragon noticed was the difference in the colors.
The stone blocks in the ceiling appeared richer than before. Details that had been obscure
now seemed sharp and vivid, while others that had been prominent were subdued. Below
him, the sumptuous nature of the patterned disk was even more apparent.
It took him a moment to understand the reason for the change: Arya’s red werelight no
longer illuminated the chamber. Instead, what light there was came from the muted glow of
the crystals and the lit candles in the candelabra.
Only then did he realize that something was crammed into his mouth, stretching his jaw
painfully wide, and that he was hanging by his wrists from a chain mounted in the ceiling. He
tried to move and found that his ankles were shackled and secured to a metal loop in the
floor.
As he twisted in place, he saw Arya next to him, trussed and suspended in the same manner.
Like him, she was gagged with a ball of cloth in her mouth and a rag tied around her
head to hold it in place.
She was already awake and watching him, and he saw she was relieved at his return to
consciousness.
Why hasn’t she escaped already? he wondered. Then: What happened? His thoughts felt
thick and slow, as if he were drunk with exhaustion.
He looked down and saw that he had been stripped of his weapons and armor; he was
clad only in his leggings. The belt of Beloth the Wise was gone, as was the necklace the
dwarves had given him that prevented anyone from scrying him.
Looking up, he saw that the elf ring Aren was missing from his hand.
A touch of panic gripped him. Then he reassured himself with the knowledge that he was
not helpless, not so long as he could work magic. Because of the cloth in his mouth, he would
have to cast a spell without uttering it aloud, which was somewhat more dangerous than the
normal method—for if his thoughts strayed during the process, he might accidentally select
the wrong words—but not so dangerous as casting a spell without any use of the ancient language
at all, which was perilous indeed. In any event, it would take only a small amount of energy
for him to free himself, and he was confident he could do it without too much trouble.
He closed his eyes and gathered his resources in preparation. As he did, he heard Arya
rattling her chain and making muffled noises.
Glancing over, he saw her shaking her head at him. He raised his eyebrows in a wordless
inquiry: what is it? But she was unable to do anything more than grunt and continue to shake
her head.
Frustrated, Eragon cautiously pushed out his mind toward her—alert for the slightest hint
of intrusion from anyone else—but to his alarm, he felt only a soft, indistinct pressure surrounding
him, as if bales of wool were packed around his mind.
Panic began to well up inside of him again, despite his efforts to control it.
He was not drugged. Of that, he was sure. But he did not know what else besides a drug
could prevent him from touching Arya’s mind. If it was magic, it was magic unlike any he was
familiar with.
He and Arya stared at each other for a moment; then a stir of motion drew Eragon’s eye
upward and he saw lines of blood running down her forearms from where the manacles
around her wrists had scraped away the skin.
Rage engulfed him. He grabbed the chain above him and yanked on it as hard as he
could. The links held, but he refused to give up. In a frenzy of anger, he pulled on it again and
again, without regard for the harm he was causing himself.
At last he stopped and hung limply while hot blood dripped from his wrists onto the back of
his neck and shoulders.
Determined to escape, he delved into the flow of energy within his body and, directing the
spell at his shackles, he mentally shouted, Kverst malmr du huildrs edtha, mar frëma né thön
eka threyja!
He screamed into his gag as every nerve in his body seared with pain. Unable to maintain
his concentration, he lost his grip on the spell, and the enchantment ended.
The pain vanished at once, but it left him devoid of breath, with his heart pounding as
heavily as if he had just jumped off a cliff. The experience was similar to the seizures he had
suffered before the dragons healed the scar on his back during the Agaetà Blödhren.
As he slowly recovered, he saw Arya gazing at him with a concerned expression. She
must have tried a spell herself. Then: How could this have happened? The two of them bound
and helpless, Wyrden dead, the herbalist captured or slain, and Solembum most likely lying
hurt somewhere in the underground maze, if the black-clad warriors had not already killed the
werecat. Eragon could not understand it. He, Arya, Wyrden, and Angela had been as capable
and dangerous a group as any in Alagaësia. And yet they had failed, and he and Arya were at
the mercy of their enemies.
If we can’t escape … He shied away from the thought; it did not bear dwelling on. More
than anything, he wished he could contact Saphira, if only to be assured that she was still
safe and to take comfort in her companionship. Though Arya was with him, he felt incredibly
alone, and that unnerved him most of all.
Despite the agony in his wrists, he resumed pulling on the chain, convinced that if he just
kept at it long enough, he could work it loose from the ceiling. He tried twisting it, thinking it
would be easier to break that way, but the fetters around his ankles kept him from turning very
far to either side.
The sores on his wrist eventually forced him to stop. They burned like fire, and he was
afraid he might end up cutting into muscle if he continued. Also, he worried he might lose too
much blood, as the sores were already bleeding heavily, and he did not know how long he
and Arya would have to hang there, waiting.
It was impossible to tell what time it was, but he guessed that they had been captives for
only a few hours at the most, given that he did not feel the need to eat, drink, or relieve himself.
That would change, though, and then their discomfort would only increase.
The pain in Eragon’s wrists made every minute seem unbearably long. Occasionally, he
and Arya would stare at each other and try to communicate, but their efforts always failed.
Twice his sores crusted over enough that he risked yanking on the chain again, but to no
avail. For the most part, he and Arya endured.
Then, when Eragon had begun to wonder if anyone was ever going to come, he heard the
clang of iron bells from somewhere in the tunnels and passageways, and the doors on either
side of the black altar swung open on silent hinges. Eragon’s muscles tensed in anticipation.
He fixed his eyes on the openings, as did Arya.
A seemingly endless minute passed.
With a brash, jarring toll, the bells sounded again, filling the chamber with a swarm of
angry echoes. Through the doorways marched three novitiates: young men garbed in golden
cloth, each carrying a metal frame hung with bells. Behind them followed twenty-four men and
women, not one of whom possessed a full set of limbs. Unlike their predecessors, the cripples
wore robes of dark leather, tailored to match their individual infirmities. And last of all, six oiled
slaves carried in a bier, upon which, propped upright, rested an armless, legless, toothless,
seemingly sexless figure: the High Priest of Helgrind. From its head rose a three-foot-high
crest, which only made the creature appear even more misshapen.
The priests and novitiates positioned themselves around the edge of the patterned disk on
the floor, while the slaves gently lowered the bier onto the altar at the head of the room. Then
the three perfect, handsome young men shook the bells once more, creating a discordant
crash, and the leather-clad priests chanted a short phrase so quickly that Eragon was not
sure what they said, though it had the sound of ritual. Amongst the crush of words, he caught
the names of the three peaks of Helgrind: Gorm, Ilda, and Fell Angvara.
The High Priest gazed at him and Arya with eyes like chips of obsidian. “Welcome to the
halls of Tosk,†it said, and its withered mouth distorted the words. “Twice now you have invaded
our inner sanctums, Dragon Rider. You shall not have the opportunity to do so again.
… Galbatorix would have us spare your lives and send you to Urû’baen. He believes he can
force you to serve him. He dreams of resurrecting the Riders and restoring the race of
dragons. I say his dreams are folly. You are too dangerous, and we do not want to see the
dragons resurgent. It is commonly believed that we worship Helgrind. That is a lie we tell others
to conceal the true nature of our religion. It is not Helgrind that we revere—it is the Old
Ones who made their lair within and to whom we sacrificed our flesh and blood. The Ra’zac
are our gods, Dragon Rider—the Ra’zac and the Lethrblaka.â€
Dread crept through Eragon like a sickness.
The High Priest spat at him, and spittle drooled from its slack lower lip. “There is no torture
horrible enough for your crime, Rider. You killed our gods, you and that accursed dragon of
yours. For that, you must die.â€
Eragon struggled against his bonds and tried to shout through his gag. If he could talk, he
could stall for time by telling them what the Ra’zac’s last words had been, perhaps, or by
threatening them with Saphira’s vengeance. But their captors showed no inclination to remove
his gag.
In a hideous gesture, the High Priest smiled, showing its gray gums. “You will never escape,
Rider. The crystals here were enchanted to trap any who might try to desecrate our
temple or steal our treasures, even one such as you. Nor is there anyone to rescue you. Two
of your companions are dead—yes, even that meddlesome witch—and Murtagh knows nothing
of your presence here. Today is the day of your doom, Eragon Shadeslayer.†Then the
High Priest tilted back its head and uttered a gruesome, gurgling whistle.
From the dark doorway to the left of the altar, there appeared four bare-chested slaves.
On their shoulders, they bore a platform with two large, shallow, cuplike protrusions in the
middle. Within the protrusions lay a pair of oval objects, each about a foot and a half long and
half a foot thick. The objects were blue black and pitted like sandstone.
Time seemed to slow for Eragon. They can’t be …, he thought. Saphira’s egg had been
smooth, however, and veined like marble. Whatever these objects were, they were not
dragon eggs. The alternatives frightened him even more.
“Since you killed the Old Ones,†said the High Priest, “it is only fitting that you provide the
food for their rebirth. You do not deserve such a great honor, but it will please the Old Ones,
and in all things we strive to satisfy their desires. We are their faithful servants, and they our
masters cruel and implacable: the three-faced god—the hunters of men, the eaters of flesh,
and the drinkers of blood. To them, we offer up our bodies in hope of revelation into the mysteries
of this life and in hope of absolution for our transgressions. As Tosk wrote, so shall it
be.â€
In unison, the leather-clad priests repeated: “As Tosk wrote, so shall it be.â€
The High Priest nodded. “The Old Ones have always nested on Helgrind, but in the time
of my grandfather’s father, Galbatorix stole their eggs and killed their young, and he forced
them to swear fealty to him lest he eradicate their line entirely. He hollowed out the caves and
tunnels they have used ever since, and to us, to their devoted acolytes, he gave charge of
their eggs—to watch and to hold and to care for until they were needed. This we have done,
and none may fault us for our service.
“But we pray that someday Galbatorix shall be overthrown, for none should bind the Old
Ones to their will. It is an abomination.†The deformed creature licked its lips, and to his disgust,
Eragon saw that part of its tongue was missing: carved away by a knife. “You, too, we
wish gone, Rider. The dragons were the Old Ones’ greatest enemies. Without them, and
without Galbatorix, there would be no one to stop the Old Ones from feasting where and how
they will.â€
As the High Priest spoke, the four slaves bearing the platform walked forth and carefully
lowered it from their shoulders onto the patterned disk, setting it down several paces in front
of Eragon and Arya. Once they finished, they bowed their heads and retreated through the
doorway from which they had come.
“Who could ask for anything more than to feed a god with the marrow of their bones?â€
asked the High Priest. “Rejoice, both of you, for today you receive the blessing of the Old
Ones, and by your sacrifice, the record of your sins shall be washed clean and you shall enter
the afterlife as pure as a newly born child.â€
Then the High Priest and its followers raised their faces toward the ceiling and began to
intone a strange, oddly accented song that Eragon had trouble understanding. He wondered if
it was in the dialect of Tosk. At times, he heard what he thought were words in the ancient
language—mangled and misused, but still the ancient language.
When the grotesque congregation finished, ending with another chorus of “As Tosk wrote,
so shall it be,†the three novitiates shook the bells in an ecstasy of religious fervor, and the
resulting clamor seemed loud enough to bring down the ceiling.
Still shaking the bells, the novitiates filed out of the room. The four-and-twenty lesser
priests departed next, and then, bringing up the rear of the procession, their limbless master,
transported upon its bier by the six oiled slaves.
The door closed behind them with an ominous boom, and Eragon heard a heavy bar fall
into place on the other side.
He turned to look at Arya. The expression in her eyes was that of despair, and he knew
she had no more idea of how to escape than he did.
He gazed upward again and pulled on the chain that held him, using as much of his
strength as he dared. The sores on his wrists again tore open, and they sprinkled him with
drops of blood.
In front of them, the leftmost egg began to rock back and forth ever so slightly, and from it
came a faint tapping, like the rapping of a tiny hammer.
A profound sense of horror suffused Eragon. Of all the ways he could imagine dying, being
eaten alive by a Ra’zac was by far the worst. He yanked on the chain with renewed determination,
biting his gag to help him withstand the agony in his arms. The resulting pain
caused his vision to flicker.
Next to him, Arya thrashed and twisted as well, both of them fighting in deadly silence to
free themselves.
And still the tap-tap-tapping continued on the blue-black shell.
It’s no use, Eragon realized. The chain would not give. As soon as he accepted the fact, it
became obvious that it would be impossible to avoid being hurt far worse than he already
was. The only question was whether his injuries would be forced upon him or whether they
would be of his own choosing. If nothing else, I have to save Arya.
He studied the iron bands around his wrists. If I can break my thumbs, I might be able to
pull my hands out. Then at least I could fight. Maybe I could grab a piece of the Ra’zac’s shell
and use it as a knife. With something to cut, he could free his legs as well, though the thought
was so terrifying, he ignored it for the time being. All I would have to do is crawl out of the
circle of stones. He would be able to use magic then, and he could stop the pain and the
bleeding. What he was considering would only take a few minutes, but he knew they would be
the longest minutes of his life.
He drew in a breath in preparation. Left hand first.
Before he could start, Arya screamed.
He spun toward her and uttered a wordless exclamation as he saw the mangled fingers of
her right hand. Her skin was pushed up like a glove toward her nails, and the white of bone
showed amid crimson muscle. Arya sagged and appeared to lose consciousness for a moment;
then she recovered and pulled on her arm once more. Eragon cried out with her as her
hand slid through the metal cuff, tearing off skin and flesh. Her arm fell to her side, hiding the
hand from his sight, though he could see the blood splattering on the floor by her feet.
Tears blurred his eyes, and he shouted her name into his gag, but she seemed not to hear
him.
As she braced herself to repeat the process, the door to the right of the altar opened, and
one of the golden-robed novitiates slipped into the chamber. Seeing him, Arya hesitated,
though Eragon knew she would pull her other hand out of the manacle at the slightest hint of
danger.
The young man looked askance at Arya, then cautiously made his way to the center of the
patterned disk, casting apprehensive glances at the egg that was rocking back and forth. The
youth was slight, with large eyes and delicate features; it seemed obvious to Eragon that he
had been chosen for his position because of his appearance.
“Here,†whispered the youth. “I brought these.†From within his robes, he produced a file, a
chisel, and a wooden mallet. “If I help, you have to take me with you. I can’t stand it here any
longer. I hate it. It’s horrible! Promise you’ll take me with you!â€
Even before he finished speaking, Eragon was nodding his assent. As the young man
started toward him, though, Eragon growled and motioned with his head in Arya’s direction. It
took a few seconds before the novitiate understood.
“Oh, yes,†murmured the young man, and went over to Arya instead. Eragon ground his
teeth through the gag in anger over the youth’s slowness.
The harsh scrape of the file soon drowned out the tapping from within the wobbling egg.
Eragon watched as best he could while their would-be rescuer sawed on a section of
chain above Arya’s left hand. Keep the file on the same link, you fool! Eragon raged. The
novitiate looked as if he had never used a file before, and Eragon doubted that the youth had
the strength or endurance to cut through even a small amount of metal.
Arya hung limply while the novitiate worked, her long hair covering her face. She trembled
at regular intervals, and the fall of blood from her ruined hand continued unabated.
To Eragon’s dismay, the file did not seem to be leaving a mark on the chain. Whatever
magics protected the metal, they were too strong for something as simple as a file to overcome.
The novitiate huffed, appearing petulant at his lack of progress. He paused and wiped his
brow, then, frowning, attacked the chain once again, elbows flailing, chest heaving, the
sleeves of his robe flapping wildly.
Don’t you realize it’s not going to work? thought Eragon. Try the chisel on the shackles
around her ankles instead.
The young man continued as he was.
A sharp crack echoed through the chamber, and Eragon saw a thin fissure appear at the
top of the dark, pitted egg. The fissure lengthened, and a web of hairline fractures spread outward
from it.
Then the second egg began to wobble as well, and from it came another tap-tap-tapping,
which joined with the first to form a maddening rhythm.
The novitiate went pale, then dropped the file and backed away from Arya, shaking his
head. “I’m sorry. … I’m sorry. It’s too late.†His face crumpled, and tears rolled from his eyes.
“I’m sorry.â€
Eragon’s alarm increased as the young man pulled a dagger from within his robes.
“There’s nothing else I can do,†he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “Nothing
else …†He sniffed and moved toward Eragon. “It’s for the best.â€
As the young man stepped forward, Eragon wrenched at his bonds, trying to pull one of
his hands out of the manacles. The iron cuffs were too tight, however, and all he succeeded
in doing was scraping more of the skin off his wrists.
“I’m sorry,†whispered the young man as he stopped in front of Eragon and drew back the
dagger.
No! Eragon shouted in his mind.
A chunk of glittering amethyst hurtled out of the tunnel that had brought Eragon and Arya
to the chamber. It struck the novitiate in the back of the head, and he fell against Eragon.
Eragon flinched as he felt the edge of the dagger slide across his ribs. Then the young man
tumbled to the floor and lay there, unconscious.
From within the depths of the tunnel emerged a small, limping figure. Eragon stared, and
as the figure moved into the light, he saw that it was none other than Solembum.
Relief swept through Eragon.
The werecat was in his human form, and he was naked except for a ragged loincloth that
looked as if it had been torn from the clothes of their attackers. His spiky black hair stood
nearly on end, and a feral snarl disfigured his lips. Several cuts covered his forearms, his left
ear hung drooping from the side of his head, and a strip of skin was missing from his scalp.
He carried a blood-smeared knife.
And following a few paces behind the werecat was the herbalist, Angela.
Inheritance
INFIDELS ON THE LOOSE
“WHAT AN IDIOT,†proclaimed Angela as she hurried to the edge of the patterned disk on
the floor. She was bleeding from a number of cuts and scratches, and her clothes were
stained with even more blood, which Eragon suspected was not her own. Otherwise, she appeared
unharmed. “All he had to do was—this!â€
And she swung her sword with its transparent blade up and over her head, and brought
the pommel down against one of the amethysts that ringed the disk. The crystal shattered
with an odd snap, like a shock of static, and the light it emitted flickered and went out. The
other crystals maintained their radiance.
Without pause, Angela stepped to the next piece of amethyst and broke it as well, then the
one after it, and so on.
Never in his life had Eragon been so grateful to see anyone.
He alternated between watching the herbalist and watching the cracks widening at the top
of the first egg. The Ra’zac had almost pecked its way out, a fact it seemed to be aware of,
for it was squeaking and tapping with increased vigor. Between the pieces of shell, Eragon
saw a thick white membrane and the beaked head of the Ra’zac pushing blindly against it,
horrible and monstrous.
Hurry, hurry, Eragon thought as a fragment as large as his hand fell from the egg and
clattered against the floor, like a plate made of fired clay.
The membrane tore, and the young Ra’zac stuck its head out of the egg, revealing its
barbed purple tongue as it uttered a triumphant screech. Slime dripped from its carapace, and
a fungus-like smell pervaded the chamber.
Eragon tugged at his bonds once more, futile as it was.
The Ra’zac screeched again, then struggled to extricate itself from the remainder of the
egg. It pulled one clawed arm free, but in the process it unbalanced the egg, which tipped to
one side, spilling a thick, yellowish fluid across the patterned disk. The grotesque hatchling
lay on its side for a moment, stunned. Then it stirred and got to its feet, where it stood, swaying
and uncertain, clicking to itself like an agitated insect.
Eragon stared, appalled and terrified, but also fascinated.
The Ra’zac had a deep, ridged chest that made it look as if its ribs were on the outside of
its body, not the inside. The creature’s limbs were thin and knobby, like sticks, and its waist
was narrower than any human’s. Each leg had an extra backward-bending joint, something
that Eragon had never seen before, but which accounted for the Ra’zac’s unsettling gait. Its
carapace appeared soft and malleable, unlike those of the more mature Ra’zac Eragon had
encountered. No doubt it would harden in time.
The Ra’zac tilted its head—its huge, protruding, pupil-less eyes catching the light—and it
chittered as if it had just discovered something exciting. Then it took a tentative step toward
Arya … and another … and then another, its beak parting as it strained toward the pool of
blood by her feet.
Eragon shouted into his gag, hoping to distract the creature, but other than a quick glance,
it ignored him.
“Now!†exclaimed Angela, and she broke the last of the crystals.
Even as the shards of amethyst skittered across the floor, Solembum leaped toward the
Ra’zac. The werecat’s form blurred in midair—head shrinking, legs shortening, fur sprouting—
and he landed on all fours, his body once more that of an animal.
The Ra’zac hissed and clawed at Solembum, but the werecat dodged the blow and, faster
than the eye could follow, slapped the Ra’zac’s head with one of his large, heavy paws.
The Ra’zac’s neck broke with a crack, and the creature flew across the room and landed
in a twisted heap, where it lay twitching for several seconds.
Solembum hissed, his one uninjured ear pressed flat against his skull; then he wriggled
out of the loincloth that was still tied around his hips and went over to sit and wait by the other
egg.
“What have you done to yourself?†said Angela as she hurried over to Arya. Arya wearily
lifted her head, but she made no attempt to answer.
With three swift strokes of her colorless blade, the herbalist sliced through Arya’s remaining
cuffs, as if the tempered metal were no harder than cheese.
Arya fell to her knees and doubled over, pressing her injured hand against her stomach.
With her other hand, she tore at her gag.
The burning in Eragon’s shoulders eased when Angela cut him free and he was finally
able to lower his arms. He pulled the cloth out of his mouth and, in a hoarse voice, said, “We
thought you were dead.â€
“They’ll have to try harder than that if they want to kill me. Bunglers, the lot of them.â€
Still doubled over, Arya began to chant spells of binding and healing. Her words were soft
and strained, but she never faltered or misspoke.
While she worked to repair the damage to her hand, Eragon healed the cut on his ribs as
well as the sores on his wrists. Then he motioned at Solembum and said, “Move.â€
The werecat flicked his tail but did as Eragon asked.
Lifting his right hand, Eragon said, “Brisingr!â€
A pillar of blue flame erupted around the second egg. The creature inside screamed: a terrible,
unearthly sound, more like the screech of tearing metal than the cry of person or beast.
Narrowing his eyes against the heat, Eragon watched with satisfaction as the egg burned.
And let that be the last of them, he thought. When the screaming ceased, he extinguished the
flame, and it went out from the bottom up. The silence afterward was unexpectedly complete,
for Arya had finished her incantations and all was still.
Angela was the first to stir. She went to Solembum and stood over him, murmuring in the
ancient language as she mended his ear and other wounds.
Eragon knelt by Arya and put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, then uncurled
her body enough to show him her hand. The skin along the lower third of her thumb, as
well as along the outer edge of her palm and across the back of her hand, was shiny and
bright red. However, the muscles underneath appeared sound.
“Why didn’t you finish healing it?†he asked. “If you’re too tired, I can—â€
She shook her head. “I damaged several nerves … and I can’t seem to repair them. I
need Blödhgarm’s help; he is more skilled than I at manipulating flesh.â€
“Can you fight?â€
“If I’m careful.â€
He tightened his grip on her shoulder for a moment. “What you did—â€
“I only did what was logical.â€
“Most people wouldn’t have had the strength. … I tried, but my hand was too big. See?â€
And he held up his hand against hers.
She nodded, then grasped his arm and slowly got to her feet. Eragon rose with her,
providing her with a steady support.
“We have to find our weapons,†he said, “as well as my ring, my belt, and the necklace the
dwarves gave me.â€
Angela frowned. “Why your belt? Is it enchanted?â€
When Eragon hesitated, unsure whether to tell her the truth, Arya said, “You would not
know the name of its maker, wise one, but during your travels, you must surely have heard
tell of the belt of the twelve stars.â€
The herbalist’s eyes widened. “That belt?! But I thought it was lost over four centuries ago,
destroyed during the—â€
“We recovered it,†said Arya flatly.
Eragon could see that the herbalist longed to ask more questions, but she merely said, “I
see. … We can’t waste time searching every room in this warren, though. Once the priests
realize you’ve escaped, we’ll have the whole pack of them nipping at our heels.â€
Eragon motioned toward the novitiate on the floor and said, “Maybe he can tell us where
they took our things.â€
Dropping into a squat, the herbalist placed two fingers against the youth’s jugular vein,
feeling his pulse. Then she slapped his cheeks and peeled back his eyelids.
The novitiate remained slack and motionless.
His lack of response seemed to annoy the herbalist. “One moment,†she said, closing her
eyes. A slight frown creased her brow. For a while, she was still; then she sprang upward with
sudden speed. “What a self-absorbed little wretch! No wonder his parents sent him to join the
priests. I’m surprised they put up with him as long as they did.â€
“Does he know anything of use?†asked Eragon.
“Only the path to the surface.†She pointed toward the door to the left of the altar, the
same door through which the priests had entered and departed. “It’s amazing that he tried to
free you; I suspect it’s the first time in his life he’s ever done anything of his own accord.â€
“We have to bring him with us.†Eragon hated to say it, but duty compelled him. “I promised
we would if he helped us.â€
“He tried to kill you!â€
“I gave my word.â€
Angela sighed and rolled her eyes. To Arya, she said, “I don’t suppose you can convince
him otherwise?â€
Arya shook her head, then hoisted the young man onto her shoulder without apparent effort.
“I’ll carry him,†she said.
“In that case,†the herbalist said to Eragon, “you had best have this, since it seems you
and I are to do most of the fighting.†She handed him her short sword, then drew a poniard
with a jeweled hilt from within the folds of her dress.
“What is it made of?†Eragon asked as he peered through the transparent blade of the
sword, noticing how it caught and reflected the light. The substance reminded him of diamond,
but he could not imagine that anyone would make a weapon out of a gemstone; the
amount of energy required to keep the stone from breaking with every blow would soon exhaust
any normal magician.
“Neither stone nor metal,†said the herbalist. “A word of caution, though. You must take
great care when handling it. Never touch the edge or allow anything you cherish to come near
it, else you will regret it. Likewise, never lean the sword against something you might
need—your leg, for example.â€
Wary, Eragon held the sword farther away from his body. “Why?â€
“Because,†said the herbalist with evident relish, “this is the sharpest blade in all of existence.
No other sword or knife or ax can match the keenness of its edge, not even Brisingr. It
is the ultimate embodiment of an incision-making instrument. Thisâ€â€”she paused for emphasis—“
is the archetype of an inclined plane. … You’ll not find its equal anywhere. It can cut
through anything not protected by magic, and many things that are. Try it if you don’t believe
me.â€
Eragon looked around for something to test the sword against. In the end, he strode over
to the altar and swung the blade at one corner of the stone slab.
“Not so quickly!†cried Angela.
The transparent blade passed through four inches of stone as if the granite were no
harder than custard, then continued down toward his feet. Eragon yelped and jumped back,
barely managing to stop his arm before he cut himself.
The corner of the altar bounced off the step below and then tumbled clacking toward the
middle of the room.
The blade of the sword, Eragon realized, might very well be diamond after all. It would not
need as much protection as he had assumed, since it would rarely meet with any substantial
resistance.
“Here,†said Angela. “You had better have this as well.†She unbuckled the sword’s scabbard
and gave it to him. “It’s one of the few things you can’t cut with that blade.â€
It took Eragon a moment to find his voice after so nearly lopping off his toes. “Does the
sword have a name?â€
Angela laughed. “Of course. In the ancient language, its name is Albitr, which means exactly
what you think. But I prefer to call it Tinkledeath.â€
“Tinkledeath!â€
“Yes. Because of the sound the blade makes when you tap it.†She demonstrated with the
tip of a fingernail and smiled at the resulting high-pitched note that pierced the darkened
chamber like a ray of sunshine. “Now then, shall we be off?â€
Eragon checked to make sure they were not forgetting anything; then he nodded, strode
to the left-hand door, and opened it as quietly as he could.
Through the doorway was a long, broad hallway lit by torches. And standing guard in two
smart rows, one along each side of the hallway, were twenty of the black-garbed warriors who
had ambushed them earlier.
They looked at Eragon and reached for their weapons.
A curse ran through Eragon’s mind, and he sprang forward, intending to attack before the
warriors could draw their swords and organize themselves into an effective group. He had
only covered a few feet, however, when a flicker of movement appeared next to each man: a
soft, shadowy blur, like the motion of a windblown pennant seen at the edge of his vision.
Without so much as a single cry, the twenty men stiffened and fell to the floor, dead, every
last one of them.
Alarmed, Eragon slowed to a stop before he ran into the bodies. Each of the men had
been stabbed through an eye, as neat as could be.
He turned to ask Arya and Angela if they knew what had happened, but the words died in
his throat as he beheld the herbalist. She stood braced against a wall, leaning on her knees
and panting heavily. Her skin had gone deathly white, and her hands were shaking. Blood
dripped from her poniard.
Awe and fear filled Eragon. Whatever the herbalist had done, it was beyond his understanding.
“Wise one,†said Arya, and she too sounded uncertain, “how did you manage to do this?â€
The herbalist chuckled between breaths, then said, “I used a trick … I learned from my
master … Tenga … ages ago. May a thousand spiders bite his ears and knobbly bits.â€
“Yes, but how did you do it?†insisted Eragon. A trick like that might be useful in Urû’baen.
The herbalist chuckled again. “What is time but motion? And what is motion but heat? And
are not heat and energy but different names for the same thing?†She pushed herself off the
wall, walked over to Eragon, and patted him on the cheek. “When you understand the implications
of that, you’ll understand how and what I did. … I won’t be able to use the spell again
today, not without hurting myself, so don’t expect me to kill everyone the next time we run into
a batch of men.â€
With some difficulty, Eragon swallowed his curiosity and nodded.
He stripped a tunic and a padded jerkin off one of the fallen men, and after donning the
clothes, he led the way down the hall and through the archway at the far end.
They encountered no one else in the complex of rooms and corridors thereafter, nor did
they find any sign of their stolen possessions. Although Eragon was glad to avoid notice, the
absence of even servants worried him. He hoped that he and his companions had not
triggered alarms that had warned the priests of their escape.
Unlike the abandoned chambers they had seen before the ambush, those they passed
through now were filled with tapestries, furniture, and strange devices made of brass and
crystal, the purpose of which Eragon could not fathom. More than once, a desk or a bookcase
tempted him to pause and inspect its contents, but he always resisted the urge. They did not
have time to read musty old papers, no matter how intriguing.
Angela chose the path they took whenever there was more than one option, but Eragon
remained in the lead, clutching the wire-wrapped hilt of Tinkledeath with a grip so hard, his
hand began to cramp.
Soon enough, they arrived at a passageway ending in a flight of stone steps that narrowed
as it rose. Two novitiates stood by the stairs, one on either side, each holding a rack of bells
such as Eragon had seen earlier.
He ran at the two young men and managed to stab one novitiate through the neck before
he could shout or ring his bells. The other, however, had time to do both before Solembum
leaped on him and bore him to the ground, tearing at his face, and the whole of the passageway
rang with the clamor.
“Hurry!†Eragon cried as he bounded up the stairs.
At the top of the steps was a freestanding wall some ten feet wide, covered with ornate
scrollwork and carvings that seemed vaguely familiar to Eragon. He dodged around the wall
and came out into a beam of rose-tinted light of such intensity that he faltered, confused. He
lifted Tinkledeath’s scabbard to shade his eyes.
Not five feet in front of him, the High Priest sat on its bier, blood dripping from a cut on its
shoulder. Another of the priests—a woman missing both her hands—sat kneeling by the side
of the bier, catching the fall of blood in a golden chalice that she held clamped between her
forearms. Both she and the High Priest stared at Eragon with astonishment.
Then Eragon looked past them and saw, as if in a series of lightning flashes: Massive
ribbed columns rising toward a vaulted ceiling that vanished into shadow. Stained-glass windows
set within towering walls—the windows on the left burning with light from the rising sun;
those on the right dull and flat, lifeless. Pale statues standing between the windows. Rows of
granite pews, dappled with different colors, extending all the way to the far-off entrance to the
nave. And, filling the first four rows, a flock of leather-garbed priests, their faces upturned and
their mouths opened in song, like so many hatchlings begging for food.
He was, Eragon belatedly realized, standing in the great cathedral of Dras-Leona, on the
other side of the altar he had once knelt before in reverence, long ago.
The handless woman dropped the chalice and stood, throwing her arms out wide as she
shielded the High Priest with her body. Behind her, Eragon glimpsed the blue of Brisingr’s
sheath lying near the leading edge of the bier, and he thought he saw Aren next to it.
Before he could chase after his sword, two guards rushed toward him from either side of
the altar, slashing at him with engraved, red-tasseled pikes. He sidestepped the first guard
and sliced the shaft of the man’s pike in half, sending the blade flying through the air. Then
Eragon sliced the man himself in half; Tinkledeath passed through his flesh and bones with
shocking ease.
Eragon dispatched the second guard just as quickly and turned to face a pair approaching
from behind. The herbalist joined him, brandishing her poniard, and somewhere off to his left,
Solembum growled. Arya hung back from the fighting, still carrying the young man.
The spilled blood from the chalice had coated the floor around the altar. The guards
slipped in the puddle and the rear man fell and knocked his companion off his feet. Eragon
shuffled toward them—never lifting his feet off the floor so as to avoid losing his balance—and
before the guards could react, he slew them both, taking care to control the herbalist’s enchanted
blade as it effortlessly cut through the two men.
As he did, Eragon was aware that the High Priest was screaming, as if at a great distance,
“Kill the infidels! Kill them! Don’t let the blasphemers escape! They must be punished for their
crimes against the Old Ones!â€
The congregation of priests began to howl and stamp their feet, and Eragon felt their
minds clawing at his, like a pack of wolves tearing at a weakened deer. He retreated deep
within himself, warding off the attacks with techniques he had been practicing under Glaedr’s
tutelage. It was difficult to defend himself from so many foes, however, and he feared that he
would not be able to maintain his barriers for long. His one advantage was that the panicked,
disorganized priests attacked him as individuals, not as a unit; their combined might would
have overwhelmed him.
Then Arya’s consciousness was pressing against his—a familiar, comforting presence
amid the clutch of enemies scrabbling against his inner self. Relieved, he opened himself to
her, and they joined their minds, even as he and Saphira would do, and for a time their identities
merged and he lost the ability to determine where many of their shared thoughts and feelings
came from.
Together they stabbed with their minds at one of the priests. The man struggled to evade
their grasp, like a fish wriggling through their fingers, but they tightened their grip and refused
to let him escape. He was reciting a stilted, oddly worded phrase in an attempt to keep them
out of his consciousness; Eragon assumed it was a scrap of scripture from the Book of Tosk.
The priest lacked discipline, however, and his concentration soon wavered as he thought,
The infidels are too close to Master. We have to kill them before—Wait! No! No …!
Eragon and Arya seized upon the priest’s weakness and quickly subjugated the man’s
thoughts to their will. Once they were certain he could not retaliate against them with mind or
body, Arya cast a spell that, from examining the priest’s memories, she knew could slip past
his wards.
In the third row of pews, a man screamed and burst into flame, green fire pouring from his
ears, mouth, and eyes. The flames ignited the clothes of several priests close to him, and the
burning men and women began to thrash and run about wildly, further disrupting the attacks
against Eragon. The rippling flames sounded like branches snapping in a storm.
The herbalist ran down from the altar and moved among the priests, stabbing here and
there. Solembum followed close at her heels, finishing off those she felled.
After that, it was easy for Eragon and Arya to invade and seize control of their enemies’
minds. Continuing to work together, they killed four more priests, at which point the rest of the
congregation broke and scattered. Some fled through the vestibule that Eragon remembered
led to the priory next to the cathedral, while others crouched behind the pews and wrapped
their arms around their heads.
Six of the priests, however, neither fled nor hid, but rather charged Eragon, brandishing
curved knives with what hands they still possessed. Eragon cut at the first priest before she
could strike at him. To his annoyance, the woman was protected by a ward that stopped
Tinkledeath half a foot from her neck, causing the sword to turn in his hand and a shock to
run up his arm. With his left hand, Eragon swung at the woman. For whatever reason, the
spell did not stop his fist, and he felt the bones in her chest give way as he knocked her
sprawling into the people behind her.
The remaining priests extricated themselves and resumed their charge. Stepping forward,
Eragon blocked a clumsy slash from the foremost priest; then—with a shout of “Ha!â€â€”he
drove his fist into the man’s gut and sent him flying into a pew, which the priest struck with a
nasty crack.
Eragon killed the next man in a similar manner. A green and yellow dart buried itself in the
throat of the priest to his right, and there was a tawny blur as Solembum leaped past him and
tackled another of the group.
That left but one of Tosk’s followers standing before him. With her free hand, Arya
grabbed the woman by the front of her leather robes and threw her screaming thirty feet over
the pews.
Four novitiates had lifted up the High Priest’s bier and were carrying it at a quick trot along
the east side of the cathedral as they headed toward the front entrance of the building.
Seeing them escaping, Eragon uttered a roar and bounded onto the altar, knocking a plate
and goblet to the floor. From there, he jumped out over the bodies of the fallen priests. He
landed lightly in the aisle and sprinted to the end of the cathedral, heading off the novitiates.
The four young men stopped when they saw Eragon arrive at the doors. “Turn around!â€
shrieked the High Priest. “Turn around!†Its servants obeyed, only to be confronted by Arya
standing behind them, one of their own slung over her right shoulder.
The novitiates yelped and turned sideways, darting between two rows of pews. Before
they had gone more than a few feet, Solembum stepped around the end of the pews and
began to pad toward them. The werecat’s ears were pressed flat against his skull, and the
constant low rumble of his growl made Eragon’s neck prickle. Close behind him came Angela,
striding down the cathedral from the altar, her poniard in one hand and a green and yellow
dart in the other.
Eragon wondered how many weapons she had about herself.
To their credit, the novitiates did not lose their courage or abandon their master. Instead,
the four shouted and ran even faster at Solembum, presumably because the werecat was the
smallest and the closest of their opponents, and because they believed he would be the easiest
to overcome.
They were mistaken.
In a single lithe movement, Solembum crouched, jumped from the floor to the top of a
pew. Then, without stopping, he leaped toward one of the two lead novitiates.
As the werecat sailed through the air, the High Priest shouted something in the ancient
language—Eragon did not recognize the word, but the sound of it was unmistakably that of
the elves’ native language. Whatever the spell was, it seemed to have no effect on Solembum,
although Eragon saw Angela stumble as if she had been struck.
Solembum collided with the novitiate at whom he had flung himself, and the young man
tumbled to the floor, screaming as Solembum mauled him. The rest of the novitiates tripped
over their companion’s body, and the lot of them fell in a tangled heap, spilling the High Priest
off its bier and onto one of the pews, where the creature lay squirming like a maggot.
Eragon caught up with them a second later, and with three swift strokes, he slew all of the
novitiates, save the one whose neck Solembum held clamped between his jaws.
Once Eragon was sure the men were dead, he turned to strike down the High Priest once
and for all. As he started toward the limbless figure, another mind invaded his, probing and
grasping at the most intimate parts of his self, seeking to control his thoughts. The vicious attack
forced Eragon to stop and concentrate on defending himself from the intruder.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Arya and Solembum also appeared immobilized.
The herbalist was the sole exception. She paused for a moment when the attack commenced,
but then she continued to walk with slow, shuffling steps toward Eragon.
The High Priest stared at Eragon, its deep-set, dark-ringed eyes burning with hate and
fury. If the creature had had arms and legs, Eragon was convinced that it would have tried to
tear out his heart with its bare hands. As it was, the malevolence of its gaze was so intense,
Eragon half expected the priest to wiggle off the pew and start biting at his ankles.
The assault on his mind intensified as Angela drew near. The High Priest—for it had to be
the High Priest who was responsible—was far more skilled than any of its underlings. To engage
in mental combat with four different people at once, and to present a credible threat to
each of the four, was a remarkable feat, especially when the enemies were an elf, a Dragon
Rider, a witch, and a werecat. The High Priest had one of the most formidable minds Eragon
had ever encountered; if not for the help of his companions, Eragon suspected that he would
have succumbed to the creature’s onslaughts. The priest did things the likes of which Eragon
had never experienced before, such as binding Eragon’s stray thoughts to Arya’s and Solembum’s,
wrapping them into a knot of such confusion that for brief moments Eragon lost track
of his own identity.
At last Angela turned in to the space between the pews. She picked her way around
Solembum—who crouched next to the novitiate he had killed, every hair on his body standing
on end—and then carefully made her way over the corpses of the three novitiates Eragon had
slain.
As she approached, the High Priest began to thrash like a hooked fish in an attempt to
push itself farther up the pew. At the same time, the pressure on Eragon’s mind lessened, although
not enough for him to risk moving.
The herbalist stopped when she reached the High Priest, and the High Priest surprised
Eragon by giving up its struggle and lying panting on the seat of the bench. For a minute, the
hollow-eyed creature and the short, stern-faced woman glared at each other, an invisible
battle of wills taking place between them.
Then the High Priest flinched, and a smile appeared on Angela’s lips. She dropped her
poniard and, from within her dress, drew forth a tiny dagger with a blade the color of a ruddy
sunset. Leaning over the High Priest, she whispered, ever so faintly, “You ought to know my
name, tongueless one. If you had, you never would have dared oppose us. Here, let me tell it
to you. …â€
Her voice dropped even lower then, too low for Eragon to hear, but as she spoke, the High
Priest blanched, and its puckered mouth opened, forming a round black oval, and an unearthly
howl emanated from its throat, and the whole of the cathedral rang with the creature’s
baying.
“Oh, be quiet!†exclaimed the herbalist, and she buried her sunset-colored dagger in the
center of the High Priest’s chest.
The blade flashed white-hot and vanished with a sound like a far-off thunderclap. The area
around the wound glowed like burning wood; then skin and flesh began to disintegrate into a
fine, dark soot that poured into the High Priest’s chest. With a choked gargle, the creature’s
howl ceased as abruptly as it had begun.
The spell quickly devoured the rest of the High Priest, reducing its body to a pile of black
powder, the shape of which matched the outline of the priest’s head and torso.
“And good riddance,†said Angela with a firm nod.
Inheritance
THE TOLLING OF THE BELL
ERAGON SHOOK HIMSELF as if waking from a bad dream.
Now that he no longer had to fight off the High Priest, he gradually became aware that the
priory bell was tolling—a loud, insistent sound that reminded him of when the Ra’zac had
chased him from the cathedral during his first visit to Dras-Leona, with Brom.
Murtagh and Thorn will be here soon, he thought. We have to leave before then.
He sheathed Tinkledeath and handed it to Angela. “Here,†he said, “I think you’ll want
this.†Then he pulled the corpses of the novitiates aside until he uncovered Brisingr. As his
hand closed around the hilt, a sense of relief swept through him. Though the herbalist’s sword
was a good and dangerous blade, it was not his weapon. Without Brisingr, he felt exposed,
vulnerable—the same as he did whenever he and Saphira were apart.
It took him another few moments of searching to find his ring, which had rolled under one
of the pews, and his necklace, which was wrapped around one of the handles of the bier.
Among the pile of bodies, he also discovered Arya’s sword, which she was pleased to recover.
But of his belt, the belt of Beloth the Wise, there was no sign.
Eragon looked under all the nearby pews, and he even ran back to the altar and inspected
the area around it.
“It’s not here,†he finally said, despairing. He turned toward the freestanding wall that hid
the entrance to the underground chambers. “They must have left it in the tunnels.†He cast his
gaze in the direction of the priory. “Or maybe …†He hesitated, torn between the two options.
Muttering the words under his breath, he cast a spell designed to find and lead him to the
belt, but the only result he received was an image of smooth gray emptiness. As he had
feared, there were wards around the belt that protected it from magical observation or interference,
just as similar wards protected Brisingr.
Eragon scowled and took a half step toward the freestanding wall.
The bell tolled louder than ever.
“Eragon,†called Arya from the other end of the cathedral, shifting the unconscious novitiate
from one shoulder to the other. “We have to go.â€
“But—â€
“Oromis would understand. It’s not your fault.â€
“But—â€
“Leave it! The belt has been lost before. We will find it again. But for now, we must fly.
Hurry!â€
Eragon cursed, spun around, and ran to join Arya, Angela, and Solembum at the front of
the cathedral. Of all the things to lose … It seemed almost sacrilegious to abandon the belt
when so many creatures had died to fill it with energy. Besides, he had a horrible feeling that
he might have need of that energy before the day was out.
Even as he and the herbalist pushed open the heavy doors that led out of the cathedral,
Eragon sent his mind questing for Saphira, who he knew would be circling high above the
city, waiting for him to contact her. The time for discretion had long since passed, and Eragon
no longer cared if Murtagh or some other magician sensed his presence.
He soon felt the familiar touch of Saphira’s consciousness. As their thoughts melded together
once again, a certain tightness in Eragon’s chest vanished.
What took you so long? exclaimed Saphira. He could taste her worry, and he knew she
had been considering descending upon Dras-Leona and tearing it to pieces in search of him.
He poured his memories into her, sharing everything that had happened to him since they
parted. The process took a few seconds, by which time he, Arya, Angela, and the werecat
had exited the cathedral and were running down the front steps.
Without pausing to give Saphira an opportunity to make sense of his jumbled recollections,
Eragon said, We need a distraction—now!
She acknowledged his statement, and he could feel her tip into a steep dive.
Also, tell Nasuada to start her attack. We’ll be at the south gate in a few minutes. If the
Varden aren’t there when we open it, I don’t know how we’re going to escape.
Inheritance
BLACK-SHRIKE-THORN-CAVE
THE COOL, MOIST, morning-air-off-water whistled past Saphira’s head as she dove toward
the rat-nest-city half lit by the rising sun. The low rays of light made the smelly-woodeggshell-
buildings stand out in high relief, their western sides black with shadow.
The wolf-elf-in-Eragon’s-shape who was riding on her back shouted something at her, but
the hungry wind tore at his words, and she could not make out his meaning. He began to ask
her questions with his song-filled-mind, but she did not wait to let him finish. Instead, she told
him of Eragon’s plight and asked him to alert Nasuada that now was the time for action.
How the shadow-of-Eragon that Blödhgarm wore was supposed to fool anyone, Saphira
could not understand. He did not smell like her partner-of-heart-and-mind, nor did his
thoughts feel like Eragon’s. Still, the two-legs seemed impressed by the apparition, and it was
two-legs they were trying to fool.
On the left side of the rat-nest-city, the glittering shape of Thorn lay stretched out along
the battlements above the southern gate. He lifted his crimson head, and she could tell that
he had spotted her hurtling toward the break-bone-ground, as she had expected. Her feelings
toward Thorn were too complicated to sum up in a few brief impressions. Every time she
thought of him, she became confused and uncertain, something she was unaccustomed to.
Nevertheless, she was not about to let the upstart whelp best her in battle.
As the dark chimneys and sharp-edged roofs grew larger, she spread her wings a bit
more, feeling the increased strain in her chest, shoulders, and wing muscles as she began to
slow their descent. When she was only a few hundred feet above the closely packed swell of
buildings, she swooped upward and allowed her wings to snap out to their full extent. The effort
required to stop her fall was immense; for a moment, it felt as if the wind might tear her
wings free of their sockets.
She shifted her tail to maintain balance, then wheeled over the city until she located the
black-shrike-thorn-cave where the blood-mad-priests worshipped. Tucking in her wings again,
she dropped the last number of feet and, with a thunderous crash, landed on the middle of the
cathedral’s roof.
She dug her claws into the tiles of the roof to stop herself from sliding off into the street
below. Then she threw back her head and roared as loudly as she could, challenging the
world and everything in it.
There was a bell clanging in the tower of the building next to the black-shrike-thorn-cave.
She found the noise irritating, so she twisted her neck and loosed a jet of blue and yellow
flame at it. The tower did not catch fire, as it was stone, but the rope and beams supporting
the bell ignited, and a few seconds later, the bell fell crashing into the interior of the tower.
That pleased her, as did the two-legs-round-ears who ran screaming from the area. She
was a dragon, after all. It was only right that they should fear her.
One of the two-legs paused by the edge of the square in front of the black-shrike-thorncave,
and she heard him shout a spell at her, his voice like the squeaking of a frightened
mouse. Whatever the spell was, Eragon’s wards shielded her from it—at least she assumed
they did, for she noticed no difference in how she felt or in the appearance of the world
around her.
The wolf-elf-in-Eragon’s-shape killed the magician for her. She could feel how Blödhgarm
grasped hold of the spellcaster’s mind and wrestled the two-legs-round-ears’ thoughts into
submission, whereupon Blödhgarm uttered a single word in the ancient-elf-magic-language,
and the two-legs-round-ears fell to the ground, blood seeping from his open mouth.
Then the wolf-elf tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Ready yourself, Brightscales. Here
they come.â€
She saw Thorn rising above the edge of the rooftops, Eragon-half-brother-Murtagh a
small, dark figure on his back. In the light of the morning sun, Thorn shone and sparkled almost
as brilliantly as she herself did. Her scales were cleaner than his, though, as she had
taken special care when grooming earlier. She could not imagine going into battle looking
anything but her best. Her enemies should not only fear her, but admire her.
She knew it was vanity on her part, but she did not care. No other race could match the
grandeur of the dragons. Also, she was the last female of her kind, and she wanted those
who saw her to marvel at her appearance and to remember her well, so if dragons were to
vanish forevermore, two-legs would continue to speak of them with the proper respect, awe,
and wonder.
As Thorn climbed a thousand or more feet above the rat-nest-city, Saphira spared a quick
glance around to make sure that partner-of-her-heart-and-mind-Eragon was nowhere near the
black-shrike-thorn-cave. She did not want to hurt him by accident in the fight that was about to
take place. He was a fierce hunter, but he was small and easily squished.
She was still working to unravel the dark-echoing-painful-memories Eragon had shared
with her, but she understood enough of them to know that events had once again proved
what she had long believed: that whenever she and her partner-of-heart-and-mind were apart,
he ended up in trouble of one form or another. Eragon, she knew, would disagree, but his
latest misadventure had done nothing to convince her otherwise, and she felt a perverse satisfaction
in having been right.
Once Thorn reached an appropriate height, he twisted round and dove toward her, flames
shooting from his open maw.
The fire she did not fear—Eragon’s wards would shield her from it—but Thorn’s massive
weight and strength would allow him to quickly exhaust any spells designed to shield her from
physical danger. To protect herself, she ducked and pressed her body flat against the cathedral,
even as she twisted her neck and snapped at Thorn’s pale underbelly.
A swirling wall of flames engulfed her, rumbling and roaring like a giant waterfall. The
flames were so bright, she instinctively closed her inner eyelids, the same as she would when
underwater, and then the light was no longer blinding.
The flames soon cleared, and as Thorn rushed past overhead, the tip of his thick, ribbruising
tail traced a line across the membrane of her right wing. The scratch bled, but not
profusely, and she did not think it would cause her much difficulty while flying, painful though
it was.
Thorn dove at her again and again, trying to bait her into taking to the air. She refused to
budge, however, and after a few more passes, he tired of harrying her and landed on the other
end of the black-shrike-thorn-cave, his huge wings outstretched for balance.
The entire building shook as Thorn dropped to all fours, and many of the gem-glasspicture-
windows in the walls below shattered and fell tinkling to the ground. Thorn was bigger
than her now, as a result of the egg-breaker-Galbatorix’s meddling, but she was not intimidated.
She had more experience than Thorn, and besides, she had trained with Glaedr, who
had been larger than both she and Thorn combined. Also, Thorn dared not kill her … nor did
she think he wanted to.
The red dragon snarled and stepped forward, the tips of his claws scraping against the
tiles on the roof. She snarled in return and retreated several feet, until she could feel her tail
pressing against the base of the spires that rose up like a wall at the front of the black-shrikethorn-
cave.
The tip of Thorn’s tail twitched, and she knew he was about to pounce.
She drew in her breath and bathed him in a torrent of flickering flames. Her task now was
to keep Thorn and Murtagh from realizing that it was not Eragon who was sitting on her. To
that end, she could either stay far enough away from Thorn that Murtagh would be unable to
read the thoughts of the wolf-elf-in-Eragon’s-shape, or she could attack often and ferociously
enough that Murtagh would not have the opportunity—which would be difficult, as Murtagh
was used to fighting from Thorn’s back even while Thorn turned and twisted through the air.
Still, they were close to the ground, and that would help her, for she preferred to attack. Always
to attack.
“Is that the best you can do?†Murtagh shouted with a magically enhanced voice from
within the ever-shifting cocoon of fire.
Even as the last of the flames died in her mouth, Saphira leaped toward Thorn. She struck
him full in the chest, and their necks intertwined, heads slapping against one another as they
each tried to fix their teeth around the other’s throat. The force of the impact pushed Thorn
backward off the black-shrike-thorn-cave, and he flailed his wings, buffeting Saphira as both
he and she fell toward the ground.
They landed with a crash that split paving stones and jarred the nearby houses.
Something cracked in Thorn’s left wing-shoulder, and his back arched unnaturally as Murtagh’s
wards kept the dragon from crushing him flat.
Saphira could hear Murtagh cursing from underneath Thorn, and she decided that it would
be best to move away before the angry two-legs-round-ears started casting spells.
She jumped up, kicking Thorn in the belly as she did so, and alit on the peak of the house
behind the red dragon. The building was too weak to support her, so she took flight again
and, just for good measure, set the row of buildings on fire.
Let them deal with that, she thought, satisfied, as the flames gnawed hungrily at the
wooden structures.
Returning to the black-shrike-thorn-cave, she slipped her claws under the tiles and began
to tear open the roof, ripping it apart the same as she had ripped apart the roof of the castle in
Durza-Gil’ead. Only now she was bigger. Now she was stronger. And the blocks of stone
seemed to weigh no more than pebbles did to Eragon. The blood-mad-priests who worshipped
within had hurt the partner-of-her-heart-and-mind, had hurt dragon-blood-elf-Arya,
young-face-old-mind-Angela, and the werecat Solembum—he of the many names—and they
had killed Wyrden. For that, Saphira was determined to destroy the black-shrike-thorn-cave in
revenge.
Within seconds, she opened a gaping hole in the ceiling of the building. She filled the interior
with a burst of flame, then hooked her claws into the ends of the brass pipes of the wind
organ and pulled them free of the rear wall of the cathedral. They fell clanging and crashing
onto the pews below.
Thorn roared, and then he sprang up from the street into the air above the black-shrikethorn-
cave and hung there, flapping heavily to maintain his position. He appeared as a featureless
black silhouette against the wall of flames rising from the houses behind him, save
for his translucent wings, which glowed orange and crimson.
He lunged toward her, reaching out with his serrated claws.
Saphira waited until the last possible moment; then she leaped to the side, off the blackshrike-
thorn-cave, and Thorn rammed headfirst into the base of the cathedral’s central spire.
The tall-hole-ridden-stone-spike shuddered under the impact, and the very top of it—an ornate
golden rod—toppled over and plunged more than four hundred feet to the square below.
Roaring with frustration, Thorn struggled to right himself. His hindquarters slid into the
opening Saphira had torn in the roof, and he scrabbled against the tiles as he tried to claw his
way back out.
While he did, Saphira flew to the front of the black-shrike-thorn-cave and positioned herself
on the opposite side of the spire Thorn had collided with.
She gathered her strength, then batted the spire with her right forepaw.
Statues and carved decorations shattered underneath her foot; clouds of dust clogged her
nostrils; and bits of stone and mortar rained down upon the square. The spire held, though, so
she struck it again.
Thorn’s bellowing took on a frantic note as he realized what she was doing, and he strove
even harder to pull himself free.
On Saphira’s third blow, the tall-stone-spike cracked at the base and, with agonizing slowness,
collapsed backward, falling toward the roof. Thorn only had time to utter a furious snarl,
and then the tower of rubble landed on top of him, knocking him down into the shell of the
ruined building and burying him under piles of rubble.
The sound of the spire smashing to pieces echoed across the whole of the rat-nest-city,
like a clap of rolling thunder.
Saphira snarled in response, this time with a sense of savage victory. Thorn would dig
himself out soon enough, but until then, he was at her mercy.
Tilting her wings, she circled the black-shrike-thorn-cave. As she passed along the sides
of the building, she swung at the fluted buttresses that supported the walls, demolishing them
one at a time. The blocks of stone tumbled to the ground, creating an unpleasant din.
When she had removed all the buttressess, the unsupported walls began to sway and
bulge outward. Thorn’s efforts to extricate himself only worsened the situation, and after a few
seconds, the walls gave way. The entire structure collapsed with an avalanche-like rumble,
and a huge plume of dust billowed upward.
Saphira crowed with triumph; then she landed on her hind legs next to the mound of
debris and proceeded to paint the blocks of stone with the hottest stream of fire she could
summon forth. Flames were easy to deflect with magic, but deflecting actual heat required
greater effort and energy. By forcing Murtagh to expend even more of his strength to keep
Thorn and himself from being cooked alive, as well as whatever energy he was using to avoid
being squished, she hoped to deplete his reserves enough that Eragon and the two-legspointed-
ears might have a chance of defeating him.
While she breathed fire, the wolf-elf on her back chanted spells, though what they were for
she did not know, nor did she particularly care. She trusted the two-legs. Whatever he was
doing, she was sure it would help.
Saphira skittered backward as the blocks in the center of the mound exploded outward
and, with a roar, Thorn lurched free of the rubble. His wings were crumpled like those of a
stepped-on butterfly, and he was bleeding from several gashes along his legs and back.
He glared at her and snarled, his ruby eyes dark with battle rage. For the first time, she
had truly angered him, and she could see that he was eager to tear at her flesh and taste her
blood.
Good, she thought. Maybe he was not quite such a beaten-frightened-cur as she had assumed.
Murtagh reached into a pouch on his belt and removed a small round object. From experience,
Saphira knew that it was enchanted and he would use it to heal Thorn’s injuries.
Without waiting, she took flight, trying to gain as much altitude as possible before Thorn
was able to set off in pursuit. She glanced down after a few wing beats and saw him rising toward
her at a furious speed, a large-red-sharp-claw-sparrowhawk.
She twisted in the air and was just about to dive at him when, in the depths of her mind,
she heard Eragon shout:
Saphira!
Alarmed, she continued to twist until she was aimed at the southern arch-gate of the city,
where she had sensed Eragon’s presence. She pulled in her wings as close as she dared and
dropped in a steep angle toward the arch.
Thorn lunged at her as she plummeted past, and she knew without looking that he was
following close behind.
And so the two of them raced toward the thin wall of the rat-nest-city, and the cool morning-
air-off-water howled like a wounded wolf in Saphira’s ears.
Inheritance
HAMMER AND HELM
AT LAST! THOUGHT Roran as the Varden’s horns sounded the advance.
He glanced at Dras-Leona and caught a glimpse of Saphira diving toward the dark mass
of buildings, her scales blazing in the light of the rising sun. Below, Thorn stirred, like some
great cat that had been sunning itself on a fence, and took off in pursuit.
A surge of energy coursed through Roran. The time for battle had finally arrived, and he
was eager to be done with it. He spared a quick thought of concern for Eragon, then pushed
himself off the log where he was sitting and trotted over to join the rest of the men as they
gathered in a wide rectangular formation.
Roran glanced up and down the ranks, checking that the troops were ready. They had
been waiting for most of the night, and the men were tired, but he knew that fear and excitement
would soon clear their minds. Roran was tired as well, but he paid it no mind; he could
sleep when the battle was over. Until then, his main concern was keeping his men and himself
alive.
He did wish he had time for a cup of hot tea, though, to help settle his stomach. He had
eaten something bad for dinner and had been racked with cramps and nausea ever since.
Still, the discomfort was not enough to prevent him from fighting. Or so he hoped.
Satisfied with the state of his men, Roran pulled on his helm, pushing it down over his
quilted arming cap. Then he drew his hammer and slipped his left arm through the straps on
his shield.
“At your command,†said Horst, walking up to him.
Roran nodded. He had chosen the smith as his second in command, a decision that
Nasuada had accepted without dissent. Other than Eragon, there was no one Roran would
rather have by his side. It was selfish of him, he knew—Horst had a newborn child, and the
Varden needed his metalworking skills—but Roran could not think of anyone else as well
suited for the job. Horst had not seemed especially pleased by the promotion, but neither had
he seemed upset. Instead, he had gone about organizing Roran’s battalion with the calm assurance
and competency that Roran knew he possessed.
The horns sounded again, and Roran lifted his hammer over his head. “Forward!†he
shouted.
He took the lead as the many hundreds of men started off, accompanied on either side by
the Varden’s four other battalions.
As the warriors trotted across the open fields that separated them from Dras-Leona, cries
of alarm rang out in the city. Bells and horns sounded a moment later, and soon the whole
city was filled with an angry clamor as the defenders roused themselves. Adding to the commotion
were the most terrible roars and crashes from the center of the city, where the two
dragons were fighting. Occasionally, Roran saw one or another of them appear above the
tops of the buildings, the dragon’s hide bright and sparkling, but for the most part, the two giants
remained hidden from sight.
The maze of ramshackle buildings that surrounded the city walls quickly drew near. The
narrow, gloomy streets looked ominous and foreboding to Roran. It would be easy for the Empire’s
soldiers—or even the citizens of Dras-Leona—to ambush them within the twisting passageways.
Fighting in such close quarters would be even more brutal, confusing, and messy
than normal. If it came to that, Roran knew that few of his men would escape unscathed.
As he moved into the shadows beneath the eaves of the first line of hovels, a hard knot of
unease settled in Roran’s gut, exacerbating his queasiness. He licked his lips, feeling sick.
Eragon had better open that gate, he thought. If not … we’ll be stuck out here like so
many lambs penned up for slaughter.
Inheritance
AND THE WALLS FELL …
THE SOUND OF crashing masonry caused Eragon to pause and look back.
Between the peaks of two distant houses, he saw an empty space where the barbed spire
of the cathedral used to be. In its place, a column of dust billowed toward the clouds above,
like a pillar of white smoke.
Eragon smiled to himself, proud of Saphira. When it came to spreading chaos and destruction,
dragons were without equal. Go on, he thought. Smash it to pieces! Bury their holy
places under a thousand feet of stone!
Then he resumed trotting down the dark, winding cobblestone street, along with Arya, Angela,
and Solembum. There were a number of people already in the streets: merchants going
to open their shops, night watchmen on their way to bed, drunk noblemen just emerging from
their revels, vagrants sleeping in doorways, as well as soldiers running pell-mell toward the
city walls.
All of the people, even those who were running, kept looking in the direction of the cathedral
as the noise of the two dragons fighting rumbled through the city. Everyone—from the
sore-ridden beggars to the hardened soldiers to the richly dressed nobles—appeared terrified,
and none of them gave Eragon or his companions so much as a second glance.
It helped, Eragon supposed, that he and Arya could pass for ordinary humans on brief inspection.
At Eragon’s insistence, Arya had deposited the unconscious novitiate in an alleyway a fair
distance from the cathedral. “I promised we’d take him with us,†Eragon had explained, “but I
never said how far. He can find his own way from here.†Arya had acquiesced and seemed
relieved to be rid of the novitiate’s weight.
As the four of them hurried down the street, a strange sense of familiarity came over
Eragon. His last visit to Dras-Leona had ended in much the same way: with him running
between the dirty, close-set buildings, hoping to reach one of the city’s gates before the Empire
found him. Only this time he had more to fear than just the Ra’zac.
He glanced toward the cathedral again. All Saphira had to do was keep Murtagh and
Thorn busy for another few minutes, and then it would be too late for either of them to stop
the Varden. However, minutes could be like hours during a battle, and Eragon was acutely
aware of how fast the balance of power could change.
Hold fast! he thought, though he did not send his words to Saphira, lest he distract her or
give away his position. Just a little longer!
The streets grew ever narrower as they approached the city wall, and the overhanging
buildings—houses mostly—blocked out everything but a thin strip of the azure sky. Sewage
lay stagnant in the gutters along the edges of the buildings; Eragon and Arya used their
sleeves to mask their noses and mouths. The stench seemed not to affect the herbalist, although
Solembum growled and whipped his tail in annoyance.
A flicker of movement on the roof of a nearby building caught Eragon’s attention, but
whatever caused it had vanished by the time he looked. He continued to gaze upward and,
after a few moments, began to pick out certain odd sights: a patch of white against the sootcoated
bricks of a chimney; strange pointed shapes outlined against the morning sky; a small
oval spot, the size of a coin, that gleamed firelike in the shadows.
With a shock, he realized that the rooftops were lined with dozens of werecats, all in their
animal form. The werecats ran from building to building, watching silently from above as
Eragon and his companions threaded their way through the dim maze of the city.
Eragon knew that the elusive shapeshifters would not deign to help except in the most
desperate of circumstances—they wished to keep their involvement with the Varden a secret
from Galbatorix for as long as possible—but he found it heartening to have them so close.
The street ended at an intersection of five other lanes. Eragon consulted with Arya and the
herbalist; then they decided to take the path opposite theirs and continue in the same direction.
A hundred feet ahead, the street they had chosen took a sharp turn and opened onto the
square that lay before Dras-Leona’s southern gate.
Eragon stopped.
Hundreds of soldiers stood gathered before the gate. The men milled about in seeming
confusion as they donned weapons and armor, and their commanders bellowed orders at
them. The golden thread stitched onto the soldiers’ crimson tunics glittered as they rushed to
and fro.
The presence of the soldiers dismayed Eragon, but he was even more dismayed to see
that the city’s defenders had piled a huge mound of rubble against the inside of the gates, to
keep the Varden from battering them in.
Eragon swore. The mound was so large, it would take a team of fifty men several days to
clear it away. Saphira could dig the gates free in a few minutes, but Murtagh and Thorn would
never give her the opportunity.
We need another distraction, he thought. What that distraction should be, however, eluded
him. Saphira! he cried, casting his thoughts out toward her. She heard him, of that he was
sure, but he had no time to explain the situation to her, for at that very moment, one of the
soldiers stopped and pointed at Eragon and his companions.
“Rebels!â€
Eragon tore Brisingr from its scabbard and sprang forward before the rest of the soldiers
could heed the man’s warning. He had no other choice. To retreat would be to abandon the
Varden to the mercies of the Empire. Besides, he could not leave Saphira to deal with both
the wall and the soldiers by herself.
He shouted as he leaped, as did Arya, who joined him in his mad charge. Together they
cut their way into the midst of the surprised soldiers. For a few brief moments, the men were
so bewildered, several did not seem to realize Eragon was their foe until he had stabbed
them.
Flights of arrows arced down into the square from the bowmen stationed on the parapet. A
handful of the shafts bounced off Eragon’s wards. The rest killed or injured the Empire’s own
men.
Fast as he was, Eragon could not block all of the swords and spears and daggers poking
at him. He could feel his strength ebbing at an alarming rate as his magic repelled the attacks.
Unless he could win free of the press, the soldiers would end up exhausting him to the point
where he could no longer fight.
With a ferocious war cry, he spun in a circle, holding Brisingr close to his waist as he
scythed down all the soldiers standing within reach.
The iridescent blue blade cut through bone and flesh as if they were equally insubstantial.
Blood trailed from the tip in long, twisting ribbons that slowly separated into glistening drops,
like orbs of polished coral, while the men he cut doubled over, clutching at their bellies as they
attempted to hold closed their wounds.
Every detail seemed bright and hard-edged, as if sculpted from glass. Eragon could make
out individual hairs in the beard of the swordsman in front of him. He could count the drops of
sweat that beaded the skin below the man’s eyes, and he could have pointed to every stain,
scuff, and tear in and on the swordsman’s outfit.
The noise of combat was painfully loud to his sensitive ears, but Eragon felt a deep sense
of calm. He was not immune to the fears that had troubled him before, but they did not waken
quite so easily, and he fought better because of it.
He completed his spin and was just moving toward the swordsman when Saphira
swooped past overhead. Her wings were pulled tight against her body, and they fluttered like
leaves in a gale. As she passed by, a blast of wind tousled Eragon’s hair and pressed him toward
the ground.
An instant later, Thorn followed Saphira, teeth bared, flames boiling in his open maw. The
two dragons hurtled a half mile beyond Dras-Leona’s yellow mud wall; then they looped
around and began to race back.
From outside the walls, Eragon heard a loud cheer. The Varden must be almost to the
gates.
A patch of skin on his left forearm burned as if someone had poured hot fat on it. He
hissed and shook his arm, but the feeling persisted. Then he saw a blotch of blood soaking
through his tunic. He glanced back at Saphira. It had to be dragon blood, but he could not tell
whose.
As the dragons approached, Eragon took advantage of the soldiers’ momentary daze to
kill three more. Then the rest of the men regained their wits, and the battle resumed in earnest.
A soldier with a battle-ax stepped in front of Eragon and started to swing at him. Halfway
through the stroke, Arya dispatched the man with a slash from behind, nearly cutting him in
twain.
With a quick nod, Eragon acknowledged her help. By unspoken agreement, they stood
back to back and faced the soldiers together.
He could feel Arya panting as hard as he was. Though they were stronger and faster than
most humans, there was a limit to their endurance, a limit to their resources. They had
already killed dozens, but hundreds remained, and Eragon knew that reinforcements would
soon arrive from elsewhere in Dras-Leona.
“What now?†he shouted, parrying a spear jabbed at his thigh.
“Magic!†Arya replied.
As Eragon fended off the soldiers’ attacks, he began to recite every spell he could think of
that might kill their enemies.
Another gust of wind ruffled his hair, and a cool shadow swept over him as Saphira circled
above, dissipating her excess speed. She flared her wings and started to drop toward the battlements
of the wall.
Before she could land, Thorn caught up with her. The red dragon dove, breathing a jet of
flame over a hundred feet long. Saphira roared with frustration and veered away from the wall
as she flapped quickly to gain altitude. The two dragons spiraled around each other as they
climbed into the sky, biting and clawing with furious abandon.
Seeing Saphira in danger only reinforced Eragon’s determination. He increased the speed
with which he spoke, chanting the words of the ancient language as quickly as he could
without mispronunciation. But no matter what he tried, neither his spells nor Arya’s had any
effect on the soldiers.
Then Murtagh’s voice boomed out of the sky, like the voice of a cloud-scraping giant:
“Those men are under my protection, Brother!â€
Eragon looked up and saw Thorn plummeting toward the square. The red dragon’s sudden
change in direction had caught Saphira unawares. She still hung high above the city, a
dark blue shape against the lighter blue of the sky.
They know, Eragon thought, and dread punctured his earlier calm.
He lowered his gaze and swept it over the throng. More and more soldiers were streaming
out of the streets along either side of Dras-Leona’s wall. The herbalist was backed up against
one of the bordering houses, throwing glass vials with one hand and swinging Tinkledeath
with the other. The vials released clouds of green vapor when they broke, and any soldiers
caught in the miasma fell to the ground, clutching their throats and thrashing as little brown
mushrooms sprang up on every inch of exposed skin. Behind Angela, upon a flat-topped
garden wall, crouched Solembum. The werecat used his vantage point to claw at the soldiers’
faces and pull off their helms, distracting them as they attempted to close with the herbalist.
Both he and Angela looked beleaguered, and Eragon doubted they would be able to hold out
much longer.
Nothing Eragon saw gave him hope. He turned his eyes back toward the immense bulk of
Thorn even as the red dragon filled his wings with air and slowed his descent.
“We have to leave!†Arya shouted.
Eragon hesitated. It would be a simple matter to lift Arya, Angela, Solembum, and himself
over the wall, to where the Varden would be waiting. But if they fled, the Varden would be no
better off than before. Their army could not afford to wait any longer: after another few days,
their supplies would run out and the men would begin to desert. Once that happened, Eragon
knew they would never again succeed in uniting all the races against Galbatorix.
Thorn’s body and wings blotted out the sky, casting the area in ruddy darkness and hiding
Saphira from view. Globules of blood, each the size of Eragon’s fist, dripped from Thorn’s
neck and legs, and more than one of the soldiers cried out in pain as the liquid scalded them.
“Eragon! Now!†shouted Arya. She grabbed his arm and pulled, but still he held his
ground, unwilling to admit defeat.
Arya pulled harder, forcing Eragon to look down in order to stay on his feet. As he did, his
eye fell on the third finger of his right hand, where he wore Aren.
He had hoped to save the energy contained within the ring for the day when he might finally
confront Galbatorix. It was a meager amount compared with what the king had undoubtedly
accumulated during his long years on the throne, but it was the greatest store of
power Eragon possessed, and he knew he would not have the chance to gather its equal before
the Varden reached Urû’baen, if indeed they did. Also, it was one of the few things Brom
had left him. For both those reasons he was reluctant to use any of the energy.
Nevertheless, he could think of no alternative.
The pool of energy within Aren had always seemed enormous to Eragon; now he
wondered if it would be enough for what he intended.
At the edge of his vision, he saw Thorn reaching toward him with talons as large as a
man, and some small part of him screamed to run away before the monster above caught him
and ate him alive.
Eragon drew in his breath, then he breached Aren’s precious hoard and shouted, “Jierda!â€
The torrent of energy that flowed through him was greater than any he had ever experienced;
it was like an ice-cold river that burned and tingled with almost unbearable intensity.
The sensation was both agonizing and ecstatic.
At his command, the huge pile of rubble blocking the gates erupted toward the sky in a
solid pillar of earth and stone. The rubble struck Thorn in the side, shredding his wing and
knocking the screeching dragon beyond the outskirts of Dras-Leona. Then the pillar spread
outward, forming a loose canopy over the southern half of the city.
The launch of the rubble shook the square and drove everyone to the ground. Eragon
landed on his hands and knees and remained there, staring upward as he maintained the
spell.
When the energy in the ring was almost depleted, he whispered, “Gánga raehta.†Like a
dark thunderhead caught in a gale, the plume drifted to the right, in the direction of the docks
and Leona Lake. Eragon continued to push the rubble away from the center of the city for as
long as he could; then, as the last remnants of the energy coursed through him, he ended the
spell.
With a deceptively soft sound, the cloud of debris collapsed inward. The heavier elements—
the stones, the broken pieces of wood, and the clumps of dirt—fell straight down,
pummeling the surface of the lake, while the smaller particles remained suspended in the air,
forming a large brown smudge that slowly drifted farther west.
Where the rubble had been was now an empty crater. Broken paving stones edged the
hollow, like a circle of shattered teeth. The gates to the city hung open, warped and
splintered, damaged beyond repair.
Through the off-kilter gates, Eragon saw the Varden massed in the streets beyond. He released
his breath and allowed his head to fall forward in exhaustion. It worked, he thought,
dumbfounded. Then he slowly pushed himself upright, vaguely aware that the danger had not
yet passed.
While the soldiers struggled to their feet, the Varden poured into Dras-Leona, shouting
war cries and banging their swords on their shields. A few seconds later, Saphira landed
among them, and what had been about to turn into a pitched battle became a rout as the soldiers
scrambled to save themselves.
Eragon glimpsed Roran among the sea of men and dwarves but lost sight of him before
he could catch his cousin’s attention.
Arya …? Eragon turned and was alarmed to find that she was not next to him. He
broadened his search and soon spotted her halfway across the square, surrounded by twenty
or so soldiers. The men were holding her arms and legs with grim tenacity as they tried to
drag her away. Arya freed one of her hands and struck a man in the chin, breaking his neck,
but another soldier took his place before she could swing again.
Eragon sprinted toward her. In his exhaustion, he let his sword arm swing too low, and the
tip of Brisingr caught on the mail hauberk of a fallen soldier, tearing the hilt from his grip. The
sword clattered to the ground, and Eragon hesitated, not sure if he should turn back, but then
he saw two of the soldiers stabbing at Arya with daggers, and he redoubled his speed.
Just as he reached her, Arya shook off her attackers for a moment. The men lunged with
outstretched hands, but before they could recapture her, Eragon struck one man in the side,
driving his fist into the man’s rib cage. A soldier with a pair of waxed mustachios stabbed at
Eragon’s chest. Eragon caught the blade with his bare hands, ripped it from the soldier’s grip,
broke the sword in two, and eviscerated the soldier with the stump of his own weapon. Within
seconds, all the soldiers who had threatened Arya lay dead or dying. Those Eragon had not
killed, Arya slew.
Afterward, Arya said, “I would have been able to defeat them on my own.â€
Eragon leaned over, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “I know. …â€
He nodded toward her right hand—the one she had injured pulling through the iron
cuff—which she held curled against her leg. “Consider it my thanks.â€
“A grim sort of present.†But she said it with a faint smile on her lips.
Most of the soldiers had fled the square; those who remained were backed against the
houses, hemmed in by the Varden. Even as Eragon looked about, he saw scores of Galbatorix’s
men throw down their weapons and surrender.
Together he and Arya retrieved his sword, and then they walked to the yellow mud wall,
where the ground was relatively clear of filth. Sitting against the wall, they watched the
Varden march into the city.
Saphira soon joined them. She nuzzled Eragon, who smiled and scratched her snout. She
hummed in response. You did it, she said.
We did it, he replied.
Up on her back, Blödhgarm loosened the straps that held his legs in Saphira’s saddle,
then slid down her side. For a moment, Eragon had the supremely disorienting experience of
meeting himself. He immediately decided that he disliked how his hair curled at the temples.
Blödhgarm uttered an indistinct word in the ancient language; then his shape shimmered
like a heat reflection and he was once again himself: tall, furred, yellow-eyed, long-eared, and
sharp-toothed. He appeared neither elf nor human, but in his tense, hard-set expression,
Eragon detected the stamp of sorrow and anger combined.
“Shadeslayer,†he said, and bowed to both Arya and Eragon. “Saphira has told me of
Wyrden’s fate. I—â€
Before he could finish his sentence, the ten remaining elves under Blödhgarm’s command
emerged from within the press of the Varden and hurried over, swords in hand.
“Shadeslayer!†they exclaimed. “Argetlam! Brightscales!â€
Eragon greeted them tiredly and strove to answer their questions, even though he would
rather have done nothing at all.
Then a roar cut through their conversation, and a shadow fell across them, and Eragon
looked up to see Thorn—whole and sound once more—balancing on a column of air high
above.
Eragon cursed and scrambled onto Saphira, drawing Brisingr, while Arya, Blödhgarm, and
the other elves formed a protective circle around her. Their combined might was formidable,
but whether it would be enough to fend off Murtagh, Eragon did not know.
As one, the Varden gazed upward. Brave they might be, but even the bravest might shrink
before a dragon.
“Brother!†shouted Murtagh, his augmented voice so loud that Eragon covered his ears.
“I’ll have blood from you for the injuries you caused Thorn! Take Dras-Leona if you want. It
means nothing to Galbatorix. But you’ve not seen the last of us, Eragon Shadeslayer, that I
swear.â€
And then Thorn turned and flew north over Dras-Leona, and soon vanished within the veil
of smoke that rose from the houses burning next to the ruined cathedral.
Inheritance
BY THE BANKS OF LAKE LEONA
ERAGON STRODE THROUGH the darkened camp, his jaw set and his fists clenched.
He had spent the last few hours in conference with Nasuada, Orik, Arya, Garzhvog, King
Orrin, and their various advisers, discussing the day’s events and assessing the Varden’s current
situation. Near the end of the meeting, they had contacted Queen Islanzadà to inform her
that the Varden had captured Dras-Leona, as well as to tell her of Wyrden’s death.
Eragon had not enjoyed explaining to the queen how one of her oldest and most powerful
spellcasters had died, nor had the queen been pleased to receive the news. Her initial reaction
had been one of such sadness, it surprised him; he had not thought she knew Wyrden
that well.
Talking with Islanzadà had left Eragon in a foul mood, for it had reinforced for him how random
and unnecessary Wyrden’s death had been. If I had been in the lead, I would have been
the one impaled on those spikes, he thought as he continued his search through the camp. Or
it could have been Arya.
Saphira knew what he was up to, but she had decided to return to the space by his tent
where she normally slept, for as she said, If I go tromping up and down the rows of tents, I’ll
keep the Varden awake, and they have earned their rest. Their minds remained joined,
though, and he knew if he needed her, she would be at his side within seconds.
To preserve his night vision, Eragon avoided going near the bonfires and torches that
burned before many of the tents, but he made sure to inspect each pool of light for his prey.
As he hunted, it occurred to him that she might elude him entirely. His feelings for her
were far from friendly, and that would allow her to sense his location and avoid him, if she
wanted. Yet he did not think she was a coward. Despite her youth, she was one of the hardest
people he had met, human, elf, or dwarf.
At last he spotted Elva sitting in front of a small, nondescript tent, weaving a cat’s cradle
by the light of a dying fire. Next to her sat the girl’s caretaker, Greta, a pair of long wooden
knitting needles darting in her gnarled hands.
For a moment, Eragon stood and watched. The old woman appeared more content than
he had ever seen her, and he found himself reluctant to disturb her repose.
Then Elva said, “Do not lose your nerve now, Eragon. Not when you have come so far.â€
Her voice was curiously subdued, as if she had been crying, but when she looked up, her
gaze was fierce and challenging.
Greta appeared startled when Eragon made his way into the light; she gathered up her
yarn and needles and bowed, saying, “Greetings, Shadeslayer. May I offer you anything to
eat or drink?â€
“No, thank you.†Eragon stopped before Elva and stared down at the small-framed girl.
She stared back at him for a moment, then returned to weaving the loop of yarn between her
fingers. Her violet eyes, he noted with a strange twist in his stomach, were the same color as
the amethyst crystals the priests of Helgrind had used to kill Wyrden and imprison Arya and
himself.
Eragon knelt and grabbed the tangle of yarn about the middle, stopping Elva’s motion.
“I know what you intend to say,†she stated.
“That may be,†he growled, “but I’m still going to say it. You killed Wyrden—you killed him
as surely as if you had stabbed him yourself. If you had come with us, you could have warned
him about the trap. You could have warned all of us. I watched Wyrden die, and I watched
Arya tear half her hand off, because of you. Because of your anger. Because of your stubbornness.
Because of your pride. … Hate me if you will, but don’t you dare make anyone else
suffer for it. If you want the Varden to lose, then go join Galbatorix and be done with it. Well, is
that what you want?â€
Elva slowly shook her head.
“Then I don’t ever want to hear that you’ve refused to help Nasuada for no other reason
than spite, else there will be a reckoning between you and me, Elva Farseer, and it’s not one
you would win.â€
“You could never defeat me,†she mumbled, her voice thick with emotion.
“You might be surprised. You have a valuable talent, Elva. The Varden needs your help,
now more than ever. I don’t know how we’re going to defeat the king at Urû’baen, but if you
stand with us—if you turn your skill against him—we might just have a chance.â€
Elva seemed to struggle with herself. Then she nodded, and Eragon saw that she was
crying, tears overflowing from her eyes. He took no pleasure in her distress, but he felt a certain
amount of satisfaction that his words had affected her so strongly.
“I’m sorry,†she whispered.
He released the yarn and stood. “Your apologies cannot bring back Wyrden. Do better in
the future, and perhaps you can atone for your mistake.â€
He nodded to the old woman Greta, who had remained silent throughout their exchange,
and then he strode out of the light and back between the dark rows of tents.
You did well, said Saphira. She will act differently from now on, I think.
I hope so.
Upbraiding Elva had been an unusual experience for Eragon. He remembered when Brom
and Garrow had chastised him for making mistakes, and to now find himself the one doing the
chastising left him feeling … different … more mature.
And so the wheel turns, he thought.
He took his time walking through the camp, enjoying the cool breeze wafting off the lake
hidden within the shadows.
After the capture of Dras-Leona, Nasuada had surprised everyone by insisting that the
Varden not stay the night in the city. She had given no explanation for her decision, but
Eragon suspected it was because the long delay at Dras-Leona had left her overeager to resume
their journey to Urû’baen, and also because she had no desire to linger within the city,
where any number of Galbatorix’s agents might be lurking.
Once the Varden had secured the streets, Nasuada detailed a number of warriors to remain
in the city, under the command of Martland Redbeard. Then the Varden had left Dras-
Leona and marched north, following the shore of the neighboring lake. Along the way, a constant
stream of messengers had ridden back and forth between the Varden and Dras-Leona
as Martland and Nasuada conferred about the numerous issues attending the governance of
the city.
Before the Varden had departed, Eragon, Saphira, and Blödhgarm’s spellcasters had returned
to the ruined cathedral, retrieved Wyrden’s body, and searched for the belt of Beloth
the Wise. It had taken only a few minutes for Saphira to pull aside the jumble of stone that
blocked the entrance to the underground chambers and for Blödhgarm and the other elves to
fetch Wyrden. But no matter how long they looked, and no matter what spells they used, they
could not find the belt.
The elves had carried Wyrden on their shields out of the city, to a knoll next to a small
creek. There they buried him while singing several aching laments in the ancient language—
songs so sad that Eragon had wept without restraint and all the birds and animals
within hearing had stopped and listened.
The silver-haired elf woman Yaela had knelt by the side of the grave, taken an acorn from
the pouch on her belt, and planted it directly above Wyrden’s chest. And then the twelve
elves, Arya included, sang to the acorn, which took root and sprouted and grew twining upward,
reaching and grasping toward the sky like a clutch of hands.
When the elves had finished, the leafy oak stood twenty feet high, with long strings of
green flowers at the end of every branch.
Eragon had thought it was the nicest burial he had ever attended. He much preferred it to
the dwarves’ practice of entombing their dead in hard, cold stone deep below the ground, and
he liked the idea of one’s body providing food for a tree that might live for hundreds of years
more. If he had to die, he decided that he would want an apple tree planted over him, so that
his friends and family could eat the fruit born of his body.
The concept had amused him tremendously, albeit in a rather morbid manner.
Besides searching the cathedral and retrieving Wyrden’s body, Eragon had also done one
other thing of note in Dras-Leona after its capture. He had, with Nasuada’s approval, declared
every slave within the city a free person, and he had personally gone to the manors and auction
houses and cut loose many of the men, women, and children chained therein. The act
had given him a great deal of satisfaction, and he hoped it would improve the lives of the
people he had released.
As he drew near his tent, he saw Arya waiting for him by the entrance. Eragon quickened
his stride, but before he could greet her, someone called out: “Shadeslayer!â€
Eragon turned and saw one of Nasuada’s pages trotting toward them. “Shadeslayer,†the
boy repeated, somewhat out of breath, and bowed to Arya. “Lady Nasuada would like you to
come to her tent an hour before dawn tomorrow morning, in order to confer with her. What
shall I tell her, Lady Arya?â€
“You may tell her I will be there when she wishes,†Arya replied, inclining her head slightly.
The page bowed again, and then he spun around and ran off in the direction from which
he had come.
“It’s somewhat confusing, now that we’ve both killed a Shade,†Eragon observed with a
faint grin.
Arya smiled as well, the motion of her lips almost invisible in the darkness. “Would you
rather I had let Varaug live?â€
“No … no, not at all.â€
“I could have kept him as a slave, to do my bidding.â€
“Now you’re teasing me,†he said.
She made a soft sound of amusement.
“Perhaps I should call you Princess instead—Princess Arya.†He said it again, enjoying
the feel of the words in his mouth.
“You should not call me that,†she said, more serious. “I am not a princess.â€
“Why not? Your mother is a queen. How can you not be a princess? Her title is dröttning,
yours is dröttningu. One means ‘queen,’ and the other—â€
“Does not mean ‘princess,’†she said. “Not exactly. There is no true equivalent in this language.â€
“But if your mother were to die or step down from her throne, you would take her place as
ruler of your people, wouldn’t you?â€
“It is not that simple.â€
Arya did not seem inclined to explain further, so Eragon said, “Would you like to go in?â€
“I would,†she said.
Eragon pulled open the entrance to his tent, and Arya ducked inside. After a quick glance
at Saphira—who lay curled up nearby, breathing heavily as she drifted off to sleep—Eragon
followed.
He went to the lantern that hung from the pole in the center of the tent and murmured,
“IstalrÃ,†not using brisingr, so as to avoid igniting his sword. The resulting flame filled the interior
with a warm, steady light that made the sparsely furnished army tent seem almost cozy.
They sat, and Arya said, “I found this among Wyrden’s belongings, and I thought we might
enjoy it together.†From the side pocket of her pants, she produced a carved wooden flask
about the size of Eragon’s hand. She handed it to him.
Eragon unstoppered the flask and sniffed at the mouth. He raised his eyebrows as he
smelled the strong, sweet scent of liqueur.
“Is it faelnirv?†he asked, naming the drink the elves made from elderberries and, Narà had
claimed, moonbeams.
Arya laughed, and her voice rang like well-tempered steel. “It is, but Wyrden added
something else to it.â€
“Oh?â€
“The leaves of a plant that grows in the eastern part of Du Weldenvarden, along the
shores of Röna Lake.â€
He frowned. “Do I know the name of this plant?â€
“Probably, but it’s of no importance. Go on: drink. You’ll like it; I promise.â€
And she laughed again, which gave him pause. He had never seen her like this before.
She seemed fey and reckless, and with a jolt of surprise, he realized she was already rather
tipsy.
Eragon hesitated, and he wondered if Glaedr was watching them. Then he lifted the flask
to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of the faelnirv. The liqueur tasted different than he was
accustomed to; it had a potent, musky flavor similar to the scent of a marten or a stoat.
Eragon grimaced and fought the urge to gag as the faelnirv burned a track down his
throat. He took another, smaller sip and then passed the flask back to Arya, who drank as
well.
The past day had been one of blood and horror. He had spent most of it fighting, killing, almost
being killed himself, and he needed a release. … He needed to forget. The tension he
felt was too deep-seated to ease with mental tricks alone. Something else was required.
Something that came from outside of himself, even as the violence he had participated in had,
for the most part, been external, not internal.
When Arya returned the flask to him, he downed a large quaff and then chuckled, unable
to help himself.
Arya raised an eyebrow and regarded him with a thoughtful, if merry, expression. “What
amuses you so?â€
“This … Us … The fact that we’re still alive, and theyâ€â€”he waved his hand in the direction
of Dras-Leona—“aren’t. Life amuses me, life and death.†A warm glow had already begun to
form in his belly, and the tips of his ears had started to tingle.
“It is nice to be alive,†said Arya.
They continued to pass the flask back and forth until it was empty, at which point Eragon
fit the stopper back into the mouth of the container—a task that required several attempts, for
his fingers felt thick and clumsy, and the cot seemed to tilt underneath him, like the deck of a
ship at sea.
He gave the empty flask to Arya, and as she took it, he grasped her hand, her right hand,
and turned it toward the light. The skin was once more smooth and unblemished. No sign of
her injury remained. “Blödhgarm healed you?†said Eragon.
Arya nodded, and he released her. “Mostly. I have full use of my hand again.†She demonstrated
by opening and closing it several times. “But there is still a patch of skin by the base of
my thumb where I have no feeling.†She pointed with her left index finger.
Eragon reached out and lightly touched the area. “Here?â€
“Here,†she said, and moved his hand a bit to the right.
“And Blödhgarm wasn’t able do anything about it?â€
She shook her head. “He tried a half-dozen spells, but the nerves refuse to rejoin.†She
made a dismissive motion. “It’s of no consequence. I can still wield a sword and I can still
draw a bow. That is all that matters.â€
Eragon hesitated, then said, “You know … how grateful I am for what you did—what you
tried to do. I’m only sorry it left you with a permanent mark. If I could have prevented it somehow
…â€
“Do not feel bad because of it. It’s impossible to go through life unscathed. Nor should you
want to. By the hurts we accumulate, we measure both our follies and our accomplishments.â€
“Angela said something similar about enemies—that if you didn’t make them, you were a
coward or worse.â€
Arya nodded. “There is some truth to that.â€
They continued to talk and laugh as the night wore on. Instead of weakening, the effects
of the altered faelnirv continued to strengthen. A giddy haze settled over Eragon, and he noticed
that the pockets of shadow in the tent looked as if they were swirling, and strange, flashing
lights—like those he normally saw when he closed his eyes at night—floated across his
field of vision. The tips of his ears were burning fever-hot, and the skin on his back itched and
crawled, as if ants were marching over it. Also, certain sounds had acquired a peculiar intensity—
the rhythmic chirping of the lakeside insects, for example, and the crackle of the torch
outside his tent; they dominated his hearing to the point where he had difficulty singling out
any other noise.
Have I been poisoned? he wondered.
“What is it?†asked Arya, noticing his alarm.
He wet his mouth, which had become incredibly, painfully dry, and told her what he was
experiencing.
Arya laughed and leaned back, her eyes heavy and half-lidded. “That is as it should be.
The sensations will wear off by dawn. Until then, relax and allow yourself to enjoy them.â€
Eragon struggled with himself for a moment as he debated whether to use a spell to clear
his mind—if indeed he could—but then he decided to trust Arya and follow her advice.
As the world bent around him, it occurred to Eragon how dependent he was on his senses
to determine what was real and what was not. He would have sworn that the flashing lights
were there, though the rational part of his mind knew they were only faelnirv-induced apparitions.
He and Arya continued to talk, but their conversation became increasingly disjointed and
incoherent. Nevertheless, Eragon was convinced that everything they said was of paramount
importance, although he could not have explained why, nor could he remember what they had
discussed only moments before.
Some time later, Eragon heard the low, throaty sound of a reed pipe being played somewhere
in the camp. At first he thought he was imagining the lilting tones, but then he saw Arya
cock her head and turn in the direction of the music, as if she too had noticed it.
Who was playing and why, Eragon could not tell. Nor did he care. It was as if the melody
had sprung out of the blackness of the night itself, like a wind, lonely and forsaken.
He listened with his head tilted back and his eyelids nearly closed while fantastical images
roiled within his mind, images that the faelnirv had induced but that the music shaped.
As it progressed, the melody grew ever more wild, and what had been plaintive became
urgent, and the notes trilled up and down in a manner so fast, so insistent, so complicated, so
alarming that Eragon began to fear for the safety of the musician. To play that quickly and that
skillfully seemed unnatural, even for an elf.
Arya laughed as the music reached a particularly fevered pitch, and she leaped to her feet
and struck a pose, lifting her arms over her head. She stamped her foot against the ground
and clapped her hands—once, twice, three times—and then, much to Eragon’s astonishment,
she began to dance. Her movements were slow at first, almost languorous, but soon her pace
increased until she matched the frenzied beat of the music.
The music soon peaked, then began to gradually subside as the piper restated and resolved
the themes of the melody. But before the music ceased, a sudden itch made Eragon
grab his right hand and scratch at the palm. At the same moment, he felt a twinge in the back
of his mind as one of his wards flared to life, warning him of some danger.
A second later, a dragon roared overhead.
Cold fear stabbed through Eragon.
The roar did not belong to Saphira.
Inheritance
THE WORD OF A RIDER
ERAGON GRABBED BRISINGR, and then he and Arya dashed from the tent.
Outside, Eragon staggered and fell to one knee as the ground seemed to pitch underneath
him. He clutched at a tuft of grass, using it as an anchor while he waited for the dizziness
to abate.
When he dared look up, he squinted. The light from the nearby torches was painfully
bright; the flames swam before him like fish, as if detached from the oil-soaked rags that fed
them.
Balance is gone, thought Eragon. Can’t trust my vision. Have to clear my mind. Have to—
A patch of motion caught his eye, and he ducked. Saphira’s tail swept over him, passing
only inches above his head, then struck his tent and flattened it, breaking the wooden poles
like so many dry twigs.
Saphira snarled, snapping at the empty air as she struggled to her feet. Then she paused,
confused.
Little one, what—
A sound like a mighty wind interrupted her, and from out of the blackness of the sky, there
emerged Thorn, red as blood and glittering like a million shifting stars. He landed close to
Nasuada’s pavilion, and the earth shook from the impact of his weight.
Eragon heard Nasuada’s guards shouting; then Thorn swung his right forepaw across the
ground, and half the shouts went silent.
From rigging strapped to the sides of the red dragon, several dozen soldiers leaped down
and spread outward, stabbing into tents and cutting down the watchmen who ran at them.
Horns blared along the perimeter of the camp. At the same time, the sounds of combat
erupted near their outer defenses, marking, Eragon thought, a secondary attack, from the
north.
How many soldiers are there? he wondered. Are we surrounded? Panic blossomed within
him so strongly that it almost overrode his sense of reason and sent him running blindly into
the night. Only the knowledge that the faelnirv was responsible for his reaction held him in
place.
He whispered a quick healing spell, hoping it might counteract the effects of the liqueur,
but to no avail. Disappointed, he carefully stood, drew Brisingr, and joined Arya to stand
shoulder to shoulder with her as five soldiers ran toward them. Eragon was not sure how he
and Arya could fight them off. Not in their condition.
The men were less than twenty feet away when Saphira growled and slapped the ground
with her tail, knocking the soldiers over. Eragon—who had sensed what Saphira was about to
do—grabbed Arya, and she grabbed him, and by supporting each other, they were able to remain
upright.
Then Blödhgarm and another elf, Laufin, sprinted out of the maze of tents and slew the
five soldiers before they could regain their footing. The other elves followed close behind.
Another group of soldiers, this one over twenty strong, ran toward Eragon and Arya, almost
as if the men knew where to find them.
The elves arranged themselves in a line in front of Eragon and Arya. But before the soldiers
came within reach of the elves’ swords, one of the tents burst open and Angela charged
howling into the midst of the soldiers, catching them by surprise.
The herbalist was wearing a red nightgown, her curly hair was in disarray, and in each
hand she wielded a wool comb. The combs were three feet long and had two rows of steel
tines mounted at an angle on the ends. The tines were longer than Eragon’s forearm and
were sharpened to needle-like points—he knew that if you pricked yourself, you could catch
blood poisoning from the unwashed wool they had been drawn through.
Two of the soldiers fell as Angela buried the wool combs in their sides, driving the tines
right through their hauberks. The herbalist was more than a foot shorter than some of the
men, but she showed no sign of fear as she bounded among them. To the contrary, she was
the picture of ferocity, with her wild hair and her shouting and her dark-eyed expression.
The soldiers encircled Angela and closed in around her, hiding her from sight, and for a
moment, Eragon feared they would overwhelm her.
Then, from elsewhere in the camp, he saw Solembum racing toward the knot of soldiers,
the werecat’s ears pressed flat against his skull. More werecats trailed him: twenty, thirty,
forty—a whole pack, and all in their animal forms.
A cacophony of hisses, yowls, and screams filled the night as the werecats sprang upon
the soldiers and pulled them to the ground, tearing at them with claws and teeth. The soldiers
fought back as best they could, but they were no match for the large, shaggy cats.
The whole sequence, from Angela’s appearance to the intervention of the werecats, transpired
with such speed, Eragon barely had time to react. As the werecats swarmed the soldiers,
he blinked and wet his parched mouth, feeling a sense of unreality about everything
around him.
Then Saphira said, Quick, onto my back, and she crouched so he could climb onto her.
“Wait,†said Arya, and put a hand on his arm. She murmured a few phrases in the ancient
language. An instant later, the distortion of Eragon’s senses vanished and he again found
himself in full command of his body.
He gave Arya a grateful glance, then tossed Brisingr’s scabbard onto the remains of his
tent, scrambled up Saphira’s right foreleg, and settled into his usual position at the base of
her neck. Without a saddle, the sharp edges of her scales dug into the insides of his legs, a
feeling he well remembered from their first flight together.
“We need the Dauthdaert,†he shouted down to Arya.
She nodded and ran toward her own tent, which was several hundred feet away, on the
eastern side of the camp.
Another consciousness, not Saphira’s, pressed against Eragon’s mind, and he drew in his
thoughts to protect himself. Then he realized the being was Glaedr, and he allowed the
golden dragon past his guard.
I will help, said Glaedr. Behind his words, Eragon sensed a terrible, seething anger directed
at Thorn and Murtagh, an anger that seemed powerful enough to burn the world to
cinders. Join your minds with me, Eragon, Saphira. And you as well, Blödhgarm, and you,
Laufin, and the rest of your kind. Let me see with your eyes, and let me listen with your ears,
so that I can advise you as to what to do, and so that I can lend you my strength when
needed.
Saphira leaped forward, half flying, half gliding over the rows of tents toward the huge ruby
mass of Thorn. The elves followed below, killing what soldiers they encountered.
Saphira had the advantage of height, as Thorn was still on the ground. She angled toward
him—intending, Eragon knew, to alight on Thorn’s back and fix her jaws upon his neck—but
as he saw her coming, the red dragon snarled and twisted to face her, crouching like a smaller
dog confronting a larger one.
Eragon just had time to notice that Thorn’s saddle was empty, and then the dragon reared
and batted at Saphira with one of his thick, muscular forelegs. His heavy paw swung through
the air with a loud rushing sound. In the gloom, his claws appeared startlingly white.
Saphira veered to the side, contorting her body to avoid the blow. The ground and the sky
tilted around Eragon, and he found himself looking up at the camp as the tip of Saphira’s right
wing tore apart someone’s tent.
The force of the turn tugged on Eragon, pulling him away from Saphira. Her scales started
to slip out from between his legs. He clenched his thighs and tightened his hold on the spike
in front of him, but Saphira’s motion was too violent to withstand, and a second later, his grip
gave way and he found himself tumbling through the air, without a clear idea of which direction
was up and which was down.
Even as he fell, he made sure to maintain his grasp on Brisingr and to keep the blade well
away from his body; wards or no wards, the sword could still injure him, due to Rhunön’s
spellwork.
Little one!
“Letta!†Eragon shouted, and with a jolt, he stopped dead in the air, no more than ten feet
above the ground. While the world seemed to keep spinning for another few seconds, he
glimpsed Saphira’s sparkling outline as she circled around to retrieve him.
Thorn bellowed and sprayed the rows of tents between him and Eragon with a layer of
white-hot flames that leaped up toward the sky. Screams of agony swiftly followed as the men
within burned to death.
Eragon raised a hand to shield his face. His magic protected him from serious injury, but
the heat was uncomfortable. I’m fine. Don’t turn back, he said, not only to Saphira but also to
Glaedr and the elves. You have to stop them. I’ll meet you by Nasuada’s pavilion.
Saphira’s disapproval was palpable, but she altered her course to resume her attack on
Thorn.
Eragon released his spell and dropped to the ground. He landed lightly on the balls of his
feet, then set off at a run between the burning tents, many of which were already collapsing,
sending up pillars of orange sparks.
The smoke and the stench of burnt wool made it hard for Eragon to breathe. He coughed,
and his eyes began to water, blurring the lower part of his vision.
Several hundred feet ahead, Saphira and Thorn tussled, two giants in the night. Eragon
felt a sense of primal fear. What was he doing running toward them, toward a pair of snapping,
snarling creatures, each larger than a house—larger than two houses in Thorn’s
case—and each with claws, fangs, spikes larger than his whole body? Even after the initial
surge of fear subsided, a small amount of trepidation remained as he raced ahead.
He hoped Roran and Katrina were safe. Their tent was on the opposite side of the camp,
but Thorn and the soldiers might turn in that direction at any moment.
“Eragon!â€
Arya loped through the burning debris, carrying the Dauthdaert in her left hand. A faint
green nimbus surrounded the barbed blade of the lance, although the glow was hard to see
against the backdrop of flames. Trotting alongside her was Orik, who barreled through the
tongues of fire as if they were no more dangerous than wisps of vapor. The dwarf was shirtless
and helmetless. He held the ancient war hammer Volund in one hand and a small round
shield in the other. Blood smeared both ends of the hammer.
Eragon greeted them with a raised hand and a cry, glad to have his friends with him.
When she caught up, Arya offered him the lance, but Eragon shook his head. “Keep it!†he
said. “We’ll have a better chance of stopping Thorn if you use Niernen and I use Brisingr.â€
Arya nodded and tightened her grip on the lance. For the first time, Eragon wondered if,
as an elf, she would be able to bring herself to kill a dragon. Then he put the thought aside. If
there was one thing he knew about Arya, it was that she always did what was necessary, no
matter how difficult.
Thorn clawed Saphira’s ribs, and Eragon gasped as he felt her pain through their bond.
From Blödhgarm’s mind, he gathered that the elves were close to the dragons, busy fighting
the soldiers. Not even they dared move any nearer to Saphira and Thorn, for fear of being
crushed underfoot.
“Over there,†said Orik, and pointed with his hammer toward a cluster of soldiers moving
through the rows of destroyed tents.
“Leave them,†said Arya. “We have to help Saphira.â€
Orik grunted. “Right, then, off we go.â€
The three of them dashed forward, but Eragon and Arya soon left Orik far behind. No
dwarf could hope to keep up with them, not even one as strong and fit as Orik.
“Go on!†shouted Orik from behind. “I’ll follow as fast as I can!â€
As Eragon dodged scraps of burning fabric that were floating through the air, he spotted
Nar Garzhvog amid a knot of ten soldiers. The horned Kull appeared grotesque by the ruddy
light of the flames; his lips were drawn back from his fangs, and the shadows on his heavy
brow ridge gave his face a crude, brutal look, as if his skull had been hacked out of a boulder
with a dull chisel. Fighting bare-handed, he grabbed a soldier and tore him limb from limb as
easily as Eragon might tear apart a roast chicken.
A few paces later, the burning tents ended. On the other side of the flames, all was confusion.
Blödhgarm and two of his spellcasters stood facing four black-robed men, who Eragon assumed
were magicians of the Empire. Neither the men nor the elves stirred, though their
faces displayed immense strain. Dozens of soldiers lay dead on the ground, but others still
ran free, some bearing wounds so horrendous that Eragon knew at once the men were immune
to pain.
He could not see the rest of the elves, but he could sense their presence on the other side
of Nasuada’s red pavilion, which stood in the center of the havoc.
Groups of werecats chased soldiers back and forth throughout the clearing around the pavilion.
King Halfpaw and his mate, Shadowhunter, led two of the groups; Solembum led a
third.
Close to the pavilion stood the herbalist, dueling with a large, burly man—she fighting with
her wool combs, he with a mace in one hand and a flail in the other. The two seemed fairly
matched, despite their differences in sex, weight, height, reach, and equipment.
To Eragon’s surprise, Elva was there as well, sitting on the end of a barrel. The witch-child
had her arms wrapped around her stomach and appeared deathly ill, but she too was participating
in the battle, albeit in her own unique way. Clustered before her were a dozen soldiers,
and Eragon saw that she was speaking rapidly to them, her small mouth moving in a blur. As
she spoke, each man reacted differently: one stood fixed in place, seemingly unable to move;
one cringed and covered his face with his hands; one knelt and stabbed himself in the chest
with a long dagger; another flung down his weapons and ran off through the camp; and still
another babbled like a fool. None lifted their swords against her, and none went on to attack
anyone else.
And looming above the mayhem, like two living mountains, were Saphira and Thorn. They
had moved off to the left of the pavilion and were circling each other, trampling row after row
of tents. Tongues of flames flickered in the pits of their nostrils and in the gaps between their
saber-like teeth.
Eragon hesitated. The welter of sounds and motions was hard to take in, and he was uncertain
where he was needed most.
Murtagh? he asked Glaedr.
We’ve yet to find him, if he’s even here. I can’t feel his mind, but it’s hard to know for sure
with so many people and spells in one place. Through their link, Eragon could tell that the
golden dragon was doing far more than just talking to him; Glaedr was listening simultaneously
to the thoughts of Saphira and the elves, as well as helping Blödhgarm and his two
companions in their mental struggle against the Empire’s magicians.
Eragon was confident that they would be able to defeat the magicians, just as he was confident
that Angela and Elva were perfectly capable of defending themselves from the rest of
the soldiers. Saphira, however, was already wounded in several places, and she was hardpressed
to keep Thorn from attacking the rest of the camp.
Eragon glanced at the Dauthdaert in Arya’s hand, then back at the massive shapes of the
dragons. We have to kill him, Eragon thought, and his heart grew heavy. Then his eye fell on
Elva, and a new idea took root in his mind. The girl’s words were more powerful than any
weapon; no one, not even Galbatorix, could withstand them. If she could but speak to Thorn,
she could drive him away.
No! growled Glaedr. You waste time, youngling. Go to your dragon—now! She needs your
help. You must kill Thorn, not scare him into fleeing! He is broken, and there is nothing you
can do to save him.
Eragon looked at Arya, and she looked at him.
“Elva would be faster,†he said.
“We have the Dauthdaert—â€
“Too dangerous. Too difficult.â€
Arya hesitated, then nodded. Together they started toward Elva.
Before they reached her, Eragon heard a muffled scream. He turned and, to his horror,
saw Murtagh striding out of the pavilion, dragging Nasuada by her wrists.
Nasuada’s hair was disheveled. A nasty scratch marred one of her cheeks, and her yellow
dressing gown was torn in several places. She kicked at Murtagh’s knee, but her heel
bounced off a ward, leaving Murtagh untouched. He pulled her closer with a cruel tug, then
struck her on the temple with the pommel of Zar’roc, knocking her unconscious.
Eragon yelled and swerved toward them.
Murtagh gave him a brief look. Then he sheathed his sword, hoisted Nasuada onto a
shoulder, and knelt on one knee, where he bowed his head, as if in prayer.
A spike of pain from Saphira distracted Eragon, and she cried, Beware! He’s escaped me!
As Eragon leaped over a mound of corpses, he risked a quick glance upward and saw
Thorn’s glittering belly and velvet wings blotting out half the stars in the sky. The red dragon
spun slightly as he drifted downward, like a large, weighted leaf.
Eragon dove to the side and rolled behind the pavilion, trying to put distance between himself
and the dragon. A rock dug into his shoulder as he landed.
Without slowing, Thorn reached down with his right foreleg, which was as thick and knotted
as a tree trunk, and closed his enormous paw around Murtagh and Nasuada. His claws
sank into the earth, excavating a plug of dirt several feet deep as he picked up the two humans.
Then, with a triumphant roar and the bone-jarring thuds of flapping wings, Thorn arched
upward and started to climb away from the camp.
From where she and Thorn had been grappling, Saphira took off in pursuit, streamers of
blood unfurling from bites and claw marks along her limbs. She was faster than Thorn, but
even if she caught him, Eragon could not imagine how she could rescue Nasuada without injuring
her.
A breath of wind tugged at his hair as Arya sped past him. She ran up a pile of barrels and
jumped, and her leap carried her high into the air, higher than any elf could jump without assistance.
Reaching out, she grabbed hold of Thorn’s tail and hung dangling from it like an ornament.
Eragon took a half step forward, as if to stop her, then cursed and growled, “Audr!â€
The spell launched him into the sky, like an arrow from a bow. He reached out to Glaedr,
and the old dragon fed him energy to sustain his ascension. Eragon burned the energy
without heed, not caring the price, only wanting to reach Thorn before something horrible
happened to Nasuada or Arya.
As he hurtled past Saphira, Eragon watched as Arya began to climb up Thorn’s tail. She
clung to the spikes along his spine with her right hand, using them like the rungs on a ladder.
With her left, she plunged the Dauthdaert into Thorn, anchoring herself with the blade of the
spear even as she pulled herself higher and higher up his heaving body. Thorn wriggled and
twisted and snapped at her, like a horse irritated by a fly, but he could not reach her.
Then the blood-red dragon drew in his wings and legs, and with his precious cargo
cradled close against his chest, he dove toward the ground, spinning round and round in a
death spiral. The Dauthdaert tore loose from Thorn’s flesh, and Arya stretched out at an angle
to him as she held on to a spike with only her right hand—her weak hand, the hand she had
injured in the catacombs under Dras-Leona.
Ere long, her fingers loosened and she fell away from Thorn, her arms and legs flung outward
like the spokes of a wagon wheel. No doubt the result of a spell she had cast, her gyrations
slowed and then ceased, as did her downward trajectory, until at last she floated upright
in the night sky. Illuminated by the glow of the Dauthdaert, which she still held, she appeared
to Eragon like a green firefly hovering in the darkness.
Thorn flared his wings and looped back toward her. Arya’s head swiveled as she looked
over at Saphira; then she rotated in the air to face Thorn.
A malefic light sprang into existence between Thorn’s jaws an instant before an everexpanding
wall of flames billowed out of his maw and rolled over Arya, obscuring her form.
By then, Eragon was less than fifty feet away—close enough that the heat stung his
cheeks.
The flames cleared to reveal Thorn turning away from Arya, doubling back on himself as
quickly as his bulk would allow. As he did, he swung his tail, whipping it through the air faster
than she could hope to evade.
“No!†shouted Eragon.
There was a crack as the tail struck Arya. It knocked her into the darkness, like a stone
loosed from a sling, and the Dauthdaert separated from her and arced downward, its glow
dwindling to a faint point that soon vanished altogether.
Iron bands seemed to tighten around Eragon’s chest, squeezing the breath out of him.
Thorn was pulling away, but Eragon might still be able to overtake the dragon if he drew even
more energy from Glaedr. However, his connection with Glaedr was growing tenuous and
Eragon could not hope to best Thorn and Murtagh alone and high above the ground, not
when Murtagh had dozens or more Eldunarà at his disposal.
Eragon swore, cut off the spell that was propelling him through the air, and dove headfirst
after Arya. The wind screamed in his ears and tore at his hair and clothes, and mashed the
skin on his cheeks flat, and forced him to narrow his eyes to slits. An insect struck him on the
neck; the impact stung as fiercely as if he had been hit by a pebble.
As he fell, Eragon searched with his mind for Arya’s consciousness. He had just sensed a
glimmer of awareness somewhere in the gloom below when Saphira shot out beneath him,
her scales muted in the light of the stars. She turned upside down, and Eragon saw her reach
out and catch a small, dark object with her forepaws.
A jolt of pain went through the mind Eragon had touched; then all thought ceased within it
and he felt no more.
I have her, little one, said Saphira.
“Letta,†Eragon said, and he slowed to a halt.
He looked for Thorn again, but saw only stars and blackness. To the east, he heard twice
the indistinct sound of flapping wings, then all was silent.
Eragon looked toward the Varden’s camp. Patches of fire glowed orange and sullen
through layers of smoke. Hundreds of tents lay crumpled in the dirt, along with however many
men had failed to escape before Saphira and Thorn trampled them. But those men were not
the only victims of the attack. From his height, Eragon could not pick out the bodies, but he
knew the soldiers had killed scores.
The taste of ashes filled Eragon’s mouth. He was shaking; tears of rage and fear and frustration
clouded his eyes. Arya was injured—perhaps dead. Nasuada was gone, captured, and
soon she would be at the mercy of Galbatorix’s most skilled torturers.
Hopelessness overcame Eragon.
How could they continue now? How could they possibly hope for victory without Nasuada
to lead them?
Inheritance
CONCLAVE OF KINGS
UPON LANDING IN the Varden’s camp with Saphira, Eragon slid down her side and ran
to the patch of grass where she had gently deposited Arya.
The elf lay facedown, limp and motionless. When Eragon rolled her over, her eyes
flickered open. “Thorn … What of Thorn?†she whispered.
He escaped, said Saphira.
“And … Nasuada? Did you rescue her?â€
Eragon looked down and shook his head.
Sorrow passed over Arya’s face. She coughed and winced, then started to sit up. A thread
of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
“Wait,†said Eragon. “Don’t move. I’ll fetch Blödhgarm.â€
“There’s no need.†Grasping his shoulder, Arya pulled herself onto her feet, then gingerly
rose to her full height. Her breath caught as her muscles stretched, and Eragon saw the pain
she was trying to hide. “I’m only bruised, not broken. My wards protected me from the worst of
Thorn’s blow.â€
Eragon was doubtful, but he accepted her statement.
What now? asked Saphira, moving closer to them. The sharp, musky smell of her blood
was thick in Eragon’s nostrils.
Eragon looked around at the flames and destruction in the camp. Again he thought of Roran
and Katrina and wondered if they had survived the attack. What now indeed?
Circumstances answered his question. First, a pair of wounded soldiers ran out of a bank
of smoke and attacked him and Arya. By the time Eragon dispatched them, eight of the elves
had converged upon their location.
After Eragon convinced them he was unharmed, the elves turned their attention to Saphira
and insisted on healing the bites and scratches Thorn had given her, even though Eragon
would have preferred to do it himself.
Knowing that the healing was going to require several minutes, Eragon left Saphira with
the elves and hurried back through the rows of tents to the area near Nasuada’s pavilion,
where Blödhgarm and the two other elven spellcasters were still locked in mental combat with
the last of the four enemy magicians.
The remaining magician was kneeling on the ground, his brow pressed against his knees
and his arms wrapped around the nape of his neck. Instead of adding his thoughts to the invisible
fray, Eragon strode over to the magician, tapped him on the shoulder, and shouted,
“Ha!â€
The magician quivered, startled, and the distraction allowed the elves to slip past his defenses.
This Eragon knew because the man convulsed and then rolled over, the whites of his
eyes showing, and a yellowish foam bubbled out of his mouth. Soon afterward, he ceased
breathing.
With clipped sentences, Eragon explained to Blödhgarm and the two other elves what had
happened to Arya and Nasuada. Blödhgarm’s fur bristled, and his yellow eyes burned with
anger. But his only comment was to say in the ancient language, “Dark times are upon us,
Shadeslayer.†Then he sent Yaela to find and retrieve the Dauthdaert from wherever it had
fallen.
Together Eragon, Blödhgarm, and Uthinarë, the elf who had stayed with them, ranged
through the camp, rounding up and killing the few soldiers who had escaped the teeth of the
werecats and the blades of the men, dwarves, elves, and Urgals. They also used their magic
to extinguish some of the larger blazes, snuffing them out as easily as the flame of a candle.
The whole while, an overwhelming sense of dread clutched at Eragon, pressing down on
him like a pile of sodden fleeces and constricting his mind so that he found it difficult to think
of anything other than death, defeat, and failure. He felt as if the world were crumbling around
him—as if everything he and the Varden had striven to accomplish was unspooling rapidly,
and there was nothing he could do to regain control. The sense of helplessness sapped his
will to do anything other than sit in a corner and give in to misery. Still, he refused to satisfy
the urge, for if he did, then he might as well be dead. So he kept moving, laboring alongside
the elves in spite of his despair.
It did not improve his mood when Glaedr contacted him and said, If you had listened to
me, we might have stopped Thorn and saved Nasuada.
And we might not have, said Eragon. He did not want to discuss the subject further but felt
compelled to add: You let your anger cloud your sight. Killing Thorn wasn’t the only solution,
nor should you have been so quick to destroy one of the only remaining members of your
kind.
Do not think to lecture me, youngling! snapped Glaedr. You cannot begin to understand
what I have lost.
I understand better than most, Eragon replied, but Glaedr had already withdrawn from his
mind, and Eragon did not think the dragon heard him.
Eragon had just put out one fire and was moving to the next when Roran hurried to him
and grasped his arm. “Are you hurt?â€
Relief swept through Eragon as he saw his cousin alive and well. “No,†he said.
“And Saphira?â€
“The elves have already mended her wounds. What of Katrina? Is she safe?â€
Roran nodded, and his posture relaxed slightly, but his expression remained troubled.
“Eragon,†he said, drawing closer, “what’s happened? What is happening? I saw Jörmundur
running around like a chicken with its head cut off, and Nasuada’s guards look grim as death,
and I can’t get anyone to talk to me. Are we still in danger? Is Galbatorix about to attack?â€
Eragon glanced around, then drew Roran to the side, where no one else could hear. “You
can’t tell anyone. Not yet,†he cautioned.
“You have my word.â€
With a few quick sentences, Eragon summarized the situation to Roran. By the time he
finished, Roran’s expression had grown bleak. “We can’t let the Varden disband,†he said.
“Of course not. That won’t happen, but King Orrin may try to assume command, or—â€
Eragon fell silent as a group of warriors passed nearby. Then: “Stay with me, will you? I may
need your help.â€
“My help? For what would you need my help?â€
“The whole army admires you, Roran, even the Urgals. You’re Stronghammer, the hero of
Aroughs, and your opinion carries weight. That might prove important.â€
Roran was silent for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll do what I can.â€
“For now, just keep watch for soldiers,†said Eragon, and continued toward the fire that
was his intended destination.
Half an hour later, as quiet and order had begun to settle over the camp again, a runner
informed Eragon that Arya desired his immediate presence in King Orik’s pavilion.
Eragon and Roran exchanged glances, then set out toward the northwestern quadrant of
the camp, where the majority of the dwarves had pitched their tents.
“There is no choice,†said Jörmundur. “Nasuada made her wishes perfectly clear. You,
Eragon, must take her place and lead the Varden in her stead.â€
The faces ringing the interior of the tent were stern and unyielding. Dark shadows clung to
the hollows of their temples and to the deep frown lines of the assorted two-legs, as Eragon
knew Saphira would have called them. The only one not frowning was Saphira—her head
was pushed through the entrance to the pavilion so that she could participate in the conclave—
but her lips were pulled back slightly, as if she was about to snarl.
Also present were King Orrin, a purple cloak wrapped over his night robes; Arya, looking
shaken but determined; King Orik, who had found a mail shirt to cover himself; the werecat
king, Grimrr Halfpaw, a white linen bandage wrapped around a sword cut on his right
shoulder; Nar Garzhvog, the Kull, stooping to avoid brushing his horns against the ceiling;
and Roran, who stood by the wall of the tent listening to the proceedings, so far without comment.
No one else had been allowed into the pavilion. Not guards, not advisers, not servants,
not even Blödhgarm or the other elves. Outside, a block of men, dwarves, and Urgals stood
twelve deep before the entrance—their task to prevent anyone, no matter how powerful or
dangerous, from interfering with the meeting. And woven about the tent were a number of
hastily cast spells intended to prevent eavesdropping both mundane and magical.
“I never wanted this,†said Eragon, staring down at the map of Alagaësia stretched out on
the table in the center of the pavilion.
“None of us did,†said King Orrin in a biting tone.
It had been wise of Arya, Eragon thought, to stage the meeting in Orik’s pavilion. The
dwarf king was known to be a staunch supporter of Nasuada and the Varden—as well as being
Eragon’s clan chief and foster brother—but no one could accuse him of aspiring to
Nasuada’s position, nor would the humans necessarily accept him as her replacement.
Still, by staging the meeting in Orik’s pavilion, Arya had strengthened Eragon’s case and
undercut his critics, without appearing to endorse or attack either. She was, Eragon had to
admit, far more accomplished at manipulating others than he. The only risk in what she had
done was that it might cause others to think Orik was his master, but that was a risk Eragon
was willing to accept in exchange for his friend’s support.
“I never wanted this,†he repeated, then lifted his gaze to meet the watchful eyes of those
around him. “But now that it’s happened, I swear on the graves of all we’ve lost that I’ll do my
best to live up to Nasuada’s example and lead the Varden to victory against Galbatorix and
the Empire.†He strove to project an air of confidence, but the truth was, the enormity of the
situation frightened him and he had no idea whether he was up to the task. Nasuada had
been impressively capable, and it was intimidating to consider trying to do even half of what
she had done.
“Very commendable, I’m sure,†said King Orrin. “However, the Varden has always worked
in concert with its allies—with the men of Surda; with our royal friend King Orik and the
dwarves of the Beor Mountains; with the elves; and now, more recently, with the Urgals, as
led by Nar Garzhvog, and with the werecats.†He nodded toward Grimrr, who nodded briefly
in return. “It would not do for the rank and file to see us disagreeing with one another in public.
Would you not agree?â€
“Of course.â€
“Of course,†said King Orrin. “I take it, then, you will continue to consult with us on matters
of importance, even as Nasuada did?†Eragon hesitated, but before he could reply, Orrin resumed
speaking: “All of usâ€â€”he motioned toward the others in the tent—“have risked an
enormous amount in this venture, and none of us would appreciate being dictated to. Nor
would we submit to it. To be blunt, despite your many accomplishments, Eragon Shadeslayer,
you are still young and inexperienced, and that inexperience might very well prove fatal. The
rest of us have had the benefit of many years leading our respective forces, or watching others
lead. We can help guide you onto the right path, and perhaps together we can still find a
way to right this mess and overthrow Galbatorix.â€
Everything Orrin said was true, Eragon thought—he was still young and inexperienced,
and he did need the others’ advice—but he could not admit as much without appearing weak.
So, instead, he replied, “You may rest assured that I will consult with you when needed,
but my decisions, as always, will remain my own.â€
“Forgive me, Shadeslayer, but I have difficulty believing that. Your familiarity with the
elvesâ€â€”Orrin eyed Arya—“is commonly known. What’s more, you are an adopted member of
the Ingeitum clan, and subject to the authority of their clan chief, who just so happens to be
King Orik. Perhaps I am mistaken, but it seems doubtful that your decisions will be your own.â€
“First, you counsel me to listen to our allies. Now you don’t. Is it perhaps that you would
prefer I listen to you, and you alone?†Eragon’s anger grew as he spoke.
“I would prefer that your choices be in the best interests of our people, and not those of
another race!â€
“They have been,†growled Eragon. “And they will continue to be. I owe my allegiance to
both the Varden and the Ingeitum clan, yes, but also to Saphira, and Nasuada, and my family
as well. Many have claim on me, even as many have claim on you, Your Majesty. My foremost
concern, however, is defeating Galbatorix and the Empire. It always has been, and if
there is a conflict among my loyalties, that is what shall take precedence. Question my judgment,
if you must, but do not question my motives. And I would thank you to refrain from implying
that I’m a traitor to my kind!â€
Orrin scowled, color rising in his cheeks, and he was about to utter a retort when a loud
bang interrupted him as Orik struck his war hammer, Volund, against his shield.
“Enough of this nonsense!†exclaimed Orik, glowering. “You worry about a crack in the
floor while the whole mountain is about to come down upon us!â€
Orrin’s scowl deepened, but he did not pursue the matter further. Instead, he picked up his
goblet of wine from the table and sank back into the depths of his chair, where he stared at
Eragon with a dark, smoldering gaze.
I think he hates you, said Saphira.
That, or he hates what I represent. Either way, I’m an obstacle to him. He’ll bear watching.
“The question before us is simple,†said Orik. “What should we do now that Nasuada is
gone?†He placed Volund flat on the table and ran his gnarled hand over his head. “Mine
opinion is that our situation is the same as it was this morning. Unless we admit defeat and
sue for peace, we still have only one choice: march to Urû’baen fast as our feet will carry us.
Nasuada herself was never going to fight Galbatorix. That will fall to youâ€â€”he motioned toward
Eragon and Saphira—“and the elves. Nasuada brought us this far, and while she will be
greatly missed, we do not need her to continue. Our path allows for little deviation. Even if she
were present, I cannot see her doing anything else. To Urû’baen, we must go, and that’s the
end of it.â€
Grimrr toyed with a small black-bladed dagger, seemingly indifferent to the conversation.
“I agree,†said Arya. “We have no other choice.â€
Above them, Garzhvog’s massive head dipped, causing misshapen shadows to glide
across the pavilion walls. “The dwarf speaks well. The Urgralgra will stay with the Varden as
long as Firesword is war chief. With him and Flametongue to lead our charges, we will collect
the debt of blood that the lack-horned betrayer, Galbatorix, still owes us.â€
Eragon shifted slightly, uncomfortable.
“That’s all very well and good,†said King Orrin, “but I’ve yet to hear how we are supposed
to defeat Murtagh and Galbatorix when we get to Urû’baen.â€
“We have the Dauthdaert,†Eragon pointed out, for Yaela had retrieved the spear, “and
with it, we can—â€
King Orrin waved one hand. “Yes, yes, the Dauthdaert. It didn’t help you stop Thorn, and I
can’t imagine that Galbatorix will let you come anywhere near him or Shruikan with it. Either
way, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still no match for that black-hearted traitor. Blast it,
Shadeslayer, you’re not even a match for your own brother, and he’s been a Rider for less
time than you!â€
Half brother, Eragon thought, but he held his tongue. He could find no way to rebut Orrin’s
points; they were valid, each and every one, and they left him feeling shamed.
The king continued: “We entered this war with the understanding that you would find a
way of countering Galbatorix’s unnatural strength. So Nasuada promised and assured us.
And yet here we are, about to confront the most powerful magician in recorded history, and
we’re no closer to defeating him than when we began!â€
“We went to war,†Eragon said quietly, “because it was the first time since the Riders fell
that we’ve had even the slightest chance of overthrowing Galbatorix. You know that.â€
“What chance?†sneered the king. “We’re puppets, all of us, dancing according to Galbatorix’s
whims. The only reason we’ve gotten this far is because he’s let us. Galbatorix wants us
to go to Urû’baen. He wants us to bring you to him. If he cared about stopping us, he would
have flown out to meet us at the Burning Plains and crushed us then and there. And once he
has you in his reach, he’ll do just that: crush us.â€
The air in the tent seemed to grow taut between them.
Careful, said Saphira to Eragon. He’ll leave the pack if you can’t convince him otherwise.
Arya appeared similarly worried.
Eragon spread his hands flat on the table and took a moment to gather his thoughts. He
did not want to lie, but at the same time he had to find a way to inspire hope in Orrin, which
was difficult when Eragon felt little himself. Is this what it was like for Nasuada all those times
she rallied us to the cause, convinced us to keep going even when we couldn’t see a way
clear?
“Our position isn’t quite as … precarious as you make it out to be,†said Eragon.
Orrin snorted and drank from his goblet.
“The Dauthdaert is a threat to Galbatorix,†continued Eragon, “and that’s to our advantage.
He’ll be wary of it. Because of that, we can force him to do what we want, perhaps just a bit.
Even if we can’t use it to kill him, we might be able to kill Shruikan. Theirs isn’t a true pairing
of dragon and Rider, but Shruikan’s death would still wound him to the core.â€
“It’ll never happen,†said Orrin. “He knows that we have the Dauthdaert now, and he’ll take
the appropriate precautions.â€
“Maybe not. I doubt Murtagh and Thorn recognized it.â€
“No, but Galbatorix will when he examines their memories.â€
And he’ll also know of Glaedr’s existence, if they haven’t told him already, Saphira said to
Eragon.
Eragon’s spirits sank further. He had not thought of that, but she was right. So much for
any hope of surprising him. We have no more secrets.
Life is full of secrets. Galbatorix cannot predict exactly how we will choose to fight him. In
that, at least, we can confound him.
“Which of the death spears have you found, O Shadeslayer?†asked Grimrr in a seemingly
bored tone.
“Du Niernen—the Orchid.â€
The werecat blinked, and Eragon had the impression that he was surprised, although
Grimrr’s expression remained blank as ever. “The Orchid. Is that so? How very strange to find
such a weapon in this age, especially that … particular weapon.â€
“Why so?†asked Jörmundur.
Grimrr’s small pink tongue passed over his fangs. “Niernen is notoriousss.†He drew out
the end of the word into a short hiss.
Before Eragon could press the werecat for more information, Garzhvog spoke, his voice
grinding like boulders: “What is this death spear you speak of, Firesword? Is it the lance that
wounded Saphira in Belatona? We heard tales of it, but they were odd indeed.â€
Eragon belatedly remembered that Nasuada had told neither the Urgals nor the werecats
what Niernen truly was. Oh well, he thought. It can’t be helped.
He explained to Garzhvog about the Dauthdaert, then insisted everyone in the pavilion
swear an oath in the ancient language that they would not discuss the spear with anyone else
without permission. There was some grumbling, but in the end they all complied, even the
werecat. Trying to hide the spear from Galbatorix might have been pointless, but Eragon
could see no good in allowing the Dauthdaert to become general knowledge.
When the last of them had finished their oaths, Eragon resumed speaking, “So. First, we
have the Dauthdaert, and that’s more than we had before. Second, I don’t plan on facing Murtagh
and Galbatorix together; I’ve never planned to. When we arrive at Urû’baen, we’ll lure
Murtagh out of the city, and then we’ll surround him, with the whole army if necessary—the
elves included—and we’ll kill or capture him once and for all.†He looked round at the
gathered faces, trying to impress them with the force of his conviction. “Third—and this is
what you have to believe deep in your hearts—Galbatorix isn’t invulnerable, however powerful
he is. He might have cast thousands upon thousands of wards to protect himself, but in spite
of all his knowledge and cunning, there are still spells that can kill him, if only we are clever
enough to think of them. Now, maybe I’ll be the one to find the spell that is his undoing, but it
might just as well be an elf or a member of Du Vrangr Gata. Galbatorix seems untouchable, I
know, but there’s always a weakness—there’s always a crevice you can slip a blade through
and thus stab your foe.â€
“If the Riders of old couldn’t find his weakness, what is the likelihood we can?†demanded
King Orrin.
Eragon spread his hands, palms upward. “Maybe we can’t. Nothing is certain in life, much
less in war. However, if the combined spellcasters of our five races can’t kill him, then we
might as well accept that Galbatorix is going to rule as long as he pleases, and nothing we
can do is going to change that.â€
Silence pervaded the tent, short and profound.
Then Roran stepped forward. “I would speak,†he said.
Eragon saw the others around the table exchange glances.
“Say what you will, Stronghammer,†said Orik, to King Orrin’s evident annoyance.
“It is this: too much blood and too many tears have been shed for us to turn back now. It
would be disrespectful, both to the dead and to those who remember the dead. This may be a
battle between godsâ€â€”he appeared perfectly serious to Eragon as he said this—“but I for one
will keep fighting until the gods strike me down, or until I strike them down. A dragon might kill
ten thousand wolves one at a time, but ten thousand wolves together can kill a dragon.â€
Not likely, Saphira snorted in the privacy of her and Eragon’s shared mind space.
Roran smiled without humor. “And we have a dragon of our own. Decide as you wish. But
I, for one, am going to Urû’baen, and I’ll face Galbatorix, even if I have to do it by myself.â€
“Not by yourself,†said Arya. “I know I speak for Queen Islanzadà when I say that our
people will stand with you.â€
“As will ours,†rumbled Garzhvog.
“And ours,†affirmed Orik.
“And ours,†Eragon said in a tone that he hoped would discourage dissent.
When, after a pause, the four of them turned toward Grimrr, the werecat sniffed and said,
“Well, I suppose we’ll be there too.†He inspected his sharp nails. “Someone has to sneak
past enemy lines, and it certainly won’t be the dwarves bumbling around in their iron boots.â€
Orik’s eyebrows rose, but if he was offended, he hid it well.
Two more drinks Orrin quaffed; then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and
said, “Very well, as you wish; we’ll continue on to Urû’baen.†His cup empty, he reached for
the bottle in front of him.
Inheritance
A MAZE WITHOUT END
ERAGON AND THE others spent the rest of the conclave discussing practicalities: lines of
communication—who was supposed to answer to whom; assignments of duty; rearrangements
of the camp wards and sentinels to prevent Thorn or Shruikan from sneaking up on
them again; and how to secure new equipment for the men whose belongings had been
burned or squashed during the attack. By consensus they decided to hold off announcing
what had happened to Nasuada until the following day; it was more important for the warriors
to get what sleep they could before dawn brightened the horizon.
And yet, the one thing they never discussed was whether they should try to rescue
Nasuada. It was obvious that the only way to free her would be to seize Urû’baen, and by
then she would probably be dead, injured, or bound to Galbatorix in the ancient language. So
they avoided the subject entirely, as if to mention it was forbidden.
Nevertheless, she was a constant presence in Eragon’s thoughts. Every time he closed
his eyes, he saw Murtagh striking her, then the scaly fingers of Thorn’s paw closing round
her, and then the red dragon flying off into the night. The memories only made Eragon more
miserable, but he could not stop himself from reliving them.
As the conclave dispersed, Eragon motioned to Roran, Jörmundur, and Arya. They followed
him without question back to his tent, where Eragon spent some time asking their advice
and planning for the day to come.
“The Council of Elders will give you some trouble, I’m sure,†Jörmundur said. “They don’t
consider you as skilled at politics as Nasuada, and they’ll try to take advantage of that.†The
long-haired warrior had appeared preternaturally calm since the attack, so much so that
Eragon suspected he was on the verge of either tears or rage, or perhaps a combination of
both.
“I’m not,†Eragon said.
Jörmundur inclined his head. “Nevertheless, you must hold strong. I can help you some,
but much will depend on how you comport yourself. If you allow them to unduly influence your
decisions, they’ll think they have inherited the leadership of the Varden, not you.â€
Eragon glanced at Arya and Saphira, concerned.
Never fear, said Saphira to them all. No one shall get the better of him while I stand watch.
When their smaller, secondary meeting came to an end, Eragon waited until Arya and
Jörmundur had filed out of the tent; then he caught Roran by the shoulder. “Did you mean
what you said about this being a battle of the gods?â€
Roran stared at him. “I did. … You and Murtagh and Galbatorix—you’re too powerful for
any normal person to defeat. It’s not right. It’s not fair. But so it is. The rest of us are like ants
under your boots. Have you any idea how many men you’ve killed single-handedly?â€
“Too many.â€
“Exactly. I’m glad you’re here to fight for us, and I’m glad to count you as my brother in all
but name, but I wish we didn’t have to rely on a Rider or an elf or any sort of magician to win
this war for us. No one should be at the mercy of another person. Not like this. It unbalances
the world.â€
Then Roran strode out of the tent.
Eragon sank onto his cot, feeling as if he had been struck in the chest. He sat there for a
while, sweating and thinking, until the strain of his overactive thoughts caused him to spring
upright and hurry outside.
As he exited the tent, the six Nighthawks jumped to their feet, readying their weapons to
accompany him wherever he might be going.
Eragon motioned for them to stay put. He had protested, but Jörmundur insisted upon assigning
Nasuada’s guards, in addition to Blödhgarm and the other elves, to protect him. “We
can’t be too careful,†he had said. Eragon disliked having even more people follow him
around, but he had been forced to agree.
Walking past the guards, Eragon hurried over to where Saphira lay curled on the ground.
She opened one eye as he neared and then lifted her wing so he could crawl under it and
nestle against her warm belly. Little one, she said, and began to hum softly.
Eragon sat against her, listening to her humming and to the soft rustle of air flowing in and
out of her mighty lungs. Behind him, her belly rose and fell with a gentle, soothing cadence.
At any other time, her presence would have been enough to calm him, but not now. His
mind refused to slow, his pulse continued to hammer, and his hands and feet were uncomfortably
hot.
He kept his feelings to himself, to avoid disturbing Saphira. She was tired after her two
fights with Thorn, and she soon fell into a deep slumber, her humming fading into the everpresent
sound of her breathing.
And still Eragon’s thoughts would not give him rest. Over and over, he returned to the
same impossible, incontrovertible fact: he was the leader of the Varden. He, who had been
nothing more than the youngest member of a poor farming family, was now the leader of the
second-largest army in Alagaësia. That it had happened at all seemed outrageous, as if fate
was toying with him, baiting him into a trap that would destroy him. He had never wanted it,
never sought it, and yet events had thrust it upon him.
What was Nasuada thinking when she chose me as her successor? he wondered. He remembered
the reasons she had given him, but they did nothing to alleviate his doubts. Did
she really believe I could take her place? Why not Jörmundur? He’s been with the Varden for
decades, and he knows so much more about command and strategy.
Eragon thought of when Nasuada had decided to accept the Urgals’ offer of an alliance in
spite of all the hate and grief that existed between their two races, and even though it had
been Urgals who had killed her father. Could I have done that? He imagined not—not then, at
least. Can I make those sorts of decisions now, if they’re what’s required to defeat Galbatorix?
He was not sure.
He made an effort to still his mind. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on counting his
breaths in batches of ten. It was difficult to keep his attention focused on the task; every few
seconds, another thought or sensation would threaten to distract him, and he often forgot the
count.
In time, however, his body began to relax, and almost without his realizing it, the shifting,
rainbow visions of his waking dreams crept over him.
Many things he saw, some grim and unsettling, as his dreams reflected the events of the
past day. Others were bittersweet: memories of what had been or what he wished could have
been.
Then, like a sudden change of wind, his dreams rippled and became harder and more
substantial, as if they were tangible realities that he could reach out and touch. Everything
around him faded away, and he beheld another time and place—one that seemed both
strange and familiar, as if he had seen it once long before, and then it had passed from recollection.
Eragon opened his eyes, but the images stayed with him, obscuring his surroundings, and
he knew that he was experiencing no normal dream:
A dark and lonely plain lay before him, cut by a single strip of water that flowed slowmoving
into the east: a ribbon of beaten silver bright beneath the glare of a full moon. …
Floating on the nameless river, a ship, tall and proud, with pure white sails raised and ready.
… Ranks of warriors holding lances, and two hooded figures walking among them, as if in a
stately procession. The smell of willows and cottonwoods, and a sense of passing sorrow. …
Then a man’s anguished cry, and a flash of scales, and a muddle of motion that concealed
more than it revealed.
And then nothing but silence and blackness.
Eragon’s sight cleared, and he again found himself looking at the underside of Saphira’s
wing. He released his pent-up breath—which he had not realized he was holding—and with a
shaky hand wiped the tears from his eyes. He could not understand why the vision had affected
him so strongly.
Was that a premonition? he wondered. Or something actually happening at this very moment?
And why is it of any importance to me?
Thereafter, he was unable to continue resting. His worries returned in force and assailed
him without reprieve, gnawing at his mind like a host of rats, each bite of which seemed to infect
him with a creeping poison.
At last he crawled out from under Saphira’s wing—taking care not to wake her—and
wandered back to his tent.
As before, the Nighthawks rose when they saw him. Their commander, a thickset man
with a crooked nose, came forward to meet Eragon. “Is there anything you need, Shadeslayer?â€
he asked.
Eragon dimly remembered that the man’s name was Garven and something Nasuada had
told him about the man losing his senses after examining the minds of the elves. The man appeared
well enough now, although his gaze had a certain dreamy quality. Still, Eragon assumed
Garven was capable of carrying out his duties; otherwise, Jörmundur would never
have allowed him to return to his post.
“Not at the moment, Captain,†Eragon said, keeping his voice low. He took another step
forward, then paused. “How many of the Nighthawks were killed tonight?â€
“Six, sir. An entire watch. We’ll be shorthanded for a few days until we can find suitable replacements.
And we’ll need more recruits in addition to that. We want to double the force
around you.†A look of anguish perturbed Garven’s otherwise distant gaze. “We failed her,
Shadeslayer. If there had been more of us there, maybe—â€
“We all failed her,†said Eragon. “And if there had been more of you there, more of you
would have died.â€
The man hesitated, then nodded, his expression miserable.
I failed her, thought Eragon as he ducked into his tent. Nasuada was his liegelord; it was
his duty to protect her even more than it was that of the Nighthawks. And yet the one time she
had needed his help, he had been unable to save her.
He cursed once, viciously, to himself.
As her vassal, he ought to be searching for a way to rescue her, to the exclusion of all
else. But he also knew that she would not want him to abandon the Varden just for her sake.
She would rather suffer and die than allow her absence to harm the cause to which she had
devoted her life.
Eragon cursed again and began to pace back and forth within the confines of the tent.
I’m the leader of the Varden.
Only now that she was gone did Eragon realize that Nasuada had become more than just
his liegelord and commander; she had become his friend, and he felt the same urge to protect
her that he often felt with Arya. If he tried, however, he could end up costing the Varden the
war.
I’m the leader of the Varden.
He thought of all the people who were now his responsibility: Roran and Katrina and the
rest of the villagers from Carvahall; the hundreds of warriors whom he had fought alongside,
and many more as well; the dwarves; the werecats; and even the Urgals. All now under his
command and dependent on him to make the right decisions in order to defeat Galbatorix and
the Empire.
Eragon’s pulse surged, causing his vision to flicker. He stopped pacing and clutched at the
pole in the center of the tent, then dabbed the sweat from his brow and upper lip.
He wished he had someone to talk to. He considered waking Saphira but discounted the
idea. Her rest was more important than listening to him complain. Nor did he want to burden
Arya or Glaedr with problems they could do nothing to solve. In any event, he doubted he
would find a sympathetic listener in Glaedr when their last exchange had been so barbed.
Eragon resumed his monotonous circuit: three steps forward, turn, three steps back, turn,
and repeat.
He had lost the belt of Beloth the Wise. He had allowed Murtagh and Thorn to capture
Nasuada. And now he was in charge of the Varden.
Again and again, the same few thoughts kept running through his mind, and with each repetition,
his sense of anxiety increased. He felt as if he were caught in a maze without end,
and round every unseen corner lurked monsters waiting to pounce. Despite what he had said
during the meeting with Orik, Orrin, and the others, he could not see how he, the Varden, or
their allies could defeat Galbatorix.
I wouldn’t even be able to rescue Nasuada, assuming I had the freedom to chase after her
and try. Bitterness welled up inside him. The task before them seemed hopeless. Why did this
have to fall to us? He swore and bit the inside of his mouth until he could not bear the pain.
He stopped pacing and crumpled to the ground, wrapping his hands around the back of
his neck. “It can’t be done. It can’t be done,†he whispered, rocking from side to side upon his
knees. “It can’t.â€
In his despair, Eragon thought of praying to the dwarf god Gûntera for help, even as he
had done before. To lay his troubles at the feet of one greater than himself and to trust his
fate to that power would be a relief. Doing so would allow him to accept his fate—as well as
the fates of those he loved—with greater equanimity, for he would no longer be directly responsible
for whatever happened.
But Eragon could not bring himself to utter the prayer. He was responsible for their fates,
whether he liked it or not, and he felt it would be wrong to pass off his responsibility to anyone
else, even a god—or the idea of a god.
The problem was, he did not think he could do what needed to be done. He could command
the Varden; of that, he was reasonably sure. But as for how he might go about capturing
Urû’baen and killing Galbatorix, there he was at a loss. He did not have the strength to go
up against Murtagh, much less the king, and it seemed unlikely in the extreme that he could
think of a way around either of their wards. Capturing their minds, or at least Galbatorix’s,
seemed equally improbable.
Eragon dug his fingers into the nape of his neck, stretching and scratching his skin as he
frantically considered every possibility, no matter how unlikely.
Then he thought of the advice Solembum had given him in Teirm, so long ago. The
werecat had said, Listen closely and I will tell you two things. When the times comes and you
need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your
power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of
Souls.
His words concerning the Menoa tree had proven true; under it Eragon had found the
brightsteel he needed for the blade of his sword. Now a desperate hope flared inside Eragon
as he pondered the second of the werecat’s pronouncements.
If ever my power was insufficient, and if ever all seemed lost, it is now, thought Eragon.
However, he still had no idea where or what the Rock of Kuthian or the Vault of Souls were.
He had asked both Oromis and Arya at different times, but they had never returned an answer.
Eragon reached out with his mind then, and searched through the camp until he found the
distinctive feel of the werecat’s mind. Solembum, he said, I need your help! Please come to
my tent.
After a moment, he felt a grudging acknowledgment from the werecat, and he severed the
contact.
Then Eragon sat alone in the dark … and waited.
Inheritance
FRAGMENTS, HALF-SEEN AND INDISTINCT
OVER A QUARTER of an hour passed before the flap to Eragon’s tent stirred and Solembum
pushed his way inside, his padded feet nearly silent upon the ground.
The tawny werecat walked past Eragon without looking at him, jumped onto his cot, and
settled among his blankets, whereupon he began to lick the webbing between the claws of his
right paw. Still not looking at Eragon, he said, I am not a dog to come and go at your summons,
Eragon.
“I never thought you were,†Eragon replied. “But I have need of you, and it is urgent.â€
Mmh. The rasping of Solembum’s tongue grew louder as he concentrated on the leathery
palm of his foot. Speak then, Shadeslayer. What do you want?
“One moment.†Eragon stood and went over to the pole where his lantern hung. “I’m going
to light this,†he warned Solembum. Then Eragon spoke a word in the ancient language, and
a flame sprang to life atop the wick of the lantern, filling the tent with a warm, flickering illumination.
Both Eragon and Solembum squinted while they waited for their eyes to adjust to the increase
in brightness. When the light no longer felt quite so uncomfortable, Eragon seated
himself on his stool, not far from the cot.
The werecat, he was puzzled to see, was watching him with ice-blue eyes.
“Weren’t your eyes a different color?†he asked.
Solembum blinked once, and his eyes changed from blue to gold. Then he resumed
cleaning his paw. What do you want, Shadeslayer? The night is for the doing of things, not sitting
and talking. The tip of his tasseled tail lashed from side to side.
Eragon wet his lips, his hope making him nervous. “Solembum, you told me that when all
seemed lost and my power was insufficient, I should go to the Rock of Kuthian and open the
Vault of Souls.â€
The werecat paused in his licking. Ah, that.
“Yes, that. And I need to know what you meant by it. If there’s anything that can help us
against Galbatorix, I need to know about it now—not later, not once I manage to solve one
riddle or another, but now. So, where can I find the Rock of Kuthian, how do I open the Vault
of Souls, and what will I find inside it?â€
Solembum’s black-tipped ears angled backward slightly, and the claws on the paw he was
cleaning extended halfway from their sheaths. I don’t know.
“You don’t know?!†exclaimed Eragon in disbelief.
Must you repeat everything I say?
“How can you not know?â€
I don’t know.
Leaning forward, Eragon grabbed Solembum’s large, heavy paw. The werecat’s ears
flattened, and he hissed and curled his paw inward, digging his claws into Eragon’s hand.
Eragon smiled tightly and ignored the pain. The werecat was stronger than he had expected,
almost strong enough to pull him off the stool.
“No more riddles,†Eragon said. “I need the truth, Solembum. Where did you get this information
and what does it mean?â€
The fur along Solembum’s spine bristled. Sometimes riddles are the truth, you thickheaded
human. Now let me go, or I’ll tear your face off and feed your guts to the crows.
Eragon maintained his grip for a moment longer, then he released Solembum’s paw and
leaned back. He clenched his hand to help dull the pain and stop the bleeding.
Solembum glared at him with slitted eyes, all pretense of detachment gone. I said I don’t
know because, despite what you might think, I do not know. I have no knowledge of where
the Rock of Kuthian might lie, nor how you might open the Vault of Souls, nor what the vault
might contain.
“Say that in the ancient language.â€
Solembum’s eyes narrowed even farther, but he repeated himself in the tongue of the
elves, and then Eragon knew he was speaking the truth.
So many questions occurred to Eragon, he hardly knew which to ask first. “How did you
learn of the Rock of Kuthian, then?â€
Again Solembum’s tail lashed from side to side, flattening wrinkles in the blanket. For the
last time, I do not know. Nor do any of my kind.
“Then how …?†Eragon trailed off, overcome by confusion.
Soon after the fall of the Riders, a certain conviction came upon the members of our race
that, should we encounter a new Rider, one who was not beholden to Galbatorix, we should
tell him or her what I told you: of the Menoa tree and of the Rock of Kuthian.
“But … where did the information come from?â€
Solembum’s muzzle wrinkled as he bared his teeth in an unpleasant smile. That we cannot
say, only that whoever or whatever was responsible for it meant well.
“How can you know that?†exclaimed Eragon. “What if it was Galbatorix? He could be trying
to trick you. He could be trying to trick Saphira and me, so as to capture us.â€
No, said Solembum, and his claws sank into the blanket under him. Werecats are not so
easily fooled as others. Galbatorix is not the one behind this. Of that, I am sure. Whoever
wanted you to have this information is the same person or creature who arranged for you to
find the brightsteel for your sword. Would Galbatorix have done that?
Eragon frowned. “Haven’t you tried to find out who is behind this?â€
We have.
“And?â€
We failed. The werecat ruffled his fur. There are two possibilities. One, that our memories
were altered against our will and we are the pawns of some nefarious entity. Or two, that we
agreed to the alteration, for whatever reason. Perhaps we even excised the memories
ourselves. I find it difficult and distasteful to believe that anyone could have succeeded in
meddling with our minds. A few of us, I could understand. But our entire race? No. It cannot
be.
Why would you, the werecats, have been entrusted with this information?
Because, I would guess, we have always been friends of the Riders and friends of the
dragons. … We are the watchers. The listeners. The wanderers. We walk alone in the dark
places of the world, and we remember what is and what has been.
Solembum’s gaze shifted away. Understand this, Eragon. None of us have been happy
with the situation. We long debated whether it would cause more harm than good to pass on
this information should the moment arise. In the end, the decision was mine, and I decided to
tell you, for it seemed you needed all the help you could get. Make of it what you will.
“But what am I supposed to do?†said Eragon. “How am I supposed to find the Rock of
Kuthian?â€
That I cannot say.
“Then what use is the information? I might as well have never heard it.â€
Solembum blinked, once. There is one other thing I can tell you. It may mean nothing, but
perhaps it can show you the way.
“What? What is it?â€
If you but wait, I will tell you. When I first met you in Teirm, I had a strange feeling that you
ought to have the book Domia abr Wyrda. It took me time to arrange it, but it was I who was
responsible for Jeod giving the book to you. Then the werecat lifted his other paw and, after a
cursory examination, began to lick it.
“Have you gotten any other strange feelings in the past few months?†asked Eragon.
Only the urge to eat a small red mushroom, but it passed quickly enough.
Eragon grunted and bent down to retrieve the book from under his cot, where he kept it
with the rest of his writing supplies. He stared at the large, leather-bound volume before opening
it to a random page. As usual, the thicket of runes within made little sense to him at first
glance. It was only with a concerted effort that he was able to decipher even a few of them:
… which, if Taladorous is to be believed, would mean that the mountains themselves were
the result of a spell. That, of course, is absurd, for …
Eragon growled with frustration and closed the book. “I don’t have time for this. It’s too big,
and I’m too slow of a reader. I’ve already gone through a fair number of chapters, and I’ve
seen nothing having to do with the Rock of Kuthian or the Vault of Souls.â€
Solembum eyed him for a moment. You could ask someone else to read it for you, but if
there is a secret hidden in Domia abr Wyrda, you may be the only one who can see it.
Eragon resisted the desire to curse. Springing up from the stool, he began to pace again.
“Why didn’t you tell me about all this sooner?â€
It didn’t seem important. Either my advice concerning the vault and the rock would be of
help or it wouldn’t, and knowing the origins of that information—or lack thereof—would …
have … changed … nothing!
“But if I had known it had something to do with the Vault of Souls, I would have spent
more time reading it.â€
But we don’t know that it does, said Solembum. His tongue slipped out of his mouth and
passed over the whiskers on each side of his face, smoothing them. The book may have
nothing to do with the Rock of Kuthian or the Vault of Souls. Who can say? Besides, you were
already reading it. Would you really have spent more time with it if I had said that I had a feeling—
and mind you, nothing more—that the book was of some significance to you? Hmm?
“Maybe not … but you still should have told me.â€
The werecat tucked his front paws under his breast and did not answer.
Eragon scowled, gripping the book and feeling as if he wanted to tear it apart. “This can’t
be everything. There has to be some other piece of information that you’ve forgotten.â€
Many, but none, I think, related to this.
“In all your travels around Alagaësia, with Angela and without, you’ve never found anything
that might explain this mystery? Or even just something that might be of use against
Galbatorix.â€
I found you, didn’t I?
“That’s not funny,†growled Eragon. “Blast it, you have to know something more.â€
I do not.
“Think, then! If I can’t find some sort of help against Galbatorix, we’ll lose, Solembum.
We’ll lose, and most of the Varden, including the werecats, will die.â€
Solembum hissed again. What do you expect of me, Eragon? I cannot invent help where
none exists. Read the book.
“We’ll be at Urû’baen before I can finish it. The book might as well not exist.â€
Solembum’s ears flattened again. That is not my fault.
“I don’t care if it is. I just want a way to keep us from ending up dead or enslaved. Think!
You have to know something else!â€
Solembum uttered a low, warbling growl. I do not. And—
“You have to, or we’re doomed!â€
Even as Eragon uttered the words, he saw a change come over the werecat. Solembum’s
ears swiveled until they were upright, his whiskers relaxed, and his gaze softened, losing its
hard-edged brilliance. At the same time, the werecat’s mind grew unusually empty, as if his
consciousness had been stilled or removed.
Eragon froze, uncertain.
Then he felt Solembum say, with thoughts that were as flat and colorless as a pool of water
beneath a wintry, cloud-ridden sky: Chapter forty-seven. Page three. Start with the second
passage thereon.
Solembum’s gaze sharpened, and his ears returned to their previous position. What? he
said with obvious irritation. Why are you gaping at me like that?
“What did you just say?â€
I said that I do not know anything else. And that—
“No, no, the other thing, about the chapter and page.â€
Do not toy with me. I said no such thing.
“You did.â€
Solembum studied him for several seconds. Then, with thoughts that were overly calm, he
said, Tell me exactly what you heard, Dragon Rider.
So, Eragon repeated the words as closely as he could. When he finished, the werecat was
silent for a while. I have no memory of that, he said.
“What do you think it means?â€
It means that we should look and see what’s on page three of chapter forty-seven.
Eragon hesitated, then nodded and began to flip through the pages. As he did, he remembered
the chapter in question; it was the one devoted to the aftermath of the Riders’ secession
from the elves, following the elves’ brief war with the humans. Eragon had read the
beginning of the section, but it had seemed to be nothing more than a dry discussion of treaties
and negotiations, so he had left it for another time.
Soon enough, he arrived at the proper page. Tracing the lines of runes with the tip of his
finger, Eragon slowly read out loud:
… The island is remarkably temperate compared with areas of the mainland at the same
latitude. Summers are often cool and rainy, but then the winters are mild and tend not to assume
the brutal cold of the northern reaches of the Spine, which means that crops could be
grown for a goodly portion of the year. By all accounts, the soil is rich and fertile—the one benefit
of the fire mountains that are known to erupt from time to time and cover the island with
a thick layer of ash—and the forests were full of large game such as the dragons preferred to
hunt, including many species not found elsewhere in Alagaësia.
Eragon paused. “None of this seems relevant.â€
Keep reading.
Frowning, Eragon continued on to the next paragraph:
It was there, in the great cauldron at the center of Vroengard, that the Riders built their farfamed
city, Doru Araeba.
Doru Araeba! The only city in history designed to house dragons as well as elves and humans.
Doru Araeba! A place of magic and learning and ancient mysteries. Doru Araeba! The
very name seems to hum with excitement. Never was there a city like it before, and never
shall there be again, for now it is lost, destroyed—ground to dust by the usurper Galbatorix.
The buildings were constructed in the elvish style—with some influence from human
Riders in later years—but out of stone, not wood; wooden buildings, as must be obvious to
the reader, fare poorly around creatures with razor-sharp claws and the ability to breathe fire.
The most notable feature of Doru Araeba, however, was its enormous scale. Every street was
wide enough for at least two dragons to walk abreast, and with few exceptions, rooms and
doorways were large enough to accommodate dragons of most any size.
As a result, Doru Araeba was a vast, sprawling affair, dotted with buildings of such immense
proportions, even a dwarf would have been impressed. Gardens and fountains were
common throughout the city, on account of the elves’ irrepressible love of nature, and there
were many soaring towers among the Riders’ halls and holds.
Upon the peaks surrounding the city, the Riders placed watchtowers and eyries—to guard
against attack—and more than one dragon and Rider had a well-appointed cave high in the
mountains, where they lived apart from the rest of their order. The older, larger dragons were
especially partial to this arrangement, as they often preferred solitude, and living above the
floor of the cauldron made it easier for them to take flight.
Frustrated, Eragon broke off. The description of Doru Araeba was interesting enough, but
he had read other, more detailed accounts of the Riders’ city during his time in Ellesméra. Nor
did he enjoy having to decipher the cramped runes, a painstaking process even at the best of
times.
“This is pointless,†he said, lowering the book.
Solembum looked as annoyed as Eragon felt. Don’t give up yet. Read another two pages.
If there’s nothing by then, then you can stop.
Eragon took a breath and agreed. He ran his finger down the page until he found his
place, whereupon he began to again pick out the sounds of the words:
The city contained many marvels, from the Singing Fountain of EldimÃrim to the crystal
fortress of Svellhjall to the rookeries of the dragons themselves, but for all their splendor, I believe
that Doru Araeba’s greatest treasure was its library. Not, as one might assume, because
of its imposing structure—although it was indeed imposing—but because over the centuries
the Riders collected one of the most comprehensive stores of knowledge in the whole of the
land. By the time of the Riders’ fall, there were only three libraries that rivaled it—that of Ilirea,
that of Ellesméra, and that of Tronjheim—and none of those three contained as much information
about the workings of magic as did the one in Doru Araeba.
The library was located on the northwestern edge of the city, near the gardens that surrounded
Moraeta’s Spire, also known as the Rock of Kuthian …
Eragon’s voice died in his throat as he stared at the name. After a moment, he began
again, even slower:
… also known as the Rock of Kuthian (see chapter twelve), and not far from the high seat,
where the leaders of the Riders held court when various kings and queens came to petition
them.
A sense of awe and fear came over Eragon. Some person or some thing had arranged for
him to learn this particular piece of information, the same person or thing that had made it
possible for him to find the brightsteel for his sword. The thought was intimidating, and now
that Eragon knew where to go, he was no longer quite so sure that he wanted to.
What, he wondered, lay waiting for them on Vroengard? He was afraid to speculate, lest
he raise hopes that were impossible to fulfill.
Inheritance
QUESTIONS UNANSWERED
ERAGON SEARCHED THROUGH
Domia abr Wyrda until he found the reference to Kuthian in the twelfth chapter. To his disappointment,
all it said was that Kuthian had been one of the first Riders to explore Vroengard
Island.
Afterward, he closed the book and sat staring at it, thumbing a ridge embossed across the
spine. On the cot, Solembum was silent as well.
“Do you think that the Vault of Souls contains spirits?†asked Eragon.
Spirits are not the souls of the dead.
“No, but what else could they be?â€
Solembum rose from where he had been sitting and stretched, a wave of motion moving
through his body from his head to his tail. If you find out, I would be interested to hear what
you discover.
“Do you think Saphira and I should go, then?â€
I cannot tell you what you should do. If this is a trap, then most of my race has been
broken and enslaved without them realizing it, and the Varden might as well surrender now,
because they will never outwit Galbatorix. If not, then this may be an opportunity to find assistance
where we thought none was to be had. I cannot say. You have to decide on your
own whether it is a chance worth taking. As for me, I have had enough of this mystery.
He jumped down from the cot and walked over to the opening of the tent, where he
paused and glanced back at Eragon. There are many strange forces at work in Alagaësia,
Shadeslayer. I have seen things that defy belief: whirlwinds of light spinning in caverns deep
below the ground, men who age backward, stones that speak, and shadows that creep.
Rooms that are bigger on the inside than the outside. … Galbatorix is not the only power in
the world to be reckoned with, and he may not even be the strongest. Choose carefully,
Shadeslayer, and if you choose to go, walk softly.
And then the werecat slipped out of the tent and vanished into the darkness.
Eragon released his breath and leaned back. He knew what he had to do; he had to go to
Vroengard. But he could not make that decision without consulting Saphira.
With a gentle nudge of his mind, he woke her, and once he had assured her that nothing
was amiss, he shared his memories of Solembum’s visit. Her astonishment was as great as
his.
When he finished, she said, I do not like the thought of playing the puppet to whoever has
enchanted the werecats.
Neither do I, but what other choice do we have? If Galbatorix is behind this, then we’ll be
placing ourselves in his hands. But if we stay, then we’ll be doing exactly the same, only when
we arrive at Urû’baen.
The difference is, we would have the Varden and the elves with us.
That’s true.
Silence fell between them for a time. Then Saphira said, I agree. I agree; we should go.
We need longer claws and sharper teeth if we are to best Galbatorix and Shruikan in addition
to Murtagh and Thorn. Besides, Galbatorix expects us to rush straight to Urû’baen in hope of
rescuing Nasuada. And if there is one thing that makes my scales itch, it is doing what our enemies
expect.
Eragon nodded. And if this is a trap?
A soft growl sounded outside the tent. Then we will teach whoever set it to fear our
names, even if it is Galbatorix.
He smiled. For the first time since Nasuada’s abduction, he felt a sense of purposeful direction.
Here was something they could do—a means by which they could influence the unfolding
of events, instead of just sitting by as passive observers. “Right, then,†he muttered.
Arya arrived at his tent mere seconds after he contacted her. Her speed puzzled him until
she explained that she had been keeping watch with Blödhgarm and the other elves, lest Murtagh
and Thorn return.
With her there, Eragon reached out with his mind to Glaedr and coaxed him into joining
their conversation, though the surly dragon was in no mood to talk.
Once the four of them, including Saphira, were all joined by their thoughts, Eragon finally
burst out, I know where the Rock of Kuthian is!
What rock is this? Glaedr rumbled, his tone sour.
The name seems familiar, said Arya, but I cannot place it.
Eragon frowned slightly. Both of them had heard him speak of Solembum’s advice before.
It was not like either of them to forget.
Nevertheless, Eragon repeated the story of his encounter with Solembum in Teirm, and
then he told them about the werecat’s most recent revelations and read them the pertinent
section from the book Domia abr Wyrda.
Arya tucked a strand of hair behind one of her pointed ears. Speaking both with her mind
and her voice, she said, “And what is the name of this place again?â€
“… Moraeta’s Spire, or the Rock of Kuthian,†replied Eragon in the same manner. He hesitated
for a half second, briefly thrown by her question. “It’s a long flight, but—â€
—if Eragon and I leave forthwith—said Saphira.
“—we can travel there and back—â€
—before the Varden arrive at Urû’baen. This—
“—is our only chance to go.â€
We’ll not have the time—
“—to make the trip later on.â€
Where would you be flying to, though? asked Glaedr.
“What … what do you mean?â€
Exactly what I said, the dragon growled, the field of his mind darkening. For all your yammering,
you’ve yet to tell us where this mysterious … thing is located.
“I have, though!†said Eragon, bewildered. “It’s on Vroengard Island!â€
At last, a straightforward answer …
A frown creased Arya’s brow. “But what would you do on Vroengard?â€
“I don’t know!†said Eragon, his temper rising. He debated whether it was worth confronting
Glaedr about his remarks; the dragon seemed to be needling Eragon on purpose. “It depends
on what we find. Once we’re there, we’ll try to open the Rock of Kuthian and discover
whatever secrets it contains. If it’s a trap …†He shrugged. “Then we’ll fight.â€
Arya’s expression grew increasingly troubled. “The Rock of Kuthian … The name seems
weighted with significance, but I cannot say why; it echoes in my mind, like a song I once
knew but have since forgotten.†She shook her head and put her hands to her temples. “Ah,
now it is gone. …†She looked up. “Forgive me, what were we speaking of?â€
“Going to Vroengard,†Eragon said slowly.
“Ah, yes … but for what purpose? You’re needed here, Eragon. In any case, nothing of
value remains on Vroengard.â€
Aye, said Glaedr. It is a dead and abandoned place. After the destruction of Doru Araeba,
the few of us who had escaped returned to search for anything that might be of use, but the
Forsworn had already picked the ruins clean.
Arya nodded. “Whatever put this idea in your head in the first place? I don’t understand
how you could believe deserting the Varden now, when they’re at their most vulnerable, could
possibly be wise. And for what? To fly to the far ends of Alagaësia without cause or reason? I
had thought better of you. … You cannot leave just because you are uncomfortable with your
new station, Eragon.â€
Eragon decoupled his mind from Arya and Glaedr, and signaled to Saphira to do the
same. They don’t remember! … They can’t remember!
It is magic. Deep magic, like the spell that hides the names of the dragons who betrayed
the Riders.
But you haven’t forgotten about the Rock of Kuthian, have you?
Of course not, she said, her mind flashing green with pique. How could I when we are so
closely joined?
A sense of vertigo gripped Eragon as he considered the implications. In order to be effective,
the spell would have to erase the memories of everyone who knew about the rock in the
first place and also the memories of anyone who heard or read about it thereafter. Which
means … the whole of Alagaësia is in the thrall of this enchantment. No one can escape its
reach.
Except for us.
Except for us, he agreed. And the werecats.
And, perhaps, Galbatorix.
Eragon shivered; it felt as if spiders made of ice crystals were crawling up and down his
spine. The size of the deception astounded him and left him feeling small, vulnerable. To
cloud the minds of elves, dwarves, humans, and dragons alike, and without arousing the
slightest hint of suspicion, was a feat so difficult, he doubted it could have been accomplished
by a deliberate application of craft; rather, he believed it could only have been done by instinct,
for such a spell would be far too complicated to put into words.
He had to know who was responsible for manipulating the minds of everyone in
Alagaësia, and why. If it was Galbatorix, then Eragon feared that Solembum was right and the
Varden’s defeat was inevitable.
Do you think this was the work of dragons, as was the Banishing of the Names? he asked.
Saphira was slow to answer. Perhaps. But then, as Solembum said to you, there are
many powers in Alagaësia. Until we go to Vroengard, we won’t know for certain one way or
another.
If ever we do.
Aye.
Eragon ran his fingers through his hair. He suddenly felt exceptionally tired. Why does
everything have to be so hard? he wondered.
Because, said Saphira, everyone wants to eat, but no one wants to be eaten.
He snorted, grimly amused.
Despite the speed with which he and Saphira could exchange thoughts, their conversation
had lasted long enough for Arya and Glaedr to notice.
“Why have you closed your minds to us?†asked Arya. Her gaze flicked toward one wall of
the tent—the wall nearest to where Saphira lay curled in the darkness beyond. “Is something
wrong?â€
You seem perturbed, Glaedr added.
Eragon stifled a humorless chuckle. “Perhaps because I am.†Arya watched with concern
as he went over to the cot and sat on the edge. He let his arms hang limp and heavy between
his legs. He was silent for a moment as he made the shift from the language of his birth to
that of the elves and magic, whereupon he said, “Do you trust Saphira and me?â€
The resulting pause was gratifyingly brief.
“I do,†replied Arya, also in the ancient language.
As do I, Glaedr likewise said.
Shall I, or shall you? Eragon quickly asked Saphira.
You want to tell them, so tell them.
Eragon looked up at Arya. Then, still in the ancient language, he said to both her and
Glaedr, “Solembum has told me the name of a place, a place on Vroengard, where Saphira
and I may find someone or something to help us defeat Galbatorix. However, the name is enchanted.
Every time I say the name, you soon forget it.†A faint expression of shock appeared
on Arya’s face. “Do you believe me?â€
“I believe you,†Arya slowly said.
I believe that you believe what you are saying, Glaedr growled. But that does not necessarily
make it so.
“How else can I prove it? You won’t remember if I tell you the name or share my memories
with you. You could question Solembum, but again, what good would it do?â€
What good? For one, we can prove that you haven’t been tricked or deceived by
something that only appeared to be Solembum. And as for the spell, there may be a way to
demonstrate its existence. Summon the werecat, and then we shall see what can be done.
Will you? Eragon asked Saphira. He thought that the werecat would be more likely to
come if Saphira asked him.
A moment later, he felt her searching with her mind through the camp, and then he
sensed the touch of Solembum’s consciousness against Saphira’s. After she and the werecat
exchanged a brief, wordless communication, Saphira announced, He is on his way.
They waited in silence, Eragon staring down at his hands as he compiled a list of supplies
he would need for the trip to Vroengard.
When Solembum pushed aside the flaps to the tent and entered, Eragon was surprised to
see that he was now in his human form: that of a young boy, dark-eyed and insolent. In his
left hand, the werecat held a leg of roast goose, on which he was gnawing. A ring of grease
coated his lips and chin, and drops of melted fat had splattered his bare chest.
As he chewed on a strip of flesh, Solembum motioned with his sharp, pointed chin toward
the patch of dirt where Glaedr’s heart of hearts lay buried. What is it you want, firebreather?
he asked.
To know if you are who you seem to be! said Glaedr, and the dragon’s consciousness
seemed to surround Solembum’s, pressing inward like piles of black clouds around a brightly
burning but wind-battered flame. The dragon’s strength was immense, and from personal experience,
Eragon knew that few could hope to withstand him.
With a gargled yowl, Solembum spat out his mouthful of meat and sprang backward, as if
he had stepped on a viper. He stood where he was, then, trembling with effort, his sharp teeth
bared, and a look of such fury in his tawny eyes, Eragon placed his hand on the hilt of Brisingr
as a precaution. The flame dimmed but held: a white-hot point of light amid a sea of churning
thunderheads.
After a minute, the storm diminished and the clouds withdrew, although they did not disappear
entirely.
My apologies, werecat, said Glaedr, but I had to know for certain.
Solembum hissed, and the hair on his head fluffed and spiked so that it resembled the
blossom of a thistle. If you still had your body, old one, I would cut off your tail for that.
You, little cat? You could not have done more than scratch me.
Again Solembum hissed, and then he turned on his heel and stalked toward the entrance,
his shoulders hunched close to his ears.
Wait, said Glaedr. Did you tell Eragon about this place on Vroengard, this place of secrets
that none can remember?
The werecat paused, and without turning around, he growled and brandished the goose
leg over his head in an impatient, dismissive gesture. I did.
And did you tell him the page in Domia abr Wyrda wherein he found the location of this
place?
So it seems, but I have no memory of it, and I hope that whatever is on Vroengard singes
your whiskers and burns your paws.
The entrance to the tent made a loud flapping sound as Solembum swatted it aside; then
his small form melted into the shadows, as if he had never existed.
Eragon stood and, with the toe of his boot, pushed the scrap of half-eaten meat out of the
tent.
“You should not have been so rough with him,†said Arya.
I had no other choice, said Glaedr.
“Didn’t you? You could have asked his permission first.â€
And given him the opportunity to prepare? No. It is done; let it be, Arya.
“I cannot. His pride is wounded. You should attempt to placate him. It would be dangerous
to have a werecat as your enemy.â€
It is even more dangerous to have a dragon as your enemy. Let it be, elfling.
Troubled, Eragon exchanged looks with Arya. Glaedr’s tone bothered him—and her as
well, he could see—but Eragon could not decide what to do about it.
Now, Eragon, the golden dragon said, will you allow me to examine the memories of your
conversation with Solembum?
“If you want, but … why? You’ll only end up forgetting.â€
Perhaps. And then again, perhaps not. We shall see. Addressing Arya, Glaedr said, Separate
your mind from ours, and do not allow Eragon’s memories to taint your consciousness.
“As you wish, Glaedr-elda.†As Arya spoke, the music of her thoughts grew ever more distant.
A moment later, the eerie singing faded to silence.
Then Glaedr returned his attention to Eragon. Show me, he commanded.
Ignoring his trepidation, Eragon cast his mind back to when Solembum had first arrived at
the tent, and he carefully recalled everything that had transpired between the two of them
thereafter. Glaedr’s consciousness melded with Eragon’s so that the dragon could relive the
experiences along with him. It was an unsettling sensation; it felt as if he and the dragon were
two images stamped onto the same side of a coin.
When he finished, Glaedr withdrew somewhat from Eragon’s mind and then, to Arya, said,
When I have forgotten, if I do, repeat to me the words “Andumë and FÃronmas at the hill of
sorrows, and their flesh like glass.†This place on Vroengard … I know of it. Or I once did. It
was something of importance, something … The dragon’s thoughts grayed for a second, as if
a layer of mist had been blown over the hills and valleys of his being, obscuring them. Well?
he demanded, regaining his former brusque attitude. Why do we tarry? Eragon, show me
your memories.
“I already have.â€
Even as Glaedr’s mood turned to disbelief, Arya said, “Glaedr, remember: ‘Andumë and
FÃronmas at the hill of sorrows, and their flesh like glass.’â€
How—Glaedr started, and then he growled with such force, Eragon almost expected to
hear the sound out loud. Argh. I hate spells that interfere with one’s memory. They’re the
worst form of magic, always leading to chaos and confusion. Half the time they seem to end
with family members killing one another without realizing it.
What does the phrase you used mean? Saphira asked.
Nothing, except to me and Oromis. But that was the point; no one would know of it unless
I told them.
Arya sighed. “So the spell is real. I suppose you have to go to Vroengard, then. To ignore
something of this importance would be folly. If nothing else, we need to know who the spider
is at the center of this web.â€
I shall go as well, said Glaedr. If someone means to harm you, they may not expect to
fight two dragons instead of one. In any event, you will need a guide. Vroengard has become
a dangerous place since the destruction of the Riders, and I would not have you fall prey to
some forgotten evil.
Eragon hesitated as he noticed a strange yearning in Arya’s gaze, and he realized that
she wanted to accompany them as well. “Saphira will fly faster if she only has to carry one
person,†he said in a quiet voice.
“I know. … Only, I always wanted to visit the home of the Riders.â€
“I’m sure you will. Someday.â€
She nodded. “Someday.â€
Eragon took a moment to marshal his energy and reflect on everything that needed to be
done before he, Saphira, and Glaedr could leave. Then he drew a deep breath and rose from
the cot.
“Captain Garven!†he called. “Will you please join us?â€
Inheritance
DEPARTURE
FIRST, ERAGON HAD Garven, with all secrecy, send one of the Nighthawks to collect
provisions for the trip to Vroengard. Saphira had eaten after the capture of Dras-Leona, but
she had not gorged herself, else she would have been too slow and too heavy to fight if the
need arose, as indeed it had. She was well enough fed, then, to fly to Vroengard without stopping,
but once there, Eragon knew she would have to find food on or around the island, which
worried him.
I can always fly back on an empty stomach, she assured him, but he was not so certain.
Next Eragon sent a runner to bring Jörmundur and Blödhgarm to his tent. Once they arrived,
it took Eragon, Arya, and Saphira another hour to explain the situation to them
and—harder still—to convince them that the trip was necessary. Blödhgarm was the easiest
to win over to their point of view, whereas Jörmundur objected vociferously. Not because he
doubted the veracity of the information from Solembum, nor even because he doubted its importance—
on both those points he accepted Eragon’s word without question—but, as he argued
with increasing vehemence, because it would destroy the Varden if they woke to find not
only that Nasuada had been kidnapped but that Eragon and Saphira had vanished to parts
unknown.
“Furthermore, we don’t dare let Galbatorix think that you’ve left us,†Jörmundur said. “Not
when we’re so close to Urû’baen. He might send Murtagh and Thorn to intercept you. Or he
might take the opportunity to crush the Varden once and for all. We can’t risk it.â€
His concerns, Eragon was forced to acknowledge, were valid.
After much discussion, they finally arrived at a solution: Blödhgarm and the other elves
would create apparitions of both Eragon and Saphira, even as they had created one of
Eragon when he had gone to the Beor Mountains to participate in the election and coronation
of Hrothgar’s successor.
The images would apear to be perfect living, breathing, thinking replicas of Eragon and
Saphira, but their minds would be empty, and if anyone peered into them, the ruse would be
discovered. As a result, the image of Saphira would be unable to speak, and although the
elves could feign speech on the part of Eragon, that too would be better to avoid, lest some
oddity of diction alert those listening that all was not as it seemed. The limitations of the illusions
meant that they would work best at a distance and that the people who had reason to
interact with Eragon and Saphira on a more personal basis—such as the kings Orrin and
Orik—would soon realize that something was amiss.
So Eragon ordered Garven to wake all the Nighthawks and bring them to him as discreetly
as possible. When the whole company was gathered before his tent, Eragon explained to the
motley group of men, dwarves, and Urgals why he and Saphira were leaving, although he
was purposefully vague about the details and he kept their destination a secret. Then he explained
how the elves were going to conceal their absence, and he had the men swear oaths
of secrecy in the ancient language. He trusted them, but one could never be too careful where
Galbatorix and his spies were concerned.
Afterward, Eragon and Arya visited Orrin, Orik, Roran, and the sorceress Trianna. As with
the Nighthawks, they explained the situation and from each of them extracted oaths of
secrecy.
King Orrin, as Eragon expected, proved to be the most intransigent. He expressed outrage
at the prospect of either Eragon or Saphira traveling to Vroengard and railed at length
against the idea. He questioned Eragon’s bravery, questioned the value of Solembum’s information,
and threatened to withdraw his forces from the Varden if Eragon continued to pursue
such a foolish, misguided course. It took over an hour of threats, flattery, and coaxing to
bring him around, and even then, Eragon feared Orrin might go back on his word.
The visits to Orik, Roran, and Trianna went faster, but Eragon and Arya still had to spend
what seemed to Eragon an unreasonable amount of time talking with them. Impatience made
him curt and restless; he wanted to be off, and every minute that passed only increased his
sense of urgency.
As he and Arya went from person to person, Eragon was also aware, through his link with
Saphira, of the elves’ faint, lilting chanting, which underlay everything he heard, like a strip of
cunningly woven fabric hidden beneath the surface of the world.
Saphira had remained at his tent, and the elves were ringed about her, their arms outstretched
and the tips of their fingers touching while they sang. The purpose of their long,
complicated spell was to collect the visual information they would need in order to create an
accurate representation of Saphira. It was difficult enough to imitate the shape of an elf or a
human; a dragon was harder still, especially given the refractive nature of her scales. Even
so, the most complicated part of the illusion, as Blödhgarm had told Eragon, would be reproducing
the effects of Saphira’s weight on her surroundings every time her apparition took off
or landed.
When at last Eragon and Arya had finished making their rounds, night had already given
way to day, and the morning sun hung a handsbreadth above the horizon. By its light, the
damage wrought upon the camp during the attack seemed even greater.
Eragon would have been happy to depart with Saphira and Glaedr then, but Jörmundur insisted
that he address the Varden at least once, properly, as their new leader.
Therefore, soon afterward, once the army was assembled, Eragon found himself standing
in the back of an empty wagon, looking out over a field of upturned faces—some human and
some not—and wishing he were anywhere but there.
Eragon had asked Roran for advice beforehand, and Roran had told him, “Remember,
they’re not your enemies. You have nothing to fear from them. They want to like you. Speak
clearly, speak honestly, and whatever you do, keep your doubts to yourself. That’s the way to
win them over. They’re going to be frightened and dismayed once you tell them about
Nasuada. Give them the reassurance they need, and they’ll follow you through the very gates
of Urû’baen.â€
Despite Roran’s encouragement, Eragon still felt apprehensive before his speech. He had
rarely spoken to large groups before, and never for more than a few lines. As he gazed at the
sun-darkened, battle-worn warriors before him, he decided that he would rather fight a hundred
enemies by himself than have to stand up in public and risk the disapproval of others.
Until the moment he opened his mouth, Eragon was not sure what he was going to say.
Once he started, the words seemed to pour out of their own accord, but he was so tense, he
could not remember much of what he said. The speech passed in a blur; his main impressions
were of heat and sweat, the groans of the warriors when they learned of Nasuada’s
fate, the ragged cheers when he exhorted them to victory, and the general roar from the
crowd when he finished. With relief, he jumped down from the back of the wagon to where
Arya and Orik were waiting next to Saphira.
As he did, his guards formed a circle around the four of them, shielding them from the
crowd and holding back those who wished to speak with him.
“Well done, Eragon!†said Orik, clapping him on the arm.
“Was it?†Eragon asked, feeling dazed.
“You were most eloquent,†said Arya.
Eragon shrugged, embarrassed. It intimidated him to remember that Arya had known most
of the leaders of the Varden, and he could not help but think that Ajihad or his predecessor,
Deynor, would have done a better job with the speech.
Orik pulled on his sleeve. Eragon bent toward the dwarf. In a voice barely loud enough to
be heard over the crowd, Orik said, “I hope that whatever you find is worth the trip, my friend.
Take care you don’t get yourselves killed, eh?â€
“I’ll try not to.â€
To Eragon’s surprise, Orik grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him into a rough embrace.
“May Gûntera watch over you.†As they separated, Orik reached over and slapped the
palm of his hand against Saphira’s side. “And you as well, Saphira. Safe journeys to the both
of you.â€
Saphira responded with a low hum.
Eragon looked over at Arya. He suddenly felt awkward, unable to think of anything but the
most obvious things to say. The beauty of her eyes still captivated him; the effect she had on
him never seemed to lessen.
Then she took his head in her hands, and she kissed him once, formally, on the brow.
Eragon stared at her, dumbstruck.
“Guliä waÃse medh ono, Argetlam.†Luck be with you, Silverhand.
As she released him, he caught her hands in his own. “Nothing bad is going to happen to
us. I won’t let it. Not even if Galbatorix is waiting for us. If I have to, I’ll tear apart mountains
with my bare hands, but I promise, we’re going to make it back safely.â€
Before she could respond, he let go of her hands and climbed onto Saphira’s back. The
crowd began to cheer again as they saw him settle into the saddle. He waved to them, and
they redoubled their efforts, stamping their feet and pounding their shields with the pommels
of their swords.
Eragon saw Blödhgarm and the other elves gathered in a close-knit group, half hidden behind
a nearby pavilion. He nodded to them, and they nodded in return. The plan was simple:
He and Saphira would set off as if they intended to patrol the skies and scout the land
ahead—as they normally did when the army was on the march—but after circling the camp a
few times, Saphira would fly into a cloud, and Eragon would cast a spell that would render her
invisible to those watching from below. Then the elves would create the hollow wraiths that
would take Eragon and Saphira’s place while they continued on with their journey, and it
would be the wraiths that onlookers would see emerge from the cloud. Hopefully, none would
notice the difference.
With practiced ease, Eragon tightened the straps around his legs and checked that the
saddlebags behind him were properly secured. He took special care with the one on his left,
for packed within it—well swaddled with clothes and blankets—was the velvet-lined chest that
contained Glaedr’s precious heart of hearts, his EldunarÃ.
Let us be off, the old dragon said.
To Vroengard! Saphira exclaimed, and the world pitched and plunged around Eragon as
she leaped off the ground, and a rush of air buffeted him as she flapped her massive, batlike
wings, driving them higher and higher into the sky.
Eragon tightened his grip on the neck spike in front of him, lowered his head against the
speed-induced wind, and stared at the polished leather of his saddle. He took a deep breath
and tried to stop worrying about what lay behind them and what lay before them. There was
nothing he could do now but wait—wait and hope that Saphira could fly to Vroengard and
back before the Empire attacked the Varden again; hope that Roran and Arya would be safe;
hope that he might somehow still be able to rescue Nasuada; and hope that going to
Vroengard was the right decision, for the time was fast approaching when he would finally
have to face Galbatorix.
Inheritance
THE TORMENT OF UNCERTAINTY
NASUADA OPENED HER eyes. Tiles covered the dark, vaulted ceiling, and upon the tiles
were painted angular patterns of red, blue, and gold: a complex matrix of lines that trapped
her gaze for a mindless while.
At last she mustered the will to look away.
A steady orange glow emanated from a source somewhere behind her. The glow was just
strong enough to reveal the shape of the octagonal room, but not so bold as to dispel the
shadows that clung like gauze to the corners above and below.
She swallowed and found her throat was dry.
The surface she lay on was cold, smooth, and uncomfortably hard; it felt like stone against
her heels and the pads of her fingers. A chill had crept into her bones, and it was that which
caused her to realize the only thing she wore was the thin white shift she slept in.
Where am I?
The memories returned all at once, without sense or order: an unwelcome cavalcade that
thundered into her mind with a force almost physical in its intensity.
She gasped and tried to sit upright—to bolt, to flee, to fight if she had to—but found she
was unable to move more than a fraction of an inch in any direction. There were padded manacles
around her wrists and ankles, and a thick leather belt held her head firmly against the
slab, preventing her from lifting or turning it.
She strained against her bonds, but they were too strong for her to break.
Letting out her breath, she went limp and stared at the ceiling again. Her pulse hammered
in her ears, like a maddened drumbeat. Heat suffused her body; her cheeks burned, and her
hands and feet felt as if they were filled with molten tallow.
So this is how I die.
For a moment, despair and self-pity bedeviled her. She had barely begun her life, yet now
it was about to end, and in the vilest, most miserable manner possible. What was worse, she
had accomplished none of the things she had hoped to. Not war, not love, not birth, not life.
Her only offspring were battles and corpses and trundling supply trains; stratagems too numerous
to remember; oaths of friendship and fealty now worth less than a mummer’s promise;
and a halting, fractious, all-too-vulnerable army led by a Rider younger than she was herself.
It seemed a poor legacy for the memory of her name. And a memory would be all that remained.
She was the last of her line. When she died, there would be no one left to continue
her family.
The thought pained her, and she berated herself for not having borne children when she
could.
“I’m sorry,†she whispered, seeing the face of her father before her.
Then she disciplined herself and put aside her despair. The only control she had over the
situation was self-control, and she was not about to relinquish it for the dubious pleasure of indulging
her doubts, fears, and regrets. As long as she was the master of her thoughts and
feelings, she was not entirely helpless. It was the smallest of freedoms—that of one’s own
mind—but she was grateful for it, and knowing that it might soon be torn away made her all
the more determined to exercise it.
In any event, she still had one final duty to perform: to resist her interrogation. To that end,
she would need to be in full command of herself. Otherwise, she would break quickly.
She slowed her breathing and concentrated on the regular flow of air through her throat
and nostrils, letting that sensation crowd out all others. When she felt appropriately calm, she
set about deciding what was safe to think about. So many subjects were dangerous—
dangerous to her, dangerous to the Varden, dangerous to their allies, or dangerous to
Eragon and Saphira. She did not review the things she ought to avoid, which might have given
her jailers the information they wanted then and there. Instead, she picked a handful of
thoughts and memories that seemed benign and strove to ignore the rest—strove to convince
herself that everything she was, and had ever been, consisted of only those few elements.
In essence, she attempted to create a new and simpler identity for herself so that, when
asked questions about this or that, she could, with complete honesty, plead ignorance. It was
a dangerous technique; for it to work, she had to believe her own deception, and if she was
ever freed, it might be difficult to reclaim her true personality.
But then, she had no hope of rescue or release. All she dared hope for was to frustrate the
designs of her captors.
Gokukara, give me the strength to endure the trials before me. Watch over your little owlet,
and should I die, carry me safely from this place … carry me safely to the fields of my father.
Her gaze wandered about the tile-covered room as she studied it in greater detail. She
guessed she was in Urû’baen. It was only logical that Murtagh and Thorn would have taken
her there, and it would explain the elvish look of the room; the elves had built much of
Urû’baen, the city they called Ilirea, either before their war with the dragons—long, long
ago—or after the city had become the capital of the Broddring Kingdom and the Riders had
established a formal presence therein.
Or so her father had told her. She remembered nothing of the city herself.
Still, she might be somewhere else entirely: one of Galbatorix’s private estates, perhaps.
And the room might not even exist as she perceived it. A skilled magician could manipulate
everything she saw, felt, heard, and smelled, could distort the world around her in ways she
would never notice.
Whatever happened to her—whatever seemed to happen to her—she would not allow
herself to be tricked. Even if Eragon broke down the door and cut her loose, she would still
believe that it was a ruse of her captors. She dared not trust the evidence of her senses.
The moment Murtagh had taken her from the camp, the world had become a lie, and there
was no telling when the lie would end, if ever it did. The only thing she could be certain of was
that she existed. All else was suspect, even her own thoughts.
After her initial shock subsided, the tedium of waiting began to wear on her. She had no
way to tell time other than her hunger and thirst, and her hunger waxed and waned at seemingly
irregular intervals. She tried marking off the hours by counting numbers, but the practice
bored her, and she always seemed to forget her place once she reached the tens of thousands.
Despite the horrors she was sure awaited her, she wished her captors would hurry up and
show themselves. She shouted for minutes on end, but heard only plaintive echoes in response.
The dull light behind her never wavered, never dimmed; she assumed it was a flameless
lantern similar to those the dwarves made. The glow made it hard to sleep, but eventually exhaustion
overcame her and she dozed off.
The prospect of dreaming terrified her. She was most vulnerable when asleep, and she
feared that her unconscious mind would conjure up the very information she was trying to
keep hidden. She had little choice in the matter, however. Sooner or later, she had to sleep,
and forcing herself to stay awake would only end up making her feel worse.
So she slept. But her rest was fitful and unsatisfying, and she still felt tired when she
woke.
A boom startled her.
Somewhere above and behind her, she heard a latch being lifted, and then the creak of a
door swinging open.
Her pulse quickened. As best she could tell, over a day had passed since she had first regained
consciousness. She was painfully thirsty, her tongue felt swollen and sticky, and her
entire body ached from being confined in one position for so long.
Footsteps descending stairs. Soft-soled boots shuffling against stone. … A pause. Metal
clinked. Keys? Knives? Something worse? … Then the footsteps resumed. Now they were
approaching her. Drawing closer … closer …
A portly man dressed in a gray woolen tunic entered her field of vision, carrying a silver
platter with an assortment of food: cheese, bread, meat, wine, and water. He stooped and
placed the platter by the base of the wall, then turned and walked over to her, his stride short,
quick, and precise. Dainty, almost.
Wheezing slightly, he leaned against the edge of the slab and stared down at her. His
head was like a gourd: bulbous at the top, bulbous at the bottom, and narrow in the middle.
He was clean-shaven and mostly bald, except for a fringe of dark, close-cropped hair that ran
about his skull. The upper part of his forehead was shiny, his fleshy cheeks were ruddy, and
his lips were as gray as his tunic. His eyes were unremarkable: brown and close-set.
He smacked his tongue, and she saw that his teeth met on end, like the jaws of a clamp,
and that they protruded farther than normal from the rest of his face, giving him a slight but
noticeable muzzle.
On his warm, moist breath hung the smell of liver and onions. In her famished condition,
she found the odor nauseating.
She was acutely aware of her state of undress as the man’s gaze roamed over her body.
It made her feel vulnerable, as if she were a toy or a pet laid out for his enjoyment. Anger and
humiliation brought a hot flush to her cheeks.
Determined not to wait for him to make his intentions known, she tried to speak, to ask
him for water, but her throat was too parched; all she could do was croak.
The gray-suited man tutted and, to her astonishment, began to undo her restraints.
The moment she was free, she sat up on the slab, formed a blade with her right hand, and
swung it toward the side of the man’s neck.
He caught her wrist in midair, seemingly without effort. She growled and jabbed at his
eyes with the fingers of her other hand.
Again he caught her wrist. She wrenched back and forth, but his grip was too strong to
break; her wrists might as well have been encased in stone.
Frustrated, she lunged forward and sank her teeth into the man’s right forearm. Hot blood
gushed into her mouth, salty and coppery. She choked but kept biting down even as blood
leaked out from under her lips. Between her teeth and against her tongue, she could feel the
muscles of the man’s forearm flexing like so many trapped snakes trying to escape.
Other than that, he failed to react.
At last she released his arm, drew back her head, and spat his blood onto his face.
Even then the man continued to regard her with the same flat expression, neither blinking
nor showing any sign of pain or anger.
She wrenched at his hands once more, then swung her hips and legs around on the slab
to kick him in the stomach.
Before she could land the blow, he let go of her left wrist and slapped her across the face,
hard.
A white light flashed behind her eyes, and a soundless explosion seemed to erupt around
her. Her head snapped to one side, her teeth clacked together, and pain lanced down her
spine from the base of her skull.
When her sight cleared, she sat glaring at the man, but she made no move to attack him
again. She understood she was at his mercy. … She understood she needed to find
something to cut his throat or stab him through the eye if she was going to overpower him.
He let go of her other wrist and reached into his tunic to retrieve a dull white kerchief. He
dabbed at his face, wiping off every drop of blood and spittle. Then he tied the kerchief
around his injured forearm, using his clamplike teeth to hold one end of the cloth.
She flinched as he reached out and grasped her by the upper arm, his large, thick fingers
encircling her limb. He pulled her off the ash-colored slab, and her legs gave way as she
struck the floor. She hung like a doll from the man’s grip, her arm twisted at an awkward angle
above her head.
He hoisted her onto her feet. This time her legs held. Half supporting her, he guided her
around to a small side door she had been unable to see from where she lay on her back. Next
to it was a short flight of stairs that led to a second, larger door—the same door through which
her jailer had entered. It was closed, but there was a small metal grate in the middle, and
through it she glimpsed a well-lit tapestry hanging against a smooth stone wall.
The man pushed open the side door and escorted her into a narrow privy chamber. To her
relief, he left her there alone. She searched the bare room for anything she could use as a
weapon or a means to escape but, to her disappointment, found only dust, wood shavings,
and, more ominously, dried bloodstains.
So she did what she was expected to do, and when she emerged from the privy chamber,
the sweating, gray-suited man took her arm again and walked her back to the slab.
As they neared it, she began to kick and struggle; she would rather be hit than allow him
to restrain her as before. For all her efforts, however, she could not stop or slow the man. His
limbs were like iron beneath her blows, and even his seemingly soft paunch gave but little
when she struck it.
Handling her as easily as if she were a small child, he lifted her onto the slab, pressed her
shoulders flat against the stone, and then locked the manacles around her wrists and ankles.
Lastly, he pulled the leather belt over her forehead and cinched it down, hard enough to hold
her head in place but not so hard as to cause her pain.
She expected him to go and eat his lunch—or supper, or whatever meal it was—but instead
he picked up the platter, carried it over to her, and offered her a drink of watered wine.
It was difficult to swallow while lying on her back, so she had to quickly sip the liquid from
the silver chalice he pressed to her mouth. The feeling of the diluted wine coursing down her
dry throat was one of cool, soothing relief.
When the chalice was empty, the man put it aside, cut slices of bread and cheese, and
held them out toward her.
“What …,†she said, her voice finally responding to her commands. “What is your name?â€
The man gazed at her without emotion. His bulbous forehead gleamed like polished ivory
in the light of the flameless lantern.
He pushed the bread and cheese toward her.
“Who are you? … Is this Urû’baen? Are you a prisoner like me? We could help each other,
you and I. Galbatorix isn’t all-knowing. Together we could find a way to escape. It may seem
impossible, but it isn’t, I promise.†She continued to speak in a low, calm voice, hoping to say
something that would either gain the man’s sympathy or appeal to his self-interest.
She knew she could be persuasive—long hours of negotiating on the Varden’s behalf had
proven that to her satisfaction—but her words seemed to have no effect on the man. Save for
his breathing, he might as well have been dead as he stood there, bread and cheese extended.
That he was deaf occurred to her, but he had noticed when she tried to ask for water, so
she dismissed the possibility.
She talked until she exhausted every argument and appeal she could think of, and when
she stopped—pausing to find a different approach—the man placed the cheese and bread
against her lips and held it there. Furious, she willed him to take it away, but his hand never
budged, and he continued to stare at her with the same blank, disinterested look.
The nape of her neck prickled as she realized his manner was not an affectation; she
really did mean nothing to him. She would have understood if he hated her, or if he had taken
a perverse pleasure in tormenting her, or if he had been a slave reluctantly carrying out Galbatorix’s
orders, but none of those things seemed true. Rather, he was indifferent, devoid of
even the slightest shred of empathy. He would, she had no doubt, kill her just as readily as he
would tend to her, and with no more concern than one might have for crushing an ant.
Silently cursing the necessity of it, she opened her mouth and allowed him to place the
pieces of bread and cheese on her tongue, despite the urge she felt to bite his fingers.
He fed her. Like a child. By hand, putting each morsel of food into her mouth as carefully
as if it were a hollow orb of glass that might shatter at any sudden movement.
A deep sense of loathing gathered within her. To go from being the leader of the greatest
alliance in the history of Alagaësia to—No, no, none of that existed. She was her father’s
daughter. She had lived in Surda in the dust and the heat, among the echoing calls of the
merchants in the bustling marketplace streets. That was all. She had no reason to be
haughty, no reason to resent her fall.
Nevertheless, she hated the man looming over her. She hated that he insisted on feeding
her when she could have done so herself. She hated that Galbatorix, or whoever was overseeing
her captivity, was trying to strip her of her pride and dignity. And she hated that, to a
degree, they were succeeding.
She was, she decided, going to kill the man. If she could accomplish only one more thing
in her life, she wanted it to be the death of her jailer. Short of escape, nothing else would give
her as much satisfaction. Whatever it takes, I’ll find a way.
The idea pleased her, and she ate the rest of the meal with relish, all the while plotting
how she might arrange the man’s demise.
When she was finished, the man took the tray and left.
She listened to his footsteps recede, to the door opening and closing behind her, to the
snick of the latch snapping shut, and then to the heavy, doom-laden sound of a beam falling
into place across the outside of the door.
Then once again she was alone, with nothing to do but wait and dwell upon the ways of
murder.
For a while, she amused herself by tracing one of the lines painted on the ceiling and attempting
to determine whether it had a beginning or an end. The line she chose was blue; the
color appealed to her because of its associations with the one person whom, above all else,
she dared not think of.
In time, she grew bored with the lines and with her fantasies of revenge, and she closed
her eyes and slipped into an uneasy half sleep, where the hours seemed, with the paradoxical
logic of nightmares, to pass both faster and slower than normal.
When the man in the gray tunic returned, she was almost glad to see him, a reaction for
which she despised herself, considering it a weakness.
She was not sure how long she had been waiting—could not be sure unless someone told
her—but she knew it had been a shorter period than before. Still, the wait had felt interminable,
and she had feared that she was to be left strapped down and isolated—though not ignored,
surely not that—for the same drawn-out stretch. To her disgust, she found herself
grateful that the man was going to visit her more often than she had originally thought. Lying
motionless on a flat piece of stone for so many hours was painful enough, but to be denied
contact with any other living creature—even one as lumpish and abhorrent as her jailer—was
a torture in and of itself and was by far the harder trial to bear.
As the man unlocked her from her restraints, she noted that the wound on his forearm had
been healed; the skin was as smooth and pink as a suckling pig’s.
She refrained from fighting, but on the way to the privy room, she pretended to stumble
and fall, hoping to get near enough to the platter that she might steal the small paring knife
the man used to cut the food. However, the platter proved too far away, and the man was too
heavy for her to drag toward it without alerting him to her intentions. Her ploy having failed,
she forced herself to submit calmly to the rest of the man’s ministrations; she needed to convince
him that she had given up so he would grow complacent and, if she was lucky, careless.
While he fed her, she studied his fingernails. Previously, she had been too angry to pay
them heed, but now that she was calmer, the oddity of them fascinated her.
His nails were thick and highly arched. They were set deep within the flesh, and the white
moons by the cuticles were large and broad. In all, no different from the nails of many of the
men and dwarves she had dealt with.
When had she dealt with them? … She did not remember.
What set his nails apart was the care with which they had been cultivated. And cultivated
seemed the right description to her, as if the nails were rare flowers a gardener had devoted
long hours to tending. The cuticles were neat and trim, with no sign of tears, while the nails
themselves had been cut straight across—not too long, not too short—and the edges
smoothly beveled. The tops of the nails had been polished until they shone like glazed pottery,
and the skin surrounding them looked as if oil or butter had been rubbed into it.
Except for elves, she had never seen a man with such perfect nails.
Elves? She shook off the thought, irritated with herself. She knew no elves.
The nails were an enigma; a strangeness in an otherwise understandable setting; a mystery
that she wanted to solve, even though it was probably futile to try.
She wondered who was responsible for the nails’ exemplary condition. Was it the man
himself? He seemed overly fastidious, and she could not imagine he had a wife or daughter
or servant or anyone else close to him who would lavish so much attention on the caps of his
fingers. Of course, she realized she might be mistaken. Many a battle-scarred veteran—grim,
close-mouthed men whose only loves seemed to be wine, women, and war—had surprised
her with some facet of their character that was at odds with their outward guise: a knack for
wood carving, a tendency to memorize romantic poems, a fondness for hounds, or a fierce
devotion to a family that they kept hidden from the rest of the world. It had been years before
she had learned that Jör—
She cut off the thought before it went any further.
In any event, the question she kept turning over in her mind was a simple one: why? Motivation
was telling, even when such small things as fingernails were concerned.
If the nails were the work of someone else, then they were a labor of either great love or
great fear. But she doubted that was the case; somehow it felt wrong.
If, instead, they were the work of the man himself, then any number of explanations were
possible. Perhaps his nails were a way for him to exert a modicum of control over a life that
was no longer his own. Or perhaps he felt they were the only part of himself that was or could
be attractive. Or perhaps caring for them was merely a nervous tic, a habit that served no other
purpose except to while away the hours.
Whatever the truth might be, the fact remained that someone had cleaned and trimmed
and buffed and oiled his fingernails, and it had not been a casual or inattentive effort.
She continued to ponder the matter while she ate, barely tasting her food. Occasionally,
she glanced up to search the man’s heavy face for one clue or another, but always without
success.
Upon feeding her the last piece of bread, the man pushed himself off the edge of the slab,
picked up the platter, and turned away.
She chewed and swallowed the bread as fast as she could without choking; then, her
voice hoarse and creaky from disuse, she said, “You have nice fingernails. They’re very …
shiny.â€
The man paused in midstep, and his large, ponderous head swiveled toward her. For a
moment, she thought he might strike her again, but then his gray lips slowly split and he
smiled at her, showing both his upper and lower rows of teeth.
She suppressed a shudder; he looked as if he were about to bite the head off a chicken.
Still with the same unsettling expression, the man continued out of her range of sight, and
a few seconds later, she heard the door to her cell open and close.
Her own smile crept across her lips. Pride and vanity were weaknesses that she could exploit.
If there was one thing she was skilled at, it was the ability to bend others to her will. The
man had given her the tiniest of handholds—no more than a fingerhold, really, or rather a fingernail-
hold, as it were—but it was all she needed. Now she could begin to climb.
Inheritance
THE HALL OF THE SOOTHSAYER
THE THIRD TIME the man visited her, Nasuada was sleeping. The sound of the door
banging open caused her to jolt awake, heart pounding.
It took her a few seconds to remember where she was. When she did, she frowned and
blinked, trying to clear her eyes. She wished she could rub them.
Her frown deepened as she looked down her body and saw that there was still a small
damp spot on her shift where a drop of watered wine had fallen during her meal.
Why has he returned so soon?
Her heart sank as the man walked past her carrying a large copper brazier full of charcoal,
which he set upon its legs a few feet away from the slab. Resting in the charcoal were three
long irons.
The time she had dreaded had finally arrived.
She tried to catch his eye, but the man refused to look at her as he took flint and steel
from a pouch on his belt and lit a nest of shredded tinder in the center of the brazier. As
sparks smoldered and spread, the tinder glowed like a ball of red-hot wires. The man bent,
puckered his lips, and blew on the incipient fire, gentle as a mother kissing her child, and the
sparks sprang into lambent flames.
For several minutes, he tended the fire, building a bed of coals several inches thick, the
smoke rising to a grate far above. She watched with morbid fascination, unable to tear her
gaze away, despite what she knew awaited her. Neither he nor she spoke; it was as if they
were both too ashamed of what was about to take place for either to acknowledge it.
He blew on the coals again, then turned as if to approach her.
Don’t give in, she told herself, stiffening.
She clenched her fists and held her breath as the man walked toward her … closer …
closer …
A feather-like touch of wind brushed her face as he strode past her, and she listened to
his footsteps dwindle into silence as he climbed the stairs and left the room.
A faint gasp escaped her as she relaxed slightly. Like lodestones, the bright coals drew
her gaze back toward them. A dull, rust-colored glow was creeping up the iron rods that stuck
out of the brazier.
She wet her mouth and thought how nice a drink of water would be.
One of the coals jumped and split in two, but otherwise the chamber was quiet.
As she lay there, unable to fight or escape, she strove not to think. Thinking would only
weaken her resolve. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen, and no amount of
fear or anxiety could change that.
New footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the chamber: a group of them this time,
some marching in rhythm, some not. Together they created a host of raucous echoes that
made it impossible to determine the number of people approaching. The procession stopped
by the doorway, and she heard voices murmuring, and then two sets of clacking footsteps—
the product of hard-soled riding boots, she guessed—entered the room.
The door closed with a hollow thud.
Down the stairs the footsteps came, steady and deliberate. She saw someone’s arm place
a carved wooden chair at the very edge of her vision.
A man sat in it.
He was large: not fat, but broad-shouldered. A long black cape hung draped around him. It
looked heavy, as if backed with mail. Light from the coals and from the flameless lantern gilded
the edges of his form, but his features remained too dark to make out. Still, the shadows
did nothing to hide the outline of the sharp, pointed crown that rested upon his brow.
Her heart skipped a beat. With a struggle, it resumed its previous rapid tempo.
A second man, this one dressed in a maroon jerkin and leggings—both trimmed with gold
thread—walked over to the brazier and stood with his back to her while he stirred the coals
with one of the iron rods.
One by one, the man in the chair tugged on the fingers of his gauntlets. Then he pulled off
the gloves. Underneath, his hands were the color of tarnished bronze.
When he spoke, his voice was low, rich, and commanding. Any bard who possessed such
a mellifluous instrument would have his name praised throughout the land as a master of
masters. The sound of it caused her skin to prickle; his words seemed to wash over her like
warm waves of water, caressing her, beguiling her, binding her. Listening to him, she realized,
was as perilous as listening to Elva.
“Welcome to Urû’baen, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad,†said the man in the chair.
“Welcome to this, my home, ’neath these ancient, piled rocks. Long has it been since a guest
as distinguished as yourself has graced us with their presence. My energies have been occupied
elsewhere, but I assure you, from now on, I shall not neglect my duties as host.†At the
last, a note of menace crept into his voice, like a claw emerging from its sheath.
She had never seen Galbatorix in person, only heard descriptions and studied drawings,
but the effect the man’s speech had on her was so visceral, so powerful, she had no doubt
that he indeed was the king.
In both his accent as well as his diction, there was something of the other, as if the language
he spoke was not the language he had been raised with. It was a subtle difference, but
impossible to ignore once she noticed. Perhaps, she decided, it was because the language
had changed in the years since he had been born. That seemed the most reasonable explanation,
as his way of speaking reminded her—No, no, it reminded her of nothing.
He leaned forward, and she could feel his gaze boring into her.
“You are younger than I expected. I knew you had but recently come of age, but still, you
are no more than a child. Most seem as children to me these days: prancing, preening, foolhardy
children who know not what is best for them—children who need the guidance of those
who are older and wiser.â€
“Such as yourself?†she said in a scornful tone.
She heard him chuckle. “Would you rather the elves ruled over us? I am the only one of
our race who can hold them at bay. By their reckoning, even our oldest graybeards would be
considered untested youths, unfit for the responsibilities of adulthood.â€
“By their reckoning, so would you.†She did not know where her courage came from, but
she felt strong and defiant. Whether or not the king would punish her for it, she was determined
to speak her mind.
“Ah, but I contain more than my share of years. The memories of hundreds are mine. Life
piled upon life: loves, hates, battles, victories, defeats, lessons learned, mistakes made—all
lie within my mind, whispering their wisdom into my ears. I remember eons. In the whole of recorded
history, there has never been one such as I, not even among the elves.â€
“How is that possible?†she whispered.
He shifted in the chair. “Do not think to pretend with me, Nasuada. I know that Glaedr
gave his heart of hearts to Eragon and Saphira, and that he is there, with the Varden, even
now. You understand whereof I speak.â€
She suppressed a thrill of fear. The fact that Galbatorix was willing to discuss such things
with her—that he was willing to refer, even obliquely, to the source of his power—eliminated
what little hope she still had that he ever intended to release her.
Then he gestured at the room with his gauntlets. “Before we proceed, you should know
something of the history of this place. When the elves first ventured to this part of the world,
they discovered a crevice buried deep within the escarpment that looms over the plains hereabout.
The escarpment they prized as defense against the attacks of dragons, but the crevice
they prized for an entirely different reason. By happenstance, they discovered that the vapors
rising out of the crack in the stone increased the chances that those who slept near it might
catch a glimpse, if however confused, of future events. So, over two and a half thousand
years ago, the elves built this room atop the fissure, and an oracle came to live here for many
hundreds of years, even after the elves abandoned the rest of Ilirea. She sat where you now
lie, and she whiled away the centuries dreaming of all that had been and all that might be.
“In time, the air lost its potency and the oracle and her attendants departed. Who she was
and where she went, none can say for sure. She had no name other than the title Soothsayer,
and certain stories lead me to believe she was neither elf nor dwarf but something else entirely.
Be that as it may, during her residency, this chamber came to be called, as you might
expect, the Hall of the Soothsayer, and so it still is today—only now you are the soothsayer,
Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad.â€
Galbatorix spread his arms. “This is a place for truths to be told … and heard. I will tolerate
no lies within these walls, not even the simplest of falsehoods. Whosoever rests upon that
hard block of stone becomes the latest soothsayer, and though many have found that role difficult
to accept, in the end, none have refused. You will be no different.â€
The legs of the chair scraped over the floor, and then she felt Galbatorix’s breath warm
against her ear. “I know this will be painful for you, Nasuada, painful beyond belief. You will
have to unmake yourself before your pride will allow you to submit. In all the world, nothing is
harder than changing one’s own self. I understand this, for I have reshaped myself on more
than one occasion. However, I will be here to hold your hand and help you through this transition.
You need not take the journey alone. And you may console yourself with the knowledge
that I will never lie to you. None of us shall. Not within this room. Doubt me if you wish, but in
time you will come to believe me. I consider this a hallowed place, and I would no more desecrate
the idea it represents than cut off my own hand. You may ask whatever you want, and
I promise you, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, that we shall answer truthfully. As king of these
lands, I give you my sworn word.â€
She worked her jaw back and forth, trying to decide how to answer. Then, from between
clenched teeth, she said, “I’ll never tell you what you want to know!â€
A slow, deep chuckle filled the room. “You misunderstand; I didn’t have you brought here
because I seek information. There’s nothing you could say that I don’t already know. The
number and disposition of your troops; the state of your provisions; the locations of your supply
trains; the manner in which you plan to lay siege to this citadel; Eragon and Saphira’s duties,
habits, and abilities; the Dauthdaert you acquired in Belatona; even the powers of the
witch-child, Elva, whom you have kept by your side until but recently—all this I know, and
more. Shall I quote the figures to you? … No? Well then. My spies are more numerous and
more highly placed than you imagine, and I have other means of gathering intelligence withal.
You have no secrets from me, Nasuada, none whatsoever; therefore, it is pointless to insist
upon holding your tongue.â€
His words struck her like hammerblows, but she strove not to let them dishearten her.
“Why, then?â€
“Why did I have you brought here? Because, my dear, you have the gift of command, and
that is far deadlier than any spell. Eragon is no threat to me, nor are the elves, but you … you
are dangerous in a way they are not. Without you, the Varden will be like a blinded bull; they
will snort and rage, and they will charge straight ahead, heedless of what lies in their way.
Then I will catch them and, with their folly, destroy them.
“But the destruction of the Varden is not the reason I had you abducted. No, you are here
because you have proven yourself worthy of my attention. You are fierce, tenacious, ambitious,
and intelligent—the very qualities I prize most in my servants. I wish to have you by my
side, Nasuada, as my foremost adviser and as the general of my army as I move to implement
the final stages of the great plan I have been laboring upon for nigh on a century. A new
order is about to descend upon Alagaësia, and I would have you be a part of it. Ever since the
last of the Thirteen died, I have searched for those who were fit to take their place. Until recently,
my efforts have been in vain. Durza was a useful tool, but being a Shade, he had certain
limitations: a lack of concern for his own preservation to name but one. Of all the candidates
I have examined, Murtagh was the first I considered eligible and the first to survive the
tests I set before him. You shall be the next, I am sure. And Eragon, the third.â€
Horror crept through her as she listened to him. What he was proposing was far worse
than she had envisioned.
The maroon-clad man at the brazier startled her by shoving one of the iron rods into the
coals with such force, the tip banged against the copper bowl underneath.
Galbatorix continued speaking: “Should you live, you shall have a chance to accomplish
more than you ever could with the Varden. Think of it! In my service, you could help bring
peace to the whole of Alagaësia, and you would be my chief architect for accomplishing these
changes.â€
“I would rather let a thousand vipers bite me before I would agree to serve you.†And she
spat into the air.
His chuckle echoed throughout the room once more: the sound of a man who feared nothing,
not even death. “We shall see.â€
She flinched as she felt a finger touch the inside of her elbow. It slowly traced a circle,
then slid down to the first of her scars on her forearm and paused atop the ridge of flesh,
warm against her skin. The finger tapped three times before proceeding to the next few scars,
then back again, running over them like a washboard.
“You have defeated an opponent in the Trial of the Long Knives,†said Galbatorix, “and
with more cuts than any have endured in recent memory. That means both that you are exceptionally
strong-willed and that you are able to suspend the functioning of your imagination—
for it is an overactive imagination that turns men into cowards, not a surfeit of fear, as
most believe. However, neither of these traits will be of help to you now. On the contrary, they
are a hindrance. Everyone has a limit, whether physical or mental. The only question is how
long it takes to reach that point. And you will reach it, I promise you. Your strength may delay
the moment, but it cannot avert it. Nor will your wards avail you while you are within my
power. Why, then, should you suffer needlessly? No one questions your courage; you have
already demonstrated it to all the world. Give in now. There is no shame in accepting the inevitable.
To continue would be to subject yourself to an array of torments for no other reason but
to appease your sense of duty. Let your duty be appeased now, and give me your oath of
fealty in the ancient language, and ere the hour is out, you will have a dozen servants to command,
robes of silk and damask to wear, a set of chambers to live in, and a place at my table
when we dine.â€
He paused then, waiting for her answer, but she stared at the lines painted on the ceiling
and refused to speak.
On her arm, the finger continued its exploration, moving from her scars to the hollow of
her wrist, where it rested heavily upon a vein.
“Very well. As you wish.†The pressure on her wrist vanished. “Murtagh, come, show yourself.
You’re being impolite to our guest.â€
Ah, not him too, she thought, suddenly feeling a great sadness.
At the brazier, the man in red slowly turned, and though he wore a silver mask over the
upper half of his face, she saw it was indeed Murtagh. His eyes were nearly lost in shadows,
and his mouth and jaw were fixed in a grim expression.
“Murtagh was somewhat reluctant when he first entered my service, but he has since
proven to be a most apt student. He has his father’s talents. Isn’t that so?â€
“Yes, sir,†said Murtagh, his voice rough.
“He surprised me when he killed old King Hrothgar on the Burning Plains. I didn’t expect
him to turn on his former friends with such eagerness, but then, our Murtagh is full of rage and
bloodlust, he is. He would tear out the throat of a Kull with his bare hands if I gave him the
chance, and I have. Nothing pleases you so much as killing, now does it?â€
The muscles in Murtagh’s neck tensed. “No, sir.â€
Galbatorix laughed softly. “Murtagh Kingkiller … ’Tis a fine name, a name fit for a legend,
but not one you should seek to earn again, except at my direction.†Then to her: “Until now I
have neglected his instruction in the subtle arts of persuasion, which is why I brought him
here with me today. He has some experience as the object of such arts, but never as the
practitioner, and it is high time he learns to master them. And what better way to learn than
here, with you? It was Murtagh, after all, who convinced me that you were worthy of joining
my newest generation of disciples.â€
A strange sense of betrayal crept over her. Despite what had transpired, she had thought
better of Murtagh. She searched his face for an explanation, but he stood stiff as a guard on
watch and kept his gaze averted; she could glean nothing from his expression.
Then the king motioned toward the brazier and, in a conversational tone of voice, said,
“Take up an iron.â€
Murtagh’s hands curled into fists. Other than that, he did not move.
A word rang in Nasuada’s ears, like the clap of a great bell. The very warp and weft of the
world seemed to vibrate at the sound, as if a giant had plucked the threads of reality and set
them a-quivering. For a moment, she felt as if she were falling, and the air before her
shimmered like water. Despite its power, she could not remember the letters that made up the
word nor even what language it belonged to, for the word passed clean through her mind,
leaving behind only the memory of its effects.
Murtagh shuddered; then he twisted, grasped one of the iron rods, and pulled it from the
brazier with a halting motion. Sparks sprayed into the air as the iron came free of the coals,
and several glittering embers fell spiraling toward the floor like pine seeds from their cones.
The end of the rod glowed a bright, pale yellow that, even as she watched, darkened to a
ruddy orange. The light from the hot metal reflected off Murtagh’s polished half mask, giving
him a grotesque, inhuman appearance. She saw herself reflected in the mask as well, her
form distorted into a crabbed torso with spindly legs that dwindled away into thin black lines
along the curve of Murtagh’s cheek.
Futile as it was, she could not help but pull against her restraints as he advanced toward
her.
“I don’t understand,†she said to Galbatorix with feigned calm. “Aren’t you going to use
your mind against me?†Not that she wanted him to, but she would rather defend herself from
an attack on her consciousness than withstand the pain of the iron.
“There will be time for that later, if need be,†said Galbatorix. “For now, I am curious to discover
how brave you really are, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad. Besides, I would prefer not to
seize control of your mind and force you to swear fealty to me. Instead, I want you to make
this decision of your own free will and while still in possession of your faculties.â€
“Why?†she croaked.
“Because it pleases me. Now, for the last time, will you submit?â€
“Never.â€
“So be it. Murtagh?â€
The rod descended toward her, the tip like a giant, sparkling ruby.
They had given her nothing to bite on, so she had no choice but to scream, and the eightsided
chamber reverberated with the sounds of her agony until her voice gave out and an allconsuming
darkness enveloped her in its folds.
Inheritance
ON THE WINGS OF A DRAGON
ERAGON LIFTED HIS head, took a deep breath, and felt a portion of his worries recede.
Riding a dragon was far from restful, but being so close to Saphira was calming for both
him and her. The simple pleasure of physical contact comforted them in a way few things did.
Also, the constant sound and motion of her flight helped distract him from the black thoughts
that had been dogging him.
Despite the urgency of their trip and the precarious nature of their circumstances in general,
Eragon was glad to be away from the Varden. The recent bloodshed had left him feeling
as if he was no longer quite himself.
Ever since he had rejoined the Varden at Feinster, he had spent the bulk of his time fighting
or waiting to fight, and the strain was beginning to wear on him, especially after the violence
and horror of Dras-Leona. On the Varden’s behalf, he had killed hundreds of soldiers—
few of whom had stood even the slightest chance of harming him—and though his actions
had been justified, the memories troubled him. He did not want every fight to be desperate
and every opponent to be his equal or his better—far from it—but at the same time, the
easy slaughter of so many made him feel more like a butcher than a warrior. Death, he had
come to believe, was a corrosive thing, and the more he was around it, the more it gnawed
away at who he was.
However, being alone with Saphira—and Glaedr, although the golden dragon had kept to
himself since their departure—helped Eragon regain a sense of normalcy. He felt most comfortable
alone or in small groups, and he preferred not to spend time in a town or a city or
even a camp like the Varden’s. Unlike the majority of people, he did not hate or fear the wilderness;
as harsh as the empty lands were, they possessed a grace and a beauty that no artifice
could compete with and that he found restorative.
So he let Saphira’s flying distract him, and for the better part of the day, he did nothing
more important than watch the landscape slide past.
From the Varden’s camp by the banks of Leona Lake, Saphira set out across the broad
expanse of water, angling northwest and climbing so high that Eragon had to use a spell to
shield himself from the cold.
The lake appeared patchy: shining and sparkling in areas where the angle of the waves
reflected the sunlight toward Saphira, dull and gray where it did not. Eragon never tired of
staring at the constantly changing patterns of light; nothing else in the world was quite like it.
Fisher hawks, cranes, geese, ducks, starlings, and other birds often flew by underneath
them. Most ignored Saphira, but a few of the hawks spiraled upward and accompanied her for
a short while, seeming more curious than frightened. Two were even so bold as to swerve in
front of her, mere feet from her long, sharp teeth.
In many ways, the fierce, hook-clawed, yellow-beaked raptors reminded Eragon of
Saphira herself, an observation that pleased her, for she admired the hawks as well, though
not so much for their appearance as for their hunting prowess.
The shore behind them gradually faded to a hazy purple line, then vanished altogether.
For over half an hour, they saw only birds and clouds in the sky and the vast sheet of windhammered
water that covered the surface of the earth.
Then, ahead and to their left, the jagged gray outline of the Spine began to appear along
the horizon, a welcome sight to Eragon. Although these were not the mountains of his childhood,
they still belonged to the same range, and seeing them, he felt not quite so far from his
old home.
The mountains grew in size until the stony, snowcapped peaks loomed before them like
the broken battlements of a castle wall. Down their dark, green-covered flanks, dozens of
white streams tumbled, wending their way through the creases in the land until they joined
with the great lake that lay pressed against their foothills. A half-dozen villages sat upon the
shore or close thereby, but on account of Eragon’s magic, the people below remained oblivious
to Saphira’s presence as she sailed overhead.
As he looked at the villages, it struck Eragon just how small and isolated they were and, in
hindsight, how small and isolated Carvahall had been as well. Compared to the great cities he
had visited, the villages were little more than clusters of hovels, barely fit for even the meanest
of paupers. Many of the men and women within them, he knew, had never traveled more
than a few miles from their birthplace and would live their whole lives in a world bound by the
limits of their sight.
What a blinkered existence, he thought.
And yet, he wondered if it was perhaps better to remain in one place and learn all you
could about it rather than to constantly roam across the land. Was a broad but shallow education
superior to one that was narrow but deep?
He was not sure. He remembered Oromis once telling him that the whole of the world
could be deduced from the smallest grain of sand, if one studied it closely enough.
The Spine was only a fraction of the height of the Beor Mountains, yet the slab-sided
peaks still towered a thousand feet or more above Saphira as she threaded her way between
them, following the shadow-filled gorges and valleys that split the range. Now and then, she
had to soar upward to clear a bare, snowy pass, and when she did and Eragon’s range of
view widened, he thought the mountains looked like so many molars erupting from the brown
gums of the earth.
As Saphira glided over a particularly deep valley, he saw at the bottom a glade with a ribbony
stream wandering across the field of grass. And along the edges of the glade, he
glimpsed what he thought might have been houses—or perhaps tents; it was hard to
tell—hidden under the eaves of the heavy-boughed spruce trees that populated the flanks of
the neighboring mountains. A single spot of firelight shone through a gap in the branches, like
a tiny chip of gold embedded within the layers of black needles, and he thought he spied a
lone figure lumbering away from the stream. The figure appeared strangely bulky, and its
head seemed too large for its body.
I think that was an Urgal.
Where? Saphira asked, and he sensed her curiosity.
In the clearing behind us. He shared the memory with her. I wish we had the time to go
back and find out. I’d like to see how they live.
She snorted. Hot smoke streamed out of her nostrils, then rolled down her neck and over
him. They might not take kindly to a dragon and Rider landing among them without warning.
He coughed and blinked as his eyes watered. Do you mind?
She did not answer, but the line of smoke trailing from her nostrils ceased, and the air
around him soon cleared.
Not long afterward, the shape of the mountains began to look familiar to Eragon, and then
a large rift opened up before Saphira and he realized they were flying across the pass that led
to Teirm—the same pass he and Brom had twice ridden through on horseback. It was much
as he remembered it: the western branch of the Toark River still flowed fast and strong toward
the distant sea, the surface of the water streaked with white mare’s tails where boulders interrupted
its course. The crude road he and Brom had followed by the side of the river was still a
pale, dusty line barely wider than a deer trail. He even thought he recognized a clump of trees
where they had stopped to eat.
Saphira turned westward and proceeded down the river until the mountains dropped away
to lush, rain-soaked fields, whereupon she adjusted her course to a more northerly direction.
Eragon did not question her decision; she never seemed to lose her bearing, not even on a
starless night or when deep underground in Farthen Dûr.
The sun was close to the horizon when they flew out of the Spine. As dusk settled over
the land, Eragon occupied himself by trying to devise ways to trap, kill, or fool Galbatorix.
After a time, Glaedr emerged from his self-imposed isolation and joined him in his efforts.
They spent an hour or so discussing various strategies, and then they practiced attacking and
defending each other with their minds. Saphira participated in the exercise as well, but with
limited success, as flying made it difficult for her to concentrate on anything else.
Later, Eragon stared at the cold white stars for a while. Then he asked Glaedr, Could the
Vault of Souls contain Eldunarà that the Riders hid from Galbatorix?
No, said Glaedr without hesitation. It’s impossible. Oromis and I would have known if Vrael
had sanctioned such a plan. And if any Eldunarà had been left on Vroengard, we would have
found them when we returned to search the island. It’s not so easy to hide a living creature as
you seem to think.
Why not?
If a hedgehog rolls into a ball, that doesn’t mean that he becomes invisible, now does it?
Minds are no different. You can shield your thoughts from others, but your existence is still
apparent to anyone who searches the area.
Surely with a spell you could—
If a spell had tampered with our senses, we would have known, for we had wards to prevent
that from happening.
So, no EldunarÃ, Eragon concluded glumly.
Unfortunately not.
They flew on in silence as the waxing three-quarter moon rose above the jagged peaks of
the Spine. By its light, the land looked as if it were made out of pewter, and Eragon amused
himself by imagining that it was an immense sculpture the dwarves had carved and stored
within a cave as large as Alagaësia itself.
Eragon could feel the pleasure Glaedr took in their flight. Like Eragon and Saphira, the old
dragon seemed to welcome the opportunity to leave behind their concerns on the ground, if
even only for a short while, and to soar freely through the sky.
It was Saphira who spoke next. Between the slow, heavy flaps of her wings, she said to
Glaedr, Tell us a story, Ebrithil.
What manner of story would you hear?
The tale of how you and Oromis were captured by the Forsworn, and how you then escaped.
At this, Eragon’s interest increased. He had always been curious about the matter himself,
but he had never worked up the courage to ask Oromis.
Glaedr was quiet for a span, then said, When Galbatorix and Morzan returned from the
wilds and began their campaign against our order, we did not at first realize the severity of the
threat. We were concerned, of course, but no more than if we had discovered that a Shade
was stalking the land. Galbatorix was not the first Rider to go mad, although he was the first
to have acquired a disciple such as Morzan. That alone should have warned us of the danger
we faced, but the truth was only apparent in hindsight.
At the time, we failed to consider that Galbatorix might have gathered other followers or
that he would even attempt such a thing. It seemed absurd that any of our brethren could
prove susceptible to Galbatorix’s poisonous whisperings. Morzan was still a novice; his weakness
was understandable. But those who were already Riders in full? We never questioned
their loyalties. For only when they were tempted did they reveal the extent to which their spite
and weaknesses had corrupted them. Some wanted revenge for old hurts; others believed
that, by virtue of our power, dragons and Riders deserved to rule over the whole of Alagaësia;
and others, I am afraid to say, simply enjoyed the chance to tear down what was and indulge
themselves however they wanted.
The old dragon paused, and Eragon sensed ancient hates and sorrows shading his mind.
Then Glaedr continued: Events at that point were … confusing. Little was known, and what
reports we received were so larded with rumors and speculation as to be useless. Oromis and
I began to suspect that something far worse was afoot than most realized. We tried to convince
several of the older dragons and Riders, but they disagreed and dismissed our concerns.
Fools they were not, but centuries of peace had clouded their vision, and they were unable
to see that the world was shifting around us.
Frustrated with the lack of information, Oromis and I left Ilirea to discover what we could
for ourselves. We brought two younger Riders with us, both elves and accomplished warriors,
who had recently returned from scouting the northern reaches of the Spine. It was partly at
their urging that we ventured forth on our expedition. Their names you might recognize, for
they were Kialandà and Formora.
“Ah,†said Eragon, suddenly understanding.
Yes. After a day and a half of traveling, we stopped at Edur Naroch, a watchtower built of
old to stand guard over Silverwood Forest. Unbeknownst to us, Kialandà and Formora had visited
the tower beforehand and slain the three elven rangers stationed there. Then they had
placed a trap upon the stones that ringed the tower, a trap that caught us the moment my
claws touched the grass upon the knoll. It was a clever spell; Galbatorix had taught it to them
himself. We had no defense against it, for it caused us no harm, only held us and slowed us,
like honey poured over our bodies and minds. While we were thus snared, minutes passed as
seconds. KialandÃ, Formora, and their dragons flitted around us faster than hummingbirds;
they appeared as no more than dark blurs at the edges of our vision.
When they were ready, they released us. They had cast dozens of spells—spells to bind
us in place, spells to blind us, and spells to prevent Oromis from speaking, so as to make it
more difficult for him to cast spells. Again, their magic did not hurt us, and thus we had no defense
against it. … The moment we could, we attacked KialandÃ, Formora, and their dragons
with our minds, and they us, and for hours thereafter, we strove against them. The experience
was … not pleasant. They were weaker and less skilled than Oromis and I, but there were
two of them for each of us, and they had with them the heart of hearts of a dragon named
Agaravel—whose Rider they had slain—and her strength added to their own. As a result, we
were hard-pressed to defend ourselves. Their intent, we discovered, was to force us to help
Galbatorix and the Forsworn enter Ilirea unnoticed, so that they might catch the Riders by surprise
and capture the Eldunarà who were then living in the city.
“How did you escape?†asked Eragon.
In time, it became clear that we would not be able to defeat them. So, Oromis decided to
risk using magic in an attempt to free us, even though he knew it would provoke Kialandà and
Formora into attacking us with magic in return. It was a desperate ploy, but it was the only
choice we had.
At a certain point, without knowing of Oromis’s plans, I struck back at our attackers, seeking
to hurt them. Oromis had been waiting for just such a moment. He had long known the
Rider who had instructed Kialandà and Formora in the ways of magic, and he was well familiar
with Galbatorix’s twisted reasoning. From that knowledge, he was able to guess at how Kialand
and Formora had worded their spells, and where the flaws in their enchantments were
likely to lie.
Oromis had only seconds to act; the moment he began to use magic, Kialandà and Formora
realized what he was about, panicked, and began to cast their own spells. It took
Oromis three tries to break our bonds. How exactly he did it, I cannot say. I doubt whether he
really understood it himself. Most simply, he shifted us a finger’s-breadth away from where we
had been standing.
Like how Arya sent my egg from Du Weldenvarden to the Spine? asked Saphira.
Yes, and no, Glaedr replied. Yes, he transported us from one place to another without
moving us through the intervening space. But he did not just shift our position, he also shifted
the very substance of our flesh, rearranged it so that we were no longer what we once were.
Many of the smallest parts of our bodies can be exchanged for one another without ill effect,
and so he did with every muscle, bone, and organ.
Eragon frowned. Such a spell was a feat of the highest order, a wonder of magical dexterity
that few in history could have hoped to carry out. Still, as impressed as Eragon was, he
could not help but ask, “How could that have worked, though? You would still be the same
person as before.â€
You would, and yet you would not. The difference between who we had been and who we
then were was slight, but it was enough to render useless the enchantments Kialandà and
Formora had woven about us.
What of the spells they cast once they noticed what Oromis was doing? asked Saphira.
An image came to Eragon of Glaedr ruffling his wings, as if he were tired of sitting in one
position for so long. The first spell, Formora’s, was meant to kill us, but our wards stopped it.
The second, which was from Kialandà … that was a different matter. It was a spell KialandÃ
had learned from Galbatorix, and he from the spirits who possessed Durza. This I know, for I
was in contact with Kialand۪̉s mind even when he wrought his enchantment. It was a clever,
fiendish spell, the purpose of which was to prevent Oromis from touching and manipulating
the flow of energy around him, and thereby to prevent him from using magic.
“Did Kialandà do the same to you?â€
He would have, but he feared it would either kill me or sever my connection with my heart
of hearts and thus create two independent versions of me that they would then have to subdue.
Even more than elves, dragons depend on magic for our existence; without it, we would
soon die.
Eragon could sense Saphira’s curiosity was aroused. Has that ever happened? Has the
connection between a dragon and the dragon’s Eldunarà ever been severed while the
dragon’s body was still alive?
It has, but that is a tale for another time.
Saphira subsided, but Eragon could tell that she intended to raise the question again at
the soonest opportunity.
“But KialandÃ’s spell didn’t stop Oromis from being able to use magic, did it?â€
Not entirely. It was supposed to, but Kialandà cast the spell even as Oromis shifted us
from place to place, and so its effect was somewhat lessened. Still, it kept him from working
all but the smallest of magics, and as you know, the spell remained with him for the rest of his
life, despite the efforts of our wisest healers.
“Why didn’t his wards protect him?â€
Glaedr seemed to sigh. That is a mystery. No one had done such a thing before, Eragon,
and of those still living, only Galbatorix now knows the secret of it. The spell was bound to
Oromis’s mind, but it may not have affected him directly. Instead, it may have worked upon
the energy around him or upon his link to the same. The elves have long studied magic, but
even they do not fully understand how the material and immaterial worlds interact. It is a
riddle that will likely never be solved. However, it seems reasonable to assume that the spirits
know more than we about both the material and the immaterial, considering that they are the
embodiment of the second and that they occupy the first when in the form of a Shade.
Whatever the truth may be, the outcome was this: Oromis cast his spell, and he freed us,
but the effort was too much for him, and a fit came over him, the first of many. Never again
was he able to cast such a powerful spell, and ever after, he suffered a weakness of the flesh
that would have killed him if not for his skill with magic. The weakness was already in him
when Kialandà and Formora captured us, but when he shifted us and reshuffled the parts of
our bodies, he brought it to the fore. Otherwise, the malady might have lain dormant for many
more years.
Oromis fell to the ground, as helpless as a hatchling, even as Formora and her dragon, an
ugly brown thing, ran at us, the others close behind. I leaped over Oromis, and I attacked. If
they had realized he was crippled, they would have taken advantage of his condition to slip into
his mind and make it their own. I had to distract them until Oromis recovered. … I have
never fought harder than I did that day. There were four of them arrayed against me, five if
you include Agaravel in the tally. Both of my kin, the brown and Kialand۪̉s purple, were smaller
than me, but their teeth were sharp and their claws were fast. Still, my rage gave me a
strength greater than normal, and I dealt grave wounds to them both. Kialandà was foolish
enough to come within my reach, and I grasped him with my talons and threw him at his own
dragon. Glaedr made a sound of amusement. His magic did not protect him against that. One
of the spikes on the purple’s back impaled him, and I might have killed him then and there
had not the brown forced me to retreat.
We must have fought for almost five minutes before I heard Oromis shout that we must
flee. I kicked up dirt in the faces of my enemies, then returned to Oromis and grasped him in
my right forepaw and took flight from Edur Naroch. Kialandà and his dragon could not follow,
but Formora and the brown could and did.
They caught us less than a mile from the watchtower. We closed several times, and then
the brown flew underneath me, and I saw Formora about to strike at my right leg with her
sword. She was trying to force me to drop Oromis, I think, or perhaps she wanted to kill him. I
twisted to evade the blow, and instead of my right leg, her sword struck my left, cutting it off.
The memory that passed through Glaedr’s mind was that of a hard, cold, pinching sensation,
as if Formora’s blade had been forged of ice, not steel. The feeling made Eragon
queasy. He swallowed and tightened his grip on the front of the saddle, grateful that Saphira
was safe.
It hurt less than you might imagine, but I knew that I could not continue to fight, so I turned
and raced toward Ilirea as fast as my wings could carry me. In a way, Formora’s victory
worked against her, for without the burden of my leg, I was able to outdistance the brown and
thus escape.
Oromis was able to stop the bleeding, but no more, and he was too weak to contact Vrael
or the other elder Riders and warn them of Galbatorix’s plans. Once Kialandà and Formora reported
to him, we knew that Galbatorix would attack Ilirea soon thereafter. If he waited, it
would only give us time to fortify, and strong as he was, surprise was still Galbatorix’s
greatest weapon in those days.
When we arrived at Ilirea, we were dismayed to find that few of our order were still there;
in our absence, more had left to search for Galbatorix or to consult with Vrael in person on
Vroengard. We convinced those who remained of the danger, and we had them warn Vrael
and the other elder dragons and Riders. They were loath to believe that Galbatorix had the
forces needed to attack Ilirea—or that he would dare do such a thing—but in the end, we
were able to make them see the truth of the matter. As a result, they decided that all of the Eldunar
in Alagaësia should be taken to Vroengard for safekeeping.
It seemed a prudent measure, but we should have sent them to Ellesméra instead. If nothing
else, we should have left the Eldunarà that were already in Du Weldenvarden where they
were. At least then some of them would have remained free of Galbatorix. Alas, none of us
thought that they would be safer among the elves than on Vroengard, at the very center of our
order.
Vrael ordered every dragon and Rider who was within a few days journey of Ilirea to hurry
to the aid of the city, but Oromis and I feared they would be too late. Nor were we in any state
to help defend Ilirea. So we gathered what supplies we needed, and with our two remaining
students—Brom and the dragon who is your namesake, Saphira—we left the city that very
night. You have seen, I think, the fairth Oromis made as we departed.
Eragon nodded absently as he remembered the image of the beautiful, tower-filled city
clustered about the base of an escarpment and lit by a rising harvest moon.
And that is how it came to be that we were not in Ilirea when Galbatorix and the Forsworn
attacked a few hours later. And it is also why we were not at Vroengard when the oathbreakers
defeated the combined might of all our forces and sacked Doru Araeba. From Ilirea,
we went to Du Weldenvarden in the hope that the elven healers might be able to cure
Oromis’s ailment and restore his ability to use magic. When they could not, we decided to remain
where we were, for it seemed safer than flying all the way to Vroengard when both of us
were hampered by our injuries and we might be ambushed at any point along the journey.
Brom and Saphira did not stay with us, though. Despite our advice to the contrary, they
went to join the fight, and it was in that fighting that your namesake died, Saphira. … And now
you know how the Forsworn captured us and how we escaped.
After a moment, Saphira said, Thank you for the story, Ebrithil.
You are welcome, Bjartskular, but never ask it of me again.
When the moon was nearing its zenith, Eragon saw a nest of dim orange lights floating in
the darkness. It took him a moment to realize they were the torches and lanterns of Teirm,
many miles away. And, high above the other lights, a bright yellow spot appeared for a
second, like a great eye glaring at him; then it vanished and reappeared, flashing on and off in
a never-changing cycle, as if the eye were blinking.
The lighthouse at Teirm is lit, he said to both Saphira and Glaedr.
Then a storm is brewing, said Glaedr.
Saphira’s flapping ceased, and Eragon felt her tip forward and begin a long, slow glide toward
the ground.
A half hour elapsed before she landed. By then, Teirm was a faint glow to the south, and
the beam from the lighthouse was no brighter than a star.
Saphira alit on an empty beach strewn with twisted driftwood. By the light of the moon, the
hard, flat strand appeared almost white, while the waves that crashed into it were gray and
black and seemed angry, as if the ocean were trying to devour the land with each breaker it
sent forth.
Eragon unbuckled the straps around his legs, then slid off Saphira, grateful for the opportunity
to stretch his muscles. He noted the smell of brine as he sprinted down the strand toward
a large chunk of driftwood, his cloak flapping behind him. At the piece of wood, he spun
around and sprinted back to Saphira.
She sat where he had left her, staring out to sea. He paused, wondering if she was going
to speak—for he could feel a great strain within her—but when she remained silent, he turned
on his heel and again sprinted to the driftwood. She would talk when she was ready.
Back and forth Eragon ran, until he was warm all over and his legs felt wobbly.
And yet the whole time Saphira kept her gaze fixed on some point in the distance.
As Eragon threw himself down on a patch of sedge next to her, Glaedr said, It would be
foolish to try.
Eragon cocked his head, unsure to whom the dragon was speaking.
I know I can do it, said Saphira.
You have never before been to Vroengard, said Glaedr. And if there is a storm, it might
drive you far out to sea, or worse. More than one dragon has perished because of overweening
confidence. The wind is not your friend, Saphira. It can help you, but it can also destroy
you.
I am not a hatchling to be instructed about the wind!
No, but you are still young, and I do not think you are ready for this.
The other way would take too long!
Perhaps, but better to get there safely than not at all.
“What are you talking about?†Eragon asked.
The sand under Saphira’s front feet made a gritty, rustling sound as she flexed her claws,
sinking them deep into the earth.
We have a choice to make, said Glaedr. From here, Saphira can either fly straight to
Vroengard or follow the coastline north until she reaches the point on the mainland closest to
the island and then—only then—turn west and cross the sea.
Which path would be faster? Eragon asked, although he had already guessed the answer.
Flying straight there, said Saphira.
But if she does, then she would be over the water the whole time.
Saphira bristled. It’s no farther than it was from the Varden to here. Or am I wrong?
You’re more tired now, and if there is a storm—
Then I’ll fly around it! she said, and huffed, releasing a spike of blue and yellow flame from
her nostrils.
The flame branded itself into Eragon’s vision, leaving behind a flashing afterimage. “Ah!
Now I can’t see.†He rubbed his eyes as he tried to help the afterimage fade away. Would flying
straight there really be all that dangerous?
It could be, rumbled Glaedr.
How much longer would it take to go along the coastline?
Half a day, maybe a bit more.
Eragon scratched the stubble on his chin as he stared at the forbidding mass of water.
Then he looked up at Saphira and, in a low voice, said, “Are you sure you can do this?â€
She twisted her neck and returned his gaze with one huge eye. Her pupil had expanded
until it was nearly circular; it was so large and black, Eragon felt as if he could crawl into it and
disappear altogether.
As sure as I can be, she said.
He nodded and ran his hands through his hair as he accustomed himself to the idea. Then
we have to chance it. … Glaedr, if need be, you can guide her? You can help her?
The old dragon was quiet for a while; then he surprised Eragon by humming in his mind,
even as Saphira hummed when she was pleased or amused. Very well. If we are to tempt
fate, then let us not be cowards about it. Across the sea it is.
The matter settled, Eragon climbed back onto Saphira, and with a single bound, she left
behind the safety of solid land and took flight over the trackless waves.
Inheritance
THE SOUND OF HIS VOICE, THE TOUCH OF HIS HAND
“AGGGHHH!â€
…
“Will you swear your fealty to me in the ancient language?â€
“Never!â€
His question and her answer had become a ritual between them, a call-and-response
such as children might use in a game, except that in this game she lost even when she won.
Rituals were all that allowed Nasuada to maintain her sanity. By them, she ordered her
world—by them, she was able to endure from one moment to the next, for they gave her
something to hold on to when all else had been stripped from her. Rituals of thought, rituals of
action, rituals of pain and relief: these had become the framework upon which her life depended.
Without them, she would have been lost, a sheep without a shepherd, a devotee
bereft of faith … a Rider separated from her dragon.
Unfortunately, this particular ritual always ended in the same way: with another touch of
the iron.
She screamed and bit her tongue, and blood filled her mouth. She coughed, trying to clear
her throat, but there was too much blood and she began to choke. Her lungs burned from a
lack of air, and the lines on the ceiling wavered and grew dim, and then her memory ceased
and there was nothing, not even darkness.
Afterward, Galbatorix spoke to her while the irons heated.
This too had become one of their rituals.
He had healed her tongue—at least, she thought it had been him and not Murtagh—for as
he said, “It wouldn’t do if you were unable to speak, now would it? How else will I know when
you are ready to serve me?â€
As before, the king sat to her right, at the very edge of her vision, where all she could see
of him was a gold-edged shadow, his form partially hidden beneath the long, heavy cape he
wore.
“I met your father, you know, when he was steward of Enduriel’s chief estate,†said Galbatorix.
“Did he tell you of that?â€
She shuddered and closed her eyes and felt tears seep from the corners. She hated
listening to him. His voice was too powerful, too seductive; it left her wanting to do whatever
he desired just so she could hear him utter a tiny morsel of praise.
“Yes,†she murmured.
“I took little notice of him at the time. Why would I? He was a servant, no one of significance.
Enduriel allowed him a fair bit of freedom, the better to manage the affairs of the estate—
too much freedom, as it turned out.†The king made a dismissive gesture, and the light
caught his lean, clawlike hand. “Enduriel always was overly permissive. It was his dragon who
was the cunning one; Enduriel merely did as he was told. … What a strange, amusing series
of events fate has arranged. To think, the man who saw to it that my boots were brightly polished
went on to become my foremost enemy after Brom, and now here you are, his daughter,
returned to Urû’baen and about to enter my service, even as did your father. How very
ironic, would you not agree?â€
“My father escaped, and he nearly killed Durza when he did,†she said. “All your spells and
oaths could not hold him any more than you’ll be able to hold me.â€
She thought Galbatorix might have frowned. “Yes, that was unfortunate. Durza was quite
put out about it at the time. Families seem to make it easier for people to change who they
are and thus their true names, which is why I now choose my household servants only from
those who are barren and unwed. However, you are sorely mistaken if you think to slip your
bonds. The only ways to leave the Hall of the Soothsayer are by swearing loyalty to me or by
dying.â€
“Then I will die.â€
“How very shortsighted.†The gilded shadow of the king leaned toward her. “Have you
never entertained the thought, Nasuada, that the world would have been worse off had I not
overthrown the Riders?â€
“The Riders kept the peace,†she said. “They protected the whole of Alagaësia from war,
from plague … from the threat of Shades. In times of famine, they brought food to the
starving. How is this land a better place without them?â€
“Because there was a price attached to their service. You of all people should know that
everything in this world must be paid for, whether in gold, time, or blood. Nothing is without its
price, not even the Riders. Especially not the Riders.
“Aye, they kept the peace, but they also stifled the races of this land, the elves and
dwarves just as much as us humans. What is always said in praise of the Riders when the
bards bemoan their passing? That their reign extended for thousands of years, and that during
this much-vaunted ‘golden age,’ little changed besides the names of the kings and queens
who sat smug and secure upon their thrones. Oh, there were little alarms: a Shade here, an
incursion by Urgals there, a skirmish between two dwarf clans over a mine no one but they
cared about. But on the whole, the order of things remained exactly the same as it had been
when the Riders first rose to prominence.â€
She heard the clink of metal against metal as Murtagh stirred the coals in the brazier. She
wished she could see his face so that she could gauge his reaction to Galbatorix’s words, but
as was his habit, he stood with his back to her, staring down at the coals. The only time he
looked at her was when he had to apply the white-hot metal to her flesh. That was his particular
ritual, and she suspected he needed it as much as she needed hers.
And still Galbatorix kept talking: “Does that not seem the most evil thing to you, Nasuada?
Life is change, and yet the Riders suppressed it so that the land lay in an uneasy slumber, unable
to shake off the chains that bound it, unable to advance or retreat as nature intended …
unable to become something new. I saw with my own eyes scrolls in the vaults at Vroengard
and here, in the vaults of Ilirea, that detailed discoveries—magical, mechanical, and from
every sphere of natural philosophy—discoveries that the Riders kept hidden because they
feared what might happen if those things became generally known. The Riders were cowards
wedded to an old way of life and an old way of thinking, determined to defend it unto their dying
breath. Theirs was a gentle tyranny, but a tyranny nevertheless.â€
“Were murder and betrayal really the solution, though?†she asked, not caring if he punished
her for it.
He laughed, seeming genuinely amused. “Such hypocrisy! You condemn me for the very
thing you seek to do. If you could, you would kill me where I sit, and with no more hesitation
than were I a rabid dog.â€
“You’re a traitor; I’m not.â€
“I am the victor. In the end, nothing else matters. We are not so different as you think,
Nasuada. You wish to kill me because you believe my death would be an improvement for
Alagaësia, and because you—who are still almost a child—believe you can do a better job of
ruling the Empire than I. Your arrogance would cause others to despise you. But not me, for I
understand. I took up arms against the Riders for those very same reasons, and I was right to
do so.â€
“Did vengeance have nothing to do with it?â€
She thought he smiled. “It might have provided the initial inspiration, but neither hate nor
revenge was my guiding motive. I was concerned by what the Riders had become and convinced,
as I still am, that only when they were gone could we flourish as a race.â€
For a moment, the pain from her wounds made it impossible for her to talk. Then she
managed to whisper: “If what you say is true—and I have no cause to believe you, but if it
is—then you are no better than the Riders. You pillaged their libraries and gathered up their
stores of knowledge, and as of yet, you have shared none of that lore with anyone else.â€
He moved nearer to her, and she felt his breath upon her ear. “That is because, scattered
throughout their hoard of secrets, I found hints of a greater truth, a truth that could provide an
answer to one of the most perplexing questions in history.â€
A shiver ran down her spine. “What … question?â€
He leaned back in his chair and tugged at the edge of his cape. “The question of how a
king or a queen can enforce the laws they enact when there are those among their subjects
who can use magic. When I realized what the hints alluded to, I put aside all else and committed
myself to hunting down this truth, this answer, for I knew it was of paramount importance.
That is why I have kept the Riders’ secrets to myself; I have been busy with my search. The
answer to this problem must be set into place before I make known any of those other discoveries.
The world is already a troubled place, and it is better to soothe the waters before disturbing
them once more. … It took me nearly a hundred years to find the information I
needed, and now that I have, I shall use it to reshape the whole of Alagaësia.
“Magic is the great injustice in the world. It would not be so unfair if the ability only occurred
among those who were weak—for then it would be a compensation for what chance or
circumstance had robbed them of—but it doesn’t. The strong are just as likely to be able to
use magic, and they gain more from it besides. One need only look to the elves to see this is
true. The problem is not confined to individuals; it also plagues the relationships between the
races. The elves find it easier than us to maintain order within their society, for most every elf
can use magic, and, therefore, few of them are ever at the mercy of another. In this regard,
they are fortunate, but it is not so fortunate for us, for the dwarves, or even for the accursed
Urgals. We have only been able to live here in Alagaësia because the elves permitted it. If
they wanted, they could have swept us from the face of the earth as easily as a flood might
sweep away an anthill. But no more, not while I am here to oppose their might.â€
“The Riders would never have let them kill us or drive us away.â€
“No, but while the Riders existed, we were dependent upon their goodwill, and it is not
right that we should have to rely on others for our safekeeping. The Riders began as a means
to keep the peace between elves and dragons, but in the end, their main purpose became upholding
the rule of law throughout the land. They were, however, insufficient to the task, as
are my own spellcasters, the Black Hand. The problem is too far-reaching for any one group
to combat. My own life is proof enough of that. Even if there were a trustworthy band of
spellcasters adept enough to watch over all the other magicians in Alagaësia—ready to intervene
at the slightest hint of malfeasance—we would still be reliant upon the very ones whose
powers we sought to restrain. Ultimately, the land would be no safer than it is now. No, in order
to solve this problem, it must be addressed on a deeper, more fundamental level. The ancients
knew how that might be done, and now so do I.â€
Galbatorix shifted in the chair, and she caught a sharp gleam from his eye, as from a lantern
set deep within a cave. “I shall make it so that no magician will be able to harm another
person, whether human, dwarf, or elf. None shall be able to cast a spell unless they have permission,
and only magics that are benign and beneficial shall be allowed. Even the elves will
be bound by this precept, and they shall learn to measure their words carefully or speak not at
all.â€
“And who will grant permission?†she asked. “Who will decide what is allowed and what is
not? You?â€
“Someone must. It was I who recognized what was needed, I who discovered the means,
and I who shall implement them. You sneer at the thought? Well then, ask yourself this,
Nasuada: have I been a bad king? Be honest now. By the standards of my forebears, I have
not been excessive.â€
“You have been cruel.â€
“That is not the same thing. … You have led the Varden; you understand the burdens of
command. Surely you have realized the threat that magic poses to the stability of any kingdom?
To give but one example, I have spent more time laboring over the enchantments that
protect the coin of the realm from being forged than I have upon most any other aspect of my
duties. And yet, no doubt, there is a clever-minded conjurer somewhere who has found a way
to circumvent my wards and who is busy making bags of lead coins with which he can fool
nobles and commoners alike. Why else do you think I have been so careful to restrict the use
of magic throughout the Empire?â€
“Because it is a threat to you.â€
“No! There you are exactly wrong. It is no threat to me. No one and nothing is. However,
spellcasters are a threat to the proper functioning of this realm, and that I shall not tolerate.
Once I have bound every magician in the world to the laws of the land, imagine the peace and
prosperity that shall reign. No more shall men or dwarves have to fear elves. No more shall
Riders be able to impose their will on others. No more shall those who cannot use magic be
prey for those who can. … Alagaësia will be transformed, and with our newfound safety, we
will build a more wondrous tomorrow, one you could be a part of.
“Enter into my service, Nasuada, and you will have the opportunity to oversee the creation
of a world such as has never existed before—a world where a man will stand or fall based
upon the strength of his limbs and the keenness of his mind, and not whether chance has
granted him skill with magic. Man may build up his limbs and man may improve his mind, but
never can he learn to use magic if he was born lacking the ability. As I said, magic is the great
injustice, and for the good of all, I will impose limits upon every magician there is.â€
She stared at the lines on the ceiling and tried to ignore him. So much of what he said was
similar to what she had thought herself. He was right: magic was the most destructive force in
the world, and if it could be regulated, Alagaësia would be a better place for it. She hated that
there had been nothing to stop Eragon from—
Blue. Red. Patterns of interwoven color. The throbbing of her burns. She strove desperately
to concentrate upon anything other than … than nothing. Whatever she had been about
to think of was nothing, did not exist.
“You call me evil. You curse my name and seek to overthrow me. But remember this,
Nasuada: it was not I who started this war, and I am not responsible for those who have lost
their lives as a result. I did not seek this out. You did. I would have been content to devote
myself to my studies, but the Varden insisted upon stealing Saphira’s egg from my treasure
house, and you and your kind are responsible for all of the blood and sorrow that have followed.
You are the ones, after all, who have been rampaging across the countryside, burning
and pillaging as you please, not I. And yet you have the audacity to claim that I am in the
wrong! Were you to go into the homes of the peasants, they would tell you that it is the
Varden they fear most. They would talk about how they look to my soldiers for protection and
how they hope the Empire will defeat the Varden and all shall be as it was.â€
Nasuada wet her lips. Even though she knew her boldness might cost her, she said, “It
seems to me you protest too much. … If the welfare of your subjects were your main concern,
you would have flown out to confront the Varden weeks ago, instead of letting an army roam
loose within your borders. That is, unless you are not so sure of your might as you pretend.
Or is it you fear the elves will take Urû’baen while you are gone?†As had become her habit,
she spoke of the Varden as if she knew no more about them than any random person in the
Empire.
Galbatorix shifted, and she could tell he was about to respond, but she was not yet finished.
“And what of the Urgals? You cannot convince me your cause is just when you would exterminate
an entire race in order to ease your pain at the death of your first dragon. Have you
no answer for that, Oath-breaker? … Speak to me of the dragons, then. Explain why you slew
so many that you doomed their kind to a slow and inevitable extinction. And finally, explain
your mistreatment of the Eldunarà you captured.†In her anger, she allowed herself that one
slip. “You have bent and broken them and chained them to your will. There is no rightness in
what you do, only selfishness and a never-ending hunger for power.â€
Galbatorix regarded her in silence for a long, uncomfortable while. Then she saw his outline
move as he crossed his arms. “I think the irons ought to be sufficiently hot by now. Murtagh,
if you would …â€
She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her skin, and her muscles began to tremble,
despite her best efforts to hold them still. One of the iron rods scraped against the lip of the
brazier as Murtagh pulled it free. He turned to face her, and she could not help but stare at
the tip of the glowing metal. Then she looked into Murtagh’s eyes, and she saw the guilt and
self-loathing they contained, and a sense of profound sorrow overcame her.
What fools we are, she thought. What sorry, miserable fools.
After that, she had no more energy for thinking, and so she fell back to her well-worn
rituals, clinging to them for survival even as a drowning man might cling to a piece of wood.
When Murtagh and Galbatorix departed, she was in too much pain to do more than gaze
mindlessly at the patterns on the ceiling while she struggled not to cry. She was sweating and
shivering at the same time, as if she had a fever, and she found it impossible to concentrate
upon any one thing for more than a few seconds. The pain from her burns did not subside as
it would have if she had been cut or bruised; indeed, the throbbing from her wounds seemed
to grow worse with time.
She closed her eyes and concentrated upon slowing her breathing as she tried to calm
her body.
The first time Galbatorix and Murtagh had visited her, she had been far more courageous.
She had cursed and taunted them and done all she could to hurt them with her words.
However, through Murtagh, Galbatorix had made her suffer for her insolence, and she had
soon lost her taste for open rebellion. The iron made her timid; even the memory of it made
her want to curl into a tight little ball. During their second, most recent visit, she had said as
little as possible until her final, imprudent outburst.
She had tried to test Galbatorix’s claim that neither he nor Murtagh would lie to her. She
did this by asking them questions about the Empire’s inner workings, facts that her spies had
informed her of but that Galbatorix had no reason to believe she knew. So far as she could
determine, Galbatorix and Murtagh had told her the truth, but she was not about to trust anything
the king said when there was no way to verify his claims.
As for Murtagh, she was not quite so sure. When he was with the king, she gave no credence
to his words, but when he was by himself …
Several hours after her first, agonizing audience with King Galbatorix—when she had at
long last fallen into a shallow, troubled sleep—Murtagh had come alone to the Hall of the
Soothsayer, bleary-eyed and smelling of drink. He had stood by the monolith upon which she
lay, and he had stared at her with such a strange, tormented expression, she had not been
sure what he was going to do.
At last he had turned away, walked to the nearest wall, and slid down it to the floor. There
he sat, with his knees pulled up against his chest, his long, shaggy hair obscuring most of his
face, and blood oozing from the torn skin on the knuckles of his right hand. After what felt like
minutes, he had reached into his maroon jerkin—for he was wearing the same clothes as
earlier, although without the mask—and drawn forth a small stone bottle. He drank several
times and then began to talk.
He talked, and she listened. She had no choice, but she did not allow herself to believe
what he said. Not at first. For all she knew, everything he said or did was a sham designed to
win her confidence.
Murtagh had started by telling her a rather garbled story about a man named Tornac,
which involved a riding mishap and some sort of advice Tornac had given him regarding how
an honorable man ought to live. She had been unable to make out whether Tornac was a
friend, a servant, a distant relative, or some combination thereof, but whatever he was, it was
obvious that he had meant a great deal to Murtagh.
When he concluded his story, Murtagh had said, “Galbatorix was going to have you killed.
… He knew Elva wasn’t guarding you as she used to, so he decided it was the perfect time to
have you assassinated. I only found out about his plan by chance; I happened to be with him
when he gave the orders to the Black Hand.†Murtagh shook his head. “It’s my fault. I convinced
him to have you brought here instead. He liked that; he knew you would lure Eragon
here that much faster. … It was the only way I could keep him from killing you. … I’m sorry. …
I’m sorry.†And he buried his head in his arms.
“I would rather have died.â€
“I know,†he said in a hoarse voice. “Will you forgive me?â€
That she had not answered. His revelation only made her more uneasy. Why should he
care to save her life, and what did he expect in return?
Murtagh had said nothing more for a while. Then, sometimes weeping and sometimes raging,
he told her of his upbringing in Galbatorix’s court, of the distrust and jealousy he had
faced as the son of Morzan, of the nobles who had sought to use him to win favor with the
king, and of his longing for the mother he barely remembered. Twice he mentioned Eragon
and cursed him for a fool favored by fortune. “He would not have done so well if our places
had been reversed. But our mother chose to take him to Carvahall, not me.†He spat on the
floor.
She found the whole episode maudlin and self-pitying, and his weakness did nothing but
inspire contempt in her until he recounted how the Twins had abducted him from Farthen Dûr,
how they had mistreated him on the way to Urû’baen, and how Galbatorix had broken him
once they arrived. Some of the tortures he described were worse than her own and, if true,
gave her a slight measure of sympathy for his own plight.
“Thorn was my undoing,†Murtagh finally confessed. “When he hatched for me and we
bonded …†He shook his head. “I love him. How could I not? I love him even as Eragon loves
Saphira. The moment I touched him, I was lost. Galbatorix used him against me. Thorn was
stronger than me. He never gave up. But I could not bear to see him suffer, so I swore my loyalty
to the king, and after that …†Murtagh’s lips curled with revulsion. “After that, Galbatorix
went into my mind. He learned everything about me, and then he taught me my true name.
And now I am his. … His forever.â€
Then he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, and she watched the tears
roll down his cheeks.
Eventually, he stood, and as he walked toward the door, he paused next to her and
touched her on the shoulder. His nails, she noted, were clean and trimmed, but nowhere near
as well cared for as her jailer’s. He murmured a few words in the ancient language, and a moment
later, her pain melted away, although her wounds looked the same as ever.
As he took his hand away, she said, “I cannot forgive … but I understand.â€
Whereupon he nodded and stumbled away, leaving her to wonder if she had found a new
ally.
Inheritance
SMALL REBELLIONS
AS NASUADA LAY on the slab, sweating and shivering, every part of her body aching
with pain, she found herself wishing that Murtagh would return, if only so he could again free
her from her agony.
When at last the door to the eight-sided chamber swung open, she was unable to suppress
her relief, but her relief turned to bitter disappointment when she heard the shuffling
footsteps of her jailer descending the stairs that led into the room.
As he had once before, the stocky, narrow-shouldered man bathed her wounds with a wet
cloth, then bound them with strips of linen. When he released her from the restraints so that
she could visit the privy room, she found she was too weak to make any attempt to grab the
knife on the tray of food. Instead, she contented herself with thanking the man for his help
and, for the second time, complimenting him on his nails, which were even shinier than before
and which he quite obviously wanted her to see, for he kept holding his hands where she
could not help but look at them.
After he fed her and departed, she tried to sleep, but the constant pain of her wounds
made it impossible for her to do more than doze.
Her eyes snapped open as she heard the bar to the door of the chamber being thrown
open.
Not again! she thought, panic welling up inside her. Not so soon! I can’t bear it. … I’m not
strong enough. Then she reined in her fear and told herself, Don’t. Don’t say such things or
else you’ll start to believe them. Still, although she was able to master her conscious reactions,
she could not stop her heart from pounding at twice its normal speed.
A single pair of footsteps echoed in the room, and then Murtagh appeared at the corner of
her vision. He wore no mask, and his expression was somber.
This time he healed her first, without waiting. The relief she felt as her pain abated was so
intense, it bordered on ecstasy. In all her life, she had never experienced a sensation quite so
pleasurable as the draining away of the agony.
She gasped slightly at the feeling. “Thank you.â€
Murtagh nodded; then he went over to the wall and sat in the same spot as before.
She studied him for a minute. The skin on his knuckles was smooth and whole again, and
he appeared sober, if grim and close-mouthed. His clothes had once been fine, but they were
now torn, frayed, and patched, and she spotted what looked like several cuts in the undersides
of his sleeves. She wondered if he had been fighting.
“Does Galbatorix know where you are?†she finally asked.
“He might, but I doubt it. He’s busy playing with his favorite concubines. That, or he’s
asleep. It’s the middle of the night right now. Besides, I cast a spell to keep anyone from
listening to us. He could break it if he wants, but I would know.â€
“What if he finds out?â€
Murtagh shrugged.
“He will find out, you know, if he wears down my defenses.â€
“Then don’t let him. You’re stronger than me; you have no one he can threaten. You can
resist him, unlike me. … The Varden are fast approaching, as are the elves from the north. If
you can hold out for another few days, there’s a chance … there’s a chance maybe they can
free you.â€
“You don’t believe they can, do you?â€
He shrugged again.
“… Then help me escape.â€
A bark of hard laughter erupted from his throat. “How? I can’t do much more than put on
my boots without Galbatorix’s permission.â€
“You could loosen my cuffs, and when you leave, perhaps you could forget to secure the
door.â€
His upper lip curled in a sneer. “There are two men stationed outside, there are wards set
upon this room to warn Galbatorix if a prisoner steps outside it, and there are hundreds of
guards between here and the nearest gate. You’d be lucky to make it to the end of the hallway,
if that.â€
“Perhaps, but I’d like to try.â€
“You’d only get yourself killed.â€
“Then help me. If you wanted, you could find a way to fool his wards.â€
“I can’t. My oaths won’t let me use magic against him.â€
“What of the guards, though? If you held them off long enough for me to reach the gate, I
could hide myself in the city, and it wouldn’t matter if Galbatorix knew—â€
“The city is his. Besides, wherever you went, he could find you with a spell. The only way
you would be safe from him would be to get far away from here before the alarm roused him,
and that you could not do even on dragonback.â€
“There must be a way!â€
“If there were …†He smiled sourly and looked down. “It’s pointless to consider.â€
Frustrated, she shifted her gaze to the ceiling for a few moments. Then, “At least let me
out of these cuffs.â€
He released his breath in a sound of exasperation.
“Just so I can stand up,†she said. “I hate lying on this stone, and it’s making my eyes
ache having to look at you down there.â€
He hesitated, and then he rose to his feet in a single graceful movement, came over to the
slab, and began to unfasten the padded restraints around her wrists and ankles. “Don’t think
you can kill me,†he said in a low voice. “You can’t.â€
As soon as she was free, he retreated to his former position and again lowered himself
onto the floor, where he sat staring into the distance. It was, she thought, his attempt to give
her some privacy as she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the slab. Her shift was in
tatters—burned through in dozens of locations—and it did a poor job of concealing her form,
not that it had covered much to begin with.
The marble floor was cool against the soles of her feet as she made her way over to Murtagh
and sat next to him. She wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to preserve her
modesty.
“Was Tornac really your only friend growing up?†she asked.
Murtagh still did not look at her. “No, but he was as close to a father as I’ve ever had. He
taught me, comforted me … berated me when I was too arrogant, and saved me from making
a fool of myself more times than I can remember. If he were still alive, he would have beaten
me silly for getting as drunk as I did the other day.â€
“You said he died during your escape from Urû’baen?â€
He snorted. “I thought I was being clever. I bribed one of the watchmen to leave a side
gate open for us. We were going to slip out of the city under the cover of darkness, and Galbatorix
was only supposed to find out what had happened once it was too late to catch us. He
knew from the very start, though. How, I’m not sure, but I guess he was scrying me the whole
while. When Tornac and I went through the gate, we found soldiers waiting for us on the other
side. … Their orders were to bring us back unharmed, but we fought, and one of them killed
Tornac. The finest swordsman in all the Empire brought down by a knife in the back.â€
“But Galbatorix let you escape.â€
“I don’t think he expected us to fight. Besides, his attention was directed elsewhere that
night.â€
She frowned as she saw the oddest half smile appear on Murtagh’s face.
“I counted the days,†he said. “That was when the Ra’zac were in Palancar Valley, searching
for Saphira’s egg. So you see, Eragon lost his foster father almost at the same time I lost
mine. Fate has a cruel sense of humor, don’t you think?â€
“Yes, it does. … But if Galbatorix could scry you, why didn’t he track you down and bring
you back to Urû’baen later on?â€
“He was playing with me, I think. I went to stay at the estate of a man I believed I could
trust. As usual, I was mistaken, though I only found that out later, once the Twins brought me
back here. Galbatorix knew where I was, and he knew I was still angry over Tornac’s death,
so he was content to leave me at the estate while he hunted for Eragon and Brom. … I surprised
him, though; I left, and by the time he learned of my disappearance, I was already on
my way to Dras-Leona. That’s why Galbatorix went to Dras-Leona, you know. It wasn’t to
chastise Lord Tábor over his behavior—although he certainly did—it was to find me. But he
was too late. By the time he arrived at the city, I had already met up with Eragon and Saphira,
and we had set off for Gil’ead.â€
“Why did you leave?†she asked.
“Didn’t Eragon tell you? Because—â€
“No, not Dras-Leona. Why did you leave the estate? You were safe there, or so you
thought. So why did you leave?â€
Murtagh was quiet for a while. “I wanted to strike back at Galbatorix, and I wanted to make
a name for myself apart from my father’s. My whole life, people have looked at me differently
because I am the son of Morzan. I wanted them to respect me for my deeds, not his.†He finally
looked at her, a quick glance out of the corner of one eye. “I suppose I got what I
wanted, but again, fate has a cruel sense of humor.â€
She wondered if there had been anyone else in Galbatorix’s court whom he had cared for,
but she decided it would be a dangerous topic to broach. So, instead, she asked, “How much
does Galbatorix really know about the Varden?â€
“Everything, so far as I can tell. He has more spies than you think.â€
She pressed her arms against her belly as her gut twisted. “Do you know of any way to kill
him?â€
“A knife. A sword. An arrow. Poison. Magic. The usual ways. The problem is, he has too
many spells wound about himself for anyone or anything to have a chance of harming him.
Eragon is luckier than most; Galbatorix doesn’t want to kill him, so he may get to attack the
king more than once. But even if Eragon could attack him a hundred times, he wouldn’t find a
way past Galbatorix’s wards.â€
“Every puzzle has a solution, and every man has a weakness,†Nasuada insisted. “Does
he love any of his concubines?â€
The look on Murtagh’s face answered her well enough. Then he said, “Would it be so bad
if Galbatorix remains king? The world he envisions is a good world. If he defeats the Varden,
the whole of Alagaësia will finally be at peace. He’ll put an end to the misuse of magic; elves,
dwarves, and humans will no longer have cause to hate each other. What’s more, if the
Varden lose, Eragon and I can be together as brothers ought to be. But if they win, it’ll mean
the death of Thorn and me. It’ll have to.â€
“Oh? And what of me?†she asked. “If Galbatorix wins, shall I become his slave, to order
about as he wills?†Murtagh refused to answer, but she saw the tendons on the back of his
hands tighten. “You can’t give up, Murtagh.â€
“What other choice do I have!†he shouted, filling the room with echoes.
She stood and stared down at him. “You can fight! Look at me. … Look at me!â€
He reluctantly lifted his gaze.
“You can find ways to work against him. That’s what you can do! Even if your oaths will allow
only the smallest of rebellions, the smallest of rebellions might still prove to be his undoing.â€
She restated his question for effect. “What other choice do you have? You can go
around feeling helpless and miserable for the rest of your life. You can let Galbatorix turn you
into a monster. Or you can fight!†She spread her arms so that he could see all of the burn
marks on her. “Do you enjoy hurting me?â€
“No!†he exclaimed.
“Then fight, blast you! You have to fight or you will lose everything you are. As will Thorn.â€
She held her ground as he sprang to his feet, lithe as a cat, and moved toward her until he
was only a few inches away. The muscles in his jaw bunched and knotted while he glowered
at her, breathing heavily through his nostrils. She recognized his expression, for it was one
she had seen many times before. His was the look of a man whose pride had been offended
and who wanted to lash out at the person who had insulted him. It was dangerous to keep
pushing him, but she knew she had to, for she might never get the chance again.
“If I can keep fighting,†she said, “then so can you.â€
“Back to the stone,†he said in a harsh voice.
“I know you’re not a coward, Murtagh. Better to die than to live as a slave to one such as
Galbatorix. At least then you might accomplish some good, and your name might be remembered
with a measure of kindness after you’re gone.â€
“Back to the stone,†he growled, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her over to the
slab.
She allowed him to push her onto the ash-colored block, fasten the restraints around her
wrists and ankles, and then tighten the strap around her head. When he finished, he stood
looking at her, his eyes dark and wild, the lines of his body like cords stretched taut.
“You have to decide whether you are willing to risk your life in order to save yourself,†she
said. “You and Thorn both. And you have to decide now, while there is still time. Ask yourself:
what would Tornac have wanted you to do?â€
Without answering, Murtagh extended his right arm and placed his hand upon the upper
part of her chest, his palm hot against her skin. Her breath hitched at the shock of the contact.
Then, hardly louder than a whisper, he began to speak in the ancient language. As the
strange words tumbled from his lips, her fear grew ever stronger.
He spoke for what seemed like minutes. She felt no different when he stopped, but that
was neither a favorable nor an unfavorable sign where magic was concerned.
Cool air washed over the patch on her chest, chilling it as Murtagh lifted his hand away.
He stepped back then and started to walk past her, toward the entrance of the chamber. She
was about to call out to him—to ask what he had done to her—when he paused and said,
“That should shield you from the pain of most any wound, but you’ll have to pretend otherwise,
or Galbatorix will discover what I’ve done.â€
And then he left.
“Thank you,†she whispered to the empty room.
She spent a long time pondering their conversation. It seemed unlikely that Galbatorix had
sent Murtagh to talk with her, but unlikely or not, it remained a possibility. Also, she found herself
torn as to whether Murtagh was, at heart, a good person or a bad one. She thought back
to King Hrothgar—who had been like an uncle to her when she was growing up—and how
Murtagh had killed him on the Burning Plains. Then she thought of Murtagh’s childhood and
the many hardships he had faced, and how he had allowed Eragon and Saphira to go free
when he could have just as easily brought them to Urû’baen.
Yet even if Murtagh had once been honorable and trustworthy, she knew that his enforced
servitude might have corrupted him.
In the end, she decided she would ignore Murtagh’s past and judge him on his actions in
the present and those alone. Good, bad, or some combination thereof, he was a potential ally,
and she needed his help if she could get it. If he proved false, then she would be no worse off
than she already was. But if he proved true, then she might be able to escape from Urû’baen,
and that was well worth the risk.
In the absence of pain, she slept long and deep for the first time since her arrival at the
capital. She awoke feeling more hopeful than before, and again fell to tracing the lines painted
on the ceiling. The thin blue line she was following led her to notice a small white shape on
the corner of a tile that she had previously overlooked. It took her a moment to realize that the
discoloration was where a chip had fallen free.
The sight amused her, for she found it humorous—and somewhat comforting—to know
that Galbatorix’s perfect chamber was not quite so perfect after all, and that, despite his pretensions
otherwise, he was not omniscient or infallible.
When the door to the chamber next opened, it was her jailer, bringing what she guessed
was a midday meal. She asked him if she could eat first, before he let her up, for she said she
was more hungry than anything else, which was not entirely untrue.
To her satisfaction, he agreed, though he uttered not a word, only smiled his hideous,
clamplike smile and seated himself on the edge of the slab. As he spooned warm gruel into
her mouth, her mind raced as she tried to plan for every contingency, for she knew she would
have only one chance at success.
Anticipation made it difficult for her to stomach the bland food. Nevertheless, she managed,
and when the bowl was empty and she had drunk her fill, she readied herself.
The man had, as always, placed the food tray by the base of the far wall, close to where
Murtagh had been sitting and perhaps ten feet from the door to the privy room.
Once she was free of her manacles, she slid off the block of stone. The gourd-headed
man reached over to take hold of her left arm, but she raised a hand and, in her sweetest
voice, said, “I can stand by myself now, thank you.â€
Her jailer hesitated, then he smiled again and clacked his teeth together twice, as if to say,
“Well then, I’m happy for you!â€
They started toward the privy room, she in the front and he slightly to the rear. As she took
her third step, she deliberately twisted her right ankle and stumbled diagonally across the
room. The man shouted and tried to catch her—she felt his thick fingers close on the air
above her neck—but he was too slow, and she eluded his grasp.
She fell lengthwise onto the tray, breaking the pitcher—which still held a fair amount of
watered wine—and sending the wooden bowl clattering across the floor. By design, she
landed with her right hand underneath her, and as soon as she felt the tray, she began to
search with her fingers for the metal spoon.
“Ah!†she exclaimed, as if hurt, then turned to look up at the man, doing her best to appear
chagrined. “Maybe I wasn’t ready after all,†she said, and gave him an apologetic smile. Her
thumb touched the handle of the spoon, and she grabbed hold of it even as the man pulled
her upright by her other arm.
He looked her over and wrinkled his nose, appearing disgusted by her wine-soaked shift.
While he did, she reached behind herself and slid the handle of the spoon through a hole near
the hem of her garment. Then she held up her hand, as if to show that she had taken nothing.
The man grunted, grabbed her other arm, and marched her to the privy room. As she
entered, he shuffled back toward the tray, muttering under his breath.
The moment she had closed the door, she pulled the spoon out of her shift and placed it
between her lips, holding it there as she plucked several strands of hair from the back of her
head, where they were longest. Moving as fast as she could, she pinched one end of the
gathered hairs between the fingers of her left hand and then rolled the loose strands down her
thighs with the palm of her right, twisting them together into a single cord. Her skin grew cold
as she realized the cord was too short. Fumbling in her urgency, she tied off the ends, then
placed the cord on the ground.
She plucked another group of hairs and rolled them into a second cord, which she tied off
like the first.
Knowing that she had only seconds remaining, she dropped to one knee and knotted the
two strands together. Then she took the spoon from her mouth and, with the slim length of
thread, she bound the spoon to the outside of her left leg, where the edge of her shift would
cover it.
It had to go on her left leg because Galbatorix always sat to her right.
She stood and checked that the spoon remained hidden, and then she took a few steps to
make sure it would not fall.
It did not.
Relieved, she allowed herself to exhale. Now her challenge was to return to the slab
without letting her jailer notice what she had done.
The man was waiting for her when she opened the door to the privy room. He scowled at
her, and his sparse eyebrows met, forming a single straight line.
“Spoon,†he said, mashing the word with his tongue as if it were a piece of overcooked
parsnip.
She lifted her chin and pointed toward the rear of the privy room.
His scowl deepened. He went into the room and carefully examined the walls, floors, ceiling,
and all else before stomping back out. He clacked his teeth together again and scratched
his bulbous head, appearing unhappy and, she thought, a little hurt that she would bother to
throw away the spoon. She had been kind to him, and she knew an act of such petty defiance
would puzzle him and make him angry.
She resisted the urge to pull away when he stepped forward, put his weighty hands on her
head, and combed through her hair with his fingers. When he did not find the spoon, his face
drooped. He grabbed her arm then and walked her over to the slab and again placed her in
the manacles.
Then, his expression sullen, he picked up the tray and shuffled out of the room.
She waited until she was absolutely sure he was gone before she reached out with the fingers
of her left hand and, inch by inch, pulled up the edge of her shift.
A broad smile passed across her face as she felt the bowl of the spoon with the tip of her
index finger.
Now she had a weapon.
Inheritance
A CROWN OF ICE AND SNOW
WHEN THE FIRST pale rays of light streaked across the surface of the dimpled sea, illuminating
the crests of the translucent waves—which glittered as if carved from crystal—then
Eragon roused himself from his waking dreams and looked to the northwest, curious to see
what the light revealed of the clouds building in the distance.
What he beheld was disconcerting: the clouds encompassed nearly half the horizon, and
the largest of the dense white plumes looked as tall as the peaks of the Beor Mountains, too
tall for Saphira to climb over. The only open sky lay behind her, and even that would be lost to
them as the arms of the storm closed in.
We shall have to fly through it, Glaedr said, and Eragon felt Saphira’s trepidation.
Why not try to go around? she asked.
Through Saphira, Eragon was aware of Glaedr examining the structure of the clouds. At
last the golden dragon said, I do not want you flying too far off course. We still have many
leagues to cover, and if your strength fails you—
Then you can lend me yours to keep us aloft.
Hmph. Even so, it is best to be cautious in our recklessness. I have seen the likes of this
storm before. It is larger than you think. To skirt it, you would have to fly so far to the west that
you would end up beyond Vroengard, and it would probably take another day to reach land.
The distance to Vroengard isn’t that great, she said.
No, but the wind will slow us. Besides, my instincts tell me that the storm extends all the
way to the island. One way or another, we shall have to fly through it. However, there’s no
need to go through its very heart. Do you see the notch between those two small pillars off to
the west?
Yes.
Go there, and perhaps we can then find a safe path through the clouds.
Eragon grasped the front of the saddle as Saphira dropped her left shoulder and turned
westward, aiming herself toward the notch Glaedr had indicated. He yawned and rubbed his
eyes as she leveled out; then he twisted round and dug out an apple and a few strips of dried
beef from the bags strapped behind him. It was a meager breakfast, but his hunger was
slight, and eating a large meal while riding Saphira often made him queasy.
While he ate, he alternated between watching the clouds and gazing at the sparkling sea.
He found it unsettling that there was nothing but water beneath them and that the nearest solid
ground—the mainland—was, by his estimate, over fifty miles away. He shivered as he imagined
sinking down and down into the cold, clutching depths of the sea. He wondered what
lay at the bottom, and it occurred to him that with his magic, he could likely travel there and
find out, but the thought held no appeal. The watery abyss was too dark and too dangerous
for his liking. It was not, he felt, a place where his sort of life ought to venture. Better, instead,
to leave it to whatever strange creatures already lived there.
As the morning wore on, it became apparent that the clouds were farther away than they
had first seemed and that, as Glaedr had said, the storm was larger than either Eragon or
Saphira had originally imagined.
A light headwind sprang up, and Saphira’s flight became somewhat more labored, but she
continued to make good progress.
When they were still some leagues from the leading edge of the storm, Saphira surprised
Eragon and Glaedr by slipping into a shallow dive and flying down close to the surface of the
water.
As she descended, Glaedr said, Saphira, what are you about?
I’m curious, she replied. And I would like to rest my wings before entering the clouds.
She skimmed over the waves, her reflection below and her shadow in front mirroring her
every move like two ghostly companions, one dark and one light. Then she swiveled her
wings on edge and, with three quick flaps, slowed herself and landed upon the water. A fan of
spray shot up on either side of her neck as her chest plowed into the waves, sprinkling
Eragon with hundreds of droplets.
The water was cold, but after so long aloft, the air felt pleasantly warm—so warm, in fact,
that Eragon unwrapped his cloak and pulled off his gloves.
Saphira folded her wings and floated along peacefully, bobbing up and down with the motion
of the waves. Eragon spotted several clumps of brown seaweed off to the right. The
plants were branched like scrub brush and had berry-sized bladders at joints along the stems.
Far overhead, near the height Saphira had been, Eragon spotted a pair of albatrosses
with black-tipped wings flying away from the massive wall of clouds. The sight only deepened
his unease; the seabirds reminded him of the time he had seen a pack of wolves running
alongside a herd of deer as the animals fled a forest fire in the Spine.
If we had any sense, he said to Saphira, we would turn around.
If we had any sense, we would leave Alagaësia and never return, she rejoined.
Arching her neck, she dipped her muzzle into the seawater, then shook her head and ran
her crimson tongue in and out of her mouth several times, as if she had tasted something unpleasant.
Then Eragon felt a sense of panic from Glaedr, and the old dragon roared in his mind:
Take off! Now, now, now! Take off!
Saphira wasted no time on questions. With a sound like thunder, she opened her wings
and began to beat them as she reared out of the water.
Leaning forward, Eragon grabbed the edge of the saddle to keep from being thrown backward.
The flapping of Saphira’s wings threw up a screen of mist that half blinded him, so he
used his mind to search for whatever had alarmed Glaedr.
From deep below, rising toward Saphira’s underside faster than Eragon would have believed
possible, he felt something that was cold and huge … and filled with a ravenous, insatiable
hunger. He tried to frighten it, tried to turn it away, but the creature was alien and implacable
and seemed not to notice his efforts. In the strange, lightless caverns of its consciousness,
he glimpsed memories of uncounted years spent lurking alone in the icy sea, hunting
and being hunted.
His own panic mounting, Eragon groped for the hilt of Brisingr even as Saphira wrenched
herself free from the grasp of the water and began to climb into the air. Saphira! Hurry! he silently
shouted.
She slowly gained speed and altitude, and then a fountain of white water erupted behind
her, and Eragon saw a pair of shiny gray jaws emerge from within the plume. The jaws were
large enough for a horse and rider to pass through unscathed and were filled with hundreds of
glinting white teeth.
Saphira was aware of what he saw, and she twisted violently to the side in an attempt to
escape the gaping maw, clipping the water with the tip of her wing. An instant later, Eragon
heard and felt the creature’s jaws snap shut.
The needle-like teeth missed Saphira’s tail by inches.
As the monster fell back into the water, more of its body became visible: The head was
long and angular. A bony crest jutted out over the eyes, and from the outer part of each crest
grew a ropy tendril that Eragon guessed to be over six feet in length. The neck of the creature
reminded him of a giant, rippling snake. What was visible of the creature’s torso was smooth
and powerfully built and looked incredibly dense. A pair of oar-shaped flippers extended from
the sides of its chest, flailing helplessly in the air.
The creature landed upon its side, and a second, even larger burst of spray flew toward
the sky.
Just before the waves closed over the monster’s shape, Eragon looked into its one upward-
facing eye, which was as black as a drop of tar. The malevolence contained
therein—the sheer hate and fury and frustration that he perceived in the creature’s unblinking
gaze—was enough to make Eragon shiver and wish he were in the center of the Hadarac
Desert. For only there, he felt, would he be safe from the creature’s ancient hunger.
Heart pounding, he relaxed his grip on Brisingr and slumped over the front of the saddle.
“What was that?â€
A Nïdhwal, said Glaedr.
Eragon frowned. He did not remember reading about any such thing in Ellesméra. And
what is a Nïdhwal?!
They are rare and not often spoken about. They are to the sea what the Fanghur are to
the air. Both are cousins to the dragons. Though the differences in our appearance are greater,
the Nïdhwal are closer to us than are the screeching Fanghur. They are intelligent, and
they even have a structure similar to the Eldunarà within their chest, which we believe enables
them to remain submerged for extended periods of time at great depth.
Can they breathe fire?
No, but like the Fanghur, they often use the power of their minds to incapacitate their prey,
which more than one dragon has discovered to their dismay.
They would eat their own kind! Saphira said.
To them, we are nothing alike, Glaedr replied. But they do eat their own, which is one
reason there are so few Nïdhwalar. They have no interest in happenings outside their own
realm, and every attempt to reason with them has met with failure. It is odd to encounter one
so close to shore. There was a time when they were only found several days’ flight from land,
where the sea is the deepest. It seems they have grown either bold or desperate since the fall
of the Riders.
Eragon shivered again as he remembered the feel of the Nïdhwal’s mind. Why did neither
you nor Oromis ever teach us of them?
There is much we did not teach you, Eragon. We had only so much time, and it was best
spent trying to arm you against Galbatorix, not every dark creature that haunts the unexplored
regions of Alagaësia.
Then there are other things like the Nïdhwal that we don’t know about?
A few.
Will you tell us of them, Ebrithil? Saphira asked.
I will make a pact with you, Saphira, and with you, Eragon. Let us wait a week, and if we
are still alive and still possessed of our freedom, I will happily spend the next ten years teaching
you about every single race I know of, including every variety of beetle, of which there are
multitudes. But until then, let us concentrate upon the task before us. Are we agreed?
Eragon and Saphira reluctantly agreed, and they spoke of it no more.
The headwind strengthened into a blustery gale as they neared the front of the storm,
slowing Saphira until she was flying at half her normal speed. Now and then, powerful gusts
rocked her and sometimes stopped her dead in her course for a few moments. They always
knew when the gusts were about to strike, for they could see a silvery, scalelike pattern rushing
toward them across the surface of the water.
Since dawn, the clouds had only increased in size, and up close, they were even more intimidating.
Near the bottom, they were dark and purplish, with curtains of driving rain connecting
the storm with the sea like a gauzy umbilical cord. Higher up, the clouds were the color of
tarnished silver, while the very tops were a pure, blinding white and appeared as solid as the
flanks of Tronjheim. To the north, over the center of the storm, the clouds had formed a gigantic
flat-topped anvil that loomed over all else, as if the gods themselves intended to forge
some strange and terrible instrument.
As Saphira soared between two bulging white columns—beside which she was no more
than a speck—and the sea vanished beneath a field of pillow-like clouds, the headwind
abated and the air grew rough and choppy, swirling about them without an identifiable direction.
Eragon clenched his teeth to keep them from clacking, and his stomach lurched as
Saphira dropped a half-dozen feet and then, just as quickly, rose more than twenty feet
straight up.
Glaedr said, Have you any experience storm-flying other than the time you were caught in
a thunderstorm between Palancar Valley and Yazuac?
No, said Saphira, short and grim.
Glaedr seemed to have expected her answer, for without hesitation he began to instruct
her about the intricacies of navigating the fantastic cloudscape. Look for patterns of movement
and take note of the formations around you, he said. By them, you may guess where the
wind is strongest and the direction it is blowing.
Much of what he said Saphira already knew, but as Glaedr kept talking, the old dragon’s
calm demeanor steadied both her and Eragon. Had they felt alarm or fear in the old dragon’s
mind, it would have caused them to doubt themselves, and perhaps Glaedr was aware of
that.
A stray, wind-torn scrap of cloud lay across Saphira’s path. Instead of flying around it, she
went straight through, piercing the cloud like a glittering blue spear. As the gray mist enveloped
them, the sound of the wind grew muted, and Eragon squinted and held a hand before
his face to keep his eyes clear.
When they shot out of the cloud, millions of tiny droplets clung to Saphira’s body, and she
sparkled as if diamonds had been affixed to her already dazzling scales.
Her flight continued to be unsettled; one moment she would be level, but the next the unruly
air might shove her sideways, or an unexpected updraft might lift one wing and send her
slewing off in the opposite direction. Just sitting on her back as she fought against the turbulence
was tiring, while for Saphira herself, it was a miserable, frustrating struggle made all the
more difficult by knowing that it was far from over and that she had no choice but to continue
on.
After an hour or two they still had not sighted the far side of the tempest. Glaedr said, We
have to turn. You’ve gone as far west as is prudent, and if we’re to dare the full wrath of the
storm, we had best do it now, before you are any more exhausted.
Without a word, Saphira wheeled north toward the vast, towering cliff of sunlit clouds that
occupied the heart of the giant storm. As they neared the ridged face of the cliff—which was
the largest single thing Eragon had ever seen, larger even than Farthen Dûr—blue flashes illuminated
the folds within as lightning crawled upward, toward the top of the anvil head.
A moment later, a clap of thunder shook the sky, and Eragon covered his ears with his
hands. He knew that his wards would protect them from the lightning, but he still felt apprehensive
about venturing near the crackling bolts of energy.
If Saphira was frightened, he did not sense it. All he could feel was her determination. She
quickened the beat of her wings, and a few minutes later they arrived at the face of the cliff
and then plunged through it and into the center of the storm.
Twilight surrounded them, gray and featureless.
It was as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. The clouds made it impossible for
Eragon to judge any distance past the tips of Saphira’s nose, tail, and wings. They were effectively
blind, and only the constant pull of their weight let them differentiate up from down.
Eragon opened his mind and allowed his consciousness to expand as far as he could, but
he felt no other living thing besides Saphira and Glaedr, not even a single stray bird. Fortunately,
Saphira retained her sense of direction; they would not get lost. And by continuing to
search with his mind for other beings, whether plant or animal, Eragon could ensure that they
would not fly straight into the side of a mountain.
He also cast a spell that Oromis had taught him, a spell that informed him and Saphira exactly
how close they were to the water—or the ground—at any given moment.
From the moment they entered the cloud, the ever-present moisture began to accumulate
on Eragon’s skin and soak into his woolen clothes, weighing them down. It was an annoyance
he could have ignored had not the combination of water and wind been so chilling, it would
have soon drained the heat from his limbs and killed him. Therefore, he cast another spell,
which filtered the air around him of any visible droplets, as well as—at her request—the air
around Saphira’s eyes, for the moisture kept collecting on their surface, forcing her to blink all
too frequently.
The wind inside the anvil head was surprisingly gentle. Eragon made a comment to that
effect to Glaedr, but the old dragon stayed as grim as ever. We have yet to encounter the
worst of it.
The truth of his words soon became evident when a ferocious updraft slammed into
Saphira’s underside and carried her thousands of feet higher, where the air was too thin for
Eragon to breathe properly and the mist froze into countless tiny crystals that stung his nose
and cheeks and the webbing of Saphira’s wings like so many razor-sharp knives.
Pinning her wings against her sides, Saphira dove forward, trying to escape the updraft.
After a few seconds, the pressure underneath her vanished, only to be replaced by an equally
powerful downdraft, which shoved her toward the waves at a frightful speed.
As they fell, the ice crystals melted, forming large, globular raindrops that seemed to float
weightlessly alongside Saphira. Lightning flared nearby—an eerie blue glow through the veil
of clouds—and Eragon shouted with pain as the thunder boomed around them. His ears still
ringing, he ripped two small pieces off the edge of his cloak, then rolled up the scraps of cloth
and screwed them into his ears, forcing them in as far as he could.
Only near the bottom of the clouds did Saphira manage to break free of the fast-flowing
stream of air. As soon as she did, a second updraft seized hold of her and, like a giant hand,
pushed her skyward.
Then and for a long while after, Eragon lost all track of time. The raging wind was too
strong for Saphira to resist, and she continued to rise and fall in the cycling air, like a piece of
flotsam caught in a whirlpool. She made some headway—a few scant miles, dearly won and
with great effort retained—but every time she extricated herself from one of the looping currents,
she found herself trapped in another.
It was humbling for Eragon to realize that he, Saphira, and Glaedr were helpless before
the storm and that, for all their might, they could not hope to match the power of the elements.
Twice, the wind nearly drove Saphira into the crashing waves. On both occasions, the
downdrafts cast her out of the underbelly of the storm into the squalls of rain that pummeled
the sea below. The second time it happened, Eragon looked over Saphira’s shoulder and, for
an instant, he thought he saw the long, dark shape of the Nïdhwal resting upon the heaving
water. However, when the next burst of lightning came, the shape was gone, and he
wondered whether the shadows had played a trick upon him.
As Saphira’s strength waned, she fought the wind less and less and, instead, allowed it to
take her where it would. She only made an effort to defy the storm when she got too close to
the water. Otherwise, she stilled her wings and exerted herself as little as possible. Eragon
felt when Glaedr began to feed her a thread of energy to help sustain her, but even that was
not enough to allow her to do more than hold her place.
Eventually, what light there was began to fade, and despair settled upon Eragon. They
had spent the better part of the day being tossed about by the storm, and still it showed no
sign of subsiding, nor did it seem as if Saphira was anywhere close to its perimeter.
Once the sun had set, Eragon could not even see the tip of his nose, and there was no difference
between when his eyes were open and when they were closed. It was as if a huge
pile of black wool had been packed around him and Saphira, and indeed, the darkness
seemed to have a weight to it, as if it were a palpable substance pressing against them from
all sides.
Every few seconds, another flash of lightning split the gloom, sometimes hidden within the
clouds, sometimes streaking across their field of vision, glaring with the brightness of a dozen
suns and leaving the air tasting like iron. After the searing brightness of the closer discharges,
the night seemed twice as dark, and Eragon and Saphira alternated between being blinded by
the light and being blinded by the utter black that followed. As close as the bolts came, they
never struck Saphira, but the constant roll of thunder left Eragon and Saphira feeling sick from
the noise.
How long they continued like that, Eragon could not tell.
Then, at some point in the night, Saphira entered a torrent of rising air that was far larger
and far stronger than any they had previously encountered. As soon as it struck them,
Saphira began to struggle against it in an attempt to escape, but the force of the wind was so
great, she could barely hold her wings level.
At last, frustrated, she roared and loosed a jet of flame from her maw, illuminating a small
area of the surrounding ice crystals, which glittered like gems.
Help me, she said to Eragon and Glaedr. I can’t do this by myself.
So the two of them melded their minds and, with Glaedr supplying the needed energy,
Eragon shouted, “Gánga fram!â€
The spell propelled Saphira forward, but ever so slowly, for moving at right angles to the
wind was like swimming across the Anora River during the height of the spring snowmelt.
Even as Saphira advanced horizontally, the current continued to sweep her upward at a
dizzying rate. Soon Eragon began to notice that he was growing short of breath, and yet they
remained caught within the torrent of air.
This is taking too long and it’s costing us too much energy, said Glaedr. End the spell.
But—
End the spell. We can’t win free before the two of you faint. We’ll have to ride the wind until
it weakens enough for Saphira to escape.
How? she asked while Eragon did as Glaedr instructed. The exhaustion and sense of defeat
that muddied her thoughts made Eragon feel a pang of concern for her.
Eragon, you must amend the spell you are using to warm yourself to include Saphira and
me. It is going to grow cold, colder than even the bitterest winter in the Spine, and without magic,
we shall freeze to death.
Even you?
I will crack like a piece of hot glass dropped in snow. Next you must cast a spell to gather
the air around you and Saphira and to hold it there, so you may still breathe. But it must also
allow the stale air to escape, or else you will suffocate. The wording of the spell is complicated,
and you must not make any mistakes, so listen carefully. It goes as such—
Once Glaedr had recited the necessary phrases in the ancient language, Eragon repeated
them back to him, and when the dragon was satisfied with his pronunciation, Eragon cast the
spell. Then he amended his other piece of magic as Glaedr had instructed, so the three of
them were shielded from the cold.
They waited, then, while the wind lifted them higher and higher. Minutes passed, and
Eragon began to wonder if they would ever stop, or if they would keep hurtling upward until
they were level with the moon and the stars.
It occurred to him that perhaps this was how shooting stars were made: a bird or a dragon
or some other earthly creature snatched upward by the inexorable wind and thrown skyward
with such speed, they flamed like siege arrows. If so, then he guessed he, Saphira, and
Glaedr would make the brightest, most spectacular shooting star in living memory, if anyone
was close enough to see their demise so far out to sea.
The howling of the wind gradually grew softer. Even the bone-jarring claps of thunder
seemed muted, and when Eragon dug the scraps of cloth out of his ears, he was astonished
by the hushed silence that surrounded them. He still heard a faint susurration in the background,
like the sound of a small forest brook, but other than that, it was quiet, blessedly
quiet.
As the clamor of the angry storm faded, he also noticed that the strain imposed by his
spells was increasing—not so much from the enchantment that prevented their bodily heat
from dissipating too quickly, but from the enchantment that collected and compressed the atmosphere
in front of him and Saphira so that they could fill their lungs as they normally did.
For whatever reason, the energy required to maintain the second spell multiplied out of all
proportion to the first, and he soon felt the symptoms that indicated the magic was upon the
verge of stealing away what little remained of his life force: a coldness of his hands, an uncertainty
in the beating of his heart, and an overwhelming sense of lethargy, which was perhaps
the most worrying sign of all.
Then Glaedr began to assist him. With relief, Eragon felt his burden decrease as the
dragon’s strength flowed into him, a flush of fever-like heat that washed away his lethargy and
restored the vigor of his limbs.
And so they continued.
At long last, Saphira detected a slackening of the wind—slight but noticeable—and she
began to prepare to fly out of the stream of air.
Before she could, the clouds above them thinned, and Eragon glimpsed a few glittering
specks: stars, white and silvery and brighter than any he had seen before.
Look, he said. Then the clouds opened up around them, and Saphira rose out of the storm
and hung above it, balancing precariously atop the column of rushing wind.
Laid out below them, Eragon saw the whole of the storm, extending for what must have
been a hundred miles in every direction. The center appeared as an arching, mushroom-like
dome, smoothed off by the vicious crosswinds that swept west to east and threatened to
topple Saphira from her uncertain perch. The clouds both near and far were milky and
seemed almost luminous, as if lit from within. They looked beautiful and benign—placid, unchanging
formations that betrayed nothing of the violence inside.
Then Eragon noticed the sky, and he gasped, for it contained more stars than he had
thought existed. Red, blue, white, gold, they lay strewn upon the firmament like handfuls of
sparkling dust. The constellations he was familiar with were still present but now set among
thousands of fainter stars, which he beheld for the very first time. And not only did the stars
appear brighter, the void between them appeared darker. It was as if, whenever he had
looked at the sky before, there had been a haze over his eyes that had kept him from seeing
the true glory of the stars.
He stared at the spectacular display for several moments, awestruck by the glorious, random,
unknowable nature of the twinkling lights. Only when he finally lowered his gaze did it
occur to him that there was something unusual about the purple-hued horizon. Instead of the
sky and the sea meeting in a straight line—as they ought to and always had before—the juncture
between them curved, like the edge of an unimaginably big circle.
It was such a strange sight, it took Eragon a half-dozen seconds to understand what he
was seeing, and when he did, his scalp tingled and he felt as if the breath had been knocked
out of him.
“The world is round,†he whispered. “The sky is hollow and the world is round.â€
So it would appear, Glaedr said, but he seemed equally impressed. I heard tell of this from
a wild dragon, but I never thought to see it myself.
To the east, a faint yellow glow tinted a section of the horizon, presaging the return of the
sun. Eragon guessed that if Saphira held her position for another four or five minutes, they
would see it rise, even though it would still be hours before the warm, life-giving rays reached
the water below.
Saphira balanced there for a moment more, the three of them suspended between the
stars and the earth, floating in the silent twilight like dispossessed spirits. They were in a
nowhere place, neither part of the heavens nor part of the world below—a mote passing
through the margin separating two immensities.
Then Saphira tipped forward and half flew, half fell northward, for the air was so sparse
that her wings could not fully support her weight once she left the stream of rising wind.
As she hurtled downward, Eragon said, If we had enough jewels, and if we stored enough
energy in them, do you think we could fly all the way to the moon?
Who knows what is possible? said Glaedr.
When Eragon was a child, Carvahall and Palancar Valley had been all he had known. He
had heard of the Empire, of course, but it had never seemed quite real until he began to travel
within it. Later still, his mental picture of the world had expanded to include the rest of
Alagaësia and, vaguely, the other lands he had read of. And now he realized that what he had
thought of as so large was actually but a small part of a much greater whole. It was as if his
point of view had, within a few seconds, gone from that of an ant to that of an eagle.
For the sky was hollow, and the world was round.
It made him reevaluate and recategorize … everything. The war between the Varden and
the Empire seemed inconsequential when compared with the true size of the world, and he
thought how petty were most of the hurts and concerns that bedeviled people, when looked at
from on high.
To Saphira, he said, If only everyone could see what we have seen, perhaps there would
be less fighting in the world.
You cannot expect wolves to become sheep.
No, but neither do the wolves have to be cruel to the sheep.
Saphira soon dropped back into the darkness of the clouds, but she managed to avoid
getting caught in another cycle of rising and falling air. Instead, she glided for many miles,
skipping off the tops of the other, lower updrafts packed within the storm, using them to help
conserve her strength.
An hour or two later, the fog parted, and they flew out of the huge mass of clouds that
formed the center of the storm. They descended to skim over the insubstantial foothills piled
about its base, which gradually flattened into a quilted blanket that covered everything in
sight, with the sole exception of the anvil head itself.
By the time the sun finally appeared above the horizon, neither Eragon nor Saphira had
the energy to pay much attention to their surroundings. Nor was there anything in the sameness
below to attract their attention.
It was Glaedr, then, who said, Saphira, there, to your right. Do you see it?
Eragon lifted his head off his folded arms and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the brightness.
Some miles to the north, a ring of mountains rose out of the clouds. The peaks were clad
in snow and ice, and together they looked like an ancient, jagged crown resting atop the layers
of mist. The eastward-facing scarps shone brilliantly in the light of the morning sun, while
long blue shadows cloaked the western sides and stretched dwindling into the distance,
tenebrous daggers upon the billowy, snow-white plain.
Eragon straightened in his seat, hardly daring to believe that their journey might be at an
end.
Behold, said Glaedr, Aras Thelduin, the fire mountains that guard the heart of Vroengard.
Fly quickly, Saphira, for we have but a little farther to go.
Inheritance
BURROW GRUBS
THEY CAUGHT HER at the intersection of two identical corridors, both lined with pillars
and torches and scarlet pennants bearing the twisting gold flame that was Galbatorix’s insignia.
Nasuada had not expected to escape, not really, but she could not help but feel disappointed
at her failure. If nothing else, she had hoped to cover more distance before they recaptured
her.
She fought the whole way as the soldiers dragged her back to the chamber that had been
her prison. The men wore chest plates and vambraces, but she still managed to scratch their
faces and bite their hands, wounding a pair of the men rather severely.
The soldiers uttered exclamations of dismay when they entered the Hall of the Soothsayer
and saw what she had done to her jailer. Careful not to step in the pooling blood, they carried
her to the slab of stone, strapped her down, then hurried away, leaving her alone with the
corpse.
She shouted at the ceiling and yanked at her restraints, angry with herself for not having
done better. Still simmering, she glanced at the body on the floor, then quickly looked away.
In death, the man’s expression seemed accusatory, and she could not bear to gaze upon it.
After she stole the spoon, she had spent hours grinding the end of the handle against the
stone slab. The spoon had been made of soft iron, so it was easy to shape.
She had thought that Galbatorix and Murtagh would visit her next, but instead it was her
jailer, bringing her what might have been a late dinner. He had started to undo her manacles
in preparation for escorting her to the privy room. The moment he freed her left hand, she
stabbed him underneath the chin with the sharpened handle of the spoon, burying the utensil
in the folds of his wattle. The man squealed, a horrible, high-pitched sound that reminded her
of a pig at slaughter, and spun thrice around, flailing his arms, then fell to the floor, where he
lay thrashing and frothing and drumming his heels for what seemed an unreasonably long
time.
Killing him had troubled her. She did not think the man had been evil—she was not sure
what he had been—but there had been a simpleness to him that made her feel as if she had
taken advantage of him. Still, she had done what was necessary, and though she now found
it unpleasant to consider, she remained convinced that her actions had been justified.
As the man lay convulsing in his death throes, she had unfastened the rest of the restraints
and jumped off the slab. Then, steeling her nerve, she pulled the spoon out of the
man’s neck, which—like a stopper removed from the bung of a barrel—released a spray of
blood that splattered her legs and caused her to jump backward while stifling a curse.
The two guards outside the Hall of the Soothsayer had been easy enough to deal with.
She had caught them by surprise and killed the right-hand guard in much the same way she
had killed her jailer. Then she had drawn the dagger from the guard’s belt and attacked the
other man even as he struggled to bring his pike to bear upon her. Up close, a pike was no
match for a dagger, and she had unseamed him before he had a chance to escape or raise
the alarm.
She had not gotten very far after that. Whether because of Galbatorix’s spells or just plain
bad luck, she ran headlong into a group of five soldiers, and they had quickly, if not easily,
subdued her.
It could not have been more than half an hour later when she heard a large group of men
in iron-shod boots march up to the door of the chamber, and then Galbatorix stormed in, followed
by several guards.
As always, he stopped at the edge of her line of sight, and there he stood, a tall, dark figure
with an angular face, only the outlines of which were visible. She saw his head turn as he
took in the scene; then, in a cold voice, he said, “How did this happen?â€
A soldier with a plume on his helm scurried in front of Galbatorix, knelt, and held out her
sharpened spoon. “Sire, we found this in one of the men outside.â€
The king took the spoon and turned it over in his hands. “I see.†His head swiveled toward
her. He gripped the ends of the spoon and, without discernible effort, bent it until it snapped in
two. “You knew you could not escape, and yet you insisted upon trying. I’ll not have you killing
my men merely to spite me. You have not the right to take their lives. You have not the right
to do anything unless I allow it.†He flung the pieces of metal upon the floor. Then he turned
and stalked out of the Hall of the Soothsayer, his heavy cape flapping behind him.
Two of the soldiers removed her jailer’s body, then scoured the chamber of his blood,
cursing her as they scrubbed.
Once they had left and she was again alone, she allowed herself a sigh, and some of the
tension in her limbs vanished.
She wished she had had a chance to eat, for now that the excitement was over, she found
she was hungry. Worse, she suspected she would have to wait hours before she could hope
to have her next meal, assuming that Galbatorix did not decide to punish her by withholding
food.
Her musings about bread and roasts and tall glasses of wine were short-lived, as she
again heard the sound of many boots in the passageway outside her cell. Startled, she tried
to mentally prepare herself for whatever unpleasantness was about to come, for it would be
unpleasant, she was sure.
The door to the chamber crashed open, and two sets of footsteps echoed in the octagonal
room as Murtagh and Galbatorix walked over to her. Murtagh positioned himself where he
usually did, but without the brazier to occupy himself, he crossed his arms, leaned against the
wall, and glared at the floor. What she could see of his expression beneath his silver half
mask did not comfort her; the lines of his face seemed even harder than normal, and there
was something about the cast of his mouth that sent a chill of fear into her bones.
Instead of sitting, as was his wont, Galbatorix stood behind and somewhat to the side of
her head, where she could feel his presence more than she could see it.
He extended his long, clawlike hands over her. In them, he held a small box decorated
with lines of carved horn that might have formed glyphs from the ancient language. Most disconcerting
of all, a faint skree-skree sound came from within the container, soft as the
scratching of a mouse, but no less distinct.
With the pad of his thumb, Galbatorix pushed open the box’s sliding lid. Then he reached
inside and pulled out what appeared to be a large, ivory-colored maggot. The creature was almost
three inches long, and it had a tiny mouth at one end, with which it uttered the skreeskree
she had heard before, announcing its displeasure to the world. It was plump and
pleated, like a caterpillar, but if it had any legs, they were so small as to be invisible.
As the creature wiggled in a vain attempt to free itself from between Galbatorix’s fingers,
the king said, “This is a burrow grub. It is not what it appears to be. Few things are, but in the
case of burrow grubs, that is all the more true. They are found in only one place in Alagaësia
and are far more difficult to capture than you might suppose. Take it, then, as a sign of my regard
for you, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, that I deign to use one on you.†His voice dropped
in tone, becoming even more intimate. “I would not, however, wish to exchange places with
you.â€
The skree-skree of the burrow grub increased in volume as Galbatorix dropped it onto the
bare skin of her right arm, just below the elbow. She flinched as the disgusting creature
landed on her; it was heavier than it looked, and its underside gripped her with what felt like
hundreds of little hooks.
The burrow grub squalled for a moment more; then it gathered up its body in a tight
bundle and hopped several inches up her arm.
She wrenched at her bonds, hoping to dislodge the grub, but it continued to cling to her.
Again it hopped.
And again, and now it was on her shoulder, the hooks pinching and digging into her skin
like a strip of minute cockleburs. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the burrow grub lift up
its eyeless head and point it toward her face, as if testing the air. Its tiny mouth opened, and
she saw that it had sharp cutting mandibles behind its upper and lower lips.
Skree-skree? said the burrow grub. Skree-skra?
“Not there,†Galbatorix said, and he spoke a word in the ancient language.
On hearing it, the burrow grub swung away from her head, for which she felt a measure of
relief. Then it began to worm its way back down her arm.
Few things frightened her. The touch of the hot iron frightened her. The thought that Galbatorix
might reign forevermore in Urû’baen frightened her. Death, of course, frightened her,
although not so much because she feared the end of her existence as because she feared
leaving undone all the things she still hoped to accomplish.
But, for whatever reason, the sight and feel of the burrow grub unnerved her in a way that,
until that very moment, nothing else had. Every muscle in her body seemed to burn and
tingle, and she felt an overwhelming urge to run, to flee, to put as much distance between
herself and the creature as she could, for there seemed to be something profoundly wrong
about the burrow grub. It did not move as it should, and its obscene little mouth reminded her
of a child’s, and the sound it made, the horrible, horrible sound, elicited a primal loathing within
her.
The burrow grub paused by her elbow.
Skree-skree!
Then its fat, limbless body contracted, and it hopped four, five inches straight up into the
air and then dove headfirst toward the inner part of her elbow.
As it landed, the burrow grub divided into a dozen small, bright green centipedes, which
swarmed over her arm before each chose a spot to sink its mandibles into her flesh and bore
its way through her skin.
The pain was too great for her to bear; she struggled against her restraints and screamed
at the ceiling, but she could not escape her torment, not then and not for a seemingly endless
span of time thereafter. The iron had hurt more, but she would have preferred its touch, for
the hot metal was impersonal, inanimate, and predictable, all things the burrow grub was not.
There was a special horror in knowing that the cause of her pain was a creature chewing on
her, and worse, that it was inside her.
At the last, she lost her pride and self-control and cried out to the goddess Gokukara for
mercy, and then she began to babble as a child might, unable to stop the flow of random
words coming from her mouth.
And behind her, she heard Galbatorix laughing, and his enjoyment of her suffering made
her hate him all the more.
She blinked, slowly coming back to herself.
After several moments, she realized that Murtagh and Galbatorix were gone. She had no
recollection of their departure; she must have lost consciousness.
The pain was less than before, but she still hurt terribly. She glanced down her body, then
averted her eyes, feeling her pulse quicken. Where the centipedes had been—she was not
sure whether individually they were still considered burrow grubs—her flesh was swollen and
lines of purple blood filled the tracks they had left underneath the surface of her skin, and
every track burned. It felt as if she had been lashed across the front of her body with a metal
whip.
She wondered if perhaps the burrow grubs were still inside of her, lying dormant while
they digested their meal. Or perhaps they were metamorphosing, like maggots into flies, and
they would turn into something even worse. Or, and this seemed the most terrible possibility,
perhaps they were laying eggs within her, and more of them would soon hatch and begin to
feast on her.
She shuddered and cried out with fear and frustration.
The wounds made it difficult for her to remain coherent. Her vision faded in and out, and
she found herself weeping, which disgusted her, but she could not stop, no matter how hard
she tried. As a distraction, she fell to talking to herself—nonsense mostly—anything to bolster
her resolve or focus her mind on other subjects. It helped, if only a little.
She knew that Galbatorix did not want to kill her, but she feared that in his anger he had
gone further than he intended. She was shaking, and her entire body felt inflamed, as if she
had been stung by hundreds of bees. Willpower could sustain her for only so long; no matter
how determined she was, there was a limit to what her frame could withstand, and she felt
that she was well past that point. Something deep inside her seemed to have broken, and she
was no longer confident that she could recover from her injuries.
The door to the chamber scraped open.
She forced her eyes to focus as she strained to see who was approaching.
It was Murtagh.
He looked down at her, his lips pinched, his nostrils flared, and a furrow between his
brows. At first she thought he was angry, but then she realized he was actually worried and
afraid, deathly so. The strength of his concern surprised her; she knew he regarded her with a
certain liking—why else would he have convinced Galbatorix to keep her alive?—but she had
not suspected that he cared for her quite so much.
She tried to reassure him with a smile. It must not have come out right, for as she did,
Murtagh clenched his jaw, as if he was struggling to contain himself.
“Try not to move,†he said, and lifted his hands over her and began to murmur in the ancient
language.
As if I could, she thought.
His magic soon took effect, and wound by wound, her pain abated, but it did not disappear
entirely.
She frowned at him, puzzled, and he said, “I’m sorry. I can do no more. Galbatorix would
know how, but it’s beyond me.â€
“What … what about your EldunarÃ?†she asked. “Surely they can help.â€
He shook his head. “Young dragons all, or they were when their bodies died. They knew
little of magic then, and Galbatorix has taught them almost nothing since. … I’m sorry.â€
“Are those things still in me?â€
“No! No, they’re not. Galbatorix removed them once you passed out.â€
Her relief was profound. “Your spell didn’t stop the pain.†She tried not to sound accusatory,
but she could not prevent a note of anger from creeping into her voice.
He grimaced. “I’m not sure why. It ought to have. Whatever that creature is, it doesn’t fit
into the normal pattern of the world.â€
“Do you know where it’s from?â€
“No. I only learned of it today, when Galbatorix fetched it from his inner chambers.â€
She closed her eyes for a moment.
“Let me up.â€
“Are you s—â€
“Let me up.â€
Without a word, he undid her restraints. Then she got to her feet and stood swaying next
to the slab while she waited for an attack of light-headedness to recede.
“Here,†said Murtagh, handing her his cape. She wrapped it around her body, covering
herself for both modesty and warmth, and also so that she did not have to look at the burns,
scabs, blisters, and blood-filled lines that disfigured her.
Limping—for, among other places, the burrow grub had visited the soles of her feet—she
walked to the edge of the chamber. She leaned against the wall and slowly lowered herself to
the floor.
Murtagh joined her, and the two of them sat staring at the opposite wall.
Despite herself, she began to cry.
After a while, she felt him touch her shoulder, and she jerked away. She could not help it.
He had hurt her more in the past few days than anyone else ever had, and though she knew
he had not wanted to do it, she could not forget that it was he who had wielded the hot iron.
Even so, when she saw how her reaction stung him, she relented and reached out and
took his hand. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, then put his arm around her shoulders
and drew her close. She resisted for a moment, then relaxed into his embrace and laid her
head on his chest as she continued to cry, her quiet sobs echoing in the bare stone room.
Some minutes later, she felt him move beneath her as he said, “I’ll find a way to free you, I
swear. It’s too late for Thorn and me. But not for you. As long as you don’t pledge fealty to
Galbatorix, there’s still a chance I can spirit you out of Urû’baen.â€
She looked up at him and decided he meant what he said. “How?†she whispered.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,†he admitted with a roguish smile. “But I will. Whatever it
takes. You have to promise me, though, that you won’t give up—not until I’ve tried. Agreed?â€
“I don’t think I can endure that … thing again. If he puts it on me again, I’ll give him
whatever he wants.â€
“You won’t have to; he doesn’t intend to use the burrow grubs again.â€
“… What does he intend?â€
Murtagh was silent for a minute more. “He’s decided to start manipulating what you see,
hear, feel, and taste. If that doesn’t work, then he’ll attack your mind directly. You won’t be
able to resist him if he does. No one ever has. Before it comes to that, though, I’m sure I’ll be
able to rescue you. All you have to do is keep fighting for another few days. That’s it—just another
few days.â€
“How can I if I can’t trust my senses?â€
“There is one sense he cannot feign.†Murtagh twisted to look at her more directly. “Will
you let me touch your mind? I won’t try to read your thoughts. I only want you to know what
my mind feels like, so you can recognize it—so you can recognize me—in the future.â€
She hesitated. She knew that this was a turning point. Either she would agree to trust him,
or she would refuse and perhaps lose her only chance to avoid becoming Galbatorix’s slave.
Still, she remained wary of granting anyone access to her mind. Murtagh could be trying to lull
her into lowering her defenses so that he could more easily install himself in her consciousness.
Or it might be that he hoped to glean some piece of information by eavesdropping on
her thoughts.
Then she thought: Why should Galbatorix resort to such tricks? He could do either of
those things himself. Murtagh is right; I wouldn’t be able to resist him. … If I accept Murtagh’s
offer, it may mean my doom, but if I refuse, my doom is inevitable. One way or another, Galbatorix
will break me. It’s only a matter of time.
“Do as you will,†she said.
Murtagh nodded and half closed his eyes.
In the silence of her mind, she began to recite the scrap of verse she used whenever she
wanted to hide her thoughts or defend her consciousness from an intruder. She concentrated
on it with all her might, determined to repel Murtagh if need be and also determined not to
think about any of the secrets it was her duty to keep hidden.
In El-harÃm, there lived a man, a man with yellow eyes.
To me, he said, “Beware the whispers, for they whisper lies.
Do not wrestle with the demons of the dark,
Else upon your mind they’ll place a mark;
Do not listen to the shadows of the deep,
Else they haunt you even when you sleep.â€
When Murtagh’s consciousness pressed against hers, she stiffened and began to recite
the lines of the verse even faster. To her surprise, his mind felt familiar. The similarities
between his consciousness and—No, she could not say whose, but the similarities were striking,
as were the equally prominent differences. Foremost among the differences was his anger,
which lay at the center of his being like a cold black heart, clenched and unmoving, with
veins of hatred snaking out to entangle the rest of his mind. But his concern for her outshone
his anger. Seeing it convinced her that his solicitude was genuine, for to dissemble with one’s
inner self was incredibly difficult, and she did not believe that Murtagh could have deceived
her so convincingly.
True to his word, he made no attempt to force himself deeper into her mind, and after a
few seconds, he withdrew and she again found herself alone with her thoughts.
Murtagh’s eyes opened fully, and he said, “There now. Will you be able to recognize me if
I reach out to you again?â€
She nodded.
“Good. Galbatorix can do many things, but even he cannot imitate the feeling of another
person’s mind. I’ll try to warn you before he starts to alter your senses, and I’ll contact you
when he stops. That way, he won’t be able to confuse you as to what is real and what is not.â€
“Thank you,†she said, unable to express the full extent of her gratitude in so short a
phrase.
“Fortunately, we have some time. The Varden are only three days hence, and the elves
are fast approaching from the north. Galbatorix has gone to oversee the final placement of
Urû’baen’s defenses and to discuss strategy with Lord Barst, who has command of the army
now that it’s garrisoned here in the city.â€
She frowned. That boded ill. She had heard of Lord Barst; he had a fearsome reputation
among the nobles of Galbatorix’s court. He was said to be both keen-minded and bloodyhanded,
and those who were foolish enough to oppose him, he crushed without mercy.
“Not you?†she asked.
“Galbatorix has other plans for me, although he’s yet to share them.â€
“How long will he be busy with his preparations?â€
“The rest of today and all of tomorrow.â€
“Do you think you can free me before he returns?â€
“I don’t know. Probably not.†A pause fell between them. Then he said, “Now I have a
question for you: why did you kill those men? You knew you wouldn’t make it out of the citadel.
Was it just to spite Galbatorix, as he said?â€
She sighed and pushed herself off Murtagh’s chest so she was sitting upright. With some
reluctance, he released his hold around her shoulders. She sniffed, then looked him square in
the eyes. “I couldn’t just lie there and let him do whatever he wanted to me. I had to fight
back; I had to show him that he hadn’t broken me, and I wanted to hurt him however I could.â€
“So it was spite!â€
“In part. What of it?†She expected him to express disgust or condemnation at her actions,
but instead he gave her an appraising look and his lips curved in a small, knowing smile.
“Then I say well done,†he replied.
After a moment, she returned his smile.
“Besides,†she said, “there was always a chance I might escape.â€
He snorted. “And dragons might start eating grass.â€
“Even so, I had to try.â€
“I understand. If I could have, I would have done the same when the Twins first brought
me here.â€
“And now?â€
“I still can’t, and even if I could, what purpose would it serve?â€
To that, she had no answer. Silence followed, and then she said, “Murtagh, if it’s not possible
to free me from here, then I want your promise that you’ll help me escape by … other
means. I wouldn’t ask … I wouldn’t place this burden upon you, but your assistance would
make the task easier, and I may not have the opportunity to do it myself.†His lips grew thin
and hard as she spoke, but he did not interrupt. “Whatever happens, I won’t allow myself to
become a plaything for Galbatorix to order about as he will. I’ll do anything, anything at all to
avoid that fate. Can you understand that?â€
His chin dipped in a short nod.
“Then do I have your word?â€
He looked down and clenched his fists, his breathing ragged. “You do.â€
Murtagh was taciturn, but eventually she succeeded in drawing him out again, and they
passed the time talking about matters of little import. Murtagh told her of the alterations he
had made to the saddle Galbatorix had given him for Thorn—changes that Murtagh was justifiably
proud of, as they allowed him to mount and dismount faster, as well as to draw his
sword with less inconvenience. She told him about the market streets in Aberon, the capital of
Surda, and how, as a child, she had often run away from her nurse to explore them. Her favorite
of the merchants had been a man of the wandering tribes. His name was Hadamanara-
no Dachu Taganna, but he had insisted that she call him by his familiar name, which was
Taganna. He sold knives and daggers, and he always seemed to delight in showing her his
wares, even though she never bought any.
As she and Murtagh continued to talk, their conversation grew easier and more relaxed.
Despite their unpleasant circumstances, she found that she enjoyed speaking with him. He
was smart and well educated, and he had a mordant wit that she appreciated, especially given
her current predicament.
Murtagh seemed to enjoy their conversation as much as she did. Still, the time came
when they both recognized that it would be foolish to keep talking, for fear of being caught. So
she returned to the slab, where she lay down and allowed him to strap her to the unforgiving
block of stone once again.
As he was about to leave, she said, “Murtagh.â€
He paused and turned to regard her.
She hesitated for a moment, then mustered her courage and said, “Why?†She thought he
understood her meaning: Why her? Why save her, and now why try to rescue her? She had
guessed at the answer, but she wanted to hear him say it.
He stared at her for the longest while, and then, in a low, hard voice, he said, “You know
why.â€
Inheritance
AMID THE RUINS
THE THICK GRAY clouds parted, and from his place on Saphira’s back, Eragon beheld
the interior of Vroengard Island.
Before them was a huge bowl-shaped valley, encircled by the steep mountains they had
seen poking through the tops of the clouds. A dense forest of spruce, pine, and fir trees
blanketed the sides of the mountains as well as the foothills below, like an army of prickly soldiers
marching down from the peaks. The trees were tall and mournful, and even from a distance
Eragon could see the beards of moss and lichen that hung from their heavy branches.
Scraps of white mist clung to the sides of the mountains, and in several places throughout the
valley, diffuse curtains of rain drifted from the ceiling of clouds.
High above the valley floor, Eragon could see a number of stone structures among the
trees: tumbled, overgrown entrances to caves; the husks of burnt-out towers; grand halls with
collapsed roofs; and a few smaller buildings that looked as if they might still be habitable.
A dozen or more rivers flowed out of the mountains and wandered across the verdant
ground until they poured into a large, still lake near the center of the valley. Around the lake
lay the remnants of the Riders’ city, Doru Araeba. The buildings were immense—great empty
halls of such enormous proportions that many could have encompassed the whole of Carvahall.
Every door was like the mouth to a vast, unexplored cavern. Every window was as tall
and wide as a castle gate, and every wall was a sheer cliff.
Thick mats of ivy strangled the blocks of stone, and where there was no ivy there was
moss, which meant that the buildings blended into the landscape and looked as if they had
grown out of the earth itself. What little of the stone was bare tended to be a pale ocher, although
patches of red, brown, and dusky blue were also visible.
As with all elf-made structures, the buildings were graceful and flowing and more attenuated
than those of dwarves or humans. But they also possessed a solidity and authority that
the treehouses of Ellesméra lacked; in some of them, Eragon descried similarities to houses
in Palancar Valley, and he remembered that the earliest human Riders had come from that
very part of Alagaësia. The result was a unique style of architecture, neither entirely elvish nor
entirely human.
Almost all the buildings were damaged, some more severely than others. The damage
seemed to radiate outward from a single point near the southern edge of the city, where a
wide crater sank more than thirty feet into the ground. A copse of birch trees had taken root in
the depression, and their silvery leaves shook in the gusts of the directionless breeze.
The open areas within the city were overgrown with weeds and brush, while a fringe of
grass surrounded each of the flagstones that formed the streets. Where the buildings had
sheltered the Riders’ gardens from the blast that had ravaged the city, dull-colored flowers still
grew in artful designs, their shapes no doubt governed by the dictates of some long-forgotten
spell.
Altogether, the circular valley presented a dismal picture.
Behold the ruins of our pride and glory, said Glaedr. Then: Eragon, you must cast another
spell. The wording of it goes thus—And he uttered several lines in the ancient language. It
was an odd spell; the phrasing was obscure and convoluted, and Eragon was unable to determine
what it was supposed to accomplish.
When he asked Glaedr, the old dragon said, There is an invisible poison here, in the air
you breathe, in the ground you walk upon, and in the food you may eat and the water you
may drink. The spell will protect us against it.
What … poison? asked Saphira, her thoughts as slow as the beats of her wings.
Eragon saw from Glaedr an image of the crater by the city, and the dragon said, During
the battle with the Forsworn, one of our own, an elf by the name of Thuviel, killed himself with
magic. Whether by design or by accident has never been clear, but the result is what you see
and what you cannot see, for the resulting explosion rendered the area unfit to live in. Those
who remained here soon developed lesions upon their skin and lost their hair, and many died
thereafter.
Concerned, Eragon cast the spell—which required little energy—before he said, How
could any one person, elf or not, cause so much damage? Even if Thuviel’s dragon helped
him, I can’t think how it would be possible, not unless his dragon was the size of a mountain.
His dragon did not help him, said Glaedr. His dragon was dead. No, Thuviel wrought this
destruction by himself.
But how?
The only way he could have: he converted his flesh into energy.
He made himself into a spirit?
No. The energy was without thought or structure, and once unbound, it raced outward until
it dispersed.
I had not realized that a single body contained so much force.
It is not well known, but even the smallest speck of matter is equal to a great amount of
energy. Matter, it seems, is merely frozen energy. Melt it, and you release a flood few can
withstand. … It was said that the explosion here was heard as far away as Teirm and that the
cloud of smoke that followed rose as high as the Beor Mountains.
Was it the blast that killed Glaerun? Eragon asked, referring to the one member of the
Forsworn who he knew had died on Vroengard.
It was. Galbatorix and the rest of the Forsworn had a moment of warning, and so were
able to shield themselves, but many of our own were not as fortunate and thus perished.
As Saphira glided downward from the underside of the low-slung clouds, Glaedr instructed
her where to fly, so she altered her course, turning toward the northwestern part of the valley.
Glaedr named each of the mountains that she flew past: Ilthiaros, Fellsverd, and Nammenmast,
along with Huildrim and TÃrnadrim. He also named many of the holds and fallen towers
below, and he gave something of their history to Eragon and Saphira, although only Eragon
paid heed to the old dragon’s narration.
Within Glaedr’s consciousness, Eragon felt an ancient sorrow reawaken. The sorrow was
not so much for the destruction of Doru Araeba as for the deaths of the Riders, the near extinction
of the dragons, and the loss of thousands of years of knowledge and wisdom. The
memory of what had been—of the companionship he had once shared with the other members
of his order—exacerbated Glaedr’s loneliness. That, along with his sorrow, created a
mood of such desolation, Eragon began to feel saddened as well.
He withdrew slightly from Glaedr, but still the valley seemed gloomy and melancholy, as if
the land itself were mourning the fall of the Riders.
The lower Saphira flew, the larger the buildings appeared. As their true size became evident,
Eragon realized that what he had read in Domia abr Wyrda was no exaggeration: the
grandest of them were so enormous, Saphira would be able to fly within them.
Near the edge of the abandoned city, he began to notice piles of giant white bones upon
the ground: the skeletons of dragons. The sight filled him with revulsion, and yet he could not
bring himself to look elsewhere. What struck him most was their size. A few of the dragons
had been smaller than Saphira, but most had been far larger. The biggest he saw was a skeleton
with ribs that he guessed were at least eighty feet long and perhaps fifteen wide at their
thickest. The skull alone—a huge, fierce thing covered with blotches of lichen, like a rough
crag of stone—was longer and taller than the main part of Saphira’s body. Even Glaedr, when
he was still clothed in flesh, would have appeared diminutive next to the slain dragon.
There lies Belgabad, greatest of us all, said Glaedr as he noticed the object of Eragon’s
attention.
Eragon vaguely remembered the name from one of the histories he had read in
Ellesméra; the author had written only that Belgabad had been present at the battle and that
he perished in the fighting, as so many had.
Who was his Rider? he asked.
He had no Rider. He was a wild dragon. For centuries, he lived alone in the icy reaches of
the north, but when Galbatorix and the Forsworn began to slaughter our kind, he flew to our
aid.
Was he the largest dragon ever?
Ever? No. But at the time, yes.
How did he find enough to eat?
At that age and at that size, dragons spend most of their time in a sleep-like trance,
dreaming of whatever happens to capture their fancy, be it the turning of the stars, or the rise
and fall of the mountains over the eons, or even something as small as the motion of a butterfly’s
wings. Already I feel the lure of such repose, but awake I am needed and awake I shall
stay.
Did … you … know … Belgabad? asked Saphira, forcing the words through her fatigue.
I met him, but I did not know him. Wild dragons did not, as a rule, consort with those of us
who were bonded with Riders. They looked down on us for being too tame and too compliant,
while we looked down on them for being too driven by their instincts, although sometimes we
admired them for the same. Also, you must remember, they had no language of their own,
and that created a greater difference between us than you might think. Language alters your
mind in ways that are hard to explain. Wild dragons could communicate as effectively as any
dwarf or elf, of course, but they did so by sharing memories, images, and sensations, not
words. Only the more cunning of them chose to learn this or any other tongue.
Glaedr paused, and then he added, If I recall correctly, Belgabad was a distant ancestor of
Raugmar the Black, and Raugmar, as I’m sure you remember, Saphira, was the great-greatgreat-
grandsire of your mother, Vervada.
In her exhaustion, Saphira was slow to react, but at last she twisted her neck to again look
at the vast skeleton. He must have been a good hunter to grow so big.
He was the very best, said Glaedr.
Then … I am glad to be of his blood.
The number of bones scattered across the ground staggered Eragon. Until then, he had
fully comprehended neither the extent of the battle nor how many dragons there had once
been. The sight renewed his hate for Galbatorix, and once again Eragon swore that he would
see the king dead.
Saphira sank through a band of mist, the white haze rolling off the tips of her wings like
tiny whirlpools set within the sky. Then a field of tangled grass rushed up at her and she
landed with a heavy jolt. Her right foreleg gave way beneath her, and she lurched to the side
and fell onto her chest and shoulder, plowing into the ground with such force that Eragon
would have impaled himself on the neck spike in front of him, had it not been for his wards.
Once her forward slide ceased, Saphira lay motionless, stunned by the impact. Then she
slowly rolled onto her feet, folded her wings, and settled into a low crouch. The straps on the
saddle creaked as she moved, the sound unnaturally loud in the hushed atmosphere that pervaded
the interior of the island.
Eragon pulled loose the bands around his legs, then jumped all the way to the ground. It
was wet and soft, and he dropped to one knee as his boots sank into the damp earth.
“We made it,†he said, amazed. He walked forward to Saphira’s head, and when she
lowered her neck so that she could look him in the eye, he placed his hands on either side of
her long head and pressed his forehead against her snout.
Thank you, he said.
He heard the snick as her eyelids closed, and then her head began to vibrate as she
hummed deep in her chest.
After a moment, Eragon released her and turned to look at their surroundings. The field
Saphira had landed in was on the northern outskirts of the city. Pieces of cracked masonry—
some as large as Saphira herself—lay scattered throughout the grass; Eragon was relieved
she had avoided striking any.
The field sloped upward, away from the city, to the base of the nearest foothill, which was
covered with forest. Where field and hill met, a large paved square had been cut flat into the
ground, and at the far side of the square sat a massive pile of dressed stone that stretched to
the north for over half a mile. Intact, the building would have been one of the largest on the island,
and certainly one of the most ornate, for among the square blocks of stone that had
formed the walls, Eragon spotted dozens of fluted pillars, as well as carved panels depicting
vines and flowers, and a whole host of statues, most of which were missing some combination
of body parts, as if they too had participated in the battle.
There lies the Great Library, said Glaedr. Or what remains after Galbatorix plundered it.
Eragon slowly turned as he inspected the surrounding area. To the south of the library, he
saw the faint lines of abandoned footpaths underneath the shaggy pelt of grass. The paths
led away from the library to a grove of apple trees that hid the ground from view, but rising behind
the trees was a jagged spar of stone well over two hundred feet tall, upon which grew
several gnarled junipers.
A spark of excitement formed within Eragon’s chest. He was sure, but still he asked, Is
that it? Is that the Rock of Kuthian?
He could feel Glaedr using his eyes to look at the formation, and then the dragon said, It
seems oddly familiar, but I cannot remember when I might have seen it before. …
Eragon needed no other confirmation. “Come on!†he said. He waded through the waisthigh
grass toward the nearest path.
There the grass was not quite so thick, and he could feel hard cobblestones under his feet
instead of rain-soaked earth. With Saphira close behind, he hurried down the path, and together
they walked through the shadowed grove of apple trees. Both of them stepped with
care, for the trees seemed alert and watchful, and something about the shape of their
branches was ominous, as if the trees were waiting to ensnare them with splintered claws.
Without meaning to, Eragon breathed a sigh of relief when they emerged from the grove.
The Rock of Kuthian stood upon the edge of a large clearing wherein grew a tangled pool
of roses, thistles, raspberries, and water hemlock. Behind the stone prominence stood row
upon row of drooping fir trees, which extended all the way back to the mountain that loomed
high above. The angry chatter of squirrels echoed among the boles of the forest, but of the
animals themselves, not so much as a whisker was to be seen.
Three stone benches—their shapes half hidden beneath layers of roots, vines, and creepers—
were situated at equal distances around the clearing. Off to the side was a willow tree,
whose latticework trunk had once served as a bower where the Riders might sit and enjoy the
view; but in the past hundred years, the trunk had grown too thick for any man, elf, or dwarf to
slip into the space within.
Eragon stopped at the edge of the clearing and stared at the Rock of Kuthian. Beside him,
Saphira whuffed and dropped onto her belly, shaking the ground and causing him to bend his
knees to keep his balance. He rubbed her on the shoulder, then turned his gaze back to the
tower of rock. A sense of nervous anticipation welled up inside him.
Opening his mind, Eragon searched the clearing and the trees beyond for anyone who
might be waiting to ambush them. The only living things he sensed were plants, insects, and
the moles, mice, and garter snakes that lived among the brush in the clearing.
Then he started to compose the spells that he hoped would allow him to detect any magical
traps in the area. Before he had put more than a few words together, Glaedr said, Stop.
You and Saphira are too tired for this now. Rest first; tomorrow we can return and see what
we may discover.
But—
The two of you are in no condition to defend yourselves if we must fight. Whatever we are
supposed to find will still be here in the morn.
Eragon hesitated, then reluctantly abandoned the spell. He knew Glaedr was right, but he
hated to wait any longer when the completion of their quest was so close at hand.
Very well, he said, and climbed back onto Saphira.
With a weary huff, she rose to her feet, then slowly turned around and trudged once more
through the grove of apple trees. The heavy impact of her steps shook loose withered leaves
from the canopy, one of which landed in Eragon’s lap. He picked it up and was about to throw
it away when he noticed that the leaf was shaped differently than it ought to be: the teeth
along the edge were longer and wider than those of any apple leaf he had seen before, and
the veins formed seemingly random patterns, instead of the regular network of lines he would
have expected.
He picked another leaf, this one still green. Like its desiccated cousin, the fresh leaf had
larger serrations and a confused map of veins.
Ever since the battle, things here have not been as they once were, said Glaedr.
Eragon frowned and tossed away the leaves. Again he heard the chatter of the squirrels,
and again he failed to see any among the trees, nor was he able to feel them with his mind,
which concerned him.
If I had scales, this place would make them itch, he said to Saphira.
A small puff of smoke rose from her nostrils as she snorted with amusement.
From the grove, she walked south until she came to one of the many streams that flowed
out of the mountains: a thin white brook that burbled softly as it tumbled over its bed of rocks.
There Saphira turned and followed the water upstream to a sheltered meadow near the forefront
of the evergreen forest.
Here, said Saphira, and she sank to the ground.
It looked a good place to make camp, and Saphira was in no condition to keep searching,
so Eragon agreed and dismounted. He paused for a moment to appreciate the view over the
valley; then he removed the saddle and the saddlebags from Saphira, whereupon she shook
her head, rolled her shoulders, and then twisted her neck to nibble at a spot on the side of her
chest where the straps had been chafing.
Without further ado, she curled up in the grass, tucked her head under her wing, and
wrapped her tail around herself. Do not wake me unless something is trying to eat us, she
said.
Eragon smiled and patted her on the tail, then turned to look at the valley again. He stood
there for a long while, barely thinking, content to observe and exist without making any effort
to coax meaning from the world around him.
At last he fetched his bedroll, which he laid out beside Saphira.
Will you keep watch for us? he asked Glaedr.
I shall keep watch. Rest, and do not worry.
Eragon nodded, even though Glaedr could not see him, and then he lowered himself onto
the blankets and allowed himself to drift off into the embrace of his waking dreams.
Inheritance
SNALGLÃ FOR TWO
IT WAS LATE afternoon when Eragon opened his eyes. The blanket of clouds had broken
in several places, and beams of golden light planked the valley floor, illuminating the tops of
the ruined buildings. Though the valley still looked cold and wet and unwelcoming, the light
gave it a newfound majesty. For the first time, Eragon understood why the Riders had chosen
to settle on the island.
He yawned, then glanced over at Saphira and lightly touched her mind. She was still
asleep, lost in a dreamless slumber. Her consciousness was like a flame that had dimmed until
it was little more than a smoldering coal, a coal that might just as easily go out as flare up
again.
The feeling unsettled him—it reminded him too much of death—so he returned to his own
mind and restricted their contact to a narrow thread of thought: just enough so that he could
be sure of her safety.
In the forest behind him, a pair of squirrels began to swear at each other with a series of
high-pitched shrieks. He frowned as he listened; their voices sounded a bit too sharp, a bit too
fast, a bit too warbly. It was as if some other creature was imitating the cries of the squirrels.
The thought made his scalp prickle.
He lay where he was for over an hour, listening to the shrieks and chattering that emanated
from the woods and watching the patterns of light as they played across the hills, fields,
and mountains of the bowl-shaped valley. Then the gaps in the clouds closed, the sky
darkened, and snow began to fall on the upper flanks of the mountains, painting them white.
Eragon rose and said to Glaedr, I’m going to gather some firewood. I’ll be back in a few
minutes.
The dragon acknowledged him, and Eragon carefully made his way across the meadow to
the forest, doing his best to be quiet so as not to disturb Saphira. Once he was at the trees,
he quickened his pace. Although there were plenty of dead branches along the verge of the
forest, he wanted to stretch his legs and, if he could, find the source of the chattering.
Shadows lay heavy under the trees. The air was cool and still, like that of a cave deep underground,
and it smelled of fungus, rotting wood, and oozing sap. The moss and lichen that
trailed from the branches were like lengths of tattered lace, stained and sodden but still possessed
of a certain delicate beauty. They partitioned the interior of the woods into cells of
varying size, which made it difficult to see more than fifty feet in any direction.
Eragon used the burbling of the brook to determine his bearings as he worked his way
deeper into the forest. Now that he was close to them, he saw that the evergreens were unlike
those from the Spine or even from Du Weldenvarden; they had clusters of seven needles
instead of three, and though it might have been a trick of the fading light, it seemed to him as
if darkness clung to the trees, like a cloak wrapped around their trunks and branches. Also,
everything about the trees, from the cracks in the bark to their protruding roots to their scaled
cones—everything about them had a peculiar angularity and a fierceness of line that made
them appear as if they were about to pull themselves free of the earth and stride down to the
city below.
Eragon shivered and loosened Brisingr in its scabbard. He had never before been in a
forest that felt so menacing. It was as if the trees were angry and—as with the apple grove
earlier—as if they wanted to reach out and rend his flesh from his bones.
With the back of his hand, he brushed aside a swath of yellow lichen as he cautiously
made his way forward.
So far he had seen no sign of game, nor had he found any evidence of wolves or bears,
which puzzled him. That close to the stream, there should have been trails leading to the water.
Maybe the animals avoid this part of the woods, he thought. But why?
A fallen log lay across his path. He stepped over it, and his boot sank ankle-deep into a
carpet of moss. An instant later, the gedwëy ignasia on his palm began to itch, and he heard
a tiny chorus of skree-skree! and skree-skra! as a half-dozen white, wormlike grubs—each
the size of one of his thumbs—burst out of the moss and began to hop away from him.
Old instincts took hold, and he stopped as he would if he had chanced upon a snake. He
did not blink. He did not even breathe as he watched the fat, obscene-looking grubs flee. At
the same time, he racked his memory for any mention of them during his training in
Ellesméra, but he could recall no such thing.
Glaedr! What are these? And he showed the dragon the grubs. What is their name in the
ancient language?
To Eragon’s dismay, Glaedr said, They are unknown to me. I have not seen their like before,
nor have I ever heard tell of them. They are new to Vroengard, and new to Alagaësia.
Do not let them touch you; they may be more dangerous than they appear.
Once they had put several feet between them and Eragon, the nameless grubs hopped
higher than usual and with a skree-skro! dove back into the moss. As they landed, they split,
dividing into a swarm of green centipedes, which quickly disappeared within the tangled
strands of moss.
Only then did Eragon allow himself to breathe.
They should not be, said Glaedr. He sounded troubled.
Eragon slowly lifted his boot off the moss and retreated behind the log. Examining the
moss with greater care, he saw that what he had originally taken as the tips of old branches
poking out of the blanket of vegetation were actually pieces of broken ribs and antlers—the
remains, he thought, of one or more deer.
After a moment’s consideration, Eragon turned around and began to retrace his steps, this
time making sure to avoid every scrap of moss along the way, which was no easy task.
Whatever had been chattering in the forest was not worth risking his life to
find—especially since he suspected that there was worse than the grubs lurking among the
trees. His palm kept itching, and from experience, he knew that meant there was still
something dangerous close by.
When he could see the meadow and the blue of Saphira’s scales between the trunks of
the evergreens, he turned aside and walked to the brook. Moss covered the bank of the
stream, so he stepped from log to stone until he was standing on a flat-topped rock in the
midst of the water.
There he squatted, removed his gloves, and washed his hands, face, and neck. The touch
of the icy water was bracing, and within moments his ears flushed and his whole body began
to feel warm.
A loud chattering rang forth over the stream as he wiped the last few droplets from his
neck.
Moving as little as possible, he looked toward the top of the trees on the opposite bank.
Thirty feet up, four shadows sat on a branch. The shadows had large barbed plumes that
extended in every direction from the black ovals of their heads. A pair of white eyes, slanted
and slit-like, glowed within the middle of each oval, and the blankness of their gaze made it
impossible to determine where they were looking. Most disconcerting yet, the shadows, like
all shadows, had no depth. When they turned to the side, they disappeared.
Without taking his eyes off them, Eragon reached across his body and grasped Brisingr’s
hilt.
The leftmost shadow ruffled its plumes and then uttered the same shrieking chatter he had
mistaken for a squirrel. Two more of the wraiths did likewise, and the forest echoed with the
strident clamor of their cries.
Eragon considered trying to touch their minds, but remembering the Fanghur on his way
to Ellesméra, he discarded the idea as foolhardy.
In a low voice, he said, “Eka aà fricai un Shur’tugal.†I am a Rider and a friend.
The shadows seemed to fix their glowing eyes upon him, and for a moment, all was silent,
save the gentle murmuring of the brook. Then they began to chatter again, and their eyes increased
in brightness until they were like pieces of white-hot iron.
When, after several minutes, the shadows had made no move to attack him and,
moreover, showed no indication of departing, Eragon rose to his feet and carefully reached
out with one foot toward the stone behind him.
The motion seemed to alarm the wraiths; they shrieked in unison. Then they shrugged
and shook themselves, and in their place appeared four large owls, with the same barbed
plumes surrounding their mottled faces. They opened their yellow beaks and chattered at him,
scolding him even as squirrels might; then they took wing and flew silently off into the trees
and soon vanished behind a screen of heavy boughs.
“Barzûl,†said Eragon. He jumped back the way he had come and hurried to the meadow,
stopping only to pick up an armful of fallen branches.
As soon as he reached Saphira, he placed the wood on the ground, knelt, and began to
cast wards, as many as he could think of. Glaedr recommended a spell that he had overlooked,
then said, None of these creatures were here when Oromis and I returned after the
battle. They are not as they should be. The magic that was cast here has twisted the land and
those who live on it. This is an evil place now.
What creatures? asked Saphira. She opened her eyes and yawned, an intimidating sight.
Eragon shared his memories with her, and she said, You should have brought me with you. I
could have eaten the grubs and the shadow birds, and then you would have had nothing to
fear from them.
Saphira!
She rolled an eye at him. I’m hungry. Magic or not, is there any reason I should not eat
these strange things?
Because they might eat you instead, Saphira Bjartskular, said Glaedr. You know the first
law of hunting as well as I: do not stalk your prey until you are sure that it is prey. Otherwise,
you might well end up as a meal for something else.
“I wouldn’t bother looking for deer either,†said Eragon. “I doubt there are many left. Besides,
it’s almost dark, and even if it weren’t, I’m not sure hunting here would be safe.â€
She growled softly. Very well. Then I shall keep sleeping. But in the morning, I shall hunt,
no matter the danger. My belly is empty, and I must eat before crossing the sea again.
True to her word, Saphira closed her eyes and promptly returned to sleep.
Eragon built a small fire, then ate a meager supper and watched the valley grow black. He
and Glaedr talked about their plans for the following day, and Glaedr told him more about the
history of the island, going back to the time before the elves had arrived in Alagaësia, when
Vroengard had been the province of the dragons alone.
Before the last of the light had faded from the sky, the old dragon said, Would you like to
see Vroengard as it was during the age of the Riders?
I would, said Eragon.
Then look, said Glaedr, and Eragon felt the dragon take hold of his mind and into it pour a
stream of images and sensations. Eragon’s vision shifted, and atop the landscape, he beheld
a ghostly twin of the valley. The memory was of the valley in twilight, even as it was at the
present, but the sky was free of clouds, and a multitude of stars shone twinkling and gleaming
over the great ring of fire mountains, Aras Thelduin. The trees of long ago appeared taller,
straighter, and less foreboding, and throughout the valley, the Riders’ buildings stood intact,
glowing like pale beacons in the dusk with the soft light from the elves’ flameless lanterns.
Less ivy and moss covered the ocher stone then, and the halls and towers seemed noble in a
way that the ruins did not. And along the cobblestone pathways and high overhead, Eragon
discerned the glittering shapes of numerous dragons: graceful giants with the treasure of a
thousand kings upon their hides.
The apparition lasted for a moment longer; then Glaedr released Eragon’s mind, and the
valley once more appeared as it was.
It was beautiful, said Eragon.
That it was, but no more.
Eragon continued to study the valley, comparing it to what Glaedr had shown him, and he
frowned when he saw a line of bobbing lights—lanterns, he thought—within the abandoned
city. He whispered a spell to sharpen his sight and was able to make out a line of hooded figures
in dark robes walking slowly through the ruins. They seemed solemn and unearthly, and
there was a ritualistic quality to the measured beats of their strides and to the patterned sway
of their lanterns.
Who are they? he asked Glaedr. He felt as if he was witnessing something not meant for
others to see.
I do not know. Perhaps they are the descendants of those who hid during the battle. Perhaps
they are men of your race who thought to settle here after the fall of the Riders. Or perhaps
they are those who worship dragons and Riders as gods.
Are there really such?
There were. We discouraged the practice, but even so, it was common in many of the
more isolated parts of Alagaësia. … It is good, I think, that you placed the wards you did.
Eragon watched as the hooded figures wound their way across the city, which took almost
an hour. Once they arrived at the far side, the lanterns winked out one by one, and where the
lantern holders had gone, Eragon could not see, even with the assistance of magic.
Then Eragon banked the fire with handfuls of dirt and crawled under his blankets to rest.
Eragon! Saphira! Rouse yourselves!
Eragon’s eyes snapped open. He sat upright and grabbed Brisingr.
All was dark, save for the dull red glow of the bed of coals to his right and a ragged patch
of starry sky off to the east. Though the light was faint, Eragon was able to make out the general
shape of the forest and the meadow … and the monstrously large snail that was sliding
across the grass toward him.
Eragon yelped and scrambled backward. The snail—whose shell was over five and a half
feet tall—hesitated, then slimed toward him as fast as a man could run. A snakelike hiss
came from the black slit of its mouth, and its waving eyeballs were each the size of his fist.
Eragon realized that he would not have time to get to his feet, and on his back he did not
have the space he needed to draw Brisingr. He prepared to cast a spell, but before he could,
Saphira’s head arrowed past him and she caught the snail about the middle with her jaws.
The snail’s shell cracked between her fangs with a sound like breaking slate, and the creature
uttered a faint, quavering shriek.
With a twist of her neck, Saphira tossed the snail into the air, opened her mouth as wide
as it would go, and swallowed the creature whole, bobbing her head twice as she did, like a
robin eating an earthworm.
Lowering his gaze, Eragon saw four more giant snails farther down upon the rise. One of
the creatures had retreated within its shell; the others were hurrying away upon their undulating,
skirtlike bellies.
“Over there!†shouted Eragon.
Saphira leaped forward. Her entire body left the ground for a moment, and then she
landed upon all fours and snapped up first one, then two, then three of the snails. She did not
eat the last snail, the one hiding in its shell, but drew back her head and bathed it in a stream
of blue and yellow flame that lit up the land for hundreds of feet in every direction.
She maintained the flame for no more than a second or two; then she picked up the
smoking, steaming snail between her jaws—as gently as a mother cat picking up a kitten—
carried it over to Eragon, and dropped it at his feet. He eyed it with distrust, but it appeared
well and truly dead.
Now you can have a proper breakfast, said Saphira.
He stared at her, then began to laugh—and he kept laughing until he was doubled over,
resting his hands on his knees and heaving for breath.
What is so amusing? she asked, and sniffed the soot-blackened shell.
Yes, why do you laugh, Eragon? asked Glaedr.
He shook his head and continued to wheeze. At last he was able to say, “Because—†And
then he shifted to speaking with his mind so that Glaedr would hear as well. Because … snail
and eggs! And he began to giggle again, feeling very silly. Because, snail steaks! … Hungry?
Have a stalk! Feeling tired? Eat an eyeball! Who needs mead when you have slime?! I could
put the stalks in a cup, like a bunch of flowers, and they would … He was laughing so hard,
he found it impossible to continue, and he dropped to one knee while he gasped for air, tears
of mirth streaming from his eyes.
Saphira parted her jaws in a toothy approximation of a smile, and she made a soft choking
sound in her throat. You are very odd sometimes, Eragon. He could feel his merriment infecting
her. She sniffed the shell again. Some mead would be nice.
“At least you ate,†he said, both with his mind and his tongue.
Not enough, but enough to return to the Varden.
As his laughter subsided, Eragon poked at the snail with the tip of his boot. It’s been so
long since there were dragons on Vroengard, it must not have realized what you were and
thought to make an easy meal of me. … That would have been a sorry death indeed, to end
up as dinner for a snail.
But memorable, said Saphira.
But memorable, he agreed, feeling his mirth return.
And what did I say is the first law of hunting, younglings? asked Glaedr.
Together Eragon and Saphira replied, Do not stalk your prey until you are sure that it is
prey.
Very good, said Glaedr.
Then Eragon said, Hopping grubs, shadow birds, and now giant snails … How could the
spells cast within the battle have created them?
The Riders, the dragons, and the Forsworn loosed an enormous amount of energy during
the conflict. Much of it was bound in spells, but much of it was not. Those who lived to tell of it
said that, for a time, the world went mad and nothing they saw or heard could be trusted.
Some of that energy must have settled on the ancestors of the grubs and the birds you saw
today and altered them. However, you are mistaken to include the snails among their ranks.
The snalglÃ, as they are known, have always lived here on Vroengard. They were a favorite
food of ours, of the dragons, for reasons I’m sure, Saphira, you understand.
She hummed and licked her chops.
And not only is their flesh soft and tasty, but the shells are good for the digestion.
If they’re just ordinary animals, then why didn’t my wards stop them? asked Eragon. At the
very least, I should have been warned of approaching danger.
That, replied Glaedr, may be a result of the battle. Magic did not create the snalglÃ, but
that does not mean they have remained unaffected by the forces that have wracked this
place. We should not linger here any longer than necessary. Better we leave before whatever
else is lurking on the island decides to test our mettle.
With Saphira’s help, Eragon cracked open the shell of the burnt snail and, by the glow of a
red werelight, cleaned the spineless carcass within, which was a messy, slimy exercise that
left him covered in gore up to his elbows. Then Eragon had Saphira bury the meat close to
the bed of coals.
Afterward, Saphira returned to the spot in the grass where she had been lying, curled up
once again, and went to sleep. This time Eragon joined her. Carrying his blankets and the
saddlebags, one of which contained Glaedr’s heart of hearts, he crawled under her wing and
settled in the warm, dark nook between her neck and her body. And there he spent the rest of
the night, thinking and dreaming.
The following day was as gray and gloomy as the previous one. A light dusting of snow
covered the sides of the mountains and the tops of the foothills, and the air had a chill that led
Eragon to believe it would snow again later that day.
Tired as she was, Saphira did not stir until the sun was already a handsbreadth above the
mountains. Eragon was impatient, but he let her sleep. It was more important for her to recover
from the flight to Vroengard than for them to get an early start.
Once she was awake, Saphira dug up the snail carcass for him, and he cooked a large
breakfast of snail … he was not sure what to call it: snail bacon? Whatever the name for it,
the strips of meat were delicious, and he ate more than he usually would. Saphira devoured
what was left, and then they waited an hour, for it would not be wise to enter a fight with food
in their stomachs.
Finally, Eragon rolled up his blankets and strapped the saddle back onto Saphira, and together
with Glaedr they set off for the Rock of Kuthian.
Inheritance
THE ROCK OF KUTHIAN
THE WALK TO the apple grove seemed shorter than it had the previous day. The gnarled
trees were as ominous as ever, and Eragon kept his hand on Brisingr the whole time they
were in the thicket.
As before, he and Saphira stopped at the edge of the tangled clearing that fronted the
Rock of Kuthian. A flock of crows was perched upon the rough crag of stone, and at the sight
of Saphira, they rose cawing into the air—as ill an omen as Eragon could imagine.
For half an hour, Eragon stood fixed in place as he cast spell after spell, searching for any
magic that could cause him, Saphira, or Glaedr harm. Woven throughout the clearing, the
Rock of Kuthian, and—so far as he could tell—the rest of the island, he found a daunting array
of enchantments. Some of the spells embedded in the depths of the earth had such power
that it felt as if a great river of energy was flowing beneath his feet. Others were small and
seemingly innocuous, sometimes affecting only a single flower or a single branch of a tree.
More than half of the enchantments were dormant—because they lacked energy, no longer
had an object upon which to act, or were waiting for a certain set of circumstances that had
yet to arrive—and a number of the spells seemed to conflict, as if the Riders, or whoever had
cast them, had sought to modify or negate earlier pieces of magic.
Eragon was unable to determine the purpose of most of the spells. No record remained of
the words used to cast them, only the structures of energy that the long-dead magicians had
so carefully created, and those structures were difficult, if not impossible, to interpret. Glaedr
was of some help, as he was familiar with many of the older, larger pieces of magic that had
been placed on Vroengard, but otherwise Eragon was forced to guess. Fortunately, even
though he could not always figure out what a spell was supposed to do, he was often able to
establish whether it would affect him, Saphira, or Glaedr. It was a complicated process that
required complicated incantations, though, and it took him another hour to examine all the
spells.
What most worried him—and Glaedr as well—were the spells that they might not have
been able to detect. Ferreting out other magicians’ enchantments grew vastly more difficult if
they had tried to hide their work.
At last, when Eragon was as confident as he could be that there were no traps on or
around the Rock of Kuthian, he and Saphira walked across the clearing to the base of the
jagged, lichen-covered spire.
Eragon tilted his head back and looked toward the top of the formation. It seemed incredibly
far away. He saw nothing unusual about the stone, nor did Saphira.
Let us say our names and be done with it, she said.
Eragon sent a questioning thought to Glaedr, and the dragon responded: She is right.
There is no reason to delay. Speak your name, and Saphira and I shall do likewise.
Feeling nervous, Eragon clenched his hands twice, then unslung his shield from his back,
drew Brisingr, and dropped into a crouch.
“My name,†he said in a loud, clear voice, “is Eragon Shadeslayer, son of Brom.â€
My name is Saphira Bjartskular, daughter of Vervada.
And mine Glaedr EldunarÃ, son of Nithring, she of the long tail.
They waited.
Off in the distance, the crows cawed, as if mocking them. Unease stirred within Eragon,
but he ignored it. He had not really expected opening the vault to be quite so simple.
Try again, but this time say your piece in the ancient language, advised Glaedr.
So Eragon said, “Nam iet er Eragon Sundavar-VergandÃ, sönr abr Brom.â€
And then Saphira repeated her name and lineage in the ancient language, as did Glaedr.
Again nothing happened.
Eragon’s unease deepened. If their trip had been in vain … No, it did not bear thinking
about. Not yet. Maybe all of our names have to be uttered out loud, he said.
How? asked Saphira. Am I supposed to roar at the stone? And what of Glaedr?
I can say your names for you, said Eragon.
It seems unlikely that is what is required, but we may as well attempt it, said Glaedr.
In this or the ancient language?
The ancient language, I would think, but try both to be certain.
Two times then Eragon recited their names, yet the stone remained as stolid and unchanging
as ever. Finally, frustrated, he said, Maybe we’re in the wrong place; maybe the entrance
to the Vault of Souls is on the other side of the stone. Or maybe it’s on the very top.
If that were the case, wouldn’t the directions contained within Domia abr Wyrda have mentioned
it? asked Glaedr.
Eragon lowered his shield. When are riddles ever easy to understand?
What if only you are supposed to give your name? Saphira said to Eragon. Did not Solembum
say, “… when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian
and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.†Your name, Eragon, not mine or Glaedr’s.
Eragon frowned. It’s possible, I suppose. But if only my name is needed, then perhaps I
have to be by myself when I say it.
With a growl, Saphira leaped into the air, ruffling Eragon’s hair and battering the plants in
the clearing with the wind from her wings. Then try, and be quick about it! she said as she
flew east, away from the rock.
When she was a quarter mile away, Eragon looked back at the uneven surface of the
rock, once more raised his shield, and once more pronounced his name, first in his own
tongue and then in that of the elves.
No door or passageway revealed itself. No cracks or fissures appeared within the stone.
No symbols traced themselves upon its surface. In every respect, the towering spire seemed
to be nothing more than a solid piece of granite, devoid of any secrets.
Saphira! Eragon shouted with his mind. Then he swore and stalked back and forth within
the clearing, kicking at loose stones and branches.
He returned to the base of the rock as Saphira swooped down to the clearing. The talons
on her hind legs cut deep gouges in the soft earth as she landed, back-flapping to slow herself
to a halt. Leaves and blades of grass swirled about her, as if caught in a whirlwind.
Once she had dropped to all fours and folded her wings, Glaedr said, I take it you did not
meet with success?
No, snapped Eragon, and he glared at the spire.
The old dragon seemed to sigh. I was afraid this would be the case. There is only one explanation—
That Solembum lied to us? That he sent us off on a wild chase so that Galbatorix could
destroy the Varden while we’re gone?
No. That in order to open this … this …
Vault of Souls, said Saphira.
Yes, this vault he told you about—that in order to open it, we must speak our true names.
The words fell between them like weighty stones. For a time, none of them spoke. The
thought intimidated Eragon, and he was reluctant to address it, as if doing so would somehow
make the situation worse.
But if it’s a trap—said Saphira.
Then it is a most devilish trap, said Glaedr. The question you must decide is this: do you
trust Solembum? For to proceed is to risk more than our lives; it is to risk our freedom. If you
do trust him, can you be honest enough with yourselves to discover your true names, and
quickly too? And are you willing to live with that knowledge, however unpleasant it might be?
Because if not, then we should leave this very moment. I have changed since Oromis’s death,
but I know who I am. But do you, Saphira? Do you, Eragon? Can you really tell me what it is
that makes you the dragon and Rider you are?
Dismay crept through Eragon as he gazed up at the Rock of Kuthian.
Who am I? he wondered.
Inheritance
AND ALL THE WORLD A DREAM
NASUADA LAUGHED AS the starry sky spun around her and she fell tumbling toward a
crevice of brilliant white light miles below. Wind tore at her hair, and her shift flapped wildly,
the ragged ends of the sleeves snapping like whips. Great big bats, black and dripping,
flocked about her, nipping at her wounds with teeth that cut and stabbed and burned like ice.
And still she laughed.
The crevice widened and the light engulfed her, blinding her for a minute. When her eyes
cleared, she found herself standing in the Hall of the Soothsayer, looking at herself lying
strapped to the ash-colored slab. Next to her limp body stood Galbatorix: tall, broadshouldered,
with a shadow where his face ought to be and a crown of crimson fire upon his
head.
He turned toward where she was standing and extended a gloved hand. “Come, Nasuada,
daughter of Ajihad. Unbend your pride and pledge your fealty to me, and I shall give you
everything you have ever wanted.â€
She uttered a derisive noise and lunged toward him with her hands outstretched. Before
she could tear out his throat, the king vanished in a cloud of black mist.
“What I want is to kill you!†she shouted toward the ceiling.
The chamber rang with Galbatorix’s voice as it emanated from every direction at once:
“Then here you shall stay until you realize the error of your ways.â€
Nasuada opened her eyes. She was still on the slab, her wrists and ankles chained down
and the wounds from the burrow grub throbbing as if they had never stopped.
She frowned. Had she been unconscious, or had she just been talking with the king? It
was so difficult to tell when—
In one corner of the chamber, she saw the tip of a thick green vine force its way between
the painted tiles, cracking them. More vines appeared next to the first; they poked through the
wall from the outside and spread across the floor, covering it in a sea of writhing, snakelike
appendages.
Watching them crawl toward her, Nasuada began to chuckle. Is this all he can think of? I
have stranger dreams nearly every night.
As if in response to her scorn, the slab beneath her melted into the floor and the thrashing
tendrils closed over her, wrapping around her limbs and holding them more securely than any
chains. Her sight grew dark as the vines atop her multiplied, and the only thing she could hear
was the sound of them sliding against one another: a dry, shifting sound, like that of falling
sand.
The air around her grew thick and hot, and she felt as if she was having trouble breathing.
Had she not known that the vines were only an illusion, she might have panicked then. Instead,
she spat into the darkness and cursed Galbatorix’s name. Not for the first time. Nor for
the last, she was sure. But she refused to allow him the pleasure of knowing he had unbalanced
her.
Light … Golden sunbeams streaming across a series of rolling hills patched with fields
and vineyards. She was standing by the edge of a small courtyard, underneath a trellis laden
with blooming morning glories, the vines of which seemed uncomfortably familiar. She was
Public Last updated: 2012-01-18 03:40:35 AM