Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  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 Uru’baen.”

  “We have the Dauthdaert,” Eragon pointed out, for Yaela had retrieved the spear, “and with it, we can-”

  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!”

  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!”

  “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.”

  “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 Uru’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.”

  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.”

  “It’ll never happen,” said Orrin. “He knows that we have the Dauthdaert now, and he’ll take the appropriate precautions.”

  “Maybe not. I doubt Murtagh and Thorn recognized it.”

  “No, but Galbatorix will when he examines their memories.”

  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.”

  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.”

  “Why so?” asked Jormundur.

  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.”

  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 Uru’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.”

  “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.”

  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 gods”-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.”

  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 Uru’baen, and I’ll face Galbatorix, even if I have to do it by myself.”

  “Not by yourself,” said Arya. “I know I speak for Queen Islanzadi when I say that our people will stand with you.”

  “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.”

  Orik’s eyebrows rose, but if he was offended, he hid i
t 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 Uru’baen.” His cup empty, he reached for the bottle in front of him.

  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 Uru’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, Jormundur, 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,” Jormundur 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.

  Jormundur 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.”

  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 Jormundur 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?”

  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?”

  “Too many.”

  “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.”

  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 Jormundur insisted upon assigning Nasuada’s guards, in addition to Blodhgarm 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 ever-present 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 Alagaesia. 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 takeher place? Why not Jormundur? 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 slow-moving 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?” 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, Jormundur 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?”

  “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-”

  “We all failed her,” said Eragon. “And if there had been more of you there, more of you would have died.”

  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.