Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  “I cannot. His pride is wounded. You should attempt to placate him. It would be dangerous to have a werecat as your enemy.”

  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.”

  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 “Andume and Fironmas 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.”

  Even as Glaedr’s mood turned to disbelief, Arya said, “Glaedr, remember: ‘Andume and Fironmas at the hill of sorrows, and their flesh like glass.’ ”

  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.”

  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.”

  “I’m sure you will. Someday.”

  She nodded. “Someday.”

  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?”

  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 Jormundur and Blodhgarm 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. Blodhgarm was the easiest to win over to their point of view, whereas Jormundur 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,” Jormundur said. “Not when we’re so close to Uru’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.”

  His concerns, Eragon was forced to acknowledge, were valid.

  After much discussion, they finally arrived at a solution: Blodhgarm 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 the
y 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 Blodhgarm 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 Jormundur 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 Uru’baen.”

  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?”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  To Eragon’s surprise, Orik grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him into a rough embrace. “May Guntera 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.”

  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.

  “Gulia waise 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.”

  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 Blodhgarm 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 Eldunari.

  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.

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.