Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  There was a screech of sliding steel as King Orrin tore his sword from its scabbard. He did not catch Roran entirely unawares; Roran already had his hand on his hammer, and as he heard the sound, he yanked the weapon from his belt.

  The king’s blade was a silver blur in the dim light of the tent. Roran saw where Orrin was going to strike and stepped out of the way. Then he rapped the flat of the king’s sword, causing it to flex and ring and leap out of Orrin’s hand.

  The jeweled weapon fell onto the rug, the blade quivering.

  “Sire,” cried one of the guards outside. “Are you all right?”

  “I just dropped my shield,” replied Jormundur. “There’s no need for concern.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  Roran stared at the king; there was a wild, hunted look on Orrin’s face. Without taking his eyes off him, Roran returned his hammer to his belt. “Contacting Galbatorix is stupid and dangerous. If you try, I’ll kill whomever you send before he reaches the city.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” said Orrin.

  “I would, and I will. I won’t let you endanger the rest of us just to satisfy your royal … pride. If Galbatorix wants to talk, then he knows where to find us. Otherwise, let him be.”

  Roran stormed out of the pavilion. Outside, he stood with his hands on his hips and gazed at the puffy clouds while he waited for his pulse to subside. Orrin was like a yearling mule: stubborn, overconfident, and all too willing to kick you in the gut if you gave him the opportunity.

  And he drinks too much, thought Roran.

  He paced in front of the pavilion until Jormundur emerged. Before the other man could speak, Roran said, “I’m sorry.”

  “As well you should be.” Jormundur drew a hand over his face, then removed a clay pipe from the purse on his belt and began to fill it with cardus weed, which he tamped down with the ball of his thumb. “It took me this whole time to convince him not to send an envoy just to spite you.” He paused for a moment. “Would you really kill one of Orrin’s men?”

  “I don’t make idle threats,” said Roran.

  “No, I didn’t think so.… Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Jormundur started down the path between the tents, and Roran followed. As they walked, men moved out of their way and respectfully dipped their heads. Gesturing with his unlit pipe, Jormundur said, “I admit, I’ve wanted to give Orrin a good tongue-lashing on more than one occasion.” His lips stretched in a thin smile. “Unfortunately, discretion has always gotten the better of me.”

  “Has he always been so … intractable?”

  “Hmm? No, no. In Surda, he was far more reasonable.”

  “What happened, then?”

  “Fear, I think. It does strange things to men.”

  “Aye.”

  “It may offend you to hear this, but you acted rather stupidly yourself.”

  “I know. My temper got the better of me.”

  “And you’ve earned yourself a king as a foe.”

  “You mean another king.”

  Jormundur uttered a low laugh. “Yes, well, I suppose when you have Galbatorix as a personal enemy, all others seem rather harmless. Nevertheless …” He stopped by a campfire and pulled a thin burning branch from the midst of the flames. Tipping the end of the branch into the bowl of his pipe, he puffed several times, setting the flame, then threw the branch back into the fire. “Nevertheless, I wouldn’t ignore Orrin’s anger. He was willing to kill you back there. If he holds a grudge, and I think he will, he may seek his revenge. I’ll post a guard by your tent for the next few days. After that, though …” Jormundur shrugged.

  “After that, we may all be dead or enslaved.”

  They walked in silence for a few more minutes, Jormundur puffing on his pipe the whole while. As they were about to part, Roran said, “When you see Orrin next …”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps you can let him know that if he or his men hurt Katrina, I’ll rip out his guts in front of the whole camp.”

  Jormundur tucked his chin against his breast and stood thinking for a moment, then he looked up and nodded. “I think I might find a way to do that, Stronghammer.”

  “My thanks.”

  “You’re most welcome. As always, this was a unique pleasure.”

  “Sir.”

  Roran sought out Katrina and convinced her to bring their dinner to the northern embankment, where he kept vigil for any messengers Orrin might send. They ate on a cloth that Katrina spread over the freshly turned soil, then sat together as the shadows grew long and the stars began to appear in the purple sky above the overhang.

  “I’m glad to be here,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder.

  “Are you? Really?”

  “It’s beautiful, and I have you all to myself.” She squeezed his arm.

  He drew her closer, but the shadow in his heart remained. He could not forget the danger that threatened her and their child. The knowledge that their greatest foe was but a few miles distant burned within him; he wanted nothing more than to leap up, run to Uru’baen, and kill Galbatorix.

  But that was impossible, so he smiled and laughed and hid his fear, even as he knew she hid hers.

  Blast it, Eragon, he thought, you’d better hurry, or I swear I’ll haunt you from the grave.

  WAR COUNCIL

  On the flight from Vroengard to Uru’baen, Saphira did not have to battle her way through a storm and was fortunate enough to have a tailwind to speed her progress, for the Eldunari told her where to find the fast-moving stream of air, which they said blew nearly every day of the year. Also, the Eldunari fed her a constant supply of energy, so she never flagged or grew tired.

  As a result, the city first came into sight on the horizon a mere two days after they departed the island.

  Twice during the trip, when the sun was at its brightest, Eragon thought he glimpsed the entrance to the pocket of space where the Eldunari floated hidden behind Saphira. It appeared as a single dark point, so small that he could not keep his eyes fixed upon it for more than a second. At first he assumed it was a mote of dust, but then he noticed that the point never varied in its distance from Saphira, and when he saw it, it was always in the same place.

  As they flew, the dragons had, through Umaroth, poured memory after memory into Eragon and Saphira: a cascade of experiences-battles won and battles lost, loves, hates, spells, events witnessed throughout the land, regrets, realizations, and ponderings concerning the workings of the world. The dragons possessed thousands of years of knowledge, and they seemed driven to share every last bit.

  It’s too much! Eragon had protested. We can’t remember it all, much less understand it.

  No, said Umaroth. But you can remember some, and it may be that some will be what you need to defeat Galbatorix. Now, let us continue.

  The torrent of information was overwhelming; at times Eragon felt as if he was forgetting who he was, for the dragons’ memories far outnumbered his own. When that happened, he would separate his mind from theirs and repeat his true name to himself until he again felt secure in his identity.

  The things he and Saphira learned amazed and troubled him and oftentimes caused him to question his own beliefs. But he never had time to dwell on such thoughts, for there was always another memory to take their place. It would, he knew, take him years to begin to make sense of what the dragons were showing them.

  The more he learned about the dragons, the more he regarded them with awe. Those who had lived for hundreds of years were strange in their ways of thinking, and the oldest were as different from Glaedr and Saphira as Glaedr and Saphira were from the Fanghur in the Beor Mountains. Interacting with these elders was confusing and unsettling; they made jumps, associations, and comparisons that seemed meaningless but that Eragon knew made sense at some deep level. He was rarely able to figure out what they were trying to say, and the ancient dragons did not deign to explain themselves in terms that he could understand.

  After a while,
he realized that they couldn’t express themselves in any other way. Over the centuries, their minds had changed; what was simple and straightforward for him often seemed complicated for them, and the same was true in reverse. Listening to their thoughts, he felt, must be like listening to the thoughts of a god.

  When he made that particular observation, Saphira snorted and said to him, There is a difference.

  What?

  Unlike gods, we take part in the events of the world.

  Perhaps the gods choose to act without being seen.

  Then what good are they?

  You believe that dragons are better than gods? he asked, amused.

  When we are fully grown, yes. What creature is greater than us? Even Galbatorix depends upon us for his strength.

  What of the Nidhwal?

  She sniffed. We can swim, but they cannot fly.

  The very oldest of the Eldunari, a dragon by the name of Valdr-which meant “ruler” in the ancient language-spoke to them directly only once. From him, they received a vision of beams of light turning into waves of sand, as well as a disconcerting sense that everything that seemed solid was mostly empty space. Then Valdr showed them a nest of sleeping starlings, and Eragon could feel their dreams flickering in their minds, fast as the blink of an eye. At first Valdr’s emotion was one of contempt-the starlings’ dreams seemed tiny, petty, and inconsequential-but then his mood changed and became warm and sympathetic, and even the smallest of the starlings’ concerns grew in importance until it seemed equal to the worries of kings.

  Valdr lingered over the vision, as if to make sure that Eragon and Saphira would remember it amid all the other memories. Yet neither of them was certain what the dragon was trying to say, and Valdr refused to explain himself further.

  When at last Uru’baen came into view, the Eldunari ceased sharing their memories with Eragon and Saphira, and Umaroth said, Now you would be best served by studying the lair of our foe.

  This they did as Saphira descended toward the ground over the course of many leagues. What they saw did not encourage either of them, nor did their moods improve when Glaedr said, Galbatorix has built much since he drove us from this place. The walls were not so thick nor so tall in our day.

  To which Umaroth added: Nor was Ilirea this heavily fortified during the war between our kind and the elves. The traitor has burrowed deep and piled a mountain of stone about his hole. He will not come out of his own accord, I think. He is like a badger who has retreated into his den and who will bloody the nose of anyone who tries to dig him out.

  A mile southwest from the walled shelf and the city beneath lay the Varden’s camp. It was significantly larger than Eragon remembered, which puzzled him until he realized that Queen Islanzadi and her army must have finally joined forces with the Varden. He gave a small sigh of relief. Even Galbatorix was wary of the might of the elves.

  When he and Saphira were a league or so from the tents, the Eldunari helped Eragon extend the range of his thoughts until he was able to feel the minds of the men, dwarves, elves, and Urgals gathered within the camp. His touch was too light for anyone to notice unless they were deliberately watching for it, and the moment he located the distinctive strain of wild music that marked Blodhgarm’s thoughts, he narrowed his focus to the elf alone.

  Blodhgarm, he said. It is I, Eragon. The more formal phrasing seemed natural to him after so long spent reliving experiences from ages past.

  Shadeslayer! Are you safe? Your mind feels most strange. Is Saphira with you? Is she hurt? Has something happened to Glaedr?

  They are both well, as am I.

  Then-Blodhgarm’s confusion was evident.

  Cutting him off, Eragon said, We’re not far, but I’ve hidden us from sight for the time being. Is the illusion of Saphira and me still visible to those below?

  Yes, Shadeslayer. We have Saphira circling the tents a mile above. Sometimes we hide her in a bank of clouds, or we make it seem as if you and she have gone off on patrol, but we dare not let Galbatorix think you’ve left for long. We will make your images fly away now, so that you may rejoin us without arousing suspicion.

  No. Rather, wait and maintain your spells for a while longer.

  Shadeslayer?

  We are not returning directly to the camp. Eragon glanced at the ground. There is a small hill perhaps two miles to the southeast. Do you know it?

  Yes, I can see it.

  Saphira will land behind it. Have Arya, Orik, Jormundur, Roran, Queen Islanzadi, and King Orrin join us there, but make sure they do not leave the camp all at once. If you could help hide them, that would be best. You should come as well.

  As you wish.… Shadeslayer, what did you find on-

  No! Do not ask me. It would be dangerous to think of it here. Come and I will tell you, but I do not want to blare the answer where others might be listening.

  I understand. We will meet with you as quickly as we can, but it may take some time to stagger our departures correctly.

  Of course. I trust you’ll do what’s best.

  Eragon severed their connection and leaned back in the saddle. He smiled slightly as he imagined Blodhgarm’s expression when he learned of the Eldunari.

  With a whirl of wind, Saphira landed in the hollow by the base of the hill, startling a flock of nearby sheep, who scurried away while uttering plaintive bleats.

  As she folded her wings, Saphira looked after the sheep and said, It would be easy to catch them, since they cannot see me. She licked her chops.

  “Yes, but where would the sport be in that?” Eragon asked, loosening the straps around his legs.

  Sport does not fill your belly.

  “No, but then you aren’t hungry, are you?” The energy from the Eldunari, though insubstantial, had suppressed her desire to eat.

  She released a great amount of air in what seemed to be a sigh. No, not really.…

  While they waited, Eragon stretched his sore limbs, then ate a light lunch from what remained of his provisions. He knew that Saphira was sprawled her full, sinuous length on the ground next to him, though he could not see her. Her presence was betrayed only by the shadowed impression her body left upon the flattened stalks of grass, like a strangely shaped hollow. He was not sure why, but the sight amused him.

  As he ate, he gazed out at the pleasant fields around the hill, watching the stir of air in the stalks of wheat and barley. Long, low walls of piled stone separated the fields; it must have taken the local farmers hundreds of years to dig so many stones out of the ground.

  At least that wasn’t a problem we had in Palancar Valley, he thought.

  A moment later, one of the dragons’ memories returned to him, and he knew exactly how old the stone walls were; they dated to the time when humans had come to live in the ruins of Ilirea, after the elves had defeated King Palancar’s warriors. He could see, as if he had been there, lines of men, women, and children combing over freshly tilled fields and carrying the rocks they found over to where the walls would be.

  After a time, Eragon allowed the memory to fade away, and then he opened his mind to the ebb and flow of energy around them. He listened to the thoughts of the mice in the grass and the worms in the earth and the birds that fluttered past overhead. It was a slightly risky thing to do, for he could end up alerting any nearby enemy spellcasters to their presence, but he preferred to know who and what was close, so that no one could attack them by surprise.

  Thus he sensed the approach of Arya, Blodhgarm, and Queen Islanzadi, and he was not alarmed when the shadows of their footsteps moved toward him from around the western side of the hill.

  The air rippled like water, and then the three elves appeared before him. Queen Islanzadi stood in the lead, as regal as ever. She was garbed in a golden corselet of scale armor, with a jeweled helm upon her head and her red, white-trimmed cape clasped about her shoulders. A long, slim sword hung from her narrow waist. She carried a tall, white-bladed spear in one hand and a shield shaped like a birch leaf-its edges wer
e even serrated like a leaf-in the other.

  Arya, too, was clad in fine armor. She had exchanged her usual dark clothes for a corselet like her mother’s-although Arya’s was the gray of bare steel, not gold-and she wore a helm decorated with embossed knotwork upon the brow and nosepiece and a pair of stylized eagle wings that swept back from her temples. Compared with the splendor of Islanzadi’s raiment, Arya’s was somber, but all the more deadly because of it. Together, mother and daughter were like a pair of matched blades, where one was adorned for display and one fitted for combat.

  Like the two women, Blodhgarm wore a shirt of scale armor, but his head was bare, and he carried no weapon besides a small knife on his belt.

  “Show yourself, Eragon Shadeslayer,” said Islanzadi, looking toward the spot where he stood.

  Eragon released the spell that concealed him and Saphira, then bowed to the elf queen.

  She ran her dark eyes over him, studying him as if he were a prize draft horse. Unlike before, he had no difficulty holding her gaze. After a few seconds, the queen said, “You have improved, Shadeslayer.”

  He gave a second, shorter bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” As always, the sound of her voice sent a thrill through him. It seemed to hum with magic and music, as if every word were part of an epic poem. “Such a compliment means much from one so wise and fair as you.”

  Islanzadi laughed, showing her long teeth, and the hill and the fields rang with her mirth. “And you have grown eloquent as well! You did not tell me he had become so well spoken, Arya!”

  A faint smile touched Arya’s face. “He is still learning.” Then to Eragon, she said, “It is good to see you safely returned.”

  The elves plied him, Saphira, and Glaedr with numerous questions, but the three of them refused to provide answers until the others had arrived. Still, Eragon thought that the elves sensed something of the Eldunari, for he noticed that they sometimes glanced in the direction of the hearts of hearts, although they seemed not to realize it.