Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  Before either side could gain the advantage, Galbatorix, who seemed entirely unaffected by the invisible struggle, said, “Come out, my dears, and meet our guests.”

  A boy and a girl emerged from behind the throne and came to stand by the king’s right hand. The girl looked about six, the boy perhaps eight or nine. They shared a close resemblance, and Eragon guessed they were brother and sister. Both were dressed in their night garments. The girl clung to the boy’s arm and half hid behind him, while the boy appeared frightened but determined. Even as he struggled against Galbatorix’s Eldunari, Eragon could feel the minds of the children-could feel their terror and confusion-and he knew they were real.

  “Isn’t she charming?” asked Galbatorix, lifting the girl’s chin with one long finger. “Such large eyes and such pretty hair. And isn’t he a handsome young lad?” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Children, it is said, are a blessing to us all. I do not happen to share that belief. It has been my experience that children are every bit as cruel and vindictive as adults. They only lack the strength to subjugate others to their will.

  “Perhaps you agree with me, perhaps you don’t. Regardless, I know that you of the Varden pride yourselves on your virtue. You see yourselves as upholders of justice, defenders of the innocent-as if any are truly innocent-and as noble warriors fighting to right an ancient wrong. Very well, then; let us test your convictions and see if you are what you claim to be. Unless you stop your attack, I shall kill these two”-he shook the boy’s shoulder-“and I shall kill them if you dare attack me again.… In fact, if you displease me excessively, I shall kill them anyway, so I advise you to be courteous.” The boy and the girl appeared sick at his words, but they made no attempt to flee.

  Eragon looked over at Arya, and he saw his despair mirrored in her eyes.

  Umaroth! they cried out.

  No, growled the white dragon, even as he wrestled with the mind of another Eldunari.

  You have to stop, said Arya.

  No!

  He’ll kill them, said Eragon.

  No! We will not give up. Not now!

  Enough! roared Glaedr. There are hatchlings in danger!

  And more hatchlings will be in danger if we do not kill the Egg-breaker.

  Yes, but now is the wrong time to try, said Arya. Wait a little while, and perhaps we can find a way to attack him without risking the lives of the children.

  And if not? asked Umaroth.

  Neither Eragon nor Arya could bring themselves to answer.

  Then we will do what we must, said Saphira. Eragon hated it, but he knew she was right. They could not place the two children before the whole of Alagaesia. If possible, they would save the boy and the girl, but if not, then they would still attack. They had no other choice.

  As Umaroth and the Eldunari he spoke for grudgingly subsided, Galbatorix smiled. “There, that’s better. Now we may speak as civilized beings, without worrying about who is trying to kill whom.” He patted the boy on the head and then pointed toward the steps of the dais. “Sit.” Without arguing, the two children settled on the lowest step, as far from the king as they could get. Then Galbatorix motioned and said, “Kausta,” and Eragon slid forward until he was standing at the base of the dais, as did Arya, Elva, and Saphira.

  Eragon continued to be bewildered that their wards were not protecting them. He thought of the Word-whatever it might have been-and a horrible suspicion began to take root within him. Hopelessness quickly followed. For all their plans, for all their talking and worrying and suffering, for all their sacrifices, Galbatorix had captured them as easily as he might a litter of newborn kittens. And if Eragon’s suspicion was true, the king was even more formidable than they had suspected.

  Still, they were not entirely helpless. Their minds were, for the moment, their own. And so far as he could tell, they could still use magic … one way or another.

  Galbatorix’s gaze settled upon Eragon. “So you are the one who has given me so much trouble, Eragon, son of Morzan.… You and I should have met long ago. Had your mother not been so foolish as to hide you in Carvahall, you would have grown up here, in Uru’baen, as a child of the nobility, with all the riches and responsibilities that entails, instead of whiling away your days grubbing in the dirt.

  “Be that as it may, you are here now, and those things shall at last be yours. They are your birthright, your inheritance, and I shall see to it that you receive them.” He seemed to study Eragon with greater intensity, and then he said, “You look more like your mother than your father. With Murtagh, the opposite holds true. Still, it matters little. Whichever one you resemble most, it is only right that you and your brother should serve me, even as did your parents.”

  “Never,” said Eragon with a clenched jaw.

  A thin smile appeared on the king’s face. “Never? We shall see.” His gaze shifted. “And you, Saphira. Of all my guests today, I am gladdest to see you. You have grown to a fine adulthood. Do you remember this place? Do you remember the sound of my voice? I spent many a night talking to you and the other eggs in my charge during the years when I was securing my rule over the Empire.”

  I … I remember a little, said Saphira, and Eragon relayed her words to the king. She did not want to communicate directly with the king, nor would the king have allowed it. Keeping their minds separate was the best way to protect themselves when not in open conflict.

  Galbatorix nodded. “And I am sure you will remember more the longer you stay within these walls. You may not have been fully aware of it at the time, but you spent most of your life in a room not far from here. This is your home, Saphira. It is where you belong. And it is where you will build your nest and lay your eggs.”

  Saphira’s eyes narrowed, and Eragon felt a strange yearning from her, mixed with a burning hatred.

  The king moved on. “Arya Drottningu. Fate, it seems, has a sense of humor, for here you are, even as I ordered you to be brought so long ago. Your path was a roundabout one, but still you have come, and of your own accord. I find that rather amusing. Don’t you?”

  Arya pressed her lips together and refused to answer.

  Galbatorix chuckled. “I admit you have been a thorn in my side for quite some time now. You’ve not caused as much mischief as that bumbling meddler Brom, but neither have you been idle. One might even say that this whole situation is your fault, as it was you who sent Saphira’s egg to Eragon. However, I hold no enmity toward you. If not for you, Saphira might not have hatched and I might never have been able to flush the last of my enemies from hiding. For that, I thank you.

  “And then there is you, Elva. The girl with the sigil of a Rider upon her brow. Dragon-marked and blessed with the wherewithal to perceive all that pains a person and all that will pain them. How you must have suffered these past months. How you must despise those around you for their weaknesses, even as you are forced to share in their misery. The Varden have used you poorly. Today I shall end the battles that have so tormented you, and you shall no longer have to endure the mistakes and misfortunes of others. That I promise. On occasion, I may have need of your skill, but in the main, you may live as you please, and peace shall be yours.”

  Elva frowned, but it was obvious that the king’s offer tempted her. Listening to Galbatorix, Eragon realized, could be as dangerous as listening to Elva herself.

  Galbatorix paused and fingered the wire-wrapped hilt of his sword while he regarded them with a hooded gaze. Then he looked past them toward the point in the air where the Eldunari floated hidden from sight, and his mood seemed to darken. “Convey my words to Umaroth as I speak them,” he said. “Umaroth! We are ill met once again. I thought I killed you on Vroengard.”

  Umaroth responded, and Eragon began to relay his words: “He says-”

  “-that you killed only his body,” Arya finished.

  “That much is obvious,” said Galbatorix. “Where did the Riders hide you and those with you? On Vroengard? Or was it elsewhere? My servants and I searched
the ruins of Doru Araeba most closely.”

  Eragon hesitated to deliver the dragon’s answer, as it was sure to displease the king, but he could think of no other option. “He says … that he will never share that information with you of his own free will.”

  Galbatorix’s eyebrows met above his nose. “Does he now? Well, he’ll tell me soon enough, whether he wishes to or not.” The king tapped the pommel of his glaringly white sword. “I took this blade from his Rider, you know, when I killed him-when I killed Vrael-in the watchtower that overlooks Palancar Valley. Vrael had his own name for this sword. He called it Islingr, ‘Light-bringer.’ I thought Vrangr was more … appropriate.”

  Vrangr meant “awry,” and Eragon agreed that it fitted the sword better.

  A dull boom sounded behind them, and Galbatorix smiled again. “Ah, good. Murtagh and Thorn shall be joining us shortly, and then we can begin properly.” Another sound filled the chamber, then a great gusting noise that seemed to come from several directions at once. Galbatorix glanced over his shoulder and said, “It was inconsiderate of you to attack so early in the morning. I was already awake-I rise well before dawn-but you woke Shruikan. He gets rather irritated when he’s tired, and when he’s irritated, he tends to eat people. My guards learned long ago not to disturb him when he’s resting. You would have done well to follow their example.”

  As Galbatorix spoke, the curtains behind his throne shifted and rose toward the ceiling.

  With a sense of shock, Eragon realized that they were actually Shruikan’s wings.

  The black dragon lay curled on the floor with his head close to the throne, the bulk of his massive body forming a wall too steep and too high for any to climb without magic. His scales had not the radiance of Saphira’s or Thorn’s but rather sparkled with a dark, liquid brilliance. Their inky color made them almost opaque, which gave them an appearance of strength and solidity that Eragon had not seen in a dragon’s scales before; it was as if Shruikan were plated with stone or metal, not gems.

  The dragon was enormous. Eragon at first had difficulty comprehending that the entire shape before them was a single living creature. He saw part of Shruikan’s corded neck and thought he was seeing the main part of the dragon’s body; he saw the side of one of Shruikan’s hind feet and mistook it for a shin. A fold of a wing was an entire wing in his mind. Only when he looked up and found the spikes atop the dragon’s spine did Eragon grasp the full extent of Shruikan’s size. Each spike was as wide as the trunk of an ancient oak tree; the scales surrounding them were a foot thick, if not more.

  Then Shruikan opened an eye and looked down at them. His iris was a pale blue white, the color of a high mountain glacier, and it appeared startlingly bright amid the black of his scales.

  The dragon’s huge slitted orb darted back and forth as he studied their faces. His gaze seemed to contain nothing but fury and madness, and Eragon felt certain that Shruikan would kill them in an instant if Galbatorix allowed it.

  The stare of the enormous eye-especially when it held such evident malice-made Eragon want to run and hide in a burrow deep, deep underground. It was, he imagined, very much how a rabbit must feel when confronted by a large, toothy creature.

  Beside him, Saphira growled, and the scales along her back rippled and lifted like hackles.

  In response, jets of fire appeared in the yawning pits of Shruikan’s nostrils, and then he growled as well, drowning out Saphira and filling the chamber with a rumble like that of a rockslide.

  On the dais, the two children squeaked and curled into balls, tucking their heads between their knees.

  “Peace, Shruikan,” said Galbatorix, and the black dragon grew silent again. His eyelid descended, but it did not close completely; the dragon continued to watch them through a gap a few inches wide, as if waiting for the right moment to pounce.

  “He does not like you,” said Galbatorix. “But then, he does not like anyone … do you now, Shruikan?” The dragon snorted, and the smell of smoke tinged the air.

  Hopelessness again overwhelmed Eragon. Shruikan could kill Saphira with a bat of his paw. And as large as the chamber was, it was still too small for Saphira to evade the great black dragon for long.

  His hopelessness turned to frustrated rage, and he wrenched at his invisible bonds. “How is it you can do this?” he shouted, straining every muscle in his body.

  “I would like to know that as well,” said Arya.

  Galbatorix’s eyes seemed to gleam beneath the dark eaves of his brow. “Can you not guess, elfling?”

  “I would prefer an answer to a guess,” she replied.

  “Very well. But first you must do something so that you may know that what I say is indeed the truth. You must try to cast a spell, both of you, and then I shall tell you.” When neither Eragon nor Arya made to speak, the king gestured with his hand. “Go on; I promise that I will not punish you for it. Now try.… I insist.”

  Arya went first. “Thrautha,” she said, her voice hard and low. She was, Eragon guessed, trying to send the Dauthdaert flying toward Galbatorix. The weapon, however, remained fixed to her hand.

  Then Eragon spoke: “Brisingr!” He thought that perhaps his bond with his sword would allow him to use magic where Arya could not, but to his disappointment, the blade remained as it was, glittering dimly in the dull light of the lanterns.

  Galbatorix’s gaze grew more intense. “The answer must be obvious to you now, elfling. It has taken me most of the past century, but at long last I have found what I was searching for: a means of governing the spellcasters of Alagaesia. The search was not easy; most men would have given up in frustration or, if they had the required patience, fear. But not I. I persisted. And through my study, I discovered what I had for so long desired: a tablet written in another land and another age, by hands that were neither elf nor dwarf nor human nor Urgal. And upon that tablet, there was scribed a certain Word-a name that magicians throughout the ages have hunted for with nothing but bitter disappointment as their reward.” Galbatorix lifted a finger. “The name of all names. The name of the ancient language.”

  Eragon bit back a curse. He had been right. That’s what the Ra’zac was trying to tell me, he thought, remembering what one of the insect-like monsters had said to him in Helgrind: “He has almossst found the name.… The true name!”

  As disheartening as Galbatorix’s revelation was, Eragon clung to the knowledge that the name could not stop him or Arya-or Saphira for that matter-from using magic without the ancient language. Not that it would do much good. The king’s wards were sure to protect him and Shruikan from any spells they might cast. Still, if the king did not know that it was possible to use magic without the ancient language, or even if he did but he believed that they did not, then they might be able to surprise him and maybe distract him for a moment, although Eragon was not sure how that might help.

  Galbatorix continued: “With this Word, I can reshape spells as easily as another magician might command the elements. All spells shall be subject to me, but I am subject to none, except for those of my choosing.”

  Perhaps he doesn’t know, Eragon thought, a spark of determination kindling in his heart.

  “I shall use the name of names to bring every magician in Alagaesia to heel, and no one shall cast a spell but with my blessing, not even the elves. At this very moment, the magicians of your army are discovering the truth of this. Once they venture a certain distance into Uru’baen, past the front gate, their spells cease to work as they should. Some of their enchantments fail outright, while others twist and end up affecting your troops instead of mine.” Galbatorix tilted his head and his gaze grew distant, as if he were listening to someone whispering in his ear. “It has caused much confusion among their ranks.”

  Eragon fought the urge to spit at the king. “It doesn’t matter,” he growled. “We’ll still find a way to stop you.”

  Galbatorix seemed grimly amused. “Is that so. How? And why? Think what you are saying. You would stop the firs
t opportunity that Alagaesia has had for true peace in order to sate your over-developed sense of vengeance? You would allow magicians everywhere to continue to have their way, regardless of the harm they cause others? That seems far worse than anything I have done. But this is idle speculation. The finest warriors of the Riders could not defeat me, and you are far from their equal. You never had any hope of overthrowing me. None of you did.”

  “I killed Durza, and I killed the Ra’zac,” said Eragon. “Why not you?”

  “I am not as weak as those who serve me. You could not even trounce Murtagh, and he is but a shadow of a shadow. Your father, Morzan, was far more powerful than either of you, and even he could not withstand my might. Besides,” said Galbatorix as a cruel expression settled on his face, “you are mistaken if you think you destroyed the Ra’zac. The eggs in Dras-Leona weren’t the only ones I took from the Lethrblaka. I have others, hidden elsewhere. Soon they shall hatch, and soon the Ra’zac shall once more roam the earth to do my bidding. As for Durza, Shades are easy to make, and they are often more trouble than they are worth. So you see, you have won nothing, boy-nothing but false victories.”

  Above all, Eragon hated Galbatorix’s smugness and his air of overwhelming superiority. He wanted to rage at the king and curse him with every oath he knew, but for the sake of the children’s safety, he held his tongue.

  Do you have any ideas? he asked Saphira, Arya, and Glaedr.

  No, said Saphira. The others remained silent.

  Umaroth?

  Only that we should attack while we still can.

  A minute passed wherein no one spoke. Galbatorix leaned on one elbow and rested his chin on his fist while he continued to watch them. By his feet, the boy and the girl cried softly. Above, Shruikan’s eye remained fixed on Eragon and those with him, like a great ice-blue lantern.

  Then they heard the doors to the chamber open and close, and the sound of approaching footsteps-the footsteps of both a man and a dragon.