Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

“How many more?”

  “Hundreds.”

  For a moment, Murtagh seemed unable to speak. Then: “What will you do with them?”

  “Me? I think Saphira and the Eldunari will have some say in the matter, but probably find somewhere safe for the eggs to hatch, and start to rebuild the Riders.”

  “Will you and Saphira train them?”

  Eragon shrugged. “I’m sure the elves will help. You could as well, if you join us.”

  Murtagh tilted his head back and released a long breath. “The dragons are going to return, and the Riders as well.” He laughed softly. “The world is about to change.”

  “It has already changed.”

  “Aye. So you and Saphira will become the new leaders of the Riders, while Thorn and I will live in the wilderness.” Eragon tried to say something, to comfort him, but Murtagh stopped him with a look. “No, it is as it should be. You and Saphira will make better teachers than we would.”

  “I’m not so sure of that.”

  “Mmh … Promise me one thing, though.”

  “What?”

  “When you teach them-teach them not to fear. Fear is good in small amounts, but when it is a constant, pounding companion, it cuts away at who you are and makes it hard to do what you know is right.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Then Eragon noticed that Saphira and Thorn were no longer speaking. The red dragon shifted and moved around her until he was able to peer down at Eragon. With a mental voice that was surprisingly musical, Thorn said, Thank you for not killing my Rider, Eragon-Murtagh’s-brother.

  “Yes, thank you,” Murtagh said dryly.

  “I’m glad I didn’t have to,” Eragon said, looking Thorn in one glittering, blood-red eye.

  The dragon snorted, then bent and touched Eragon on the top of his head, tapping his scales against Eragon’s helm. May the wind and the sun always be at your back.

  “And at yours.”

  A sense of great anger, grief, and ambivalence pressed heavily against Eragon as Glaedr’s consciousness enveloped his mind and, it seemed, those of Murtagh and Thorn, for they tensed, as if in anticipation of battle. Eragon had forgotten that Glaedr, along with the other Eldunari-hidden within their invisible pocket of space-were present and listening.

  Would that I could thank you for the same, said Glaedr, his words as bitter as an oak gall. You killed my body and you killed my Rider. The statement was flat and simple and all the more terrible because of it.

  Murtagh said something with his thoughts, but Eragon did not know what it was, for it was directed to Glaedr alone, and Eragon was privy only to Glaedr’s reaction.

  No, I cannot, said the gold dragon. However, I understand that it was Galbatorix who drove you to it and that it was he who swung your arm, Murtagh.… I cannot forgive, but Galbatorix is dead and with him my desire for vengeance. Yours has always been a hard path, since each of you hatched. But today you showed that your misfortunes have not broken you. You turned against Galbatorix when it might have gained you only pain, and by it you allowed Eragon to kill him. Today you and Thorn proved yourselves worthy of being considered Shur’tugal in full, though you never had the proper instruction or guidance. That is … admirable.

  Murtagh bowed his head slightly, and Thorn said, Thank you, Ebrithil, which Eragon heard. Thorn’s use of the honorific ebrithil seemed to startle Murtagh, for Murtagh looked back at the dragon and opened his mouth as if he was going to say something.

  Then Umaroth spoke. We know much of the difficulties you have faced, Thorn and Murtagh, for we have watched you from afar, even as we have watched Eragon and Saphira. There are many things we would teach you once you are ready, but until then, we will tell you this: in your wanderings, avoid the barrows of Anghelm, where the one and only Urgal king, Kulkarvek, lies in state. Avoid too the ruins of Vroengard and of El-harim. Beware the deeps, and tread not where the ground grows black and brittle and the air smells of brimstone, for in those places evil lurks. Do this and, unless you are greatly unfortunate, you shall not encounter danger beyond your ability to master.

  Murtagh and Thorn thanked Umaroth, and then Murtagh cast a glance in the direction of Uru’baen and said, “We should be off.” He looked at Eragon again. “Can you remember the name of the ancient language now, or is Galbatorix’s magic still clouding your mind?”

  “I can almost remember it, but …” Eragon shook his head with frustration.

  Then Murtagh spoke the name of names twice: first to remove the spell of forgetfulness Galbatorix had placed on Eragon, and then again so that Eragon and Saphira might learn the name for themselves. “I wouldn’t share it with anyone else,” he said. “If every magician knew the name of the ancient language, the language would be worse than useless.”

  Eragon nodded, agreeing.

  Then Murtagh held out his hand and Eragon grasped him by the forearm. They stood like that for a moment, gazing at each other.

  “Be careful,” Eragon said.

  “You too … Brother.”

  Eragon hesitated, then nodded again. “Brother.”

  Murtagh checked the straps on Thorn’s harness once more before he climbed up into the saddle. As Thorn spread his wings and started to move away, Murtagh called out, “See to it that Nasuada is well protected. Galbatorix had many servants, more than he ever told me about, and not all of them were bound to him by magic alone. They will seek revenge for the death of their master. Be on your guard at all times. There are those among them who are even more dangerous than the Ra’zac!”

  Then Murtagh raised a hand in farewell. Eragon did likewise, and Thorn took three loping steps away from the sea of nettles and leaped into the sky, leaving tracklike gouges in the soft earth below.

  The sparkling red dragon circled over them once, twice, three times and then he turned and set off to the north, flapping with a slow, steady beat.

  Eragon joined Saphira on the crest of the low hill, and together they watched as Thorn and Murtagh dwindled to a single starlike speck close to the horizon.

  With a sense of sadness upon them both, Eragon took his place on Saphira’s back, and they departed from the knoll and returned thence to Uru’baen.

  HEIR TO THE EMPIRE

  Eragon slowly climbed the worn steps of the green tower. It was close to sunset, and through the windows that pierced the curving wall to his right, he could see the shadow-streaked buildings of Uru’baen, as well as the hazy fields outside the city and, as he spiraled around, the dark mass of the stone hill that rose up behind it.

  The tower was tall, and Eragon was tired. He wished he could have flown with Saphira to the top. It had been a long day, and right then, he wanted nothing more than to sit with Saphira and drink a cup of hot tea while watching the light fade from the sky. But, as always, there was still work to be done.

  He had seen Saphira only twice since they landed back at the citadel after parting with Murtagh and Thorn. She had spent most of the afternoon helping the Varden kill or capture the remainder of the soldiers and, later, gather into camps the families who had fled their homes and scattered across the countryside while they waited to see if the overhang would break and fall.

  That it had not, the elves told Eragon, was because of spells they had embedded within the stone in ages past-when Uru’baen was yet known as Ilirea-and also because of the overhang’s sheer size, which had allowed it to weather the force of the blast without significant damage.

  The hill itself had helped contain the harmful residue from the explosion, although a large amount had still escaped through the entrance to the citadel, and most everyone who had been in or around Uru’baen needed healing with magic, else they would soon sicken and die. Already many had fallen ill. Along with the elves, Eragon had worked to save as many as possible; the strength of the Eldunari had allowed him to cure a large portion of the Varden, as well as many inhabitants of the city.

  At that very moment, the elves and the dwarves were walling up the front of the citadel to prev
ent any further contamination from seeping out. This after having searched the building for survivors, of whom there had been many: soldiers, servants, and hundreds of prisoners from the dungeons below. The great store of treasures that lay within the citadel, including the contents of Galbatorix’s vast library, would have to be retrieved at a later date. It would be no easy task. The walls of many rooms had collapsed; countless others, though still standing, were so damaged that they posed a danger to any who ventured near. Moreover, magic would be required to fend off the poison that had permeated the air, the stone, and all of the objects within the sprawling warren of the fortress. And more magic would be required to cleanse whatever items they chose to bring out.

  Once the citadel was closed off, the elves would purge the city and the land thereabouts of the harmful residue that had settled upon it so that the area would again be safe to live in. Eragon knew that he would have to help with that too.

  Before he had joined in the effort to heal and place wards of protection around everyone in and around Uru’baen, he had spent over an hour using the name of the ancient language to find and dismantle the many spells Galbatorix had bound to the buildings and the people of the city. Some of the enchantments seemed benign, even helpful-such as one spell whose only apparent purpose was to keep the hinges of a door from creaking, and which drew its power from an egg-sized piece of crystal set within the face of the door-but Eragon dared not leave any of the king’s spells intact, no matter how harmless they appeared. Especially not those that lay upon the men and women of Galbatorix’s command. Among them, oaths of fealty were the most common, but there were also wards, enchantments to grant skills beyond the ordinary, and other, more mysterious spells.

  As Eragon had released nobles and commoners alike from their bondage, he occasionally felt a cry of anguish, as if he had taken something precious from them.

  There had been a moment of crisis when he stripped Galbatorix’s strictures from the Eldunari the king had enslaved. The dragons immediately began to lash out and assail the minds of the people within the city, attacking without regard for who was friend or who was foe. In those moments, a great pall of dread spread over Uru’baen, causing everyone, even the elves, to crouch and turn white with fear.

  Then Blodhgarm and his ten remaining spellcasters had tied the convoy of metal boxes that contained the Eldunari to a pair of horses and ridden out of Uru’baen, where the dragons’ thoughts no longer had such a strong effect. Glaedr insisted upon accompanying the maddened dragons, as did several of the Eldunari from Vroengard. That had been the second time Eragon had seen Saphira since their return, when he amended the spell that hid Umaroth and those with him so that five of the Eldunari could be portioned out and given over to Blodhgarm’s safekeeping. Glaedr and the five were of the opinion that they could calm and communicate with the dragons that Galbatorix had for so long tormented. Eragon was less sure, but he hoped they were right.

  As the elves and Eldunari were on their way out of the city, Arya had contacted him, casting a questioning thought from outside the ruined gate, where she was in conference with the captains of her mother’s army. In that brief time when their minds touched, he felt her desolation at Islanzadi’s death, as well as the regret and anger that eddied beneath her grief, and he saw how her emotions threatened to overwhelm her reason and how she struggled to restrain them. He sent her what comfort he could, but it seemed paltry when compared to her loss.

  Then and now, and ever since Murtagh’s departure, a sense of emptiness had gripped Eragon. He had expected to feel jubilant if they killed Galbatorix, and though he was glad-and he was glad-with the king gone, he no longer knew what he was supposed to do. He had reached his goal. He had climbed the unclimbable mountain. And now, without that purpose to guide him, to drive him, he was at a loss. What were he and Saphira to make of their lives now? What would give them meaning? He knew that, in time, he and Saphira were to raise the next generation of dragons and Riders, but the prospect seemed too distant to be real.

  Pondering those questions made him feel queasy and overwhelmed. He turned his thoughts elsewhere, but the questions continued to nibble at the edges of his mind, and his sense of emptiness persisted.

  Maybe Murtagh and Thorn had the right idea.

  It seemed as if the stairs of the green tower would never end. He trudged upward, round and round, until the people in the streets appeared as small as ants and his calves and the backs of his ankles burned from the repetitive motion. He saw the nests of swallows built within the narrow windows, and beneath one window, he found a pile of small skeletons: the leavings of a hawk or an eagle.

  When at last the top of the winding staircase appeared-a large lancet door, black with age-he paused to gather his thoughts and allow his breathing to slow. Then he climbed the last few feet, lifted the latch, and pushed forward into the large round chamber atop the elven watchtower.

  Waiting for him were six people, along with Saphira: Arya and the silver-haired elf lord Dathedr, King Orrin, Nasuada, King Orik, and the king of the werecats, Grimrr Halfpaw. They stood-or in the case of King Orrin, sat-in a widely spaced circle, with Saphira directly opposite the stairs, before the southern-facing window that had allowed her to land within the tower. The light from the dying sun streamed sideways through the chamber, illuminating the elven carvings upon the walls and the intricate pattern of colored stone set within the chipped floor.

  Except for Saphira and Grimrr, everyone appeared tense and uncomfortable. In the tightness of the skin around Arya’s eyes and the hard line of her tawny throat, Eragon saw evidence of her grief and upset. He wished he could do something to ease her pain. Orrin sat in a deep-seated chair, holding his bandaged chest with his left hand and a cup of wine with his right. He moved with exaggerated care, as if afraid of hurting himself, but his eyes were bright and clear, so Eragon guessed it was his wound, and not the drink, that made him cautious. Dathedr was tapping the pommel of his sword with one finger while Orik stood with his hands folded atop the butt of Volund’s haft-the hammer rested upright on the floor before him-staring into his beard. Nasuada had her arms crossed, as if she was cold. To the right, Grimrr Halfpaw stared out a window, seemingly oblivious to the others.

  As Eragon opened the door, they all looked at him, and a smile broke across Orik’s face. “Eragon!” he exclaimed. He hefted Volund onto his shoulder, trundled over to Eragon, and grasped him by a forearm. “I knew you could kill him! Well done! Tonight we celebrate, eh! Let the fires burn bright, and let our voices ring forth until the heavens themselves echo with the sound of our feasting.”

  Eragon smiled and nodded, and Orik clapped him on the arm once more, then returned to his place as Eragon crossed the room to stand by Saphira.

  Little one, she said, brushing his shoulder with her snout.

  He reached up and touched her hard, scaled cheek, taking comfort from her closeness. Then he extended a tendril of thought toward the Eldunari she still had with her. Like him, they were weary from the day’s events, and he could tell they preferred to watch and listen rather than to actively participate in the discussion that was about to take place.

  The Eldunari acknowledged his presence, and Umaroth said, Eragon, but thereafter he was silent.

  No one in the room seemed willing to speak first. From the city below, Eragon heard a horse whinny. Off by the citadel came the rapping of picks and chisels. King Orrin shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sipped his wine. Grimrr scratched one pointed ear, then sniffed, as if testing the air.

  Finally, Dathedr broke the silence. “We have a decision to make,” he said.

  “That we know, elf,” rumbled Orik.

  “Let him speak,” said Orrin, and gestured with his jeweled goblet. “I would hear his thoughts on how he thinks we should proceed.” A bitter, somewhat mocking smile appeared on his face. He tilted his head toward Dathedr, as if to grant him permission to speak.

  Dathedr inclined his head in return. If the elf took offense a
t the king’s tone, it did not show. “There is no hiding that Galbatorix is dead. Even now, word of our victory wings its way across the land. By the end of the week, Galbatorix’s demise shall be known throughout the greater part of Alagaesia.”

  “As it should be,” said Nasuada. She had changed out of the tunic her jailers had given her and into a dark red dress, which made the weight she had lost during her captivity all the more apparent, for the dress hung loosely off her shoulders and her waist was painfully small. But though she appeared frail, she seemed to have regained some of her strength. When Eragon and Saphira had returned to the citadel, Nasuada had been on the verge of collapse, from both mental and physical exhaustion. The moment Jormundur had seen her, he bundled her off to their camp, and she spent the rest of the day in seclusion. Eragon had been unable to consult with her before the meeting, so he was not sure of her opinion on the subject they had assembled to discuss. If he had to, he would contact her directly with his thoughts, but he hoped to avoid that, for he did not want to intrude on her privacy. Not then. Not after what she had endured.

  “As it should be,” said Dathedr, his voice strong and clear beneath the vaulted ceiling of that high, round chamber. “However, as people learn that Galbatorix has fallen, the first question they shall ask is who has taken his place.” Dathedr looked around at their faces. “We must provide them with an answer now before unrest begins to spread. Our queen is dead. King Orrin, you are wounded. Rumors aplenty are afoot, I am sure. It is important that we quell them before they cause harm. To delay would be disastrous. We cannot allow every lord with a measure of troops to believe that he can set himself up as ruler of his own petty monarchy. Should that happen, the Empire will disintegrate into a hundred different kingdoms. None of us want that. A successor must be chosen-chosen and named, however difficult that may be.”

  Without turning around, Grimrr said, “You cannot lead a pack if you are weak.”

  King Orrin smiled again, but the smile did not touch his eyes. “And what part do you seek to play in this, Arya, Lord Dathedr? Or you, King Orik? Or you, King Halfpaw? We are grateful for your friendship and your help, but this is a matter for humans to decide, not you. We rule ourselves, and we do not let others choose our kings.”