Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  In any event, with both Galbatorix and my mother having passed into the void, I no longer wish to continue as ambassador to the Varden. Rather, I wish to resume my task of ferrying a dragon egg throughout the land, as I did with Saphira’s. Of course, an ambassador between our races is still needed. Therefore, Dathedr and I have appointed as my replacement a young elf named Vanir, whom you met during your time in Ellesmera. He has expressed a desire to learn more about the people of your race, and that seems to me as good a reason as any for him to have the post-so long as he does not prove completely incompetent, that is.

  The letter continued for several more lines, but Arya gave no indication of when, if ever, she might return to the western half of Alagaesia. Eragon was pleased that she had thought enough of him to write, but he wished that she could have waited until their return before she had departed. With her gone, there was a hole in his world, and though he spent a fair amount of time with Roran and Katrina, as well as Nasuada, the aching emptiness within him refused to subside. That, along with his continued sense that he and Saphira were merely biding their time, left him with a feeling of detachment. It often seemed as if he were watching himself from outside his body, as might a stranger. He understood the cause of his feelings, but he could think of no cure other than time.

  During their recent trip, it had occurred to him that-with the command of the ancient language bestowed by the name of names-he could remove from Elva the last vestiges of his blessing that had proved a curse. So he went to the girl, where she was living in Nasuada’s grand hall, and he told her his idea, then asked her what she wanted.

  She did not react with the delight he expected, but sat staring at the floor, a frown upon her pale face. She remained silent for the better part of an hour-he sitting across from her, waiting without complaint.

  Then she looked at him and said, “No. I would rather stay as I am.… I am grateful that you thought to ask, but this is too large a part of me, and I cannot give it up. Without my ability to sense others’ pain, I would be only an oddity-a misbegotten aberration, good for nothing but satisfying the low-minded curiosity of those who consented to have me around, of those who tolerated me. With it, I am still an oddity, but I can be useful as well, and I have a power that others fear and a control over my own destiny, which many of my sex do not.” She gestured at the ornate room where she was staying. “Here I can live in comfort-I can live in peace-and yet I can continue to do some good by helping Nasuada. If you take away my ability, then what would I have? What would I do? What would I be? To remove your spell would be no blessing, Eragon. No, I will stay as I am, and I will bear the trials of my gift of my own free will. But I do thank you.”

  Two days after he and Saphira alit in what was now Ilirea, Nasuada sent them out once more, first to Gil’ead and then to Ceunon-the two cities that the elves had captured-so that Eragon could again use the name of names to clear away Galbatorix’s spells.

  Both Eragon and Saphira found Gil’ead unpleasant to visit. It reminded them of when the Urgals had captured Eragon at Durza’s orders, and also of Oromis’s death.

  Eragon and Saphira slept in Ceunon for three nights. It was unlike any other city they had seen before. The buildings were mainly wood, with steep, shingled roofs that, in the case of the larger houses, had several layers. The peaks of the roofs were often decorated with a stylized carving of a dragon head, while the doors were carved or painted with elaborate, knotlike patterns.

  When they departed, Saphira was the one who suggested a change of path. She did not have to try very hard to convince Eragon; he was happy to agree once she explained that the side trip would not take too long.

  From Ceunon, Saphira flew westward, across the Bay of Fundor: a broad, white-capped expanse of water. The gray and black humps of great sea-fish often breached the waves, like small, leathery islands. Then they would spray water from their blowholes and lift their flukes high into the air before slipping back into the silent depths.

  Across the Bay of Fundor, through winds cold and blustery, and then across the mountains of the Spine, each of which Eragon knew by name. And thus to Palancar Valley for the first time since they had set off in pursuit of the Ra’zac, along with Brom, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  The valley smelled like home to Eragon; the scent of the pines and the willows and the birches reminded him of his childhood, and the bitter bite of the air told him that winter was near.

  They landed in the charred ruins of Carvahall, and Eragon wandered along streets fringed with encroaching grass and weeds.

  A pack of wild dogs trotted out of a nearby stand of birch. They stopped when they saw Saphira, then snarled, yelped, and ran for cover. Saphira growled and loosed a puff of smoke but made no move to chase them.

  A piece of burnt wood cracked under Eragon’s foot as he dragged his boot through a pile of ashes. The destruction of the town left him saddened. But most of the villagers who had escaped were still alive. If they returned, Eragon knew that they would rebuild Carvahall and make it better than it had been. The buildings he had grown up with, though, were gone forever. Their absence exacerbated his feeling that he no longer belonged in Palancar Valley, and the empty spaces where they ought to have been left him with a sense of wrongness, as if he were in a dream where everything was off-kilter.

  “The world is out of joint,” he murmured.

  Eragon built a small campfire next to what had been Morn’s tavern, and he cooked a large pot of stew. While he ate, Saphira prowled the surrounding landscape, sniffing at whatever she found interesting.

  When the stew was gone, Eragon carried his pot, bowl, and spoon to the Anora River and washed them in the icy water. He sat squatting on the rocky shore and stared at the drifting white plume at the head of the valley: the Igualda Falls, which stretched upward for a half mile before disappearing over a shoulder of stone high on Narnmor Mountain. Seeing it brought back the evening he had returned from the Spine with Saphira’s egg in his pack, knowing nothing of what lay before the two of them, or even that there would be two of them.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Saphira, rejoining her by the caved-in well in the center of the town.

  Do you want to visit your farm? she asked as he took his place on her back.

  He shook his head. “No. I would rather think of it as it was, not as it is.”

  She agreed. However, by unspoken consent she flew south following the same path as when they had left Palancar Valley. Along the way, Eragon glimpsed the clearing where his home had been, but it was distant and obscure enough that he was able to pretend that perhaps the house and barn were still intact.

  At the southern end of the valley, Saphira rode a pillar of rising air up to the top of the huge, bare mountain, Utgard, where stood the crumbling turret the Riders had built to keep watch over mad King Palancar. The turret had once been known as Edoc’sil, but now bore the name Ristvak’baen, or the “Place of Sorrow,” as it was there that Galbatorix had slain Vrael.

  In the ruins of the turret, Eragon, Saphira, and the Eldunari with them paid their respects to the memory of Vrael. Umaroth in particular was somber, but he said, Thank you for bringing me here, Saphira. I never thought to see the place where my Rider fell.

  Then Saphira spread her wings and leaped out of the turret and soared away from the valley and over the grassy plains beyond.

  Halfway to Ilirea, Nasuada contacted them through one of the Varden’s magicians and ordered them to join a large group of warriors she had sent to march from the capital to Teirm.

  Eragon was pleased to learn that Roran commanded the warriors and that among their ranks were Jeod, Baldor-who had regained full use of his hand after the elves reattached it-and several more of the villagers.

  Somewhat to Eragon’s surprise, the people of Teirm refused to surrender, even after he released them from their oaths to Galbatorix, and even though it was obvious that the Varden, with Saphira and Eragon to help, could easily capture the city if they wished. In
stead, the governor of Teirm, Lord Risthart, demanded that they be allowed to become an independent city-state with the freedom to choose its own rulers and set its own laws.

  In the end, after several days of negotiations, Nasuada agreed to his terms, provided that Lord Risthart swore allegiance to her as high queen, even as King Orrin had, and consented to abide by her laws concerning magicians.

  From Teirm, Eragon and Saphira accompanied the warriors south, along the narrow coast, until they arrived at the city of Kuasta. They repeated the process from Teirm, but unlike Teirm, the governor of Kuasta yielded and agreed to join Nasuada’s new kingdom.

  Then Eragon and Saphira flew alone to Narda, far to the north, and extracted the same promise from them before finally returning to Ilirea, where they stayed for some weeks in a hall next to Nasuada’s.

  When time allowed, he and Saphira left the city and went to the castle, where Blodhgarm and the other spellcasters guarded the Eldunari rescued from Galbatorix. There Eragon and Saphira aided in the effort to heal the minds of the dragons. They made progress, but it was slow, and some of the Eldunari responded faster than others. Many of them, Eragon worried, simply did not care about life anymore, or were so lost within the labyrinths of their minds that it was almost impossible to communicate with them in a meaningful manner, even for the elder dragons such as Valdr. To prevent the hundreds of maddened dragons from overwhelming those who were trying to help them, the elves kept most of the Eldunari in a trancelike state, choosing to interact with only a few at a time.

  Eragon also labored alongside the magicians of Du Vrangr Gata to empty the citadel of its treasures. Much of the work fell to him, as none of the other spellcasters had the knowledge or experience needed to deal with many of the enchanted artifacts Galbatorix had left behind. But Eragon did not mind; he enjoyed exploring the damaged fortress and discovering the secrets that lay hidden therein. Galbatorix had collected a host of wonders over the past century, some more dangerous than others, but all of them interesting. Eragon’s favorite was an astrolabe that, when put to his eye, allowed him to see the stars, even in daylight.

  He kept the existence of the most perilous artifacts a secret between him, Saphira, and Nasuada, deeming it too risky to allow knowledge of them to spread.

  Nasuada put the trove of riches they recovered from the citadel to immediate use feeding and clothing her warriors, as well as rebuilding the defenses of the cities they had captured during their invasion of the Empire. In addition, she gave a gift of five gold crowns to every one of her subjects: a trifling amount to the nobles, but a veritable fortune to the poorer farmers. The gesture, Eragon knew, earned her their respect and allegiance in a way Galbatorix would never have understood.

  They also recovered several hundred Riders’ swords: swords of every color and shape, made for both humans and elves. It was a breathtaking find. Eragon and Saphira personally carried the weapons to the castle where the Eldunari were, in anticipation of the day when they would again be needed by Riders.

  Rhunon, Eragon thought, would be pleased to know that so much of her handiwork had survived.

  And there were the thousands of scrolls and books that Galbatorix had collected, which the elves and Jeod helped to catalog, setting aside those that contained secrets about the Riders or the inner workings of magic.

  As they sorted through Galbatorix’s great hoard of knowledge, Eragon kept hoping that they would find some mention of where the king had hidden the rest of the Lethrblaka’s eggs. However, the only mentions of the Lethrblaka or the Ra’zac he saw were in works by the elves and the Riders from ages past, where they discussed the dark menace of the night and wondered what was to be done about a foe that could not be detected with magic of any sort.

  Now that Eragon could speak openly with him, he found himself talking with Jeod on a regular basis, confiding in him all that had happened with the Eldunari and the eggs, and even going so far as to tell him about the process of finding his true name on Vroengard. Talking with Jeod was a comfort, especially as he was one of the few people who had known Brom well enough to call him a friend.

  Eragon found it interesting, in a rather abstract way, to watch what went into ruling and rebuilding the kingdom Nasuada had formed from the remnants of the Empire. The amount of effort required to manage such an enormous and diverse country was tremendous, and the task never seemed finished; there was always more that needed doing. Eragon knew that he would have hated the demands of the position, but Nasuada appeared to thrive upon them. Her energy never flagged, and she always seemed to know how to solve the problems that came before her. Day by day, he saw her stature grow among the emissaries, functionaries, nobles, and commoners with whom she dealt. She seemed perfectly suited for her new role, although he was not sure how happy she really was, and he worried about her because of it.

  He watched how she rendered judgment upon the nobles who had worked with Galbatorix-willingly or not-and he approved of the fairness and mercy she displayed, as well as the punishments she meted out when necessary. Most she stripped of their lands, titles, and the better portion of their ill-gotten wealth, but she did not have them executed, for which Eragon was glad.

  He stood by her side when she granted Nar Garzhvog and his people vast swaths of land along the northern coast of the Spine, as well as along the fertile plains between the lake Flam and the Toark River, where few if any people now lived. And that too Eragon approved of.

  Like King Orrin and Lord Risthart, Nar Garzhvog had sworn fealty to Nasuada as his high queen. However, the huge Kull said, “My people agree with this, Lady Nightstalker, but they have thick blood and short memories, and words will not bind them forever.”

  In a cold voice, Nasuada replied, “Do you mean to say your people will break the peace? Am I to understand our races will once again be enemies?”

  “No,” said Garzhvog, and shook his massive head. “We do not want to fight you. We know that Firesword would kill us. But … when our young ones have grown, they will want battles in which to prove themselves. If there are no battles, then they will start them. I am sorry, Nightstalker, but we cannot change what we are.”

  The exchange troubled Eragon-and Nasuada as well-and he spent several nights thinking about the Urgals, trying to solve the problem they presented.

  As the weeks rolled by, Nasuada continued to send him and Saphira to various locations within Surda and her kingdom, often using them as her personal representatives to King Orrin, Lord Risthart, and the other nobles and groups of soldiers throughout the land.

  Wherever they went, they searched for a place that could serve as a home for the Eldunari in the centuries to come and as nesting and proving grounds for the dragons hidden on Vroengard. There were areas of the Spine that showed promise, but most were too close to humans or Urgals, or else were so far north, Eragon thought it would be miserable to live there year-round. Besides, Murtagh and Thorn had gone north, and Eragon and Saphira did not want to cause them additional difficulty.

  The Beor Mountains would have been perfect, but it seemed doubtful that the dwarves would welcome hundreds of ravenous dragons hatching within the bounds of their realm. No matter where they went in the Beors, they would still be a short flight from at least one dwarven city, and it would not do if a young dragon were to start raiding the dwarves’ flocks of Feldunost-which, knowing Saphira, Eragon deemed more than likely.

  The elves would, he thought, have no objection to the dragons living on or around one of the mountains in Du Weldenvarden, but Eragon still worried about their nearness to the elven cities. Also, he disliked the idea of placing the dragons and the Eldunari within the territory of any one race. Doing so would give the appearance that they were lending support to that race in particular. The Riders of the past had never done that, nor-Eragon believed-should the Riders of the future.

  The only location that was far enough away from every town and city and that no race had yet claimed was the ancestral home of the dragons: the heart o
f the Hadarac Desert, where stood Du Fells Nangoroth, the Blasted Mountains. It would, Eragon was sure, be a fine place to raise hatchlings. However, it had three drawbacks. First, they would not be able to find enough food in the desert to feed the young dragons. Saphira would have to spend most of her time carrying deer and other wild animals to the mountains. And of course, once the hatchlings grew larger, they would have to start flying out on their own, which would take them close to the lands of either the humans, the elves, or the dwarves. Second, everyone who had traveled widely-and many who had not-knew where the mountains were. And third, it was not unduly difficult to reach the mountains, especially in the winter. The last two points concerned Eragon the most and made him wonder how well they would be able to protect the eggs, the hatchlings, and the Eldunari.

  It would be better if we were high up on one of the peaks in the Beors, where only a dragon could fly, he said to Saphira. Then no one would be able to sneak up on us, no one except for Thorn, Murtagh, or some other magician.

  Some other magician, like every elf in the land? Besides, it would be cold all the time!

  I thought you didn’t mind the cold.

  I don’t. But I don’t want to live in the snow year-round either. Sand is better for your scales; Glaedr told me. It helps polish them and keep them clean.

  Mmh.

  Day by day, the weather grew colder. Trees shed their leaves, flocks of birds flew south for the year, and winter thus came upon the land. It was a cruel, harsh winter, and for a long while it felt as if the whole of Alagaesia was locked in slumber. At the first fall of snow, Orik and his army returned to the Beor Mountains. All of the elves who were still in Ilirea-save Vanir and Blodhgarm and his ten spellcasters-likewise left for Du Weldenvarden. The Urgals had departed weeks earlier. Last to go were the werecats. They seemed to simply disappear; no one saw them leave, and yet one day they were all gone, except for a large, fat werecat by the name of Yelloweyes, who sat on the padded cushion next to Nasuada, purring, napping, and listening to everything that went on in the throne room.