Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  Without the elves and the dwarves, the city felt depressingly empty to Eragon as he walked along the streets, ragged flakes of snow drifting sideways underneath the shelf of creviced stone overhead.

  And still Nasuada continued to dispatch him and Saphira upon missions. But never did she send them to Du Weldenvarden, the one place Eragon wanted to go. They had had no word from the elves as to who had been chosen as Islanzadi’s successor, and when asked, Vanir would only say, “We are not a hasty people, and for us, appointing a new monarch is a difficult, complicated process. As soon as I learn what our councils have decided, I will tell you.”

  It had been so long since Eragon had seen or heard from Arya, he considered using the name of the ancient language to bypass the wards around Du Weldenvarden so that he could communicate with, or at least scry, her. However, he knew the elves would not look kindly on the intrusion, and he feared Arya would not appreciate him contacting her in that way without a pressing need.

  Therefore, he instead wrote her a short letter, asking after her and telling her some of what he and Saphira had been doing. He gave the letter to Vanir, and Vanir promised that he would have it sent to Arya at once. Eragon was sure that Vanir kept his word-for they had been speaking in the ancient language-but he received no response from Arya, and as the moons waxed and waned, he began to think that, for some unknown reason, she had decided to end their friendship. The thought hurt him terribly, and it caused him to concentrate on the work Nasuada gave him with even greater intensity, hoping to forget his misery.

  In the deepest part of winter, when swordlike icicles hung from the shelf above Ilirea and deep drifts of snow lay upon the surrounding landscape, when the roads were nearly impassable and the fare at their tables had grown lean, three attempts were made on Nasuada’s life, as Murtagh had warned might happen.

  The attempts were clever and well thought out, and the third one-which involved a net full of stones falling on Nasuada-nearly succeeded. But with Eragon’s wards and Elva to protect her, Nasuada survived, although the last attack cost her several broken bones.

  During the third attempt, Eragon and the Nighthawks managed to kill two of Nasuada’s attackers-the exact number of which remained a mystery-but the rest escaped.

  Eragon and Jormundur went to extraordinary lengths to ensure Nasuada’s safety after that. They increased the number of her guards once again, and wherever she went, at least three spellcasters accompanied her. Nasuada herself grew ever more wary, and Eragon saw in her a certain hardness that had not been apparent before.

  There were no more attacks upon Nasuada’s person, but a month after winter broke and the roads were again clear, a displaced earl by the name of Hamlin, who had gathered up several hundred of the Empire’s former soldiers, started launching raids against Gil’ead and attacking the travelers on the roads thereabouts.

  At the same time, another, slightly larger rebellion began to brew in the south, led by Tharos the Quick of Aroughs.

  The uprisings were more of a nuisance than anything, but they still took several months to quell, and they resulted in a number of unexpectedly savage fights, although Eragon and Saphira attempted to settle matters peacefully whenever they could. After the battles they had already participated in, neither of them was thirsty for more blood.

  Soon after the end of the uprisings, Katrina gave birth to a large, healthy girl with a lock of red hair atop her head, the same as her mother. The girl bawled louder than any infant Eragon had ever heard, and she had a grip like iron. Roran and Katrina named her Ismira, after Katrina’s mother, and whenever they looked at her, the joy in their faces made Eragon grin as well.

  The day after Ismira’s birth, Nasuada summoned Roran to her throne room and surprised him by granting him the title of earl, along with the whole of Palancar Valley as his domain.

  “As long as you and your descendants remain fit to rule, the valley shall be yours,” she said.

  Roran bowed and said, “Thank you, Your Majesty.” The gift, Eragon could see, meant almost as much to Roran as had the birth of his daughter, for after his family, the thing Roran prized most was his home.

  Nasuada also tried to give Eragon various titles and lands, but he refused them, saying, “It is enough to be a Rider; I need nothing more.”

  A few days later, Eragon was standing with Nasuada in her study, examining a map of Alagaesia and discussing matters of concern throughout the land, when she said, “Now that things are somewhat more settled, I think it’s time to address the role of magicians within Surda, Teirm, and my own kingdom.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about it and have reached a decision. I have decided to form a group, much like the Riders, but for magicians alone.”

  “And what will this group do?”

  Nasuada picked up a quill from her desk and rolled it between her fingers. “Again, much the same as the Riders: travel through the land, keep the peace, resolve disputes of law, and most important, watch over their fellow spellcasters, so as to ensure they do not use their ability for ill.”

  Eragon frowned slightly. “Why not just leave that to the Riders?”

  “Because it will be years before we have more of them, and even then there won’t be enough to mind every petty conjurer and hedge witch.… You still haven’t found a place to raise the dragons, have you?”

  Eragon shook his head. Both he and Saphira had been feeling increasingly impatient, but as of yet, they and the Eldunari had been unable to agree upon a location. It was becoming a sore point between them, for the infant dragons needed to hatch as soon as possible.

  “I thought not. We have to do this, Eragon, and we cannot afford to wait. Look at the havoc Galbatorix wrought. Magicians are the most dangerous creatures in this world, even more dangerous than dragons, and they have to be held accountable. If not, we’ll always be at their mercy.”

  “Do you really believe you will be able to recruit enough magicians to watch over all of the other spellcasters here and in Surda?”

  “I think so, if you ask them to join. Which is one of the reasons I want you to lead this group.”

  “Me?”

  She nodded. “Who else? Trianna? I don’t fully trust her, nor does she have the strength needed. An elf? No, it has to be one of our own. You know the name of the ancient language, you’re a Rider, and you have the wisdom and authority of the dragons behind you. I cannot think of a better person to lead the spellcasters. I’ve spoken to Orrin about this, and he agrees.”

  “I can’t imagine the idea pleases him.”

  “No, but he understands that it is necessary.”

  “Is it?” Eragon picked at the edge of her desk, troubled. “How do you intend to keep watch over the magicians who don’t belong to this group?”

  “I hoped you might have some suggestions. I thought perhaps with spells and scrying mirrors, so that we could track their whereabouts and supervise their use of magic, lest they use it to better themselves at the expense of others.”

  “And if they do?”

  “Then we see to it that they make amends for their crime, and we have them swear in the ancient language to give up the use of magic.”

  “Oaths in the ancient language won’t necessarily stop anyone from using magic.”

  “I know, but it’s the best we can do.”

  He nodded. “And what if a spellcaster refuses to be watched? What, then? I can’t imagine very many would agree to be spied upon.”

  A sigh escaped Nasuada, and she put down her quill. “There’s the difficult part. What would you do, Eragon, if you were in my place?”

  None of the solutions he thought of were very palatable. “I don’t know.…”

  Her expression grew sad. “Nor do I. This is a difficult, painful, messy problem, and no matter what I choose, someone will end up hurt. If I do nothing, the magicians will remain free to manipulate others with their spells. If I force them to submit to oversight, many will hate
me for it. However, I think you will agree with me that its better to protect the majority of my subjects at the expense of a few.”

  “I don’t like it,” he murmured.

  “I don’t like it either.”

  “You’re talking about binding every human spellcaster to your will, regardless of who they are.”

  She did not blink. “For the good of the many.”

  “What about people who can only hear thoughts, and nothing more? That’s a form of magic as well.”

  “Them too. The potential for them to abuse their power is still too great.” Nasuada sighed then. “I know this isn’t easy, Eragon, but easy or not, it’s something we have to address. Galbatorix was mad and evil, but he was right about one thing: the magicians need to be reined in. But not as Galbatorix intended. Something needs to be done, though, and I think my plan is the best solution possible. If you can think of another, better way to enforce the rule of law among spellcasters, I would be delighted. Otherwise, this is the only path available to us, and I need your help to do it.… So, will you accept charge of this group, for the good of the country, and the good of our race as a whole?”

  Eragon was slow to answer. At last he said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to think about it for a while. And I need to consult with Saphira.”

  “Of course. But don’t think for too long, Eragon. Preparations are already under way, and you will soon be needed.”

  Afterward, Eragon did not return directly to Saphira but wandered through the streets of Ilirea, ignoring the bows and the greetings from the people he passed. He felt … uneasy, both with Nasuada’s proposal and with life in general. He and Saphira had been idling for too long. The time had come for a change, and circumstances would no longer allow them to wait. They had to decide what they were going to do, and whatever they chose, it would affect the rest of their lives.

  He spent several hours walking and thinking, mainly about his ties and obligations. In late afternoon, he made his way back to Saphira and, without speaking, climbed onto her back.

  She leaped out of the courtyard of the hall and flew high above Ilirea, high enough that they could see for hundreds of miles in every direction. There she stayed, circling.

  They spoke without words, exchanging their mind-states. Saphira shared many of his concerns, but she was not as worried as he about their bonds with others. Nothing was as important to her as protecting the eggs and the Eldunari, and doing what was right for him and her. Yet Eragon knew that they could not just ignore the effects their choices would have, both political and personal.

  Finally, he said, What should we do?

  Saphira dipped as the wind underneath her wings slowed. What we need to do, as has always been the case. She said nothing more, but turned then and began to descend toward the city.

  Eragon appreciated her silence. The decision would be harder for him to make than for her, and he needed to think about it on his own.

  When they landed in the courtyard, Saphira nudged him with her snout and said, If you need to talk, I’ll be here.

  He smiled and rubbed the side of her neck, and then slowly walked to his rooms, while staring at the floor.

  That night, when the waxing moon had just appeared beneath the edge of the cliff over Ilirea and Eragon was sitting against the end of his bed, reading a book about the saddle-making techniques of the early Riders, a flicker by the edge of his sight-like the flapping of a drape-caught his attention.

  He sprang to his feet, drawing Brisingr from its sheath.

  Then, in his open window, he saw a small three-masted ship, woven from stalks of grass. He smiled and sheathed his sword. He held out his hand, and the ship sailed across the room and landed upon his palm, where it listed to one side.

  The ship was different from the one Arya had made during their travels together in the Empire, after he and Roran rescued Katrina from Helgrind. It had more masts, and it also had sails fashioned from the blades of grass. Though the grass was limp and browning, it had not dried out entirely, which led him to think that it had been picked only a day or two earlier.

  Tied to the middle of the deck was a square of folded paper. Eragon carefully removed it, his heart pounding, then unfolded the paper on the floor. It read, in glyphs of the ancient language:

  Eragon,

  We have finally decided upon a leader, and I am on my way to Ilirea to arrange an introduction with Nasuada. I would like to talk with you and Saphira first. This message should reach you four days before the half moon. If you would, meet me the day after you receive it, at the easternmost point of the Ramr River. Come alone, and do not tell anyone else where you are going.

  Arya

  Eragon smiled without meaning to. Her timing had been perfect; the ship had arrived exactly when she intended. Then his smile faded, and he reread the letter several more times. She was hiding something; that much was obvious. But what? Why meet in secret?

  Maybe Arya doesn’t approve of the elves’ next ruler, he thought. Or maybe there’s some other problem. And though Eragon was eager to see her again, he could not forget how she had ignored him and Saphira. He supposed that, from Arya’s point of view, the intervening months were a trifling amount of time, but he could not help feeling hurt.

  He waited until the first hint of sunlight appeared in the sky, then hurried down to wake Saphira and tell her the news. She was as curious as he, if not quite as excited.

  He saddled her, and then they left the city and set off to the northeast, having told no one of their plans, not even Glaedr or the other Eldunari.

  FIRNEN

  It was early in the afternoon when they arrived at the location Arya had designated: a gentle curve in the Ramr River that marked its farthest excursion eastward.

  Eragon strained to look over Saphira’s neck as he searched for a glimpse of anyone below. The land appeared empty, save for a herd of wild oxen. When the animals caught sight of Saphira, they fled, lowing and kicking up plumes of dust. They and a few other, smaller animals scattered about the countryside were the only living creatures Eragon could sense. Disappointed, he shifted his gaze to the horizon but saw no sign of Arya.

  Saphira landed on a slight rise fifty yards from the banks of the river. She sat, and Eragon sat with her, resting his back against her side.

  On the top of the rise was an outcropping of soft, slatelike rock. While they waited, Eragon amused himself by grinding a thumb-sized flake into the shape of an arrowhead. The stone was too soft for the arrowhead to be anything other than decorative, but he enjoyed the challenge. When he was satisfied with the simple, triangular point, he set it aside and began to grind a larger piece into a leaf-bladed dagger, similar to those the elves carried.

  They did not have to wait as long as he first thought.

  An hour after their arrival, Saphira lifted her head from the ground and peered across the plains in the direction of the not-so-distant Hadarac Desert.

  Her body stiffened against his, and he felt a strange emotion within her: a sense of impending momentousness.

  Look, she said.

  Keeping hold of his half-finished dagger, he clambered to his feet and peered eastward.

  He saw nothing but grass, dirt, and a few lone, windswept trees between them and the horizon. He broadened his area of scrutiny but still saw nothing of interest.

  What-he started to ask, then cut himself off as he looked up.

  High in the eastern sky, he saw a wink of green fire, like an emerald glimmering in the sun. The point of light arced through the blue mantle of the heavens, approaching at a rapid pace, bright as a star at night.

  Eragon dropped the stone dagger and, without taking his eyes off the glittering spark, climbed onto Saphira’s back and strapped his legs into her saddle. He wanted to ask her what she thought the point of light was-to force her to put into words what he suspected-but he could not bring himself to speak any more than she could.

  Saphira held her position, although she unfolded her wings
and, keeping them bent nearly in half, lifted them in preparation to take off.

  As it grew larger, the spark proliferated, dividing into a cluster of dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of tiny points of light. After a few minutes, the true shape of it became visible, and they saw that it was a dragon.

  Saphira could wait no longer. She uttered a resonant trumpet, leaped off the rise, and flapped downward.

  Eragon clutched the neck spike in front of him as she ascended at a nearly vertical angle, desperate to intercept the other dragon as quickly as possible. Both he and she alternated between elation and a wariness born of too many battles. In their caution, it pleased them that they had the sun to their backs.

  Saphira continued to climb until she was slightly above the green dragon, whereupon she leveled off and concentrated upon speed.

  Closer, Eragon saw that the dragon, while well built, still had some of the gangly look of youth-his limbs had yet to acquire the stocky weight of Glaedr’s or Thorn’s-and he was smaller than Saphira. The scales upon his sides and back were a dark forest green, while those upon his belly and the pads of his feet were lighter, with the smallest ones verging upon white. When against his body, his wings were the color of holly leaves, but when the light shone through them, they were the color of oak leaves in the spring.

  At the juncture between the dragon’s neck and back was a saddle much like Saphira’s, and on the saddle sat a figure that looked to be Arya, her dark hair streaming from her head. The sight filled Eragon’s heart with joy, and the emptiness he had labored under for so long vanished like the darkness of night before the rising sun.