Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  It was no elf at all, but the butcher Sloan.

  Eragon stopped, caught by surprise. In all that had gone on, he had forgotten that Sloan-Katrina’s father-was in Ellesmera. He hesitated for a moment, debating, and then with quiet steps walked over to him.

  As he had the last time Eragon had seen him, Sloan wore a thin black strip of cloth tied around his head, covering the empty sockets where his eyes had once been. Tears seeped out from under the cloth, and his brow was furrowed and his lean hands clenched.

  The butcher heard Eragon approach, for he turned his head in Eragon’s direction and said, “Who goes there? Is that you, Adare? I told you, I need no help!” His words were bitter and angry, but there was also grief in them such as Eragon had not heard from him before.

  “It’s me, Eragon,” he said.

  Sloan stiffened, as if touched with a red-hot brand. “You! Have you come to gloat at my misery, then?”

  “No, of course not,” said Eragon, appalled by the thought. He dropped into a crouch several feet away.

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. It’s often hard to tell if you’re trying to help or hurt a person.”

  “That depends on your point of view.”

  Sloan’s upper lip curled. “Now there’s a weaselly elf-answer, if ever I heard one.”

  Behind him, the elves struck up a new song on lute and pipe, and a burst of laughter floated toward Eragon and Sloan from the party.

  The butcher motioned over his shoulder with his chin. “I can hear her.” Fresh tears rolled out from under the strip of cloth. “I can hear her, but I can’t see her. And your blasted spell won’t let me talk to her.”

  Eragon remained silent, unsure what to say.

  Sloan leaned his head against the root, and the knob in his throat bobbed. “The elves tell me that the child, Ismira, is strong and healthy.”

  “She is. She’s the strongest, loudest baby I know. She’ll make a fine woman.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How have you spent your days? Have you kept up with your carving?”

  “The elves keep you informed of my activities, do they?” As Eragon tried to decide how to answer-he did not want Sloan to know he had visited him once before-the butcher said, “I guessed as much. How do you think I spend my days? I spend them in darkness, as I have ever since Helgrind, with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs while the elves pester me about this and that and never give me a moment’s peace!”

  Again laughter sounded behind them. Within it, Eragon could make out the sound of Katrina’s voice.

  A fierce scowl contorted Sloan’s face. “And then you had to go and bring her to Ellesmera. It wasn’t enough just to exile me, was it? No, you had to torture me with the knowledge that my only child and grandchild are here, and that I’ll never be able to see them, much less meet them.” Sloan bared his teeth, and he looked as if he might spring forward at Eragon. “You’re a right heartless bastard, you are.”

  “I have too many hearts,” said Eragon, though he knew the butcher would not understand.

  “Bah!”

  Eragon hesitated. It seemed kinder to let Sloan believe that Eragon had meant to hurt him rather than to tell him that his pain was merely the result of Eragon’s forgetfulness.

  The butcher turned his head away, and more tears rolled down his cheeks. “Go,” he said. “Leave me. And never trouble me again, Eragon, or I swear one of us will die.”

  Eragon poked at the needles on the ground, then he stood and stared down at Sloan. He did not want to leave. What he had done to Sloan by bringing Katrina to Ellesmera felt wrong and cruel. Guilt gnawed at Eragon, growing stronger second by second, until at last he reached a decision, whereupon calm settled over him again.

  Speaking no louder than a whisper, he used the name of the ancient language to alter the spells he had placed on Sloan. It took him over a minute, and as he neared the end of his incantations, Sloan growled between clenched teeth, “Stop your accursed muttering, Eragon, and begone. Leave me, blast you! Leave me!”

  Eragon did not leave, however, but began a new spell. He drew upon the knowledge of the Eldunari and of the Riders whom many of the older dragons had been paired with, and he sang a spell that nurtured and fostered and restored what had once been. It was a difficult task, but Eragon’s skill was greater than it had once been, and he was able to accomplish what he wished.

  As Eragon sang, Sloan twitched, and then he began to curse and scratch with both hands at his cheek and brow, as if an itch had seized him.

  “Blast you! What are you doing to me!”

  Ending his incantation, Eragon squatted back down and gently removed the strip of cloth around Sloan’s head. Sloan hissed as he felt the strip being pulled away, and he reached up to stop Eragon, but was too slow and his hands closed on empty air.

  “You would take my dignity as well?” said Sloan, hate in his voice.

  “No,” said Eragon. “I would give it back. Open your eyes.”

  The butcher hesitated. “No. I can’t. You’re trying to trick me.”

  “When have I ever done that? Open your eyes, Sloan, and look upon your daughter and granddaughter.”

  Sloan trembled, and then, slowly, ever so slowly, his eyelids crept upward and revealed, instead of empty sockets, a pair of gleaming eyes. Unlike those he had been born with, Sloan’s new eyes were blue as the noonday sky and of startling brilliance.

  Sloan blinked, his pupils shrinking as they adjusted to the meager light within the forest. Then he jolted upright and twisted to peer over the top of the root at the festivities taking place between the trees beyond. The glow from the elves’ flameless lanterns lit his face with a warm light, and by it, he seemed suffused with life and joy. The transformation in his expression was amazing to behold; Eragon felt tears in his own eyes as he watched the older man.

  Sloan continued to stare over the root, like a parched traveler seeing a great river before him. In a hoarse voice, he said, “She’s beautiful. They’re both so beautiful.” Another burst of laughter rang forth. “Ah … she looks happy. And Roran too.”

  “From now on, you can look at them if you want,” said Eragon. “But the spells upon you still won’t let you talk with them or show yourself to them or contact them in any way. And if you try, I’ll know.”

  “I understand,” murmured Sloan. He turned, and his eyes focused on Eragon with unsettling force. His jaw worked up and down for a few seconds, as if he were chewing on something, and then he said, “Thank you.”

  Eragon nodded and stood. “Goodbye, Sloan. You’ll not see me again, I promise.”

  “Goodbye, Eragon.” And the butcher twisted round to gaze once more into the light of the elven feast.

  LEAVE-TAKING

  A week passed: a week of laughter and music and long walks amid the wonders of Ellesmera. Eragon took Roran, Katrina, and Ismira to visit Oromis’s hut on the Crags of Tel’naeir, and Saphira showed them the sculpture of licked stone she had made for the Blood-oath Celebration. As for Arya, she spent a day guiding them about the many gardens in the city, so they might see some of the more spectacular plants the elves had collected and created throughout the ages.

  Eragon and Saphira would have been happy to stay in Ellesmera for another few weeks, but Blodhgarm contacted them and informed them that he and the Eldunari under his charge had arrived at Ardwen Lake. And though neither Eragon nor Saphira wished to admit it, they knew it was time to leave.

  It cheered them, however, when Arya and Firnen announced that they would fly with them, at least until the edge of Du Weldenvarden and maybe a bit farther.

  Katrina decided to stay behind with Ismira, but Roran asked to accompany them on the first part of their journey, for as he said, “I’d like to see what the far side of Alagaesia looks like, and traveling with you is faster than having to ride all the way out there on a horse.”

  At dawn the next day, Eragon said his farewells to Katrina, who cried the whole while, and to Ismira, wh
o nursed on her thumb and stared at him without comprehension.

  Then they set out, Saphira and Firnen flying side by side as they headed eastward over the forest. Roran sat behind Eragon, holding him by the waist, while Cuaroc dangled from Saphira’s talons, his body reflecting the sunlight as brightly as any mirror.

  After two and a half days, they sighted Ardwen Lake: a pale sheet of water larger than the whole of Palancar Valley. On its western bank stood the city of Silthrim, which neither Eragon nor Saphira had visited before. And bobbing in the water by the city’s wharves was a long white ship with a single mast.

  The vessel looked as Eragon knew it would, for he recognized it from his dreams, and a sense of inexorable fate settled upon him as he gazed at it.

  This was always meant to be, he thought.

  They spent the night in Silthrim, which was much like Ellesmera, although smaller and more densely built. While they rested, the elves loaded the Eldunari onto the ship, along with food, tools, cloth, and other useful supplies. The ship’s crew was composed of twenty elves who wished to help with the raising of the dragons and the training of future Riders, as well as Blodhgarm and all of his remaining spellcasters, save Laufin and Uthinare, who at that point took their leave.

  In the morning, Eragon modified the spell that kept the eggs hidden above Saphira and removed two, which he gave to the elves Arya had chosen to safeguard them. One of the eggs would go to the dwarves, the other to the Urgals, and hopefully the dragons within would see fit to choose Riders from their designated race. If not, then they would swap places, and if they still did not find Riders for themselves … well, Eragon was not quite sure what to do then, but he was confident Arya would figure something out. Once the eggs hatched, they and their Riders would answer to Arya and Firnen until they were old enough to join Eragon, Saphira, and the rest of their kin in the east.

  Then Eragon, Arya, Roran, Cuaroc, Blodhgarm, and the other elves traveling with them boarded the ship, and they set sail across the lake, while Saphira and Firnen circled high overhead.

  The ship was named the Talita, after a reddish star in the eastern sky. Light and narrow, the vessel needed only a few inches of water to float. It moved without sound and hardly needed steering, as it seemed to know exactly where its helmsman wished to go.

  For days, they floated through the forest, first across Ardwen Lake and then, later, down the Gaena River, which was swollen with the spring snowmelt. As they passed through the green tunnel of branches, birds of many kinds sang and flew about them, and squirrels-both red and black-would scold them from the tops of the trees or would sit watching on branches that hung just out of reach.

  Eragon spent most of his time with either Arya or Roran and only flew with Saphira on rare occasions. For her part, Saphira kept with Firnen, and he often saw them sitting on the bank, their paws overlapping and their heads resting side by side on the ground.

  During the days, the light in the forest was gold and hazy; during the nights, the stars twinkled brightly and the waxing moon provided enough illumination to sail by. The warmth and the haze and the constant rocking of the Talita made Eragon feel as if he were half-asleep, lost in the remembrance of a pleasant dream.

  Eventually, as of course it had to, the forest ended, and they sailed out onto the fields beyond. The Gaena River turned south then and carried them alongside the forest to Eldor Lake, the waters of which were even larger than those of Ardwen Lake.

  There the weather turned, and a storm sprang up. Tall waves pummeled the ship, and for a day, they were all miserable as a cold rain and a fierce wind battered them. The wind was at their back, however, and it sped their progress considerably.

  From Eldor Lake, they entered onto the Edda River and sailed southward past the elven outpost of Ceris. After that, they left the forest behind entirely, and the Talita glided on the river, across the plains, seemingly of its own volition.

  From the moment they had emerged from within the trees, Eragon had expected Arya and Firnen to leave. But neither said anything about departing, and Eragon was content not to ask them their plans.

  Farther south they went, across more and more empty land. Looking about them, Roran said, “It’s rather desolate, isn’t it?” and Eragon had to agree.

  At last they arrived at the easternmost settlement in Alagaesia: a small, lonely collection of wooden buildings by the name of Hedarth. The dwarves had built the place for the sole purpose of trading with the elves, for there was nothing of value in the area save the herds of deer and wild oxen visible in the distance. The buildings stood at the juncture where the Az Ragni poured into the Edda, more than doubling its size.

  Eragon, Arya, and Saphira had passed through Hedarth once before, in the opposite direction, when they had traveled from Farthen Dur to Ellesmera after the battle with the Urgals. Thus Eragon knew what to expect when the village came into sight.

  However, he was puzzled to see hundreds of dwarves waiting for them at the head of a makeshift pier that extended into the Edda. His confusion turned to delight when the group parted and Orik strode forth.

  Raising his hammer, Volund, over his head, Orik shouted, “You didn’t think I would let mine own foster brother leave without saying a proper goodbye, now did you?!”

  Grinning, Eragon cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back, “Never!”

  The elves docked the Talita long enough for everyone to disembark, save Cuaroc, Blodhgarm, and two other elves who stayed to guard the Eldunari. The water where the rivers met was too rough for the ship to hold its position without scraping against the pier, so the elves then cast off and sailed farther down the Edda, in search of a calmer place to lay anchor.

  The dwarves, Eragon was astounded to see, had brought to Hedarth four of the giant boars from the Beor Mountains. The Nagran were spitted on trees as thick as Eragon’s leg and were roasting over pits of glowing coals.

  “I killed that one myself,” Orik said proudly, pointing to the largest of the boars.

  Along with the rest of the feast, Orik had brought three wagons of the dwarves’ finest mead specifically for Saphira. Saphira hummed with pleasure when she saw the barrels. You will have to try it as well, she told Firnen, who snorted and extended his neck, sniffing curiously at the barrels.

  When evening came and the food was cooked, they sat at the rough-hewn tables the dwarves had built just that day. Orik banged his hammer against his shield, silencing the crowd. Then he picked up a piece of meat, put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

  “Ilf gauhnith!” he proclaimed. The dwarves shouted with approval, and the feast began in earnest.

  At the end of the evening, when everyone had eaten their fill-even the dragons-Orik clapped his hands and called for a servant who brought out a casket filled with gold and gems. “A small token of our friendship,” Orik said as he gave it to Eragon.

  Eragon bowed and thanked him.

  Then Orik went to Saphira and, with a twinkle in his eye, he presented her with a gold and silver ring that she might wear on any of the claws of her forefeet. “It is a special ring, for it will not scratch, nor will it stain, and as long as you wear it, your prey will not hear you approaching.”

  The gift pleased Saphira immensely. She had Orik place the ring on the middle talon of her right paw, and throughout the evening, Eragon caught her admiring the band of gleaming metal.

  At Orik’s insistence, they stayed the night in Hedarth. Eragon hoped to leave early the following morning, but as the sky began to brighten, Orik invited him, Arya, and Roran to breakfast. After breakfast, they fell to talking, and then they went to see the rafts the dwarves had used to float the Nagran from the Beor Mountains to Hedarth, and before long it was nearly dinnertime again, and Orik succeeded in convincing them to stay for one last meal.

  With the dinner, as with the feast the previous day, the dwarves provided song and music, and listening to the performance of a particularly skilled dwarf bard delayed the departure of their party even fur
ther.

  “Stay another night,” Orik urged. “It’s dark and no time for traveling.”

  Eragon glanced up at the full moon and smiled. “You forget, it’s not so dark for me as it is for you. No, we must go. If we wait any longer, I fear we will never leave.”

  “Then go with mine blessings, brother of mine heart.”

  They embraced, and then Orik had horses brought for them-horses the dwarves kept stabled in Hedarth for the elves who came to trade.

  Eragon raised his arm in farewell to Orik. Then he spurred his steed forward and galloped with Roran and Arya and the rest of the elves away from Hedarth and down the game trail that ran along the southern bank of the Edda, where the air was sweet with the aroma of willows and cottonwoods. Above, the dragons followed, twining around each other in a playful, spiraling dance.

  Outside Hedarth, Eragon reined in his mount, as did the others, and they rode on at a slower, more comfortable pace, talking softly amongst themselves. Eragon discussed nothing of importance with Arya or Roran, nor they with him, for it was not the words that mattered but rather the sense of closeness they shared in the confines of the night. The mood between them felt precious and fragile, and when they spoke, it was with greater kindness than usual, for they knew their time together was drawing to an end, and none wished to mar it with a thoughtless phrase.

  They soon arrived at the top of a small hill and gazed down from it upon the Talita, which sat waiting for them on the far side.

  The ship appeared as Eragon knew it would. As it must.

  By the light of the pale moon, the vessel looked like a swan ready to take flight from the wide, slow-moving river and carry him into the vast unknown. The elves had lowered its sails, and the sheets of fabric gleamed with a faint sheen. A single figure stood at the tiller, but otherwise the deck was empty.

  Past the Talita, the flat, dark plain extended all the way to the distant horizon: a daunting expanse broken only by the river itself, which lay upon the land like a strip of hammered metal.