“Yes.”
“Good.” He gestured at Orik. “We have been considering your departure. I had hoped you’d be able to spend some time with us. But under the circumstances, it seems best if you resume your journey early tomorrow morning, when few are in the streets who might trouble you. Supplies and transportation are being readied even as I speak. It was Hrothgar’s orders that guards should accompany you as far as Ceris. I have increased their numbers from three to seven.”
“And in the meantime?”
Ûndin shrugged his fur-bound shoulders. “I had intended to show you the wonders of Tarnag, but it would be foolish now for you to wander mine city. However, Grimstborith Gannel has invited you to Celbedeil for the day. Accept if you wish. You’ll be safe with him.” The clan chief seemed to have forgotten his earlier assertion that Az Sweldn rak Anhûin would not harm a guest.
“Thank you, I might at that.” As Eragon left the hall, he pulled Orik aside and asked, “How serious is this feud, really? I need to know the truth.”
Orik answered with obvious reluctance: “In the past, it was not uncommon for blood feuds to endure for generations. Entire families were driven extinct because of them. It was rash of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin to invoke the old ways; such a thing has not been done since the last of the clan wars.… Until they rescind their oath, you must guard against their treachery, whether it be for a year or a century. I’m sorry that your friendship with Hrothgar has brought this upon you, Eragon. But you are not alone. Dûrgrimst Ingeitum stands with you in this.”
Once outside, Eragon hurried to Saphira, who had spent the night coiled in the courtyard. Do you mind if I visit Celbedeil?
Go if you must. But take Zar’roc. He followed her advice, also tucking Nasuada’s scroll into his tunic.
When Eragon approached the gates to the hall’s enclosure, five dwarves pushed the rough-hewn timbers aside, then closed in around him, hands on their axes and swords as they inspected the street. The guards remained as Eragon retraced yesterday’s path to the barred entrance of Tarnag’s foremost tier.
Eragon shivered. The city seemed unnaturally empty. Doors were closed, windows were shuttered, and the few pedestrians in evidence averted their faces and turned down alleys to avoid walking past him. They’re scared to be seen near me, he realized. Perhaps because they know Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will retaliate against anyone who helps me. Eager to escape the open street, Eragon raised his hand to knock, but before he could, one door grated outward, and a black-robed dwarf beckoned from within. Tightening his sword belt, Eragon entered, leaving his guards outside.
His first impression was of color. A burning-green sward splayed around the pillared mass of Celbedeil, like a mantle dropped over the symmetrical hill that upheld the temple. Ivy strangled the building’s ancient walls in foot after foot of hairy ropes, dew still glittering on the pointed leaves. And curving above all but the mountains was the great white cupola ribbed with chiseled gold.
His next impression was of smell. Flowers and incense mixed their perfumes into an aroma so ethereal, Eragon felt as if he could live on the scent alone.
Last was sound, for despite clumps of priests strolling along mosaic pathways and spacious grounds, the only noise Eragon could discern was the soft thump of a rook flying overhead.
The dwarf beckoned again and strode down the main avenue toward Celbedeil. As they passed under its eaves, Eragon could only marvel at the wealth and craftsmanship displayed around him. The walls were spotted with gems of every color and cut—though all flawless—and red gold had been hammered into the veins lacing the stone ceilings, walls, and floor. Pearls and silver provided accents. Occasionally, they passed a screen partition carved entirely of jade.
The temple was devoid of cloth decorations. In their absence, the dwarves had carved a profusion of statues, many depicting monsters and deities locked in epic battles.
After climbing several floors, they passed through a copper door waxy with verdigris and embossed with intricate, patterned knots into a bare room floored with wood. Armor hung thickly on the walls, along with racks of staff-swords identical to the one Angela had fought with in Farthen Dûr.
Gannel was there, sparring with three younger dwarves. The clan chief’s robe was rucked up over his thighs so he could move freely, his face a fierce scowl as the wood shaft spun in his hands, unsharpened blades darting like riled hornets.
Two dwarves lunged at Gannel, only to be stymied in a clatter of wood and metal as he spun past them, rapping their knees and heads and sending them to the floor. Eragon grinned as he watched Gannel disarm his last opponent in a brilliant flurry of blows.
At last the clan chief noticed Eragon and dismissed the other dwarves. As Gannel set his weapon on a rack, Eragon said, “Are all Quan so proficient with the blade? It seems an odd skill for priests.”
Gannel faced him. “We must be able to defend ourselves, no? Many enemies stalk this land.”
Eragon nodded. “Those are unique swords. I’ve never seen their like, except for one an herbalist used in the battle of Farthen Dûr.”
The dwarf sucked in his breath, then let it hiss out between his teeth. “Angela.” His expression soured. “She won her staff from a priest in a game of riddles. It was a nasty trick, as we are the only ones allowed to use hûthvírn. She and Arya …” He shrugged and went to a small table, where he filled two mugs with ale. Handing one to Eragon, he said, “I invited you here today at Hrothgar’s request. He told me that if you accepted his offer to become Ingeitum, I was to acquaint you with dwarf traditions.”
Eragon sipped the ale and kept silent, eyeing how Gannel’s thick brow caught the light, shadows dripping down his cheeks from the bony ridge.
The clan chief continued: “Never before has an outsider been taught our secret beliefs, nor may you speak of them to human or elf. Yet without this knowledge, you cannot uphold what it means to be knurla. You are Ingeitum now: our blood, our flesh, our honor. You understand?”
“I do.”
“Come.” Keeping his ale in hand, Gannel took Eragon from the sparring room and conveyed him through five grand corridors, stopping in the archway to a dim chamber hazy with incense. Facing them, the squat outline of a statue swelled ponderously from floor to ceiling, a faint light cast across the brooding dwarf face hacked with uncharacteristic crudeness from brown granite.
“Who is he?” asked Eragon, intimidated.
“Gûntera, King of the Gods. He is a warrior and a scholar, though fickle in his moods, so we burn offerings to assure his affection at the solstices, before sowing, and at deaths and births.” Gannel twisted his hand in a strange gesture and bowed to the statue. “It is to him we pray before battles, for he molded this land from the bones of a giant and gives the world its order. All realms are Gûntera’s.”
Then Gannel instructed Eragon how to properly venerate the god, explaining the signs and words that were used for homage. He elucidated the meaning of the incense—how it symbolized life and happiness—and spent long minutes recounting legends about Gûntera, how the god was born fully formed to a she-wolf at the dawn of stars, how he had battled monsters and giants to win a place for his kin in Alagaësia, and how he had taken Kílf, the goddess of rivers and the sea, as his mate.
Next they went to Kílf’s statue, which was carved with exquisite delicacy out of pale blue stone. Her hair flew back in liquid ripples, rolling down her neck and framing merry amethyst eyes. In her hands, she cupped a water lily and a chunk of porous red rock that Eragon did not recognize.
“What is that?” he asked, pointing.
“Coral taken from deep within the sea that borders the Beors.”
“Coral?”
Gannel took a draught of ale, then said, “Our divers found it while searching for pearls. It seems that, in brine, certain stones grow like plants.”
Eragon stared with wonder. He had never thought of pebbles or boulders as alive, yet here was proof that all they needed was water and salt to flouri
sh. It finally explained how rocks had continued to appear in their fields in Palancar Valley, even after the soil had been combed clean each spring. They grew!
They proceeded to Urûr, master of the air and heavens, and his brother Morgothal, god of fire. At the carmine statue of Morgothal, the priest told how the brothers loved each other so much, neither could exist independently. Thus, Morgothal’s burning palace in the sky during the day, and the sparks from his forge that appeared overhead every night. And also thus, how Urûr constantly fed his sibling so he would not die.
Only two more gods were left after that: Sindri—mother of the earth—and Helzvog.
Helzvog’s statue was different from the rest. The nude god was bowed in half over a dwarf-sized lump of gray flint, caressing it with the tip of his forefinger. The muscles of his back bunched and knotted with inhuman strain, yet his expression was incredibly tender, as if a newborn child lay before him.
Gannel’s voice dropped to a low rasp: “Gûntera may be King of the Gods, but it is Helzvog who holds our hearts. It was he who felt that the land should be peopled after the giants were vanquished. The other gods disagreed, but Helzvog ignored them and, in secret, formed the first dwarf from the roots of a mountain.
“When his deed was discovered, jealousy swept the gods and Gûntera created elves to control Alagaësia for himself. Then Sindri brought forth humans from the soil, and Urûr and Morgothal combined their knowledge and released dragons into the land. Only Kílf restrained herself. So the first races entered this world.”
Eragon absorbed Gannel’s words, accepting the clan chief’s sincerity but unable to quell a simple question: How does he know? Eragon sensed that it would be an awkward query, however, and merely nodded as he listened.
“This,” said Gannel, finishing the last of his ale, “leads to our most important rite, which I know Orik has discussed with you.… All dwarves must be buried in stone, else our spirits will never join Helzvog in his hall. We are not of earth, air, or fire, but of stone. And as Ingeitum, it is your responsibility to assure a proper resting place for any dwarf who may die in your company. If you fail—in the absence of injury or enemies—Hrothgar will exile you, and no dwarf will acknowledge your presence until after your death.” He straightened his shoulders, staring hard at Eragon. “You have much more to learn, yet uphold the customs I outlined today and you will do well.”
“I won’t forget,” said Eragon.
Satisfied, Gannel led him away from the statues and up a winding staircase. As they climbed, the clan chief dipped a hand into his robe and withdrew a simple necklace, a chain threaded through the pommel of a miniature silver hammer. He gave it to Eragon.
“This is another favor Hrothgar asked of me,” Gannel explained. “He worries that Galbatorix may have gleaned an image of you from the minds of Durza, the Ra’zac, or any number of soldiers who saw you throughout the Empire.”
“Why should I fear that?”
“Because then Galbatorix could scry you. Perhaps he already has.”
A shiver of apprehension wormed down Eragon’s side, like an icy snake. I should have thought of that, he berated himself.
“The necklace will prevent anyone from scrying you or your dragon, as long as you wear it. I placed the spell myself, so it should hold before even the strongest mind. But be forewarned, when activated, the necklace will draw upon your strength until you either take it off or the danger has passed.”
“What if I’m asleep? Could the necklace consume all my energy before I was aware of it?”
“Nay. It will wake you.”
Eragon rolled the hammer between his fingers. It was difficult to avert another’s spells, least of all Galbatorix’s. If Gannel is so accomplished, what other enchantments might be hidden in his gift? He noticed a line of runes cut along the hammer’s haft. They spelled Astim Hefthyn. The stairs ended as he asked, “Why do dwarves write with the same runes as humans?”
For the first time since they met, Gannel laughed, his voice booming through the temple as his large shoulders shook. “It is the other way around; humans write with our runes. When your ancestors landed in Alagaësia, they were as illiterate as rabbits. However, they soon adopted our alphabet and matched it to this language. Some of your words even come from us, like father, which was originally farthen.”
“So then Farthen Dûr means …?” Eragon slipped the necklace over his head and tucked it under his tunic.
“Our Father.”
Stopping at a door, Gannel ushered Eragon through to a curved gallery located directly below the cupola. The passageway banded Celbedeil, providing a view through the open archways of the mountains behind Tarnag, as well as the terraced city far below.
Eragon barely glanced at the landscape, for the gallery’s inner wall was covered with a single continuous painting, a gigantic narrative band that began with a depiction of the dwarves’ creation under Helzvog’s hand. The figures and objects stood in relief from the surface, giving the panorama a feeling of hyperrealism with its saturated, glowing colors and minute detail.
Captivated, Eragon asked, “How was this made?”
“Each scene is carved out of small plates of marble, which are fired with enamel, then fitted into a single piece.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to use regular paint?”
“It would,” said Gannel, “but not if we wanted it to endure centuries—millennia—without change. Enamel never fades or loses its brilliancy, unlike oil paint. This first section was carved only a decade after the discovery of Farthen Dûr, well before elves set foot on Alagaësia.”
The priest took Eragon by the arm and guided him along the tableau. Each step carried them through uncounted years of history.
Eragon saw how the dwarves were once nomads on a seemingly endless plain, until the land grew so hot and desolate they were forced to migrate south to the Beor Mountains. That was how the Hadarac Desert was formed, he realized, amazed.
As they proceeded down the mural, heading toward the back of Celbedeil, Eragon witnessed everything from the domestication of Feldûnost to the carving of Isidar Mithrim, the first meeting between dwarves and elves, and the coronation of each new dwarf king. Dragons frequently appeared, burning and slaughtering. Eragon had difficulty restraining comment during those sections.
His steps slowed as the painting shifted to the event he had hoped to find: the war between elves and dragons. Here the dwarves had devoted a vast amount of space to the destruction wreaked upon Alagaësia by the two races. Eragon shuddered with horror at the sight of elves and dragons killing each other. The battles continued for yards, each image more bloody than the last, until the darkness lifted and a young elf was shown kneeling on the edge of a cliff, holding a white dragon egg.
“Is that …?” whispered Eragon.
“Aye, it’s Eragon, the First Rider. It’s a good likeness too, as he agreed to sit for our artisans.”
Drawn forward by his fascination, Eragon studied the face of his namesake. I always imagined him older. The elf had angled eyes that peered down a hooked nose and narrow chin, giving him a fierce appearance. It was an alien face, completely different from his own … and yet the set of his shoulders, high and tense, reminded Eragon of how he had felt upon finding Saphira’s egg. We’re not so different, you and I, he thought, touching the cool enamel. And once my ears match yours, we shall truly be brothers through time.… I wonder, would you approve of my actions? He knew they had made at least one identical choice; they had both kept the egg.
He heard a door open and close and turned to see Arya approaching from the far end of the gallery. She scanned the wall with the same blank expression Eragon had seen her use when confronting the Council of Elders. Whatever her specific emotions, he sensed that she found the situation distasteful.
Arya inclined her head. “Grimstborith.”
“Arya.”
“You have been educating Eragon in your mythology?”
Gannel smiled flatly. “One shoul
d always understand the faith of the society that one belongs to.”
“Yet comprehension does not imply belief.” She fingered the pillar of an archway. “Nor does it mean that those who purvey such beliefs do so for more than … material gain.”
“You would deny the sacrifices my clan makes to bring comfort to our brethren?”
“I deny nothing, only ask what good might be accomplished if your wealth were spread among the needy, the starving, the homeless, or even to buy supplies for the Varden. Instead, you’ve piled it into a monument to your own wishful thinking.”
“Enough!” The dwarf clenched his fists, his face mottled. “Without us, the crops would wither in drought. Rivers and lakes would flood. Our flocks would give birth to one-eyed beasts. The very heavens would shatter under the gods’ rage!” Arya smiled. “Only our prayers and service prevent that from happening. If not for Helzvog, where—”
Eragon soon lost track of the argument. He did not understand Arya’s vague criticisms of Dûrgrimst Quan, but he gathered from Gannel’s responses that, in some indirect way, she had implied that the dwarf gods did not exist, questioned the mental capacity of every dwarf who entered a temple, and pointed out what she took to be flaws in their reasoning—all in a pleasant and polite voice.
After a few minutes, Arya raised her hand, stopping Gannel, and said, “That is the difference between us, Grimstborith. You devote yourself to that which you believe to be true but cannot prove. There, we must agree to disagree.” She turned to Eragon then. “Az Sweldn rak Anhûin has inflamed Tarnag’s citizens against you. Ûndin believes, as do I, that it would be best for you to remain behind his walls until we leave.”
Eragon hesitated. He wanted to see more of Celbedeil, but if there was to be trouble, then his place was by Saphira’s side. He bowed to Gannel and begged to be excused. “You need not apologize, Shadeslayer,” said the clan chief. He glared at Arya. “Do what you must, and may the blessings of Gûntera be upon you.”
Together Eragon and Arya departed the temple and, surrounded by a dozen warriors, trotted through the city. As they did, Eragon heard shouts from an angry mob on a lower tier. A stone skipped over a nearby roof. The motion drew his eye to a dark plume of smoke rising from the city’s edge.
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