The color had vanished from the man’s skin, leaving him bone white. His hair, which had been brown, was now bright crimson, and when he looked at Eragon and smiled, Eragon saw that his eyes had become maroon. In every aspect of appearance and bearing, the man resembled Durza.
“Our name is Varaug,” said the Shade. “Fear us.” Arya kicked at him, but her blows seemed to have no effect.
The burning pressure of the Shade’s consciousness pressed against Eragon’s mind, trying to break down his defenses. The force of the attack immobilized Eragon; he could barely repel the burrowing tendrils of the Shade’s mind, much less walk or swing a sword. For whatever reason, Varaug was even stronger than Durza, and Eragon was not sure how long he could withstand the Shade’s might. He saw that Saphira was also under attack; she sat stiff and motionless by the balcony, a snarl carved on her face.
The veins in Arya’s forehead bulged, and her face turned red and purple. Her mouth was open, but she was not breathing. With the palm of her right hand, she struck the Shade’s locked elbow and broke the joint with a loud crack. Varaug’s arm sagged, and for a moment, Arya’s toes brushed the floor, but then the bones in the Shade’s arm popped back into place, and he lifted her even higher.
“You shall die,” growled Varaug. “You shall all die for imprisoning us in this cold, hard clay.”
Knowing that Arya’s and Saphira’s lives were in peril stripped Eragon of every emotion, save that of implacable determination. His thoughts as sharp and clear as a shard of glass, he drove himself at the Shade’s seething consciousness. Varaug was too powerful, and the spirits that resided within him too disparate, for Eragon to overwhelm and control, so Eragon sought to isolate the Shade. He surrounded Varaug’s mind with his own: every time Varaug attempted to reach out toward Saphira or Arya, Eragon blocked the mental ray, and every time the Shade attempted to shift his body, Eragon counteracted the urge with a command of his own.
They battled at the speed of thought, fighting back and forth along the perimeter of the Shade’s mind, which was a landscape so jumbled and incoherent, Eragon feared it would drive him mad if he gazed at it for long. Eragon pushed himself to the utmost as he dueled with Varaug, striving to anticipate the Shade’s every move, but he knew that their contest could only end with his own defeat. As fast as he was, Eragon could not outthink the numerous intelligences contained within the Shade.
Eragon’s concentration eventually wavered, and Varaug seized upon the opportunity to force himself further into Eragon’s mind, trapping him … transfixing him … suppressing his thoughts until Eragon could do no more than stare at the Shade with dumb rage. An excruciating tingling filled Eragon’s limbs as the spirits raced through his body, coursing down every one of his nerves.
“Your ring is full of light!” exclaimed Varaug, his eyes widening with pleasure. “Beautiful light! It will feed us for a long time!”
Then he growled with anger as Arya grabbed his wrist and broke it in three places. She twisted free of Varaug’s grip before he could heal himself and dropped to the ground, gasping for air. Varaug kicked at her, but she rolled out of the way. She reached for her fallen sword.
Eragon trembled as he struggled to cast off the Shade’s oppressive presence.
Arya’s hand closed around the hilt of her sword. A wordless bellow escaped the Shade. He pounced on her, and they rolled across the floor, wrestling for control of the weapon. Arya shouted and struck Varaug in the side of his head with the pommel of the sword. The Shade went limp for an instant, and Arya scrambled backward, pushing herself upright.
In a flash, Eragon freed himself from Varaug. Without consideration for his own safety, he resumed his attack on the Shade’s consciousness, his only thought to restrain the Shade for a few moments.
Varaug rose onto one knee, then faltered as Eragon redoubled his efforts.
“Get him!” Eragon shouted.
Arya lunged forward, her dark hair flying.…
And she stabbed the Shade through his heart.
Eragon winced and extricated himself from Varaug’s mind even as the Shade recoiled from Arya, pulling himself off her blade. The Shade opened his mouth and uttered a piercing, dithering wail that shattered the panes of glass in the lantern above. He reached out toward Arya and tottered in her direction, then stopped as his skin faded and became transparent, revealing the dozens of glittering spirits trapped within the confines of his flesh. The spirits throbbed, growing in size, and Varaug’s skin split along the bellies of his muscles. With a final burst of light, the spirits tore Varaug apart and fled the tower room, passing through the walls as if the stone were insubstantial.
Eragon’s pulse gradually slowed. Then, feeling very old and very tired, he walked over to Arya, who stood leaning against a chair, cupping the front of her neck with a hand. She coughed, spitting up blood. Since she seemed incapable of talking, Eragon placed his hand over hers and said, “Waíse heill.” As the energy to mend her injuries flowed out of him, Eragon’s legs weakened, and he had to brace himself against the chair.
“Better?” he asked as the spell finished its work.
“Better,” Arya whispered, and favored him with a weak smile. She motioned toward where Varaug had been. “We killed him.… We killed him, and yet we did not die.” She sounded surprised. “So few have ever killed a Shade and lived.”
“That is because they fought alone, not together, like us.”
“No, not like us.”
“I had you to help me in Farthen Dûr, and you had me to help you here.”
“Yes.”
“Now I shall have to call you Shadeslayer.”
“We are both—”
Saphira startled them by loosing a long, mournful keen. Still keening, she raked her claws across the floor, chipping and scratching the stones. Her tail whipped from side to side, smashing the furniture and the grim paintings on the walls. Gone! she said. Gone! Gone forever!
“Saphira, what’s wrong?” exclaimed Arya. When Saphira did not answer, Arya repeated the question to Eragon.
Hating the words he spoke, Eragon said, “Oromis and Glaedr are dead. Galbatorix killed them.”
Arya staggered as if she had been hit. “Ah,” she said. She gripped the back of the chair so hard, her knuckles turned white. Tears filled her slanted eyes, then spilled over onto her cheeks and coursed down her face. “Eragon.” She reached out and grasped his shoulder, and almost by accident, he found himself holding her in his arms. Eragon felt his own eyes grow wet. He clenched his jaw in an effort to maintain his composure; if he started crying, he knew he would not be able to stop.
He and Arya remained locked together for a long while, consoling each other, then Arya withdrew and said, “How did it happen?”
“Oromis had one of his seizures, and while he was paralyzed, Galbatorix used Murtagh to—” Eragon’s voice broke, and he shook his head. “I’ll tell you about it along with Nasuada. She should know about this, and I don’t want to have to describe it more than once.”
Arya nodded. “Then let us go and see her.”
SUNRISE
As Eragon and Arya escorted Lady Lorana down from the room in the tower, they encountered Blödhgarm and the eleven other elves running up the staircase four steps at a time.
“Shadeslayer! Arya!” exclaimed a female elf with long black hair. “Are you hurt? We heard Saphira’s lament, and we thought one of you might have died.”
Eragon glanced at Arya. His oath of secrecy to Queen Islanzadí would not allow him to discuss Oromis or Glaedr while in the presence of anyone not from Du Weldenvarden—such as Lady Lorana—without permission from the queen, Arya, or whoever might succeed Islanzadí to the knotted throne in Ellesméra.
She nodded and said, “I release you from your vow, Eragon, both of you. Speak of them to whomever you choose.”
“No, we are not hurt,” Eragon said. “However, Oromis and Glaedr have just died, slain in battle over Gil’ead.”
As one, the elves c
ried out in shock and then began to ply Eragon with dozens of questions. Arya raised a hand and said, “Restrain yourselves. Now is not the time or place to satisfy your curiosity. There are still soldiers about, and we do not know who might be listening. Keep your sorrow hidden within your hearts until we are safe and secure.” She paused and looked at Eragon, then said, “I will explain the full circumstances of their deaths to you once I know them myself.”
“Nen ono weohnata, Arya Dröttningu,” they murmured.
“Did you hear my call?” Eragon asked Blödhgarm.
“I did,” the fur-covered elf said. “We came as fast as we could, but there were many soldiers between there and here.”
Eragon twisted his hand over his chest in the elves’ traditional gesture of respect. “I apologize for leaving you behind, Blödhgarm-elda. The heat of battle made me foolish and overconfident, and we nearly died because of my mistake.”
“You need not apologize, Shadeslayer. We too made a mistake today, one which I promise we shall not repeat. From now on, we will fight alongside you and the Varden without reserve.”
Together, they all trooped down the stairs to the courtyard outside. The Varden had killed or captured most of the soldiers within the keep, and the few men who were still fighting surrendered once they saw that Lady Lorana was in the custody of the Varden. Since the stairwell was too small for her, Saphira had descended by wing to the courtyard and was waiting for them when they arrived.
Eragon stood with Saphira, Arya, and Lady Lorana while one of the Varden fetched Jörmundur. When Jörmundur joined them, they informed him of what had happened within the tower—which amazed him greatly—and then gave over Lady Lorana to his custody.
Jörmundur bowed to her. “You may rest assured, Lady, we shall treat you with the respect and dignity due your station. We may be your enemies, but we are still civilized men.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “I am relieved to hear it. However, my main concern now is for the safety of my subjects. If I might, I would like to speak with your leader, Nasuada, about her plans for them.”
“I believe she wishes to speak with you as well.”
As they parted, Lady Lorana said, “I am most grateful to you, elf, and to you as well, Dragon Rider, for killing that monster before he could wreak sorrow and destruction upon Feinster. Fate has placed us on opposite sides of this conflict, but that does not mean I cannot admire your bravery and prowess. We may never meet again, so fare thee well, both of you.”
Eragon bowed and said, “Fare thee well, Lady Lorana.”
“May the stars watch over you,” said Arya.
Blödhgarm and the elves under his command accompanied Eragon, Saphira, and Arya as they searched Feinster for Nasuada. They found her riding her stallion through the gray streets, inspecting the damage to the city.
Nasuada greeted Eragon and Saphira with evident relief. “I’m glad you have finally returned. We’ve needed you here these past few days. I see you have a new sword, Eragon, a Dragon Rider’s sword. Did the elves give it to you?”
“In an indirect way, yes.” Eragon eyed the various people standing nearby and lowered his voice. “Nasuada, we must talk with you alone. It’s important.”
“Very well.” Nasuada studied the buildings that lined the street, then pointed at a house that appeared abandoned. “Let us talk in there.”
Two of Nasuada’s guards, the Nighthawks, ran forward and entered the house. They reappeared a few minutes later and bowed to Nasuada, saying, “It’s empty, my Lady.”
“Good. Thank you.” She dismounted her steed, handed the reins to one of the men in her retinue, and strode inside. Eragon and Arya followed.
The three of them wandered through the shabby building until they found a room, the kitchen, with a window large enough to accommodate Saphira’s head. Eragon pushed open the shutters, and Saphira laid her head on the wooden counter. Her breath filled the kitchen with the smell of charred meat.
“We may speak without fear,” Arya announced after casting spells that would prevent anyone from eavesdropping on their conversation.
Nasuada rubbed her arms and shivered. “What is this all about, Eragon?” she asked.
Eragon swallowed, wishing that he did not have to dwell upon Oromis and Glaedr’s fate. Then he said, “Nasuada … Saphira and I were not alone.… There was another dragon and another Rider fighting against Galbatorix.”
“I knew it,” breathed Nasuada, her eyes shining. “It was the only explanation that made sense. They were your teachers in Ellesméra, weren’t they?”
They were, said Saphira, but no more.
“No more?”
Eragon pressed his lips together and shook his head, tears blurring his vision. “Just this morning they died at Gil’ead. Galbatorix used Thorn and Murtagh to kill them; I heard him speak to them with Murtagh’s tongue.”
The excitement drained from Nasuada’s face, replaced by a dull, empty expression. She sank into the nearest chair and stared at the cinders in the cold fireplace. The kitchen was silent. At last she stirred and said, “Are you sure they are dead?”
“Yes.”
Nasuada wiped her eyes on the hem of her sleeve. “Tell me about them, Eragon. Would you, please?”
So for the next half hour, Eragon spoke of Oromis and Glaedr. He explained how they had survived the fall of the Riders and why they had chosen to keep themselves hidden thereafter. He explained about their respective disabilities, and he spent some time describing their personalities and what it had been like to study under them. Eragon’s sense of loss deepened as he remembered the long days he had spent with Oromis on the Crags of Tel’naeír and the many things the elf had done for him and Saphira. As he came to their encounter with Thorn and Murtagh at Gil’ead, Saphira lifted her head off the counter and began to keen again, her mournful wail soft and persistent.
Afterward, Nasuada sighed and said, “I wish I could have met Oromis and Glaedr, but alas, it was not to be.… There is one thing I still do not understand, Eragon. You said you heard Galbatorix speaking to them. How could you?”
“Yes, I would like to know that as well,” said Arya.
Eragon looked for something to drink, but there was no water or wine in the kitchen. He coughed, then launched into an account of their recent trip to Ellesméra. Saphira occasionally made a comment, but for the most part, she left it to him to tell the story. Starting with the truth about his parentage, Eragon proceeded in quick succession through the events of their stay, from their discovery of the brightsteel under the Menoa tree to the forging of Brisingr to his visit with Sloan. Last of all, he told Arya and Nasuada about the dragons’ heart of hearts.
“Well,” said Nasuada. She stood and walked the length of the kitchen and then back again. “You the son of Brom, and Galbatorix leeching off the souls of dragons whose bodies have died. It’s almost too much to comprehend.…” She rubbed her arms again. “At least we now know the true source of Galbatorix’s power.”
Arya stood motionless, breathless, her expression stunned. “The dragons are still alive,” she whispered. She clasped her hands together in a prayer-like fashion and held them against her chest. “They are still alive after all these years. Oh, if only we could tell the rest of my race. How they would rejoice! And how terrible their wrath would be when they heard of the enslavement of the Eldunarí! We would run straight to Urû’baen, and we would not rest until we had freed the hearts of Galbatorix’s control, no matter how many of us died in the process.”
But we cannot tell them, said Saphira.
“No,” said Arya, and lowered her gaze. “We cannot. But I wish we could.”
Nasuada looked at her. “Please do not take offense, but I wish that your mother, Queen Islanzadí, had seen fit to share this information with us. We could have made use of it long ago.”
“I agree,” said Arya, frowning. “On the Burning Plains, Murtagh was able to defeat the two of you”—she indicated Eragon and Saphira—“because y
ou did not know that Galbatorix might have given him some of the Eldunarí and thus you failed to act with appropriate caution. If not for Murtagh’s conscience, you would both be trapped in Galbatorix’s service even now. Oromis and Glaedr, and my mother too, had sound reasons for keeping the Eldunarí a secret, but their reticence was nearly our undoing. I will discuss this with my mother when next we speak.”
Nasuada paced between the counter and the fireplace. “You have given me much to think about, Eragon.…” She tapped the floor with the tip of her boot. “For the first time in the history of the Varden, we know of a way to kill Galbatorix that might actually succeed. If we can separate him from these heart of hearts, he will lose the better part of his strength, and then you and our other spellcasters will be able to overpower him.”
“Yes, but how can we separate him from his hearts?” Eragon asked.
Nasuada shrugged. “I could not say, but I am sure it must be possible. From now on, you will work on devising a method. Nothing else is as important.”
Eragon felt Arya studying him with unusual concentration. Unsettled, he made a questioning face at her.
“I always wondered,” said Arya, “why Saphira’s egg appeared to you, and not somewhere in an empty field. It seemed too great a coincidence to have occurred purely by chance, but I could not think of any plausible explanation. Now I understand. I should have guessed that you were Brom’s son. I did not know Brom well, but I did know him, and you share a certain resemblance.”
“I do?”
“You should be proud to call Brom your father,” said Nasuada. “By all accounts, he was a remarkable man. If not for him, the Varden wouldn’t exist. It seems fitting that you are the one to carry on his work.”
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