Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (3 page)

He sat and watched Saphira sleep. Her muscled sides expanded and con-

tracted as the great bellows of her lungs forced air through her scaled

nostrils. Eragon thought of the raging inferno that she could now sum-

mon at will and send roaring out of her maw. It was an awesome sight

when flames hot enough to melt metal rushed past her tongue and ivory

teeth without harming them. Since she first breathed fire during his fight

with Durza—while plunging toward them from the top of Tronjheim—

Saphira had been insufferably proud of her new talent. She was con-

stantly releasing little jets of flame, and she took every opportunity to

light objects ablaze.

Because Isidar Mithrim was shattered, Eragon and Saphira had been un-

able to remain in the dragonhold above it. The dwarves had given them

quarters in an old guardroom on Tronjheim’s bottom level. It was a large

room, but with a low ceiling and dark walls.

Anguish gripped Eragon as he remembered the events of the previous

day. Tears filled his eyes, spilling over, and he caught one on his hand.

They had heard nothing from Arya until late that evening, when she

emerged from the tunnel, weary and footsore. Despite her best efforts—

and all her magic—the Urgals had escaped her. “I found these,” she said.

Then she revealed one of the Twins’ purple robes, torn and bloodied, and

Murtagh’s tunic and both his leather gauntlets. “They were strewn along

the edge of a black chasm, the bottom of which no tunnel reaches. The

Urgals must have stolen their armor and weapons and thrown the bodies

into the pit. I scryed both Murtagh and the Twins, and saw naught but

the shadows of the abyss.” Her eyes met Eragon’s. “I’m sorry; they are

gone.”

Now, in the confines of his mind, Eragon mourned Murtagh. It was a

dreadful, creeping feeling of loss and horror made worse by the fact that

he had grown ever more familiar with it in past months.

As he stared at the tear in his hand—a small, glistening dome—he de-

cided to scry the three men himself. He knew it was a desperate and fu-

tile prospect, but he had to try in order to convince himself that Murtagh

was really gone. Even so, he was uncertain if he wanted to succeed where

Arya had failed, if it would make him feel any better to catch a glimpse

of Murtagh lying broken at the base of a cliff deep below Farthen Dûr.

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He whispered, “Draumr kópa.” Darkness enveloped the liquid, turning

it into a small dot of night on his silver palm. Movement flickered

through it, like the swish of a bird across a clouded moon. . then nothing.

Another tear joined the first.

Eragon took a deep breath, leaned back, and let calm settle over him.

Since recovering from Durza’s wound, he had realized—humbling as it

was—that he had prevailed only through sheer luck. If I ever face another

Shade, or the Ra’zac, or Galbatorix, I must be stronger if I expect to win.

Brom could have taught me more, I know he could have. But without him, I

have but one choice: the elves.

Saphira’s breathing quickened, and she opened her eyes, yawning ex-

pansively. Good morning, little one.

Is it? He looked down and leaned on his hands, compressing the mat-

tress. It’s terrible... Murtagh and Ajihad... Why didn’t sentries in the tun-

nels warn us of the Urgals? They shouldn’t have been able to trail Ajihad’s

group without being noticed.... Arya was right, it doesn’t make sense.

We may never know the truth, said Saphira gently. She stood, wings

brushing the ceiling. You need to eat, then we must discover what the

Varden are planning. We can’t waste time; a new leader could be chosen

within hours.

Eragon agreed, thinking of how they had left everyone yesterday: Orik

rushing off to give King Hrothgar the tidings, Jörmundur taking Ajihad’s

body to a place where it would rest until the funeral, and Arya, who

stood alone and watched the goings-on.

Eragon rose and strapped on Zar’roc and his bow, then bent and lifted

Snowfire’s saddle. A line of pain sheared through his torso, driving him to

the floor, where he writhed, scrabbling at his back. It felt like he was be-

ing sawed in half. Saphira growled as the ripping sensation reached her.

She tried to soothe him with her own mind but was unable to alleviate

his suffering. Her tail instinctually lifted, as if to fight.

It took minutes before the fit subsided and the last throb faded away,

leaving Eragon gasping. Sweat drenched his face, making his hair stick and

his eyes sting. He reached back and gingerly fingered the top of his scar. It

was hot and inflamed and sensitive to touch. Saphira lowered her nose

and touched him on the arm. Oh, little one....

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It was worse this time, he said, staggering upright. She let him lean

against her as he wiped off the sweat with a rag, then he tentatively

stepped toward the door.

Are you strong enough to go?

We have to. We’re obliged as dragon and Rider to make a public choice

regarding the next head of the Varden, and perhaps even influence the selec-

tion. I won’t ignore the strength of our position; we now wield great authority

within the Varden. At least the Twins aren’t here to grab the position for

themselves. That’s the only good in the situation.

Very well, but Durza should suffer a thousand years of torture for what he

did to you.

He grunted. Just stay close to me.

Together they made their way through Tronjheim, toward the nearest

kitchen. In the corridors and hallways, people stopped and bowed to

them, murmuring “Argetlam” or “Shadeslayer.” Even dwarves made the

motions, though not as often. Eragon was struck by the somber, haunted

expressions of the humans and the dark clothing they wore to display

their sadness. Many women were dressed entirely in black, lace veils cov-

ering their faces.

In the kitchen, Eragon brought a stone platter of food to a low table.

Saphira watched him carefully in case he should have another attack.

Several people tried to approach him, but she lifted a lip and growled,

sending them scurrying away. Eragon picked at his food and pretended to

ignore the disturbances. Finally, trying to divert his thoughts from

Murtagh, he asked, Who do you think has the means to take control of the

Varden now that Ajihad and the Twins are gone?

She hesitated. It’s possible you could, if Ajihad’s last words were inter-

preted as a blessing to secure the leadership. Almost no one would oppose

you. However, that does not seem a wise path to take. I see only trouble in

that direction.

I agree. Besides, Arya wouldn’t approve, and she could be a dangerous

enemy. Elves can’t lie in the ancient language, but they have no such inhibi-

tion in ours—she could deny that Ajihad ever uttered those words if it

served her purposes. No, I don’t want the position.... What about Jörmun-

dur?

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Ajihad called him his right-hand man. Unfortunately, we know little

about him or the Varden’s other leaders. Such a short time has passed since

we came here. We will have to make our judgment on our feelings and im-

pressions, without the benefit of history.

Eragon pushed his fish around a lump of mashed tubers. Don’t forget

Hrothgar and the dwarf clans; they won’t be quiet in this. Except for Arya,

the elves have no say in the succession—a decision will be made before

word of this even reaches them. But the dwarves can’t be—won’t be—

ignored. Hrothgar favors the Varden, but if enough clans oppose him, he

might be maneuvered into backing someone unsuited for the command.

And who might that be?

A person easily manipulated. He closed his eyes and leaned back. It

could be anyone in Farthen Dûr, anyone at all.

For a long while, they both considered the issues facing them. Then

Saphira said, Eragon, there is someone here to see you. I can’t scare him

away.

Eh? He cracked his eyes open, squinting as they adjusted to the light. A

pale-looking youth stood by the table. The boy eyed Saphira like he was

afraid she would try to eat him. “What is it?” asked Eragon, not unkindly.

The boy started, flustered, then bowed. “You have been summoned,

Argetlam, to speak before the Council of Elders.”

“Who are they?”

The question confused the boy even more. “The—the council is. . are. .

people we—that is, the Varden—choose to speak on our behalf to Aji-

had. They were his trusted advisers, and now they wish to see you. It is a

great honor!” He finished with a quick smile.

“Are you to lead me to them?”

“Yes, I am.”

Saphira looked at Eragon questioningly. He shrugged and left the un-

eaten food, motioning for the boy to show the way. As they walked, the

boy admired Zar’roc with bright eyes, then looked down shyly.

17

“What are you called?” asked Eragon.

“Jarsha, sir.”

“That’s a good name. You carried your message well; you should be

proud.” Jarsha beamed and bounced forward.

They reached a convex stone door, which Jarsha pushed open. The

room inside was circular, with a sky blue dome decorated with constella-

tions. A round marble table, inlaid with the crest of Dûrgrimst Ingei-

tum—an upright hammer ringed by twelve stars—stood in the center of

the chamber. Seated there were Jörmundur and two other men, one tall

and one broad; a woman with pinched lips, close-set eyes, and elaborately

painted cheeks; and a second woman with an immense pile of gray hair

above a matronly face, belied by a dagger hilt peeking out of the vast hills

of her bodice.

“You may go,” said Jörmundur to Jarsha, who quickly bowed and left.

Conscious that he was being watched, Eragon surveyed the room, then

seated himself in the middle of a swath of empty chairs, so that the

council members were forced to turn in their seats in order to look at

him. Saphira hunkered directly behind him; he could feel her hot breath

on the top of his head.

Jörmundur got halfway up to make a slight bow, then reseated himself.

“Thank you for coming, Eragon, even though you have suffered your own

loss. This is Umérth,” the tall man; “Falberd,” the broad one; “and Sabrae

and Elessari,” the two women.

Eragon inclined his head, then asked, “And what of the Twins, were

they part of this council?”

Sabrae shook her head sharply and tapped a long fingernail on the table.

“They had naught to do with us. They were slime—worse than slime—

leeches that worked only for their own benefit. They had no desire to

serve the Varden. Thus, they had no place in this council.” Eragon could

smell her perfume all the way on the other side of the table; it was thick

and oily, like a rotting flower. He hid a smile at the thought.

“Enough. We’re not here to discuss the Twins,” said Jörmundur. “We

face a crisis that must be dealt with quickly and effectively. If we don’t

choose Ajihad’s successor, someone else will. Hrothgar has already con-

tacted us to convey his condolences. While he was more than courteous,

18

he is sure to be forming his own plans even as we speak. We must also

consider Du Vrangr Gata, the magic users. Most of them are loyal to the

Varden, but it’s difficult to predict their actions even in the best of times.

They might decide to oppose our authority for their own advantage. That

is why we need your assistance, Eragon, to provide the legitimacy re-

quired by whoever is to take Ajihad’s place.”

Falberd heaved himself up, planting his meaty hands on the table. “The

five of us have already decided whom to support. There is no doubt

among us that it is the right person. But,” he raised a thick finger, “before

we reveal who it is, you must give us your word of honor that whether

you agree or disagree with us, nothing of our discussion will leave this

room.”

Why would they want that? Eragon asked Saphira.

I don’t know, she said, snorting. It might be a trap.... It’s a gamble you’ll

have to take. Remember, though, they haven’t asked me to pledge anything.

I can always tell Arya what they say, if needed. Silly of them, forgetting

that I’m as intelligent as any human.

Pleased with the thought, Eragon said, “Very well, you have my word.

Now, who do you want to lead the Varden?”

“Nasuada.”

Surprised, Eragon dropped his gaze, thinking quickly. He had not con-

sidered Nasuada for the succession because of her youth—she was just a

few years older than Eragon. No real reason existed, of course, for her not

to lead, but why would the Council of Elders want her to? How would

they benefit? He remembered Brom’s advice and tried to examine the

issue from every angle, knowing that he had to decide swiftly.

Nasuada has steel in her, observed Saphira. She would be like her father.

Maybe, but what’s their reason for picking her?

To gain time, Eragon asked, “Why not you, Jörmundur? Ajihad called

you his right-hand man. Doesn’t that mean you should take his place now

that he’s gone?”

A current of unease ran through the council: Sabrae sat even straighter,

hands clasped before her; Umérth and Falberd glanced at each other