Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (96 page)

So Eragon recounted how the Twins betrayed the Varden, recruited the

Urgals, and kidnapped Murtagh. A tear rolled down Nasuada’s cheek. “It’s

a pity that this befell Murtagh when he has already endured so much

hardship. I enjoyed his company in Tronjheim and believed he was our

ally, despite his upbringing. I find it hard to think of him as our enemy.”

Turning to Roran, she said, “It seems I am also personally in your debt for

slaying the traitors who murdered my father.”

Fathers, mothers, brothers, cousins, thought Eragon. It all comes down to

family. Summoning his courage, he completed his report with Murtagh’s

theft of Zar’roc and then his final, terrible secret.

“It can’t be,” whispered Nasuada.

Eragon saw shock and revulsion cross Roran’s face before he managed

to conceal his reactions. That, more than anything else, hurt Eragon.

“Could Murtagh have been lying?” asked Arya.

“I don’t see how. When I questioned him, he told me the same thing in

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the ancient language.”

A long, uncomfortable silence filled the pavilion.

Then Arya said, “No one else can know about this. The Varden are

demoralized enough by the presence of a new Rider. And they’ll be even

more upset when they learn it’s Murtagh, whom they fought alongside

and came to trust in Farthen Dûr. If word spreads that Eragon Shade-

slayer is Morzan’s son, the men will grow disillusioned and few people

will want to join us. Not even King Orrin should be told.”

Nasuada rubbed her temples. “I fear you’re right. A new Rider. .” She

shook her head. “I knew it was possible for this to occur, but I didn’t

really believe it would, since Galbatorix’s remaining eggs had gone so

long without hatching.”

“It has a certain symmetry,” said Eragon.

“Our task is doubly hard now. We may have held our own today, but

the Empire still far outnumbers us, and now we face not one but two

Riders, both of whom are stronger than you, Eragon. Do you think you

could defeat Murtagh with the help of the elves’ spellcasters?”

“Maybe. But I doubt he’d be foolish enough to fight them and me to-

gether.”

For several minutes, they discussed the effect Murtagh could have on

their campaign and strategies to minimize or eliminate it. At last Nasuada

said, “Enough. We cannot decide this when we are bloody and tired and

our minds are clouded from fighting. Go, rest, and we shall take this up

again tomorrow.”

As Eragon turned to leave, Arya approached and looked him straight in

the eye. “Do not allow this to trouble you overmuch, Eragon-elda. You

are not your father, nor your brother. Their shame is not yours.”

“Aye,” agreed Nasuada. “Nor imagine that it has lowered our opinion of

you.” She reached out and cupped his face. “I know you, Eragon. You

have a good heart. The name of your father cannot change that.”

Warmth blossomed inside Eragon. He looked from one woman to the

next, then twisted his hand over his chest, overwhelmed by their friend-

ship. “Thank you.”

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Once they were back out in the open, Eragon put his hands on his hips

and took a deep breath of the smoky air. It was late in the day, and the

garish orange of noon had subsided into a dusky gold light that suffused

the camp and battlefield, giving it a strange beauty. “So now you know,”

he said.

Roran shrugged. “Blood always tells.”

“Don’t say that,” growled Eragon. “Don’t ever say that.”

Roran studied him for several seconds. “You’re right; it was an ugly

thought. I didn’t mean it.” He scratched his beard and squinted at the

bloated sun resting upon the horizon. “Nasuada wasn’t what I expected.”

That forced a tired chuckle out of Eragon. “The one you were expect-

ing was her father, Ajihad. Still, she’s as good a leader as he was, if not

better.”

“Her skin, is it dyed?”

“No, that’s the way she is.”

Just then, Eragon felt Jeod, Horst, and a score of other men from Car-

vahall hurrying toward them. The villagers slowed as they rounded a tent

and glimpsed Saphira. “Horst!” exclaimed Eragon. Stepping forward, he

grasped the smith in a bear hug. “It’s good to see you again!”

Horst gaped at Eragon, then a delighted grin spread across his face.

“Blast if it isn’t good to see you as well, Eragon. You’ve filled out since

you left.”

“You mean since I ran away.”

Meeting the villagers was a strange experience for Eragon. Hardship had

altered some of the men so much, he barely recognized them. And they

treated him differently than before, with a mixture of awe and reverence.

It reminded him of a dream, where everything familiar is rendered alien.

He was disconcerted by how out of place he felt among them.

When Eragon came to Jeod, he paused. “You know about Brom?”

“Ajihad sent me a message, but I’d like to hear what happened directly

from you.”

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Eragon nodded, grave. “As soon as I have the chance, we’ll sit down to-

gether and have a long talk.”

Then Jeod moved on to Saphira and bowed to her. “I waited my entire

life to see a dragon, and now I have seen two in the same day. I am in-

deed lucky. However, you are the dragon I wanted to meet.”

Bending her neck, Saphira touched Jeod on the brow. He shivered at

the contact. Give him my thanks for helping to rescue me from Galbatorix.

Otherwise, I would still be languishing in the king’s treasury. He was

Brom’s friend, and so he is our friend.

After Eragon repeated her words, Jeod said, “Atra esterní ono thelduin,

Saphira Bjartskular,” surprising them with his knowledge of the ancient

language.

“Where did you go?” Horst asked Roran. “We looked high and low for

you after you took off in pursuit of those two magicians.”

“Never mind that now. Return to the ship and have everyone disem-

bark; the Varden are sending us food and shelter. We can sleep on solid

ground tonight!” The men cheered.

Eragon watched with interest as Roran issued his commands. When at

last Jeod and the villagers departed, Eragon said, “They trust you. Even

Horst obeys you without question. Do you speak for all of Carvahall

now?”

“I do.”

Heavy darkness was advancing upon the Burning Plains by the time

they found the small two-man tent the Varden had assigned Eragon.

Since Saphira could not fit her head through the opening, she curled up

on the ground beside and prepared to keep watch.

As soon as I get my strength back, I’ll see to your wounds, promised Er-

agon.

I know. Don’t stay up too late talking.

Inside the tent, Eragon found an oil lantern that he lit with steel and

flint. He could see perfectly well without it, but Roran needed the light.

They sat opposite each other: Eragon on the bedding laid out along one

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side of the tent, Roran on a folding stool he found leaning in a corner. Er-

agon was uncertain how to begin, so he remained silent and stared at the

lamp’s dancing flame.

Neither of them moved.

After uncounted minutes, Roran said, “Tell me how my father died.”

“Our father.” Eragon remained calm as Roran’s expression hardened. In

a gentle voice, he said, “I have as much right to call him that as you. Look

within yourself; you know it to be true.”

“Fine. Our father, how did he die?”

Eragon had recounted the story upon several occasions. But this time he

hid nothing. Instead of just listing the events, he described what he had

thought and felt ever since he had found Saphira’s egg, trying to make

Roran understand why he did what he did. He had never been so anxious

before.

“I was wrong to hide Saphira from the rest of the family,” Eragon con-

cluded, “but I was afraid you might insist on killing her, and I didn’t real-

ize how much danger she put us in. If I had. . After Garrow died, I de-

cided to leave in order to track down the Ra’zac, as well as to avoid put-

ting Carvahall in any more danger.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “It

didn’t work, but if I had remained, the soldiers would have come far

sooner. And then who knows? Galbatorix might have even visited Palan-

car Valley himself. I may be the reason Garrow—Father—died, but that

was never my intention, nor that you and everyone else in Carvahall

should suffer because of my choices. . ” He gestured helplessly. “I did the

best I could, Roran.”

“And the rest of it—Brom being a Rider, rescuing Arya at Gil’ead, and

killing a Shade at the dwarves’ capital—all that happened?”

“Aye.” As quickly as he could, Eragon summarized what had taken

place since he and Saphira set forth with Brom, including their sojourn to

Ellesméra and his own transformation during the Agaetí Blödhren.

Leaning forward, Roran rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his

hands, and gazed at the dirt between them. It was impossible for Eragon

to read his emotions without reaching into his consciousness, which he

refused to do, knowing it would be a terrible mistake to invade Roran’s

privacy.

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Roran was silent for so long, Eragon began to wonder if he would ever

respond. Then: “You have made mistakes, but they are no greater than

my own. Garrow died because you kept Saphira secret. Many more have

died because I refused to give myself up to the Empire. . We are equally

guilty.” He looked up, then slowly extended his right hand. “Brother?”

“Brother,” said Eragon.

He gripped Roran’s forearm, and they pulled each other into a rough

embrace, wrestling to and fro as they used to do at home. When they

separated, Eragon had to wipe his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Galba-

torix should surrender now that we’re together again,” he joked. “Who

can stand against the two of us?” He lowered himself back onto the bed-

ding. “Now you tell me, how did the Ra’zac capture Katrina?”

All happiness vanished from Roran’s face. He began to speak in a low

monotone, and Eragon listened with growing amazement as he wove an

epic of attacks, sieges, and betrayal, of leaving Carvahall, crossing the

Spine, and razing the docks of Teirm, of sailing through a monstrous

whirlpool.

When at last he finished, Eragon said, “You are a greater man than I. I

couldn’t have done half those things. Fight, yes, but not convince every-

one to follow me.”

“I had no choice. When they took Katrina—” Roran’s voice broke. “I

could either give up and die, or I could try to escape Galbatorix’s trap, no

matter the cost.” He fixed his burning eyes on Eragon. “I have lied and

burned and slaughtered to get here. I no longer have to worry about pro-

tecting everyone from Carvahall; the Varden will see to that. Now I have

only one goal in life, to find and rescue Katrina, if she’s not already dead.

Will you help me, Eragon?”

Reaching over, Eragon grabbed his saddlebags from the corner of the

tent—where the Varden had deposited them—and removed a wooden

bowl and the silver flask of enchanted faelnirv Oromis had given him. He

took a small sip of the liqueur to revitalize himself and gasped as it raced

down his throat, making his nerves tingle with cold fire. Then he poured

faelnirv into the bowl until it formed a shallow pool the width of his

hand.

“Watch.” Gathering up his burst of new energy, Eragon said, “Draumr

kópa.”

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The liqueur shimmered and turned black. After a few seconds, a thin

key of light appeared in the center of the bowl, revealing Katrina. She lay

slumped against an invisible wall, her hands suspended above her with

invisible manacles and her copper hair splayed like a fan across her back.

“She’s alive!” Roran hunched over the bowl, grasping at it as if he

thought he could dive through the faelnirv and join Katrina. His hope

and determination melded with a look of such tender affection, Eragon

knew that only death could stop Roran from trying to free her.

Unable to sustain the spell any longer, Eragon let the image fade away.

He leaned against the wall of the tent for support. “Aye,” he said wearily,

“she’s alive. And chances are, she’s imprisoned in Helgrind, in the Ra’zac’s

lair.” Eragon grasped Roran by the shoulders. “The answer to your ques-

tion, brother, is yes. I will travel to Dras-Leona with you. I will help you

rescue Katrina. And then, together, you and I shall kill the Ra’zac and

avenge our father.”

END OF BOOK TWO

THE STORY WILL CONTINUE IN

BOOK THREE OF INHERITANCE

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PRONUNCIATION GUIDE AND GLOSSARY

ON THE ORIGIN OF NAMES:

To the casual observer, the various names an intrepid traveler will en-

counter throughout Alagaësia might seem but a random collection of la-

bels with no inherent integrity, culture, or history. However, as with any

land that has been repeatedly colonized by different cultures—and in this

case, different races—Alagaësia quickly accumulated layers of names

from the elves, dwarves, humans, and even Urgals. Thus, we can have

Palancar Valley (a human name), the Anora River and Ristvak’baen

(elven names), and Utgard Mountain (a dwarf name) all within a few