Inheritance (32 page)

And so, the Varden waited.

As day inexorably followed day, Eragon had watched the men grow sullen and discontent, and Nasuada had become increasingly worried. An army, Eragon had learned, was a ravenous, insatiable beast that would soon die and separate into its constituent elements unless massive amounts of food were shoveled into its many thousands of stomachs upon a regular basis. When marching into new territory, obtaining supplies for an army was a simple matter of confiscating food and other essentials from the people they conquered, and stripping resources from the surrounding countryside. Like a plague of locusts, the Varden left a barren swath of land in their wake, a swath devoid of most everything needed to support life.

Once they stopped moving, they soon exhausted the stores of food close at hand and were forced to subsist entirely on provisions brought to them from Surda and the several cities they had captured. Generous as the inhabitants of Surda were, and rich as the vanquished cities were, the regular deliveries of goods were not enough to sustain the Varden for much longer.

Though Eragon knew the warriors were devoted to their cause, he had no doubt that, when faced with the prospect of a slow, agonizing death by starvation that would accomplish nothing besides giving Galbatorix the satisfaction of gloating over their defeat, most men would elect to flee to some distant corner of Alagaësia, where they could live out the rest of their lives in safety from the Empire.

That moment had not yet arrived, but it was fast approaching.

Fear of that fate, Eragon was sure, was what had been keeping Nasuada up at night, so that she appeared increasingly haggard each morning, the bags under her eyes like small, sad smiles.

The difficulties they had faced at Dras-Leona made Eragon grateful that Roran had avoided becoming similarly bogged down at Aroughs and heightened his admiration and appreciation for what his cousin had accomplished at the southern city.
He’s a braver man than I
. Nasuada would disapprove, but Eragon was determined that once Roran returned—which, if all went well, would be in just a few days—Eragon would once again provide him with a full set of wards. Eragon had already lost too many members of his family to the Empire and Galbatorix, and he was not about to let the same doom befall Roran.

He paused to let a trio of arguing dwarves cross the path in front of him. The dwarves wore no helms or insignia, but he knew they were not of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, for their plaited beards were trimmed with beads—a fashion he had never seen among the Ingeitum. Whatever the dwarves were quarreling about was a mystery to him—he could not understand more than a few words of their guttural language—but the topic was obviously of all-consuming importance, judging by their loud voices, unrestrained gestures, exaggerated expressions, and their failure to notice either him or Saphira standing in the path.

Eragon smiled as they passed; he found their preoccupation somewhat comical, despite their evident seriousness. Much to the relief of everyone in the Varden, the dwarves’ army, led by their new king, Orik, had arrived at Dras-Leona two days before. That, and Roran’s victory at Aroughs, had since become the main topics of conversation throughout the camp. The dwarves nearly doubled the size of the Varden’s allied forces and would substantially increase the chances of the Varden reaching Urû’baen and Galbatorix if a favorable solution to the impasse with Murtagh and Thorn could be found.

As he and Saphira walked through the camp, Eragon caught sight of Katrina sitting outside her tent, knitting clothes for her child-to-be. She greeted him with a raised hand and by calling, “Cousin!”

He replied in kind, as had become their habit since her marriage.

After both he and Saphira enjoyed a leisurely lunch—which involved a fair amount of tearing and crunching on Saphira’s part—they retired to the patch of soft, sunlit grass next to Eragon’s tent. By order of Nasuada, the patch was always left open for Saphira’s use, a dictate that the Varden observed with religious zeal.

There Saphira curled up to doze in the midday warmth, while Eragon fetched
Domia abr Wyrda
from his saddlebags, then climbed under the overhang of her left wing to nestle in the partially shaded hollow between the inner curve of her neck and her muscular foreleg. The light that shone through the folds of her wing, as well as that cast off in winking highlights from her scales, painted his skin a weird, purplish hue and covered the pages of the book with a smattering of glowing shapes that made it difficult to read the thin, angular runes. But he did not mind; the pleasure of sitting with Saphira more than made up for the inconvenience.

They sat together for an hour or two, until Saphira had digested her meal and Eragon was tired of deciphering the convoluted sentences of Heslant the Monk. Then, bored, they wandered through the camp, inspecting the defenses and occasionally exchanging words with the sentinels stationed along the perimeter.

Near the eastern edge of the camp, where the bulk of the dwarves were situated, they came across a dwarf who was squatting next to a bucket of water, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, molding a fist-sized ball of dirt with his hands. By his feet was a puddle of mud and a stick that had been used to stir it.

The sight was so incongruous, several moments elapsed before Eragon realized that the dwarf was Orik.

“Derûndânn, Eragon … Saphira,” said Orik without looking up.

“Derûndânn,” said Eragon, repeating the traditional dwarvish greeting, and squatted on the other side of the puddle. He watched as Orik continued to refine the contours of the ball, smoothing and shaping it with the outer curve of his right thumb. Every so often, Orik reached down, grabbed a handful of dry dirt, and sprinkled it over the yellowish orb of earth, then gently brushed off the excess.

“I never thought to see the king of the dwarves crouched on the ground, playing in the mud like a child,” Eragon said.

Orik huffed, blowing out his mustache. “And I never thought to have a dragon and a Rider staring at me while I made an Erôthknurl.”

“And what is an Erôthknurl?”

“A thardsvergûndnzmal.”

“A
thardsver
—?” Eragon gave up halfway through the word, unable to remember the whole of it, much less pronounce it. “And that is …?”

“Something that appears to be other than what it actually is.” Orik raised the ball of dirt. “Like this. This is a stone fashioned from earth. Or, rather, so it shall seem when I am done.”

“A stone from earth.… Is it magic?”

“No, it is mine own skill. Nothing more.”

When Orik failed to explain further, Eragon asked, “How is it done?”

“If you are patient, you will see.” Then, after a while, Orik relented and said, “First, you must find some dirt.”

“A hard task, that.”

From under his bushy eyebrows, Orik gave him a look. “Some types of dirt are better than others. Sand, for example, will not work. The dirt must have particles of varying size, so that it will stick together properly. Also, it should have some clay in it, as this does. But most important, if I do this”—and he patted his hand against a bare strip of ground among the clumps of trampled grass—“there must be lots of dust in the dirt. See?” He held up his hand, showing Eragon the layer of fine powder that clung to his palm.

“Why is that important?”

“Ah,” said Orik, and tapped the side of his nose, leaving behind a whitish smear. He resumed rubbing the sphere with his hands, turning it so that it would remain symmetrical. “Once you have good dirt, you wet it and you mix it like water and flour until you have a nice, thick mud.” He nodded at the pool by his feet. “From the mud, you form a ball, like so, eh? Then you squeeze it and wring out
every drop you can. Then you make the ball perfectly round. When it begins to feel sticky, you do as I am doing: you pour dirt over it, to draw out more moisture from the interior. This you continue until the ball is dry enough to hold its shape, but not so dry that it cracks.

“Mine Erôthknurl is almost to that point. When it gets there, I shall bear it to mine tent and leave it in the sun for a goodly while. The light and the warmth will draw out even more moisture from the center; then I shall again pour dirt over it and again clean it off. After three or four times, the outside of mine Erôthknurl should be as hard as the hide of a Nagra.”

“All that just to have a ball of dry mud?” said Eragon, puzzled. Saphira shared his sentiment.

Orik scooped up another handful of dirt. “No, because that’s not the end of it. Next is when the dust becomes of use. I take it, and I smear the outside of the Erôthknurl with it, which forms a thin, smooth shell. Then I will let the ball rest and wait for more moisture to seep to the surface, then dust, then wait, then dust, then wait, and so on.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Until the dust no longer adheres to the Erôthknurl. The shell it forms is what gives an Erôthknurl its beauty. Over the course of a day, it will acquire a brilliant sheen, as if it were made of polished marble. With no buffing, no grinding, no magic—with only your heart, head, and hands—you will have made a stone out of common earth … a fragile stone, it is true, but a stone nevertheless.”

Despite Orik’s insistence, Eragon still found it hard to believe that the mud at his feet could be transformed into anything like what Orik had described without the use of magic.

Why are you making one, though, Orik dwarf king?
Saphira asked.
You must have many responsibilities now that you are ruler of your people
.

Orik grunted. “I have nothing I must needs do at the moment. My men are ready for battle, but there is no battle for us to fight, and it would be bad for them if I were to fuss over them like a mother
hen. Nor do I want to sit alone in my tent, watching mine beard grow.… Thus the Erôthknurl.”

He fell silent then, but it seemed to Eragon that something was bothering Orik, so Eragon held his tongue and waited to see if Orik would say anything else. After a minute, Orik cleared his throat and said, “Used to be, I could drink and play dice with the others of mine clan, and it mattered not that I was Hrothgar’s adopted heir. We could still talk and laugh together without it feeling uncomfortable. I asked for no favors, nor did I show any. But now it is different. My friends cannot forget that I am their king, and I cannot ignore how their behavior has changed toward me.”

“That is only to be expected,” Eragon pointed out. He empathized with Orik’s plight, for he had experienced much the same thing since becoming a Rider.

“Perhaps. But knowing it makes it no easier to bear.” Orik made an exasperated sound. “Ach, life is a strange, cruel journey sometimes.… I admired Hrothgar as a king, but it often seemed to me that he was short with those he dealt with when he had no reason to be. Now I understand better why he was the way he was.” Orik cupped the ball of dirt with both hands and gazed at it, his brow knotted in a scowl. “When you met with Grimstborith Gannel in Tarnag, did he explain to you the significance of the Erôthknurln?”

“He never mentioned it.”

“I suppose there were other matters that needed talking about.… Still, as one of the Ingeitum, and as an adopted knurla, you should know the import and symbology of the Erôthknurln. It is not just a way to focus the mind, pass the time, and create an interesting keepsake. No. The act of making a stone out of earth is a sacred one. By it, we reaffirm our faith in Helzvog’s power and offer tribute to him. One should approach the task with reverence and purpose. Crafting an Erôthknurl is a form of worship, and the gods do not look kindly on those who perform the rites in a frivolous manner.… From stone, flesh; from flesh, earth; and from earth, stone again. The wheel turns and we see but a glimpse of the entirety.”

Only then did Eragon appreciate the depth of Orik’s disquiet. “You ought to have Hvedra with you,” he said. “She would keep you company and prevent you from becoming so grim. I’ve never seen you as happy as when you were with her at Bregan Hold.”

The lines around Orik’s downcast eyes deepened as he smiled. “Aye.… But she is the grimstcarvlorss of the Ingeitum, and she cannot abandon her duties just to comfort me. Besides, I could not rest easy if she were within a hundred leagues of Murtagh and Thorn or, worse, Galbatorix and his accursed black dragon.”

In an attempt to cheer Orik up, Eragon said, “You remind me of the answer to a riddle: a dwarf king sitting on the ground, making a stone out of dirt. I’m not sure how the riddle itself would go, but perhaps, something along the lines of:

“It doesn’t rhyme, but then, you can’t expect me to compose proper verse on the spur of the moment. I would imagine that a riddle like that would be quite a head-scratcher for most people.”

“Humph,” said Orik. “Not for a dwarf. Even our children could solve it quick as you please.”

A dragon too
, said Saphira.

“I suppose you’re right,” said Eragon.

Then he asked Orik about everything that had happened among the dwarves after he and Saphira had left Tronjheim for their second trip to the forest of the elves. Eragon had not had an opportunity to talk with Orik for any great length of time since the dwarves had arrived at Dras-Leona, and he was eager to hear how his friend had gotten along since assuming the throne.

Orik did not seem to mind explaining the intricacies of the dwarves’ politics. Indeed, as he spoke, his expression brightened and he became increasingly animated. He spent nearly an hour
recounting the bickering and maneuvering that had gone on between the dwarf clans prior to assembling their army and marching to join the Varden. The clans were a fractious lot, as Eragon well knew, and even as king, Orik had difficulty commanding their obedience.

“It’s like trying to herd a flock of geese,” said Orik. “They’re always trying to go off on their own, they make an obnoxious noise, and they’ll bite your hand first chance they get.”