Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (9 page)

Eragon joined the revelry with an abandon that surprised him. It helped

to ease the melancholy gathered in his heart. However, he did try to resist

complete debauchery, for he was conscious of the duties that awaited

them the following day and he wanted to have a clear head.

Even Saphira took a sip of mead, and finding that she liked it, the

dwarves rolled out a whole barrel for her. Delicately lowering her mighty

jaws through the cask’s open end, she drained it with three long draughts,

then tilted her head toward the ceiling and belched a giant tongue of

flame. It took several minutes for Eragon to convince the dwarves that it

was safe to approach her again, but once he did, they brought her another

barrel—overriding the cook’s protests—and watched with amazement as

she emptied it as well.

As Saphira became increasingly inebriated, her emotions and thoughts

washed through Eragon with more and more force. It became difficult for

him to rely upon the input of his own senses: her vision began to slip

over his own, blurring movement and changing colors. Even the odors he

smelled shifted at times, becoming sharper, more pungent.

The dwarves began to sing together. Weaving as she stood, Saphira

hummed along, punctuating each line with a roar. Eragon opened his

mouth to join in and was shocked when, instead of words, out came the

snarling rasp of a dragon’s voice. That, he thought, shaking his head, is go-

ing too far.... Or am I just drunk? He decided it did not matter and pro-

ceeded to sing boisterously, dragon’s voice or not.

Dwarves continued to stream into the hall as word of Isidar Mithrim

spread. Hundreds soon packed the tables, with a thick ring around Eragon

and Saphira. Orik called in musicians who arranged themselves in a cor-

ner, where they pulled slipcovers of green velvet off their instruments.

Soon harps, lutes, and silver flutes floated their gilded melodies over the

throng.

Many hours passed before the noise and excitement began to calm.

When it did, Orik once more climbed onto the table. He stood there, legs

spread wide for balance, tankard in hand, iron-bound cap awry, and cried,

“Hear, hear! At last we have celebrated as is proper. The Urgals are gone,

the Shade is dead, and we have won!” The dwarves all pounded their ta-

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bles in approval. It was a good speech—short and to the point. But Orik

was not finished. “To Eragon and Saphira!” he roared, lifting the tankard.

This too was well received.

Eragon stood and bowed, which brought more cheers. Beside him,

Saphira reared and swung a foreleg across her chest, attempting to dupli-

cate his move. She tottered, and the dwarves, realizing their danger,

scrambled away from her. They were barely in time. With a loud

whoosh, Saphira fell backward, landing flat on a banquet table.

Pain shot through Eragon’s back and he collapsed insensate by her tail.

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REQUIEM

“Wake, Knurlhiem! You cannot sleep now. We are needed at the

gate—they won’t start without us.”

Eragon forced his eyes open, conscious of an aching head and sore body.

He was lying on a cold stone table. “What?” He grimaced at the sick taste

on his tongue.

Orik tugged on his brown beard. “Ajihad’s procession. We must be pre-

sent for it!”

“No, what did you call me?” They were still in the banquet hall, but it

was empty except for him, Orik, and Saphira, who lay on her side be-

tween two tables. She stirred and lifted her head, looking around with

bleary eyes.

“Stonehead! I called you Stonehead because I’ve been trying to wake

you for almost an hour.”

Eragon pushed himself upright and slid off the table. Flashes of memory

from the night before jumped through his mind. Saphira, how are you? he

asked, stumbling to her.

She swiveled her head, running her crimson tongue in and out over her

teeth, like a cat that ate something unpleasant. Whole... I think. My left

wing feels a bit strange; I think it’s the one I landed on. And my head is

filled with a thousand hot arrows.

“Was anyone hurt when she fell?” asked Eragon, concerned.

A hearty chuckle exploded from the dwarf’s thick chest. “Only those

who dropped off their seats from laughing so hard. A dragon getting

drunk and bowing at that! I’m sure lays will be sung about it for decades.”

Saphira shuffled her wings and looked away primly. “We thought it best

to leave you here, since we couldn’t move you, Saphira. It upset the head

cook terribly—he feared you would drink more of his best stock than the

four barrels you already did.”

And you chastised me once for drinking! If I consumed four barrels, it

would kill me!

That’s why you’re not a dragon.

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Orik thrust a bundle of clothes into Eragon’s arms. “Here, put these on.

They are more appropriate for a funeral than your own attire. But hurry,

we have little time.” Eragon struggled into the items—a billowy white

shirt with ties at the cuffs, a red vest decorated with gold braiding and

embroidery, dark pants, shiny black boots that clacked on the floor, and a

swirling cape that fastened under his throat with a studded brooch. In

place of the usual plain leather band, Zar’roc was fastened to an ornate

belt.

Eragon splashed his face with water and tried to arrange his hair neatly.

Then Orik rushed him and Saphira out of the hall and toward Tron-

jheim’s south gate. “We must start from there,” he explained, moving

with surprising speed on his stocky legs, “because that is where the pro-

cession with Ajihad’s body stopped three days ago. His journey to the

grave cannot be interrupted, or else his spirit will find no rest.”

An odd custom, remarked Saphira.

Eragon agreed, noting a slight unsteadiness in her gait. In Carvahall,

people were usually buried on their farm, or if they lived in the village, in

a small graveyard. The only rituals that accompanied the process were

lines recited from certain ballads and a death feast held afterward for rela-

tives and friends. Can you make it through the whole funeral? he asked as

Saphira staggered again.

She grimaced briefly. That and Nasuada’s appointment, but then I’ll

need to sleep. A pox on all mead!

Returning to his conversation with Orik, Eragon asked, “Where will

Ajihad be buried?”

Orik slowed and glanced at Eragon with caution. “That has been a mat-

ter of contention among the clans. When a dwarf dies, we believe he

must be sealed in stone or else he will never join his ancestors. . It is

complex and I cannot say more to an outsider. . but we go to great

lengths to assure such a burial. Shame falls on a family or clan if they al-

low any of their own to lie in a lesser element.

“Under Farthen Dûr exists a chamber that is the home of all knurlan,

all dwarves, who have died here. It is there Ajihad will be taken. He can-

not be entombed with us, as he is human, but a hallowed alcove has been

set aside for him. There the Varden may visit him without disturbing our

sacred grottos, and Ajihad will receive the respect he is due.”

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“Your king has done much for the Varden,” commented Eragon.

“Some think too much.”

Before the thick gate—drawn up on its hidden chains to reveal faint

daylight drifting into Farthen Dûr—they found a carefully arranged col-

umn. Ajihad lay at the front, cold and pale on a white marble bier borne

by six men in black armor. Upon his head was a helm strewn with pre-

cious stones. His hands were clasped beneath his collarbone, over the

ivory hilt of his bare sword, which extended from underneath the shield

covering his chest and legs. Silver mail, like circlets of moonbeams,

weighed down his limbs and fell onto the bier.

Close behind the body stood Nasuada—grave, sable-cloaked, and strong

in stature, though tears adorned her countenance. To the side was Hroth-

gar in dark robes; then Arya; the Council of Elders, all with suitably re-

morseful expressions; and finally a stream of mourners that extended a

mile from Tronjheim.

Every door and archway of the four-story-high hall that led to the cen-

tral chamber of Tronjheim, half a mile away, was thrown open and

crowded with humans and dwarves alike. Between the gray bands of

faces, the long tapestries swayed as they were brushed with hundreds of

sighs and whispers when Saphira and Eragon came into view.

Jörmundur beckoned for them to join him. Trying not to disturb the

formation, Eragon and Saphira picked through the column to the space

by his side, earning a disapproving glare from Sabrae. Orik went to stand

behind Hrothgar.

Together they waited, though for what, Eragon knew not.

All the lanterns were shuttered halfway so that a cool twilight suffused

the air, lending an ethereal feel to the event. No one seemed to move or

breathe: for a brief moment, Eragon fancied that they were all statues

frozen for eternity. A single plume of incense drifted from the bier, wind-

ing toward the hazy ceiling as it spread the scent of cedar and juniper. It

was the only motion in the hall, a whiplash line undulating sinuously

from side to side.

Deep in Tronjheim, a drum gonged. Boom. The sonorous bass note

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resonated through their bones, vibrating the city-mountain and causing it

to echo like a great stone bell.

They stepped forward.

Boom. On the second note, another, lower drum melded with the first,

each beat rolling inexorably through the hall. The force of the sound

propelled them along at a majestic pace. It gave each step significance, a

purpose and gravity suited to the occasion. No thought could exist in the

throbbing that surrounded them, only an upwelling of emotion that the

drums expertly beguiled, summoning tears and bittersweet joy at the

same time.

Boom.

When the tunnel ended, Ajihad’s bearers paused between the onyx pil-

lars before gliding into the central chamber. There Eragon saw the

dwarves grow even more solemn upon beholding Isidar Mithrim.

Boom.

They walked through a crystal graveyard. A circle of towering shards

lay in the center of the great chamber, surrounding the inlaid hammer

and pentacles. Many pieces were larger than Saphira. The rays of the star

sapphire still shimmered in the fragments, and on some, petals of the

carved rose were visible.

Boom.

The bearers continued forward, between the countless razor edges.

Then the procession turned and descended broad flights of stairs to the

tunnels below. Through many caverns they marched, passing stone huts

where dwarven children clutched their mothers and stared with wide

eyes.

Boom.

And with that final crescendo, they halted under ribbed stalactites that

branched over a great catacomb lined with alcoves. In each alcove lay a

tomb carved with a name and clan crest. Thousands—hundreds of thou-

sands—were buried here. The only light came from sparsely placed red

lanterns, pale in the shadows.

After a moment, the bearers strode to a small room annexed to the

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main chamber. In the center, on a raised platform, was a great crypt open

to waiting darkness. On the top was carved in runes:

May all, Knurlan, Humans, and Elves,

Remember

This Man.

For he was Noble, Strong, and Wise.

Gûntera Arûna

When the mourners were gathered around, Ajihad was lowered into

the crypt, and those who had known him personally were allowed to ap-

proach. Eragon and Saphira were fifth in line, behind Arya. As they as-

cended the marble steps to view the body, Eragon was gripped by an

overwhelming sense of sorrow, his anguish compounded by the fact that

he considered this as much Murtagh’s funeral as Ajihad’s.

Stopping alongside the tomb, Eragon gazed down at Ajihad. He ap-

peared far more calm and tranquil than he ever did in life, as if death had

recognized his greatness and honored him by removing all traces of his

worldly cares. Eragon had known Ajihad only a short while, but in that

time he had come to respect him both as a person and for what he repre-

sented: freedom from tyranny. Also, Ajihad was the first person to grant

safe haven to Eragon and Saphira since they left Palancar Valley.

Stricken, Eragon tried to think of the greatest praise he could give. In

the end, he whispered past the lump in his throat, “You will be remem-

bered, Ajihad. I swear it. Rest easy knowing that Nasuada shall continue

your work and the Empire will be overthrown because of what you ac-

complished.” Conscious of Saphira’s touch on his arm, Eragon stepped off

the platform with her and allowed Jörmundur to take his place.

When at last everyone had paid their respects, Nasuada bowed over

Ajihad and touched her father’s hand, holding it with gentle urgency. Ut-

tering a pained groan, she began to sing in a strange, wailing language, fill-

ing the cavern with her lamentations.

Then came twelve dwarves, who slid a marble slab over Ajihad’s up-

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turned face. And he was no more.