Inheritance

CONCLAVE OF KINGS

Upon landing in the Varden’s camp with Saphira, Eragon slid down her side and ran to the patch of grass where she had gently deposited Arya.

The elf lay facedown, limp and motionless. When Eragon rolled her over, her eyes flickered open. “Thorn … What of Thorn?” she whispered.

He escaped, said Saphira.

“And … Nasuada? Did you rescue her?”

Eragon looked down and shook his head.

Sorrow passed over Arya’s face. She coughed and winced, then started to sit up. A thread of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

“Wait,” said Eragon. “Don’t move. I’ll fetch Blodhgarm.”

“There’s no need.” Grasping his shoulder, Arya pulled herself onto her feet, then gingerly rose to her full height. Her breath caught as her muscles stretched, and Eragon saw the pain she was trying to hide. “I’m only bruised, not broken. My wards protected me from the worst of Thorn’s blow.”

Eragon was doubtful, but he accepted her statement.

What now? asked Saphira, moving closer to them. The sharp, musky smell of her blood was thick in Eragon’s nostrils.

Eragon looked around at the flames and destruction in the camp. Again he thought of Roran and Katrina and wondered if they had survived the attack. What now indeed?

Circumstances answered his question. First, a pair of wounded soldiers ran out of a bank of smoke and attacked him and Arya. By the time Eragon dispatched them, eight of the elves had converged upon their location.

After Eragon convinced them he was unharmed, the elves turned their attention to Saphira and insisted on healing the bites and scratches Thorn had given her, even though Eragon would have preferred to do it himself.

Knowing that the healing was going to require several minutes, Eragon left Saphira with the elves and hurried back through the rows of tents to the area near Nasuada’s pavilion, where Blodhgarm and the two other elven spellcasters were still locked in mental combat with the last of the four enemy magicians.

The remaining magician was kneeling on the ground, his brow pressed against his knees and his arms wrapped around the nape of his neck. Instead of adding his thoughts to the invisible fray, Eragon strode over to the magician, tapped him on the shoulder, and shouted, “Ha!”

The magician quivered, startled, and the distraction allowed the elves to slip past his defenses. This Eragon knew because the man convulsed and then rolled over, the whites of his eyes showing, and a yellowish foam bubbled out of his mouth. Soon afterward, he ceased breathing.

With clipped sentences, Eragon explained to Blodhgarm and the two other elves what had happened to Arya and Nasuada. Blodhgarm’s fur bristled, and his yellow eyes burned with anger. But his only comment was to say in the ancient language, “Dark times are upon us, Shadeslayer.” Then he sent Yaela to find and retrieve the Dauthdaert from wherever it had fallen.

Together Eragon, Blodhgarm, and Uthinare, the elf who had stayed with them, ranged through the camp, rounding up and killing the few soldiers who had escaped the teeth of the werecats and the blades of the men, dwarves, elves, and Urgals. They also used their magic to extinguish some of the larger blazes, snuffing them out as easily as the flame of a candle.

The whole while, an overwhelming sense of dread clutched at Eragon, pressing down on him like a pile of sodden fleeces and constricting his mind so that he found it difficult to think of anything other than death, defeat, and failure. He felt as if the world were crumbling around him-as if everything he and the Varden had striven to accomplish was unspooling rapidly, and there was nothing he could do to regain control. The sense of helplessness sapped his will to do anything other than sit in a corner and give in to misery. Still, he refused to satisfy the urge, for if he did, then he might as well be dead. So he kept moving, laboring alongside the elves in spite of his despair.

It did not improve his mood when Glaedr contacted him and said, If you had listened to me, we might have stopped Thorn and saved Nasuada.

And we might not have, said Eragon. He did not want to discuss the subject further but felt compelled to add: You let your anger cloud your sight. Killing Thorn wasn’t the only solution, nor should you have been so quick to destroy one of the only remaining members of your kind.

Do not think to lecture me, youngling! snapped Glaedr. You cannot begin to understand what I have lost.

I understand better than most, Eragon replied, but Glaedr had already withdrawn from his mind, and Eragon did not think the dragon heard him.

Eragon had just put out one fire and was moving to the next when Roran hurried to him and grasped his arm. “Are you hurt?”

Relief swept through Eragon as he saw his cousin alive and well.

“No,” he said.

“And Saphira?”

“The elves have already mended her wounds. What of Katrina? Is she safe?”

Roran nodded, and his posture relaxed slightly, but his expression remained troubled. “Eragon,” he said, drawing closer, “what’s happened? What is happening? I saw Jormundur running around like a chicken with its head cut off, and Nasuada’s guards look grim as death, and I can’t get anyone to talk to me. Are we still in danger? Is Galbatorix about to attack?”

Eragon glanced around, then drew Roran to the side, where no one else could hear. “You can’t tell anyone. Not yet,” he cautioned.

“You have my word.”

With a few quick sentences, Eragon summarized the situation to Roran. By the time he finished, Roran’s expression had grown bleak. “We can’t let the Varden disband,” he said.

“Of course not. That won’t happen, but King Orrin may try to assume command, or-” Eragon fell silent as a group of warriors passed nearby. Then: “Stay with me, will you? I may need your help.”

“My help? For what would you need my help?”

“The whole army admires you, Roran, even the Urgals. You’re Stronghammer, the hero of Aroughs, and your opinion carries weight. That might prove important.”

Roran was silent for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

“For now, just keep watch for soldiers,” said Eragon, and continued toward the fire that was his intended destination.

Half an hour later, as quiet and order had begun to settle over the camp again, a runner informed Eragon that Arya desired his immediate presence in King Orik’s pavilion.

Eragon and Roran exchanged glances, then set out toward the northwestern quadrant of the camp, where the majority of the dwarves had pitched their tents.

“There is no choice,” said Jormundur. “Nasuada made her wishes perfectly clear. You, Eragon, must take her place and lead the Varden in her stead.”

The faces ringing the interior of the tent were stern and unyielding. Dark shadows clung to the hollows of their temples and to the deep frown lines of the assorted two-legs, as Eragon knew Saphira would have called them. The only one not frowning was Saphira-her head was pushed through the entrance to the pavilion so that she could participate in the conclave-but her lips were pulled back slightly, as if she was about to snarl.

Also present were King Orrin, a purple cloak wrapped over his night robes; Arya, looking shaken but determined; King Orik, who had found a mail shirt to cover himself; the werecat king, Grimrr Halfpaw, a white linen bandage wrapped around a sword cut on his right shoulder; Nar Garzhvog, the Kull, stooping to avoid brushing his horns against the ceiling; and Roran, who stood by the wall of the tent listening to the proceedings, so far without comment.

No one else had been allowed into the pavilion. Not guards, not advisers, not servants, not even Blodhgarm or the other elves. Outside, a block of men, dwarves, and Urgals stood twelve deep before the entrance-their task to prevent anyone, no matter how powerful or dangerous, from interfering with the meeting. And woven about the tent were a number of hastily cast spells intended to prevent eavesdropping both mundane and magical.

“I never wanted this,” said Eragon, staring down at the map of Alagaesia stretched out on the table in the center of the pavilion.

“None of us did,” said King Orrin in a biting tone.

It had been wise of Arya, Eragon thought, to stage the meeting in Orik’s pavilion. The dwarf king was known to be a staunch supporter of Nasuada and the Varden-as well as being Eragon’s clan chief and foster brother-but no one could accuse him of aspiring to Nasuada’s position, nor would the humans necessarily accept him as her replacement.

Still, by staging the meeting in Orik’s pavilion, Arya had strengthened Eragon’s case and undercut his critics, without appearing to endorse or attack either. She was, Eragon had to admit, far more accomplished at manipulating others than he. The only risk in what she had done was that it might cause others to think Orik was his master, but that was a risk Eragon was willing to accept in exchange for his friend’s support.

“I never wanted this,” he repeated, then lifted his gaze to meet the watchful eyes of those around him. “But now that it’s happened, I swear on the graves of all we’ve lost that I’ll do my best to live up to Nasuada’s example and lead the Varden to victory against Galbatorix and the Empire.” He strove to project an air of confidence, but the truth was, the enormity of the situation frightened him and he had no idea whether he was up to the task. Nasuada had been impressively capable, and it was intimidating to consider trying to do even half of what she had done.

“Very commendable, I’m sure,” said King Orrin. “However, the Varden has always worked in concert with its allies-with the men of Surda; with our royal friend King Orik and the dwarves of the Beor Mountains; with the elves; and now, more recently, with the Urgals, as led by Nar Garzhvog, and with the werecats.” He nodded toward Grimrr, who nodded briefly in return. “It would not do for the rank and file to see us disagreeing with one another in public. Would you not agree?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” said King Orrin. “I take it, then, you will continue to consult with us on matters of importance, even as Nasuada did?” Eragon hesitated, but before he could reply, Orrin resumed speaking: “All of us”-he motioned toward the others in the tent-“have risked an enormous amount in this venture, and none of us would appreciate being dictated to. Nor would we submit to it. To be blunt, despite your many accomplishments, Eragon Shadeslayer, you are still young and inexperienced, and that inexperience might very well prove fatal. The rest of us have had the benefit of many years leading our respective forces, or watching others lead. We can help guide you onto the right path, and perhaps together we can still find a way to right this mess and overthrow Galbatorix.”

Everything Orrin said was true, Eragon thought-he was still young and inexperienced, and he did need the others’ advice-but he could not admit as much without appearing weak.

So, instead, he replied, “You may rest assured that I will consult with you when needed, but my decisions, as always, will remain my own.”

“Forgive me, Shadeslayer, but I have difficulty believing that. Your familiarity with the elves”-Orrin eyed Arya-“is commonly known. What’s more, you are an adopted member of the Ingeitum clan, and subject to the authority of their clan chief, who just so happens to be King Orik. Perhaps I am mistaken, but it seems doubtful that your decisions will be your own.”

“First, you counsel me to listen to our allies. Now you don’t. Is it perhaps that you would prefer I listen to you, and you alone?” Eragon’s anger grew as he spoke.

“I would prefer that your choices be in the best interests of our people, and not those of another race!”

“They have been,” growled Eragon. “And they will continue to be. I owe my allegiance to both the Varden and the Ingeitum clan, yes, but also to Saphira, and Nasuada, and my family as well. Many have claim on me, even as many have claim on you, Your Majesty. My foremost concern, however, is defeating Galbatorix and the Empire. It always has been, and if there is a conflict among my loyalties, that is what shall take precedence. Question my judgment, if you must, but do not question my motives. And I would thank you to refrain from implying that I’m a traitor to my kind!”

Orrin scowled, color rising in his cheeks, and he was about to utter a retort when a loud bang interrupted him as Orik struck his war hammer, Volund, against his shield.

“Enough of this nonsense!” exclaimed Orik, glowering. “You worry about a crack in the floor while the whole mountain is about to come down upon us!”

Orrin’s scowl deepened, but he did not pursue the matter further. Instead, he picked up his goblet of wine from the table and sank back into the depths of his chair, where he stared at Eragon with a dark, smoldering gaze.

I think he hates you, said Saphira.

That, or he hates what I represent. Either way, I’m an obstacle to him. He’ll bear watching.

“The question before us is simple,” said Orik. “What should we do now that Nasuada is gone?” He placed Volund flat on the table and ran his gnarled hand over his head. “Mine opinion is that our situation is the same as it was this morning. Unless we admit defeat and sue for peace, we still have only one choice: march to Uru’baen fast as our feet will carry us. Nasuada herself was never going to fight Galbatorix. That will fall to you”-he motioned toward Eragon and Saphira-“and the elves. Nasuada brought us this far, and while she will be greatly missed, we do not need her to continue. Our path allows for little deviation. Even if she were present, I cannot see her doing anything else. To Uru’baen, we must go, and that’s the end of it.”

Grimrr toyed with a small black-bladed dagger, seemingly indifferent to the conversation.

“I agree,” said Arya. “We have no other choice.”

Above them, Garzhvog’s massive head dipped, causing misshapen shadows to glide across the pavilion walls. “The dwarf speaks well. The Urgralgra will stay with the Varden as long as Firesword is war chief. With him and Flametongue to lead our charges, we will collect the debt of blood that the lack-horned betrayer, Galbatorix, still owes us.”

Eragon shifted slightly, uncomfortable.

“That’s all very well and good,” said King Orrin, “but I’ve yet to hear how we are supposed to defeat Murtagh and Galbatorix when we get to Uru’baen.”

“We have the Dauthdaert,” Eragon pointed out, for Yaela had retrieved the spear, “and with it, we can-”

King Orrin waved one hand. “Yes, yes, the Dauthdaert. It didn’t help you stop Thorn, and I can’t imagine that Galbatorix will let you come anywhere near him or Shruikan with it. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still no match for that black-hearted traitor. Blast it, Shadeslayer, you’re not even a match for your own brother, and he’s been a Rider for less time than you!”

Half brother, Eragon thought, but he held his tongue. He could find no way to rebut Orrin’s points; they were valid, each and every one, and they left him feeling shamed.

The king continued: “We entered this war with the understanding that you would find a way of countering Galbatorix’s unnatural strength. So Nasuada promised and assured us. And yet here we are, about to confront the most powerful magician in recorded history, and we’re no closer to defeating him than when we began!”

“We went to war,” Eragon said quietly, “because it was the first time since the Riders fell that we’ve had even the slightest chance of overthrowing Galbatorix. You know that.”

“What chance?” sneered the king. “We’re puppets, all of us, dancing according to Galbatorix’s whims. The only reason we’ve gotten this far is because he’s let us. Galbatorix wants us to go to Uru’baen. He wants us to bring you to him. If he cared about stopping us, he would have flown out to meet us at the Burning Plains and crushed us then and there. And once he has you in his reach, he’ll do just that: crush us.”

The air in the tent seemed to grow taut between them.

Careful, said Saphira to Eragon. He’ll leave the pack if you can’t convince him otherwise.

Arya appeared similarly worried.

Eragon spread his hands flat on the table and took a moment to gather his thoughts. He did not want to lie, but at the same time he had to find a way to inspire hope in Orrin, which was difficult when Eragon felt little himself. Is this what it was like for Nasuada all those times she rallied us to the cause, convinced us to keep going even when we couldn’t see a way clear?

“Our position isn’t quite as … precarious as you make it out to be,” said Eragon.

Orrin snorted and drank from his goblet.

“The Dauthdaert is a threat to Galbatorix,” continued Eragon, “and that’s to our advantage. He’ll be wary of it. Because of that, we can force him to do what we want, perhaps just a bit. Even if we can’t use it to kill him, we might be able to kill Shruikan. Theirs isn’t a true pairing of dragon and Rider, but Shruikan’s death would still wound him to the core.”

“It’ll never happen,” said Orrin. “He knows that we have the Dauthdaert now, and he’ll take the appropriate precautions.”

“Maybe not. I doubt Murtagh and Thorn recognized it.”

“No, but Galbatorix will when he examines their memories.”

And he’ll also know of Glaedr’s existence, if they haven’t told him already, Saphira said to Eragon.

Eragon’s spirits sank further. He had not thought of that, but she was right. So much for any hope of surprising him. We have no more secrets.

Life is full of secrets. Galbatorix cannot predict exactly how we will choose to fight him. In that, at least, we can confound him.

“Which of the death spears have you found, O Shadeslayer?” asked Grimrr in a seemingly bored tone.

“Du Niernen-the Orchid.”

The werecat blinked, and Eragon had the impression that he was surprised, although Grimrr’s expression remained blank as ever. “The Orchid. Is that so? How very strange to find such a weapon in this age, especially that … particular weapon.”

“Why so?” asked Jormundur.

Grimrr’s small pink tongue passed over his fangs. “Niernen is notoriousss.” He drew out the end of the word into a short hiss.

Before Eragon could press the werecat for more information, Garzhvog spoke, his voice grinding like boulders: “What is this death spear you speak of, Firesword? Is it the lance that wounded Saphira in Belatona? We heard tales of it, but they were odd indeed.”

Eragon belatedly remembered that Nasuada had told neither the Urgals nor the werecats what Niernen truly was. Oh well, he thought. It can’t be helped.

He explained to Garzhvog about the Dauthdaert, then insisted everyone in the pavilion swear an oath in the ancient language that they would not discuss the spear with anyone else without permission. There was some grumbling, but in the end they all complied, even the werecat. Trying to hide the spear from Galbatorix might have been pointless, but Eragon could see no good in allowing the Dauthdaert to become general knowledge.

When the last of them had finished their oaths, Eragon resumed speaking, “So. First, we have the Dauthdaert, and that’s more than we had before. Second, I don’t plan on facing Murtagh and Galbatorix together; I’ve never planned to. When we arrive at Uru’baen, we’ll lure Murtagh out of the city, and then we’ll surround him, with the whole army if necessary-the elves included-and we’ll kill or capture him once and for all.” He looked round at the gathered faces, trying to impress them with the force of his conviction. “Third-and this is what you have to believe deep in your hearts-Galbatorix isn’t invulnerable, however powerful he is. He might have cast thousands upon thousands of wards to protect himself, but in spite of all his knowledge and cunning, there are still spells that can kill him, if only we are clever enough to think of them. Now, maybe I’ll be the one to find the spell that is his undoing, but it might just as well be an elf or a member of Du Vrangr Gata. Galbatorix seems untouchable, I know, but there’s always a weakness-there’s always a crevice you can slip a blade through and thus stab your foe.”

“If the Riders of old couldn’t find his weakness, what is the likelihood we can?” demanded King Orrin.

Eragon spread his hands, palms upward. “Maybe we can’t. Nothing is certain in life, much less in war. However, if the combined spellcasters of our five races can’t kill him, then we might as well accept that Galbatorix is going to rule as long as he pleases, and nothing we can do is going to change that.”

Silence pervaded the tent, short and profound.

Then Roran stepped forward. “I would speak,” he said.

Eragon saw the others around the table exchange glances.

“Say what you will, Stronghammer,” said Orik, to King Orrin’s evident annoyance.

“It is this: too much blood and too many tears have been shed for us to turn back now. It would be disrespectful, both to the dead and to those who remember the dead. This may be a battle between gods”-he appeared perfectly serious to Eragon as he said this-“but I for one will keep fighting until the gods strike me down, or until I strike them down. A dragon might kill ten thousand wolves one at a time, but ten thousand wolves together can kill a dragon.”

Not likely, Saphira snorted in the privacy of her and Eragon’s shared mind space.

Roran smiled without humor. “And we have a dragon of our own. Decide as you wish. But I, for one, am going to Uru’baen, and I’ll face Galbatorix, even if I have to do it by myself.”

“Not by yourself,” said Arya. “I know I speak for Queen Islanzadi when I say that our people will stand with you.”

“As will ours,” rumbled Garzhvog.

“And ours,” affirmed Orik.

“And ours,” Eragon said in a tone that he hoped would discourage dissent.

When, after a pause, the four of them turned toward Grimrr, the werecat sniffed and said, “Well, I suppose we’ll be there too.” He inspected his sharp nails. “Someone has to sneak past enemy lines, and it certainly won’t be the dwarves bumbling around in their iron boots.”

Orik’s eyebrows rose, but if he was offended, he hid it well.

Two more drinks Orrin quaffed; then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Very well, as you wish; we’ll continue on to Uru’baen.” His cup empty, he reached for the bottle in front of him.