Inheritance (104 page)

Eragon then turned to Elva, who was standing nearby. She appeared pained, but he saw no blood upon her. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head. “No, but many of them are.” And she pointed at the people fleeing the citadel.

“Mmh.” Eragon glanced over at Murtagh again. He and Nasuada were standing now, talking to each other.

Nasuada frowned.

Then Murtagh reached out, grasped the neck of her tunic, and pulled it to the side, tearing the fabric.

Eragon had drawn Brisingr halfway out of its sheath before he saw the map of angry-looking welts below Nasuada’s collarbone. The sight struck him like a blow; it reminded him of the wounds on Arya’s back after he and Murtagh had rescued her from Gil’ead.

Nasuada nodded and bowed her head.

Again Murtagh began to speak, this time, Eragon was sure, in the ancient language. He placed his hands upon various parts of Nasuada’s body, his touch gentle—even hesitant—and her expression of relief was all the evidence Eragon needed to understand how much pain she had been suffering.

Eragon watched for a minute longer, then a sudden rush of emotion swept through him. His knees grew weak, and he sat on Saphira’s right paw. She lowered her head and nuzzled his shoulder, and he leaned his head against her.

We did it
, she said in a quiet tone.

We did it
, he said, hardly able to believe the words.

He could feel Saphira thinking about Shruikan’s death; as dangerous as Shruikan had been, she still mourned the passing of one of the last remaining members of her race.

Eragon gripped her scales. He felt light, almost dizzy, as if he might float away from the surface of the earth.
What now …?

Now we will rebuild
, said Glaedr. His own emotions were a curious mixture of satisfaction, grief, and weariness.
You acquitted yourself well, Eragon. No one else would have thought to attack Galbatorix as you did
.

“I just wanted him to understand,” he murmured wearily. But if Glaedr heard, he chose not to respond.

At last, the Oath-breaker is dead
, crowed Umaroth.

It seemed impossible that Galbatorix was no more. As Eragon contemplated the fact, something within his mind seemed to release, and he remembered—as if he had never forgotten—everything that had transpired during their time in the Vault of Souls.

A tingle passed through him.
Saphira—

I know
, she said, her excitement rising.
The eggs!

Eragon smiled. Eggs! Dragon eggs! As a race, they would not pass into the void. They would survive, and flourish, and return to their former glory, as they had been before the fall of the Riders.

Then a horrible suspicion occurred to him.
Did you make us forget anything else?
he asked Umaroth.

If we did, how would we know?
replied the white dragon.

“Look!” cried Elva, pointing.

Eragon turned and saw Arya walking out of the dark maw of the citadel. With her were Blödhgarm and his spellcasters, bruised and scraped, but alive. In her arms, Arya carried a wooden chest
fitted with gold hasps. A long line of metal boxes—each the size of the back of a wagon—floated along behind the elves, a few inches above the floor.

Elated, Eragon sprang up and ran over to meet them. “You’re alive!” He surprised Blödhgarm by grabbing the fur-covered elf and embracing him.

Blödhgarm regarded him for a moment with his yellow eyes, and then he smiled, showing his fangs.

“We are alive, Shadeslayer.”

“Are those the … Eldunarí?” Eragon asked, speaking the word softly.

Arya nodded. “They were in Galbatorix’s treasure room. We will have to go back at some point; there are many wonders hidden therein.”

“How are they? The Eldunarí, I mean.”

“Confused. It will take them years to recover, if ever they do.”

“And is that …?” Eragon motioned toward the chest she carried.

Arya glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to see; then she lifted the lid the width of a finger. Inside, nestled in velvet, Eragon saw a beautiful green dragon egg, webbed with veins of white.

The joy in Arya’s face lifted Eragon’s heart. He grinned and beckoned to the other elves. When they had gathered close to him, he whispered in the ancient language and told them of the eggs on Vroengard.

They did not shout or laugh, but their eyes gleamed, and as a group, they seemed to vibrate with excitement. Still grinning, Eragon bounced on his heels, delighted by their reaction.

Then Saphira said,
Eragon!

At the same time, Arya frowned and said, “Where are Thorn and Murtagh?”

Eragon shifted his gaze and saw Nasuada standing alone in the courtyard. Next to her was a pair of saddlebags that Eragon did not
remember seeing on Thorn. Wind swept over the courtyard and he heard the sound of wings flapping, but of Murtagh and Thorn, nothing was visible.

Eragon cast his thoughts out toward where he thought they were. He felt them at once, for their minds were not hidden, but they refused to speak or listen to him.

“Blast it,” muttered Eragon as he ran over to Nasuada. There were tears on her cheeks, and she seemed on the verge of losing her composure.

“Where are they going?!”

“Away.” Her chin trembled. Then she took a breath, released it, and stood taller than before.

Cursing again, Eragon bent and pulled open the saddlebags. Within, he found a number of smallish Eldunarí enclosed in padded cases. “Arya! Blödhgarm!” he shouted, pointing at the saddlebags. The two elves nodded.

Eragon ran over to Saphira. He did not have to explain himself; she understood. She spread her wings as he climbed onto her back, and the moment he was settled in the saddle, she took flight from the courtyard.

Cheers rose from the city as the Varden caught sight of her.

Saphira flapped quickly, following Thorn’s musky scent trail through the air. It led her south, out from under the shadow of the overhang, and then it turned and curved up and around the great stone outcrop, heading north, toward the Ramr River.

For several miles, the trail ran straight and level. When the broad, tree-lined river was almost underneath them, the scent began to angle downward.

Eragon studied the ground ahead and saw a flash of red by the foot of a small hill on the other side of the river.
Over there
, he said to Saphira, but she had already spotted Thorn.

She spiraled down and landed softly atop the hill, where she had the advantage of height. The air off the water was cool and moist,
carrying with it the scent of moss, mud, and sap. Between the hill and the river lay a sea of nettles. The plants grew in such thick profusion, the only way to pass through them would have been to cut a path. Their dark, sawtooth leaves rubbed against each other with a gentle susurration that blended with the sound of the rushing river.

By the edge of the nettles sat Thorn. Murtagh stood next to him, adjusting the girth on his saddle.

Eragon loosened Brisingr in its sheath, then cautiously approached.

Without turning around, Murtagh said, “Have you come to stop us?”

“That depends. Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. North, maybe … somewhere away from other people.”

“You could stay.”

Murtagh uttered a bark of mirthless laughter. “You know better than that. It would only cause Nasuada problems. Besides, the dwarves would never stand for it. Not after I killed Hrothgar.” He glanced over his shoulder at Eragon. “Galbatorix used to call me Kingkiller. You’re Kingkiller as well now.”

“It seems to run in the family.”

“You’d better keep an eye on Roran, then.… And Arya is a dragonkiller. That can’t be easy for her—an elf killing a dragon. You should talk to her and make sure she’s all right.”

Murtagh’s insight surprised Eragon. “I will.”

“There,” said Murtagh, giving the strap a final tug. Then he turned to face Eragon, and Eragon saw that he had been holding Zar’roc close against his body, drawn and ready to use. “So, again: have you come to stop us?”

“No.”

Murtagh gave a thin smile and sheathed Zar’roc. “Good. I would hate to have to fight you again.”

“How were you able to break free of Galbatorix? It was your true name, wasn’t it?”

Murtagh nodded. “As I said, I’m not … 
we’re
not”—he touched Thorn’s side—“what we once were. It just took a while to realize it.”

“And Nasuada.”

Murtagh frowned. Then he turned away and stared out over the sea of nettles. As Eragon joined him, Murtagh said in a low voice, “Do you remember the last time we were at this river?”

“It would be hard to forget. I can still hear the screams of the horses.”

“You, Saphira, Arya, and me, all together and sure that nothing could stop us.…”

In the back of his mind, Eragon could feel Saphira and Thorn talking to each other. Saphira, he knew, would tell him later what had passed between them.

“What will you do?” he asked Murtagh.

“Sit and think. Maybe I’ll build a castle. I have the time.”

“You don’t have to leave. I know it would be … difficult, but you have family here: me and also Roran. He’s your cousin as well as mine, and you’ve never even met him.… You belong as much to Carvahall and Palancar Valley as you do to Urû’baen, maybe more.”

Murtagh shook his head and continued to stare over the nettles. “It wouldn’t work. Thorn and I need time alone; we need time to heal. If we stay, we’d be too busy to figure things out for ourselves.”

“Good company and staying busy are often the best cure for a sickness of the soul.”

“Not for what Galbatorix did to us.… Besides, it would be painful to be around Nasuada right now, for both her and me. No, we have to leave.”

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“Until the world no longer seems quite so hateful and we no longer feel like tearing down mountains and filling the sea with blood.”

To that, Eragon had no response. They stood looking at the river, where it lay behind a line of low willow trees. The rustling of the nettles grew louder, stirred by the westward wind.

Then Eragon said, “When you no longer wish to be alone, come
find us. You’ll always be welcome at our hearth, wherever that may be.”

“We will. I promise.” To Eragon’s surprise, he saw a gleam appear in Murtagh’s eyes. It vanished a second later. “You know,” Murtagh said, “I never thought you could do it … but I’m glad you did.”

“I was lucky. And it wouldn’t have been possible without your help.”

“Even so.… You found the Eldunarí in the saddlebags?”

Eragon nodded.

“Good.”

Should we tell them?
Eragon asked Saphira, hoping that she would agree.

She thought for a moment.
Yes, but do not say where. You tell him, and I will tell Thorn
.

As you wish
. To Murtagh, Eragon said, “There’s something you should know.”

Murtagh gave him a sideways glance.

“The egg that Galbatorix had—it isn’t the only one in Alagaësia. There are more, hidden in the same place where we found the Eldunarí we brought with us.”

Murtagh turned toward him, disbelief evident on his face. At the same time, Thorn arched his neck and uttered a joyful trumpet that scared a flight of swallows from the branches of a nearby tree.

“How many more?”

“Hundreds.”

For a moment, Murtagh seemed unable to speak. Then: “What will you do with them?”

“Me? I think Saphira and the Eldunarí will have some say in the matter, but probably find somewhere safe for the eggs to hatch, and start to rebuild the Riders.”

“Will you and Saphira train them?”

Eragon shrugged. “I’m sure the elves will help. You could as well, if you join us.”

Murtagh tilted his head back and released a long breath. “The
dragons are going to return, and the Riders as well.” He laughed softly. “The world is about to change.”

“It has already changed.”

“Aye. So you and Saphira will become the new leaders of the Riders, while Thorn and I will live in the wilderness.” Eragon tried to say something, to comfort him, but Murtagh stopped him with a look. “No, it is as it should be. You and Saphira will make better teachers than we would.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“Mmh … Promise me one thing, though.”

“What?”

“When you teach them—teach them not to fear. Fear is good in small amounts, but when it is a constant, pounding companion, it cuts away at who you are and makes it hard to do what you know is right.”

“I’ll try.”

Then Eragon noticed that Saphira and Thorn were no longer speaking. The red dragon shifted and moved around her until he was able to peer down at Eragon. With a mental voice that was surprisingly musical, Thorn said,
Thank you for not killing my Rider, Eragon-Murtagh’s-brother
.

“Yes, thank you,” Murtagh said dryly.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to,” Eragon said, looking Thorn in one glittering, blood-red eye.

The dragon snorted, then bent and touched Eragon on the top of his head, tapping his scales against Eragon’s helm.
May the wind and the sun always be at your back
.

“And at yours.”

A sense of great anger, grief, and ambivalence pressed heavily against Eragon as Glaedr’s consciousness enveloped his mind and, it seemed, those of Murtagh and Thorn, for they tensed, as if in anticipation of battle. Eragon had forgotten that Glaedr, along with the other Eldunarí—hidden within their invisible pocket of space—were present and listening.

Would that I could thank you for the same
, said Glaedr, his words as bitter as an oak gall.
You killed my body and you killed my Rider
. The statement was flat and simple and all the more terrible because of it.

Murtagh said something with his thoughts, but Eragon did not know what it was, for it was directed to Glaedr alone, and Eragon was privy only to Glaedr’s reaction.

No, I cannot
, said the gold dragon.
However, I understand that it was Galbatorix who drove you to it and that it was he who swung your arm, Murtagh.… I cannot forgive, but Galbatorix is dead and with him my desire for vengeance. Yours has always been a hard path, since each of you hatched. But today you showed that your misfortunes have not broken you. You turned against Galbatorix when it might have gained you only pain, and by it you allowed Eragon to kill him. Today you and Thorn proved yourselves worthy of being considered Shur’tugal in full, though you never had the proper instruction or guidance. That is … admirable
.