by Eragon (lit)
Orik shrugged, embarrassed. ’s an elven word that was used to refer to the Riders. It means ‘silver hand.’ Eragon glanced at his gloved hand, thinking of the gedwignasia that whitened his palm. Do you wish to return to Saphira?
there somewhere I could bathe first? I haven’t been able to wash off the grime of the road for a long time. Also, my shirt is bloodstained and torn, and it stinks. I’d like to replace it, but I don’t have any money to buy a new one. Is there a way I could work for one?
you seek to insult Hrothgar’s hospitality, Eragon?demanded Orik. long as you are in Tronjheim, you won’t have to buy a thing. You’ll pay for it in other ways—Ajihad and Hrothgar will see to that. Come. I’ll show you where to wash, then fetch you a shirt.
He took Eragon down a long staircase until they were well below Tronjheim. The corridors were tunnels now—which cramped Eragon because they were only five feet high—and all the lanterns were red. the light doesn’t blind you when you leave or enter a dark cavern,explained Orik.
They entered a bare room with a small door on the far side. Orik pointed. pools are through there, along with brushes and soap. Leave your clothes here. I’ll have new ones waiting when you get out.
Eragon thanked him and started to undress. It felt oppressive being alone underground, especially with the low rock ceiling. He stripped quickly and, cold, hurried through the door, into total darkness. He inched forward until his foot touched warm water, then eased himself into it.
The pool was mildly salty, but soothing and calm. For a moment he was afraid of drifting away from the door, into deeper water, but as he waded forward, he discovered the water reached only to his waist. He groped over a slippery wall until he found the soap and brushes, then scrubbed himself. Afterward he floated with his eyes closed, enjoying the warmth.
When he emerged, dripping, into the lighted room, he found a towel, a fine linen shirt, and a pair of breeches. The clothes fit him reasonably well. Satisfied, he went out into the tunnel.
Orik was waiting for him, pipe in hand. They climbed the stairs back up into Tronjheim, then exited the city-mountain. Eragon gazed at Tronjheim’s peak and called Saphira with his mind. As she flew down from the dragonhold, he asked, How do you communicate with people at the top of Tronjheim?
Orik chuckled. ’s a problem we solved long ago. You didn’t notice, but behind the open arches that line each level is a single, unbroken staircase that spirals around the wall of Tronjheim’s central chamber. The stairs climb all the way to the dragonhold above Isidar Mithrim. We call it Vol Turin, The Endless Staircase. Running up or down it isn’t swift enough for an emergency, nor convenient enough for casual use. Instead, we use flashing lanterns to convey messages. There is another way too, though it is seldom used. When Vol Turin was constructed, a polished trough was cut next to it. The trough acts as a giant slide as high as a mountain.
Eragon’s lips twitched with a smile. it dangerous?
not think of trying it. The slide was built for dwarves and is too narrow for a man. If you slipped out of it, you could be thrown onto the stairs and against the arches, perhaps even into empty space.
Saphira landed a spear’s throw away, her scales rustling dryly. As she greeted Eragon, humans and dwarves trickled out of Tronjheim, gathering around her with murmurs of interest. Eragon regarded the growing crowd uneasily. ’d better go,said Orik, pushing him forward. me by this gate tomorrow morning. I’ll be waiting.
Eragon balked. will I know when it’s morning?
’ll have someone wake you. Now go!Without further protest, Eragon slipped through the jostling group that surrounded Saphira and jumped onto her back.
Before she could take off, an old woman stepped forward and grasped Eragon’s foot with a fierce grip. He tried to pull away, but her hand was like an iron talon around his ankle—he could not break her tenacious hold. The burning gray eyes she fixed on him were surrounded by a lifetime’s worth of wrinkles—the skin was folded in long creases down her sunken cheeks. A tattered bundle rested in the crook of her left arm.
Frightened, Eragon asked, do you want?
The woman tilted her arm, and a cloth fell from the bundle, revealing a baby’s face. Hoarse and desperate, she said, child has no parents—there is no one to care for her but me, and I am weak. Bless her with your power, Argetlam. Bless her for luck!
Eragon looked to Orik for help, but the dwarf only watched with a guarded expression. The small crowd fell silent, waiting for his response. The woman’s eyes were still fastened on him. her, Argetlam, bless her,she insisted.
Eragon had never blessed anyone. It was not something done lightly in Alagaas a blessing could easily go awry and prove to be more curse than boon—especially if it was spoken with ill intent or lack of conviction. Do I dare take that responsibility? he wondered.
her, Argetlam, bless her.
Suddenly decided, he searched for a phrase or expression to use. Nothing came to mind until, inspired, he thought of the ancient language. This would be a true blessing, spoken with words of power, by one of power.
He bent down and tugged the glove off his right hand. Laying his palm on the babe’s brow, he intoned, gun ilian tauthr ono un atra ono waskfrrauthr. The words left him unexpectedly weak, as if he had used magic. He slowly pulled the glove back on and said to the woman, is all I can do for her. If any words have the power to forestall tragedy, it will be those.
you, Argetlam,she whispered, bowing slightly. She started to cover the baby again, but Saphira snorted and twisted until her head loomed over the child. The woman grew rigid; her breath caught in her chest. Saphira lowered her snout and brushed the baby between the eyes with the tip of her nose, then smoothly lifted away.
A gasp ran through the crowd, for on the child’s forehead, where Saphira had touched her, was a star-shaped patch of skin as white and silvery as Eragon’s gedwy ignasia. The woman stared at Saphira with a feverish gaze, wordless thanks in her eyes.
Immediately Saphira took flight, battering the awestruck spectators with the wind from her powerful wing strokes. As the ground dwindled away, Eragon took a deep breath and hugged her neck tightly. What did you do? he asked softly.
I gave her hope. And you gave her a future.
Loneliness suddenly flowered within Eragon, despite Saphira’s presence. Their surroundings were so foreign—it struck him for the first time exactly how far he was from home. A destroyed home, but still where his heart lay. What have I become, Saphira? he asked. I’m only in the first year of manhood, yet I’ve consulted with the leader of the Varden, am pursued by Galbatorix, and have traveled with Morzan’s son—and now blessings are sought from me! What wisdom can I give people that they haven’t already learned? What feats can I achieve that an army couldn’t do better? It’s insanity! I should be back in Carvahall with Roran.
Saphira took a long time to answer, but her words were gentle when they came. A hatchling, that is what you are. A hatchling struggling into the world. I may be younger than you in years, but I am ancient in my thoughts. Do not worry about these things. Find peace in where and what you are. People often know what must be done. All you need do is show them the way—that is wisdom. As for feats, no army could have given the blessing you did.
But it was nothing, he protested. A trifle.
Nay, it wasn’t. What you saw was the beginning of another story, another legend. Do you think that child will ever be content to be a tavern keeper or a farmer when her brow is dragon-marked and your words hang over her? You underestimate our power and that of fate.
Eragon bowed his head. It’s overwhelming. I feel as if I am living in an illusion, a dream where all things are possible. Amazing things do happen, I know, but always to someone else, always in some far-off place and time. But I found your egg, was tutored by a Rider, and dueled a Shade—those can’t be the actions of the farm boy I am, or was. Something is changing me.
It is your wyrd that shapes you, said Saphira. Every age needs an icon—perhaps that lot has fallen to you
. Farm boys are not named for the first Rider without cause. Your namesake was the beginning, and now you are the continuation. Or the end.
Ach, said Eragon, shaking his head. It’s like speaking in riddlesBut if all is foreordained, do our choices mean anything? Or must we just learn to accept our fate?
Saphira said firmly, Eragon, I chose you from within my egg. You have been given a chance most would die for. Are you unhappy with that? Clear your mind of such thoughts. They cannot be answered and will make you no happier.
True, he said glumly. All the same, they continue to bounce around within my skull.
Things have beenunsettledever since Brom died. It has made me uneasy, acknowledged Saphira, which surprised him because she rarely seemed perturbed. They were above Tronjheim now. Eragon looked down through the opening in its peak and saw the floor of the dragonhold: Isidar Mithrim, the great star sapphire. He knew that beneath it was nothing but Tronjheim’s great central chamber. Saphira descended to the dragonhold on silent wings. She slipped over its rim and dropped to Isidar Mithrim, landing with the sharp clack of claws.
Won’t you scratch it? asked Eragon.
I think not. It’s no ordinary gem. Eragon slid off her back and slowly turned in a circle, absorbing the unusual sight. They were in a round roofless room sixty feet high and sixty feet across. The walls were lined with the dark openings of caves, which differed in size from grottoes no larger than a man to a gaping cavern larger than a house. Shiny rungs were set into the marble walls so that people could reach the highest caves. An enormous archway led out of the dragonhold.
Eragon examined the great gem under his feet and impulsively lay down on it. He pressed his cheek against the cool sapphire, trying to see through it. Distorted lines and wavering spots of color glimmered through the stone, but its thickness made it impossible to discern anything clearly on the floor of the chamber a mile below them.
Will I have to sleep apart from you?
Saphira shook her enormous head. No, there is a bed for you in my cave. Come see. She turned and, without opening her wings, jumped twenty feet into the air, landing in a medium-sized cave. He clambered up after her.
The cave was dark brown on the inside and deeper than he had expected. The roughly chiseled walls gave the impression of a natural formation. Near the far wall was a thick cushion large enough for Saphira to curl up on. Beside it was a bed built into the side of the wall. The cave was lit by a single red lantern equipped with a shutter so its glow could be muted.
I like this, said Eragon. It feels safe.
Yes. Saphira curled up on the cushion, watching him. With a sigh he sank onto the mattress, weariness seeping through him.
Saphira, you haven’t said much while we’ve been here. What do you think of Tronjheim and Ajihad?
We shall seeIt seems, Eragon, that we are embroiled in a new type of warfare here. Swords and claws are useless, but words and alliances may have the same effect. The Twins dislike us—we should be on our guard for any duplicities they might attempt. Not many of the dwarves trust us. The elves didn’t want a human Rider, so there will be opposition from them as well. The best thing we can do is identify those in power and befriend them. And quickly, too.
Do you think it’s possible to remain independent of the different leaders?
She shuffled her wings into a more comfortable position. Ajihad supports our freedom, but we may be unable to survive without pledging our loyalty to one group or another. We’ll soon know either way.
* * *
MANDRAKE ROOT AND NEWT’S TONGUE
The blankets were bunched underneath Eragon when he woke, but he was still warm. Saphira was asleep on her cushion, her breath coming in steady gusts. For the first time since entering Farthen DEragon felt secure and hopeful. He was warm and fed and had been able to sleep as long as he liked. Tension unknotted inside him—tension that had been accumulating since Brom’s death and, even before, since leaving Palancar Valley.
I don’t have to be afraid anymore. But what about Murtagh? No matter the Varden’s hospitality, Eragon could not accept it in good conscience, knowing that—intentionally or not—he had led Murtagh to his imprisonment. Somehow the situation had to be resolved.
His gaze roamed the cave’s rough ceiling as he thought of Arya. Chiding himself for daydreaming, he tilted his head and looked out at the dragonhold. A large cat sat on the edge of the cave, licking a paw. It glanced at him, and he saw a flash of slanted red eyes.
Solembum? he asked incredulously.
Obviously. The werecat shook his rough mane and yawned languorously, displaying his long fangs. He stretched, then jumped out of the cave, landing with a solid thump on Isidar Mithrim, twenty feet below. Coming?
Eragon looked at Saphira. She was awake now, watching him motionlessly. Go. I will be fine, she murmured. Solembum was waiting for him under the arch that led to the rest of Tronjheim.
The moment Eragon’s feet touched Isidar Mithrim, the werecat turned with a flick of his paws and disappeared through the arch. Eragon chased after him, rubbing the sleep from his face. He stepped through the archway and found himself standing at the top of Vol Turin, The Endless Staircase. There was nowhere else to go, so he descended to the next level.
He stood in an open arcade that curved gently to the left and encircled Tronjheim’s central chamber. Between the slender columns supporting the arches, Eragon could see Isidar Mithrim sparkling brilliantly above him, as well as the city-mountain’s distant base. The circumference of the central chamber increased with each successive level. The staircase cut through the arcade’s floor to an identical level below and descended through scores of arcades until it disappeared in the distance. The sliding trough ran along the outside curve of the stairs. At the top of Vol Turin was a pile of leather squares to slide on. To Eragon’s right, a dusty corridor led to that level’s rooms and apartments. Solembum padded down the hall, flipping his tail.
Wait, said Eragon.
He tried to catch up with Solembum, but glimpsed him only fleetingly in the abandoned passageways. Then, as Eragon rounded a corner, he saw the werecat stop before a door and yowl. Seemingly of its own accord, the door slid inward. Solembum slipped inside, then the door shut. Eragon halted in front of it, perplexed. He raised his hand to knock, but before he did, the door opened once more, and warm light spilled out. After a moment’s indecision he stepped inside.
He entered an earthy two-room suite, lavishly decorated with carved wood and clinging plants. The air was warm, fresh, and humid. Bright lanterns hung on the walls and from the low ceiling. Piles of intriguing items cluttered the floor, obscuring the corners. A large four-poster bed, curtained by even more plants, was in the far room.
In the center of the main room, on a plush leather chair, sat the fortuneteller and witch, Angela. She smiled brightly.
are you doing here?blurted Eragon.
Angela folded her hands in her lap. why don’t you sit on the floor and I’ll tell you? I’d offer you a chair, but I’m sitting on the only one.Questions buzzed through Eragon’s mind as he settled between two flasks of acrid bubbling green potions.
exclaimed Angela, leaning forward. are a Rider. I suspected as much, but I didn’t know for certain until yesterday. I’m sure Solembum knew, but he never told me. I should have figured it out the moment you mentioned Brom. SaphiraI like the name—fitting for a dragon.
’s dead,said Eragon abruptly. Ra’zac killed him.
Angela was taken aback. She twirled a lock of her dense curls. ’m sorry. I truly am,she said softly.
Eragon smiled bitterly. not surprised, are you? You foretold his death, after all.
didn’t know whose death it would be,she said, shaking her head. noI’m not surprised. I met Brom once or twice. He didn’t care for my ‘frivolous’ attitude toward magic. It irritated him.
Eragon frowned. Teirm you laughed at his fate and said that it was something of a joke. Why?
Angela’s face tightened momentarily
. retrospect, it was in rather bad taste, but I didn’t know what would befall him. How do I put this? Brom was cursed in a way. It was his wyrd to fail at all of his tasks except one, although through no fault of his own. He was chosen as a Rider, but his dragon was killed. He loved a woman, but it was his affection that was her undoing. And he was chosen, I assume, to guard and train you, but in the end he failed at that as well. The only thing he succeeded at was killing Morzan, and a better deed he couldn’t have done.
never mentioned a woman to me,retorted Eragon.
Angela shrugged carelessly. heard it from one who couldn’t have lied. But enough of this talk! Life goes on, and we should not trouble the dead with our worries. She scooped a pile of reeds from the floor and deftly started plaiting them together, closing the subject to discussion.
Eragon hesitated, then gave in. right. So why are you in Tronjheim instead of Teirm?
at last an interesting question,said Angela. hearing Brom’s name again during your visit, I sensed a return of the past in AlagaPeople were whispering that the Empire was hunting a Rider. I knew then that the Varden’s dragon egg must have hatched, so I closed my shop and set out to learn more.
knew about the egg?
course I did. I’m not an idiot. I’ve been around much longer than you would believe. Very little happens that I don’t know about.She paused and concentrated on her weaving. Anyway, I knew I had to get to the Varden as fast as possible. I’ve been here for nearly a month now, though I really don’t care for this place—it’s far too musty for my taste. And everyone in Farthen Dis so serious and noble. They’re probably all doomed to tragic deaths anyway.She gave a long sigh, a mocking expression on her face. And the dwarves are just a superstitious bunch of ninnies content to hammer rocks all their lives. The only redeeming aspect of this place is all the mushrooms and fungi that grow inside Farthen D
why stay?asked Eragon, smiling.
I like to be wherever important events are occurring,said Angela, cocking her head. if I had stayed in Teirm, Solembum would have left without me, and I enjoy his company. But tell me, what adventures have befallen you since last we talked?