Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  Another piece of rock fell from the ceiling and struck the floor with a loud crack.

  A hand gripped his arm, and he turned to see Murtagh standing behind him, one arm pressed against the wound in his stomach. “Move aside,” he growled. Eragon did, and Murtagh spoke the name of all names, as he had before, as well as jierda, and the iron cuffs opened and fell from Nasuada’s limbs.

  Murtagh took her by the wrist, and he began to lead her toward Thorn. After his first step, she slipped under his arm and allowed him to lean his weight on her shoulders.

  Eragon opened his mouth, then closed it. He would ask his questions later.

  “Wait!” cried Arya, and she leaped down from Saphira and ran over to Murtagh. “Where is the egg? And the Eldunari? We can’t leave them!”

  Murtagh frowned, and Eragon felt the information pass between him and Arya.

  Arya spun around, her burnt hair flying, and sprinted toward a doorway on the opposite side of the room.

  “It’s too dangerous!” Eragon shouted after her. “This place is falling apart! Arya!”

  Go, she said. Get the children to safety. Go! You haven’t much time!

  Eragon cursed. At the very least, he wished she had taken Glaedr with her. He slid Brisingr back into its scabbard, then bent and picked up Elva, who was just beginning to stir.

  “What’s happening?” she asked as Eragon carried her up onto Saphira’s back behind the two other children.

  “We’re leaving,” he said. “Hold on.”

  Saphira had already started moving. Limping because of her wounded foreleg, she trotted around the crater. Thorn followed close behind her, Murtagh and Nasuada upon his back.

  “Look out!” shouted Eragon as he saw a chunk of the glowing ceiling break loose directly overhead.

  Saphira shied to her left, and the jagged piece of stone landed next to her and sent a burst of straw-yellow shards in every direction. One of them struck Eragon in the side and lodged in his mail. He plucked it out and threw it away. Smoke trailed from the fingers of his gloves, and he smelled burnt leather. More pieces of stone fell elsewhere in the chamber.

  When Saphira arrived at the mouth of the hallway, Eragon twisted and looked back at Murtagh. “What of the traps?” he shouted.

  Murtagh shook his head and waved for them to continue.

  Piles of broken stone covered the floor along much of the hallway, which slowed the dragons. To either side, Eragon could see into the rubble-filled rooms and tunnels that the explosion had torn open. Within them, tables, chairs, and other pieces of furniture burned. The limbs of the dead and dying stuck out at odd angles from beneath the tumbled stones, occasionally a grimy face or the back of a head.

  He looked for Blodhgarm and his spellcasters but saw no sign of them, either dead or alive.

  Farther down the hallway, hundreds of people-soldiers and servants alike-poured out of the adjoining doorways and ran toward the now-gaping entrance. Broken limbs were common among them, as were burns, scrapes, and other wounds. The survivors moved aside for Saphira and Thorn, but otherwise ignored the dragons.

  Saphira was nearly at the end of the hall when a thunderous crash sounded behind them, and Eragon looked back to see that the throne room had caved in on itself, burying the chamber floor under a pile of stone fifty feet thick.

  Arya! thought Eragon. He tried to find her with his mind, but without success. Either too much material separated them, or one of the spells woven throughout the mined-out crag blocked his mental probe, or-the one alternative he hated to consider-she was dead. She had not been in the room when it collapsed; that much he knew, but he wondered if she would be able to find her way back out again, now that the throne room was blocked.

  As they emerged from the citadel, the air cleared and Eragon was able to see the destruction that the blast had wreaked on Uru’baen. It had ripped off the slate roofs of many nearby buildings and set fire to the beams underneath. Scores of fires dotted the rest of the city. The threads and plumes of smoke drifted upward until they collided with the underside of the shelf above. There they pooled and flowed along the angled surface of the stone, like water over a streambed. By the southeastern edge of the city, the smoke caught the light of the morning sun as it seeped around the side of the overhang, and there the smoke glowed with the reddish-orange color of a fire opal.

  The people of Uru’baen were fleeing their houses, streaming through the streets toward the hole in the outer wall. The soldiers and servants from the citadel hurried to join them, giving Saphira and Thorn a wide berth as they ran across the courtyard in front of the fortress. Eragon paid them little attention; as long as they remained peaceful, he did not care what they did.

  Saphira stopped in the middle of the quadrangle, and Eragon lowered Elva and the two nameless children to the ground. “Do you know where your parents are?” he asked, kneeling by the siblings.

  They nodded, and the boy pointed toward a large house on the left side of the courtyard.

  “Is that where you live?”

  The boy nodded again.

  “Go on, then,” said Eragon, and gave them a gentle push on the back. Without further prompting, the brother and sister ran across the courtyard to the building. The door to the house flew open, and a balding man with a sword at his belt stepped out and wrapped the two of them in his arms. He gave Eragon a glance, then hurried the children inside.

  That was easy, Eragon said to Saphira.

  Galbatorix must have had his men find the nearest hatchlings, she replied. We didn’t give him time to do much else.

  I suppose.

  Thorn sat a number of yards away from Saphira, and Nasuada helped Murtagh down from his back. Then Murtagh slumped against Thorn’s belly. Eragon heard him begin to recite spells of healing.

  Eragon likewise attended to Saphira’s wounds, ignoring his own, for hers were more serious. The gash on her left foreleg was as wide as both his hands put together, and a pool of blood was forming about her foot.

  Tooth or claw? he asked as he examined the wound.

  Claw, she said.

  He used her strength, as well as Glaedr’s, to mend the gash. When he finished, he turned his attention to his own wounds, starting with the burning line of pain in his side, where Murtagh had stabbed him.

  As he worked, he kept an eye on Murtagh-watched as Murtagh healed his gut wound, Thorn’s broken wing, and the dragon’s other injuries. Nasuada stayed by him the whole while, her hand on his shoulder. He had, Eragon saw, somehow reacquired Zar’roc on the way out of the throne room.

  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 c
ould 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 Blodhgarm 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 Blodhgarm by grabbing the fur-covered elf and embracing him.

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

  “We are alive, Shadeslayer.”

  “Are those the … Eldunari?” 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 Eldunari, 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 Eldunari enclosed in padded cases. “Arya! Blodhgarm!” 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 Uru’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 Eldunari 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 Alagaesia. There are more, hidden in the same place where we found the Eldunari 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.