When she deemed they needed to rest, she bade them to stop—overriding their objections—and get drinks of water from a servant. “I can’t have you toppling like ninepins.”
They had to break twice more before they reached their destination, a nondescript door recessed in the inner wall of the corridor. The floor around it was littered with gifts.
Jörmundur knocked, and a quavering voice from inside asked, “Who is it?”
“Lady Nasuada, come to see the child,” he said.
“Be you of true heart and steadfast resolve?”
This time Nasuada answered, “My heart is pure and my resolve is as iron.”
“Cross the threshold, then, and be welcome.”
The door swung open to an entryway lit by a single red dwarf lantern. No one was at the door. Proceeding inward, Nasuada saw that the walls and ceiling were swathed with layers of dark fabric, giving the place the appearance of a cave or lair. To her surprise, the air was quite cold, almost chilly, like a brisk autumn night. Apprehension sank its poisonous claws into her belly. Magic.
A black mesh curtain blocked her way. Brushing it aside, she found herself in what was once a sitting room. The furniture had been removed, except for a line of chairs pushed against the shrouded walls. A cluster of faint dwarf lanterns were hung in a dimple of the sagging fabric overhead, casting weird multicolored shadows in every direction.
A bent crone watched her from the depths of one corner, bracketed by Angela the herbalist and the werecat, who stood with his hackles raised. In the center of the room knelt a pale girl that Nasuada took to be three or four years old. The girl picked at a platter of food on her lap. No one spoke.
Confused, Nasuada asked, “Where is the baby?”
The girl looked up.
Nasuada gasped as she saw the dragon mark bright upon the child’s brow and as she peered deep into her violet eyes. The girl quirked her lips with a terrible, knowing smile. “I am Elva.”
Nasuada recoiled without thinking, clutching at the dagger she kept strapped to her left forearm. It was an adult’s voice and filled with an adult’s experience and cynicism. It sounded profane coming from the mouth of a child.
“Don’t run,” said Elva. “I’m your friend.” She put the platter aside; it was empty now. To the crone, she said, “More food.” The old woman hurried from the room. Then Elva patted the floor beside her. “Please, sit. I have been waiting for you ever since I learned to talk.”
Keeping her grip on her dagger, Nasuada lowered herself to the stones. “When was that?”
“Last week.” Elva folded her hands in her lap. She fixed her ghastly eyes on Nasuada, pinning her in place through the unnatural strength of her gaze. Nasuada felt as if a violet lance had pierced her skull and was twisting inside her mind, tearing apart her thoughts and memories. She fought the desire to scream.
Leaning forward, Elva reached out and cupped Nasuada’s cheek with one soft hand. “You know, Ajihad could not have led the Varden better than you have. You chose the correct path. Your name will be praised for centuries for having the courage and foresight to move the Varden to Surda and attack the Empire when everyone else thought it was insane to do so.”
Nasuada gaped at the girl, stunned. Like a key matched to a lock, Elva’s words perfectly addressed Nasuada’s primal fears, the doubts that kept her awake at night, sweating in the darkness. An involuntary surge of emotion rushed through her, bolstering her with a sense of confidence and peace that she had not possessed since before Ajihad’s death. Tears of relief burst from her eyes and rolled down her face. It was as if Elva had known exactly what to say in order to comfort her.
Nasuada loathed her for it.
Her euphoria warred against her distaste for how this moment of weakness had been induced and by whom. Nor did she trust the girl’s motivation.
“What are you?” she demanded.
“I am what Eragon made me.”
“He blessed you.”
The dreadful, ancient eyes were obscured for a moment as Elva blinked. “He did not understand his actions. Since Eragon ensorcelled me, whenever I see a person, I sense all the hurts that beset him and are about to beset him. When I was smaller, I could do nothing about it. So I grew bigger.”
“Why would—”
“The magic in my blood drives me to protect people from pain … no matter the injury to myself or whether I want to help or not.” Her smile acquired a bitter twist. “It costs me dearly if I resist the urge.”
As Nasuada digested the implications, she realized that Elva’s unsettling aspect was a by-product of the suffering that she had been exposed to. Nasuada shivered at the thought of what the girl had endured. It must have torn her apart to have this compulsion and yet be unable to act on it. Against her better judgment, she began to feel a measure of sympathy for Elva.
“Why have you told me this?”
“I thought that you should know who and what I am.” Elva paused, and the fire in her gaze strengthened. “And that I will fight for you however I can. Use me as you would an assassin—in hiding, in the dark, and without mercy.” She laughed with a high, chilling voice. “You wonder why; I see you do. Because unless this war ends, and sooner rather than later, it will drive me insane. I find it hard enough to deal with the agonies of everyday life without also having to confront the atrocities of battle. Use me to end it and I’ll ensure that your life is as happy as any human has had the privilege to experience.”
At that moment, the crone scurried back into the room, bowed to Elva, and handed her a new platter of food. It was a physical relief to Nasuada as Elva looked down and attacked a leg of mutton, cramming the meat into her mouth with both hands. She ate with the ravenous intensity of a gorging wolf, displaying a complete lack of decorum. With her violet eyes hidden and her dragon mark covered by black bangs, she once again appeared to be nothing more than an innocent child.
Nasuada waited until it became apparent that Elva had said all she was going to. Then—at a gesture from Angela—she accompanied the herbalist through a side door, leaving the pale girl sitting alone in the center of the dark, cloth-bound room, like a dire fetus nestled in its womb, waiting for the right moment to emerge.
Angela made sure that the door was closed and whispered, “All she does is eat and eat. We can’t sate her appetite with the current rations. Can you—”
“She’ll be fed. You needn’t worry about it.” Nasuada rubbed her arms, trying to eradicate the memory of those awful, horrible eyes.…
“Thank you.”
“Has this ever happened to anyone else?”
Angela shook her head until her curly hair bounced on her shoulders. “Not in the entire history of magic. I tried to cast her future, but it’s a hopeless quagmire—lovely word, quagmire—because her life interacts with so many others.”
“Is she dangerous?”
“We’re all dangerous.”
“You know what I mean.”
Angela shrugged. “She’s more dangerous than some and less than others. The one she’s most likely to kill, though, is herself. If she meets someone who’s about to be hurt and Eragon’s spell catches her unawares, then she’ll take the doomed person’s place. That’s why she stays inside most of the time.”
“How far in advance can she foretell events?”
“Two or three hours at the most.”
Leaning against the wall, Nasuada considered the newest complication in her life. Elva could be a potent weapon if she were applied correctly. Through her, I can discern my opponents’ troubles and weaknesses, as well as what will please them and make them amenable to my wishes. In an emergency, the girl could also act as an infallible guard if one of the Varden, like Eragon or Saphira, had to be protected.
She can’t be left unsupervised. I need someone to watch her. Someone who understands magic and is comfortable enough with their own identity to resist Elva’s influence … and who I can trust to be reliable and honest. She immediately discounted T
rianna.
Nasuada looked at Angela. Though she was wary of the herbalist, she knew that Angela had helped the Varden with matters of the utmost delicacy and importance—like healing Eragon—and had asked for nothing in return. Nasuada could think of no one else who had the time, inclination, and expertise to look after Elva.
“I realize,” said Nasuada, “that this is presumptuous of me, as you aren’t under my command and I know little of your life or duties, but I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Proceed.” Angela waved a hand.
Nasuada faltered, disconcerted, then forged ahead. “Would you be willing to keep an eye on Elva for me? I need—”
“Of course! And I’ll keep two eyes on her, if I can spare them. I relish the opportunity to study her.”
“You’ll have to report to me,” warned Nasuada.
“The poison dart hidden in the raisin tart. Ah, well, I suppose I can manage.”
“I have your word, then?”
“You have my word.”
Relieved, Nasuada groaned and sank into a nearby chair. “Oh, what a mess. What a quagmire. As Eragon’s liegelord, I’m responsible for his deeds, but I never imagined that he would do anything as dreadful as this. It’s a blight on my honor as much as his.”
A ripple of sharp pops filled the room as Angela cracked her knuckles. “Yes. I intend to speak to him about it once he returns from Ellesméra.”
Her expression was so fierce, it alarmed Nasuada. “Well, don’t hurt him. We need him.”
“I won’t … permanently.”
RESURGENCE
blast of ravening wind tore Eragon from his sleep.
Blankets flapped over him as a tempest clawed at his room, hurling his possessions into the air and knocking the lanterns against the walls. Outside, the sky was black with thunderheads.
Saphira watched as Eragon staggered upright and fought to keep his balance as the tree swayed like a ship at sea. He lowered his head against the gale and made his way around the room, clutching at the wall until he reached the teardrop portal through which the storm howled.
Eragon looked past the heaving floor to the ground below. It appeared to rock back and forth. He swallowed and tried to ignore the churning in his stomach.
By touch he found the edge of the cloth membrane that could be pulled out of the wood to cover the opening. He prepared to launch himself from one side of the gap to the next. If he slipped, nothing would stop him from falling onto the roots of the tree.
Wait, said Saphira.
She backed off the low pedestal where she slept and laid her tail alongside him so that he could use it as a handrail.
Holding the cloth with just his right hand, which took all his strength, Eragon used the line of spikes on Saphira’s tail to pull himself across the portal. As soon as he reached the far side, he grabbed the cloth with both hands and pressed its edge into the groove that locked it in place.
The room went silent.
The membrane bulged inward under the force of the angry elements but showed no sign of giving. Eragon poked it with his finger. The fabric was as taut as a drum.
It’s amazing what the elves can do, he said.
Saphira cocked her head, then lifted it so that her head was flat against the ceiling while she listened. You’d better close up the study; it’s being wrecked.
As he headed toward the stairs, the tree jolted and his leg buckled, sending him down hard on one knee.
“Blast it,” he growled.
The study was a whirlwind of paper and quills, darting about as if they had a mind of their own. He dove into the flurry with his arms wrapped around his head. It felt like he was being pelted with stones when the tips of the quills struck him.
Eragon struggled to close the upper portal without Saphira’s help. The moment he did, pain—endless, mind-numbing pain—ripped open his back.
He screamed once and went hoarse from the strength of his cry. His vision flashed with red and yellow, then faded to black as he toppled to his side. Below, he heard Saphira howl with frustration; the staircase was too small and, outside, the wind was too ferocious for her to reach him. His connection with her receded. He surrendered to the waiting darkness as a release from his agony.
A sour taste filled Eragon’s mouth when he woke. He did not know how long he had been lying on the floor, but the muscles in his arms and legs were knotted from being curled into a tight ball. The storm still assailed the tree, accompanied by a thudding rain that matched the pounding in his head.
Saphira …?
I’m here. Can you come down?
I’ll try.
He was too weak to stand on the pitching floor, so he crawled to the stairs and slid down one at a time, wincing with each impact. Halfway down, he encountered Saphira, who had jammed her head and neck as far up the stairs as she could, gouging the wood in her frenzy.
Little one. She flicked out her tongue and caught him on the hand with its rough tip. He smiled. Then she arched her neck and tried to pull back, but to no avail.
What’s wrong?
I’m stuck.
You’re … He could not help it; he laughed even though it hurt. The situation was too absurd.
She snarled and heaved her entire body, shaking the tree with her efforts and knocking him over. Then she collapsed, panting. Well, don’t just sit there grinning like an idiot fox. Help me!
Fighting the urge to giggle, he put his foot on her nose and pushed as hard as he dared while Saphira twisted and squirmed in an attempt to free herself.
It took more than ten minutes before she succeeded. Only then did Eragon see the full extent of the damage to the stairwell. He groaned. Her scales had cut through the bark and obliterated the delicate patterns grown out from the wood.
Oops, said Saphira.
At least you did it, not me. The elves might forgive you. They’d sing dwarf love ballads night and day if you asked them to.
He joined Saphira on her dais and huddled against the flat scales of her belly, listening as the storm roared about them. The wide membrane became translucent whenever lightning pulsed in jagged shards of light.
What time do you think it is?
Several hours before we must meet Oromis. Go on, sleep and recover. I will keep guard.
He did just that, despite the tree’s churning.
WHY DO YOU FIGHT?
romis’s timepiece buzzed like a giant hornet, blaring in Eragon’s ears until he retrieved the bauble and wound the mechanism.
His bashed knee had turned purple, he was sore both from his attack and the elves’ Dance of Snake and Crane, and he could do no more than croak with his ragged throat. The worst injury, though, was his sense of foreboding that this would not be the last time Durza’s wound would trouble him. The prospect sickened him, draining his strength and will.
So many weeks passed between attacks, he said, I began to hope that maybe, just maybe, I was healed.… I suppose sheer luck is the only reason I was spared that long.
Extending her neck, Saphira nuzzled him on the arm. You know you aren’t alone, little one. I’ll do everything I can to help. He responded with a weak smile. Then she licked his face and added, You should get ready to leave.
I know. He stared at the floor, unwilling to move, then dragged himself to the wash closet, where he scrubbed himself clean and used magic to shave.
He was in the middle of drying himself when he felt a presence touch his mind. Without pausing to think, Eragon began to fortify his mind, concentrating on an image of his big toe to the exclusion of all else. Then he heard Oromis say, Admirable, but unnecessary. Bring Zar’roc with you today. The presence vanished.
Eragon released a shaky breath. I need to be more alert, he told Saphira. I would have been at his mercy if he were an enemy.
Not with me around.
When his ablutions were complete, Eragon unhooked the membrane from the wall and mounted Saphira, cradling Zar’roc in the crook of his arm.
Saphira
took flight with a rush of air, angling toward the Crags of Tel’naeír. From their high vantage point, they could see the damage that the storm had wreaked on Du Weldenvarden. No trees had fallen in Ellesméra, but farther away, where the elves’ magic was weaker, numerous pines had been knocked over. The remaining wind made the crossed branches and trees rub together, producing a brittle chorus of creaks and groans. Clouds of golden pollen, as thick as dust, streamed out from the trees and flowers.
While they flew, Eragon and Saphira exchanged memories of their separate lessons from the day before. He told her what he had learned about ants and the ancient language, and she told him about downdrafts and other dangerous weather patterns and how to avoid them.
Thus, when they landed and Oromis interrogated Eragon about Saphira’s lessons and Glaedr interrogated Saphira about Eragon’s, they were able to answer every question.
“Very good, Eragon-vodhr.”
Aye. Well played, Bjartskular, added Glaedr to Saphira.
As before, Saphira was sent off with Glaedr while Eragon remained on the cliffs, although this time he and Saphira were careful to maintain their link so as to absorb each other’s instruction.
As the dragons departed, Oromis observed, “Your voice is rougher today, Eragon. Are you sick?”
“My back hurt again this morning.”
“Ah. You have my sympathy.” He motioned with one finger. “Wait here.”
Eragon watched as Oromis strode into his hut and then reappeared, looking fierce and warlike with his silver mane rippling in the wind and his bronze sword in hand. “Today,” he said, “we shall forgo the Rimgar and instead cross our two blades, Naegling and Zar’roc. Draw thy sword and guard its edge as your first master taught you.”
Eragon wanted nothing more than to refuse. However, he had no intention of breaking his vow or letting his resolve waver in front of Oromis. He swallowed his trepidation. This is what it means to be a Rider, he thought.
Drawing upon his reserves, he located the nub deep within his mind that connected him to the wild flow of magic. He delved into it, and the energy suffused him. “Gëuloth du knífr,” he said, and a winking blue star popped into existence between his thumb and forefinger, jumping from one to the next as he ran it down Zar’roc’s perilous length.
Inheritance Cycle Omnibus Page 83