Inheritance Cycle Omnibus

by Christopher Paolini

  Eragon recognized that his own experiences had already led him to adopt a more skeptical attitude; in principle, he agreed with much of what Oromis had said. The problem he struggled with, though, was that if the elves were right, it meant that nearly all the humans and dwarves were deluded, something Eragon found difficult to accept. That many people can’t be mistaken, he insisted to himself.

  When he asked Saphira about it, she said, It matters little to me, Eragon. Dragons have never believed in higher powers. Why should we when deer and other prey consider us to be a higher power? He laughed at that. Only do not ignore reality in order to comfort yourself, for once you do, you make it easy for others to deceive you.

  That night, Eragon’s uncertainties burst forth in his waking dreams, which raged like a wounded bear through his mind, tearing disparate images from his memories and mixing them into such a clamor, he felt as if he were transported back into the confusion of the battle under Farthen Dûr. He saw Garrow lying dead in Horst’s house, then Brom dead in the lonely sandstone cave, and then the face of Angela the herbalist, who whispered, “Beware, Argetlam, betrayal is clear. And it will come from within your family. Beware, Shadeslayer!”

  Then the crimson sky was torn apart and Eragon again beheld the two armies from his premonition in the Beor Mountains. The banks of warriors collided upon an orange and yellow field, accompanied by the harsh screams of gore-crows and the whistle of black arrows. The earth itself seemed to burn: green flames belched from scorched holes that dotted the ground, charring the mangled corpses left in the armies’ wake. He heard the roar of a gigantic beast from above that rapidly app—

  Eragon jolted upright in bed and scrabbled at the dwarf necklace, which burned at his throat. Using his tunic to protect his hand, he pulled the silver hammer away from his skin and then sat and waited in the dark, his heart thudding from the surprise. He felt his strength ebb as Gannel’s spell thwarted whoever was trying to scry him and Saphira. Once again, he wondered if Galbatorix himself was behind the spell, or if it was one of the king’s pet magicians.

  Eragon frowned and released the hammer as the metal grew cold again. Something’s wrong. I know that much, and I’ve known it for a while, as has Saphira. Too uneasy to resume the trancelike state that had replaced sleep for him, he crept from their bedroom without waking Saphira and climbed the spiral staircase to the study. There he unshuttered a white lantern and read one of Analísia’s epics until sunrise in an attempt to calm himself.

  Just as Eragon put away the scroll, Blagden flew through the open portal in the eastern wall and, with a flutter of wings, landed on the corner of the carved writing desk. The white raven fixed his beady eyes on Eragon and croaked, “Wyrda!”

  Eragon inclined his head. “And may the stars watch over you, Master Blagden.”

  The raven hopped closer. He cocked his head to the side and uttered a barking cough, as if he were clearing his throat, then recited in his hoarse voice:

  By beak and bone,

  Mine blackened stone

  Sees rooks and crooks

  And bloody brooks!

  “What does that mean?” asked Eragon.

  Blagden shrugged and repeated the verse. When Eragon still pressed him for an explanation, the bird ruffled his feathers, appearing displeased, and cackled, “Son and father alike, both as blind as bats.”

  “Wait!” exclaimed Eragon, jolting upright. “Do you know my father? Who is he?”

  Blagden cackled again. This time he seemed to be laughing.

  While two may share two,

  And one of two is certainly one,

  One might be two.

  “A name, Blagden. Give me a name!” When the raven remained silent, Eragon reached out with his mind, intending to wrench the information from the bird’s memories.

  Blagden was too wily, however. He deflected Eragon’s probe with a flick of his thoughts. Shrieking “Wyrda!” he darted forward, plucked a bright glass stopper from an inkwell, and sped away with his trophy clutched in his beak. He dove out of sight before Eragon could cast a spell to bring him back.

  Eragon’s stomach knotted as he tried to decipher Blagden’s two riddles. The last thing he had expected was to hear his father mentioned in Ellesméra. Finally, he muttered, “That’s it.” I’ll find Blagden later and wring the truth out of him. But right now … I would have to be a half-wit to ignore these portents. He jumped to his feet and ran down the stairs, waking Saphira with his mind and telling her what had transpired during the night. Retrieving his shaving mirror from the wash closet, Eragon sat between Saphira’s two front paws so that she could look over his head and see what he saw.

  Arya won’t appreciate it if we intrude on her privacy, warned Saphira.

  I have to know if she’s safe.

  Saphira accepted that without argument. How will you find her? You said that after her imprisonment, she erected wards that—like your necklace—prevent anyone from scrying her.

  If I can scry the people she’s with, I might be able to figure out how Arya is. Concentrating on an image of Nasuada, Eragon passed his hand over the mirror and murmured the traditional phrase, “Dream stare.”

  The mirror shimmered and turned white, except for nine people clustered around an invisible table. Of them, Eragon was familiar with Nasuada and the Council of Elders. But he could not identify a strange girl hooded in black who lurked behind Nasuada. This puzzled him, for a magician could only scry things that he had already seen, and Eragon was certain he had never laid eyes upon the girl before. He forgot about her, though, as he noticed that the men, and even Nasuada, were armed for battle.

  Let us hear their words, suggested Saphira.

  The instant Eragon made the needed alteration to the spell, Nasuada’s voice emanated from the mirror: “… and confusion will destroy us. Our warriors can afford but one commander during this conflict. Decide who it is to be, Orrin, and quickly too.”

  Eragon heard a disembodied sigh. “As you wish; the position is yours.”

  “But, sir, she is untried!”

  “Enough, Irwin,” ordered the king. “She has more experience in war than anyone in Surda. And the Varden are the only force to have defeated one of Galbatorix’s armies. If Nasuada were a Surdan general—which would be peculiar indeed, I admit—you would not hesitate to nominate her for the post. I shall be happy to deal with questions of authority if they arise afterward, for they will mean I’m still on my feet and not lying in a grave. As it is, we are so outnumbered I fear we are doomed unless Hrothgar can reach us before the end of the week. Now, where is that blasted scroll on the supply train? … Ah, thank you, Arya. Three more days without—”

  After that the discussion turned to a shortage of bowstrings, which Eragon could glean nothing useful from, so he ended the spell. The mirror cleared, and he found himself staring at his own face.

  She lives, he murmured. His relief was overshadowed, though, by the larger meaning of what they had heard.

  Saphira looked at him. We are needed.

  Aye. Why hasn’t Oromis told us about this? He must know of it.

  Maybe he wanted to avoid disrupting our training.

  Troubled, Eragon wondered what else of import was happening in Alagaësia that he was unaware of. Roran. With a pang of guilt, Eragon realized that it had been weeks since he last thought of his cousin, and even longer since he scryed him on the way to Ellesméra.

  At Eragon’s command, the mirror revealed two figures standing against a pure white background. It took Eragon a long moment to recognize the man on the right as Roran. He was garbed in travel-worn clothes, a hammer was stuck under his belt, a thick beard obscured his face, and he bore a haunted expression that bespoke desperation. To the left was Jeod. The men surged up and down, accompanied by the thunderous crash of waves, which masked anything they said. After a while, Roran turned and walked along what Eragon assumed was the deck of a ship, bringing dozens of other villagers into view.

  Where are they, and
why is Jeod with them? demanded Eragon, bewildered.

  Diverting the magic, he scryed in quick succession Teirm—shocked to see that the city’s wharfs had been destroyed—Therinsford, Garrow’s old farm, and then Carvahall, whereupon Eragon uttered a wounded cry.

  The village was gone.

  Every building, including Horst’s magnificent house, had been burned to the ground. Carvahall no longer existed except as a sooty blot beside the Anora River. The sole remaining inhabitants were four gray wolves that loped through the wreckage.

  The mirror dropped from Eragon’s hand and shattered across the floor. He leaned against Saphira, tears burning in his eyes as he grieved anew for his lost home. Saphira hummed deep in her chest and brushed his arm with the side of her jaw, enveloping him in a warm blanket of sympathy. Take comfort, little one. At least your friends are still alive.

  He shuddered and felt a hard core of determination coalesce in his belly. We have remained sequestered from the world for far too long. It’s high time we leave Ellesméra and confront our fate, whatever it may be. For now, Roran must fend for himself, but the Varden … the Varden we can help.

  Is it time to fight, Eragon? asked Saphira, an odd note of formality in her voice.

  He knew what she meant: Was it time to challenge the Empire head-on, time to kill and rampage to the limit of their considerable abilities, time to unleash every ounce of their rage until Galbatorix lay dead before them? Was it time to commit themselves to a campaign that could take decades to resolve?

  It is time.

  GIFTS

  ragon packed his belongings in less than five minutes. He took the saddle Oromis had given them, strapped it onto Saphira, then slung his bags over her back and buckled them down.

  Saphira tossed her head, nostrils flared, and said, I will wait for you at the field. With a roar, she launched herself from the tree house, unfolding her blue wings in midair, and flew off, skimming the forest canopy.

  Quick as an elf, Eragon ran to Tialdarí Hall, where he found Orik sitting in his usual corner, playing a game of Runes. The dwarf greeted him with a hearty slap on the arm. “Eragon! What brings you here at this time of the morn? I thought you’d be off banging swords with Vanir.”

  “Saphira and I are leaving,” said Eragon.

  Orik stopped with his mouth open, then narrowed his eyes, going serious. “You’ve had news?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later. Do you want to come?”

  “To Surda?”

  “Aye.”

  A wide smile broke across Orik’s hairy face. “You’d have to clap me in irons before I’d stay behind. I’ve done nothing in Ellesméra but grow fat and lazy. A bit of excitement will do me good. When do we leave?”

  “As soon as possible. Gather your things and meet us at the sparring grounds. Can you scrounge up a week’s worth of provisions for the two of us?”

  “A week’s? But that won’t—”

  “We’re flying on Saphira.”

  The skin above Orik’s beard turned pale. “We dwarves don’t do well with heights, Eragon. We don’t do well at all. It’d be better if we could ride horses, like we did coming here.”

  Eragon shook his head. “That would take too long. Besides, it’s easy to ride Saphira. She’ll catch you if you fall.” Orik grunted, appearing both queasy and unconvinced. Leaving the hall, Eragon sped through the sylvan city until he rejoined Saphira, and then they flew to the Crags of Tel’naeír.

  Oromis was sitting upon Glaedr’s right forearm when they landed in the clearing. The dragon’s scales gilded the landscape with countless chips of golden light. Neither elf nor dragon stirred. Descending from Saphira’s back, Eragon bowed. “Master Glaedr. Master Oromis.”

  Glaedr said, You have taken it upon yourself to return to the Varden, have you not?

  We have, replied Saphira.

  Eragon’s sense of betrayal overcame his self-restraint. “Why did you hide the truth from us? Are you so determined to keep us here that you must resort to such underhand trickery? The Varden are about to be attacked and you didn’t even mention it!”

  Calm as ever, Oromis asked, “Do you wish to hear why?”

  Very much, Master, said Saphira before Eragon could respond. In private, she scolded him, growling, Be polite!

  “We withheld the tidings for two reasons. Chief among them was that we ourselves did not know until nine days past that the Varden were threatened, and the true size, location, and movements of the Empire’s troops remained concealed from us until three days after that, when Lord Däthedr pierced the spells Galbatorix used to deceive our scrying.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you said nothing of this.” Eragon scowled. “Not only that, but once you discovered that the Varden were in danger, why didn’t Islanzadí rouse the elves to fight? Are we not allies?”

  “She has roused the elves, Eragon. The forest echoes with the ring of hammers, the tramp of armored boots, and the grief of those who are about to be parted. For the first time in a century, our race is set to emerge from Du Weldenvarden and challenge our greatest foe. The time has come for elves to once more walk openly in Alagaësia.” Gently, Oromis added, “You have been distracted of late, Eragon, and I understand why. Now you must look beyond yourself. The world demands your attention.”

  Shamefaced, all Eragon could say was, “I am sorry, Master.” He remembered Blagden’s words and allowed himself a bitter smile. “I’m as blind as a bat.”

  “Hardly, Eragon. You have done well, considering the enormous responsibilities we have asked you to shoulder.” Oromis looked at him gravely. “We expect to receive a missive from Nasuada in the next few days, requesting assistance from Islanzadí and that you rejoin the Varden. I intended to inform you of the Varden’s predicament then, when you would still have enough time to reach Surda before swords are drawn. If I told you earlier, you would have been honor-bound to abandon your training and rush to the defense of your liegelord. That is why I and Islanzadí held our tongues.”

  “My training won’t matter if the Varden are destroyed.”

  “No. But you may be the only person who can prevent them from being destroyed, for a chance exists—slim but terrible—that Galbatorix will be present at this battle. It is far too late for our warriors to assist the Varden, which means that if Galbatorix is indeed there, you shall confront him alone, without the protection of our spellweavers. Under those circumstances, it seemed vital that your training continue for as long as possible.”

  In an instant, Eragon’s anger melted away and was replaced with a cold, hard, and brutally practical mind-set as he understood the necessity for Oromis’s silence. Personal feelings were irrelevant in a situation as dire as theirs. With a flat voice, he said, “You were right. My oath of fealty compels me to ensure the safety of Nasuada and the Varden. However, I’m not ready to confront Galbatorix. Not yet, at least.”

  “My suggestion,” said Oromis, “is that if Galbatorix reveals himself, do everything you can to distract him from the Varden until the battle is decided for good or for ill and avoid directly fighting him. Before you go, I ask but one thing: that you and Saphira vow that—once events permit—you will return here to complete your training, for you still have much to learn.”

  We shall return, pledged Saphira, binding herself in the ancient language.

  “We shall return,” repeated Eragon, and sealed their fate.

  Appearing satisfied, Oromis reached behind himself and produced an embroidered red pouch that he tugged open. “In anticipation of your departure, I gathered together three gifts for you, Eragon.” From the pouch, he withdrew a silver bottle. “First, some faelnirv I augmented with my own enchantments. This potion can sustain you when all else fails, and you may find its properties useful in other circumstances as well. Drink it sparingly, for I only had time to prepare a few mouthfuls.”

  He handed the bottle to Eragon, then removed a long black-and-blue sword belt from the pouch. The belt felt unusually thic
k and heavy to Eragon when he ran it through his hands. It was made of cloth threads woven together in an interlocking pattern that depicted a coiling Lianí Vine. At Oromis’s instruction, Eragon pulled at a tassel at the end of the belt and gasped as a strip in its center slid back to expose twelve diamonds, each an inch across. Four diamonds were white, four were black, and the remainder were red, blue, yellow, and brown. They glittered cold and brilliant, like ice in the dawn, casting a rainbow of multicolored specks onto Eragon’s hands.

  “Master …” Eragon shook his head, at a loss for words for several breaths. “Is it safe to give this to me?”

  “Guard it well so that none are tempted to steal it. This is the belt of Beloth the Wise—whom you read of in your history of the Year of Darkness—and is one of the great treasures of the Riders. These are the most perfect gems the Riders could find. Some we traded for with the dwarves. Others we won in battle or mined ourselves. The stones have no magic of their own, but you may use them as repositories for your power and draw upon that reserve when in need. This, in addition to the ruby set in Zar’roc’s pommel, will allow you to amass a store of energy so that you do not become unduly exhausted casting spells in battle, or even when confronting enemy magicians.”

  Last, Oromis brought out a thin scroll protected inside a wooden tube that was decorated with a bas-relief sculpture of the Menoa tree. Unfurling the scroll, Eragon saw the poem he had recited at the Agaetí Blödhren. It was lettered in Oromis’s finest calligraphy and illustrated with the elf’s detailed ink paintings. Plants and animals twined together inside the outline of the first glyph of each quatrain, while delicate scrollwork traced the columns of words and framed the images.

  “I thought,” said Oromis, “that you would appreciate a copy for yourself.”

  Eragon stood with twelve priceless diamonds in one hand and Oromis’s scroll in the other, and he knew that it was the scroll he deemed the most precious. Eragon bowed and, reduced to the simplest language by the depth of his gratitude, said, “Thank you, Master.”