“I had no choice!” snarled Murtagh. “And after Thorn hatched for me, Galbatorix forced both of us to swear loyalty to him in the ancient language. We cannot disobey him now.”
Pity and disgust welled inside of Eragon. “You have become your father.”
A strange gleam leaped into Murtagh’s eyes. “No, not my father. I’m stronger than Morzan ever was. Galbatorix taught me things about magic you’ve never even dreamed of.… Spells so powerful, the elves dare not utter them, cowards that they are. Words in the ancient language that were lost until Galbatorix discovered them. Ways to manipulate energy … Secrets, terrible secrets, that can destroy your enemies and fulfill all your desires.”
Eragon thought back to some of Oromis’s lessons and retorted, “Things that should remain secrets.”
“If you knew, you would not say that. Brom was a dabbler, nothing more. And the elves, bah! All they can do is hide in their forest and wait to be conquered.” Murtagh ran his eyes over Eragon. “You look like an elf now. Did Islanzadí do that to you?” When Eragon remained silent, Murtagh smiled and shrugged. “No matter. I’ll learn the truth soon enough.” He stopped, frowned, then looked to the east.
Following his gaze, Eragon saw the Twins standing at the front of the Empire, casting balls of energy into the midst of the Varden and the dwarves. The curtains of smoke made it difficult to tell, but Eragon was sure the hairless magicians were grinning and laughing as they slaughtered the men with whom they once pledged solemn friendship. What the Twins failed to notice—and what was clearly visible to Eragon and Murtagh from their vantage point—was that Roran was crawling toward them from the side.
Eragon’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized his cousin. You fool! Get away from them! You’ll be killed.
Just as he opened his mouth to cast a spell that would transport Roran out of danger—no matter the cost—Murtagh said, “Wait. I want to see what he’ll do.”
“Why?”
A bleak smile crossed Murtagh’s face. “The Twins enjoyed tormenting me when I was their captive.”
Eragon glanced at him, suspicious. “You won’t hurt him? You won’t warn the Twins?”
“Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur’tugal.” Upon my word as a Rider.
Together they watched as Roran hid behind a mound of bodies. Eragon stiffened as the Twins looked toward the pile. For a moment, it seemed they had spotted him, then they turned away and Roran jumped up. He swung his hammer and bashed one of the Twins in the head, cracking open his skull. The remaining Twin fell to the ground, convulsing, and emitted a wordless scream until he too met his end under Roran’s hammer. Then Roran planted his foot upon the corpses of his foes, lifted his hammer over his head, and bellowed his victory.
“What now?” demanded Eragon, turning away from the battlefield. “Are you here to kill me?”
“Of course not. Galbatorix wants you alive.”
“What for?”
Murtagh’s lips quirked. “You don’t know? Ha! There’s a fine jest. It’s not because of you; it’s because of her.” He jabbed a finger at Saphira. “The dragon inside Galbatorix’s last egg, the last dragon egg in the world, is male. Saphira is the only female dragon in existence. If she breeds, she will be the mother of her entire race. Do you see now? Galbatorix doesn’t want to eradicate the dragons. He wants to use Saphira to rebuild the Riders. He can’t kill you, either of you, if his vision is to become reality.… And what a vision it is, Eragon. You should hear him describe it, then you might not think so badly of him. Is it evil that he wants to unite Alagaësia under a single banner, eliminate the need for war, and restore the Riders?”
“He’s the one who destroyed the Riders in the first place!”
“And for good reason,” asserted Murtagh. “They were old, fat, and corrupt. The elves controlled them and used them to subjugate humans. They had to be removed so that we could start anew.”
A furious scowl contorted Eragon’s features. He paced back and forth across the plateau, his breathing heavy, then gestured at the battle and said, “How can you justify causing so much suffering on the basis of a madman’s ravings? Galbatorix has done nothing but burn and slaughter and amass power for himself. He lies. He murders. He manipulates. You know this! It’s why you refused to work for him in the first place.” Eragon paused, then adopted a gentler tone: “I can understand that you were compelled to act against your will and that you aren’t responsible for killing Hrothgar. You can try to escape, though. I’m sure that Arya and I could devise a way to neutralize the bonds Galbatorix has laid upon you.… Join me, Murtagh. You could do so much for the Varden. With us, you would be praised and admired, instead of cursed, feared, and hated.”
For a moment, as Murtagh gazed down at his notched sword, Eragon hoped he would accept. Then Murtagh said in a low voice, “You cannot help me, Eragon. No one but Galbatorix can release us from our oaths, and he will never do that.… He knows our true names, Eragon.… We are his slaves forever.”
Though he wanted to, Eragon could not deny the sympathy he felt for Murtagh’s plight. With the utmost gravity, he said, “Then let us kill the two of you.”
“Kill us! Why should we allow that?”
Eragon chose his words with care: “It would free you from Galbatorix’s control. And it would save the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of people. Isn’t that a noble enough cause to sacrifice yourself for?”
Murtagh shook his head. “Maybe for you, but life is still too sweet for me to part with it so easily. No stranger’s life is more important than Thorn’s or my own.”
As much as he hated it—hated the entire situation, in fact—Eragon knew then what had to be done. Renewing his attack on Murtagh’s mind, he leaped forward, both feet leaving the ground as he lunged toward Murtagh, intending to stab him through the heart.
“Letta!” barked Murtagh.
Eragon dropped back to the ground as invisible bands clamped around his arms and legs, immobilizing him. To his right, Saphira discharged a jet of rippling fire and sprang at Murtagh like a cat pouncing on a mouse.
“Rïsa!” commanded Murtagh, extending a clawlike hand as if to catch her.
Saphira yelped with surprise as Murtagh’s incantation stopped her in midair and held her in place, floating several feet above the plateau. No matter how much she wriggled, she could not touch the ground, nor could she fly any higher.
How can he still be human and have the strength to do that? wondered Eragon. Even with my new abilities, such a task would leave me gasping for air and unable to walk. Relying upon his experience counteracting Oromis’s spells, Eragon said, “Brakka du vanyalí sem huildar Saphira un eka!”
Murtagh made no attempt to stop him, only gave him a flat stare, as if he found Eragon’s resistance a pointless inconvenience. Baring his teeth, Eragon redoubled his efforts. His hands went cold, his bones ached, and his pulse slowed as the magic sapped his energy. Without being asked, Saphira joined forces with him, granting him access to the formidable resources of her body.
Five seconds passed.…
Twenty seconds … A thick vein pulsed on Murtagh’s neck.
A minute …
A minute and a half … Involuntary tremors racked Eragon. His quadriceps and hamstrings fluttered, and his legs would have given way if he were free to move.
Two minutes passed.…
At last Eragon was forced to release the magic, else he risked falling unconscious and passing into the void. He sagged, utterly spent.
He had been afraid before, but only because he thought he might fail. Now he was afraid because he did not know what Murtagh was capable of.
“You cannot hope to compete with me,” said Murtagh. “No one can, except for Galbatorix.” Walking up to Eragon, he pointed his sword at Eragon’s neck, pricking his skin. Eragon resisted the impulse to flinch. “It would be so easy to take you back to Urû’baen.”
Eragon gazed deep into his eyes. “Don’t. Let me go.”
“You just tried to kill me.”
“And you would have done the same in my position.” When Murtagh remained silent and expressionless, Eragon said, “We were friends once. We fought together. Galbatorix can’t have twisted you so much that you’ve forgotten.… If you do this, Murtagh, you’ll be lost forever.”
A long minute passed where the only sound was the hue and cry of the clashing armies. Blood trickled down Eragon’s neck from where the sword point cut him. Saphira lashed her tail with helpless rage.
Finally, Murtagh said, “I was ordered to try and capture you and Saphira.” He paused. “I have tried.… Make sure we don’t cross paths again. Galbatorix will have me swear additional oaths in the ancient language that will prevent me from showing you such mercy when next we meet.” He lowered his sword.
“You’re doing the right thing,” said Eragon. He tried to step back but was still held in place.
“Perhaps. But before I let you go …” Reaching out, Murtagh pried Zar’roc from Eragon’s fist and unbuckled Zar’roc’s red sheath from the belt of Beloth the Wise. “If I have become my father, then I will have my father’s blade. Thorn is my dragon, and a thorn he shall be to all our enemies. It is only right, then, that I should also wield the sword Misery. Misery and Thorn, a fit match. Besides, Zar’roc should have gone to Morzan’s eldest son, not his youngest. It is mine by right of birth.”
A cold pit formed in Eragon’s stomach. It can’t be.
A cruel smile appeared on Murtagh’s face. “I never told you my mother’s name, did I? And you never told me yours. I’ll say it now: Selena. Selena was my mother and your mother. Morzan was our father. The Twins figured out the connection while they were digging around in your head. Galbatorix was quite interested to learn that particular piece of information.”
“You’re lying!” cried Eragon. He could not bear the thought of being Morzan’s son. Did Brom know? Does Oromis know? … Why didn’t they tell me? He remembered, then, Angela predicting that someone in his family would betray him. She was right.
Murtagh merely shook his head and repeated his words in the ancient language, then put his lips to Eragon’s ear and whispered, “You and I, we are the same, Eragon. Mirror images of one another. You can’t deny it.”
“You’re wrong,” growled Eragon, struggling against the spell. “We’re nothing alike. I don’t have a scar on my back anymore.”
Murtagh recoiled as if he had been stung, his face going hard and cold. He lifted Zar’roc and held it upright before his chest. “So be it. I take my inheritance from you, brother. Farewell.”
Then he retrieved his helm from the ground and pulled himself onto Thorn. Not once did he look at Eragon as the dragon crouched, raised its wings, and flew off the plateau and into the north. Only after Thorn vanished below the horizon did the web of magic release Eragon and Saphira.
Saphira’s talons clicked on the stone as she landed. She crawled over to Eragon and touched him on the arm with her snout. Are you all right, little one?
I’m fine. But he was not, and she knew it.
Walking to the edge of the plateau, Eragon surveyed the Burning Plains and the aftermath of the battle, for the battle was over. With the death of the Twins, the Varden and dwarves regained lost ground and were able to rout the formations of confused soldiers, herding them into the river or chasing them back from whence they came.
Though the bulk of their forces remained intact, the Empire had sounded the retreat, no doubt to regroup and prepare for a second attempt to invade Surda. In their wake, they left piles of tangled corpses from both sides of the conflict, enough men and dwarves to populate an entire city. Thick black smoke roiled off the bodies that had fallen into the peat fires.
Now that the fighting had subsided, the hawks and eagles, the crows and ravens, descended like a shroud over the field.
Eragon closed his eyes, tears leaking from under the lids.
They had won, but he had lost.
REUNION
ragon and Saphira picked their way between the corpses that littered the Burning Plains, moving slowly on account of their wounds and their exhaustion. They encountered other survivors staggering through the scorched battlefield, hollow-eyed men who looked without truly seeing, their gazes focused somewhere in the distance.
Now that his bloodlust had subsided, Eragon felt nothing but sorrow. The fighting seemed so pointless to him. What a tragedy that so many must die to thwart a single madman. He paused to sidestep a thicket of arrows planted in the mud and noticed the gash on Saphira’s tail where Thorn had bitten her, as well as her other injuries. Here, lend me your strength; I’ll heal you.
Tend to those in mortal danger first.
Are you sure?
Quite sure, little one.
Acquiescing, he bent down and mended a soldier’s torn neck before moving on to one of the Varden. He made no distinction between friend and foe, treating both to the limit of his abilities.
Eragon was so preoccupied with his thoughts, he paid little attention to his work. He wished he could repudiate Murtagh’s claim, but everything Murtagh had said about his mother—their mother—coincided with the few things Eragon knew about her: Selena left Carvahall twenty-some years ago, returned once to give birth to Eragon, and was never seen again. His mind darted back to when he and Murtagh first arrived in Farthen Dûr. Murtagh had discussed how his mother had vanished from Morzan’s castle while Morzan was hunting Brom, Jeod, and Saphira’s egg. After Morzan threw Zar’roc at Murtagh and nearly killed him, Mother must have hidden her pregnancy and then gone back to Carvahall in order to protect me from Morzan and Galbatorix.
It heartened Eragon to know that Selena had cared for him so deeply. It also grieved him to know she was dead and they would never meet, for he had nurtured the hope, faint as it was, that his parents might still be alive. He no longer harbored any desire to be acquainted with his father, but he bitterly resented that he had been deprived of the chance to have a relationship with his mother.
Ever since he was old enough to understand that he was a fosterling, Eragon had wondered who his father was and why his mother left him to be raised by her brother, Garrow, and his wife, Marian. Those answers had been thrust upon him from such an unexpected source, and in such an unpropitious setting, it was more than he could make sense of at the moment. It would take months, if not years, to come to terms with the revelation.
Eragon always assumed he would be glad to learn the identity of his father. Now that he had, the knowledge revolted him. When he was younger, he often entertained himself by imagining that his father was someone grand and important, though Eragon knew the opposite was far more likely. Still, it never occurred to him, even in his most extravagant daydreams, that he might be the son of a Rider, much less one of the Forsworn.
It turned a daydream into a nightmare.
I was sired by a monster.… My father was the one who betrayed the Riders to Galbatorix. It left Eragon feeling sullied.
But no … As he healed a man’s broken spine, a new way of viewing the situation occurred to him, one that restored a measure of his self-confidence: Morzan may be my parent, but he is not my father. Garrow was my father. He raised me. He taught me how to live well and honorably, with integrity. I am who I am because of him. Even Brom and Oromis are more my father than Morzan. And Roran is my brother, not Murtagh.
Eragon nodded, determined to maintain that outlook. Until then, he had refused to completely accept Garrow as his father. And even though Garrow was dead, doing so relieved Eragon, gave him a sense of closure, and helped to ameliorate his distress over Morzan.
You have grown wise, observed Saphira.
Wise? He shook his head. No, I’ve just learned how to think. That much, at least, Oromis gave me. Eragon wiped a layer of dirt off the face of a fallen banner boy, making sure he really was dead, then straightened, wincing as his muscles spasmed in protest. You realize, don’t you, that Brom must have known about this. Why else would he choose to hide in Carvahall while he waited for
you to hatch? … He wanted to keep an eye upon his enemy’s son. It unsettled him to think that Brom might have considered him a threat. And he was right too. Look what ended up happening to me!
Saphira ruffled his hair with a gust of her hot breath. Just remember, whatever Brom’s reasons, he always tried to protect us from danger. He died saving you from the Ra’zac.
I know.… Do you think he didn’t tell me about this because he was afraid I might emulate Morzan, like Murtagh has?
Of course not.
He looked at her, curious. How can you be so certain? She lifted her head high above him and refused to meet his eyes or to answer. Have it your way, then. Kneeling by one of King Orrin’s men, who had an arrow through the gut, Eragon grabbed his arms to stop him from writhing. “Easy now.”
“Water,” groaned the man. “For pity’s sake, water. My throat is as dry as sand. Please, Shadeslayer.” Sweat beaded his face.
Eragon smiled, trying to comfort him. “I can give you a drink now, but it’d be better if you wait until after I heal you. Can you wait? If you do, I promise you can have all the water you want.”
“You promise, Shadeslayer?”
“I promise.”
The man visibly struggled against another wave of agony before saying, “If I must.”
With the aid of magic, Eragon drew out the shaft, then he and Saphira worked to repair the man’s innards, using some of the warrior’s own energy to fuel the spell. It took several minutes. Afterward, the man examined his belly, pressing his hands against the flawless skin, then gazed at Eragon, tears brimming in his eyes. “I … Shadeslayer, you …”
Eragon handed him his waterskin. “Here, keep it. You have greater need of it than I.”
A hundred yards beyond, Eragon and Saphira breached an acrid wall of smoke. There they came upon Orik and ten other dwarves—some women—arrayed around the body of Hrothgar, who lay upon four shields, resplendent in his golden mail. The dwarves tore at their hair, beat their breasts, and wailed their lamentations to the sky. Eragon bowed his head and murmured, “Stydja unin mor’ranr, Hrothgar Könungr.”
Inheritance Cycle Omnibus Page 114