Inheritance Cycle Omnibus

by Christopher Paolini

Roran’s thoughts flashed quick-hot-muddled-cold, and he seemed to have difficulty forming a coherent answer. Eventually, he said, That’s very kind of you, Saphira.

  If you can, come visit me tomorrow, when we may speak at greater length. I grow restless sitting here day after day. Perhaps you could tell me more about how Eragon was before I hatched for him.

  It … it would be my honor.

  Satisfied she had fulfilled the demands of round-ears-two-legs courtesy by welcoming Roran, and heartened by the knowledge that the following day would not be as boring—for it was unthinkable anyone would dare ignore her request for an audience—Saphira made herself as comfortable as she could on the bare earth, wishing as she often did for the soft nest that was hers in Eragon’s wind-rocked-tree-house in Ellesméra. A puff of smoke escaped her as she sighed and fell asleep and dreamed that she flew higher than she ever had before.

  She flapped and she flapped until she rose above the unreachable peaks of the Beor Mountains. There she circled for a time, gazing down at the whole of Alagaësia laid out before her. Then an uncontrollable desire entered her to climb even higher and see what she might, and so she began flapping again, and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, she soared past the glaring moon, until only she and the silver stars hung in the black sky. She drifted among the heavens for an indeterminate period, queen of the bright, jewel-like world below, but then disquiet entered her soul, and she cried out with her thoughts:

  Eragon, where are you!

  KISS ME SWEET

  Waking, Roran extricated himself from Katrina’s smooth arms and sat bare-chested on the edge of the cot they shared. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, then gazed at the pale strip of firelight that glowed between the two entrance flaps, feeling dull and stupid with accumulated exhaustion. A chill crept over him, but he remained where he was, motionless.

  “Roran?” Katrina asked in a sleep-smeared voice. She propped herself up on one arm and reached for him with the other. He did not react as she touched him, sliding her hand across his upper back and rubbing his neck. “Sleep. You need your rest. You’ll be gone again before long.”

  He shook his head, not looking at her.

  “What is it?” she asked. Sitting upright, she pulled a blanket over his shoulders, then leaned against him, her cheek warm against his arm. “Are you worried about your new captain or where Nasuada may send you next?”

  “No.”

  She was silent for a while. “Every time you leave, I feel as if less of you returns to me. You have become so grim and quiet.… If you want to tell me about what is troubling you, you can, you know, no matter how terrible it is. I am the daughter of a butcher, and I have seen my share of men fall in battle.”

  “Want!” Roran exclaimed, choking on the word. “I don’t ever want to think about it again.” He clenched his fists, his breathing uncertain. “A true warrior would not feel as I do.”

  “A true warrior,” she said, “does not fight because he wishes to but because he has to. A man who yearns for war, a man who enjoys his killing, he is a brute and a monster. No matter how much glory he wins on the battlefield, that cannot erase the fact that he is no better than a rabid wolf who will turn on his friends and family as soon as his foes.” She brushed his hair away from his brow and stroked the top of his head, light and slow. “You once told me that ‘The Song of Gerand’ was your favorite of Brom’s stories, that it was why you fight with a hammer instead of a blade. Remember how Gerand disliked killing and how reluctant he was to take up arms again?”

  “Aye.”

  “And yet he was considered the greatest warrior of his age.” She cupped his cheek in her hand and turned his face toward her so that he was forced to gaze into her solemn eyes. “And you are the greatest warrior I know of, Roran, here or anywhere.”

  With a dry mouth, he said, “What of Eragon or—”

  “They are not half so valorous as you. Eragon, Murtagh, Galbatorix, the elves … all of them march into battle with spells upon their lips and might that far exceeds ours. But you”—she kissed him on the nose—“you are no more than a man. You face your foes on your own two feet. You are not a magician, and yet you slew the Twins. You are only as fast and as strong as a human may be, and yet you did not shirk from attacking the Ra’zac in their lair and freeing me from their dungeon.”

  He swallowed. “I had wards from Eragon to protect me.”

  “But no longer. Besides, you did not have any wards in Carvahall either, and did you flee from the Ra’zac then?” When he was unresponsive, she said, “You are no more than a man, but you have done things not even Eragon or Murtagh could have. To me, that makes you the greatest warrior in Alagaësia.… I cannot think of anyone else in Carvahall who would have gone to the lengths you did to rescue me.”

  “Your father would have,” he said.

  He felt her shiver against him. “Yes, he would have,” she whispered. “But he never would have been able to convince others to follow him, as you did.” She tightened her arm around him. “Whatever you have seen or done, you will always have me.”

  “That is all I will ever need,” he said, and clasped her in his arms and held her for a span. Then he sighed. “Still, I wish this war were at an end. I wish I could till a field again and sow my crops and harvest them when they ripened. Farming is backbreaking work, but at least it is honest labor. This killing isn’t honest. It is thievery … the thievery of men’s lives, and no right-minded person should aspire to it.”

  “As I said.”

  “As you said.” Difficult as it was, he made himself smile. “I have forgotten myself. Here I am burdening you with my troubles when you have worries enough of your own.” And he placed a hand over her rounding womb.

  “Your troubles shall always be my troubles, so long as we are married,” she murmured, and nuzzled his arm.

  “Some troubles,” he said, “no one else should have to endure, especially not those you love.”

  She withdrew an inch or two from him, and he saw her eyes become bleak and listless, as they did whenever she fell to brooding over the time she had spent imprisoned in Helgrind. “No,” she whispered, “some troubles no one else should have to endure.”

  “Ah, do not be sad.” He pulled her closer and rocked back and forth with her and wished with all his might that Eragon had not found Saphira’s egg in the Spine. After a while, when Katrina had grown soft in his arms again, and even he no longer felt quite so tense, he caressed the curve of her neck. “Come, kiss me sweet, and then let us return to bed, for I am tired, and I would sleep.”

  She laughed at him then, and kissed him most sweetly, and then they lay upon the cot as they had before, and outside the tent all was still and quiet except for the Jiet River, which flowed past the camp, never pausing, never stopping, and poured itself into Roran’s dreams, where he imagined himself standing at the prow of a ship, Katrina by his side, and gazing into the maw of the giant whirlpool, the Boar’s Eye.

  And he thought, How can we hope to escape?

  GLÛMRA

  Hundreds of feet below Tronjheim, the stone opened up into a cavern thousands of feet long with a still black lake of unknown depth along one side and a marble shore on the other. Brown and ivory stalactites dripped from the ceiling, while stalagmites stabbed upward from the ground, and in places the two joined to form bulging pillars thicker around than even the largest trees in Du Weldenvarden. Scattered among the pillars were mounds of compost studded with mushrooms, as well as three-and-twenty low stone huts. A flameless lantern glowed iron red next to each of their doors. Beyond the reach of the lanterns, shadows abounded.

  Inside one of the huts, Eragon sat in a chair that was too small for him, at a granite table no higher than his knees. The smell of soft goat cheese, sliced mushrooms, yeast, stew, pigeon eggs, and coal dust pervaded the air. Across from him, Glûmra, a dwarf woman of the Family of Mord, she who was the mother of Kvîstor, Eragon’s slain guard, wailed and tore at her hair and beat at her breast w
ith her fists. Glistening tracks marked where her tears had rolled down her plump face.

  The two of them were alone in the hut. Eragon’s four guards—their numbers replenished by Thrand, a warrior from Orik’s retinue—were waiting outside, along with Hûndfast, Eragon’s translator, whom Eragon had dismissed from the hut once he learned that Glûmra could speak his language.

  After the attempt on his life, Eragon had contacted Orik with his mind, whereupon Orik insisted Eragon run as fast as he could to the chambers of the Ingeitum, where he would be safe from any more assassins. Eragon had obeyed, and there he had remained while Orik forced the clanmeet to adjourn until the following morning, on the grounds that an emergency had arisen within his clan that required his immediate attention. Then Orik marched with his stoutest warriors and most adept spellcaster to the site of the ambush, which they studied and recorded with means both magical and mundane. Once Orik was satisfied they had learned all they could, he had hurried back to his chambers, where he said to Eragon, “We have much to do and little time in which to do it. Before the clanmeet resumes upon the third morning hour of tomorrow, we must attempt to establish beyond all doubt who ordered the attack. If we can, then we will have leverage to use against them. If not, then we will be flailing in the dark, uncertain of our enemies. We can keep the attack a secret until the clanmeet, but no longer. Knurlan will have heard echoes of your fight throughout the tunnels under Tronjheim, and even now, I know they will be searching for the source of the disturbance, for fear there may have been a cave-in or similar catastrophe that might undermine the city above.” Orik stamped his feet and cursed the ancestors of whoever had sent the assassins, then planted his fists on his hips and said, “A clan war was already threatening us, but now it stands upon our very threshold. We must move quickly if we are to avert that dread fate. There are knurlan to find, questions to ask, threats to make, bribes to offer, and scrolls to steal—and all before morn.”

  “What of me?” Eragon asked.

  “You should remain here until we know if Az Sweldn rak Anhûin or some other clan has a larger force massed elsewhere to kill you. Also, as long as we can hide from your attackers whether you are alive, dead, or wounded, the longer we may keep them uncertain as to the safety of the rock beneath their feet.”

  At first Eragon agreed with Orik’s proposal, but as he watched the dwarf bustle about issuing orders, he felt increasingly uneasy and helpless. Finally, he caught Orik by the arm and said, “If I have to sit here and stare at the wall while you search for the villains who did this, I’ll grind my teeth down to nubs. There must be something I can do to help.… What of Kvîstor? Do any of his family live in Tronjheim? Has anyone told them of his death yet? Because if not, I would be the one to bring them the tidings, for it was me he died defending.”

  Orik inquired of his guards, and from them they learned that Kvîstor did indeed have family in Tronjheim, or more accurately, underneath Tronjheim. When he heard, Orik frowned and muttered a strange word in Dwarvish. “They are deep dwellers,” he said, “knurlan who have forsaken the surface of the land for the world below, except for occasional forays above. More of them live here, below Tronjheim and Farthen Dûr, than anywhere else, because they can come out in Farthen Dûr and not feel as if they are actually outside, which most of them cannot bear, they are so accustomed to closed-in spaces. I had not known Kvîstor was of their number.”

  “Would you mind if I go to visit his family?” Eragon asked. “Among these rooms, there are stairs that lead below, am I right? We could leave without anyone being the wiser.”

  Orik thought for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. The path is safe enough, and no one would think to look for you among the deep dwellers. They would come here first, and here they would otherwise find you.… Go, and do not return until I send a messenger for you, even if the Family of Mord turns you away and you must sit on a stalagmite until morn. But, Eragon, be you careful; the deep dwellers keep to themselves for the most part, and they are prickly to an extreme about their honor, and they have strange customs of their own. Tread carefully, as if you were on rotten shale, eh?”

  And so, with Thrand added to his guards, and Hûndfast accompanying them—and with a short dwarf sword belted around his waist—Eragon went to the nearest staircase leading downward, and following it, he descended farther into the bowels of the earth than ever he had before. And in due time, he found Glûmra and informed her of Kvîstor’s demise, and now he sat listening as she grieved for her slain child, alternating between wordless howls and scraps of Dwarvish sung in a haunting, dissonant key.

  Discomfited by the strength of her sorrow, Eragon glanced away from her face. He looked at the green soapstone stove that stood against one wall and the worn carvings of geometric design that adorned its edges. He studied the green and brown rug that lay before the hearth, and the churn in the corner, and the provisions hanging from the beams of the ceiling. He gazed at the heavy-timbered loom that stood underneath a round window with panes of lavender glass.

  Then, at the height of her wailing, Glûmra caught Eragon’s eye as she rose from the table, went to the counter, and placed her left hand on the cutting board. Before Eragon could stop her, she took a carving knife and cut off the first joint of her little finger. She groaned and doubled over.

  Eragon sprang halfway up with an involuntary exclamation. He wondered what madness had overcome the dwarf woman and whether he should attempt to restrain her, lest she should do herself additional harm. He opened his mouth to ask if she wanted him to heal the wound, but then he thought better of it, remembering Orik’s admonishments about the deep dwellers’ strange customs and strong sense of honor. She might consider the offer an insult, he realized. Closing his mouth, he sank back into his too-small chair.

  After a minute, Glûmra straightened out of her hunched position, took a deep breath, and then quietly and calmly washed the raw end of her finger with brandy, smeared it with a yellow salve, and bandaged the wound. Her moon-face still pale from the shock, she lowered herself into the chair opposite Eragon. “I thank you, Shadeslayer, for bringing me news of mine son’s fate yourself. I am glad to know that he died proudly, as a warrior ought to.”

  “He was most brave,” Eragon said. “He could see that our enemies were as fast as elves, and yet he still leaped forward to protect me. His sacrifice bought me time to escape their blades and also revealed the danger of the enchantments they had placed on their weapons. If not for his actions, I doubt I would be here now.”

  Glûmra nodded slowly, eyes downcast, and smoothed the front of her dress. “Do you know who was responsible for this attack on our clan, Shadeslayer?”

  “We have only suspicions. Grimstborith Orik is trying to determine the truth of the matter even as we speak.”

  “Was it Az Sweldn rak Anhûin?” Glûmra asked, surprising Eragon with the astuteness of her guess. He did his best to conceal his reaction. When he remained silent, she said, “We all know of their blood feud with you, Argetlam; every knurla within these mountains knows. Some of us have looked with favor upon their opposition of you, but if they thought to actually kill you, then they have misjudged the lay of the rock and doomed themselves because of it.”

  Eragon raised an eyebrow, interested. “Doomed? How?”

  “It was you, Shadeslayer, who slew Durza and so allowed us to save Tronjheim and the dwellings below from the clutches of Galbatorix. Our race shall never forget that so long as Tronjheim remains standing. And then there is word come by the tunnels that your dragon shall make whole again Isidar Mithrim?”

  Eragon nodded.

  “That is good of you, Shadeslayer. You have done much for our race, and whichever clan it was attacked you, we shall turn against them and have our vengeance.”

  “I swore before witnesses,” Eragon said, “and I swear to you as well, that I will punish whoever sent those backstabbing murderers and that I’ll make them wish they had never thought of such a foul deed. However—”
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  “Thank you, Shadeslayer.”

  Eragon hesitated, then inclined his head. “However, we must not do anything that would ignite a clan war. Not now. If force is to be used, it should be Grimstborith Orik who decides when and where we draw our swords, don’t you agree?”

  “I will think upon what you have said, Shadeslayer,” Glûmra replied. “Orik is …” Whatever she was going to say next caught in her mouth. Her thick eyelids drooped and she sagged forward for a moment, pressing her maimed hand against her abdomen. When the bout passed, she pushed herself upright and held the back of the hand against her opposite cheek and swayed from side to side, moaning, “Oh, mine son … mine beautiful son.”

  Standing, she staggered around the table, heading toward a small collection of swords and axes mounted on the wall behind Eragon, next to an alcove covered by a curtain of red silk. Afraid that she intended to cause herself further injury, Eragon leaped to his feet, knocking over the oak chair in his haste. He reached for her and then saw that she was walking toward the curtained alcove, not the weapons, and he snatched his arm back before he caused offense.

  The brass rings sewn on top of the silk drapery clattered against one another as Glûmra swept aside the cloth to expose a deep, shadowed shelf carved with runes and shapes of such fantastic detail, Eragon thought he could stare at them for hours and still not grasp them in their entirety. On the low shelf rested statues of the six major dwarf gods, as well as nine other entities Eragon was unfamiliar with, all carved with exaggerated features and postures to better convey the character of the being portrayed.

  Glûmra removed an amulet of gold and silver from within her bodice, which she kissed and then held against the hollow of her throat as she knelt before the alcove. Her voice rising and falling in the strange patterns of dwarf music, she began to croon a dirge in her native language. The melody brought tears to Eragon’s eyes. For several minutes, Glûmra sang, and then she fell silent and continued to gaze at the figurines, and as she gazed, the lines of her grief-ravaged face softened, and where before Eragon had perceived only anger, distress, and hopelessness, her countenance assumed an air of calm acceptance, of peacefulness, and of sublime transcendence. A soft glow seemed to emanate from her features. So complete was Glûmra’s transformation, Eragon almost did not recognize her.