Inheritance (8 page)

In answer to her question, he shook his head.

“May I?” She indicated Glaedr’s heart of hearts.

He moved out of the way. “Please.”

Arya placed her hands on either side of the Eldunarí and then closed her eyes. While she sat, he took the opportunity to study her with an openness and intensity that would have been offensive otherwise. In every aspect, she seemed the epitome of beauty, even though he knew that another might say her nose was too long, or her face too angled, or her ears too pointed, or her arms too muscled.

With a sharp intake of breath, Arya jerked her hands away from the heart of hearts, as if it had burned her. Then she bowed her head, and Eragon saw her chin quiver ever so faintly. “He is the most unhappy creature I have ever met.… I would we could help
him. I do not think he will be able to find his way out of the darkness on his own.”

“Do you think …” Eragon hesitated, not wanting to give voice to his suspicion, then continued: “Do you think he will go mad?”

“He may have already. If not, then he dances on the very cusp of insanity.”

Sorrow came over Eragon as they both gazed at the golden stone.

When at last he was able to bring himself to speak again, he asked, “Where is the Dauthdaert?”

“Hidden within my tent even as you have hidden Glaedr’s Eldunarí. I can bring it here, if you want, or I can continue to safeguard it until you need it.”

“Keep it. I can’t carry it around with me, or Galbatorix may learn of its existence. Besides, it would be foolish to store so many treasures in one place.”

She nodded.

The ache inside of Eragon intensified. “Arya, I—” He stopped as Saphira saw one of the blacksmith Horst’s sons—Albriech, he thought, although it was difficult to tell him from his brother, Baldor, because of the distortions in Saphira’s vision—running toward the tent. The interruption relieved Eragon, as he had not known what he was going to say.

“Someone’s coming,” he announced, and closed the lid of the chest.

Loud, wet footsteps sounded in the mud outside. Then Albriech, for it was Albriech, shouted, “Eragon! Eragon!”

“What!”

“Mother’s birth pains have just begun! Father sent me to tell you and to ask if you will wait with him, in case anything goes wrong and your skill with magic is needed. Please, if you can—”

Whatever else he said was lost to Eragon as he rushed to lock and bury the chest. Then he cast his cloak over his shoulders and was fumbling with the clasp when Arya touched him on the arm and
said, “May I accompany you? I have some experience with this. If your people will let me, I can make the birth easier for her.”

Eragon did not even pause to consider his decision. He motioned toward the entrance of the tent. “After you.”

he mud clung to Roran’s boots each time he lifted his feet, slowing his progress and making his already-tired legs burn from the effort. It felt as if the very ground were trying to pull off his shoes. Thick as it was, the mud was also slippery. It gave way under his heels at the worst moments, just when his position was the most precarious. And it was deep, too. The constant passage of men, animals, and wagons had turned the top six inches of earth into a nigh on impassable morass. A few patches of crushed grass remained along the edges of the track—which ran straight through the Varden’s camp—but Roran suspected they would soon vanish as men sought to avoid the center of the lane.

Roran made no attempt to evade the muck; he no longer cared if his clothes stayed clean. Besides, he was so exhausted, it was easier to keep plodding in the same direction than to worry about picking a path from one island of grass to the next.

As he stumbled forward, Roran thought of Belatona. Since Nasuada’s audience with the werecats, he had been setting up a command post in the northwest quarter of the city and doing his best to establish control over the quadrant by assigning men to put out fires, build barricades in the streets, search houses for soldiers, and confiscate weapons. It was an immense task, and he despaired of accomplishing what was needed, fearing that the city might erupt into open battle again.
I hope those idiots can make it through the night without getting killed
.

His left side throbbed, causing him to bare his teeth and suck in his breath.

Blasted coward
.

Someone had shot at him with a crossbow from the roof of a building. Only the sheerest of luck had saved him; one of his men, Mortenson, had stepped in front of him at the exact moment the attacker had fired. The bolt had punched through Mortenson from back to belly and had still retained enough force to give Roran a nasty bruise. Mortenson had died on the spot, and whoever had shot the crossbow had escaped.

Five minutes later, an explosion of some sort, possibly magical, had killed two more of his men when they entered a stable to investigate a noise.

From what Roran understood, such attacks were common throughout the city. No doubt, Galbatorix’s agents were behind many of them, but the inhabitants of Belatona were also responsible—men and women who could not bear to stand by idly while an invading army seized control of their home, no matter how honorable the Varden’s intentions might be. Roran could sympathize with the people who felt they had to defend their families, but at the same time, he cursed them for being so thick-skulled that they could not recognize the Varden were trying to help them, not hurt them.

He scratched at his beard while he waited for a dwarf to pull a heavily laden pony out of his way, then continued slogging forward.

As he drew near their tent, he saw Katrina standing over a tub of hot, soapy water, scrubbing a bloodstained bandage against a washboard. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, her hair tied in a messy bun, and her cheeks flushed from her work, but she had never looked so beautiful to him. She was his comfort—his comfort and his refuge—and just seeing her helped ease the sense of numb dislocation that gripped him.

She noticed him and immediately abandoned her washing and ran toward him, drying her pink hands on the front of her dress. Roran braced himself as she threw herself at him, wrapping her
arms around his chest. His side flared with pain, and he uttered a short grunt.

Katrina loosened her hold and leaned away, frowning. “Oh! Did I hurt you?”

“No … no. I’m just sore.”

She did not question him but hugged him again, more gently, and looked up at him, her eyes glistening with tears. Holding her by the waist, he bent and kissed her, inexpressibly grateful for her presence.

Katrina slipped his left arm over her shoulders, and he allowed her to support part of his weight as they returned to their tent. With a sigh, Roran sat on the stump they used for a chair, which Katrina had placed next to the small fire she had built to heat the tub of water and over which a pot of stew was now simmering.

Katrina filled a bowl with stew and handed it to him. Then, from within the tent, she brought him a mug of ale and a plate with a half loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. “Is there anything else you need?” she asked, her voice unusually hoarse.

Roran did not answer, but cupped her cheek and stroked it twice with his thumb. She smiled tremulously and laid a hand over his, then returned to washing and began to scrub with renewed vigor.

Roran stared at the food for a long time before he took a bite; he was still so tense, he doubted he could stomach it. After a few mouthfuls of bread, however, his appetite returned, and he began to consume the stew with eagerness.

When he was done, he placed the dishes on the ground and then sat warming his hands over the fire while he nursed the last few sips of beer.

“We heard the crash when the gates fell,” said Katrina, wringing a bandage dry. “They didn’t hold for very long.”

“No.… It helps to have a dragon on your side.”

Roran gazed at her belly as she draped the bandage over the makeshift clothesline that ran from the peak of their tent across to a
neighboring one. Whenever he thought of the child she was carrying, the child that the two of them had created, he felt an enormous sense of pride, but it was tinged with anxiety, for he did not know how he could hope to provide a safe home for their baby. Also, if the war was not over by the time Katrina gave birth, she intended to leave him and go to Surda, where she might raise their child in relative safety.

I can’t lose her, not again
.

Katrina immersed another bandage in the tub. “And the battle in the city?” she asked, churning the water. “How went it?”

“We had to fight for every foot. Even Eragon had a hard time of it.”

“The wounded spoke of ballistae mounted on wheels.”

“Aye.” Roran wet his tongue with ale, then quickly described how the Varden had moved through Belatona and the setbacks they had encountered along the way. “We lost too many men today, but it could have been worse. Much worse. Jörmundur and Captain Martland planned the attack well.”

“Their plan wouldn’t have worked, though, if not for you and Eragon. You acquitted yourself most bravely.”

Roran loosed a single bark of laughter: “Ha! And do you know why that is? I’ll tell you. Not one man in ten is actually willing to attack the enemy. Eragon doesn’t see it; he’s always at the forefront of the battle, driving the soldiers before him, but I see it. Most of the men hang back and don’t fight unless they are cornered. Or they wave their arms about and make a lot of noise but don’t actually do anything.”

Katrina looked appalled. “How can that be? Are they cowards?”

“I don’t know. I think … I think that, perhaps, they just can’t bring themselves to look a man in the face and kill him, although it seems easy enough for them to cut down soldiers whose backs are turned. So they wait for others to do what they cannot. They wait for people like me.”

“Do you think Galbatorix’s men are equally reluctant?”

Roran shrugged. “They might be. But then, they have no choice but to obey Galbatorix. If he orders them to fight, they fight.”

“Nasuada could do the same. She could have her magicians cast spells to ensure that no one shirks their duty.”

“What difference would there be between her and Galbatorix, then? In any case, the Varden wouldn’t stand for it.”

Katrina left her washing to come and kiss him on the forehead. “I’m glad you can do what you do,” she whispered. She returned to the tub and began scrubbing another strip of soiled linen over the washboard. “I felt something earlier, from my ring.… I thought maybe something had happened to you.”

“I was in the middle of a battle. It wouldn’t be surprising if you had felt a twinge every few minutes.”

She paused with her arms in the water. “I never have before.”

He drained the mug of ale, seeking to delay the inevitable. He had hoped to spare her the details of his misadventure in the castle, but it was plain that she would not rest until she knew the truth. Attempting to convince her otherwise would only lead her to imagine calamities far worse than what had actually occurred. Besides, it would be pointless for him to hold back when news of the event would soon be common throughout the Varden.

So he told her. He gave her a brief account and tried to make the collapse of the wall seem more like a minor inconvenience rather than something that had almost killed him. Still, he found it difficult to describe the experience, and he spoke haltingly, searching for the right words. When he finished, he fell silent, troubled by the remembrance.

“At least you weren’t hurt,” said Katrina.

He picked at a crack in the lip of the mug. “No.”

The sound of sloshing water ceased, and he could feel her eyes heavy upon him.

“You’ve faced far greater danger before.”

“Yes … I suppose.”

Her voice softened. “What’s wrong, then?” When he did not
answer, she said, “There’s nothing so terrible you can’t tell me, Roran. You know that.”

The edge of his right thumbnail tore as he picked at the mug again. He rubbed the sharp flap against his forefinger several times. “I thought I was going to die when the wall fell.”