Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (18 page)

“Coral?”

Gannel took a draught of ale, then said, “Our divers found it while

searching for pearls. It seems that, in brine, certain stones grow like

plants.”

Eragon stared with wonder. He had never thought of pebbles or boul-

111

ders as alive, yet here was proof that all they needed was water and salt

to flourish. It finally explained how rocks had continued to appear in

their fields in Palancar Valley, even after the soil had been combed clean

each spring. They grew!

They proceeded to Urûr, master of the air and heavens, and his brother

Morgothal, god of fire. At the carmine statue of Morgothal, the priest

told how the brothers loved each other so much, neither could exist in-

dependently. Thus, Morgothal’s burning palace in the sky during the day,

and the sparks from his forge that appeared overhead every night. And

also thus, how Urûr constantly fed his sibling so he would not die.

Only two more gods were left after that: Sindri—mother of the earth—

and Helzvog.

Helzvog’s statue was different from the rest. The nude god was bowed

in half over a dwarf-sized lump of gray flint, caressing it with the tip of

his forefinger. The muscles of his back bunched and knotted with inhu-

man strain, yet his expression was incredibly tender, as if a newborn child

lay before him.

Gannel’s voice dropped to a low rasp: “Gûntera may be King of the

Gods, but it is Helzvog who holds our hearts. It was he who felt that the

land should be peopled after the giants were vanquished. The other gods

disagreed, but Helzvog ignored them and, in secret, formed the first

dwarf from the roots of a mountain.

“When his deed was discovered, jealousy swept the gods and Gûntera

created elves to control Alagaësia for himself. Then Sindri brought forth

humans from the soil, and Urûr and Morgothal combined their knowl-

edge and released dragons into the land. Only Kílf restrained herself. So

the first races entered this world.”

Eragon absorbed Gannel’s words, accepting the clan chief’s sincerity but

unable to quell a simple question: How does he know? Eragon sensed that

it would be an awkward query, however, and merely nodded as he lis-

tened.

“This,” said Gannel, finishing the last of his ale, “leads to our most im-

portant rite, which I know Orik has discussed with you. . All dwarves

must be buried in stone, else our spirits will never join Helzvog in his

hall. We are not of earth, air, or fire, but of stone. And as Ingeitum, it is

your responsibility to assure a proper resting place for any dwarf who

may die in your company. If you fail—in the absence of injury or ene-

112

mies—Hrothgar will exile you, and no dwarf will acknowledge your

presence until after your death.” He straightened his shoulders, staring

hard at Eragon. “You have much more to learn, yet uphold the customs I

outlined today and you will do well.”

“I won’t forget,” said Eragon.

Satisfied, Gannel led him away from the statues and up a winding stair-

case. As they climbed, the clan chief dipped a hand into his robe and

withdrew a simple necklace, a chain threaded through the pommel of a

miniature silver hammer. He gave it to Eragon.

“This is another favor Hrothgar asked of me,” Gannel explained. “He

worries that Galbatorix may have gleaned an image of you from the

minds of Durza, the Ra’zac, or any number of soldiers who saw you

throughout the Empire.”

“Why should I fear that?”

“Because then Galbatorix could scry you. Perhaps he already has.”

A shiver of apprehension wormed down Eragon’s side, like an icy

snake. I should have thought of that, he berated himself.

“The necklace will prevent anyone from scrying you or your dragon, as

long as you wear it. I placed the spell myself, so it should hold before

even the strongest mind. But be forewarned, when activated, the neck-

lace will draw upon your strength until you either take it off or the dan-

ger has passed.”

“What if I’m asleep? Could the necklace consume all my energy before

I was aware of it?”

“Nay. It will wake you.”

Eragon rolled the hammer between his fingers. It was difficult to avert

another’s spells, least of all Galbatorix’s. If Gannel is so accomplished,

what other enchantments might be hidden in his gift? He noticed a line of

runes cut along the hammer’s haft. They spelled Astim Hefthyn. The

stairs ended as he asked, “Why do dwarves write with the same runes as

humans?”

For the first time since they met, Gannel laughed, his voice booming

through the temple as his large shoulders shook. “It is the other way

113

around; humans write with our runes. When your ancestors landed in

Alagaësia, they were as illiterate as rabbits. However, they soon adopted

our alphabet and matched it to this language. Some of your words even

come from us, like father, which was originally farthen. ”

“So then Farthen Dûr means. . ?” Eragon slipped the necklace over his

head and tucked it under his tunic.

“Our Father.”

Stopping at a door, Gannel ushered Eragon through to a curved gallery

located directly below the cupola. The passageway banded Celbedeil,

providing a view through the open archways of the mountains behind

Tarnag, as well as the terraced city far below.

Eragon barely glanced at the landscape, for the gallery’s inner wall was

covered with a single continuous painting, a gigantic narrative band that

began with a depiction of the dwarves’ creation under Helzvog’s hand.

The figures and objects stood in relief from the surface, giving the pano-

rama a feeling of hyperrealism with its saturated, glowing colors and

minute detail.

Captivated, Eragon asked, “How was this made?”

“Each scene is carved out of small plates of marble, which are fired

with enamel, then fitted into a single piece.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to use regular paint?”

“It would,” said Gannel, “but not if we wanted it to endure centuries—

millennia—without change. Enamel never fades or loses its brilliancy,

unlike oil paint. This first section was carved only a decade after the dis-

covery of Farthen Dûr, well before elves set foot on Alagaësia.”

The priest took Eragon by the arm and guided him along the tableau.

Each step carried them through uncounted years of history.

Eragon saw how the dwarves were once nomads on a seemingly endless

plain, until the land grew so hot and desolate they were forced to migrate

south to the Beor Mountains. That was how the Hadarac Desert was

formed, he realized, amazed.

As they proceeded down the mural, heading toward the back of Cel-

bedeil, Eragon witnessed everything from the domestication of Feldûnost

114

to the carving of Isidar Mithrim, the first meeting between dwarves and

elves, and the coronation of each new dwarf king. Dragons frequently ap-

peared, burning and slaughtering. Eragon had difficulty restraining com-

ment during those sections.

His steps slowed as the painting shifted to the event he had hoped to

find: the war between elves and dragons. Here the dwarves had devoted a

vast amount of space to the destruction wreaked upon Alagaësia by the

two races. Eragon shuddered with horror at the sight of elves and dragons

killing each other. The battles continued for yards, each image more

bloody than the last, until the darkness lifted and a young elf was shown

kneeling on the edge of a cliff, holding a white dragon egg.

“Is that. . ?” whispered Eragon.

“Aye, it’s Eragon, the First Rider. It’s a good likeness too, as he agreed to

sit for our artisans.”

Drawn forward by his fascination, Eragon studied the face of his name-

sake. I always imagined him older. The elf had angled eyes that peered

down a hooked nose and narrow chin, giving him a fierce appearance. It

was an alien face, completely different from his own. . and yet the set of

his shoulders, high and tense, reminded Eragon of how he had felt upon

finding Saphira’s egg. We’re not so different, you and I, he thought, touch-

ing the cool enamel. And once my ears match yours, we shall truly be

brothers through time.... I wonder, would you approve of my actions? He

knew they had made at least one identical choice; they had both kept the

egg.

He heard a door open and close and turned to see Arya approaching

from the far end of the gallery. She scanned the wall with the same blank

expression Eragon had seen her use when confronting the Council of Eld-

ers. Whatever her specific emotions, he sensed that she found the situa-

tion distasteful.

Arya inclined her head. “Grimstborith.”

“Arya.”

“You have been educating Eragon in your mythology?”

Gannel smiled flatly. “One should always understand the faith of the

society that one belongs to.”

115

“Yet comprehension does not imply belief.” She fingered the pillar of an

archway. “Nor does it mean that those who purvey such beliefs do so for

more than. . material gain.”

“You would deny the sacrifices my clan makes to bring comfort to our

brethren?”

“I deny nothing, only ask what good might be accomplished if your

wealth were spread among the needy, the starving, the homeless, or even

to buy supplies for the Varden. Instead, you’ve piled it into a monument

to your own wishful thinking.”

“Enough!” The dwarf clenched his fists, his face mottled. “Without us,

the crops would wither in drought. Rivers and lakes would flood. Our

flocks would give birth to one-eyed beasts. The very heavens would shat-

ter under the gods’ rage!” Arya smiled. “Only our prayers and service pre-

vent that from happening. If not for Helzvog, where—”

Eragon soon lost track of the argument. He did not understand Arya’s

vague criticisms of Dûrgrimst Quan, but he gathered from Gannel’s re-

sponses that, in some indirect way, she had implied that the dwarf gods

did not exist, questioned the mental capacity of every dwarf who entered

a temple, and pointed out what she took to be flaws in their reasoning—

all in a pleasant and polite voice.

After a few minutes, Arya raised her hand, stopping Gannel, and said,

“That is the difference between us, Grimstborith. You devote yourself to

that which you believe to be true but cannot prove. There, we must

agree to disagree.” She turned to Eragon then. “Az Sweldn rak Anhûin has

inflamed Tarnag’s citizens against you. Ûndin believes, as do I, that it

would be best for you to remain behind his walls until we leave.”

Eragon hesitated. He wanted to see more of Celbedeil, but if there was

to be trouble, then his place was by Saphira’s side. He bowed to Gannel

and begged to be excused. “You need not apologize, Shadeslayer,” said the

clan chief. He glared at Arya. “Do what you must, and may the blessings

of Gûntera be upon you.”

Together Eragon and Arya departed the temple and, surrounded by a

dozen warriors, trotted through the city. As they did, Eragon heard

shouts from an angry mob on a lower tier. A stone skipped over a nearby

roof. The motion drew his eye to a dark plume of smoke rising from the

city’s edge.

116

Once in the hall, Eragon hurried to his room. There he slipped on his

mail hauberk; strapped the greaves to his shins and the bracers to his

forearms; jammed the leather cap, coif, and then helm over his head; and

grabbed his shield. Scooping up his pack and saddlebags, he ran back to

the courtyard, where he sat against Saphira’s right foreleg.

Tarnag is like an overturned anthill, she observed.

Let’s hope we don’t get bitten.

Arya joined them before long, as did a group of fifty heavily armed

dwarves who settled in the middle of the courtyard. The dwarves waited

impassively, talking in low grunts as they eyed the barred gate and the

mountain that rose up behind them.

“They fear,” said Arya, seating herself by Eragon, “that the crowds may

prevent us from reaching the rafts.”

“Saphira can always fly us out.”

“Snowfire as well? And Ûndin’s guards? No, if we are stopped, we shall

have to wait until the dwarves’ outrage subsides.” She studied the darken-

ing sky. “It’s unfortunate that you managed to offend so many dwarves,

but perhaps inevitable. The clans have ever been contentious; what

pleases one infuriates another.”

He fingered the edge of his mail. “I wish now I hadn’t accepted Hroth-

gar’s offer.”

“Ah, yes. As with Nasuada, I think you made the only viable choice.

You are not to blame. The fault, if any, lies with Hrothgar for making the

offer in the first place. He must have been well aware of the repercus-

sions.”

Silence reigned for several minutes. A half-dozen dwarves marched

around the courtyard, stretching their legs. Finally, Eragon asked, “Do you

have any family in Du Weldenvarden?”

It was a long time before Arya answered. “None that I’m close to.”

“Why. . why is that?”

She hesitated again. “They disliked my choice to become the Queen’s

envoy and ambassador; it seemed inappropriate. When I ignored their ob-