Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (8 page)

Ivor swore and began unhitching the mare, grumbling, “Always the

moment I get a bit of work done, that’s when the interruption comes.

Never before.” He crossed his arms and frowned as Roran cinched the

saddle, intent on his work.

When he was ready, Roran swung onto the horse, bow in hand. “I am

sorry for the trouble, but it can’t be helped.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. Just make sure you aren’t caught.”

“I’ll do that.”

As he set heels to the mare’s sides, Roran heard Ivor call, “And don’t be

hiding up my creek!”

Roran grinned and shook his head, bending low over the horse’s neck.

He soon reached the foothills of the Spine and worked his way up to the

mountains that formed the north end of Palancar Valley. From there he

climbed to a point on the mountainside where he could observe Carva-

hall without being seen. Then he picketed his steed and settled down to

wait.

Roran shivered, eyeing the dark pines. He disliked being this close to

the Spine. Hardly anyone from Carvahall dared set foot in the mountain

range, and those who did often failed to return.

Before long Roran saw the soldiers march up the road in a double line,

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two ominous black figures at their head. They were stopped at the edge

of Carvahall by a ragged group of men, some of them with picks in hand.

The two sides spoke, then simply faced each other, like growling dogs

waiting to see who would strike first. After a long moment, the men of

Carvahall moved aside and let the intruders pass.

What happens now? wondered Roran, rocking back on his heels.

By evening the soldiers had set up camp in a field adjacent to the vil-

lage. Their tents formed a low gray block that flickered with weird shad-

ows as sentries patrolled the perimeter. In the center of the block, a large

fire sent billows of smoke into the air.

Roran had made his own camp, and now he simply watched and

thought. He always assumed that when the strangers destroyed his home,

they got what they wanted, which was the stone Eragon brought from

the Spine. They must not have found it, he decided. Perhaps Eragon man-

aged to escape with the stone.... Perhaps he felt that he had to leave in order

to protect it. He frowned. That would go a long way toward explaining

why Eragon fled, but it still seemed far-fetched to Roran. Whatever the

reason, that stone must be a fantastic treasure for the king to send so many

men to retrieve it. I can’t understand what would make it so valuable.

Maybe it’s magic.

He breathed deeply of the cool air, listening to the hoot of an owl. A

flicker of movement caught his attention. Glancing down the mountain,

he saw a man approaching in the forest below. Roran ducked behind a

boulder, bow drawn. He waited until he was sure it was Albriech, then

whistled softly.

Albriech soon arrived at the boulder. On his back was an overfull pack,

which he dropped to the ground with a grunt. “I thought I’d never find

you.”

“I’m surprised you did.”

“Can’t say I enjoyed wandering through the forest after sundown. I kept

expecting to walk into a bear, or worse. The Spine isn’t a fit place for

men, if you ask me.”

Roran looked back out at Carvahall. “So why are they here?”

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“To take you into custody. They’re willing to wait as long as they have

to for you to return from ‘hunting.’ ”

Roran sat with a hard thump, his gut clenched with cold anticipation.

“Did they give a reason? Did they mention the stone?”

Albriech shook his head. “All they would say is that it’s the king’s busi-

ness. The whole day they’ve been asking questions about you and Er-

agon—it’s all they’re interested in.” He hesitated. “I’d stay, but they’ll no-

tice if I am missing tomorrow. I brought plenty of food and blankets, plus

some of Gertrude’s salves in case you injure yourself. You should be fine

up here.”

Summoning his energy, Roran smiled. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anyone would do it,” said Albriech with an embarrassed shrug. He

started to leave, then tossed over his shoulder, “By the way, the two

strangers. . they’re called the Ra’zac.”

47

SAPHIRA’S PROMISE

The morning after meeting with the Council of Elders, Eragon was

cleaning and oiling Saphira’s saddle—careful not to overexert himself—

when Orik came to visit. The dwarf waited until Eragon finished with a

strap, then asked, “Are you better today?”

“A little.”

“Good, we all need our strength. I came partly to see to your health and

also because Hrothgar wishes to speak with you, if you are free.”

Eragon gave the dwarf a wry smile. “I’m always free for him. He must

know that.”

Orik laughed. “Ah, but it’s polite to ask nicely.” As Eragon put down

the saddle, Saphira uncoiled from her padded corner and greeted Orik

with a friendly growl. “Morning to you as well,” he said with a bow.

Orik led them through one of Tronjheim’s four main corridors, toward

its central chamber and the two mirroring staircases that curved under-

ground to the dwarf king’s throne room. Before they reached the cham-

ber, however, he turned down a small flight of stairs. It took Eragon a

moment to realize that Orik had taken a side passageway to avoid seeing

the wreckage of Isidar Mithrim.

They came to a stop before the granite doors engraved with a seven-

pointed crown. Seven armored dwarves on each side of the entrance

pounded the floor simultaneously with the hafts of their mattocks. With

the echoing thud of wood on stone, the doors swung inward.

Eragon nodded to Orik, then entered the dim room with Saphira. They

advanced toward the distant throne, passing the rigid statues, hírna, of

past dwarf kings. At the foot of the heavy black throne, Eragon bowed.

The dwarf king inclined his silver-maned head in return, the rubies

wrought into his golden helm glowing dully in the light like flecks of hot

iron. Volund, the war hammer, lay across his mail-sheathed legs.

Hrothgar spoke: “Shadeslayer, welcome to my hall. You have done

much since last we met. And, so it seems, I have been proved wrong

about Zar’roc. Morzan’s blade will be welcome in Tronjheim so long as

you bear it.”

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“Thank you,” said Eragon, rising.

“Also,” rumbled the dwarf, “we wish you to keep the armor you wore

in the battle of Farthen Dûr. Even now our most skilled smiths are re-

pairing it. The dragon armor is being treated likewise, and when it is re-

stored, Saphira may use it as long as she wishes, or until she outgrows it.

This is the least we can do to show our gratitude. If it weren’t for the war

with Galbatorix, there would be feasts and celebrations in your name. .

but those must wait until a more appropriate time.”

Voicing both his and Saphira’s sentiment, Eragon said, “You are gener-

ous beyond all expectations. We will cherish such noble gifts.”

Clearly pleased, Hrothgar nevertheless scowled, bringing his snarled

eyebrows together. “We cannot linger on pleasantries, though. I am be-

sieged by the clans with demands that I do one thing or another about

Ajihad’s successor. When the Council of Elders proclaimed yesterday that

they would support Nasuada, it created an uproar the likes of which I

haven’t seen since I ascended to the throne. The chiefs had to decide

whether to accept Nasuada or look for another candidate. Most have

concluded that Nasuada should lead the Varden, but I wish to know

where you stand on this, Eragon, before I lend my word to either side.

The worst thing a king can do is look foolish.”

How much can we tell him? Eragon asked Saphira, thinking quickly.

He’s always treated us fairly, but we can’t know what he may have prom-

ised other people. We’d best be cautious until Nasuada actually takes

power.

Very well.

“Saphira and I have agreed to help her. We won’t oppose her ascension.

And”—Eragon wondered if he was going too far—“I plead that you do

the same; the Varden can’t afford to fight among themselves. They need

unity.”

“Oeí,” said Hrothgar, leaning back, “you speak with new authority.

Your suggestion is a good one, but it will cost a question: Do you think

Nasuada will be a wise leader, or are there other motives in choosing

her?”

It’s a test, warned Saphira. He wants to know why we’ve backed her.

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Eragon felt his lips twitch in a half-smile. “I think her wise and canny

beyond her years. She will be good for the Varden.”

“And that is why you support her?”

“Yes.”

Hrothgar nodded, dipping his long, snowy beard. “That relieves me.

There has been too little concern lately with what is right and good, and

more about what will bring individual power. It is hard to watch such

idiocy and not be angry.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, stifling in the long throne

room. To break it, Eragon asked, “What will be done with the dragon-

hold? Will a new floor be laid down?”

For the first time, the king’s eyes grew mournful, deepening the sur-

rounding lines that splayed like spokes on a wagon wheel. It was the

closest Eragon had ever seen a dwarf come to weeping. “Much talk is

needed before that step can be taken. It was a terrible deed, what Saphira

and Arya did. Maybe necessary, but terrible. Ah, it might have been bet-

ter if the Urgals had overrun us before Isidar Mithrim was ever broken.

The heart of Tronjheim has been shattered, and so has ours.” Hrothgar

placed his fist over his breast, then slowly unclenched his hand and

reached down to grasp Volund’s leather-wrapped handle.

Saphira touched Eragon’s mind. He sensed several emotions in her, but

what surprised him the most was her remorse and guilt. She truly regret-

ted the Star Rose’s demise, despite the fact that it had been required. Lit-

tle one, she said, help me. I need to speak with Hrothgar. Ask him: Do the

dwarves have the ability to reconstruct Isidar Mithrim out of the shards?

As he repeated the words, Hrothgar muttered something in his own

language, then said, “The skill we have, but what of it? The task would

take months or years, and the end result would be a ruined mockery of

the beauty that once graced Tronjheim! It is an abomination I will not

sanction.”

Saphira continued to stare unblinkingly at the king. Now tell him: If Isi-

dar Mithrim were put together again, with not one piece missing, I believe I

could make it whole once more.

Eragon gaped at her, forgetting Hrothgar in his astonishment. Saphira!

The energy that would require! You told me yourself that you can’t use

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magic at will, so what makes you sure you can do this?

I can do it if the need is great enough. It will be my gift to the dwarves.

Remember Brom’s tomb; let that wash your doubt away. And close your

mouth—it’s unbecoming and the king is watching.

When Eragon conveyed Saphira’s offer, Hrothgar straightened with an

exclamation. “Is it possible? Not even the elves might attempt such a

feat.”

“She is confident in her abilities.”

“Then we will rebuild Isidar Mithrim, no matter if it takes a hundred

years. We will assemble a frame for the gem and set each piece into its

original place. Not a single chip will be forgotten. Even if we must break

the larger pieces to move them, it will be done with all our skill in work-

ing stone, so that no dust or flecks are lost. You will come then, when we

are finished, and heal the Star Rose.”

“We will come,” agreed Eragon, bowing.

Hrothgar smiled, and it was like the cracking of a granite wall. “Such

joy you have given me, Saphira. I feel once more a reason to rule and live.

If you do this, dwarves everywhere will honor your name for uncounted

generations. Go now with my blessings while I spread the tidings among

the clans. And do not feel bound to wait upon my announcement, for no

dwarf should be denied this news; convey it to all whom you meet. May

the halls echo with the jubilation of our race.”

With one more bow, Eragon and Saphira departed, leaving the dwarf

king still smiling on his throne. Out of the hall, Eragon told Orik what

had transpired. The dwarf immediately bent and kissed the floor before

Saphira. He rose with a grin and clasped Eragon’s arm, saying, “A wonder

indeed. You have given us exactly the hope we needed to combat recent

events. There will be drinking tonight, I wager!”

“And tomorrow is the funeral.”

Orik sobered for a moment. “Tomorrow, yes. But until then we shall

not let unhappy thoughts disturb us! Come!”

Taking Eragon’s hand, the dwarf pulled him through Tronjheim to a

great feast hall where many dwarves sat at stone tables. Orik leaped onto

one, scattering dishes across the floor, and in a booming voice proclaimed

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the news of Isidar Mithrim. Eragon was nearly deafened by the cheers

and shouts that followed. Each of the dwarves insisted on coming to

Saphira and kissing the floor as Orik had. When that was finished, they

abandoned their food and filled their stone tankards with beer and mead.