Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (86 page)

crammed with an eccentric collection of beakers, alembics, retorts, and

other instruments of natural philosophy. Who would bother toting all this

onto a battlefield? he wondered, bewildered.

“Eragon,” said Nasuada, “I would like you to meet Orrin, son of Larkin

and monarch of the realm of Surda.”

From the depths of the tangled piles of glass emerged a rather tall,

handsome man with shoulder-length hair held back by the gold coronet

resting upon his head. His mind, like Nasuada’s, was protected behind

walls of iron; it was obvious he had received extensive training in that

skill. Orrin seemed pleasant enough to Eragon from their discussion, if a

bit green and untried when it came to commanding men in war and more

than a little odd in the head. On the whole, Eragon trusted Nasuada’s

leadership more.

After fending off scores of questions from Orrin about his stay among

the elves, Eragon found himself smiling and nodding politely as one earl

after another paraded past, each of whom insisted on shaking his hand,

telling him what an honor it was to meet a Rider, and inviting him to

their respective estates. Eragon dutifully memorized their many names

and titles—as he knew Oromis would expect—and did his best to main-

tain a calm demeanor, despite his growing frustration.

We’re about to engage one of the largest armies in history, and here we

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are, stuck exchanging pleasantries.

Patience, counseled Saphira. There aren’t that many more.... Besides,

look at it this way: if we win, they’ll owe us an entire year of free dinners,

what with all their promises.

He stifled a chuckle. I think it would dismay them to know what it takes

to feed you. Not to mention that you could empty their cellars of beer and

wine in a single night.

I would never, she sniffed, then relented. Maybe in two nights.

When at last they won free of Orrin’s pavilion, Eragon asked Nasuada,

“What shall I do now? How can I serve you?”

Nasuada eyed him with a curious expression. “How do you think you

can best serve me, Eragon? You know your own abilities far better than I

do.” Even Arya watched him now, waiting to hear his response.

Eragon gazed up at the bloody sky while he pondered her question. “I

shall take control of Du Vrangr Gata, as they once asked me to, and or-

ganize them underneath me so I can lead them into battle. Working to-

gether will give us the best chance of foiling Galbatorix’s magicians.”

“That seems an excellent idea.”

Is there a place, asked Saphira, where Eragon can leave his bags? I don’t

want to carry them or this saddle any longer than I have to.

When Eragon repeated her question, Nasuada said, “Of course. You

may leave them in my pavilion, and I will arrange to have a tent erected

for you, Eragon, where you can keep them permanently. I suggest,

though, that you don your armor before parting with your bags. You

might need it at any moment. . That reminds me: we have your armor

with us, Saphira. I shall have it unpacked and brought to you.”

“And what of me, Lady?” asked Orik.

“We have several knurlan with us from Dûrgrimst Ingeitum who have

lent their expertise to the construction of our earthen defenses. You may

take command of them if you wish.”

Orik seemed heartened by the prospect of seeing fellow dwarves, espe-

cially ones from his own clan. He clapped his fist to his chest and said, “I

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think I will at that. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to it at once.” Without a

backward glance, he trundled off through the camp, heading north to-

ward the breastwork.

Returning to her pavilion with the four who remained, Nasuada said to

Eragon, “Report to me once you have settled matters with Du Vrangr

Gata.” Then she pushed aside the entrance flap to the pavilion and disap-

peared with Elva through the dark opening.

As Arya started to follow, Eragon reached toward her and, in the an-

cient language, said, “Wait.” The elf paused and looked at him, betraying

nothing. He held her gaze without wavering, staring deep into her eyes,

which reflected the strange light around them. “Arya, I won’t apologize

for how I feel about you. However, I wanted you to know that Iam sorry

for how I acted during the Blood-oath Celebration. I wasn’t myself that

night; otherwise, I would have never been so forward with you.”

“And you won’t do it again?”

He suppressed a humorless laugh. “It wouldn’t get me anywhere if I

did, now would it?” When she remained silent, he said, “No matter. I

don’t want to trouble you, even if you—” He bit off the end of his sen-

tence before he made a remark he knew he would regret.

Arya’s expression softened. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Eragon. You

must understand that.”

“I understand,” he said, but without conviction.

An awkward pause stretched between them. “Your flight went well, I

trust?”

“Well enough.”

“You encountered no difficulty in the desert?”

“Should we have?”

“No. I only wondered.” Then, in an even gentler voice, Arya asked,

“What of you, Eragon? How have you been since the celebration? I heard

what you said to Nasuada, but you mentioned nothing other than your

back.”

“I. .” He tried to lie—not wanting her to know how much he had

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missed her—but the ancient language stopped the words dead in his

mouth and rendered him mute. Finally, he resorted to a technique of the

elves: telling only part of the truth in order to create an impression oppo-

site the whole truth. “I’m better than before,” he said, meaning, in his

mind, the condition of his back.

Despite his subterfuge, Arya appeared unconvinced. She did not press

him on the subject, though, but rather said, “I am glad.” Nasuada’s voice

emanated from inside the pavilion, and Arya glanced toward it before

facing him again. “I am needed elsewhere, Eragon. . We are both needed

elsewhere. A battle is about to take place.” Lifting the canvas flap, she

stepped halfway into the gloomy tent, then hesitated and added, “Take

care, Eragon Shadeslayer.”

Then she was gone.

Dismay rooted Eragon in place. He had accomplished what he wanted

to, but it seemed to have changed nothing between him and Arya. He

balled his hands into fists and hunched his shoulders and glared at the

ground without seeing it, simmering with frustration.

He started when Saphira nosed him on the shoulder. Come on, little

one, she said gently. You can’t stay here forever, and this saddle is begin-

ning to itch.

Going to her side, Eragon pulled on her neck strap, muttering under his

breath when it caught in the buckle. He almost hoped the leather would

break. Undoing the rest of the straps, he let the saddle and everything

tied to it fall to the ground in a jumbled heap. It feels good to have that

off, said Saphira, rolling her massive shoulders.

Digging his armor out of the saddlebags, Eragon outfitted himself in the

bright dress of war. First he pulled his hauberk over his elven tunic, then

strapped his chased greaves to his legs and his inlaid bracers to his fore-

arms. On his head went his padded leather cap, followed by his coif of

tempered steel and then his gold and silver helm. Last of all, he replaced

his regular gloves with his mail-backed gauntlets.

Zar’roc he hung on his left hip using the belt of Beloth the Wise.

Across his back, he placed the quiver of white swan feathers Islanzadí

had given him. The quiver, he was pleased to find, could also hold the

bow the elf queen had sung for him, even when it was strung.

After depositing his and Orik’s belongings into the pavilion, Eragon and

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Saphira set out together to find Trianna, the current leader of Du Vrangr

Gata. They had gone no more than a few paces when Eragon sensed a

nearby mind that was shielded from his view. Assuming that it was one

of the Varden’s magicians, they veered toward it.

Twelve yards from their starting point, they came upon a small green

tent with a donkey picketed in front. To the left of the tent, a blackened

iron cauldron hung from a metal tripod placed over one of the malodor-

ous flames birthed deep within the earth. Cords were strung about the

cauldron, over which were draped nightshade, hemlock, rhododendron,

savin, bark of the yew tree, and numerous mushrooms, such as death cap

and spotted cort, all of which Eragon recognized from Oromis’s lessons

on poison. And standing next to the cauldron, wielding a long wood pad-

dle with which she stirred the brew, was Angela the herbalist. At her feet

sat Solembum.

The werecat uttered a mournful meow, and Angela looked up from

her task, her corkscrew hair forming a billowing thundercloud around her

glistening face. She frowned, and her expression became positively ghoul-

ish, for it was lit from beneath by the flickering green flame. “So you’ve

returned, eh!”

“We have,” said Eragon.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself? Have you seen Elva yet? Have

you seen what you did to that poor girl?”

“Aye.”

“Aye!” cried Angela. “How inarticulate can a person be? All this time in

Ellesméra being tutored by the elves, and aye is the best you can manage?

Let me tell you something, blockhead: anyone who is stupid enough to

do what you did deserves—”

Eragon clasped his hands behind his back and waited as Angela in-

formed him, in many explicit, detailed, and highly inventive terms, ex-

actly how great a blockhead he was; what kind of ancestors he must pos-

sess to be such a monumental blockhead—she even went so far as to in-

sinuate that one of his grandparents had mated with an Urgal—and the

quite hideous punishments he ought to receive for his idiocy. If anyone

else had insulted him in that manner, Eragon would have challenged

them to a duel, but he tolerated her spleen because he knew he could

not judge her behavior by the same standards as he did others, and be-

cause he knew her outrage was justified; he had made a dreadful mistake.

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When she finally paused for breath, he said, “You’re quite right, and I’m

going to try to remove the spell once the battle is decided.”

Angela blinked three times, one right after the other, and her mouth

remained open for a moment in a small “O” before she clamped it shut.

With a glare of suspicion, she asked, “You’re not saying that just to pla-

cate me, are you?”

“I would never.”

“And you really intend to undo your curse? I thought such things were

irrevocable.”

“The elves have discovered many uses of magic.”

“Ah. . Well, then, that’s settled, isn’t it?” She flashed him a wide smile

and then strode past him to pat Saphira on her jowls. “It’s good to see you

again, Saphira. You’ve grown.”

Well met indeed, Angela.

As Angela returned to stirring her concoction, Eragon said, “That was

an impressive tirade you gave.”

“Thank you. I worked on it for several weeks. It’s a pity you didn’t get

to hear the ending; it’s memorable. I could finish it for you if you want.”

“No, that’s all right. I can imagine what it’s like.” Glancing at her out of

the corner of his eye, Eragon then said, “You don’t seem surprised by how

I’ve changed.”

The herbalist shrugged. “I have my sources. It’s an improvement, in my

opinion. You were a bit. . oh, how shall I say it?. .unfinished before.”

“That I was.” He gestured at the hanging plants. “What do you plan to

do with these?”

“Oh, it’s just a little project of mine—an experiment, if you will.”

“Mmm.” Examining the pattern of colors on a dried mushroom that

dangled before him, Eragon asked, “Did you ever figure out if toads exist

or not?”

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“As a matter of fact, I did! It seems that all toads are frogs, but not all

frogs are toads. So in that sense, toads don’t really exist, which means that

I was right all along.” She stopped her patter abruptly, leaned to the side,

grabbed a mug from a bench next to her, and offered it to Eragon. “Here,

have a cup of tea.”

Eragon glanced at the deadly plants surrounding them and then back at

Angela’s open face before he accepted the mug. Under his breath—so the

herbalist would not hear—he muttered three spells to detect poison.

Only once he ascertained that the tea was free of contamination did he

dare drink. The tea was delicious, though he could not identify the ingre-

dients.

At that moment, Solembum padded over to Saphira and began to arch

his back and rub himself up against her leg, just as any normal cat would.

Twisting her neck, Saphira bent down and with the tip of her nose

brushed the werecat the length of his spine. She said, I met someone in

Ellesméra who knows you.

Solembum stopped rubbing and cocked his head. Is that so?

Yes. Her name was Quickpaw and The Dream Dancer and also Maud.

Solembum’s golden eyes widened. A deep, throaty purr rumbled in his

chest, and he rubbed against Saphira with renewed vigor.

“So,” said Angela, “I assume you already spoke with Nasuada, Arya, and