Inheritance

  He thought for a moment longer, then asked, “And why did Garzhvog call you Uluthrek?”

  “It is the title the Urgals gave me long, long ago, when I traveled among them.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Mooneater.”

  “Mooneater? What a strange name. How did you come by it?”

  “I ate the moon, of course. How else?”

  Eragon frowned and concentrated on petting the werecat for a minute. Then: “Why did Garzhvog give you that stone?”

  “Because I told him a story. I thought that was obvious.”

  “But what is it?”

  “A piece of rock. Didn’t you notice?” She clucked with disapproval. “Really, you ought to pay better attention to what’s going on around you. Otherwise, someone’s liable to stick a knife in you when you’re not looking. And then whom would I exchange cryptic remarks with?” She tossed her hair. “Go on, ask me another question. I’m rather enjoying this game.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her and, although he was certain it was pointless, he said, “Cheep cheep?”

  The herbalist brayed with laughter, and some of the werecats opened their mouths in what appeared to be toothy smiles. However, Shadowhunter seemed displeased, for she dug her claws into Eragon’s legs, making him wince.

  “Well,” said Angela, still laughing, “if you must have answers, that’s as good a story as any. Let’s see. … Several years ago, when I was traveling along the edge of Du Weldenvarden, way out to the west, miles and miles from any city, town, or village, I happened upon Grimrr. At the time, he was only the leader of a small tribe of werecats, and he still had full use of both his paws. Anyway, I found him toying with a fledgling robin that had fallen out of its nest in a nearby tree. I wouldn’t have minded if he had just killed the bird and eaten it—that’s what cats are supposed to do, after all—but he was torturing the poor thing: pulling on its wings; nibbling its tail; letting it hop away, then knocking it over.” Angela wrinkled her nose with distaste. “I told him that he ought to stop, but he only growled and ignored me.” She fixed Eragon with a stern gaze. “I don’t like it when people ignore me. So, I took the bird away from him, and I wiggled my fingers and cast a spell, and for the next week, whenever he opened his mouth, he chirped like a songbird.”

  “He chirped?”

  Angela nodded, beaming with suppressed mirth. “I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. None of the other werecats would go anywhere near him for the whole week.”

  “No wonder he hates you.”

  “What of it? If you don’t make a few enemies every now and then, you’re a coward—or worse. Besides, it was worth it to see his reaction. Oh, he was angry!”

  Shadowhunter uttered a soft warning growl and tightened her claws again.

  Grimacing, Eragon said, “Maybe it would be best to change the subject?”

  “Mmm.”

  Before he could suggest a new topic, a loud scream rang out from somewhere in the middle of the camp. The cry echoed three times over the rows of tents before fading into silence.

  Eragon looked at Angela, and she at him, and then they both began to laugh.

  RUMORS AND WRITING

  IT’S LATE, SAID Saphira as Eragon sauntered toward his tent, beside which she lay coiled, sparkling like a mound of azure coals in the dim light of the torches. She regarded him with a single, heavy-lidded eye.

  He crouched by her head and pressed his brow against hers for several moments, hugging her spiky jaw. So it is, he said at last. And you need your rest after flying into the wind all day. Sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.

  She blinked once in acknowledgment.

  Inside his tent, Eragon lit a single candle for comfort. Then he pulled off his boots and sat on his cot with his legs folded under him. He slowed his breathing and allowed his mind to open and expand outward to touch all of the living things around him, from the worms and the insects in the ground to Saphira and the warriors of the Varden, and even the few remaining plants nearby, the energy from which was pale and hard to see compared with the burning brilliance of even the smallest animal.

  For a long while, he sat there, empty of thoughts, aware of a thousand sensations, the sharp and the subtle, concentrating on nothing but the steady inflow and outflow of air in his lungs.

  Off in the distance, he heard men talking as they stood around a watchfire. The night air carried their voices farther than they intended, far enough that his keen ears were able to make out their words. He could sense their minds as well, and he could have read their thoughts had he wanted, but instead he chose to respect their innermost privacy and merely listen.

  A deep-voiced fellow was saying, “—and the way they stare down their noses at you, as if you’re the lowest of the low. Half the time they won’t even talk to you when you ask them a friendly question. They just turn their shoulder and walk away.”

  “Aye,” said another man. “And their women—as beautiful as statues and about half as inviting.”

  “That’s because you’re a right ugly bastard, Svern, that’s why.”

  “It’s not my fault my father had a habit of seducing milkmaids wherever he went. Besides, you’re hardly one to point fingers; you could give children nightmares with that face of yours.”

  The deep-voiced warrior grunted; then someone coughed and spat, and Eragon heard the sizzle of moisture evaporating as it struck a piece of burning wood.

  A third speaker entered the conversation: “I don’t like the elves any more than you do, but we need them to win this war.”

  “What if they turn on us afterward, though?” asked the deep-voiced man.

  “Hear, hear,” added Svern. “Look what happened at Ceunon and Gil’ead. All his men, all his power, and Galbatorix still couldn’t stop them from swarming over the walls.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t trying,” suggested the third speaker.

  A long pause followed.

  Then the deep-voiced man said, “Now, there’s a singularly unpleasant thought. … Still, whether he was or wasn’t, I don’t see how we could hold off the elves if they decided to reclaim their old territories. They’re faster and stronger than we are, and unlike us, there’s not one of them who can’t use magic.”

  “Ah, but we have Eragon,” Svern countered. “He could drive them back to their forest all by himself, if he wanted to.”

  “Him? Bah! He looks more like an elf than he does his own flesh and blood. I wouldn’t count on his loyalty any more than the Urgals’.”

  The third man spoke up again: “Have you noticed, he’s always freshly shaven, no matter how early in the morning we break camp?”

  “He must use magic for a razor.”

  “Goes against the natural order of things, it does. That and all the other spells being tossed around nowadays. Makes you want to hide in a cave somewhere and let the magicians kill each other off without any interference from us.”

  “I don’t seem to recall you complaining when the healers used a spell instead of a pair of tongs to remove that arrow from your shoulder.”

  “Maybe, but the arrow never would have ended up in my shoulder if it weren’t for Galbatorix. And it’s him and his magic that’s caused this whole mess.”

  Someone snorted. “True enough, but I’d bet every last copper I have that, Galbatorix or no, you still would’ve ended up with an arrow sticking out of you. You’re too mean to do anything other than fight.”

  “Eragon saved my life in Feinster, you know,” said Svern.

  “Aye, and if you bore us with the story one more time, I’ll have you scrubbing pots for a week.”

  “Well, he did. …”

  There was another silence, which was broken when the deep-voiced warrior sighed. “We need a way to protect ourselves. That’s the problem. We’re at the mercy of the elves, the magicians—ours and theirs—and every other strange creature that roams the land. It’s all well and fine for the likes of Eragon, but we’re not so fortunate. What we nee
d is—”

  “What we need,” said Svern, “are the Riders. They’d put the world in order.”

  “Pfft. With what dragons? You can’t have Riders without dragons. Besides, we still wouldn’t be able to defend ourselves, and that’s what bothers me. I’m not a child to go hiding behind my mother’s skirts, but if a Shade were to appear out of the night, there isn’t a blasted thing we could do to keep it from tearing our heads off.”

  “That reminds me, did you hear about Lord Barst?” asked the third man.

  Svern uttered a sound of agreement. “I heard he ate his heart afterward.”

  “What’s this now?” asked the deep-voiced warrior.

  “Barst—”

  “Barst?”

  “You know, the earl with an estate up by Gil’ead—”

  “Isn’t he the one who drove his horses into the Ramr just to spite—”

  “Aye, that’s the one. Anyway, so he goes to this village and orders all the men to join Galbatorix’s army. Same story as always. Only, the men refuse, and they attack Barst and his soldiers.”

  “Brave,” said the deep-voiced man. “Stupid, but brave.”

  “Well, Barst was too clever for them; he had archers posted around the village before he went in. The soldiers kill half the men and thrash the rest within an inch of their lives. No surprise there. Then Barst takes the leader, the man who started the fight, and he grabs him by the neck, and with his bare hands, he pulls his head right off!”

  “No.”

  “Like a chicken. And what’s worse, he ordered the man’s family burned alive as well.”

  “Barst must be as strong as an Urgal to tear off a man’s head,” said Svern.

  “Maybe there’s a trick to it.”

  “Could it be magic?” asked the deep-voiced man.

  “By all accounts, he’s always been strong—strong and smart. When he was just a young man, he’s said to have killed a wounded ox with a single blow of his fist.”

  “Still sounds like magic to me.”

  “That’s because you see evil magicians lurking in every shadow, you do.”

  The deep-voiced warrior grunted, but did not speak.

  After that, the men dispersed to walk their rounds, and Eragon heard nothing more from them. At any other time, their conversation might have disturbed him, but because of his meditation, he remained unperturbed throughout, although he made an effort to remember what they said, so that he could consider it properly later.

  Once his thoughts were in order, and he felt calm and relaxed, Eragon closed off his mind, opened his eyes, and slowly unfolded his legs, working the stiffness out of his muscles.

  The motion of the candle flame caught his eye, and he stared at it for a minute, enthralled by the contortions of the fire.

  Then he went over to where he had dropped Saphira’s saddlebags earlier and removed the quill, the brush, the bottle of ink, and the sheets of parchment that he had begged off Jeod several days before, as well as the copy of Domia abr Wyrda that the old scholar had given him.

  Returning to the cot, Eragon placed the heavy book well away from him, so as to minimize the chances of spilling ink on it. He laid his shield across his knees, like a tray, and spread the sheets of parchment over the curved surface. A sharp, tannic odor filled his nostrils as he unstoppered the bottle and dipped the quill into the oak-gall ink.

  He touched the nib of the feather against the lip of the bottle, to draw off the excess liquid, then carefully made his first stroke. The quill produced a faint scratching sound as he wrote out the runes of his native language. When he finished, he compared them to his efforts from the previous night, to see if his handwriting had improved—only a small amount—as well as to the runes in Domia abr Wyrda, which he was using as his guide.

  He went through the alphabet three more times, paying special attention to the shapes that he had the most difficulty forming. Then he began to write down his thoughts and observations concerning the day’s events. The exercise was useful not only because it provided him with a convenient means of practicing his letters, but also because it helped him better understand everything he had seen and done over the course of the day.

  Laborious as it was, he enjoyed the writing, for he found the challenges it presented stimulating. Also, it reminded him of Brom, of how the old storyteller had taught him the meaning of each rune, which gave Eragon a sense of closeness with his father that otherwise eluded him.

  After he had said everything he wished to say, he washed the quill clean, then exchanged it for the brush and selected a sheet of parchment that was already half covered with rows of glyphs from the ancient language.

  The elves’ mode of writing, the Liduen Kvaedhí, was far harder to reproduce than the runes of his own race, owing to the glyphs’ intricate, flowing shapes. Nevertheless, he persisted for two reasons: He needed to maintain his familiarity with the script. And if he was going to write anything in the ancient language, he thought it wiser to do it in a form that most people were unable to understand.

  Eragon had a good memory, but even so, he had found he was starting to forget many of the spells Brom and Oromis had taught him. Thus he had decided to compile a dictionary of every word he knew in the ancient language. Although it was hardly an original idea, he had not appreciated the value of such a compendium until very recently.

  He worked on the dictionary for another few hours, whereupon he returned his writing supplies to the saddlebags and took out the chest containing Glaedr’s heart of hearts. He tried to rouse the old dragon from his stupor, as he had so many times before, and as always, he failed. Eragon refused to give up, however. Sitting next to the open chest, he read aloud to Glaedr from Domia abr Wyrda about the dwarves’ many rites and rituals—few of which Eragon was familiar with—until it was the coldest, darkest part of the night.

  Then Eragon set aside the book, extinguished the candle, and lay down on the cot to rest. He wandered through the fantastic visions of his waking dreams for only a short while; once the first hint of light appeared in the east, he rolled upright to begin the whole cycle anew.

  AROUGHS

  IT WAS MIDMORNING when Roran and his men arrived at the cluster of tents next to the road. The camp appeared gray and indistinct through the haze of exhaustion that clouded Roran’s vision. A mile to the south lay the city of Aroughs, but he was able to make out only the most general features: glacier-white walls, yawning entryways containing barred gates, and many thickly built square stone towers.

  He clung to the front of the saddle as they trotted into the camp, their horses near to collapsing. A scraggly-looking youngster ran up to him and grabbed the bridle of his mare, pulling on it until the animal stumbled to a stop.

  Roran stared down at the boy, not sure what had just happened, and after a long moment croaked, “Bring me Brigman.” Without a word, the boy took off between the tents, kicking up dust with his bare heels.

  It seemed to Roran that he sat waiting for over an hour. The mare’s uncontrollable panting matched the rushing of blood in his ears. When he looked at the ground, it appeared as if it were still moving, receding tunnel-like toward a point infinitely far away. Somewhere, spurs clinked. A dozen or so warriors gathered nearby, leaning on spears and shields, their faces open displays of curiosity.

  From across the camp, a broad-shouldered man in a blue tunic limped toward Roran, using a broken spear as a staff. He had a large, full beard, though his upper lip was shaved and it glittered with perspiration—whether from pain or heat Roran could not tell.

  “You’re Stronghammer?” he said.

  Roran grunted an affirmative. He released his cramped grip on the saddle, reached inside his tunic, and handed Brigman the battered rectangle of parchment that contained his orders from Nasuada.

  Brigman broke the wax seal with his thumbnail. He studied the parchment, then lowered it and gazed at Roran with a flat expression.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” he said. “One of Nasuada’
s pet spellcasters contacted me four days ago and said you had departed, but I didn’t think you would arrive so soon.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” said Roran.

  Brigman’s bare upper lip curled. “No, I’m sure it wasn’t … sir.” He handed the parchment back. “The men are yours to command, Stronghammer. We were about to launch an attack on the western gate. Perhaps you would care to lead the charge?” The question was as pointed as a dagger.

  The world seemed to tilt around Roran, and he gripped the saddle tighter. He was too tired to bandy words with anyone and do it well, and he knew it.

  “Order them to stand down for the day,” he said.

  “Have you lost your wits? How else do you expect us to capture the city? It took us all morning to prepare the attack, and I’m not going to sit here twiddling my thumbs while you catch up on your sleep. Nasuada expects us to end the siege within a few days, and by Angvard, I’ll see it done!”

  In a voice pitched so low that only Brigman could hear, Roran growled, “You’ll tell the men to stand down, or I’ll have you strung up by your ankles and whipped for breaking orders. I’m not about to approve any sort of attack until I’ve had a chance to rest and look at the situation.”

  “You’re a fool, you are. That would—”

  “If you can’t hold your tongue and do your duty, I’ll thrash you myself—right here and now.”

  Brigman’s nostrils flared. “In your state? You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Roran. And he meant it. He was not sure how he might beat Brigman right then, but he knew in the deepest fibers of his being that he could.

  Brigman seemed to struggle with himself. “Fine,” he spat. “It wouldn’t be good for the men to see us sprawling in the dirt anyway. We’ll stay where we are, if that’s what you want, but I won’t be held accountable for the waste of time. Be it on your head, not mine.”

  “As it always is,” said Roran, his throat tight with pain as he swung down from the mare. “Just as you’re responsible for the mess you’ve made of this siege.”