Inheritance

  Just as he reached her, Arya shook off her attackers for a moment. The men lunged with outstretched hands, but before they could recapture her, Eragon struck one man in the side, driving his fist into the man’s rib cage. A soldier with a pair of waxed mustachios stabbed at Eragon’s chest. Eragon caught the blade with his bare hands, ripped it from the soldier’s grip, broke the sword in two, and eviscerated the soldier with the stump of his own weapon. Within seconds, all the soldiers who had threatened Arya lay dead or dying. Those Eragon had not killed, Arya slew.

  Afterward, Arya said, “I would have been able to defeat them on my own.”

  Eragon leaned over, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “I know. …” He nodded toward her right hand—the one she had injured pulling through the iron cuff—which she held curled against her leg. “Consider it my thanks.”

  “A grim sort of present.” But she said it with a faint smile on her lips.

  Most of the soldiers had fled the square; those who remained were backed against the houses, hemmed in by the Varden. Even as Eragon looked about, he saw scores of Galbatorix’s men throw down their weapons and surrender.

  Together he and Arya retrieved his sword, and then they walked to the yellow mud wall, where the ground was relatively clear of filth. Sitting against the wall, they watched the Varden march into the city.

  Saphira soon joined them. She nuzzled Eragon, who smiled and scratched her snout. She hummed in response. You did it, she said.

  We did it, he replied.

  Up on her back, Blödhgarm loosened the straps that held his legs in Saphira’s saddle, then slid down her side. For a moment, Eragon had the supremely disorienting experience of meeting himself. He immediately decided that he disliked how his hair curled at the temples.

  Blödhgarm uttered an indistinct word in the ancient language; then his shape shimmered like a heat reflection and he was once again himself: tall, furred, yellow-eyed, long-eared, and sharp-toothed. He appeared neither elf nor human, but in his tense, hard-set expression, Eragon detected the stamp of sorrow and anger combined.

  “Shadeslayer,” he said, and bowed to both Arya and Eragon. “Saphira has told me of Wyrden’s fate. I—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, the ten remaining elves under Blödhgarm’s command emerged from within the press of the Varden and hurried over, swords in hand.

  “Shadeslayer!” they exclaimed. “Argetlam! Brightscales!”

  Eragon greeted them tiredly and strove to answer their questions, even though he would rather have done nothing at all.

  Then a roar cut through their conversation, and a shadow fell across them, and Eragon looked up to see Thorn—whole and sound once more—balancing on a column of air high above.

  Eragon cursed and scrambled onto Saphira, drawing Brisingr, while Arya, Blödhgarm, and the other elves formed a protective circle around her. Their combined might was formidable, but whether it would be enough to fend off Murtagh, Eragon did not know.

  As one, the Varden gazed upward. Brave they might be, but even the bravest might shrink before a dragon.

  “Brother!” shouted Murtagh, his augmented voice so loud that Eragon covered his ears. “I’ll have blood from you for the injuries you caused Thorn! Take Dras-Leona if you want. It means nothing to Galbatorix. But you’ve not seen the last of us, Eragon Shadeslayer, that I swear.”

  And then Thorn turned and flew north over Dras-Leona, and soon vanished within the veil of smoke that rose from the houses burning next to the ruined cathedral.

  BY THE BANKS OF LAKE LEONA

  ERAGON STRODE THROUGH the darkened camp, his jaw set and his fists clenched.

  He had spent the last few hours in conference with Nasuada, Orik, Arya, Garzhvog, King Orrin, and their various advisers, discussing the day’s events and assessing the Varden’s current situation. Near the end of the meeting, they had contacted Queen Islanzadí to inform her that the Varden had captured Dras-Leona, as well as to tell her of Wyrden’s death.

  Eragon had not enjoyed explaining to the queen how one of her oldest and most powerful spellcasters had died, nor had the queen been pleased to receive the news. Her initial reaction had been one of such sadness, it surprised him; he had not thought she knew Wyrden that well.

  Talking with Islanzadí had left Eragon in a foul mood, for it had reinforced for him how random and unnecessary Wyrden’s death had been. If I had been in the lead, I would have been the one impaled on those spikes, he thought as he continued his search through the camp. Or it could have been Arya.

  Saphira knew what he was up to, but she had decided to return to the space by his tent where she normally slept, for as she said, If I go tromping up and down the rows of tents, I’ll keep the Varden awake, and they have earned their rest. Their minds remained joined, though, and he knew if he needed her, she would be at his side within seconds.

  To preserve his night vision, Eragon avoided going near the bonfires and torches that burned before many of the tents, but he made sure to inspect each pool of light for his prey.

  As he hunted, it occurred to him that she might elude him entirely. His feelings for her were far from friendly, and that would allow her to sense his location and avoid him, if she wanted. Yet he did not think she was a coward. Despite her youth, she was one of the hardest people he had met, human, elf, or dwarf.

  At last he spotted Elva sitting in front of a small, nondescript tent, weaving a cat’s cradle by the light of a dying fire. Next to her sat the girl’s caretaker, Greta, a pair of long wooden knitting needles darting in her gnarled hands.

  For a moment, Eragon stood and watched. The old woman appeared more content than he had ever seen her, and he found himself reluctant to disturb her repose.

  Then Elva said, “Do not lose your nerve now, Eragon. Not when you have come so far.” Her voice was curiously subdued, as if she had been crying, but when she looked up, her gaze was fierce and challenging.

  Greta appeared startled when Eragon made his way into the light; she gathered up her yarn and needles and bowed, saying, “Greetings, Shadeslayer. May I offer you anything to eat or drink?”

  “No, thank you.” Eragon stopped before Elva and stared down at the small-framed girl. She stared back at him for a moment, then returned to weaving the loop of yarn between her fingers. Her violet eyes, he noted with a strange twist in his stomach, were the same color as the amethyst crystals the priests of Helgrind had used to kill Wyrden and imprison Arya and himself.

  Eragon knelt and grabbed the tangle of yarn about the middle, stopping Elva’s motion.

  “I know what you intend to say,” she stated.

  “That may be,” he growled, “but I’m still going to say it. You killed Wyrden—you killed him as surely as if you had stabbed him yourself. If you had come with us, you could have warned him about the trap. You could have warned all of us. I watched Wyrden die, and I watched Arya tear half her hand off, because of you. Because of your anger. Because of your stubbornness. Because of your pride. … Hate me if you will, but don’t you dare make anyone else suffer for it. If you want the Varden to lose, then go join Galbatorix and be done with it. Well, is that what you want?”

  Elva slowly shook her head.

  “Then I don’t ever want to hear that you’ve refused to help Nasuada for no other reason than spite, else there will be a reckoning between you and me, Elva Farseer, and it’s not one you would win.”

  “You could never defeat me,” she mumbled, her voice thick with emotion.

  “You might be surprised. You have a valuable talent, Elva. The Varden needs your help, now more than ever. I don’t know how we’re going to defeat the king at Urû’baen, but if you stand with us—if you turn your skill against him—we might just have a chance.”

  Elva seemed to struggle with herself. Then she nodded, and Eragon saw that she was crying, tears overflowing from her eyes. He took no pleasure in her distress, but he felt a certain amount of satisfaction that his words had affe
cted her so strongly.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He released the yarn and stood. “Your apologies cannot bring back Wyrden. Do better in the future, and perhaps you can atone for your mistake.”

  He nodded to the old woman Greta, who had remained silent throughout their exchange, and then he strode out of the light and back between the dark rows of tents.

  You did well, said Saphira. She will act differently from now on, I think.

  I hope so.

  Upbraiding Elva had been an unusual experience for Eragon. He remembered when Brom and Garrow had chastised him for making mistakes, and to now find himself the one doing the chastising left him feeling … different … more mature.

  And so the wheel turns, he thought.

  He took his time walking through the camp, enjoying the cool breeze wafting off the lake hidden within the shadows.

  After the capture of Dras-Leona, Nasuada had surprised everyone by insisting that the Varden not stay the night in the city. She had given no explanation for her decision, but Eragon suspected it was because the long delay at Dras-Leona had left her overeager to resume their journey to Urû’baen, and also because she had no desire to linger within the city, where any number of Galbatorix’s agents might be lurking.

  Once the Varden had secured the streets, Nasuada detailed a number of warriors to remain in the city, under the command of Martland Redbeard. Then the Varden had left Dras-Leona and marched north, following the shore of the neighboring lake. Along the way, a constant stream of messengers had ridden back and forth between the Varden and Dras-Leona as Martland and Nasuada conferred about the numerous issues attending the governance of the city.

  Before the Varden had departed, Eragon, Saphira, and Blödhgarm’s spellcasters had returned to the ruined cathedral, retrieved Wyrden’s body, and searched for the belt of Beloth the Wise. It had taken only a few minutes for Saphira to pull aside the jumble of stone that blocked the entrance to the underground chambers and for Blödhgarm and the other elves to fetch Wyrden. But no matter how long they looked, and no matter what spells they used, they could not find the belt.

  The elves had carried Wyrden on their shields out of the city, to a knoll next to a small creek. There they buried him while singing several aching laments in the ancient language—songs so sad that Eragon had wept without restraint and all the birds and animals within hearing had stopped and listened.

  The silver-haired elf woman Yaela had knelt by the side of the grave, taken an acorn from the pouch on her belt, and planted it directly above Wyrden’s chest. And then the twelve elves, Arya included, sang to the acorn, which took root and sprouted and grew twining upward, reaching and grasping toward the sky like a clutch of hands.

  When the elves had finished, the leafy oak stood twenty feet high, with long strings of green flowers at the end of every branch.

  Eragon had thought it was the nicest burial he had ever attended. He much preferred it to the dwarves’ practice of entombing their dead in hard, cold stone deep below the ground, and he liked the idea of one’s body providing food for a tree that might live for hundreds of years more. If he had to die, he decided that he would want an apple tree planted over him, so that his friends and family could eat the fruit born of his body.

  The concept had amused him tremendously, albeit in a rather morbid manner.

  Besides searching the cathedral and retrieving Wyrden’s body, Eragon had also done one other thing of note in Dras-Leona after its capture. He had, with Nasuada’s approval, declared every slave within the city a free person, and he had personally gone to the manors and auction houses and cut loose many of the men, women, and children chained therein. The act had given him a great deal of satisfaction, and he hoped it would improve the lives of the people he had released.

  As he drew near his tent, he saw Arya waiting for him by the entrance. Eragon quickened his stride, but before he could greet her, someone called out: “Shadeslayer!”

  Eragon turned and saw one of Nasuada’s pages trotting toward them. “Shadeslayer,” the boy repeated, somewhat out of breath, and bowed to Arya. “Lady Nasuada would like you to come to her tent an hour before dawn tomorrow morning, in order to confer with her. What shall I tell her, Lady Arya?”

  “You may tell her I will be there when she wishes,” Arya replied, inclining her head slightly.

  The page bowed again, and then he spun around and ran off in the direction from which he had come.

  “It’s somewhat confusing, now that we’ve both killed a Shade,” Eragon observed with a faint grin.

  Arya smiled as well, the motion of her lips almost invisible in the darkness. “Would you rather I had let Varaug live?”

  “No … no, not at all.”

  “I could have kept him as a slave, to do my bidding.”

  “Now you’re teasing me,” he said.

  She made a soft sound of amusement.

  “Perhaps I should call you Princess instead—Princess Arya.” He said it again, enjoying the feel of the words in his mouth.

  “You should not call me that,” she said, more serious. “I am not a princess.”

  “Why not? Your mother is a queen. How can you not be a princess? Her title is dröttning, yours is dröttningu. One means ‘queen,’ and the other—”

  “Does not mean ‘princess,’” she said. “Not exactly. There is no true equivalent in this language.”

  “But if your mother were to die or step down from her throne, you would take her place as ruler of your people, wouldn’t you?”

  “It is not that simple.”

  Arya did not seem inclined to explain further, so Eragon said, “Would you like to go in?”

  “I would,” she said.

  Eragon pulled open the entrance to his tent, and Arya ducked inside. After a quick glance at Saphira—who lay curled up nearby, breathing heavily as she drifted off to sleep—Eragon followed.

  He went to the lantern that hung from the pole in the center of the tent and murmured, “Istalrí,” not using brisingr, so as to avoid igniting his sword. The resulting flame filled the interior with a warm, steady light that made the sparsely furnished army tent seem almost cozy.

  They sat, and Arya said, “I found this among Wyrden’s belongings, and I thought we might enjoy it together.” From the side pocket of her pants, she produced a carved wooden flask about the size of Eragon’s hand. She handed it to him.

  Eragon unstoppered the flask and sniffed at the mouth. He raised his eyebrows as he smelled the strong, sweet scent of liqueur.

  “Is it faelnirv?” he asked, naming the drink the elves made from elderberries and, Narí had claimed, moonbeams.

  Arya laughed, and her voice rang like well-tempered steel. “It is, but Wyrden added something else to it.”

  “Oh?”

  “The leaves of a plant that grows in the eastern part of Du Weldenvarden, along the shores of Röna Lake.”

  He frowned. “Do I know the name of this plant?”

  “Probably, but it’s of no importance. Go on: drink. You’ll like it; I promise.”

  And she laughed again, which gave him pause. He had never seen her like this before. She seemed fey and reckless, and with a jolt of surprise, he realized she was already rather tipsy.

  Eragon hesitated, and he wondered if Glaedr was watching them. Then he lifted the flask to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of the faelnirv. The liqueur tasted different than he was accustomed to; it had a potent, musky flavor similar to the scent of a marten or a stoat.

  Eragon grimaced and fought the urge to gag as the faelnirv burned a track down his throat. He took another, smaller sip and then passed the flask back to Arya, who drank as well.

  The past day had been one of blood and horror. He had spent most of it fighting, killing, almost being killed himself, and he needed a release. … He needed to forget. The tension he felt was too deep-seated to ease with mental tricks alone. Something else was required. Something that came from outside of hi
mself, even as the violence he had participated in had, for the most part, been external, not internal.

  When Arya returned the flask to him, he downed a large quaff and then chuckled, unable to help himself.

  Arya raised an eyebrow and regarded him with a thoughtful, if merry, expression. “What amuses you so?”

  “This … Us … The fact that we’re still alive, and they”—he waved his hand in the direction of Dras-Leona—“aren’t. Life amuses me, life and death.” A warm glow had already begun to form in his belly, and the tips of his ears had started to tingle.

  “It is nice to be alive,” said Arya.

  They continued to pass the flask back and forth until it was empty, at which point Eragon fit the stopper back into the mouth of the container—a task that required several attempts, for his fingers felt thick and clumsy, and the cot seemed to tilt underneath him, like the deck of a ship at sea.

  He gave the empty flask to Arya, and as she took it, he grasped her hand, her right hand, and turned it toward the light. The skin was once more smooth and unblemished. No sign of her injury remained. “Blödhgarm healed you?” said Eragon.

  Arya nodded, and he released her. “Mostly. I have full use of my hand again.” She demonstrated by opening and closing it several times. “But there is still a patch of skin by the base of my thumb where I have no feeling.” She pointed with her left index finger.

  Eragon reached out and lightly touched the area. “Here?”

  “Here,” she said, and moved his hand a bit to the right.

  “And Blödhgarm wasn’t able do anything about it?”

  She shook her head. “He tried a half-dozen spells, but the nerves refuse to rejoin.” She made a dismissive motion. “It’s of no consequence. I can still wield a sword and I can still draw a bow. That is all that matters.”

  Eragon hesitated, then said, “You know … how grateful I am for what you did—what you tried to do. I’m only sorry it left you with a permanent mark. If I could have prevented it somehow …”