Inheritance

  Eragon waited several minutes to be sure it was gone before he returned to clearing the rubble. “Maybe I should just call myself Snail Vanquisher,” he muttered as he rolled a section of a pillar across the courtyard. “Eragon Shadeslayer, Vanquisher of Snails. … I would strike fear into the hearts of men wherever I went.”

  It was the deepest part of the night when he finally dropped the last piece of stone onto the border of grass that edged the courtyard. There he stood, panting. He was cold and hungry and tired, and the scrapes on his hands and wrists smarted.

  He had ended by the northeastern corner of the courtyard. To the north was an immense hall that had been mostly destroyed during the battle; all that remained standing was a portion of the back walls and a single, ivy-covered pillar where the entryway had been.

  He stared at the pillar for the longest time. Above it, a cluster of stars—red, blue, and white—shone through an opening in the clouds, gleaming like cut diamonds. He felt a strange attraction to them, as if their appearance signified something that he ought to be aware of.

  Without bothering to consider his action, he walked to the base of the pillar—scrambling over piles of rubble—then reached as high as he could and grasped the thickest part of the ivy: a stem as big around as his forearm and covered with thousands of tiny hairs.

  He tugged on the vine. It held, so he jumped off the ground and began to climb. Hand over hand, he scaled the pillar, which must have been three hundred feet tall, but which felt taller the farther he got from the ground.

  He knew he was being reckless, but then, he felt reckless.

  Halfway up, the smaller tendrils of vine began to peel off the stone when he put his full weight on them. After that, he was careful to only grab hold of the main stem and some of the thicker side branches.

  His grip had almost given out by the time he arrived at the top. The crown of the pillar was still intact; it formed a square, flat surface large enough to sit on, with over a foot to spare on each side.

  Feeling somewhat shaky from the exertion, Eragon crossed his legs and rested his hands palm upward on his knees, allowing the air to soothe his torn skin.

  Below him lay the ruined city: a maze of shattered husks that often echoed with strange, forlorn cries. In a few places where there were ponds, he could see the faint, glowing lights of the bullfrogs’ lures, like lanterns viewed from a great distance.

  Angler frogs, he thought suddenly in the ancient language. That’s what their name is: angler frogs. And he knew he was right, for the words seemed to fit like a key in a lock.

  Then he shifted his gaze to the cluster of stars that had inspired his climb. He slowed his breathing and concentrated on maintaining a steady, never-ending flow of air in and out of his lungs. The cold, his hunger, and his trembling exhaustion gave him a peculiar sense of clarity; he seemed to float apart from his body, as if the bond between his consciousness and his flesh had grown attenuated, and there came upon him a heightened awareness of the city and the island around him. He was acutely sensitive to every motion of the wind and to every sound and smell that wafted past the top of the pillar.

  As he sat there, he thought of more names, and though none fully described him, his failures did not upset him, for the clarity he felt was too deep-seated for any setback to perturb his equanimity.

  How can I include everything I am in just a few words? he wondered, and he continued to ponder the question as the stars turned.

  Three warped shadows flew across the city—like small, moving rifts in reality—and landed upon the roof of the building to his left. Then the dark, owl-shaped silhouettes spread their barbed plumes and stared at him with luminous, evil-looking eyes. The shadows chattered softly to one another, and two of them scratched their empty wings with claws that had no depth. The third held the remains of a bullfrog between its ebony talons.

  He watched the menacing birds for several minutes, and they watched him in return, and then they took flight and ghosted away to the west, making no more noise than a falling feather.

  Near dawn, when Eragon could see the morning star between two peaks to the east, he asked himself, “What do I want?”

  Until then, he had not bothered to consider the question. He wanted to overthrow Galbatorix: that, of course. But should they succeed, what, then? Ever since he had left Palancar Valley, he had thought that he and Saphira would one day return, to live near the mountains he so loved. However, as he pondered the prospect, he slowly realized that it no longer appealed to him.

  He had grown up in Palancar Valley, and he would always consider it home. But what was left there for him or Saphira? Carvahall was destroyed, and even if the villagers rebuilt it someday, the town would never be the same. Besides, most of the friends he and Saphira had made lived elsewhere, and the two of them had obligations to the various races of Alagaësia—obligations that they could not ignore. And after all the things they had done and seen, he could not imagine that either of them would be content to live in such an ordinary, isolated place.

  For the sky is hollow and the world is round. …

  Even if they did return, what would they do? Raise cows and farm wheat? He had no desire to eke out a living from the land as his family had during his childhood. He and Saphira were a Rider and dragon; their doom and their destiny was to fly at the forefront of history, not to sit before a fire and grow fat and lazy.

  And then there was Arya. If he and Saphira lived in Palancar Valley, he would see her rarely, if at all.

  “No,” said Eragon, and the word was like a hammerblow in the silence. “I don’t want to go back.”

  A cold tingle crawled down his spine. He had known he had changed since he, Brom, and Saphira had set out to track down the Ra’zac, but he had clung to the belief that, at his core, he was still the same person. Now he understood that this was no longer true. The boy he had been when he first set foot outside of Palancar Valley had ceased to exist; Eragon did not look like him, he did not act like him, and he no longer wanted the same things from life.

  He took a deep breath and then released it in a long, shuddering sigh as the truth sank into him.

  “I am not who I was.” Saying it aloud seemed to give the thought weight.

  Then, as the first rays of dawn brightened the eastern sky over the ancient island of Vroengard, where the Riders and dragons had once lived, he thought of a name—a name such as he had not thought of before—and as he did, a sense of certainty came over him.

  He said the name, whispered it to himself in the deepest recesses of his mind, and all his body seemed to vibrate at once, as if Saphira had struck the pillar beneath him.

  And then he gasped, and he found himself both laughing and crying—laughing that he had succeeded and for the sheer joy of comprehension; crying because all his failings, all the mistakes he had made, were now obvious to him, and he no longer had any delusions to comfort himself with.

  “I am not who I was,” he whispered, gripping the edges of the column, “but I know who I am.”

  The name, his true name, was weaker and more flawed than he would have liked, and he hated himself for that, but there was also much to admire within it, and the more he thought about it, the more he was able to accept the true nature of his self. He was not the best person in the world, but neither was he the worst.

  “And I won’t give up,” he growled.

  He took solace in the fact that his identity was not immutable; he could improve himself if he wished. And right then, he swore to himself that he would do better in the future, be it ever so hard.

  Still laughing, still crying, he turned his face toward the sky and spread his arms out to either side. In time, the tears and the laughter stopped, and in their place he felt a sense of deep calm overlaid with a tinge of happiness and resignation. Despite Glaedr’s admonition, he again whispered his true name, and once more his entire being shook from the force of the words.

  Keeping his arms outstretched, he stood atop the pillar, and
then he tipped forward and fell headfirst toward the ground. Just before he struck, he said, “Vëoht,” and he slowed, rotated, and alit upon the cracked stone as gently as if he were stepping out of a carriage.

  He returned to the fountain in the center of the courtyard and retrieved his cloak. Then, as light spread through the ruined city, he hurried back toward the nesting house, eager to wake Saphira and tell her and Glaedr of his discovery.

  THE VAULT OF SOULS

  ERAGON LIFTED HIS sword and shield, eager to proceed, but also somewhat afraid.

  As before, he and Saphira stood at the base of the Rock of Kuthian while Glaedr’s heart of hearts sat in the small chest hidden within the saddlebags upon Saphira’s back.

  It was still early morning, and the sun shone brightly through large tears in the canopy of clouds. Eragon and Saphira had wanted to go directly to the Rock of Kuthian once Eragon had returned to the nesting house, but Glaedr had insisted that Eragon eat first, and that they then wait for the food to settle in his stomach.

  But now they were finally at the jagged spire of stone, and Eragon was tired of waiting, as was Saphira.

  Ever since they had shared their true names, the bond between them seemed to have grown stronger, perhaps because they had both heard how much they cared for each other. It was something they had always known, but nevertheless, to have it stated in such irrefutable terms had increased the sense of closeness they shared.

  Somewhere to the north, a raven called.

  I’ll go first, said Glaedr. If it’s a trap, I might be able to spring it before it catches either of you.

  Eragon started to pull his mind away from Glaedr, as did Saphira, to allow the dragon to utter his true name without being overheard. But Glaedr said, No, you have told me your names. It is only right you should know mine.

  Eragon looked at Saphira, and then they both said, Thank you, Ebrithil.

  Then Glaedr spoke his name, and it boomed forth in Eragon’s mind like a fanfare of trumpets, regal and yet discordant, colored throughout by Glaedr’s grief and anger at Oromis’s death. His name was longer than either Eragon’s or Saphira’s; it went on for several sentences—a record of a life that had stretched over centuries and which had contained joys and sorrows and accomplishments too numerous to count. His wisdom was evident in his name, but also contradictions: complexities that made it difficult to fully grasp his identity.

  Saphira felt the same sense of awe upon hearing Glaedr’s name as did Eragon; the sound of it made them both realize how young they still were and how far they had to go before they could hope to match Glaedr’s knowledge and experience.

  I wonder what Arya’s true name is. Eragon thought to himself.

  They watched the Rock of Kuthian intently, but saw no change.

  Saphira went next. Arching her neck and pawing at the ground like a high-spirited charger, she proudly stated her true name. Even in the daylight, her scales again shimmered and sparkled at the proclamation.

  Hearing her and Glaedr say their true names made Eragon less self-conscious about his own. None of them were perfect, and yet they did not condemn each other for their shortcomings, but rather acknowledged and forgave them.

  Again, nothing happened after Saphira uttered her name.

  Lastly, Eragon stepped forward. A cold sweat coated his brow. Knowing that it might be his final act as a free man, he spoke his name with his mind, as had Glaedr and Saphira. They had agreed beforehand that it would be safer for him to avoid saying his name out loud, so as to reduce the chance that anyone might overhear it.

  As Eragon formed the last word with his thoughts, a thin, dark line appeared at the base of the spire.

  It ran upward fifty feet and then split in two and arched down to either side, tracing the outline of two broad doors. Upon the doors appeared row after row of glyphs limned in gold: wards against both physical and magical detection.

  Once the outline was complete, the doors swung outward upon hidden hinges, scraping aside the dirt and plants that had accumulated before the spire since the doors had last opened, whenever that had been. Through the doorway was a huge vaulted tunnel that descended at a steep angle into the bowels of the earth.

  The doors ground to a halt, and the clearing fell silent again.

  Eragon stared at the dark tunnel, feeling a sense of increasing apprehension. They had found what they were looking for, but he still was not sure if it was a trap or not.

  Solembum did not lie, said Saphira. Her tongue darted out as she tasted the air.

  Yes, but what’s waiting for us inside? asked Eragon.

  This place should not exist, said Glaedr. We and the Riders hid many secrets on Vroengard, but the island is too small for a tunnel as large as this to have been built without others knowing. And yet I have never heard of it before.

  Eragon frowned and glanced about. They were still alone; no one was trying to sneak up on them. Could it have been built before the Riders made Vroengard their home?

  Glaedr thought for a moment. I do not know. … Perhaps. It is the only explanation that makes sense, but if so, then it is ancient indeed.

  The three of them searched the passageway with their minds, but they felt no living thing within it.

  Right then, said Eragon. The sour taste of dread filled his mouth, and his palms were slick within his gloves. Whatever they were about to find at the other end of the tunnel, he wanted to know once and for all. Saphira was also nervous, but less than he.

  Let us dig out the rat hiding in this nest, she said.

  Together then, they walked through the doorway and into the tunnel.

  As the last inch of Saphira’s tail slid over the threshold, the doors swung shut behind them and closed with a loud crack of stone meeting stone, plunging them into darkness.

  “Ah, no, no, no!” growled Eragon, rushing back to the doors. “Naina hvitr,” he said, and a directionless white light illuminated the entrance to the tunnel.

  The inner surfaces of the doors were perfectly smooth, and no matter how he pushed and pounded on them, they refused to budge. “Blast it. We should have used a log or a boulder to wedge them open,” he lamented, berating himself for not thinking of it beforehand.

  If we have to, we can always break them down, said Saphira.

  That I very much doubt, said Glaedr.

  Eragon regripped Brisingr. Then I guess we have no choice but to go forward.

  When have we ever had any choice but to go forward? asked Saphira.

  Eragon altered his spell so that the werelight emanated from a single point near the ceiling—otherwise the lack of shadows made it difficult for him and Saphira to judge depth—and then, together, they started down the slanting tunnel.

  The floor of the passageway was somewhat knobbly, which made it easy for them to maintain their footing in the absence of steps. Where the floor and the walls met, they flowed together as if the stone had been melted, which told Eragon that it was most likely elves who had excavated the tunnel.

  Down they went, deeper and deeper into the earth, until Eragon guessed they had passed under the foothills behind the Rock of Kuthian and burrowed into the roots of the mountain beyond. The tunnel neither turned nor branched, and the walls remained utterly bare.

  At last Eragon felt a hint of warm air rising toward them from farther down the tunnel, and he noticed a faint orange glow in the distance. “Letta,” he murmured, and extinguished the werelight.

  The air continued to warm as they descended, and the glow before them waxed in brightness. Soon they were able to see an end to the tunnel: a huge black arch that was covered entirely with sculpted glyphs, which made the arch look as if it were wrapped in thorns. The smell of brimstone tainted the air, and Eragon felt his eyes begin to water.

  They stopped before the archway; through it, all they could see was a flat gray floor.

  Eragon glanced back the way they had come, then returned his gaze to the arch. The jagged structure made him nervous, and Saphira as well
. He tried to read the glyphs, but they were too jumbled and too densely packed to make sense of, nor could he detect any energy stored within the black structure. Yet he had difficulty believing that it was not enchanted. Whoever built the tunnel had succeeded in hiding the latch spell for the doors to the outside, which meant they could have done the same with any spells they had placed upon the arch.

  He exchanged a quick look with Saphira, and he wet his lips as he remembered what Glaedr had said: There are no more safe paths.

  Saphira snorted, releasing a small jet of flame from the pit of each nostril, and then, as one, she and Eragon walked through the archway.

  LACUNA, PART THE FIRST

  ERAGON NOTICED SEVERAL things at once.

  First, that they were standing at one side of a circular chamber over two hundred feet across with a large pit in the center, from which radiated a dull orange glow. Second, that the air was stiflingly hot. Third, that around the outer part of the room were two concentric rings of benchlike tiers—the back one higher than the front—upon which rested numerous dark objects. Fourth, that the wall behind this tier sparkled in numerous places, as if decorated with colored crystal. But he had no opportunity to examine either the wall or the dark objects, for in the open area next to the glowing pit there stood a man with the head of a dragon.

  The man was made of metal, and he gleamed like polished steel. He wore no clothes other than a segmented loincloth fashioned out of the same lustrous material as his body, and his chest and limbs rippled with muscles like those of a Kull. In his left hand, he held a metal shield, and in his right, an iridescent sword that Eragon recognized as the blade of a Rider.

  Behind the man, set within the far side of the room, Eragon vaguely saw a throne with the outline of the creature’s body worn into its back and seat.

  The dragon-headed man strode forward. His skin and joints moved as smoothly as flesh, but every step sounded as if a great weight was being dropped onto the floor. He stopped thirty feet from Eragon and Saphira and stared at them with eyes that flickered like a pair of crimson flames. Then, lifting his scaled head, he uttered a peculiar metallic roar that echoed until it seemed as if a dozen creatures were bellowing at them.