Then and now, and ever since Murtagh’s departure, a sense of emptiness had gripped Eragon. He had expected to feel jubilant if they killed Galbatorix, and though he was glad—and he was glad—with the king gone, he no longer knew what he was supposed to do. He had reached his goal. He had climbed the unclimbable mountain. And now, without that purpose to guide him, to drive him, he was at a loss. What were he and Saphira to make of their lives now? What would give them meaning? He knew that, in time, he and Saphira were to raise the next generation of dragons and Riders, but the prospect seemed too distant to be real.
Pondering those questions made him feel queasy and overwhelmed. He turned his thoughts elsewhere, but the questions continued to nibble at the edges of his mind, and his sense of emptiness persisted.
Maybe Murtagh and Thorn had the right idea.
It seemed as if the stairs of the green tower would never end. He trudged upward, round and round, until the people in the streets appeared as small as ants and his calves and the backs of his ankles burned from the repetitive motion. He saw the nests of swallows built within the narrow windows, and beneath one window, he found a pile of small skeletons: the leavings of a hawk or an eagle.
When at last the top of the winding staircase appeared—a large lancet door, black with age—he paused to gather his thoughts and allow his breathing to slow. Then he climbed the last few feet, lifted the latch, and pushed forward into the large round chamber atop the elven watchtower.
Waiting for him were six people, along with Saphira: Arya and the silver-haired elf lord Däthedr, King Orrin, Nasuada, King Orik, and the king of the werecats, Grimrr Halfpaw. They stood—or in the case of King Orrin, sat—in a widely spaced circle, with Saphira directly opposite the stairs, before the southern-facing window that had allowed her to land within the tower. The light from the dying sun streamed sideways through the chamber, illuminating the elven carvings upon the walls and the intricate pattern of colored stone set within the chipped floor.
Except for Saphira and Grimrr, everyone appeared tense and uncomfortable. In the tightness of the skin around Arya’s eyes and the hard line of her tawny throat, Eragon saw evidence of her grief and upset. He wished he could do something to ease her pain. Orrin sat in a deep-seated chair, holding his bandaged chest with his left hand and a cup of wine with his right. He moved with exaggerated care, as if afraid of hurting himself, but his eyes were bright and clear, so Eragon guessed it was his wound, and not the drink, that made him cautious. Däthedr was tapping the pommel of his sword with one finger while Orik stood with his hands folded atop the butt of Volund’s haft—the hammer rested upright on the floor before him—staring into his beard. Nasuada had her arms crossed, as if she was cold. To the right, Grimrr Halfpaw stared out a window, seemingly oblivious to the others.
As Eragon opened the door, they all looked at him, and a smile broke across Orik’s face. “Eragon!” he exclaimed. He hefted Volund onto his shoulder, trundled over to Eragon, and grasped him by a forearm. “I knew you could kill him! Well done! Tonight we celebrate, eh! Let the fires burn bright, and let our voices ring forth until the heavens themselves echo with the sound of our feasting.”
Eragon smiled and nodded, and Orik clapped him on the arm once more, then returned to his place as Eragon crossed the room to stand by Saphira.
Little one, she said, brushing his shoulder with her snout.
He reached up and touched her hard, scaled cheek, taking comfort from her closeness. Then he extended a tendril of thought toward the Eldunarí she still had with her. Like him, they were weary from the day’s events, and he could tell they preferred to watch and listen rather than to actively participate in the discussion that was about to take place.
The Eldunarí acknowledged his presence, and Umaroth said, Eragon, but thereafter he was silent.
No one in the room seemed willing to speak first. From the city below, Eragon heard a horse whinny. Off by the citadel came the rapping of picks and chisels. King Orrin shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sipped his wine. Grimrr scratched one pointed ear, then sniffed, as if testing the air.
Finally, Däthedr broke the silence. “We have a decision to make,” he said.
“That we know, elf,” rumbled Orik.
“Let him speak,” said Orrin, and gestured with his jeweled goblet. “I would hear his thoughts on how he thinks we should proceed.” A bitter, somewhat mocking smile appeared on his face. He tilted his head toward Däthedr, as if to grant him permission to speak.
Däthedr inclined his head in return. If the elf took offense at the king’s tone, it did not show. “There is no hiding that Galbatorix is dead. Even now, word of our victory wings its way across the land. By the end of the week, Galbatorix’s demise shall be known throughout the greater part of Alagaësia.”
“As it should be,” said Nasuada. She had changed out of the tunic her jailers had given her and into a dark red dress, which made the weight she had lost during her captivity all the more apparent, for the dress hung loosely off her shoulders and her waist was painfully small. But though she appeared frail, she seemed to have regained some of her strength. When Eragon and Saphira had returned to the citadel, Nasuada had been on the verge of collapse, from both mental and physical exhaustion. The moment Jörmundur had seen her, he bundled her off to their camp, and she spent the rest of the day in seclusion. Eragon had been unable to consult with her before the meeting, so he was not sure of her opinion on the subject they had assembled to discuss. If he had to, he would contact her directly with his thoughts, but he hoped to avoid that, for he did not want to intrude on her privacy. Not then. Not after what she had endured.
“As it should be,” said Däthedr, his voice strong and clear beneath the vaulted ceiling of that high, round chamber. “However, as people learn that Galbatorix has fallen, the first question they shall ask is who has taken his place.” Däthedr looked around at their faces. “We must provide them with an answer now before unrest begins to spread. Our queen is dead. King Orrin, you are wounded. Rumors aplenty are afoot, I am sure. It is important that we quell them before they cause harm. To delay would be disastrous. We cannot allow every lord with a measure of troops to believe that he can set himself up as ruler of his own petty monarchy. Should that happen, the Empire will disintegrate into a hundred different kingdoms. None of us want that. A successor must be chosen—chosen and named, however difficult that may be.”
Without turning around, Grimrr said, “You cannot lead a pack if you are weak.”
King Orrin smiled again, but the smile did not touch his eyes. “And what part do you seek to play in this, Arya, Lord Däthedr? Or you, King Orik? Or you, King Halfpaw? We are grateful for your friendship and your help, but this is a matter for humans to decide, not you. We rule ourselves, and we do not let others choose our kings.”
Nasuada rubbed her crossed arms and, to Eragon’s surprise, said, “I agree. This is something we must settle on our own.” She looked across the room at Arya and Däthedr. “Surely you can understand. You would not allow us to tell you whom you ought to appoint as your new king or queen.” She looked at Orik. “Nor would the clans have allowed us to select you as Hrothgar’s successor.”
“No,” said Orik. “That they wouldn’t have.”
“The decision is, of course, yours to make,” said Däthedr. “We would not presume to dictate what you should or should not do. However, as your friends and allies, have we not earned the right to offer our advice upon such a weighty matter, especially when it shall affect us all? Whatever you decide will have far-reaching implications, and you would do well to understand those implications ere you make your choice.”
Eragon understood well enough. It was a threat. Däthedr was saying that if they made a decision the elves disapproved of, there would be unpleasant consequences. Eragon resisted the urge to scowl. The elves’ stance was only to be expected. The stakes were high, and a mistake now could end up causing problems for decades more.
“That … seems reasona
ble,” said Nasuada. She glanced over at King Orrin.
Orrin stared into his goblet as he tilted it around, swirling the liquid within. “And just how would you advise us to choose, Lord Däthedr? Do tell; I am most curious.”
The elf paused. In the low, warm light from the setting sun, his silver hair glowed in a diffuse halo around his head. “Whoever is to wear the crown must have the skill and experience needed to rule effectively from the start. There is no time to instruct someone in the ways of command, nor can we afford the mistakes of a novice. In addition, this person must be morally fit to assume such a high office; he or she must be an acceptable choice to the warriors of the Varden and, to a lesser extent, the people of the Empire; and if at all possible, this person should also be one whom we and your other allies will find agreeable.”
“You limit our choices a great deal with your requirements,” said King Orrin.
“They merely make for good statesmanship. Or do you see it differently?”
“I see several options you have overlooked or disregarded, perhaps because you consider them distasteful. But no matter. Continue.”
Däthedr’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained as smooth as ever. “The most obvious choice—and the one the people of the Empire will likely expect—is the person who actually killed Galbatorix. That is, Eragon.”
The air in the chamber grew brittle, as if it were made of glass.
Everyone looked at Eragon, even Saphira and the werecat, and he could feel Umaroth and the other Eldunarí observing him closely too. He stared back at the people around him, neither frightened nor angered by their scrutiny. He searched Nasuada’s face for a hint as to her reaction, but other than the seriousness of her expression, he could discern nothing of what she thought or felt.
It unsettled him to realize that Däthedr was correct: he could become king.
For a moment, Eragon allowed himself to entertain the possibility. There was no one who could stop him from taking the throne, no one except Elva and perhaps Murtagh—but he now knew how to counter Elva’s ability, and Murtagh was no longer there to challenge him. Saphira, he could sense from her mind, would not oppose him, whatever he chose. And though he could not read Nasuada’s expression, he had a strange feeling that, for the first time, she would be willing to step aside and allow him to take command.
What do you want? asked Saphira.
Eragon thought about it. I want … to be of use. But power and dominion over others—those things that Galbatorix sought—they hold little appeal for me. In any case, we have other responsibilities.
Shifting his attention back to those watching, he said, “No. It would not be right.”
King Orrin grunted and took another swig of his wine, while Arya, Däthedr, and Nasuada seemed to relax, if however slightly. Like them, the Eldunarí seemed pleased with his decision, although they did not comment upon it with words.
“I am glad to hear you say it,” said Däthedr. “No doubt you would make a fine ruler, but I do not think it would be good for your kind, nor for the other races of Alagaësia, were another Dragon Rider to assume the crown.”
Then Arya motioned to Däthedr. The silver-haired elf stepped back slightly, and Arya said, “Roran would be another obvious choice.”
“Roran!” said Eragon, incredulous.
Arya gazed at him, her eyes solemn and—in the sideways light—bright and fierce, like emeralds cut in a rayed pattern. “It was by his actions that the Varden captured Urû’baen. He is the hero of Aroughs and of many other battles besides. The Varden and the rest of the Empire would follow him without hesitation.”
“He’s rude and overconfident, and he hasn’t the experience needed,” said Orrin. Then he glanced over at Eragon with a slightly guilty expression. “He is a good warrior, though.”
Arya blinked, once, like an owl. “I believe you would find that his rudeness depends upon those he is dealing with … Your Majesty. However, you are correct; Roran lacks the experience needed. That leaves but two choices, then: you, Nasuada; and you, King Orrin.”
King Orrin shifted again in his deep-seated chair, and his brow furrowed more severely than before, while Nasuada’s expression remained unchanged.
“I assume,” said Orrin to Nasuada, “that you wish to assert your claim.”
She lifted her chin. “I do.” Her voice was as calm as smooth water.
“Then we are at an impasse, for so do I. And I will not relent.” Orrin rolled the stem of his goblet between his fingers. “The only way I can see to resolve the matter without bloodshed is for you to renounce your claim. If you insist upon pursuing it, you will end up destroying everything we have won today, and you will have none to blame but yourself for the havoc that will follow.”
“You would turn upon your own allies for no other reason than to deny Nasuada the throne?” asked Arya. King Orrin might not have recognized it, but Eragon saw her cold, hard demeanor for what it was: a readiness to strike and kill at a moment’s notice.
“No,” Orrin replied. “I would turn upon the Varden in order to win the throne. There is a difference.”
“Why?” asked Nasuada.
“Why?” The question seemed to outrage Orrin. “My people have housed, fed, and equipped the Varden. They have fought and died alongside your warriors and, as a country, we have risked far more than the Varden. The Varden have no home; if Galbatorix had defeated Eragon and the dragons, you could have fled and hid. But we had nowhere to go other than Surda. Galbatorix would have fallen upon us like a bolt from on high, and he would have laid waste to the entire region. We wagered everything—our families, our homes, our wealth, and our freedom—and after all that, after all our sacrifices, do you truly believe we will be satisfied to return to our fields with no other rewards than a pat on the head and your royal thanks? Bah! I’d sooner crawl. We’ve watered the ground between here and the Burning Plains with our blood, and now we’ll have our recompense.” He clenched his fist. “Now we’ll have the just spoils of war.”
Orrin’s words did not seem to upset Nasuada; indeed, she looked thoughtful, almost sympathetic.
Surely she won’t give this snarling cur what he wants, said Saphira.
Wait and see, said Eragon. She’s yet to lead us astray.
Arya said, “I would hope that the two of you could come to an amicable agreement, and—”
“Of course,” said King Orrin. “I hope for that as well.” His gaze flicked toward Nasuada. “But I fear that Nasuada’s single-minded determination will not allow her to realize that, in this, she must finally submit.”
Arya continued: “—and as Däthedr said, we would not think of interfering with your race as you choose your next ruler.”
“I remember,” said Orrin with a hint of a smug smile.
“However,” said Arya, “as sworn allies of the Varden, I must tell you that we regard any attack on them as an attack on ourselves, and we will respond in kind.”
Orrin’s face drew inward, as if he had bitten into something sour.
“The same holds true for us the dwarves,” said Orik. The sound of his voice was like stones grinding against one another deep underground.
Grimrr Halfpaw lifted his mangled hand before his face and inspected the clawlike nails on his three remaining fingers. “We do not care who becomes king or queen as long as we are given the seat next to the throne that was promised to us. Still, it was with Nasuada that we made our bargain, and it is Nasuada we shall continue to support until such time as she is no longer pack leader of the Varden.”
“Ah-ha!” exclaimed King Orrin, and he leaned forward with his hand on one knee. “But she isn’t the leader of the Varden. Not anymore. Eragon is!”
Again all eyes turned to Eragon. He grimaced slightly and said, “I thought it was understood that I gave my authority back to Nasuada the moment she was free. If not, then let there be no mistake: Nasuada is the leader of the Varden, not me. And I believe that she ought to be the one to inherit the throne.”
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“You would say that,” said King Orrin, sneering. “You’ve sworn fealty to her. Of course you believe she should inherit the throne. You’re nothing more than a loyal servant standing up for his master, and your opinions carry no more weight than the opinions of my own servants.”
“No!” said Eragon. “There you’re wrong. If I thought that you or anyone else would make a better ruler, then I would say so! Yes, I gave my oath to Nasuada, but that doesn’t stop me from speaking the truth as I see it.”
“Maybe not, but your loyalty to her still clouds your judgment.”
“Even as your loyalty to Surda clouds yours,” said Orik.
King Orrin scowled. “Why is it that you always turn against me?” he demanded, looking from Eragon to Arya to Orik. “Why is it that, in every dispute, you side with her?” Wine sloshed over the rim of his goblet as he gestured toward Nasuada. “Why is it that she commands your respect, and not I or the people of Surda? Always it is Nasuada and the Varden you favor, and before her, it was Ajihad. Were my father still alive—”
“Were your father, King Larkin, still alive,” said Arya, “he would not be sitting there bemoaning how others see him; he would be doing something about it.”
“Peace,” said Nasuada before Orrin could utter a retort. “There is no need for insults here. … Orrin, your concerns are reasonable. You are right; the Surdans have contributed much to our cause. I freely admit that without your help, we never would have been able to attack the Empire as we did, and you deserve recompense for what you have risked, spent, and lost over the course of this war.”
King Orrin nodded, appearing satisfied. “You will yield, then?”
“No,” said Nasuada, calm as ever. “That, I will not. But I have a counterproposal, one that perhaps will satisfy all our interests.” Orrin made a noise of dissatisfaction, but he did not interrupt further. “My proposal is this: much of the land we have captured shall become part of Surda. Aroughs, Feinster, and Melian will all be yours, as well as the isles to the south, once they are under our governance. By this acquisition, Surda will nearly double in size.”