Page 43 of Eragon (The Inheritance Cycle 1)

  Will I have to sleep apart from you?

  Saphira shook her enormous head. No, there is a bed for you in my cave. Come see. She turned and, without opening her wings, jumped twenty feet into the air, landing in a medium-sized cave. He clambered up after her.

  The cave was dark brown on the inside and deeper than he had expected. The roughly chiseled walls gave the impression of a natural formation. Near the far wall was a thick cushion large enough for Saphira to curl up on. Beside it was a bed built into the side of the wall. The cave was lit by a single red lantern equipped with a shutter so its glow could be muted.

  I like this, said Eragon. It feels safe.

  Yes. Saphira curled up on the cushion, watching him. With a sigh he sank onto the mattress, weariness seeping through him.

  Saphira, you haven’t said much while we’ve been here. What do you think of Tronjheim and Ajihad?

  We shall see. . . . It seems, Eragon, that we are embroiled in a new type of warfare here. Swords and claws are useless, but words and alliances may have the same effect. The Twins dislike us—we should be on our guard for any duplicities they might attempt. Not many of the dwarves trust us. The elves didn’t want a human Rider, so there will be opposition from them as well. The best thing we can do is identify those in power and befriend them. And quickly, too.

  Do you think it’s possible to remain independent of the different leaders?

  She shuffled her wings into a more comfortable position. Ajihad supports our freedom, but we may be unable to survive without pledging our loyalty to one group or another. We’ll soon know either way.

  MANDRAKE ROOT AND NEWT’S TONGUE

  The blankets were bunched underneath Eragon when he woke, but he was still warm. Saphira was asleep on her cushion, her breath coming in steady gusts.

  For the first time since entering Farthen Dûr, Eragon felt secure and hopeful. He was warm and fed and had been able to sleep as long as he liked. Tension unknotted inside him—tension that had been accumulating since Brom’s death and, even before, since leaving Palancar Valley.

  I don’t have to be afraid anymore. But what about Murtagh? No matter the Varden’s hospitality, Eragon could not accept it in good conscience, knowing that—intentionally or not—he had led Murtagh to his imprisonment. Somehow the situation had to be resolved.

  His gaze roamed the cave’s rough ceiling as he thought of Arya. Chiding himself for daydreaming, he tilted his head and looked out at the dragonhold. A large cat sat on the edge of the cave, licking a paw. It glanced at him, and he saw a flash of slanted red eyes.

  Solembum? he asked incredulously.

  Obviously. The werecat shook his rough mane and yawned languorously, displaying his long fangs. He stretched, then jumped out of the cave, landing with a solid thump on Isidar Mithrim, twenty feet below. Coming?

  Eragon looked at Saphira. She was awake now, watching him motionlessly. Go. I will be fine, she murmured. Solembum was waiting for him under the arch that led to the rest of Tronjheim.

  The moment Eragon’s feet touched Isidar Mithrim, the werecat turned with a flick of his paws and disappeared through the arch. Eragon chased after him, rubbing the sleep from his face. He stepped through the archway and found himself standing at the top of Vol Turin, The Endless Staircase. There was nowhere else to go, so he descended to the next level.

  He stood in an open arcade that curved gently to the left and encircled Tronjheim’s central chamber. Between the slender columns supporting the arches, Eragon could see Isidar Mithrim sparkling brilliantly above him, as well as the city-mountain’s distant base. The circumference of the central chamber increased with each successive level. The staircase cut through the arcade’s floor to an identical level below and descended through scores of arcades until it disappeared in the distance. The sliding trough ran along the outside curve of the stairs. At the top of Vol Turin was a pile of leather squares to slide on. To Eragon’s right, a dusty corridor led to that level’s rooms and apartments. Solembum padded down the hall, flipping his tail.

  Wait, said Eragon.

  He tried to catch up with Solembum, but glimpsed him only fleetingly in the abandoned passageways. Then, as Eragon rounded a corner, he saw the werecat stop before a door and yowl. Seemingly of its own accord, the door slid inward. Solembum slipped inside, then the door shut. Eragon halted in front of it, perplexed. He raised his hand to knock, but before he did, the door opened once more, and warm light spilled out. After a moment’s indecision he stepped inside.

  He entered an earthy two-room suite, lavishly decorated with carved wood and clinging plants. The air was warm, fresh, and humid. Bright lanterns hung on the walls and from the low ceiling. Piles of intriguing items cluttered the floor, obscuring the corners. A large four-poster bed, curtained by even more plants, was in the far room.

  In the center of the main room, on a plush leather chair, sat the fortuneteller and witch, Angela. She smiled brightly.

  “What are you doing here?” blurted Eragon.

  Angela folded her hands in her lap. “Well, why don’t you sit on the floor and I’ll tell you? I’d offer you a chair, but I’m sitting on the only one.” Questions buzzed through Eragon’s mind as he settled between two flasks of acrid bubbling green potions.

  “So!” exclaimed Angela, leaning forward. “You are a Rider. I suspected as much, but I didn’t know for certain until yesterday. I’m sure Solembum knew, but he never told me. I should have figured it out the moment you mentioned Brom. Saphira . . . I like the name—fitting for a dragon.”

  “Brom’s dead,” said Eragon abruptly. “The Ra’zac killed him.”

  Angela was taken aback. She twirled a lock of her dense curls. “I’m sorry. I truly am,” she said softly.

  Eragon smiled bitterly. “But not surprised, are you? You foretold his death, after all.”

  “I didn’t know whose death it would be,” she said, shaking her head. “But no . . . I’m not surprised. I met Brom once or twice. He didn’t care for my ‘frivolous’ attitude toward magic. It irritated him.”

  Eragon frowned. “In Teirm you laughed at his fate and said that it was something of a joke. Why?”

  Angela’s face tightened momentarily. “In retrospect, it was in rather bad taste, but I didn’t know what would befall him. How do I put this? . . . Brom was cursed in a way. It was his wyrd to fail at all of his tasks except one, although through no fault of his own. He was chosen as a Rider, but his dragon was killed. He loved a woman, but it was his affection that was her undoing. And he was chosen, I assume, to guard and train you, but in the end he failed at that as well. The only thing he succeeded at was killing Morzan, and a better deed he couldn’t have done.”

  “Brom never mentioned a woman to me,” retorted Eragon.

  Angela shrugged carelessly. “I heard it from one who couldn’t have lied. But enough of this talk! Life goes on, and we should not trouble the dead with our worries.” She scooped a pile of reeds from the floor and deftly started plaiting them together, closing the subject to discussion.

  Eragon hesitated, then gave in. “All right. So why are you in Tronjheim instead of Teirm?”

  “Ah, at last an interesting question,” said Angela. “After hearing Brom’s name again during your visit, I sensed a return of the past in Alagaësia. People were whispering that the Empire was hunting a Rider. I knew then that the Varden’s dragon egg must have hatched, so I closed my shop and set out to learn more.”

  “You knew about the egg?”

  “Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. I’ve been around much longer than you would believe. Very little happens that I don’t know about.” She paused and concentrated on her weaving. “Anyway, I knew I had to get to the Varden as fast as possible. I’ve been here for nearly a month now, though I really don’t care for this place—it’s far too musty for my taste. And everyone in Farthen Dûr is so serious and noble. They’re probably all doomed to tragic deaths anyway.” She gave a long sigh, a mocking expression on her fa

ce. “And the dwarves are just a superstitious bunch of ninnies content to hammer rocks all their lives. The only redeeming aspect of this place is all the mushrooms and fungi that grow inside Farthen Dûr.”

  “Then why stay?” asked Eragon, smiling.

  “Because I like to be wherever important events are occurring,” said Angela, cocking her head. “Besides, if I had stayed in Teirm, Solembum would have left without me, and I enjoy his company. But tell me, what adventures have befallen you since last we talked?”

  For the next hour, Eragon summarized his experiences of the last two and a half months. Angela listened quietly, but when he mentioned Murtagh’s name she sputtered, “Murtagh!”

  Eragon nodded. “He told me who he is. But let me finish my story before you make any judgments.” He continued with his tale. When it was complete, Angela leaned back in her chair thoughtfully, her reeds forgotten. Without warning, Solembum jumped out of a hiding place and landed in her lap. He curled up, eyeing Eragon haughtily.

  Angela petted the werecat. “Fascinating. Galbatorix allied with the Urgals, and Murtagh finally out in the open. . . . I’d warn you to be careful with Murtagh, but you’re obviously aware of the danger.”

  “Murtagh has been a steadfast friend and an unwavering ally,” said Eragon firmly.

  “All the same, be careful.” Angela paused, then said distastefully, “And then there’s the matter of this Shade, Durza. I think he’s the greatest threat to the Varden right now, aside from Galbatorix. I loathe Shades—they practice the most unholy magic, after necromancy. I’d like to dig his heart out with a dull hairpin and feed it to a pig!”

  Eragon was startled by her sudden vehemence. “I don’t understand. Brom told me that Shades were sorcerers who used spirits to accomplish their will, but why does that make them so evil?”

  Angela shook her head. “It doesn’t. Ordinary sorcerers are just that, ordinary—neither better nor worse than the rest of us. They use their magical strength to control spirits and the spirits’ powers. Shades, however, relinquish that control in their search for greater power and allow their bodies to be controlled by spirits. Unfortunately, only the evilest spirits seek to possess humans, and once ensconced they never leave. Such possession can happen by accident if a sorcerer summons a spirit stronger than himself. The problem is, once a Shade is created, it’s terribly difficult to kill. As I’m sure you know, only two people, Laetri the Elf and Irnstad the Rider, ever survived that feat.”

  “I’ve heard the stories.” Eragon gestured at the room. “Why are you living so high up in Tronjheim? Isn’t it inconvenient being this isolated? And how did you get all this stuff up here?”

  Angela threw back her head and laughed wryly. “Truthfully? I’m in hiding. When I first came to Tronjheim, I had a few days of peace—until one of guards who let me into Farthen Dûr blabbed about who I was. Then all the magic users here, though they barely rate the term, pestered me to join their secret group. Especially those drajl Twins who control it. Finally, I threatened to turn the lot of them into toads, excuse me, frogs, but when that didn’t deter them, I sneaked up here in the middle of the night. It was less work than you might imagine, especially for one with my skills.”

  “Did you have to let the Twins into your mind before you were allowed into Farthen Dûr?” asked Eragon. “I was forced to let them sift through my memories.”

  A cold gleam leapt into Angela’s eye. “The Twins wouldn’t dare probe me, for fear of what I might do to them. Oh, they’d love to, but they know the effort would leave them broken and gibbering nonsense. I’ve been coming here long before the Varden began examining people’s minds . . . and they’re not about to start on me now.”

  She peered into the other room and said, “Well! This has been an enlightening talk, but I’m afraid you have to go now. My brew of mandrake root and newt’s tongue is about to boil, and it needs attending. Do come back again when you have the time. And please don’t tell anyone that I’m here. I’d hate to have to move again. It would make me very . . . irritated. And you don’t want to see me irritated!”

  “I’ll keep your secret,” assured Eragon, getting up.

  Solembum jumped off Angela’s lap as she stood. “Good!” she exclaimed.

  Eragon said farewell and left the room. Solembum guided him back to the dragonhold, then dismissed him with a twitch of his tail before sauntering away.

  HALL OF THE

  MOUNTAIN KING

  A dwarf was waiting for Eragon in the dragonhold. After bowing and muttering, “Argetlam,” the dwarf said with a thick accent, “Good. Awake. Knurla Orik waits for you.” He bowed again and scurried away. Saphira jumped out of her cave, landing next to Eragon. Zar’roc was in her claws.

  What’s that for? he asked, frowning.

  She tilted her head. Wear it. You are a Rider and should bear a Rider’s sword. Zar’roc may have a bloody history, but that should not shape your actions. Forge a new history for it, and carry it with pride.

  Are you sure? Remember Ajihad’s counsel.

  Saphira snorted, and a puff of smoke rose from her nostrils. Wear it, Eragon. If you wish to remain above the forces here, do not let anyone’s disapproval dictate your actions.

  As you wish, he said reluctantly, buckling on the sword. He clambered onto her back, and Saphira flew out of Tronjheim. There was enough light in Farthen Dûr now that the hazy mass of the crater walls—five miles away in each direction—was visible. While they spiraled down to the city-mountain’s base, Eragon told Saphira about his meeting with Angela.

  As soon as they landed by one of Tronjheim’s gates, Orik ran to Saphira’s side. “My king, Hrothgar, wishes to see both of you. Dismount quickly. We must hurry.”

  Eragon trotted after the dwarf into Tronjheim. Saphira easily kept pace beside them. Ignoring stares from people within the soaring corridor, Eragon asked, “Where will we meet Hrothgar?”

  Without slowing, Orik said, “In the throne room beneath the city. It will be a private audience as an act of otho—of ‘faith.’ You do not have to address him in any special manner, but speak to him respectfully. Hrothgar is quick to anger, but he is wise and sees keenly into the minds of men, so think carefully before you speak.”

  Once they entered Tronjheim’s central chamber, Orik led the way to one of the two descending stairways that flanked the opposite hall. They started down the right-hand staircase, which gently curved inward until it faced the direction they had come from. The other stairway merged with theirs to form a broad cascade of dimly lit steps that ended, after a hundred feet, before two granite doors. A seven-pointed crown was carved across both doors.

  Seven dwarves stood guard on each side of the portal. They held burnished mattocks and wore gem-encrusted belts. As Eragon, Orik, and Saphira approached, the dwarves pounded the floor with the mattocks’ hafts. A deep boom rolled back up the stairs. The doors swung inward.

  A dark hall lay before them, a good bowshot long. The throne room was a natural cave; the walls were lined with stalagmites and stalactites, each thicker than a man. Sparsely hung lanterns cast a moody light. The brown floor was smooth and polished. At the far end of the hall was a black throne with a motionless figure upon it.

  Orik bowed. “The king awaits you.” Eragon put his hand on Saphira’s side, and the two of them continued forward. The doors closed behind them, leaving them alone in the dim throne room with the king.

  Their footsteps echoed through the hall as they advanced toward the throne. In the recesses between the stalagmites and stalactites rested large statues. Each sculpture depicted a dwarf king crowned and sitting on a throne; their sightless eyes gazed sternly into the distance, their lined faces set in fierce expressions. A name was chiseled in runes beneath each set of feet.

  Eragon and Saphira strode solemnly between the two rows of long-dead monarchs. They passed more than forty statues, then only dark and empty alcoves awaiting future kings. They stopped before Hrothgar at the end of the hall.

; The dwarf king himself sat like a statue upon a raised throne carved from a single piece of black marble. It was blocky, unadorned, and cut with unyielding precision. Strength emanated from the throne, strength that harked back to ancient times when dwarves had ruled in Alagaësia without opposition from elves or humans. A gold helm lined with rubies and diamonds rested on Hrothgar’s head in place of a crown. His visage was grim, weathered, and hewn of many years’ experience. Beneath a craggy brow glinted deep-set eyes, flinty and piercing. Over his powerful chest rippled a shirt of mail. His white beard was tucked under his belt, and in his lap he held a mighty war hammer with the symbol of Orik’s clan embossed on its head.

  Eragon bowed awkwardly and knelt. Saphira remained upright. The king stirred, as if awakening from a long sleep, and rumbled, “Rise, Rider, you need not pay tribute to me.”

  Straightening, Eragon met Hrothgar’s impenetrable eyes. The king inspected him with a hard gaze, then said gutturally, “z knurl deimi lanok. ‘Beware, the rock changes’—an old dictum of ours. . . . And nowadays the rock changes very fast indeed.” He fingered the war hammer. “I could not meet with you earlier, as Ajihad did, because I was forced to deal with my enemies within the clans. They demanded that I deny you sanctuary and expel you from Farthen Dûr. It has taken much work on my part to convince them otherwise.”

  “Thank you,” said Eragon. “I didn’t anticipate how much strife my arrival would cause.”

  The king accepted his thanks, then lifted a gnarled hand and pointed. “See there, Rider Eragon, where my predecessors sit upon their graven thrones. One and forty there are, with I the forty-second. When I pass from this world into the care of the gods, my hírna will be added to their ranks. The first statue is the likeness of my ancestor Korgan, who forged this mace, Volund. For eight millennia—since the dawn of our race—dwarves have ruled under Farthen Dûr. We are the bones of the land, older than both the fair elves and the savage dragons.” Saphira shifted slightly.