Page 26 of Inheritance (The Inheritance Cycle 4)

  Blödhgarm and his fellow spellcasters arranged themselves in a large circle around the tent, which Eragon could tell made Nasuada’s guards uneasy.

  Eragon and Arya followed Nasuada into the tent; then Saphira surprised them by pushing the front of her head past the entrance flaps and promptly filling the cramped space with the smell of smoke and burnt meat.

  The sudden appearance of Saphira’s scaly snout took Nasuada aback, but she quickly recovered. Addressing herself to Eragon, she said, “That was Glaedr I felt, wasn’t it?”

  He glanced toward the front of the tent, hoping that her guards were too far away to hear, then nodded. “It was.”

  “Ah, I knew it!” she exclaimed, sounding satisfied. Then her expression became uncertain. “May I speak with him? Is it … allowed, or will he only communicate with an elf or a Rider?”

  Eragon hesitated and looked to Arya for guidance. “I don’t know,” he said. “He still hasn’t entirely recovered. He may not want to—”

  I will speak with you, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, Glaedr said, his voice echoing in their heads. Ask of me what you will, then leave us to our work; there is much that still needs to be done in order to prepare Eragon for the challenges ahead.

  Eragon had never seen Nasuada look awestruck before, but now she did. “Where?” she mouthed, and spread her hands.

  He pointed at a patch of dirt by his bed.

  Nasuada raised her eyebrows; then she nodded, and drawing herself up, she formally greeted Glaedr. An exchange of pleasantries followed, during the course of which Nasuada inquired after Glaedr’s health and asked if there was anything the Varden could provide him with. In response to the first question—which had made Eragon nervous—Glaedr politely explained that his health was just fine, thank you; and as far as the second matter went, he needed nothing from the Varden, though he appreciated her concern. I no longer eat, he said; I no longer drink; and I no longer sleep as you would understand it. My only pleasure now, my only indulgence, lies in contemplating how I might bring about Galbatorix’s downfall.

  “That,” said Nasuada, “I can understand, for I feel much the same.”

  Then she asked Glaedr if he had any advice as to how the Varden could capture Dras-Leona without it costing them an unacceptable amount of men and materiel, as well as, in her words, “handing over Eragon and Saphira to the Empire, like so many trussed-up chickens.”

  She spent some time explaining the situation to Glaedr in greater specificity, whereupon, after due consideration, he said, I have no easy solution for you, Nasuada. I will continue to think on it, but at the moment, I cannot see a way clear for the Varden. If Murtagh and Thorn were by themselves, I might easily overcome their minds. However, Galbatorix has given them too many Eldunarí for me to do that. Even with Eragon, Saphira, and the elves to help, victory would be no sure thing.

  Visibly disappointed, Nasuada was silent for a brief while; then she pressed her hands flat against the front of her dress and thanked Glaedr for his time. She bade them farewell and took her leave, stepping carefully around Saphira’s head so as not to touch her.

  Eragon relaxed somewhat as he sat on his cot, while Arya seated herself on a short, three-legged stool. He wiped his palms on the knees of his trousers—for his hands felt sticky, as did the rest of him—then offered Arya a drink from his waterskin, which she gratefully accepted. When she was finished, he gulped down several mouthfuls himself. Their sparring had left him ravenous. The water stifled the growls and rumbles coming from his stomach, but he hoped that Glaedr would not detain them for much longer. The sun had nearly set, and he wanted to get a hot meal from the Varden’s cooks before they damped their fires and turned in for the night. Otherwise, he knew he would end up gnawing on stale bread, dried strips of meat, moldy sheep cheese, and if he was lucky, a raw onion or two—hardly an appealing prospect.

  Once they were both settled, Glaedr began to speak, lecturing Eragon on the principles of mental combat. These Eragon was already familiar with, but he listened closely, and when the golden dragon told him to do something, he followed Glaedr’s instructions without question or complaint.

  They soon progressed beyond maxims to applied practice. Glaedr started by testing Eragon’s defenses with attacks of ever-increasing strength, which then led to them engaging in all-out battles where they each struggled to obtain dominance, even if for only a moment, over the other’s thoughts.

  While they fought, Eragon lay on his back with his eyes closed, all of his energies concentrated inward on the tempest that raged between him and Glaedr. His earlier exertions had left him weak and thick-headed—whereas the golden dragon was fresh and well rested, in addition to being immensely powerful—and that made it difficult for Eragon to do much more than foil Glaedr’s attacks. Nevertheless, he managed to hold his own reasonably well, knowing that, in a real fight, the winner would have undoubtedly been Glaedr.

  Fortunately, Glaedr made some allowances for Eragon’s condition, although, as he said, You must be ready to defend your innermost self at any given moment, even when you are sleeping. It may very well be that you will end up facing Galbatorix or Murtagh when you are as exhausted as you are now.

  After two more bouts, Glaedr withdrew to the role of a—very vocal—spectator, while he had Arya take his place as Eragon’s antagonist. She was just as tired as Eragon, but he quickly found that, when it came to a wizard’s duel, she was more than his equal. It did not surprise him. The one time before they had clashed in their minds, she had almost killed him, and that was when she was still drugged from her captivity in Gil’ead. Glaedr’s thoughts were disciplined and focused, but even he could not match the ironbound control Arya exerted over her consciousness.

  Her self-mastery was a trait Eragon had noticed was common among the elves. Foremost in that regard had been Oromis, who, it seemed to Eragon, had been in such perfect command of himself, never the slightest doubt or worry had bothered him. Eragon considered the elves’ restraint an innate characteristic of their race, as well as a natural outcome of their rigorous upbringing, education, and use of the ancient language. Speaking and thinking in a language that prevented one from lying—and every word of which contained the potential to unlock a spell—discouraged carelessness in thought or speech and fostered an aversion to allowing one’s emotions to sweep one away. As a rule, then, elves possessed far more self-control than the members of other races.

  He and Arya wrestled with their minds for a few minutes—he seeking to escape her all-encompassing grip, she seeking to pin and hold him so that she could impose her will on his thoughts. She caught him several times, but he always wiggled free after a second or two, though he knew, had she meant him harm, it would have been too late to save himself.

  And the whole time their minds were touching, Eragon was aware of the wild strains of music that wafted through the dark spaces of Arya’s consciousness. They lured him away from his own body and threatened to snare him in a web of strange and eerie melodies that had no counterparts among earthly songs. He would have happily succumbed to the bewitchment of the music had it not been for the distraction of Arya’s attacks and the knowledge that humans did not often fare well if they became too fascinated with the workings of an elf’s mind. He might escape unscathed. He was a Rider, after all. He was different. But it was a risk he was not willing to take, not so long as he valued his sanity. He had heard that delving into Blödhgarm’s mind had reduced Nasuada’s guard Garven to a slack-jawed dreamer.

  So he resisted the temptation, hard as it was.

  Then Glaedr had Saphira join the fray, sometimes in opposition to Eragon and sometimes in support of him, for as the elder dragon said, You must be as skilled in this as Eragon, Brightscales. The addition of Saphira substantially altered the outcome of their mental struggles. Together she and Eragon were able to fend off Arya with regularity, if not ease. Their combined might even allowed them to subdue Arya on two separate occasions. When Saphira was allied with Arya, however,

the two of them so outstripped Eragon that he gave up any attempt at offense and, instead, retreated deep inside himself, curling into a tight ball like a wounded animal while he recited scraps of verse and waited for the waves of mental energy they hurled at him to subside.

  Lastly, Glaedr had them pair off—he with Arya, and Eragon with Saphira—and they fought a duel like that, as if they were two sets of Riders and dragons met in combat. For the first few strenuous minutes, they were fairly matched, but in the end, Glaedr’s strength, experience, and cunning combined with Arya’s rigorous proficiency proved too much for Eragon and Saphira to overcome, and they had no choice but to concede defeat.

  Afterward, Eragon sensed discontent emanating from Glaedr. Stung by it, he said, We’ll do better tomorrow, Master.

  Glaedr’s mood darkened further. Even he seemed weary from their practice. You did well enough, youngling. I could not have asked any more from either of you had you been placed under my wing as apprentices in Vroengard. However, it is impossible for you to learn what you need to learn in a matter of days or weeks. Time gushes between our teeth like water, and soon it will all be gone. It takes years to master the art of fighting with your mind: years and decades and centuries, and even then, there is still more to learn, more to discover—about yourself, about your enemies, and about the very underpinnings of the world. With an angry growl, he fell silent.

  Then we will learn what we can and let fate decide the rest, said Eragon. Besides, Galbatorix may have had a hundred years to train his mind, but it has also been over a hundred years since you last taught him. He’s sure to have forgotten something in the interim. With you helping us, I know we can beat him.

  Glaedr snorted. Your tongue grows ever smoother, Eragon Shadeslayer. Nevertheless, he sounded pleased. He admonished them to eat and rest, and then he withdrew from their minds and said no more.

  Eragon was sure that the golden dragon was still watching them, but Eragon could no longer feel his presence, and an unexpected sense of emptiness settled over him.

  A chill crept through his limbs, and he shivered.

  He, Saphira, and Arya sat in the darkening tent, none of them willing to speak. Then, rousing himself, Eragon said, “He seems better.” His voice creaked from disuse, and he again reached for the waterskin.

  “This is good for him,” said Arya. “You are good for him. Without something to give him purpose, his grief would have killed him. That he has survived at all is … impressive. I admire him for it. Few beings—human, elf, or dragon—could continue to function rationally after such a loss.”

  “Brom did.”

  “He was equally remarkable.”

  If we kill Galbatorix and Shruikan, how do you think Glaedr will react? Saphira asked. Will he keep going, or will he just … stop?

  Arya’s pupils reflected a shimmer of light as she looked past Eragon toward Saphira. “Only time will tell. I hope not, but if we are triumphant in Urû’baen, it may very well be that Glaedr will find he is no longer able to continue on his own, without Oromis.”

  “We can’t just let him give up!”

  I agree.

  “It is not our place to stop him if he decides to enter the void,” Arya said sternly. “The choice is his to make, and his alone.”

  “Yes, but we can reason with him and try to help him see that life is still worth living.”

  She was still for a while, her face solemn; then she said, “I do not want him to die. No elf does. However, if every waking moment is a torment to him, then won’t it be better for him to seek release?”

  Neither Eragon nor Saphira had an answer for her.

  The three of them continued to discuss the day’s events for a short while longer; then Saphira pulled her head out of the tent and went to sit on the neighboring patch of grass. I feel like a fox with her head stuck down a rabbit hole, she complained. It makes my scales itch, not being able to see if someone is creeping up on me.

  Eragon expected Arya to leave as well, but to his surprise, she stayed, seemingly content to sit and talk with him about this and that. He was only too eager to comply. His earlier hunger had vanished during his bouts of mental combat with her, Saphira, and Glaedr, and in any case, he was more than willing to forgo a hot meal in exchange for the pleasure of her company.

  Night closed in around them, and the camp grew ever quieter as their conversation meandered from one topic to another. Eragon felt giddy from exhaustion and excitement—almost as if he had drunk too much mead—and he noticed that Arya also seemed more at ease than normal. They talked of many things: of Glaedr and of their sparring; of the siege of Dras-Leona and what might be done about it; and of other, less important matters, such as the crane Arya had seen hunting among the rushes by the edge of the lake, and the scale Saphira had lost from her nose, and how the season was turning and the days were again growing colder. But always they returned to the one topic that was ever present in their thoughts, and that was Galbatorix and what awaited them in Urû’baen.

  While they speculated, as they had so many times before, about the types of magical traps Galbatorix might have set for them and how best to avoid them, Eragon thought of Saphira’s question about Glaedr, and he said, “Arya?”

  “Yes?” She drew the word out, her voice rising and falling with a faint lilt.

  “What do you want to do once this is all over?” If we’re still alive, that is.

  “What do you want to do?”

  He fingered Brisingr’s pommel as he considered the question. “I don’t know. I haven’t let myself think much past Urû’baen. … It would depend on what she wants, but I suppose Saphira and I might return to Palancar Valley. I could build a hall on one of the foothills of the mountains. We might not spend much time there, but at least we would have a home to return to when we weren’t flying from one part of Alagaësia to another.” He half smiled. “I’m sure there will be plenty to keep us busy, even if Galbatorix is dead. … But you still haven’t answered my question: what will you do if we win? You must have some idea. You’ve had longer to think about it than I have.”

  Arya drew one leg up onto the stool, wrapped her arms around it, and rested her chin on her knee. In the dim half-light of the tent, her face appeared to float against a featureless black background, like an apparition conjured out of the night.

  “I have spent more time among humans and dwarves than I have among the älfakyn,” she said, using the elves’ name in the ancient language. “I have grown used to it, and I would not want to return to live in Ellesméra. Too little happens there; centuries can slip by without notice while you sit and stare at the stars. No, I think I will continue to serve my mother as her ambassador. The reason I first left Du Weldenvarden was because I wanted to help right the balance of the world. As you said, there will still be much that needs doing if we manage to topple Galbatorix, much that needs putting right, and I would be a part of it.”

  “Ah.” It was not exactly what he had hoped she might say, but at least it presented the possibility that they would not entirely lose contact after Urû’baen, and that he would still be able to see her now and then.

  If Arya noticed his discontent, she gave no sign of it.

  They talked for another few minutes, then Arya made her excuses and rose to leave.

  As she stepped past him, Eragon reached toward her, as if to stop her, then quickly drew back his hand. “Wait,” he said softly, unsure of what he hoped for, but hoping nevertheless. The beat of his heart increased, pounding in his ears, and his cheeks grew warm.

  Arya paused with her back to him by the entrance of the tent. “Good night, Eragon,” she said. Then she slipped out between the entrance flaps and vanished into the night, leaving him to sit alone in the dark.

  DISCOVERY

  THE NEXT THREE days passed quickly for Eragon, if not for the rest of the Varden, who remained mired in lethargy. The standoff with Dras-Leona continued unabated, although there was some excitement when Thorn altered his customary loc

ation from above the front gates to a section of the rampart several hundred feet to the right. After much discussion—and after consulting extensively with Saphira—Nasuada and her advisers concluded that Thorn had relocated for no other reason than comfort; the other section of rampart was somewhat flatter and longer. Aside from that, the siege lumbered on without change.

  Meanwhile, Eragon spent the mornings and evenings studying with Glaedr and the afternoons sparring with Arya and several other elves. His matches with the elves were not as long or strenuous as his previous one with Arya—for it would have been foolish to push himself that hard every day—but his sessions with Glaedr were as intense as ever. The ancient dragon never flagged in his efforts to improve Eragon’s skills and knowledge, and he made no allowances for mistakes or exhaustion.

  Eragon was pleased to find that he was finally able to hold his own when dueling with the elves. But it was mentally taxing, for if his concentration lapsed for even a moment, he would end up with a sword jabbed in his ribs or pressed against his throat.

  With his lessons from Glaedr, he made what would have been considered exemplary progress under normal circumstances, but given the situation, both he and Glaedr were frustrated with the pace of his learning.

  On the second day, during his morning lesson with Glaedr, Eragon thought to say, Master, when I first arrived at the Varden in Farthen Dûr, the Twins tested me—they tested my knowledge of the ancient language, and of magic in general.

  You told this to Oromis. Why repeat it to me now?

  Because, it occurred to me … the Twins asked me to summon the true form of a silver ring. At the time, I didn’t know how. Arya explained it to me later: how, with the ancient language, you can conjure up the essence of any thing or creature. Yet Oromis never spoke of it, and I was wondering … why not?

  Glaedr seemed to sigh. Summoning the true form of an object is a difficult kind of magic. In order for it to work, you must understand everything of importance about the object in question—even as you must in order to guess the true name of a person or animal. Furthermore, it’s of little practical value. And it’s dangerous. Very dangerous. The spell cannot be structured as a continuing process that you can end at any time. Either you succeed in summoning the true form of an object … or you fail and die. There was no reason for Oromis to have you try anything so risky, nor were you advanced enough in your studies to even discuss the topic.