Inheritance

A MAZE WITHOUT END

Eragon and the others spent the rest of the conclave discussing practicalities: lines of communication-who was supposed to answer to whom; assignments of duty; rearrangements of the camp wards and sentinels to prevent Thorn or Shruikan from sneaking up on them again; and how to secure new equipment for the men whose belongings had been burned or squashed during the attack. By consensus they decided to hold off announcing what had happened to Nasuada until the following day; it was more important for the warriors to get what sleep they could before dawn brightened the horizon.

And yet, the one thing they never discussed was whether they should try to rescue Nasuada. It was obvious that the only way to free her would be to seize Uru’baen, and by then she would probably be dead, injured, or bound to Galbatorix in the ancient language. So they avoided the subject entirely, as if to mention it was forbidden.

Nevertheless, she was a constant presence in Eragon’s thoughts. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Murtagh striking her, then the scaly fingers of Thorn’s paw closing round her, and then the red dragon flying off into the night. The memories only made Eragon more miserable, but he could not stop himself from reliving them.

As the conclave dispersed, Eragon motioned to Roran, Jormundur, and Arya. They followed him without question back to his tent, where Eragon spent some time asking their advice and planning for the day to come.

“The Council of Elders will give you some trouble, I’m sure,” Jormundur said. “They don’t consider you as skilled at politics as Nasuada, and they’ll try to take advantage of that.” The long-haired warrior had appeared preternaturally calm since the attack, so much so that Eragon suspected he was on the verge of either tears or rage, or perhaps a combination of both.

“I’m not,” Eragon said.

Jormundur inclined his head. “Nevertheless, you must hold strong. I can help you some, but much will depend on how you comport yourself. If you allow them to unduly influence your decisions, they’ll think they have inherited the leadership of the Varden, not you.”

Eragon glanced at Arya and Saphira, concerned.

Never fear, said Saphira to them all. No one shall get the better of him while I stand watch.

When their smaller, secondary meeting came to an end, Eragon waited until Arya and Jormundur had filed out of the tent; then he caught Roran by the shoulder. “Did you mean what you said about this being a battle of the gods?”

Roran stared at him. “I did.… You and Murtagh and Galbatorix-you’re too powerful for any normal person to defeat. It’s not right. It’s not fair. But so it is. The rest of us are like ants under your boots. Have you any idea how many men you’ve killed single-handedly?”

“Too many.”

“Exactly. I’m glad you’re here to fight for us, and I’m glad to count you as my brother in all but name, but I wish we didn’t have to rely on a Rider or an elf or any sort of magician to win this war for us. No one should be at the mercy of another person. Not like this. It unbalances the world.”

Then Roran strode out of the tent.

Eragon sank onto his cot, feeling as if he had been struck in the chest. He sat there for a while, sweating and thinking, until the strain of his overactive thoughts caused him to spring upright and hurry outside.

As he exited the tent, the six Nighthawks jumped to their feet, readying their weapons to accompany him wherever he might be going.

Eragon motioned for them to stay put. He had protested, but Jormundur insisted upon assigning Nasuada’s guards, in addition to Blodhgarm and the other elves, to protect him. “We can’t be too careful,” he had said. Eragon disliked having even more people follow him around, but he had been forced to agree.

Walking past the guards, Eragon hurried over to where Saphira lay curled on the ground.

She opened one eye as he neared and then lifted her wing so he could crawl under it and nestle against her warm belly. Little one, she said, and began to hum softly.

Eragon sat against her, listening to her humming and to the soft rustle of air flowing in and out of her mighty lungs. Behind him, her belly rose and fell with a gentle, soothing cadence.

At any other time, her presence would have been enough to calm him, but not now. His mind refused to slow, his pulse continued to hammer, and his hands and feet were uncomfortably hot.

He kept his feelings to himself, to avoid disturbing Saphira. She was tired after her two fights with Thorn, and she soon fell into a deep slumber, her humming fading into the ever-present sound of her breathing.

And still Eragon’s thoughts would not give him rest. Over and over, he returned to the same impossible, incontrovertible fact: he was the leader of the Varden. He, who had been nothing more than the youngest member of a poor farming family, was now the leader of the second-largest army in Alagaesia. That it had happened at all seemed outrageous, as if fate was toying with him, baiting him into a trap that would destroy him. He had never wanted it, never sought it, and yet events had thrust it upon him.

What was Nasuada thinking when she chose me as her successor? he wondered. He remembered the reasons she had given him, but they did nothing to alleviate his doubts. Did she really believe I could takeher place? Why not Jormundur? He’s been with the Varden for decades, and he knows so much more about command and strategy.

Eragon thought of when Nasuada had decided to accept the Urgals’ offer of an alliance in spite of all the hate and grief that existed between their two races, and even though it had been Urgals who had killed her father. Could I have done that? He imagined not-not then, at least. Can I make those sorts of decisions now, if they’re what’s required to defeat Galbatorix?

He was not sure.

He made an effort to still his mind. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on counting his breaths in batches of ten. It was difficult to keep his attention focused on the task; every few seconds, another thought or sensation would threaten to distract him, and he often forgot the count.

In time, however, his body began to relax, and almost without his realizing it, the shifting, rainbow visions of his waking dreams crept over him.

Many things he saw, some grim and unsettling, as his dreams reflected the events of the past day. Others were bittersweet: memories of what had been or what he wished could have been.

Then, like a sudden change of wind, his dreams rippled and became harder and more substantial, as if they were tangible realities that he could reach out and touch. Everything around him faded away, and he beheld another time and place-one that seemed both strange and familiar, as if he had seen it once long before, and then it had passed from recollection.

Eragon opened his eyes, but the images stayed with him, obscuring his surroundings, and he knew that he was experiencing no normal dream:

A dark and lonely plain lay before him, cut by a single strip of water that flowed slow-moving into the east: a ribbon of beaten silver bright beneath the glare of a full moon.… Floating on the nameless river, a ship, tall and proud, with pure white sails raised and ready.… Ranks of warriors holding lances, and two hooded figures walking among them, as if in a stately procession. The smell of willows and cottonwoods, and a sense of passing sorrow.… Then a man’s anguished cry, and a flash of scales, and a muddle of motion that concealed more than it revealed.

And then nothing but silence and blackness.

Eragon’s sight cleared, and he again found himself looking at the underside of Saphira’s wing. He released his pent-up breath-which he had not realized he was holding-and with a shaky hand wiped the tears from his eyes. He could not understand why the vision had affected him so strongly.

Was that a premonition? he wondered. Or something actually happening at this very moment? And why is it of any importance to me?

Thereafter, he was unable to continue resting. His worries returned in force and assailed him without reprieve, gnawing at his mind like a host of rats, each bite of which seemed to infect him with a creeping poison.

At last he crawled out from under Saphira’s wing-taking care not to wake her-and wandered back to his tent.

As before, the Nighthawks rose when they saw him. Their commander, a thickset man with a crooked nose, came forward to meet Eragon. “Is there anything you need, Shadeslayer?” he asked.

Eragon dimly remembered that the man’s name was Garven and something Nasuada had told him about the man losing his senses after examining the minds of the elves. The man appeared well enough now, although his gaze had a certain dreamy quality. Still, Eragon assumed Garven was capable of carrying out his duties; otherwise, Jormundur would never have allowed him to return to his post.

“Not at the moment, Captain,” Eragon said, keeping his voice low. He took another step forward, then paused. “How many of the Nighthawks were killed tonight?”

“Six, sir. An entire watch. We’ll be shorthanded for a few days until we can find suitable replacements. And we’ll need more recruits in addition to that. We want to double the force around you.” A look of anguish perturbed Garven’s otherwise distant gaze. “We failed her, Shadeslayer. If there had been more of us there, maybe-”

“We all failed her,” said Eragon. “And if there had been more of you there, more of you would have died.”

The man hesitated, then nodded, his expression miserable.

I failed her, thought Eragon as he ducked into his tent. Nasuada was his liegelord; it was his duty to protect her even more than it was that of the Nighthawks. And yet the one time she had needed his help, he had been unable to save her.

He cursed once, viciously, to himself.

As her vassal, he ought to be searching for a way to rescue her, to the exclusion of all else. But he also knew that she would not want him to abandon the Varden just for her sake. She would rather suffer and die than allow her absence to harm the cause to which she had devoted her life.

Eragon cursed again and began to pace back and forth within the confines of the tent.

I’m the leader of the Varden.

Only now that she was gone did Eragon realize that Nasuada had become more than just his liegelord and commander; she had become his friend, and he felt the same urge to protect her that he often felt with Arya. If he tried, however, he could end up costing the Varden the war.

I’m the leader of the Varden.

He thought of all the people who were now his responsibility: Roran and Katrina and the rest of the villagers from Carvahall; the hundreds of warriors whom he had fought alongside, and many more as well; the dwarves; the werecats; and even the Urgals. All now under his command and dependent on him to make the right decisions in order to defeat Galbatorix and the Empire.

Eragon’s pulse surged, causing his vision to flicker. He stopped pacing and clutched at the pole in the center of the tent, then dabbed the sweat from his brow and upper lip.

He wished he had someone to talk to. He considered waking Saphira but discounted the idea. Her rest was more important than listening to him complain. Nor did he want to burden Arya or Glaedr with problems they could do nothing to solve. In any event, he doubted he would find a sympathetic listener in Glaedr when their last exchange had been so barbed.

Eragon resumed his monotonous circuit: three steps forward, turn, three steps back, turn, and repeat.

He had lost the belt of Beloth the Wise. He had allowed Murtagh and Thorn to capture Nasuada. And now he was in charge of the Varden.

Again and again, the same few thoughts kept running through his mind, and with each repetition, his sense of anxiety increased. He felt as if he were caught in a maze without end, and round every unseen corner lurked monsters waiting to pounce. Despite what he had said during the meeting with Orik, Orrin, and the others, he could not see how he, the Varden, or their allies could defeat Galbatorix.

I wouldn’t even be able to rescue Nasuada, assuming I had the freedom to chase after her and try. Bitterness welled up inside him. The task before them seemed hopeless. Why did this have to fall to us? He swore and bit the inside of his mouth until he could not bear the pain.

He stopped pacing and crumpled to the ground, wrapping his hands around the back of his neck. “It can’t be done. It can’t be done,” he whispered, rocking from side to side upon his knees. “It can’t.”

In his despair, Eragon thought of praying to the dwarf god Guntera for help, even as he had done before. To lay his troubles at the feet of one greater than himself and to trust his fate to that power would be a relief. Doing so would allow him to accept his fate-as well as the fates of those he loved-with greater equanimity, for he would no longer be directly responsible for whatever happened.

But Eragon could not bring himself to utter the prayer. He was responsible for their fates, whether he liked it or not, and he felt it would be wrong to pass off his responsibility to anyone else, even a god-or the idea of a god.

The problem was, he did not think he could do what needed to be done. He could command the Varden; of that, he was reasonably sure. But as for how he might go about capturing Uru’baen and killing Galbatorix, there he was at a loss. He did not have the strength to go up against Murtagh, much less the king, and it seemed unlikely in the extreme that he could think of a way around either of their wards. Capturing their minds, or at least Galbatorix’s, seemed equally improbable.

Eragon dug his fingers into the nape of his neck, stretching and scratching his skin as he frantically considered every possibility, no matter how unlikely.

Then he thought of the advice Solembum had given him in Teirm, so long ago. The werecat had said, Listen closely and I will tell you two things. When the times comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.

His words concerning the Menoa tree had proven true; under it Eragon had found the brightsteel he needed for the blade of his sword. Now a desperate hope flared inside Eragon as he pondered the second of the werecat’s pronouncements.

If ever my power was insufficient, and if ever all seemed lost, it is now, thought Eragon. However, he still had no idea where or what the Rock of Kuthian or the Vault of Souls were. He had asked both Oromis and Arya at different times, but they had never returned an answer.

Eragon reached out with his mind then, and searched through the camp until he found the distinctive feel of the werecat’s mind. Solembum, he said, I need your help! Please come to my tent.

After a moment, he felt a grudging acknowledgment from the werecat, and he severed the contact.

Then Eragon sat alone in the dark … and waited.