Inheritance

HEIR TO THE EMPIRE

Eragon slowly climbed the worn steps of the green tower. It was close to sunset, and through the windows that pierced the curving wall to his right, he could see the shadow-streaked buildings of Uru’baen, as well as the hazy fields outside the city and, as he spiraled around, the dark mass of the stone hill that rose up behind it.

The tower was tall, and Eragon was tired. He wished he could have flown with Saphira to the top. It had been a long day, and right then, he wanted nothing more than to sit with Saphira and drink a cup of hot tea while watching the light fade from the sky. But, as always, there was still work to be done.

He had seen Saphira only twice since they landed back at the citadel after parting with Murtagh and Thorn. She had spent most of the afternoon helping the Varden kill or capture the remainder of the soldiers and, later, gather into camps the families who had fled their homes and scattered across the countryside while they waited to see if the overhang would break and fall.

That it had not, the elves told Eragon, was because of spells they had embedded within the stone in ages past-when Uru’baen was yet known as Ilirea-and also because of the overhang’s sheer size, which had allowed it to weather the force of the blast without significant damage.

The hill itself had helped contain the harmful residue from the explosion, although a large amount had still escaped through the entrance to the citadel, and most everyone who had been in or around Uru’baen needed healing with magic, else they would soon sicken and die. Already many had fallen ill. Along with the elves, Eragon had worked to save as many as possible; the strength of the Eldunari had allowed him to cure a large portion of the Varden, as well as many inhabitants of the city.

At that very moment, the elves and the dwarves were walling up the front of the citadel to prevent any further contamination from seeping out. This after having searched the building for survivors, of whom there had been many: soldiers, servants, and hundreds of prisoners from the dungeons below. The great store of treasures that lay within the citadel, including the contents of Galbatorix’s vast library, would have to be retrieved at a later date. It would be no easy task. The walls of many rooms had collapsed; countless others, though still standing, were so damaged that they posed a danger to any who ventured near. Moreover, magic would be required to fend off the poison that had permeated the air, the stone, and all of the objects within the sprawling warren of the fortress. And more magic would be required to cleanse whatever items they chose to bring out.

Once the citadel was closed off, the elves would purge the city and the land thereabouts of the harmful residue that had settled upon it so that the area would again be safe to live in. Eragon knew that he would have to help with that too.

Before he had joined in the effort to heal and place wards of protection around everyone in and around Uru’baen, he had spent over an hour using the name of the ancient language to find and dismantle the many spells Galbatorix had bound to the buildings and the people of the city. Some of the enchantments seemed benign, even helpful-such as one spell whose only apparent purpose was to keep the hinges of a door from creaking, and which drew its power from an egg-sized piece of crystal set within the face of the door-but Eragon dared not leave any of the king’s spells intact, no matter how harmless they appeared. Especially not those that lay upon the men and women of Galbatorix’s command. Among them, oaths of fealty were the most common, but there were also wards, enchantments to grant skills beyond the ordinary, and other, more mysterious spells.

As Eragon had released nobles and commoners alike from their bondage, he occasionally felt a cry of anguish, as if he had taken something precious from them.

There had been a moment of crisis when he stripped Galbatorix’s strictures from the Eldunari the king had enslaved. The dragons immediately began to lash out and assail the minds of the people within the city, attacking without regard for who was friend or who was foe. In those moments, a great pall of dread spread over Uru’baen, causing everyone, even the elves, to crouch and turn white with fear.

Then Blodhgarm and his ten remaining spellcasters had tied the convoy of metal boxes that contained the Eldunari to a pair of horses and ridden out of Uru’baen, where the dragons’ thoughts no longer had such a strong effect. Glaedr insisted upon accompanying the maddened dragons, as did several of the Eldunari from Vroengard. That had been the second time Eragon had seen Saphira since their return, when he amended the spell that hid Umaroth and those with him so that five of the Eldunari could be portioned out and given over to Blodhgarm’s safekeeping. Glaedr and the five were of the opinion that they could calm and communicate with the dragons that Galbatorix had for so long tormented. Eragon was less sure, but he hoped they were right.

As the elves and Eldunari were on their way out of the city, Arya had contacted him, casting a questioning thought from outside the ruined gate, where she was in conference with the captains of her mother’s army. In that brief time when their minds touched, he felt her desolation at Islanzadi’s death, as well as the regret and anger that eddied beneath her grief, and he saw how her emotions threatened to overwhelm her reason and how she struggled to restrain them. He sent her what comfort he could, but it seemed paltry when compared to her loss.

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 Dathedr, 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. Dathedr 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 Eldunari 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 Eldunari 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, Dathedr 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 Dathedr, as if to grant him permission to speak.

Dathedr 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 Alagaesia.”

“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 Jormundur 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 Dathedr, 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.” Dathedr 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 Dathedr? 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 Dathedr. “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 Dathedr. “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. Dathedr 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 reasonable,” 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 Dathedr? 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.”

Dathedr’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 Eldunari 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 Dathedr 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, Dathedr, and Nasuada seemed to relax, if however slightly. Like them, the Eldunari seemed pleased with his decision, although they did not comment upon it with words.

“I am glad to hear you say it,” said Dathedr. “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 Alagaesia, were another Dragon Rider to assume the crown.”

Then Arya motioned to Dathedr. 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 Uru’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 Dathedr 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.”

“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.”

“And in return?” asked King Orrin, lifting an eyebrow.

“In return, you will swear allegiance to the throne here in Uru’baen and whoever sits upon it.”

Orrin’s mouth twisted. “You would set yourself up as High Queen over the land.”

“These two realms-the Empire and Surda-must be reunited if we are to avoid future hostilities. Surda would remain yours to command as you see fit, save for one exception: the magicians of both our countries would be subject to certain restrictions, the exact nature of which we would decide upon at a later date. Along with those laws, Surda would of necessity have to contribute to the defense of our combined territories. Should either of us be attacked, the other would be required to provide aid in the form of men and materiel.”

King Orrin placed his goblet upright in his lap and stared down at it. “Again I ask: why should you be the one to take the throne instead of me? My family has ruled Surda since Lady Marelda won the Battle of Cithri and thereby established both Surda and the House of Langfeld, and we can trace our ancestry all the way back to Thanebrand the Ring Giver himself. We faced and fought the Empire for an entire century. Our gold and our weapons and our armor allowed the Varden to exist in the first place and have sustained you through the years. Without us, it would have been impossible for you to resist Galbatorix. The dwarves could not have provided everything you needed, nor the elves, as far away as they were. So again I ask, why should this prize fall to you, Nasuada, and not me?”

“Because,” said Nasuada, “I believe I can make a good queen. And because-as with everything I have done while leading the Varden-I believe it is what is best for our people and for the whole of Alagaesia.”

“You have a very high opinion of yourself.”

“False modesty is never admirable, and least of all among those who command others. Have I not amply demonstrated my ability to lead? If not for me, the Varden would still be cowering inside Farthen Dur, waiting for a sign from above that it was the right time to advance on Galbatorix. I shepherded the Varden from Farthen Dur to Surda, and I built them into a mighty army. With your help, yes, but I am the one who led them, and it was I who secured the help of the dwarves, the elves, and the Urgals. Could you have done as much? Whosoever rules in Uru’baen will have to treat with every race in the land, not just our own. Again, this I have done and this I can do.” Then Nasuada’s voice softened, although her expression remained as strong as ever. “Orrin, why do you want this? Would it make you any happier?”

“It isn’t a question of happiness,” he growled.

“But it is, in part. Do you really want to govern the whole of the Empire in addition to Surda? Whoever takes the throne will have a huge task ahead. There is a country to rebuild: treaties to negotiate, cities still to capture, nobles and magicians to subdue. It will take a lifetime to even begin to undo the damage Galbatorix has wrought. Is that something you are really willing to undertake? It seems to me that you would prefer your life as it once was.” Her gaze shifted to the goblet in his lap and then back to his face. “If you accept my offer, you can return to Aberon and your experiments in natural philosophy. Wouldn’t you like that? Surda will be larger and richer, and you will have the freedom to pursue your interests.”

“We don’t always get to do what we like. Sometimes we have to do what is right, not what we want,” said King Orrin.

“True, but-”

“Besides, if I were king in Uru’baen, I would be able to pursue my interests here just as easily as I could in Aberon.” Nasuada frowned, but before she could speak, Orrin overrode her: “You don’t understand.…” He scowled and took another sip of wine.

Then explain it to us, said Saphira, her impatience conspicuous in the color of her thoughts.

Orrin snorted, drained his goblet, and then threw it against the door to the staircase, denting the gold of the cup and knocking several of the jewels from their settings so that they spun jittering across the floor. “I can’t,” he growled, “and I don’t care to try.” He glared around the room. “None of you would understand. You are too bound up in your own importance to see. How could you, when you’ve never experienced what I have?” He sank back into his chair, his eyes like dark coals beneath the eaves of his brow. To Nasuada, he said, “You are determined? You will not withdraw your claim?”

She shook her head.

“And if I choose to pursue my own claim?”

“Then we will be in conflict.”

“And the three of you will side with her?” asked Orrin, looking in turn at Arya, Orik, and Grimrr.

“If the Varden are attacked, we will fight alongside them,” said Orik.

“As will we,” said Arya.

King Orrin smiled a smile that was more a baring of his teeth than anything. “But you would not think to tell us who we ought to choose as our ruler, now would you?”

“Of course not,” said Orik, and his own teeth flashed white and dangerous within his beard.

“Of course not.” Then Orrin returned his attention to Nasuada. “I want Belatona, along with the other cities you mentioned.”

Nasuada thought for a moment. “You’re already gaining two port cities with Feinster and Aroughs, three if you count Eoam on Beirland Isle. I’ll give you Furnost instead, and then you’ll have the whole of Lake Tudosten, even as I will have the whole of Leona Lake.”

“Leona is more valuable than Tudosten, as it grants access to the mountains and the northern coast,” Orrin pointed out.

“Aye. But you already have access to Leona Lake from Dauth and the Jiet River.”

King Orrin stared at the floor in the center of the room and was silent. Outside, the top of the sun slipped below the edge of the horizon, leaving a few attenuated clouds illuminated by its light. The sky began to darken, and the first few stars appeared in the gloaming: faint pinpricks of light in the purple vastness. A slight breeze started, and in the sound of it brushing against the sides of the tower, Eragon heard the rustling of the sawtooth nettles.

The longer they waited, the more likely it seemed to Eragon that Orrin would reject Nasuada’s offer, or that he would remain sitting there, silent, for the entire night.

Then the king shifted his weight and looked up. “Very well,” he said in a low voice. “As long as you honor the terms of our agreement, I shall not challenge you for Galbatorix’s throne … Your Majesty.”

A shiver passed through Eragon as he heard Orrin utter those words.

Her expression somber, Nasuada walked forward until she stood in the center of the open room. Then Orik struck the butt of Volund’s haft against the floor and proclaimed, “The king is dead, long live the queen!”

“The king is dead, long live the queen!” cried Eragon, Arya, Dathedr, and Grimrr. The werecat’s lips stretched, baring his sharp fangs, and Saphira uttered a loud, triumphant bugle, which echoed off the angled ceiling and out over the dusk-ridden city below. A sense of approval emanated from the Eldunari.

Nasuada stood tall and proud, her eyes gleaming with tears in the graying light. “Thank you,” she said, and looked at each of them, holding their gaze. Still, her thoughts seemed to be directed elsewhere, and about her was an air of sadness that Eragon doubted the others noticed.

And all across the land, darkness sank, leaving the top of their tower a lone beacon of light high above the city.