Eragon: Book One (The Inheritance cycle 1)

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, “Âz 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.

Hrothgar leaned forward, his voice gravelly and deep. “I am old, human—even by our reckoning—old enough to have seen the Riders in all their fleeting glory, old enough to have spoken with their last leader, Vrael, who paid tribute to me within these very walls. Few are still alive who can claim that much. I remember the Riders and how they meddled in our affairs. I also remember the peace they kept that made it possible to walk unharmed from Tronjheim to Narda.

“And now you stand before me—a lost tradition revived. Tell me, and speak truly in this, why have you come to Farthen Dûr? I know of the events that made you flee the Empire, but what is your intent now?”

“For now, Saphira and I merely want to recuperate in Tronjheim,” Eragon replied. “We are not here to cause trouble, only to find sanctuary from the dangers we’ve faced for many months. Ajihad may send us to the elves, but until he does, we have no wish to leave.”

“Then was it only the desire for safety that drove you?” asked Hrothgar. “Do you just seek to live here and forget your troubles with the Empire?”

Eragon shook his head, his pride rejecting that statement. “If Ajihad told you of my past, you should know that I have grievances enough to fight the Empire until it is nothing but scattered ashes. More than that, though … I want to aid those who cannot escape Galbatorix, including my cousin. I have the strength to help, so I must.”

The king seemed satisfied by his answer. He turned to Saphira and asked, “Dragon, what think you in this matter? For what reason have you come?”

Saphira lifted the edge of her lip to growl. Tell him that I thirst for the blood of our enemies and eagerly await the day when we ride to battle against Galbatorix. I’ve no love or mercy for traitors and egg breakers like that false king. He held me for over a century and, even now, still has two of my brethren, whom I would free if possible. And tell Hrothgar I think you ready for this task.

Eragon grimaced at her words, but dutifully relayed them. The corner of Hrothgar’s mouth lifted in a hint of grim amusement, deepening his wrinkles. “I see that dragons have not changed with the centuries.” He rapped the throne with a knuckle. “Do you know why this seat was quarried so flat and angular? So that no one would sit comfortably on it. I have not, and will relinquish it without regret when my time comes. What is there to remind you of your obligations, Eragon? If the Empire falls, will you take Galbatorix’s place and claim his kingship?”

“I don’t seek to wear the crown or rule,” said Eragon, troubled. “Being a Rider is responsibility enough. No, I would not take the throne in Urû’baen … not unless there was no one else willing or competent enough to take it.”

Hrothgar warned gravely, “Certainly you would be a kinder king than Galbatorix, but no race should have a leader who does not age or leave the throne. The time of the Riders has passed, Eragon. They will never rise again—not even if Galbatorix’s other eggs were to hatch.”

A shadow crossed his face as he gazed at Eragon’s side. “I see that you carry an enemy’s sword; I was told of this, and that you travel with a son of the Forsworn. It does not please me to see this weapon.” He extended a hand. “I would like to examine it.”

Eragon drew Zar’roc and presented it to the king, hilt first. Hrothgar grasped the sword and ran a practiced eye over the red blade. The edge caught the lantern light, reflecting it sharply. The dwarf king tested the point with his palm, then said, “A masterfully forged blade. Elves rarely choose to make swords—they prefer bows and spears—but when they do, the results are unmatched. This is an ill-fated blade; I am not glad to see it within my realm. But carry it if you will; perhaps its luck has changed.” He returned Zar’roc, and Eragon sheathed it. “Has my nephew proved helpful during your time here?”

“Who?”

Hrothgar raised a tangled eyebrow. “Orik, my youngest sister’s son. He’s been serving under Ajihad to show my support for the Varden. It seems that he has been returned to my command, however. I was gratified to hear that you defended him with your words.”

Eragon understood that this was another sign of otho, of “faith,” on Hrothgar’s part. “I couldn’t ask for a better guide.”

“That is good,” said the king, clearly pleased. “Unfortunately, I cannot speak with you much longer. My advisors wait for me, as there are matters I must deal with. I will say this, though: If you wish the support of the dwarves within my realm, you must first prove yourself to them. We have long memories and do not rush to hasty decisions. Words will decide nothing, only deeds.”

“I will keep that in mind,” said Eragon, bowing again.

Hrothgar nodded regally. “You may go, then.”

Eragon turned with Saphira, and they proceeded out of the hall of the mountain king. Orik was waiting for them on the other side of the stone doors, an anxious expression on his face. He fell in with them as they climbed back up to Tronjheim’s main chamber. “Did all go well? Were you received favorably?”

“I think so. But your king is cautious,” said Eragon.

“That is how he has survived this long.”

I would not want Hrothgar angry at us, observed Saphira.

Eragon glanced at her. No, I wouldn’t either. I’m not sure what he thought of you—he seems to disapprove of dragons, though he didn’t say it outright.

That seemed to amuse Saphira. In that he is wise, especially since he’s barely knee-high to me.

In Tronjheim’s center, under the sparkling Isidar Mithrim, Orik said, “Your blessing yesterday has stirred up the Varden like an overturned beehive. The child Saphira touched has been hailed as a future hero. She and her guardian have been quartered in the finest rooms. Everyone is talking about your ‘miracle.’ All the human mothers seem intent on finding you and getting the same for their children.”

Alarmed, Eragon furtively looked around. “What should we do?”

“Aside from taking back your actions?” asked Orik dryly. “Stay out of sight as much as possible. Everyone will be kept out of the dragonhold, so you won’t be disturbed there.”

Eragon did not want to return to the dragonhold yet. It was early in the day, and he wanted to explore Tronjheim with Saphira. Now that they were out of the Empire, there was no reason for them to be apart. But he wanted to avoid attention, which would be impossible with her at his side. Saphira, what do you want to do?

She nosed him, scales brushing his arm. I’ll return to the dragonhold. There’s someone there I want to meet. Wander around as long as you like.

All right, he said, but who do you want to meet? Saphira only winked a large eye at him before padding down one of Tronjheim’s four main tunnels.

Eragon explained to Orik where she was going, then said, “I’d like some breakfast. And then I’d like to see more of Tronjheim; it’s such an incredible place. I don’t want to go to the training grounds until tomorrow, as I’m still not fully recovered.”

Orik nodded, his beard bobbing on his chest. “In that case, would you like to visit Tronjheim’s library? It’s quite old and contains many scrolls of great value. You might find it interesting to read a history of Alagaësia that hasn’t been tainted by Galbatorix’s hand.”

With a pang, Eragon remembered how Brom had taught him to read. He wondered if he still had the skill. A long time had passed since he had seen any written words. “Yes, let’s do that.”

“Very well.”

After they ate, Orik guided Eragon through myriad corridors to their destination. When they reached the library’s carved arch, Eragon stepped through it reverently.

The room reminded him of a forest. Rows of graceful colonnades branched up to the dark, ribbed ceiling five stories above. Between the pillars, black-marble bookcases stood back to back. Racks of scrolls covered the walls, interspersed with narrow walkways reached by three twisting staircases. Placed at regular intervals around the walls were pairs of facing stone benches. Between them were small tables whose bases flowed seamlessly into the floor.

Countless books and scrolls were stored in the room. “This is the true legacy of our race,” said Orik. “Here reside the writings of our greatest kings and scholars, from antiquity to the present. Also recorded are the songs and stories composed by our artisans. This library may be our most precious possession. It isn’t all our work, though—there are human writings here as well. Yours is a short-lived—but prolific—race. We have little or nothing of the elves’. They guard their secrets jealously.”

“How long may I stay?” asked Eragon, moving toward the shelves.

“As long as you want. Come to me if you have any questions.”

Eragon browsed through the volumes with delight, reaching eagerly for those with interesting titles or covers. Surprisingly, dwarves used the same runes to write as humans. He was somewhat disheartened by how hard reading was after months of neglect. He skipped from book to book, slowly working his way deep into the vast library. Eventually he became immersed in a translation of poems by Dóndar, the tenth dwarf king.

As he scanned the graceful lines, unfamiliar footsteps approached from behind the bookcase. The sound startled him, but he berated himself for being silly—he could not be the only person in the library. Even so, he quietly replaced the book and slipped away, senses alert for danger. He had been ambushed too many times to ignore such feelings. He heard the footsteps again; only now there were two sets of them. Apprehensive, he darted across an opening, trying to remember exactly where Orik was sitting. He sidestepped around a corner and started as he found himself face to face with the Twins.

The Twins stood together, their shoulders meeting, a blank expression on their smooth faces. Their black snake eyes bored into him. Their hands, hidden within the folds of their purple robes, twitched slightly. They both bowed, but the movement was insolent and derisive.

“We have been searching for you,” one said. His voice was uncomfortably like the Ra’zac’s.

Eragon suppressed a shiver. “What for?” He reached out with his mind and contacted Saphira. She immediately joined thoughts with him.

“Ever since you met with Ajihad, we have wanted to … apologize for our actions.” The words were mocking, but not in a way Eragon could challenge. “We have come to pay homage to you.” Eragon flushed angrily as they bowed again.

Careful! warned Saphira.

He pushed back his rising temper. He could not afford to be riled by this confrontation. An idea came to him, and he said with a small smile, “Nay, it is I who pay homage to you. Without your approval I never could have gained entrance to Farthen Dûr.” He bowed to them in turn, making the movement as insulting as he could.

There was a flicker of irritation in the Twins’ eyes, but they smiled and said, “We are honored that one so … important … as yourself thinks so highly of us. We are in your debt for your kind words.”

Now it was Eragon’s turn to be irritated. “I will remember that when I’m in need.”

Saphira intruded sharply in his thoughts. You’re overdoing it. Don’t say anything you’ll regret. They will remember every word they can use against you.

This is difficult enough without you making comments! he snapped. She subsided with an exasperated grumble.

The Twins moved closer, the hems of their robes brushing softly over the floor. Their voices became more pleasant. “We have searched for you for another reason as well, Rider. The few magic users who live in Tronjheim have formed a group. We call ourselves Du Vrangr Gata, or the—”

“The Wandering Path, I know,” interrupted Eragon, remembering what Angela had said about it.

“Your knowledge of the ancient language is impressive,” said a Twin smoothly. “As we were saying, Du Vrangr Gata has heard of your mighty feats, and we have come to extend an invitation of membership. We would be honored to have one of your stature as a member. And I suspect that we might be able to assist you as well.”

“How?”

The other Twin said, “The two of us have garnered much experience in magical matters. We could guide you … show you spells we’ve discovered and teach you words of power. Nothing would gladden us more than if we could assist, in some small way, your path to glory. No repayment would be necessary, though if you saw fit to share some scraps of your own knowledge, we would be satisfied.”

Eragon’s face hardened as he realized what they were asking for. “Do you think I’m a half-wit?” he demanded harshly. “I won’t apprentice myself to you so you can learn the words Brom taught me! It must have angered you when you couldn’t steal them from my mind.”

The Twins abruptly dropped their facade of smiles. “We are not to be trifled with, boy! We are the ones who will test your abilities with magic. And that could be most unpleasant. Remember, it only takes one misconceived spell to kill someone. You may be a Rider, but the two of us are still stronger than you.”

Eragon kept his face expressionless, even as his stomach knotted painfully. “I will consider your offer, but it may—”

“Then we will expect your answer tomorrow. Make sure that it is the right one.” They smiled coldly and stalked deeper into the library.

Eragon scowled. I’m not going to join Du Vrangr Gata, no matter what they do.

You should talk to Angela, said Saphira. She’s dealt with the Twins before. Perhaps she could be there when they test you. That might prevent them from harming you.

That’s a good idea. Eragon wound through the bookcases until he found Orik sitting on a bench, busily polishing his war ax. “I’d like to return to the dragonhold.”

The dwarf slid the haft of the ax through a leather loop at his belt, then escorted Eragon to the gate where Saphira waited. People had already gathered around her. Ignoring them, Eragon scrambled onto Saphira’s back, and they escaped to the sky.

This problem must be resolved quickly. You cannot let the Twins intimidate you, Saphira said as she landed on Isidar Mithrim.

I know. But I hope we can avoid angering them. They could be dangerous enemies. He dismounted quickly, keeping a hand on Zar’roc.

So can you. Do you want them as allies?

He shook his head. Not really … I’ll tell them tomorrow that I won’t join Du Vrangr Gata.

Eragon left Saphira in her cave and wandered out of the dragonhold. He wanted to see Angela, but he didn’t remember how to find her hiding place, and Solembum was not there to guide him. He roamed the deserted corridors, hoping to meet Angela by chance.

When he grew tired of staring at empty rooms and endless gray walls, he retraced his footsteps to the hold. As he neared it, he heard someone speaking within the room. He halted and listened, but the clear voice fell silent. Saphira? Who’s in there?

A female … She has an air of command. I’ll distract her while you come in. Eragon loosened Zar’roc in its sheath. Orik said that intruders would be kept out of the dragonhold, so who could this be? He steadied his nerves, then stepped into the hold, his hand on the sword.

A young woman stood in the center of the room, looking curiously at Saphira, who had stuck her head out of the cave. The woman appeared to be about seventeen years old. The star sapphire cast a rosy light on her, accentuating skin the same deep shade as Ajihad’s. Her velvet dress was wine red and elegantly cut. A jeweled dagger, worn with use, hung from her waist in a tooled leather sheath.

Eragon crossed his arms, waiting for the woman to notice him. She continued to look at Saphira, then curtsied and asked sweetly, “Please, could you tell me where Rider Eragon is?” Saphira’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

With a small smile, Eragon said, “I am here.”

The woman whirled to face him, hand flying to her dagger. Her face was striking, with almond-shaped eyes, wide lips, and round cheekbones. She relaxed and curtsied again. “I am Nasuada,” she said.

Eragon inclined his head. “You obviously know who I am, but what do you want?”

Nasuada smiled charmingly. “My father, Ajihad, sent me here with a message. Would you like to hear it?”

The Varden’s leader had not struck Eragon as one inclined to marriage and fatherhood. He wondered who Nasuada’s mother was—she must have been an uncommon woman to have attracted Ajihad’s eye. “Yes, I would.”

Nasuada tossed her hair back and recited: “He is pleased that you are doing well, but he cautions you against actions like your benediction yesterday. They create more problems than they solve. Also, he urges you to proceed with the testing as soon as possible—he needs to know how capable you are before he communicates with the elves.”

“Did you climb all the way up here just to tell me that?” Eragon asked, thinking of Vol Turin’s length.

Nasuada shook her head. “I used the pulley system that transports goods to the upper levels. We could have sent the message with signals, but I decided to bring it myself and meet you in person.”

“Would you like to sit down?” asked Eragon. He motioned toward Saphira’s cave.

Nasuada laughed lightly. “No, I am expected elsewhere. You should also know, my father decreed that you may visit Murtagh, if you wish.” A somber expression disturbed her previously smooth features. “I met Murtagh earlier. … He’s anxious to speak with you. He seemed lonely; you should visit him.” She gave Eragon directions to Murtagh’s cell.

Eragon thanked her for the news, then asked, “What about Arya? Is she better? Can I see her? Orik wasn’t able to tell me much.”

She smiled mischievously. “Arya is recovering swiftly, as all elves do. No one is allowed to see her except my father, Hrothgar, and the healers. They have spent much time with her, learning all that occurred during her imprisonment.” She swept her eyes over Saphira. “I must go now. Is there anything you would have me convey to Ajihad on your behalf?”

“No, except a desire to visit Arya. And give him my thanks for the hospitality he’s shown us.”

“I will take your words directly to him. Farewell, Rider Eragon. I hope we shall soon meet again.” She curtsied and exited the dragonhold, head held high.

If she really came all the way up Tronjheim just to meet me—pulleys or no pulleys—there was more to this meeting than idle chatter, remarked Eragon.

Aye, said Saphira, withdrawing her head into the cave. Eragon climbed up to her and was surprised to see Solembum curled up in the hollow at the base of her neck. The werecat was purring deeply, his black-tipped tail flicking back and forth. The two of them looked at Eragon impudently, as if to ask, “What?”

Eragon shook his head, laughing helplessly. Saphira, is Solembum who you wanted to meet?

They both blinked at him and answered, Yes.

Just wondering, he said, mirth still bubbling inside him. It made sense that they would befriend each other—their personalities were similar, and they were both creatures of magic. He sighed, releasing some of the day’s tension as he unbuckled Zar’roc. Solembum, do you know where Angela is? I couldn’t find her, and I need her advice.

Solembum kneaded his paws against Saphira’s scaled back. She is somewhere in Tronjheim.

When will she return?

Soon.

How soon? he asked impatiently. I need to talk to her today.

Not that soon.

The werecat refused to say more, despite Eragon’s persistent questions. He gave up and nestled against Saphira. Solembum’s purring was a low thrum above his head. I have to visit Murtagh tomorrow, he thought, fingering Brom’s ring.