Brisingr
Page 108
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Frustrated, Eragon said, “Yes, but you do not have to become better or worse than you are now, only different. There are many kinds of people in the world and many ways to behave honorably. Look at someone whom you admire but who has chosen paths other than your own through life and model your actions upon his. It may take a while, but if you can shift your personality enough, you can leave Galbatorix, and you can leave the Empire, and you and Thorn could join us in the Varden, where you would be free to do as you wish.”
What of your own oaths to avenge Hrothgar’s death? Saphira asked. Eragon ignored her.
Murtagh sneered at him. “So you are asking me to be that which I am not. If Thorn and I are to save ourselves, we must destroy our current identities. Your cure is worse than our affliction.”
“I’m asking you to allow yourself to grow into something other than you are now. It’s a difficult thing to do, I know, but people remake themselves all the time. Let go of your anger, for one, and you can turn your back on Galbatorix once and for all.”
“Let go of my anger?” Murtagh laughed. “I’ll let go of my anger when you forget yours over the Empire’s role in the death of your uncle and the razing of your farm. Anger defines us, Eragon, and without it, you and I would be a feast for maggots. Still . . .” His eyes half lidded, Murtagh tapped Zar’roc’s crossguard, the cords in his neck softening, although the vein that split his forehead remained swollen as ever. “The concept is intriguing, I admit. Perhaps we can work on it together when we are in Urû’baen. That is, if the king permits us to be alone with each other. Of course, he may decide to keep us permanently separated. I would if I were in his position.”
Eragon tightened his fingers around the hilt of the falchion. “You seem to think we will accompany you to the capital.”
“Oh, but you will, brother.” A crooked smile stretched Murtagh’s mouth. “Even if we wanted to, Thorn and I could not change who we are in an instant. Until such time as we may have that opportunity, we shall remain beholden to Galbatorix, and he has ordered us, in no uncertain terms, to bring him the two of you. Neither of us is willing to brave the king’s displeasure again. We defeated you once before. It will be no great achievement to do so again.”
A spurt of flame escaped from between Saphira’s teeth, and Eragon had to stifle a similar response in words. If he lost control of his temper now, bloodshed would be unavoidable. “Please, Murtagh, Thorn, will you not at least try what I’ve suggested? Have you no desire to resist Galbatorix? You will never cast off your chains unless you are willing to defy him.”
“You underestimate Galbatorix, Eragon,” growled Murtagh. “He has been creating name-slaves for over a hundred years, ever since he recruited our father. Do you think he is unaware that a person’s true name may vary over the course of his life? He is sure to have taken precautions against that eventuality. If my true name were to change this very moment, or Thorn’s, most likely it would trigger a spell that would alert Galbatorix to the change and force us to return to him in Urû’baen so he could bind us to him again.”
“But only if he could guess your new names.”
“He is most adept at the practice.” Murtagh raised Zar’roc off the saddle. “We may make use of your suggestion in the future, but only after careful study and preparation, so that Thorn and I do not regain our freedom only to have Galbatorix steal it back from us directly afterward.” He hefted Zar’roc, the sword’s iridescent blade shimmering. “Therefore, we have no choice but to take you with us to Urû’baen. Will you go peacefully?”
Unable to contain himself any longer, Eragon said, “I would sooner tear out my own heart!”
“Better to tear out my hearts,” Murtagh replied, then stabbed Zar’roc overhead and shouted a wild war cry.
Roaring in unison, Thorn flapped twice, fast, to climb above Saphira. He twisted in a half circle as he rose, so his head would be over Saphira’s neck, where he could immobilize her with a single bite at the base of her skull.
Saphira did not wait for him. She tipped forward, rotating her wings in their shoulder sockets, so that, for the span of a heartbeat, she pointed straight down, her wings still parallel with the dustsmeared ground, supporting her entire unstable weight. Then she pulled in her right wing and swung her head to the left and her tail to the right, spinning in a clockwise direction. Her muscular tail struck Thorn across his left side just as he sailed over her, breaking his wing in five separate places. The jagged ends of Thorn’s hollow flight bones pierced his hide and stuck out between his flashing scales. Globules of steaming dragon blood rained down upon Eragon and Saphira. A droplet splashed against the back of Eragon’s coif and seeped through the mail to his bare skin. It burned like hot oil. He scrabbled at his neck, trying to wipe off the blood.
His roar converting into a whine of pain, Thorn tumbled past Saphira, unable to stay aloft.
“Well done!” Eragon shouted to Saphira as she righted herself.
Eragon watched from above as Murtagh removed a small round object from his belt and pressed it against Thorn’s shoulder. Eragon sensed no surge of magic from Murtagh, but the object in his hand flared and Thorn’s broken wing jerked as his bones snapped back in place and muscles and tendons rippled and the tears in them vanished. Lastly, the wounds in Thorn’s hide sealed over.
How did he do that? Eragon exclaimed.
What of your own oaths to avenge Hrothgar’s death? Saphira asked. Eragon ignored her.
Murtagh sneered at him. “So you are asking me to be that which I am not. If Thorn and I are to save ourselves, we must destroy our current identities. Your cure is worse than our affliction.”
“I’m asking you to allow yourself to grow into something other than you are now. It’s a difficult thing to do, I know, but people remake themselves all the time. Let go of your anger, for one, and you can turn your back on Galbatorix once and for all.”
“Let go of my anger?” Murtagh laughed. “I’ll let go of my anger when you forget yours over the Empire’s role in the death of your uncle and the razing of your farm. Anger defines us, Eragon, and without it, you and I would be a feast for maggots. Still . . .” His eyes half lidded, Murtagh tapped Zar’roc’s crossguard, the cords in his neck softening, although the vein that split his forehead remained swollen as ever. “The concept is intriguing, I admit. Perhaps we can work on it together when we are in Urû’baen. That is, if the king permits us to be alone with each other. Of course, he may decide to keep us permanently separated. I would if I were in his position.”
Eragon tightened his fingers around the hilt of the falchion. “You seem to think we will accompany you to the capital.”
“Oh, but you will, brother.” A crooked smile stretched Murtagh’s mouth. “Even if we wanted to, Thorn and I could not change who we are in an instant. Until such time as we may have that opportunity, we shall remain beholden to Galbatorix, and he has ordered us, in no uncertain terms, to bring him the two of you. Neither of us is willing to brave the king’s displeasure again. We defeated you once before. It will be no great achievement to do so again.”
A spurt of flame escaped from between Saphira’s teeth, and Eragon had to stifle a similar response in words. If he lost control of his temper now, bloodshed would be unavoidable. “Please, Murtagh, Thorn, will you not at least try what I’ve suggested? Have you no desire to resist Galbatorix? You will never cast off your chains unless you are willing to defy him.”
“You underestimate Galbatorix, Eragon,” growled Murtagh. “He has been creating name-slaves for over a hundred years, ever since he recruited our father. Do you think he is unaware that a person’s true name may vary over the course of his life? He is sure to have taken precautions against that eventuality. If my true name were to change this very moment, or Thorn’s, most likely it would trigger a spell that would alert Galbatorix to the change and force us to return to him in Urû’baen so he could bind us to him again.”
“But only if he could guess your new names.”
“He is most adept at the practice.” Murtagh raised Zar’roc off the saddle. “We may make use of your suggestion in the future, but only after careful study and preparation, so that Thorn and I do not regain our freedom only to have Galbatorix steal it back from us directly afterward.” He hefted Zar’roc, the sword’s iridescent blade shimmering. “Therefore, we have no choice but to take you with us to Urû’baen. Will you go peacefully?”
Unable to contain himself any longer, Eragon said, “I would sooner tear out my own heart!”
“Better to tear out my hearts,” Murtagh replied, then stabbed Zar’roc overhead and shouted a wild war cry.
Roaring in unison, Thorn flapped twice, fast, to climb above Saphira. He twisted in a half circle as he rose, so his head would be over Saphira’s neck, where he could immobilize her with a single bite at the base of her skull.
Saphira did not wait for him. She tipped forward, rotating her wings in their shoulder sockets, so that, for the span of a heartbeat, she pointed straight down, her wings still parallel with the dustsmeared ground, supporting her entire unstable weight. Then she pulled in her right wing and swung her head to the left and her tail to the right, spinning in a clockwise direction. Her muscular tail struck Thorn across his left side just as he sailed over her, breaking his wing in five separate places. The jagged ends of Thorn’s hollow flight bones pierced his hide and stuck out between his flashing scales. Globules of steaming dragon blood rained down upon Eragon and Saphira. A droplet splashed against the back of Eragon’s coif and seeped through the mail to his bare skin. It burned like hot oil. He scrabbled at his neck, trying to wipe off the blood.
His roar converting into a whine of pain, Thorn tumbled past Saphira, unable to stay aloft.
“Well done!” Eragon shouted to Saphira as she righted herself.
Eragon watched from above as Murtagh removed a small round object from his belt and pressed it against Thorn’s shoulder. Eragon sensed no surge of magic from Murtagh, but the object in his hand flared and Thorn’s broken wing jerked as his bones snapped back in place and muscles and tendons rippled and the tears in them vanished. Lastly, the wounds in Thorn’s hide sealed over.
How did he do that? Eragon exclaimed.
