Inheritance
Page 215
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Hopelessness again overwhelmed Eragon. Shruikan could kill Saphira with a bat of his paw. And as large as the chamber was, it was still too small for Saphira to evade the great black dragon for long.
His hopelessness turned to frustrated rage, and he wrenched at his invisible bonds. “How is it you can do this?” he shouted, straining every muscle in his body.
“I would like to know that as well,” said Arya.
Galbatorix’s eyes seemed to gleam beneath the dark eaves of his brow. “Can you not guess, elfling?”
“I would prefer an answer to a guess,” she replied.
“Very well. But first you must do something so that you may know that what I say is indeed the truth. You must try to cast a spell, both of you, and then I shall tell you.” When neither Eragon nor Arya made to speak, the king gestured with his hand. “Go on; I promise that I will not punish you for it. Now try.… I insist.”
Arya went first. “Thrautha,” she said, her voice hard and low. She was, Eragon guessed, trying to send the Dauthdaert flying toward Galbatorix. The weapon, however, remained fixed to her hand.
Then Eragon spoke: “Brisingr!” He thought that perhaps his bond with his sword would allow him to use magic where Arya could not, but to his disappointment, the blade remained as it was, glittering dimly in the dull light of the lanterns.
Galbatorix’s gaze grew more intense. “The answer must be obvious to you now, elfling. It has taken me most of the past century, but at long last I have found what I was searching for: a means of governing the spellcasters of Alagaësia. The search was not easy; most men would have given up in frustration or, if they had the required patience, fear. But not I. I persisted. And through my study, I discovered what I had for so long desired: a tablet written in another land and another age, by hands that were neither elf nor dwarf nor human nor Urgal. And upon that tablet, there was scribed a certain Word—a name that magicians throughout the ages have hunted for with nothing but bitter disappointment as their reward.” Galbatorix lifted a finger. “The name of all names. The name of the ancient language.”
Eragon bit back a curse. He had been right. That’s what the Ra’zac was trying to tell me, he thought, remembering what one of the insect-like monsters had said to him in Helgrind: “He has almossst found the name.… The true name!”
As disheartening as Galbatorix’s revelation was, Eragon clung to the knowledge that the name could not stop him or Arya—or Saphira for that matter—from using magic without the ancient language. Not that it would do much good. The king’s wards were sure to protect him and Shruikan from any spells they might cast. Still, if the king did not know that it was possible to use magic without the ancient language, or even if he did but he believed that they did not, then they might be able to surprise him and maybe distract him for a moment, although Eragon was not sure how that might help.
Galbatorix continued: “With this Word, I can reshape spells as easily as another magician might command the elements. All spells shall be subject to me, but I am subject to none, except for those of my choosing.”
Perhaps he doesn’t know, Eragon thought, a spark of determination kindling in his heart.
“I shall use the name of names to bring every magician in Alagaësia to heel, and no one shall cast a spell but with my blessing, not even the elves. At this very moment, the magicians of your army are discovering the truth of this. Once they venture a certain distance into Urû’baen, past the front gate, their spells cease to work as they should. Some of their enchantments fail outright, while others twist and end up affecting your troops instead of mine.” Galbatorix tilted his head and his gaze grew distant, as if he were listening to someone whispering in his ear. “It has caused much confusion among their ranks.”
Eragon fought the urge to spit at the king. “It doesn’t matter,” he growled. “We’ll still find a way to stop you.”
Galbatorix seemed grimly amused. “Is that so. How? And why? Think what you are saying. You would stop the first opportunity that Alagaësia has had for true peace in order to sate your over-developed sense of vengeance? You would allow magicians everywhere to continue to have their way, regardless of the harm they cause others? That seems far worse than anything I have done. But this is idle speculation. The finest warriors of the Riders could not defeat me, and you are far from their equal. You never had any hope of overthrowing me. None of you did.”
“I killed Durza, and I killed the Ra’zac,” said Eragon. “Why not you?”
“I am not as weak as those who serve me. You could not even trounce Murtagh, and he is but a shadow of a shadow. Your father, Morzan, was far more powerful than either of you, and even he could not withstand my might. Besides,” said Galbatorix as a cruel expression settled on his face, “you are mistaken if you think you destroyed the Ra’zac. The eggs in Dras-Leona weren’t the only ones I took from the Lethrblaka. I have others, hidden elsewhere. Soon they shall hatch, and soon the Ra’zac shall once more roam the earth to do my bidding. As for Durza, Shades are easy to make, and they are often more trouble than they are worth. So you see, you have won nothing, boy—nothing but false victories.”
Above all, Eragon hated Galbatorix’s smugness and his air of overwhelming superiority. He wanted to rage at the king and curse him with every oath he knew, but for the sake of the children’s safety, he held his tongue.
His hopelessness turned to frustrated rage, and he wrenched at his invisible bonds. “How is it you can do this?” he shouted, straining every muscle in his body.
“I would like to know that as well,” said Arya.
Galbatorix’s eyes seemed to gleam beneath the dark eaves of his brow. “Can you not guess, elfling?”
“I would prefer an answer to a guess,” she replied.
“Very well. But first you must do something so that you may know that what I say is indeed the truth. You must try to cast a spell, both of you, and then I shall tell you.” When neither Eragon nor Arya made to speak, the king gestured with his hand. “Go on; I promise that I will not punish you for it. Now try.… I insist.”
Arya went first. “Thrautha,” she said, her voice hard and low. She was, Eragon guessed, trying to send the Dauthdaert flying toward Galbatorix. The weapon, however, remained fixed to her hand.
Then Eragon spoke: “Brisingr!” He thought that perhaps his bond with his sword would allow him to use magic where Arya could not, but to his disappointment, the blade remained as it was, glittering dimly in the dull light of the lanterns.
Galbatorix’s gaze grew more intense. “The answer must be obvious to you now, elfling. It has taken me most of the past century, but at long last I have found what I was searching for: a means of governing the spellcasters of Alagaësia. The search was not easy; most men would have given up in frustration or, if they had the required patience, fear. But not I. I persisted. And through my study, I discovered what I had for so long desired: a tablet written in another land and another age, by hands that were neither elf nor dwarf nor human nor Urgal. And upon that tablet, there was scribed a certain Word—a name that magicians throughout the ages have hunted for with nothing but bitter disappointment as their reward.” Galbatorix lifted a finger. “The name of all names. The name of the ancient language.”
Eragon bit back a curse. He had been right. That’s what the Ra’zac was trying to tell me, he thought, remembering what one of the insect-like monsters had said to him in Helgrind: “He has almossst found the name.… The true name!”
As disheartening as Galbatorix’s revelation was, Eragon clung to the knowledge that the name could not stop him or Arya—or Saphira for that matter—from using magic without the ancient language. Not that it would do much good. The king’s wards were sure to protect him and Shruikan from any spells they might cast. Still, if the king did not know that it was possible to use magic without the ancient language, or even if he did but he believed that they did not, then they might be able to surprise him and maybe distract him for a moment, although Eragon was not sure how that might help.
Galbatorix continued: “With this Word, I can reshape spells as easily as another magician might command the elements. All spells shall be subject to me, but I am subject to none, except for those of my choosing.”
Perhaps he doesn’t know, Eragon thought, a spark of determination kindling in his heart.
“I shall use the name of names to bring every magician in Alagaësia to heel, and no one shall cast a spell but with my blessing, not even the elves. At this very moment, the magicians of your army are discovering the truth of this. Once they venture a certain distance into Urû’baen, past the front gate, their spells cease to work as they should. Some of their enchantments fail outright, while others twist and end up affecting your troops instead of mine.” Galbatorix tilted his head and his gaze grew distant, as if he were listening to someone whispering in his ear. “It has caused much confusion among their ranks.”
Eragon fought the urge to spit at the king. “It doesn’t matter,” he growled. “We’ll still find a way to stop you.”
Galbatorix seemed grimly amused. “Is that so. How? And why? Think what you are saying. You would stop the first opportunity that Alagaësia has had for true peace in order to sate your over-developed sense of vengeance? You would allow magicians everywhere to continue to have their way, regardless of the harm they cause others? That seems far worse than anything I have done. But this is idle speculation. The finest warriors of the Riders could not defeat me, and you are far from their equal. You never had any hope of overthrowing me. None of you did.”
“I killed Durza, and I killed the Ra’zac,” said Eragon. “Why not you?”
“I am not as weak as those who serve me. You could not even trounce Murtagh, and he is but a shadow of a shadow. Your father, Morzan, was far more powerful than either of you, and even he could not withstand my might. Besides,” said Galbatorix as a cruel expression settled on his face, “you are mistaken if you think you destroyed the Ra’zac. The eggs in Dras-Leona weren’t the only ones I took from the Lethrblaka. I have others, hidden elsewhere. Soon they shall hatch, and soon the Ra’zac shall once more roam the earth to do my bidding. As for Durza, Shades are easy to make, and they are often more trouble than they are worth. So you see, you have won nothing, boy—nothing but false victories.”
Above all, Eragon hated Galbatorix’s smugness and his air of overwhelming superiority. He wanted to rage at the king and curse him with every oath he knew, but for the sake of the children’s safety, he held his tongue.
