Inheritance
Page 216
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Do you have any ideas? he asked Saphira, Arya, and Glaedr.
No, said Saphira. The others remained silent.
Umaroth?
Only that we should attack while we still can.
A minute passed wherein no one spoke. Galbatorix leaned on one elbow and rested his chin on his fist while he continued to watch them. By his feet, the boy and the girl cried softly. Above, Shruikan’s eye remained fixed on Eragon and those with him, like a great ice-blue lantern.
Then they heard the doors to the chamber open and close, and the sound of approaching footsteps—the footsteps of both a man and a dragon.
Murtagh and Thorn soon appeared in their field of vision. They stopped next to Saphira, and Murtagh bowed. “Sir.”
The king motioned, and Murtagh and Thorn walked over to the right of the throne.
As Murtagh took up his position, he gave Eragon a look of disgust; then he clasped his hands behind his back and stared toward the far end of the chamber, ignoring him.
“You took longer than I expected,” said Galbatorix in a deceptively mild voice.
Without looking, Murtagh said, “The gate was more damaged than I originally thought, sir, and the spells you placed on it made it difficult to repair.”
“Do you mean that it’s my fault you are tardy?”
Murtagh’s jaw tightened. “No, sir. I only mean to explain. Also, part of the hallway was rather … messy, and that slowed us.”
“I see. We shall speak of this later, but for now, there are other matters we must attend to. For one, it is time our guests meet the final member of our party. Moreover, it is high time we had some proper light in here.”
And Galbatorix struck the flat of his blade against one arm of his throne, and in a deep voice, he cried, “Naina!”
At his command, hundreds of lanterns sprang to life along the walls of the chamber, bathing it with warm, candle-like illumination. The room was still dim about the corners, but for the first time Eragon could make out the details of their surroundings. Scores of pillars and doorways lined the walls, and all about were sculptures and paintings and gilt scrollwork. Gold and silver had been used with abundance, and Eragon glimpsed the sparkle of many jewels. It was a staggering display of wealth, even when compared with the riches of Tronjheim or Ellesméra.
After a moment, he noticed something else: a block of gray stone—granite perhaps—eight feet tall, which stood off to their right, beyond where the light had previously reached. And chained standing to the block was Nasuada, wearing a simple white tunic. She was watching them with wide-open eyes, though she could not speak, for a knotted cloth was tied over her mouth. She looked worn and tired but otherwise healthy.
Relief shot through Eragon. He had not dared hope to find her alive. “Nasuada!” he shouted. “Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“Has he forced you to swear fealty to him?”
She shook her head.
“Do you think I would let her tell you if I had?” asked Galbatorix. As Eragon looked back at the king, he saw Murtagh cast a quick, concerned glance toward Nasuada, and he wondered at its significance.
“Well, have you?” Eragon asked in a challenging tone.
“As it so happens, no. I decided to wait until I had gathered all of you together. Now that I have, none shall leave until you have pledged yourself in service to me, nor shall you leave until I have learned the true name of each and every one of you. That is why you are here. Not to kill me, but to bow down before me and to finally put an end to this noisome rebellion.”
Saphira growled again, and Eragon said, “We won’t give in.” Even to his own ears, his words seemed weak and toothless.
“Then they will die,” Galbatorix replied, pointing at the two children. “And in the end, your defiance will change nothing. You do not seem to understand; you have already lost. Outside, the battle fares badly for your friends. Soon my men will force them to surrender, and this war will arrive at its destined conclusion. Fight if you wish. Deny what is before you if it comforts you. But nothing you do can change your fate, or that of Alagaësia.”
Eragon refused to believe that he and Saphira would have to spend the rest of their lives answering to Galbatorix. Saphira felt the same, and her anger joined with his, burning away every last bit of his fear and caution, and he said, “Vae weohnata ono vergarí, eka thäet otherúm.” We will kill you, I swear it.
For a moment, Galbatorix appeared aggravated; then he spoke the Word again—as well as other words in the ancient language besides—and the vow Eragon had uttered seemed to lose all meaning; the words lay in his mind like a handful of dead leaves, devoid of any power to impel or inspire.
The king’s upper lip curved in a sneer. “Swear all the oaths you want. They shall not bind you, not unless I allow them to.”
“I’ll still kill you,” Eragon muttered. He understood that if he continued to resist, it might mean the lives of the two children, but Galbatorix had to be killed, and if the price of his death was the deaths of the boy and the girl, then that was a cost Eragon was willing to accept. He knew he would hate himself for it. He knew that he would see the faces of the children in his dreams for the rest of his life. But if he did not challenge Galbatorix, then all would be lost.
Do not hesitate, said Umaroth. Now is the time to strike.
Eragon raised his voice. “Why won’t you fight me? Are you a coward? Or are you too weak to match yourself against me? Is that why you hide behind these children like a frightened old woman?”
No, said Saphira. The others remained silent.
Umaroth?
Only that we should attack while we still can.
A minute passed wherein no one spoke. Galbatorix leaned on one elbow and rested his chin on his fist while he continued to watch them. By his feet, the boy and the girl cried softly. Above, Shruikan’s eye remained fixed on Eragon and those with him, like a great ice-blue lantern.
Then they heard the doors to the chamber open and close, and the sound of approaching footsteps—the footsteps of both a man and a dragon.
Murtagh and Thorn soon appeared in their field of vision. They stopped next to Saphira, and Murtagh bowed. “Sir.”
The king motioned, and Murtagh and Thorn walked over to the right of the throne.
As Murtagh took up his position, he gave Eragon a look of disgust; then he clasped his hands behind his back and stared toward the far end of the chamber, ignoring him.
“You took longer than I expected,” said Galbatorix in a deceptively mild voice.
Without looking, Murtagh said, “The gate was more damaged than I originally thought, sir, and the spells you placed on it made it difficult to repair.”
“Do you mean that it’s my fault you are tardy?”
Murtagh’s jaw tightened. “No, sir. I only mean to explain. Also, part of the hallway was rather … messy, and that slowed us.”
“I see. We shall speak of this later, but for now, there are other matters we must attend to. For one, it is time our guests meet the final member of our party. Moreover, it is high time we had some proper light in here.”
And Galbatorix struck the flat of his blade against one arm of his throne, and in a deep voice, he cried, “Naina!”
At his command, hundreds of lanterns sprang to life along the walls of the chamber, bathing it with warm, candle-like illumination. The room was still dim about the corners, but for the first time Eragon could make out the details of their surroundings. Scores of pillars and doorways lined the walls, and all about were sculptures and paintings and gilt scrollwork. Gold and silver had been used with abundance, and Eragon glimpsed the sparkle of many jewels. It was a staggering display of wealth, even when compared with the riches of Tronjheim or Ellesméra.
After a moment, he noticed something else: a block of gray stone—granite perhaps—eight feet tall, which stood off to their right, beyond where the light had previously reached. And chained standing to the block was Nasuada, wearing a simple white tunic. She was watching them with wide-open eyes, though she could not speak, for a knotted cloth was tied over her mouth. She looked worn and tired but otherwise healthy.
Relief shot through Eragon. He had not dared hope to find her alive. “Nasuada!” he shouted. “Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“Has he forced you to swear fealty to him?”
She shook her head.
“Do you think I would let her tell you if I had?” asked Galbatorix. As Eragon looked back at the king, he saw Murtagh cast a quick, concerned glance toward Nasuada, and he wondered at its significance.
“Well, have you?” Eragon asked in a challenging tone.
“As it so happens, no. I decided to wait until I had gathered all of you together. Now that I have, none shall leave until you have pledged yourself in service to me, nor shall you leave until I have learned the true name of each and every one of you. That is why you are here. Not to kill me, but to bow down before me and to finally put an end to this noisome rebellion.”
Saphira growled again, and Eragon said, “We won’t give in.” Even to his own ears, his words seemed weak and toothless.
“Then they will die,” Galbatorix replied, pointing at the two children. “And in the end, your defiance will change nothing. You do not seem to understand; you have already lost. Outside, the battle fares badly for your friends. Soon my men will force them to surrender, and this war will arrive at its destined conclusion. Fight if you wish. Deny what is before you if it comforts you. But nothing you do can change your fate, or that of Alagaësia.”
Eragon refused to believe that he and Saphira would have to spend the rest of their lives answering to Galbatorix. Saphira felt the same, and her anger joined with his, burning away every last bit of his fear and caution, and he said, “Vae weohnata ono vergarí, eka thäet otherúm.” We will kill you, I swear it.
For a moment, Galbatorix appeared aggravated; then he spoke the Word again—as well as other words in the ancient language besides—and the vow Eragon had uttered seemed to lose all meaning; the words lay in his mind like a handful of dead leaves, devoid of any power to impel or inspire.
The king’s upper lip curved in a sneer. “Swear all the oaths you want. They shall not bind you, not unless I allow them to.”
“I’ll still kill you,” Eragon muttered. He understood that if he continued to resist, it might mean the lives of the two children, but Galbatorix had to be killed, and if the price of his death was the deaths of the boy and the girl, then that was a cost Eragon was willing to accept. He knew he would hate himself for it. He knew that he would see the faces of the children in his dreams for the rest of his life. But if he did not challenge Galbatorix, then all would be lost.
Do not hesitate, said Umaroth. Now is the time to strike.
Eragon raised his voice. “Why won’t you fight me? Are you a coward? Or are you too weak to match yourself against me? Is that why you hide behind these children like a frightened old woman?”
