Inheritance
Page 85

I do.
Then proceed as you will.
Eragon took a moment to collect himself. Then he found the nub in the back of his mind and reached through it to tap his body’s store of energy. Channeling that energy into the word he spoke, while also thinking about everything he knew of the sword, he said clearly and distinctly:
“Brisingr!”
Eragon felt his strength ebb precipitously. Alarmed, he tried to speak, tried to move, but the spell bound him in place. He could not even blink or breathe.
Unlike before, the sheathed sword did not burst into flame; it wavered, like a reflection in water. Then, in the air next to the weapon, a transparent apparition appeared: a perfect, glowing likeness of Brisingr free of its sheath. As well made as was the sword itself—and Eragon had never found so much as a single flaw—the duplicate floating before him was even more refined. It was as if he was seeing the idea of the sword, an idea that not even Rhunön, with all her experience working metal, could hope to capture.
As soon as the manifestation became visible, Eragon was again able to breathe and move. He maintained the spell for several seconds, so he could marvel at the beauty of the summoning, and then he let the spell slip free of his grasp and the ghostly sword slowly faded into oblivion.
In its absence, the inside of the tent seemed unexpectedly dark.
Only then did Eragon again become aware of Saphira and Glaedr pressing against his consciousness, watching with steadfast attentiveness every thought that flickered through his mind. Both of the dragons were as tense as Eragon had ever felt them. If he were to poke Saphira, he guessed she would be so startled, she would twist herself in circles.
And if I were to poke you, nothing would be left but a smear, she commented.
Eragon smiled and lowered himself onto the cot, tired.
In his mind, Eragon heard a sound like wind rushing across a lonely plain as Glaedr relaxed. You did well, Shadeslayer. Glaedr’s praise surprised Eragon; the old dragon had given out few enough compliments since he had begun teaching Eragon. But let us not try it again.
Eragon shivered and rubbed his arms, trying to dispel the cold that had crept into his limbs. Agreed, Master. It was not an experience he was eager to replicate. Still, he felt a deep sense of satisfaction. He had proven without a doubt that there was at least one thing in Alagaësia that he could do as well as anyone possibly could.
And that gave him hope.
On the morning of the third day, Roran arrived back at the Varden, along with his companions: tired, wounded, and travel-worn. Roran’s return stirred the Varden from their torpor for a few hours—he and the others with him were given a hero’s welcome—but an air of boredom soon settled over the majority of the Varden again.
Eragon was relieved to see Roran. He had known his cousin was safe, as he had scryed him several times while he was gone. Nevertheless, seeing him in person freed Eragon of an anxiety that, until that very moment, he had not realized he was carrying. Roran was the only family he had left—Murtagh did not count, as far as Eragon was concerned—and Eragon could not bear the thought of losing him.
Now, seeing Roran up close, Eragon was shocked by his appearance. He had expected Roran and the others to be exhausted, but Roran seemed far more haggard than his companions; he looked as if he had aged five years over the course of the trip. His eyes were red and dark-ringed, his brow was lined, and he moved stiffly, as if every inch of his body was covered in bruises. And then there was his beard, which had been burned half off and which now had a mottled, mangy appearance.
The five men—one less than their original number—went first to visit the healers of Du Vrangr Gata, where the spellcasters attended to their wounds. Then they presented themselves to Nasuada in her pavilion. After commending them for their bravery, Nasuada dismissed all of the men except Roran, whom she asked to deliver a detailed account of his journey to and from Aroughs, as well as the capture of the city itself. The telling took some time, but both Nasuada and Eragon—who was standing by her right hand—listened with rapt and sometimes horrified attention while Roran spoke. When he finished, Nasuada surprised both him and Eragon by announcing that she was placing Roran in charge of one of the Varden’s battalions.
Eragon expected the news to please Roran. Instead, he saw the lines in his cousin’s face deepen and his brows draw together in a frown. Roran made no objection or complaint, however, but bowed and said in his rough voice, “As you wish, Lady Nasuada.”
Later, Eragon walked Roran to his tent, where Katrina was waiting for them. She greeted Roran with such an obvious display of emotion that Eragon averted his eyes, embarrassed.
With Saphira, the three of them dined together, but Eragon and Saphira excused themselves as soon as they could, for it was obvious that Roran had no energy for company and Katrina wished to have him for herself.
As he and Saphira wandered through the camp in the deepening dusk, Eragon heard someone behind him shout, “Eragon! Eragon! Wait a moment!”
He turned to see the thin, gangly figure of the scholar Jeod running toward him, strands of hair flying around his lean face. In his left hand, Jeod clutched a ragged scrap of parchment.
“What is it?” Eragon asked, worried.
“This!” exclaimed Jeod, his eyes gleaming. He held up the parchment and shook it. “I’ve done it again, Eragon! I’ve found a way!” In the fading light, the scar on his scalp and temple appeared startlingly pale against his tanned skin.
“You’ve done what again? You’ve found what way? Slow down; you’re not making sense!”