Inheritance
Page 94
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The black-clad warriors nearly caught up with them as he helped Arya past the last few rows of spikes. Once she was free, they rushed through the opening and into the purplish light, Eragon with every intention of then turning around and confronting their attackers head-on and killing every last one of them in retaliation for Wyrden’s death.
On the other side of the opening was a dark, heavily built chamber that reminded Eragon of the caves under Tronjheim. A huge circular pattern of inlaid stone—marble and chalcedony and polished hematite—occupied the center of the floor. Around the edge of the patterned disk stood rough, fist-sized chunks of amethyst set within silver collars. Each piece of the purple rock glowed softly—the source of the light they had seen from the corridor. Across the disk, against the far wall, was a large black altar draped with a gold and crimson cloth. Pillars and candelabra flanked the altar, with a closed door on each side.
All this Eragon saw as he barreled into the room, in the brief instant before he realized that his momentum was going to carry him through the ring of amethysts and onto the disk. He tried to stop himself, tried to turn aside, but he was moving too fast.
Desperate, he did the one thing he could: he jumped toward the altar, hoping he could clear the disk in a single bound.
As he sailed over the nearest of the amethyst stones, his last feeling was regret, and his last thought was of Saphira.
TO FEED A GOD
he first thing Eragon noticed was the difference in the colors. The stone blocks in the ceiling appeared richer than before. Details that had been obscure now seemed sharp and vivid, while others that had been prominent were subdued. Below him, the sumptuous nature of the patterned disk was even more apparent.
It took him a moment to understand the reason for the change: Arya’s red werelight no longer illuminated the chamber. Instead, what light there was came from the muted glow of the crystals and the lit candles in the candelabra.
Only then did he realize that something was crammed into his mouth, stretching his jaw painfully wide, and that he was hanging by his wrists from a chain mounted in the ceiling. He tried to move and found that his ankles were shackled and secured to a metal loop in the floor.
As he twisted in place, he saw Arya next to him, trussed and suspended in the same manner. Like him, she was gagged with a ball of cloth in her mouth and a rag tied around her head to hold it in place.
She was already awake and watching him, and he saw she was relieved at his return to consciousness.
Why hasn’t she escaped already? he wondered. Then: What happened? His thoughts felt thick and slow, as if he were drunk with exhaustion.
He looked down and saw that he had been stripped of his weapons and armor; he was clad only in his leggings. The belt of Beloth the Wise was gone, as was the necklace the dwarves had given him that prevented anyone from scrying him.
Looking up, he saw that the elf ring Aren was missing from his hand.
A touch of panic gripped him. Then he reassured himself with the knowledge that he was not helpless, not so long as he could work magic. Because of the cloth in his mouth, he would have to cast a spell without uttering it aloud, which was somewhat more dangerous than the normal method—for if his thoughts strayed during the process, he might accidentally select the wrong words—but not so dangerous as casting a spell without any use of the ancient language at all, which was perilous indeed. In any event, it would take only a small amount of energy for him to free himself, and he was confident he could do it without too much trouble.
He closed his eyes and gathered his resources in preparation. As he did, he heard Arya rattling her chain and making muffled noises.
Glancing over, he saw her shaking her head at him. He raised his eyebrows in a wordless inquiry: what is it? But she was unable to do anything more than grunt and continue to shake her head.
Frustrated, Eragon cautiously pushed out his mind toward her—alert for the slightest hint of intrusion from anyone else—but to his alarm, he felt only a soft, indistinct pressure surrounding him, as if bales of wool were packed around his mind.
Panic began to well up inside of him again, despite his efforts to control it.
He was not drugged. Of that, he was sure. But he did not know what else besides a drug could prevent him from touching Arya’s mind. If it was magic, it was magic unlike any he was familiar with.
He and Arya stared at each other for a moment; then a stir of motion drew Eragon’s eye upward and he saw lines of blood running down her forearms from where the manacles around her wrists had scraped away the skin.
Rage engulfed him. He grabbed the chain above him and yanked on it as hard as he could. The links held, but he refused to give up. In a frenzy of anger, he pulled on it again and again, without regard for the harm he was causing himself.
At last he stopped and hung limply while hot blood dripped from his wrists onto the back of his neck and shoulders.
Determined to escape, he delved into the flow of energy within his body and, directing the spell at his shackles, he mentally shouted, Kverst malmr du huildrs edtha, mar frëma né thön eka threyja!
He screamed into his gag as every nerve in his body seared with pain. Unable to maintain his concentration, he lost his grip on the spell, and the enchantment ended.
The pain vanished at once, but it left him devoid of breath, with his heart pounding as heavily as if he had just jumped off a cliff. The experience was similar to the seizures he had suffered before the dragons healed the scar on his back during the Agaetí Blödhren.
As he slowly recovered, he saw Arya gazing at him with a concerned expression. She must have tried a spell herself. Then: How could this have happened? The two of them bound and helpless, Wyrden dead, the herbalist captured or slain, and Solembum most likely lying hurt somewhere in the underground maze, if the black-clad warriors had not already killed the werecat. Eragon could not understand it. He, Arya, Wyrden, and Angela had been as capable and dangerous a group as any in Alagaësia. And yet they had failed, and he and Arya were at the mercy of their enemies.
On the other side of the opening was a dark, heavily built chamber that reminded Eragon of the caves under Tronjheim. A huge circular pattern of inlaid stone—marble and chalcedony and polished hematite—occupied the center of the floor. Around the edge of the patterned disk stood rough, fist-sized chunks of amethyst set within silver collars. Each piece of the purple rock glowed softly—the source of the light they had seen from the corridor. Across the disk, against the far wall, was a large black altar draped with a gold and crimson cloth. Pillars and candelabra flanked the altar, with a closed door on each side.
All this Eragon saw as he barreled into the room, in the brief instant before he realized that his momentum was going to carry him through the ring of amethysts and onto the disk. He tried to stop himself, tried to turn aside, but he was moving too fast.
Desperate, he did the one thing he could: he jumped toward the altar, hoping he could clear the disk in a single bound.
As he sailed over the nearest of the amethyst stones, his last feeling was regret, and his last thought was of Saphira.
TO FEED A GOD
he first thing Eragon noticed was the difference in the colors. The stone blocks in the ceiling appeared richer than before. Details that had been obscure now seemed sharp and vivid, while others that had been prominent were subdued. Below him, the sumptuous nature of the patterned disk was even more apparent.
It took him a moment to understand the reason for the change: Arya’s red werelight no longer illuminated the chamber. Instead, what light there was came from the muted glow of the crystals and the lit candles in the candelabra.
Only then did he realize that something was crammed into his mouth, stretching his jaw painfully wide, and that he was hanging by his wrists from a chain mounted in the ceiling. He tried to move and found that his ankles were shackled and secured to a metal loop in the floor.
As he twisted in place, he saw Arya next to him, trussed and suspended in the same manner. Like him, she was gagged with a ball of cloth in her mouth and a rag tied around her head to hold it in place.
She was already awake and watching him, and he saw she was relieved at his return to consciousness.
Why hasn’t she escaped already? he wondered. Then: What happened? His thoughts felt thick and slow, as if he were drunk with exhaustion.
He looked down and saw that he had been stripped of his weapons and armor; he was clad only in his leggings. The belt of Beloth the Wise was gone, as was the necklace the dwarves had given him that prevented anyone from scrying him.
Looking up, he saw that the elf ring Aren was missing from his hand.
A touch of panic gripped him. Then he reassured himself with the knowledge that he was not helpless, not so long as he could work magic. Because of the cloth in his mouth, he would have to cast a spell without uttering it aloud, which was somewhat more dangerous than the normal method—for if his thoughts strayed during the process, he might accidentally select the wrong words—but not so dangerous as casting a spell without any use of the ancient language at all, which was perilous indeed. In any event, it would take only a small amount of energy for him to free himself, and he was confident he could do it without too much trouble.
He closed his eyes and gathered his resources in preparation. As he did, he heard Arya rattling her chain and making muffled noises.
Glancing over, he saw her shaking her head at him. He raised his eyebrows in a wordless inquiry: what is it? But she was unable to do anything more than grunt and continue to shake her head.
Frustrated, Eragon cautiously pushed out his mind toward her—alert for the slightest hint of intrusion from anyone else—but to his alarm, he felt only a soft, indistinct pressure surrounding him, as if bales of wool were packed around his mind.
Panic began to well up inside of him again, despite his efforts to control it.
He was not drugged. Of that, he was sure. But he did not know what else besides a drug could prevent him from touching Arya’s mind. If it was magic, it was magic unlike any he was familiar with.
He and Arya stared at each other for a moment; then a stir of motion drew Eragon’s eye upward and he saw lines of blood running down her forearms from where the manacles around her wrists had scraped away the skin.
Rage engulfed him. He grabbed the chain above him and yanked on it as hard as he could. The links held, but he refused to give up. In a frenzy of anger, he pulled on it again and again, without regard for the harm he was causing himself.
At last he stopped and hung limply while hot blood dripped from his wrists onto the back of his neck and shoulders.
Determined to escape, he delved into the flow of energy within his body and, directing the spell at his shackles, he mentally shouted, Kverst malmr du huildrs edtha, mar frëma né thön eka threyja!
He screamed into his gag as every nerve in his body seared with pain. Unable to maintain his concentration, he lost his grip on the spell, and the enchantment ended.
The pain vanished at once, but it left him devoid of breath, with his heart pounding as heavily as if he had just jumped off a cliff. The experience was similar to the seizures he had suffered before the dragons healed the scar on his back during the Agaetí Blödhren.
As he slowly recovered, he saw Arya gazing at him with a concerned expression. She must have tried a spell herself. Then: How could this have happened? The two of them bound and helpless, Wyrden dead, the herbalist captured or slain, and Solembum most likely lying hurt somewhere in the underground maze, if the black-clad warriors had not already killed the werecat. Eragon could not understand it. He, Arya, Wyrden, and Angela had been as capable and dangerous a group as any in Alagaësia. And yet they had failed, and he and Arya were at the mercy of their enemies.
