Christopher Paolini - Inheritance

“They merely make for good statesmanship. Or do you see it differently?”

“I see several options you have overlooked or disregarded, perhaps because you consider them distasteful. But no matter. Continue.”

Dathedr’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained as smooth as ever. “The most obvious choice-and the one the people of the Empire will likely expect-is the person who actually killed Galbatorix. That is, Eragon.”

The air in the chamber grew brittle, as if it were made of glass.

Everyone looked at Eragon, even Saphira and the werecat, and he could feel Umaroth and the other Eldunari observing him closely too. He stared back at the people around him, neither frightened nor angered by their scrutiny. He searched Nasuada’s face for a hint as to her reaction, but other than the seriousness of her expression, he could discern nothing of what she thought or felt.

It unsettled him to realize that Dathedr was correct: he could become king.

For a moment, Eragon allowed himself to entertain the possibility. There was no one who could stop him from taking the throne, no one except Elva and perhaps Murtagh-but he now knew how to counter Elva’s ability, and Murtagh was no longer there to challenge him. Saphira, he could sense from her mind, would not oppose him, whatever he chose. And though he could not read Nasuada’s expression, he had a strange feeling that, for the first time, she would be willing to step aside and allow him to take command.

What do you want? asked Saphira.

Eragon thought about it. I want … to be of use. But power and dominion over others-those things that Galbatorix sought-they hold little appeal for me. In any case, we have other responsibilities .

Shifting his attention back to those watching, he said, “No. It would not be right.”

King Orrin grunted and took another swig of his wine, while Arya, Dathedr, and Nasuada seemed to relax, if however slightly. Like them, the Eldunari seemed pleased with his decision, although they did not comment upon it with words.

“I am glad to hear you say it,” said Dathedr. “No doubt you would make a fine ruler, but I do not think it would be good for your kind, nor for the other races of Alagaesia, were another Dragon Rider to assume the crown.”

Then Arya motioned to Dathedr. The silver-haired elf stepped back slightly, and Arya said, “Roran would be another obvious choice.”

“Roran!” said Eragon, incredulous.

Arya gazed at him, her eyes solemn and-in the sideways light-bright and fierce, like emeralds cut in a rayed pattern. “It was by his actions that the Varden captured Uru’baen. He is the hero of Aroughs and of many other battles besides. The Varden and the rest of the Empire would follow him without hesitation.”

“He’s rude and overconfident, and he hasn’t the experience needed,” said Orrin. Then he glanced over at Eragon with a slightly guilty expression. “He is a good warrior, though.”

Arya blinked, once, like an owl. “I believe you would find that his rudeness depends upon those he is dealing with … Your Majesty. However, you are correct; Roran lacks the experience needed. That leaves but two choices, then: you, Nasuada; and you, King Orrin.”

King Orrin shifted again in his deep-seated chair, and his brow furrowed more severely than before, while Nasuada’s expression remained unchanged.

“I assume,” said Orrin to Nasuada, “that you wish to assert your claim.”

She lifted her chin. “I do.” Her voice was as calm as smooth water.

“Then we are at an impasse, for so do I. And I will not relent.” Orrin rolled the stem of his goblet between his fingers. “The only way I can see to resolve the matter without bloodshed is for you to renounce your claim. If you insist upon pursuing it, you will end up destroying everything we have won today, and you will have none to blame but yourself for the havoc that will follow.”

“You would turn upon your own allies for no other reason than to deny Nasuada the throne?” asked Arya. King Orrin might not have recognized it, but Eragon saw her cold, hard demeanor for what it was: a readiness to strike and kill at a moment’s notice.

“No,” Orrin replied. “I would turn upon the Varden in order to win the throne. There is a difference.”

“Why?” asked Nasuada.

“Why?” The question seemed to outrage Orrin. “My people have housed, fed, and equipped the Varden. They have fought and died alongside your warriors and, as a country, we have risked far more than the Varden. The Varden have no home; if Galbatorix had defeated Eragon and the dragons, you could have fled and hid. But we had nowhere to go other than Surda. Galbatorix would have fallen upon us like a bolt from on high, and he would have laid waste to the entire region. We wagered everything -our families, our homes, our wealth, and our freedom-and after all that, after all our sacrifices, do you truly believe we will be satisfied to return to our fields with no other rewards than a pat on the head and your royal thanks? Bah! I’d sooner crawl. We’ve watered the ground between here and the Burning Plains with our blood, and now we’ll have our recompense.” He clenched his fist. “Now we’ll have the just spoils of war.”

Orrin’s words did not seem to upset Nasuada; indeed, she looked thoughtful, almost sympathetic.

Surely she won’t give this snarling cur what he wants , said Saphira.

Wait and see , said Eragon. She’s yet to lead us astray .

Arya said, “I would hope that the two of you could come to an amicable agreement, and-”

“Of course,” said King Orrin. “I hope for that as well.” His gaze flicked toward Nasuada. “But I fear that Nasuada’s single-minded determination will not allow her to realize that, in this, she must finally submit.”

Arya continued: “-and as Dathedr said, we would not think of interfering with your race as you choose your next ruler.”

“I remember,” said Orrin with a hint of a smug smile.

“However,” said Arya, “as sworn allies of the Varden, I must tell you that we regard any attack on them as an attack on ourselves, and we will respond in kind.”

Orrin’s face drew inward, as if he had bitten into something sour.

“The same holds true for us the dwarves,” said Orik. The sound of his voice was like stones grinding against one another deep underground.

Grimrr Halfpaw lifted his mangled hand before his face and inspected the clawlike nails on his three remaining fingers. “We do not care who becomes king or queen as long as we are given the seat next to the throne that was promised to us. Still, it was with Nasuada that we made our bargain, and it is Nasuada we shall continue to support until such time as she is no longer pack leader of the Varden.”

“Ah-ha!” exclaimed King Orrin, and he leaned forward with his hand on one knee. “But she isn’t the leader of the Varden. Not anymore. Eragon is!”

Again all eyes turned to Eragon. He grimaced slightly and said, “I thought it was understood that I gave my authority back to Nasuada the moment she was free. If not, then let there be no mistake: Nasuada is the leader of the Varden, not me. And I believe that she ought to be the one to inherit the throne.”

“You would say that,” said King Orrin, sneering. “You’ve sworn fealty to her. Of course you believe she should inherit the throne. You’re nothing more than a loyal servant standing up for his master, and your opinions carry no more weight than the opinions of my own servants.”

“No!” said Eragon. “There you’re wrong. If I thought that you or anyone else would make a better ruler, then I would say so! Yes, I gave my oath to Nasuada, but that doesn’t stop me from speaking the truth as I see it.”