Christopher Paolini - Inheritance

Again Eragon felt proud to have Orik as his foster brother. “Thank you,” he said.

Orik grunted. “My people never desired this, but I am grateful for it. When will we know?”

“Within a few days. A week at most.”

“Will we feel anything?”

“Maybe. I’ll ask Arya. Either way, I’ll contact you again once it’s done.”

“Good. Then we will speak later. Safe travels and sound stone, Eragon.”

“May Helzvog watch over you.”

* * *

The following day, they departed Ilirea.

It was a private event, devoid of fanfare, for which Eragon was grateful. Nasuada, Jormundur, Jeod, and Elva met them outside the city’s southern gate, where Saphira and Firnen sat side by side, pushing their heads against one another while Eragon and Arya inspected their saddles. Roran and Katrina arrived a few minutes later: Katrina carrying Ismira swaddled in a blanket, and Roran carrying two packs full of blankets, food, and other supplies, one slung over each shoulder.

Roran gave his packs to Arya, and she tied them atop Firnen’s saddlebags.

Then Eragon and Saphira said their last farewells, which was harder for Eragon than for Saphira. His were not the only eyes with tears, however; both Nasuada and Jeod wept as they embraced him and offered him and Saphira their good wishes. Nasuada also said farewell to Roran, and she again thanked him for his help against the Empire.

At last, as Eragon, Arya, Roran, and Katrina were about to climb onto the dragons, a woman called out, “Hold there!”

Eragon paused with his foot atop Saphira’s right foreleg and looked to see Birgit striding toward them from the city gates, gray skirts billowing, and her young son, Nolfavrell, trailing after her with a helpless expression on his face. In one hand, Birgit carried a drawn sword. In the other, a round wooden shield.

Eragon’s stomach sank.

Nasuada’s guards moved to intercept the two of them, but Roran shouted, “Let them pass!”

Nasuada signaled to the guards and they stepped aside.

Without slowing, Birgit walked over to Roran.

“Birgit, please don’t,” said Katrina in a low voice, but the other woman ignored her. Arya watched them unblinkingly, her hand on her sword.

“Stronghammer. I always said that I would have my compensation from you for my husband’s death, and now I have come to claim it, as is my right. Will you fight me, or will you pay the debt that is yours?”

Eragon went to stand by Roran. “Birgit, why are you doing this? Why now? Can’t you forgive him and let old sorrows rest?”

Do you want me to eat her? asked Saphira.

Not yet .

Birgit ignored him and kept her gaze fixed on Roran.

“Mother,” said Nolfavrell, tugging on her skirts, but she showed no reaction to his plea.

Nasuada joined them. “I know you,” she said to Birgit. “You fought with the men during the war.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“What quarrel have you with Roran? He has proved himself a fine and valuable warrior on more than one occasion, and I would be most displeased to lose him.”

“He and his family were responsible for the soldiers killing my husband.” She looked at Nasuada for a moment. “The Ra’zac ate him, Your Majesty. They ate him and they sucked the marrow from his bones. I cannot forgive that, and I will have my compensation for it.”

“It was not Roran’s fault,” said Nasuada. “This is unreasonable, and I forbid it.”

“No, it’s not,” said Eragon, though he hated to. “By our custom, she has the right to demand a blood price from everyone who was responsible for Quimby’s death.”

“But it wasn’t Roran’s fault!” exclaimed Katrina.

“But it was,” said Roran in a low voice. “I could have turned myself over to the soldiers. I could have led them away. Or I could have attacked. But I didn’t. I chose to hide, and Quimby died as a result.” He glanced at Nasuada. “This is a matter we must settle among ourselves, Your Majesty. It is a matter of honor, even as the Trial of the Long Knives was for you.”

Nasuada frowned and looked to Eragon. He nodded, so with reluctance, she stepped back.

“What will it be, Stronghammer?” asked Birgit.

“Eragon and I killed the Ra’zac in Helgrind,” said Roran. “Is that not enough?”

Birgit shook her head, her determination never wavering. “No.”

Roran paused then, the muscles in his neck rigid. “Is this what you really want, Birgit?”

“It is.”

“Then I will pay my debt.”

As Roran spoke, Katrina uttered a wail and thrust herself between him and Birgit, still holding their daughter in her arms. “I won’t let you! You can’t have him! Not now! Not after everything we’ve gone through!”

Birgit’s face remained as stone, and she made no move to retreat. Likewise, Roran showed no emotion as he grasped Katrina by the waist and, without apparent effort, lifted her off to the side. “Hold her, would you?” he said to Eragon in a cold voice.

“Roran …”

His cousin gave him a flat stare, then turned back to Birgit.

Eragon grabbed hold of Katrina’s shoulders to keep her from flinging herself after Roran, and he exchanged a helpless look with Arya. She glanced toward her sword, and he shook his head.

“Let go of me! Let go!” shouted Katrina. In her arms, the baby began to scream.

Never taking his eyes off the woman before him, Roran undid his belt and dropped it to the ground, along with his dagger and his hammer, which one of the Varden had found in the streets of Ilirea soon after Galbatorix’s death. Then Roran pulled open the front of his tunic and bared his hair-covered chest.

“Eragon, remove my wards,” he said.

“I-”

“Remove them!”

“Roran, no!” shouted Katrina. “Defend yourself.”

He’s mad , thought Eragon, but he dared not interfere. If he stopped Birgit, he would shame Roran, and the people of Palancar Valley would lose all respect for his cousin. And Roran, Eragon knew, would rather die than allow that to happen.

Nevertheless, Eragon had no intention of letting Birgit kill Roran. He would let her have her price, but no more. Speaking softly in the ancient language-so that none might hear the words he used-he did as Roran had asked, but he also placed three new wards upon his cousin: one to protect the spine within his neck from being severed; one to keep his skull from being broken; and one to safeguard his organs. All else Eragon felt confident he could heal if necessary, as long as Birgit did not start cutting off limbs.

“It is done,” he said.

Roran nodded and to Birgit said, “Take your price of me, then, and let this be an end to the quarrel between us.”

“You will not fight me?”

“No.”

Birgit eyed him for a moment; then she threw her shield onto the ground, crossed the few remaining feet that separated her from Roran, and placed the edge of her sword against Roran’s breast. In a voice loud enough for only Roran to hear-though Eragon and Arya did as well with their catlike acuity-she said, “I loved Quimby. He was my life, and he died because of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Roran whispered.

“Birgit,” pleaded Katrina. “Please …”

No one moved, not even the dragons. Eragon found himself holding his breath. The hiccupping crying of the baby was the loudest sound.

Then Birgit lifted the sword from Roran’s breast. She reached down to take his right hand and drew the edge of the sword across his palm. Roran winced as the blade cut into his hand, but he did not pull away.

A crimson line appeared upon his skin. Blood filled his palm and spilled dripping to the ground, where it soaked into the trampled earth, leaving a dark blotch upon the dirt.