Christopher Paolini - Inheritance

Birgit ceased pulling on the sword and held it motionless against Roran’s palm for a moment more. Then she stepped back and lowered the scarlet-edged sword to her side. Roran closed his fingers around his palm, blood flowing between them, and pressed his hand against his hip.

“I have had my price,” said Birgit. “Our quarrel is at an end.”

Then she turned, picked up her shield, and strode back to the city, with Nolfavrell dogging her heels.

Eragon released Katrina, and she rushed to Roran’s side. “You fool,” she said, a bitter note in her voice. “You stubborn, pigheaded fool. Here, let me see.”

“It was the only way,” said Roran, as if from far away.

Katrina frowned, her face hard and strained as she examined the cut on his hand. “Eragon, you should heal this.”

“No,” said Roran with sudden sharpness. He closed his hand again. “No, this is one scar I’ll keep.” He looked around. “Is there a strip of fabric I can use as a bandage?”

After a moment of confusion, Nasuada pointed to one of her guards and said, “Cut off the bottom part of your tunic and give it to him.”

“Wait,” said Eragon as Roran started to wrap the strip around his hand. “I won’t heal it, but at least let me cast a spell to keep the cut from getting infected, all right?”

Roran hesitated. Then he nodded and held out his hand toward Eragon.

It took Eragon only a few seconds to mouth the spell. “There,” he said. “Now it won’t turn green and purple and swell up as large as a pig’s bladder.”

Roran grunted, and Katrina said, “Thank you, Eragon.”

“Now, shall we leave?” asked Arya.

The five of them climbed onto the dragons, Arya helping Roran and Katrina safely into the saddle on Firnen’s back, which had been modified with loops and straps to hold additional passengers. Once they were properly seated atop the green dragon, Arya raised a hand. “Farewell, Nasuada! Farewell, Eragon and Saphira! We will expect you in Ellesmera!”

Farewell! said Firnen in his deep voice. He spread his wings and jumped skyward, flapping quickly to lift the weight of the four people on his back, helped by the strength of the two Eldunari Arya was taking with her.

Saphira roared after him, and Firnen replied with a trumpeted bugle before arrowing his way toward the southeast and the distant Beor Mountains.

Eragon twisted around in his saddle and waved to Nasuada, Elva, Jormundur, and Jeod. They waved in return, and Jormundur shouted, “Best of luck to the both of you!”

“Goodbye,” cried Elva.

“Goodbye!” shouted Nasuada. “Be safe!”

Eragon replied in kind, and then he turned his back to them, unable to bear the sight any longer. Saphira crouched underneath him and sprang into the air as they began the first leg of their long, long journey.

Saphira circled as she gained altitude. Below, Eragon saw Nasuada and the others standing in a clump by the city walls, Elva holding up a small white kerchief, which fluttered in the gusts of wind from Saphira’s passage.

From Ilirea, Saphira flew to the nearby estate where Blodhgarm and the elves under his command were packing the Eldunari for transport. The elves would ride north with the Eldunari to Du Weldenvarden, and thence through the vast forest to the elven city of Silthrim, which sat upon the shore of Ardwen Lake. There the elves and the Eldunari would wait for Eragon and Saphira to return from Vroengard. Then together they would begin their journey out of Alagaesia, following the Gaena River as it flowed eastward through the forest and onto the plains beyond. All of them, that was, save Laufin and Uthinare, who had elected to stay behind in Du Weldenvarden.

The elves’ decision to accompany them had surprised Eragon, but he was grateful for it nevertheless. As Blodhgarm had said, “We cannot abandon the Eldunari. They need our help, as will the younglings once they hatch.”

Eragon and Saphira spent a half hour discussing the safe transport of the eggs with Blodhgarm, and then Eragon gathered up the Eldunari of Glaedr, Umaroth, and several of the older dragons; he and Saphira would need their strength on Vroengard.

Upon taking their leave of the elves, Saphira and Eragon set off to the northwest, Saphira flapping at a steady, unhurried pace compared with that of their first trip to Vroengard.

As she flew, a sadness fell upon Eragon, and for a time he felt despondent and self-pitying. Saphira too was sad-she because of having parted from Firnen-but the day was bright and the winds were calm, and their spirits soon lifted. Still, a faint sense of loss colored everything Eragon beheld, and he gazed at the land with renewed appreciation, knowing that he would likely never see it again.

Many leagues across the verdant grasslands Saphira flew, her shadow frightening the birds and the beasts below. When night came, they did not continue onward, but stopped and made camp by a rivulet that lay at the bottom of a shallow gully and sat watching the stars turning above them and talking of all that had been and all that might be.

Late the next day, they arrived at the Urgal village that had sprung up near the lake Flam, where Eragon knew they would find Nar Garzhvog and the Herndall, the council of dams who ruled their people.

Despite Eragon’s protests, the Urgals insisted upon throwing an enormous feast for him and Saphira, so he spent the evening drinking with Garzhvog and his rams. The Urgals made a wine out of berries and tree bark that Eragon thought was even stronger than the strongest of the dwarves’ mead. Saphira enjoyed it more than he-to him, it tasted like cherries gone bad-but he drank it anyway to please their hosts.

Many of the female Urgals came up to him and Saphira, curious to meet them, as few of the Urgal women had joined in the fight against the Empire. They were somewhat slimmer than their men but just as tall, and their horns tended to be shorter and more delicate, although still massive. With them were Urgal children: the younger ones lacking horns, the older ones with scaly nubs upon their foreheads that protruded between one and five inches. Without their horns, they looked surprisingly like humans, despite the different color of their skin and their eyes. It was obvious that some of the children were Kull, for even the younger ones towered over their compatriots and, sometimes, their parents. So far as Eragon could tell, there was no pattern that determined which parents bore Kull and which did not. The parents who were Kull themselves, it seemed, bore Urgals of ordinary stature just as often as giants like themselves.

All that evening, Eragon and Saphira caroused with Garzhvog, and Eragon fell into his waking dreams while listening to an Urgal chanter recite the tale of Nar Tulkhqa’s victory at Stavarosk-or so Garzhvog told him, for Eragon could understand nothing of the Urgals’ tongue, other than that it made the dwarves’ sound as sweet as honeyed wine.

In the morning, Eragon found himself blotched with a dozen or more bruises, the result of the friendly knocks and cuffs he had received from the Kull during their feasting.

His head throbbing, and his body as well, he and Saphira went with Garzhvog to speak with the Herndall. The twelve dams held court in a low, circular hut filled with the smoke of burning juniper and cedar. The wicker doorway was barely large enough for Saphira’s head, and her scales cast chips of blue light across the dark interior.

The dams were exceedingly old, and several were blind and toothless. They wore robes patterned with knots similar to the woven straps that hung outside each building, and which bore the crest of the inhabitants’ clan. Each of the Herndall carried a stick carved with patterns that held no meaning for Eragon but which he knew were not meaningless.