Christopher Paolini - Eragon [en]

Eragon shuddered inwardly. It was amazing what she had survived. The memory of her injuries was still vivid in his mind. Softly, he asked, “Why do you tell me all this?”

“So that you know what I was saved from. Do not presume I can ignore your deed.”

Humbled, he bowed his head. “What will you do now — return to Ellesméra?”

“No, not yet. There is much that must be done here. I cannot abandon the Varden — Ajihad needs my help. I’ve seen you tested in both arms and magic today. Brom taught you well. You are ready to proceed in your training.”

“You mean for me to go to Ellesméra?”

“Yes.”

Eragon felt a flash of irritation. Did he and Saphira have no say in the matter? “When?”

“That is yet to be decided, but not for some weeks.”

At least they gave us that much time, thought Eragon. Saphira mentioned something to him, and he in turn asked Arya, “What did the Twins want me to do?”

Arya’s sculpted lip curled with disgust. “Something not even they can accomplish. It is possible to speak the name of an object in the ancient language and summon its true form. It takes years of work and great discipline, but the reward is complete control over the object. That is why one’s true name is always kept hidden, for if it were known by any with evil in their hearts, they could dominate you utterly.”

“It’s strange,” said Eragon after a moment, “but before I was captured at Gil’ead, I had visions of you in my dreams. It was like scrying — and I was able to scry you later — but it was always during my sleep.”

Arya pursed her lips pensively. “There were times I felt as if another presence was watching me, but I was often confused and feverish. I’ve never heard of anyone, either in lore or legend, being able to scry in their sleep.”

“I don’t understand it myself,” said Eragon, looking at his hands. He twirled Brom’s ring around his finger. “What does the tattoo on your shoulder mean? I didn’t mean to see it, but when I was healing your wounds... it couldn’t be helped. It’s just like the symbol on this ring.”

“You have a ring with the yawë on it?” she asked sharply.

“Yes. It was Brom’s. See?”

He held out the ring. Arya examined the sapphire, then said, “This is a token given only to the most valued elf-friends — so valued, in fact, it has not been used in centuries. Or so I thought. I never knew that Queen Islanzadi thought so highly of Brom.”

“I shouldn’t wear it, then,” said Eragon, afraid that he had been presumptuous.

“No, keep it. It will give you protection if you meet my people by chance, and it may help you gain favor with the queen. Tell no one of my tattoo. It should not be revealed.”

“Very well.”

He enjoyed talking with Arya and wished their conversation could have lasted longer. When they parted, he wandered through Farthen Dûr, conversing with Saphira. Despite his prodding, she refused to tell him what Arya had said to her. Eventually his thoughts turned to Murtagh and then to Nasuada’s advice. I’ll get something to eat, then go see him, he decided. Will you wait for me so I can return to the dragonhold with you?

I will wait — go, said Saphira.

With a grateful smile, Eragon dashed to Tronjheim, ate in an obscure corner of a kitchen, then followed Nasuada’s instructions until he reached a small gray door guarded by a man and a dwarf. When he requested entrance, the dwarf banged on the door three times, then unbolted it. “Just holler when you want to leave,” said the man with a friendly smile.

The cell was warm and well lit, with a washbasin in one corner and a writing desk — equipped with quills and ink — in another. The ceiling was extensively carved with lacquered figures; the floor was covered with a plush rug. Murtagh lay on a stout bed, reading a scroll. He looked up in surprise and exclaimed cheerily, “Eragon! I’d hoped you would come!”

“How did... I mean I thought—”

“You thought I was stuck in some rat hole chewing on hardtack,” said Murtagh, rolling upright with a grin. “Actually, I expected the same thing, but Ajihad lets me have all this as long as I don’t cause trouble. And they bring me huge meals, as well as anything I want from the library. If I’m not careful, I’ll turn into a fat scholar.”

Eragon laughed, and with a wondering smile seated himself next to Murtagh. “But aren’t you angry? You’re still a prisoner.”

“Oh, I was at first,” said Murtagh with a shrug. “But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that this is really the best place for me. Even if Ajihad gave me my freedom, I would stay in my room most of the time anyway.”

“But why?”

“You know well enough. No one would be at ease around me, knowing my true identity, and there would always be people who wouldn’t limit themselves to harsh looks or words. But enough of that, I’m eager to know what’s new. Come, tell me.”

Eragon recounted the events of the past two days, including his encounter with the Twins in the library. When he finished, Murtagh leaned back reflectively. “I suspect,” he said, “that Arya is more important than either of us thought. Consider what you’ve learned: she is a master of the sword, powerful in magic, and, most significantly, was chosen to guard Saphira’s egg. She cannot be ordinary, even among the elves.”

Eragon agreed.

Murtagh stared at the ceiling. “You know, I find this imprisonment oddly peaceful. For once in my life I don’t have to be afraid. I know I ought to be... yet something about this place puts me at ease. A good night’s sleep helps, too.”

“I know what you mean,” said Eragon wryly. He moved to a softer place on the bed. “Nasuada said that she visited you. Did she say anything interesting?”

Murtagh’s gaze shifted into the distance, and he shook his head. “No, she only wanted to meet me. Doesn’t she look like a princess? And the way she carries herself! When she first entered through that doorway, I thought she was one of the great ladies of Galbatorix’s court. I’ve seen earls and counts who had wives that, compared to her, were more fitted for life as a hog than of nobility.”

Eragon listened to his praise with growing apprehension. It may mean nothing, he reminded himself. You’re leaping to conclusions. Yet the foreboding would not leave him. Trying to shake off the feeling, he asked, “How long are you going to remain imprisoned, Murtagh? You can’t hide forever.”

Murtagh shrugged carelessly, but there was weight behind his words. “For now I’m content to stay and rest. There’s no reason for me to seek shelter elsewhere nor submit myself to the Twins’ examination. No doubt I’ll tire of this eventually, but for now... I am content.”

Saphira woke Eragon with a sharp rap of her snout, bruising him with her hard jaw. “Ouch!” he exclaimed, sitting upright. The cave was dark except for a faint glow emanating from the shuttered lantern. Outside in the dragonhold, Isidar Mithrim glittered with a thousand different colors, illuminated by its girdle of lanterns.

An agitated dwarf stood in the entrance to the cave, wringing his hands. “You must come, Argetlam! Great trouble — Ajihad summons you. There is no time!”

“What’s wrong?” asked Eragon.

The dwarf only shook his head, beard wagging. “Go, you must! Carkna bragha! Now!”

Eragon belted on Zar’roc, grabbed his bow and arrows, then strapped the saddle onto Saphira. So much for a good night’s sleep, she groused, crouching low to the floor so he could clamber onto her back. He yawned loudly as Saphira launched herself from the cave.