The Inheritance Cycle - Brisingr Part 34

Farther down the curved line of wagons, Martland, Ulhart, and their men also jumped into the camp, alighting with a clack of hooves and a jangle of armor and weapons. A horse screamed and fell as a soldier wounded it with a spear.

Roran blocked the soldier's sword a second time, then rapped the man's sword hand, breaking bones and forcing the man to drop his weapon. Without pause, Roran struck the man in the center of his red tunic, cracking his sternum and felling the gasping, mortally wounded soldier.

Roran twisted in the saddle, searching the camp for his next opponent. His muscles vibrated with frantic excitement; every detail around him was as sharp and clear as if it were etched in gla.s.s. He felt invincible, invulnerable. Time itself seemed to stretch and slow, so that a confused moth that fluttered past him appeared to be flying through honey instead of air.

Then a pair of hands clamped down on the back of his mail hauberk and yanked him off Snowfire and slammed him into the hard ground, knocking the breath out of him. Roran's sight flickered and went black for a moment. When he recovered, he saw that the first soldier he had attacked was sitting on his chest, choking him. The soldier blotted out the source of light Carn had created in the sky. A white halo surrounded his head and shoulders, casting his features in such deep shadow, Roran could make out nothing of his face but the flash of bared teeth.

The soldier tightened his fingers around Roran's throat as Roran gasped for air. Roran groped after his hammer, which he had dropped, but it was not within reach. Tensing his neck to keep the soldier from crushing the life out of him, he drew his dagger from his belt and drove it through the soldier's hauberk, through his gambeson, and between the ribs on the soldier's left side.

The soldier did not even flinch, nor did his grip relax.

A continuous stream of gurgling laughter emanated from the soldier. The lurching, heart-stopping chuckle, hideous in the extreme, turned Roran's stomach cold with fear. He remembered the sound from before; he had heard it while watching the Varden fight the men who felt no pain on the gra.s.sy field beside the Jiet River. In a flash, he understood why the soldiers had chosen such a poor campsite: They do not care if they are trapped or not, for we cannot hurt them They do not care if they are trapped or not, for we cannot hurt them.

Roran's vision turned red, and yellow stars danced before his eyes. Teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, he yanked the dagger free and stabbed upward, into the soldier's armpit, twisting the blade in the wound. Gouts of hot blood spurted over his hand, but the soldier did not seem to notice. The world exploded in blotches of pulsing colors as the soldier smashed Roran's head against the ground. Once. Twice. Three times. Roran bucked his hips, trying without success to throw the man off. Blind and desperate, he slashed at where he guessed the man's face to be and felt the dagger catch in soft flesh. He pulled the dagger back slightly, then lunged in that direction, feeling the impact as the tip of the blade struck bone.

The pressure around Roran's neck vanished.

Roran lay where he was, his chest heaving, then rolled over and vomited, throat burning. Still gasping and coughing, he staggered upright and saw the soldier sprawled motionless next to him, the dagger protruding from the man's left nostril.

"Go for the head!" shouted Roran, despite his raw throat. "The head!"

He left the dagger buried in the soldier's nostril and retrieved his hammer from the trampled ground where it had fallen, pausing long enough to also grab an abandoned spear, which he held with his shield hand. Jumping over the fallen soldier, he ran toward Halmar, who was on foot as well and dueling three soldiers at once. Before the soldiers noticed him, Roran bashed the two closest ones in the head so hard, he split their helms. The third he left to Halmar, instead bounding over to the soldier whose sternum he had broken and whom he had left for dead. He found the man sitting against the wheel of a wagon, spitting up clotted blood and struggling to string a bow.

Roran gored him through an eye with the spear. Pieces of gray flesh clung to the blade of the spear as he pulled it free.

An idea occurred to Roran then. He threw the spear at a man in a red tunic on the other side of the nearest fire-impaling him through the torso-then slid the haft of his hammer under his belt and strung the soldier's bow. Placing his back against a wagon, Roran began to shoot the soldiers rushing about the encampment, attempting either to kill them with a lucky shot to the face, the throat, or the heart or to cripple them so his companions could more easily dispatch them. If nothing else, he reasoned that an injured soldier might bleed to death before the fight ended.

The initial confidence of the attack had faded into confusion. The Varden were scattered and dismayed, some on their steeds, some on foot, and most bloodied. At least five, so far as Roran could tell, had died when soldiers they had thought slain had returned to a.s.sail them. How many soldiers were left, it was impossible to tell in the throng of flailing bodies, but Roran could see that they still outnumbered the scant twenty-five or so of the remaining Varden. They could tear us into pieces with their bare hands while we try to hack them apart, They could tear us into pieces with their bare hands while we try to hack them apart, he realized. He searched with his eyes among the frenzy for Snowfire and saw that the white horse had run farther down the river, where he now stood by a willow tree, nostrils flared and ears plastered flat against his skull. he realized. He searched with his eyes among the frenzy for Snowfire and saw that the white horse had run farther down the river, where he now stood by a willow tree, nostrils flared and ears plastered flat against his skull.

With the bow, Roran killed four more soldiers and wounded over a score. When he had only two arrows left, he spotted Carn standing on the other side of the camp, dueling a soldier by the corner of a burning tent. Drawing the bow until the fletching on the arrow tickled his ear, Roran shot the soldier in the chest. The soldier stumbled, and Carn decapitated him.

Roran tossed the bow aside and, hammer in hand, ran over to Carn and shouted, "Can't you kill them with magic?"

For a moment, Carn could only pant, then he shook his head and said, "Every spell I cast was blocked." The light from the burning tent gilded the side of his face.

Roran cursed. "Together then!" he cried, and hefted his shield.

Shoulder to shoulder, the two of them advanced upon the nearest group of soldiers: a cl.u.s.ter of eight men surrounding three of the Varden. The next few minutes were a spasm of flashing weapons, tearing flesh, and sudden pains for Roran. The soldiers tired more slowly than ordinary men, and they never shirked from an attack, nor did they slacken in their efforts even when suffering from the most horrific injuries. The exertion of the fight was so great, Roran's nausea returned, and after the eighth soldier fell, he leaned over and vomited again. He spat to clear his mouth of bile.

One of the Varden they had sought to rescue had died in the struggle, slain by a knife in the kidneys, but the two who were still standing joined forces with Roran and Carn, and with them, they charged the next batch of soldiers.

"Drive them toward the river!" Roran shouted. The water and the mud would limit the soldiers' movement and perhaps allow the Varden to gain the upper hand.

Not far away, Martland had succeeded in rallying the twelve of the Varden who were still on their horses, and they were already doing what Roran had suggested: herding the soldiers back toward the shining water.

The soldiers and the few drivers who were still alive resisted. They shoved their shields against the men on foot. They jabbed spears at the horses. But in spite of their violent opposition, the Varden forced them to retreat a step at a time until the men in the crimson tunics stood knee-deep in the fast-flowing water, half blinded by the uncanny light shining down on them.

"Hold the line!" shouted Martland, dismounting and planting himself with spread legs on the edge of the riverbank. "Don't let them regain the sh.o.r.e!"

Roran dropped into a half crouch, ground his heels into the soft earth until he was comfortable with his stance, and waited for the large soldier standing in the cold water several feet in front of him to attack. With a roar, the soldier splashed out of the shallows, swinging his sword at Roran, which Roran caught on his shield. Roran retaliated with a stroke of his hammer, but the soldier blocked him with his own shield and then cut at Roran's legs. For several seconds, they exchanged blows, but neither wounded the other. Then Roran shattered the man's left forearm, knocking him back several paces. The soldier merely smiled and uttered a mirthless, soul-chilling laugh.

Roran wondered whether he or any of his companions would survive the night. They're harder to kill than snakes. We can cut them to ribbons, and they'll still keep coming at us unless we hit something vital They're harder to kill than snakes. We can cut them to ribbons, and they'll still keep coming at us unless we hit something vital. His next thought vanished as the soldier rushed at him again, his notched sword flickering in the pale light like a tongue of flame.

Thereafter, the battle a.s.sumed a nightmarish quality for Roran. The strange, baleful light gave the water and the soldiers an unearthly aspect, bleaching them of color and projecting long, thin, razor-sharp shadows across the shifting water, while beyond and all around, the fullness of night prevailed. Again and again, he repelled the soldiers who stumbled out of the water to kill him, hammering at them until they were barely recognizable as human, and yet they would not die. With every blow, medallions of black blood stained the surface of the river, like blots of spilled ink, and drifted away on the current. The deadly sameness of each clash numbed and horrified Roran. No matter how hard he strove, there was always another mutilated soldier there to slash and stab at him. And always the demented giggling of men who knew they were dead and yet continued to maintain a semblance of life even while the Varden destroyed their bodies.

And then silence.

Roran remained crouched behind his shield with his hammer half raised, gasping and drenched with sweat and blood. A minute pa.s.sed before it dawned on him that no one stood in the water before him. He glanced left and right three times, unable to grasp that the soldiers were finally, blessedly, irrevocably dead. A corpse floated past him in the glittering water.

An inarticulate bellow escaped him as a hand gripped his right arm. He whipped around, snarling and pulling away, only to see Carn next to him. The wan, gore-smeared spellcaster was speaking. "We won, Roran! Eh? They're gone! We vanquished them!"

Roran let his arms drop and tilted his head back, too tired even to sit. He felt . . . he felt as if his senses were abnormally sharp, and yet his emotions were dull, muted things, tamped down somewhere deep inside of himself. He was glad it was so; otherwise, he thought he would go mad.

"Gather up and inspect the wagons!" shouted Martland. "The sooner you bestir yourselves, the sooner we can leave this accursed place! Carn, attend to Welmar. I don't like the look of that gash."

With an enormous effort of will, Roran turned and trudged across the bank to the nearest wagon. Blinking away the sweat that dripped from his brow, he saw that of their original force, only nine were still fit to stand. He pushed the observation out of his mind. Mourn later, not now Mourn later, not now.

As Martland Redbeard walked across the corpse-strewn encampment, a soldier who Roran had a.s.sumed was dead flipped over and, from the ground, lopped off the earl's right hand. With a movement so graceful it appeared practiced, Martland kicked the sword out of the soldier's grip, then knelt on the soldier's throat and, using his left hand, drew a dagger from his belt and stabbed the man through one of his ears, killing him. His face flushed and strained, Martland shoved the stump of his wrist under his left armpit and waved away everyone who rushed over to him. "Leave me alone! It's hardly a wound at all. Get to those wagons! Unless you wastrels hurry up, we'll be here so long, my beard will turn white as snow. Go on!" When Carn refused to budge, however, Martland scowled and shouted, "Begone with you, or I'll have you flogged for insubordination, I will!"

Carn held up Martland's wayward hand. "I might be able to re attach it, but I'll need a few minutes."

"Ah, confound it, give me that!" exclaimed Martland, and s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away from Carn. He tucked it inside his tunic. "Stop fretting about me and save Welmar and Lindel if you can. You can try reattaching it once we've put a few leagues between us and these monsters."

"It might be too late then," said Carn.

"That was an order, spellcaster, not a request!" thundered Mart land. As Carn retreated, the earl used his teeth to tie off the sleeve of his tunic over the stump of his arm, which he again stuck in his left armpit. Sweat beaded his face. "Right, then! What misbegotten items are hidden in those confounded wagons?"

"Rope!" someone shouted.

"Whiskey!" shouted someone else.

Martland grunted. "Ulhart, you record the figures for me."

Roran helped the others as they rifled through each of the wagons, calling out the contents to Ulhart. Afterward, they slaughtered the teams of oxen and lit the wagons on fire, as before. Then they rounded up their horses and mounted them, tying the injured into their saddles.

When they were ready to depart, Carn gestured toward the flare of light in the sky and murmured a long, tangled word. Night enveloped the world. Glancing up, Roran beheld a throbbing after image of Carn's face superimposed over the faint stars, and then as he became accustomed to the darkness, he beheld the soft gray shapes of thousands of disoriented moths scattering across the sky like the shades of men's souls.

His heart heavy within him, Roran touched his heels to Snowfire's flanks and rode away from the remnants of the convoy.

BLOOD ON THE R ROCKS Frustrated, Eragon stormed out of the circular chamber buried deep under the center of Tronjheim. The oak door slammed shut behind him with a hollow boom.

Eragon stood with his hands on his hips in the middle of the arched corridor outside the chamber and glared at the floor, which was tessellated with rectangles of agate and jade. Since he and Orik had arrived in Tronjheim, three days ago, the thirteen chiefs of the dwarf clans had done nothing but argue about issues that Eragon considered inconsequential, such as which clans had the right to graze their flocks in certain disputed pastures. As he listened to the clan chiefs debate obscure points of their legal code, Eragon often felt like shouting that they were being blind fools who were going to doom all of Alagaesia to Galbatorix's rule unless they put aside their petty concerns and chose a new ruler without further delay.

Still lost in thought, Eragon slowly walked down the corridor, barely noticing the four guards who followed him-as they did wherever he went-nor the dwarves he pa.s.sed in the hall, who greeted him with variations of "Argetlam." The worst one is iorunn, The worst one is iorunn, Eragon decided. The dwarf woman was the grimstborith of Durgrimst Vrenshrrgn, a powerful, warlike clan, and she had made it clear, from the very beginning of the deliberations, that she intended to have the throne for herself. Only one other clan, the Urzhad, had openly pledged themselves to her cause, but as she had demonstrated on multiple occasions during the meetings between the clan chiefs, she was clever, cunning, and able to twist most any situation to her advantage. Eragon decided. The dwarf woman was the grimstborith of Durgrimst Vrenshrrgn, a powerful, warlike clan, and she had made it clear, from the very beginning of the deliberations, that she intended to have the throne for herself. Only one other clan, the Urzhad, had openly pledged themselves to her cause, but as she had demonstrated on multiple occasions during the meetings between the clan chiefs, she was clever, cunning, and able to twist most any situation to her advantage. She might make an excellent queen, She might make an excellent queen, Eragon admitted to himself, Eragon admitted to himself, but she's so devious, it's impossible to know whether she would support the Varden once she was enthroned but she's so devious, it's impossible to know whether she would support the Varden once she was enthroned. He allowed himself a wry smile. Talking with iorunn was always awkward for him. The dwarves considered her a great beauty, and even by the standards of humans, she cut a striking figure. Besides which, she seemed to have developed a fascination with Eragon that he was unable to fathom. In every conversation they had, she insisted upon making allusions to the dwarves' history and mythology that Eragon did not understand but that seemed to amuse Orik and the other dwarves to no end.

In addition to iorunn, two other clan chiefs had emerged as rivals for the throne: Gannel, chief of Durgrimst Quan, and Nado, chief of Durgrimst Knurlcarathn. As the custodians of the dwarves' religion, the Quan wielded enormous influence among their race, but so far, Gannel had obtained the support of but two other clans, Durgrimst Ragni Hefthyn and Durgrimst Ebardac-a clan primarily devoted to scholarly research. In contrast, Nado had forged a larger coalition, consisting of the clans Feldunost, Fanghur, and Az Sweldn rak Anhuin.

Whereas iorunn seemed to want the throne merely for the power she would gain thereafter, and Gannel did not seem inherently hostile to the Varden-although neither was he friendly toward them-Nado was openly and vehemently opposed to any involvement with Eragon, Nasuada, the Empire, Galbatorix, Queen Islanzadi, or, so far as Eragon could tell, any living being outside of the Beor Mountains. The Knurlcarathn were the stoneworkers' clan and, in men and material goods, they had no equal, for every other clan depended upon their expertise for the tunneling and the building of their abodes, and even the Ingeitum needed them to mine the ore for their smiths. And if Nado's bid for the crown should falter, Eragon knew that many of the other, lesser clan chiefs who shared his views would leap up to take his place. Az Sweldn rak Anhuin, for example-whom Galbatorix and the Forsworn had nearly obliterated during their uprising-had declared themselves Eragon's blood enemies during his visit to the city of Tarnag and, in every action of theirs at the clanmeet, had demonstrated their implacable hatred of Eragon, Saphira, and all things to do with dragons and those who rode them. They had objected to Eragon's very presence at the meetings of the clan chiefs, even though it was perfectly legal by dwarf law, and forced a vote on the issue, thereby delaying the proceedings another six unnecessary hours.

One of these days, thought Eragon, thought Eragon, I will have to find a way to make peace with them. That or I'll have to finish what Galbatorix started. I refuse to live my entire life in fear of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin. I will have to find a way to make peace with them. That or I'll have to finish what Galbatorix started. I refuse to live my entire life in fear of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin. Again, as he had done so often in the past few days, he waited a moment for Saphira's response, and when it was not forthcoming, a familiar pang of unhappiness lanced his heart. Again, as he had done so often in the past few days, he waited a moment for Saphira's response, and when it was not forthcoming, a familiar pang of unhappiness lanced his heart.

How secure the alliances between any of the clans were, however, was a question of some uncertainty. Neither Orik nor iorunn nor Gannel nor Nado had enough support to win a popular vote, so they were all actively engaged in trying to retain the loyalties of the clans who had already promised to help them while at the same time trying to poach their opponents' backers. Despite the importance of the process, Eragon found it exceedingly tedious and frustrating.

Based upon Orik's explanation, it was Eragon's understanding that before the clan chiefs could elect a ruler, they had to vote on whether they were prepared prepared to choose a new king or queen and that the preliminary election had to garner at least nine votes in its favor if it was to pa.s.s. As of yet, none of the clan chiefs, Orik included, felt secure enough in their positions to bring the matter to a head and proceed to the final election. It was, as Orik had said, the most delicate part of the process and, in some instances, had been known to drag on for a frustratingly long time. to choose a new king or queen and that the preliminary election had to garner at least nine votes in its favor if it was to pa.s.s. As of yet, none of the clan chiefs, Orik included, felt secure enough in their positions to bring the matter to a head and proceed to the final election. It was, as Orik had said, the most delicate part of the process and, in some instances, had been known to drag on for a frustratingly long time.

As he pondered the situation, Eragon wandered aimlessly through the warren of chambers below Tronjheim until he found himself in a dry, dusty room lined with five black arches on one side and a bas-relief carving of a snarling bear twenty feet high on the other. The bear had gold teeth and round, faceted rubies for eyes.

"Where are we, Kvistor?" asked Eragon, glancing at his guards. His voice sp.a.w.ned hollow echoes in the room. Eragon could sense the minds of many of the dwarves in the levels above them, but he had no idea how to reach them.

The lead guard, a youngish dwarf no older than sixty, stepped forward. "These rooms were cleared millennia ago by Grimstnzborith Korgan, when Tronjheim was under construction. We have not used them much since, except when our entire race congregates in Farthen Dur."

Eragon nodded. "Can you lead me back to the surface?"

"Of course, Argetlam."

Several minutes of brisk walking brought them to a broad staircase with shallow, dwarf-sized steps that climbed out of the ground to a pa.s.sageway somewhere in the southwestern quadrant of Tronjheim's base. From there Kvistor guided Eragon to the southern branch of the four mile-long hallways that divided Tronjheim along the cardinal compa.s.s points.

It was the same hallway through which Eragon and Saphira had first entered Tronjheim several months ago, and Eragon walked down it, toward the center of the city-mountain, with a strange sense of nostalgia. He felt as if he had aged several years in the interim.

The four-story-high avenue thronged with dwarves from every clan. All of them noticed Eragon, of that he was sure, but not all deigned to acknowledge him, for which he was grateful, as it saved him the effort of having to return even more greetings.

Eragon stiffened as he saw a line of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin cross the hallway. As one, the dwarves turned their heads and looked at him, their expressions obscured behind the purple veils those of their clan always wore in public. The last dwarf in line spat on the floor toward Eragon before filing through an archway and out of the hall along with his or her brethren.

If Saphira were here, they would not dare to be so rude, thought Eragon. thought Eragon.

A half hour later, he reached the end of the majestic hallway, and although he had been there many times before, a sense of awe and wonder overwhelmed him as he stepped between the pillars of black onyx topped with yellow zircons thrice the size of a man and entered the circular chamber in the heart of Tronjheim.

The chamber was a thousand feet from side to side, with a floor of polished carnelian etched with a hammer surrounded by twelve pentacles, which was the crest of Durgrimst Ingeitum and of the dwarves' first king, Korgan, who had discovered Farthen Dur while mining for gold. Opposite Eragon and to either side were the openings to the three other halls that radiated out through the citymountain. The chamber had no ceiling but ascended all the way to the top of Tronjheim, a mile overhead. There it opened to the dragonhold where Eragon and Saphira had resided before Arya broke the star sapphire, and then to the sky beyond: a rich blue disk that seemed unimaginably distant, ringed as it was by the open mouth of Farthen Dur, the hollow ten-mile-high mountain that sheltered Tronjheim from the rest of the world.

Only a scant amount of daylight filtered down to the base of Tronjheim. The City of Eternal Twilight, the elves called it. Since so little of the sun's radiance entered the city-mountain-except for a dazzling half hour before and after noon during the height of summer-the dwarves illuminated the interior with uncounted numbers of their flameless lanterns. Thousands of them were on glorious display in the chamber. A bright lantern hung from the outside of every other pillar of the curved arcades that lined each level of the city-mountain, and even more lanterns were mounted within the arcades, marking the entrances to strange and unknown rooms, as well as the path of Vol Turin, the Endless Staircase, which spiraled around the chamber from top to bottom. The effect was both moody and spectacular. The lanterns were of many different colors, making it appear as if the interior of the chamber were dotted with glowing jewels.

Their glory, however, paled beside the splendor of a real jewel, the greatest jewel of them all: Isidar Mithrim. On the floor of the chamber, the dwarves had built a wooden scaffold sixty feet in diameter, and within the enclosure of fitted oak beams, they were, piece by precious piece, rea.s.sembling the shattered star sapphire with the utmost care and delicacy. The shards they had yet to place they had stored in open-topped boxes padded with nests of raw wool, each box labeled with a line of spidery runes. The boxes were spread out across a large portion of the western side of the vast room. Perhaps three hundred dwarves sat hunched over them, intent on their work as they strove to fit the shards together into a cohesive whole. Another group bustled about the scaffolding, tending to the fragmented gem within, as well as building additional structures.

Eragon watched them at their labor for several minutes, then wandered over to the section of the floor Durza had broken when he and his Urgal warriors had entered Tronjheim from the tunnels below. With the tip of his boot, Eragon tapped the polished stone in front of him. No trace of the damage Durza had wrought remained. The dwarves had done a marvelous job of erasing the marks left by the Battle of Farthen Dur, although Eragon hoped they would commemorate the battle with a memorial of some sort, for he felt it was important that future generations not forget the cost in blood the dwarves and the Varden had paid during the course of their struggle against Galbatorix.

As Eragon walked toward the scaffolding, he nodded at Skeg, who was standing on a platform overlooking the star sapphire. Eragon had met the thin, quick-fingered dwarf before. Skeg was of Durgrimst Gedthrall, and it was to him King Hrothgar had entrusted the restoration of the dwarves' most valuable treasure.

Skeg gestured for Eragon to climb up onto the platform. A sparkling vista of slanting, needle-sharp spires, glittering, paperthin edges, and rippling surfaces confronted Eragon as he heaved himself onto the rough-hewn planks. The top of the star sapphire reminded him of the ice on the Anora River in Palancar Valley at the end of winter, when the ice had melted and refrozen multiple times and was treacherous to walk over, on account of the b.u.mps and ridges the swings in temperature had cast up. Only instead of blue, white, or clear, the remnants of the star sapphire were a soft, rosy pink, shot through with traces of dusky orange.

"How goes it?" asked Eragon.

Skeg shrugged and fluttered his hands in the air like a pair of b.u.t.terflies. "It goes as it does, Argetlam. You cannot hurry perfection."

"It looks to me as if you are making quick progress."

With a bony forefinger, Skeg tapped the side of his broad, flat nose. "The top of Isidar Mithrim, what is now the bottom, Arya broke it into large pieces, which are easy to fit together. The bottom of Isidar Mithrim, though, what is now the top . . ." Skeg shook his head, his lined face doleful. "The force of the break, all the pieces pushing against the face of the gem, pushing away from Arya and the dragon Saphira, pushing down toward you and that blackhearted Shade . . . it cracked the petals of the rose into ever-smaller fragments. And the rose, Argetlam, the rose is the key to the gem. It is the most complex, the most beautiful part of Isidar Mithrim. And it is in the most pieces. Unless we can rea.s.semble it, every last speck where it ought to be, we might as well give the gem to our jewelers and have them grind it into rings for our mothers." The words spilled out of Skeg like water from an overflowing beaker. He shouted in Dwarvish at a dwarf carrying a box across the chamber, then tugged at his white beard and asked, "Have you ever heard recounted, Argetlam, the tale of how Isidar Mithrim was carved, in the Age of Herran?"

Eragon hesitated, thinking back to his history lessons in Ellesmera. "I know it was Durok who carved it."

"Aye," said Skeg, "it was Durok Ornthrond-Eagle-eye, as you say in this tongue. It was not he who discovered Isidar Mithrim, but it was he alone who extracted it from the surrounding stone, he who carved it, and he who polished it. Fifty-seven years he spent working on the Star Rose. The gem enthralled him as nothing else. Every night he sat crouched over Isidar Mithrim until the wee hours of the morning, as he was determined that the Star Rose should be not just art but something that would touch the hearts of all who gazed upon it and would earn him a seat of honor at the table of the G.o.ds. His devotion was such that, in the thirty-second year of his labors, when his wife told him that either he had to share the burden of the project with his apprentices or she would leave his hall, Durok said not a word but turned his shoulder to her and continued grinding the contours of the petal he had begun earlier that year.

"Durok worked on Isidar Mithrim until he was pleased with its every line and curve. Then he dropped his polishing cloth, took one step back from the Star Rose, said, 'Guntera, protect me; it is done,' and fell dead on the floor." Skeg tapped his chest, producing a hollow thump. "His heart gave out, for what else did he have to live for? . . . That is what we are trying to reconstruct, Argetlam: fifty-seven years of ceaseless concentration by one of the finest artists our race has known. Unless we can put Isidar Mithrim back together exactly exactly the way it was, we shall diminish Durok's accomplishment for all who have yet to see the Star Rose." Knotting his right hand into a fist, Skeg bounced it off his thigh to emphasize his words. the way it was, we shall diminish Durok's accomplishment for all who have yet to see the Star Rose." Knotting his right hand into a fist, Skeg bounced it off his thigh to emphasize his words.

Eragon leaned against the hip-high railing in front of him and watched as five dwarves on the opposite side of the gem lowered a sixth dwarf, who was bound in a rope harness, until he hung inches above the sharp edges of the fractured sapphire. Reaching inside his tunic, the suspended dwarf removed a sliver of Isidar Mithrim from a leather wallet and, grasping the sliver with a minuscule set of pincers, fit it into a small gap in the gem below.

"If the coronation were held three days from now," said Eragon, "could you have Isidar Mithrim ready by then?"

Skeg drummed the railing with all ten of his fingers, tapping out a melody Eragon failed to recognize. The dwarf said, "We would not rush so with Isidar Mithrim if not for the offer of your dragon. This haste is foreign to us, Argetlam. It is not our nature, as it is humans', to rush about like agitated ants. Still, we shall do our best to have Isidar Mithrim ready in time for the coronation. If that should be three days from now . . . well, I should not be too hopeful of our prospects. But if it were later in the week, I think we might be finished."

Eragon thanked Skeg for his prediction, then took his leave. With his guards trailing after him, Eragon walked to one of the many common eating halls in the city-mountain, a long, low room with stone tables arranged in rows on one side and dwarves busying themselves about soapstone ovens on the other.

There Eragon dined on sourdough bread, fish with white meat that the dwarves caught in underground lakes, mushrooms, and some sort of mashed tuber that he had eaten before in Tronjheim but whose provenance he had yet to learn. Before he began eating, though, he was careful to test the food for poison, using the spells Oromis had taught him.

As Eragon washed down the last crust of bread with a sip of thin, watered-down breakfast beer, Orik and his contingent of ten warriors entered the hall. The warriors sat at their own tables, positioning themselves where they could watch both entrances, while Orik joined Eragon, lowering himself onto the stone bench opposite him with a weary sigh. He placed his elbows on the table and rubbed his face with his hands.

Eragon cast several spells to prevent anyone from eavesdropping, then asked, "Did we suffer another setback?"

"No, no setback. Only, these deliberations are trying in the extreme."

"I noticed."

"And everyone noticed your frustration," said Orik. "You must control yourself better hereafter, Eragon. Revealing weakness of any sort to our opponents does nothing but further their cause. I-"Orik fell silent as a portly dwarf waddled up and deposited a plate of steaming food in front of him.

Eragon scowled at the edge of the table. "But are you any closer to the throne? Have we gained any ground with all of this long-winded prattle?"

Orik raised a finger while he chewed on a mouthful of bread. "We have gained a great deal. Do not be so gloomy! After you left, Havard agreed to lower the tax on the salt Durgrimst Fanghur sells to the Ingeitum, in exchange for summer access to our tunnel to Nalsvrid-merna, so they may hunt the red deer that gather around the lake during the warm months of the year. You should have seen how Nado gritted his teeth when Havard accepted my offer!"

"Bah," spat Eragon. "Taxes, deer-what does any of it have to do with who succeeds Hrothgar as ruler? Be honest with me, Orik. What is your position compared with the other clan chiefs? And how much longer is this likely to drag on? With every day that pa.s.ses, it becomes more likely that the Empire will discover our ruse and Galbatorix will strike at the Varden when I am not there to fend off Murtagh and Thorn."

Orik wiped his mouth on the corner of the tablecloth. "My position is sound enough. None of the grimstborithn have the support to call a vote, but Nado and I command the greatest followings. If either of us can win over, say, another two or three clans, the balance will quickly tip in that person's favor. Havard is already wavering. It won't take too much more encouragement, I think, to convince him to defect to our camp. Tonight we will break bread with him, and I will see what I can do toward providing that encouragement." Orik devoured a piece of roast mushroom, then said, "As for when the clanmeet will end, maybe after another week if we are lucky, and maybe two if we're not."

Eragon cursed in an undertone. He was so tense, his stomach churned and rumbled and threatened to reject the meal he had just eaten.

Reaching across the table, Orik caught Eragon by the wrist. "There is nothing you or I can do to further hasten the clanmeet's decision, so do not let it upset you overmuch. Worry about what you can change, and leave the rest to sort itself out, eh?" He released Eragon.

Eragon slowly exhaled and leaned on his forearms against the table. "I know. It's only that we have so little time, and if we fail . . ."

"What will be will be," said Orik. He smiled, but his eyes were sad and hollow. "No one can escape fate's design."

"Couldn't you seize the throne by force? I know you don't have that many troops in Tronjheim, but with my support, who could stand against you?"