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Eldest

Christopher Paolini

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THEAUTHOR

A TWINDISASTER

THECOUNCIL OFELDERS

TRUTH AMONG FRIENDS

RORAN

THEHUNTEDHUNTERS

REQUIEM

FEALTY

A SORCERESS, ASNAKE,

AND ASCROLL

HAMMER ANDTONGS

RETALIATION

CELBEDEIL

DIAMONDS IN THENIGHT

UNDER ADARKLINGSKY

DOWN THERUSHING

MERE-WASH

DRIFTING

ARYASVIT-KONA

CERIS

WOUNDS OF THEPAST

WOUNDS OF THEPRESENT

ARROW TO THEHEART

THEDAGSHELGRINVOCATION

THEPINEWOODCITY

OUT OF THEPAST

CONVICTION

REPERCUSSIONS

EXODUS

THESECRETLIVES OFANTS

UNDER THEMENOATREE

A MAZE OFOPPOSITION

HANGING BY ATHREAD

ELVA

RESURGENCE

BLACKMORNINGGLORY

THENATURE OFEVIL

IMAGE OFPERFECTION

THEOBLITERATOR

NARDA

THEHAMMERFALLS

THEBEGINNING OFWISDOM

BROKENEGG ANDSCATTEREDNEST

THEGIFT OFDRAGONS

IN ASTARRYGLADE

LANDFALL

TEIRM

JEODLONGSHANKS

ANUNEXPECTEDALLY

ESCAPE

PREMONITION OFWAR

REDBLADE, WHITEBLADE

VISIONSNEAR ANDFAR

GIFTS

THEMAW OF THEOCEAN

TOABERON

THEBURNINGPLAINS

THECLOUDS OFWAR

NARGARZHVOG

THESTORMBREAKS

CONVERGENCE

ELDEST

INHERITANCE

REUNION

END OFBOOKTWO

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Kvetha Fric& #228; ya.

As with many authors who undertake an epic the length of the Inheritance trilogy, I have found that the creation ofEragon, and nowEldest, has become my own personal quest, one that has proven every bit as transforming as Eragon’s.

When first I conceivedEragon, I was fifteen — not quite a boy and not yet a man — just out of high school, unsure of what path to take in life, and addicted to the potent magic of the fantasy literature that adorned my shelves. The process of writingEragon, marketing it across the world, and now finally completingEldest has swept me into adulthood. I am twenty-one now and, to my continual astonishment, have already published two novels. Stranger things have occurred, I’m sure, but never to me.

Eragon’s journey has been my own: plucked from a sheltered rural upbringing and forced to rove the land in a desperate race against time; enduring intense and arduous training; achieving success against all expectations; dealing with the consequences of fame; and eventually finding a measure of peace.

Just as in fiction when the determined and well-meaning protagonist — who really isn’t all that bright, now is he? — is helped along his way by a host of wiser characters, so too have I been guided by a number of stupendously talented people. They are:

At home: Mom, for listening whenever I need to talk about a problem with the story or characters and for giving me the courage to throw out twelve pages and rewrite Eragon’s entrance into Ellesm& #233; ra (painful); Dad, as always, for his incisive editing; and my dear sister, Angela, for deigning to reprise her role as a witch and for her contributions to her doppelg& #228; nger’s dialogue.

At Writers House: my agent, the great and mighty Comma Master, Simon Lipskar, who makes all things possible (Mervyn Peake! ); and his brave assistant Daniel Lazar, who keeps the Comma Master from being buried alive underneath a pile of unsolicited manuscripts, many of which I fear are the result ofEragon.

At Knopf: my editor, Michelle Frey, who has gone above and beyond the call of duty in performing her job and has madeEldest so much better than it would have been otherwise; publicity director Judith Haut, for once again proving that no feat of promotion is beyond her reach (hear her roar! ); Isabel Warren-Lynch, art director nonpareil who, withEldest, has exceeded her previous accomplishments; John Jude Palencar, for a cover painting that I like even better than the one forEragon; copy chief Artie Bennett, who has done a splendiferous job of checking all the obscure words in this trilogy and probably knows more than I do about the ancient language, although his Urgal is a mite weak; Chip Gibson, grand master of the children’s division at Random House; Nancy Hinkel, publishing director extraordinaire; Joan DeMayo, director of sales (much applause, cheers, and bowing! ) and her team; Daisy Kline, who with her team designed the wonderful and eye-catching marketing materials; Linda Palladino, Rebecca Price, and Timothy Terhune, production; a bow of thanks to Pam White and her team, who have helped to spreadEragon to the four corners of the world; Melissa Nelson, design; Alison Kolani, copy editing; Michele Burke, Michelle Frey’s dedicated, hardworking assistant; and everyone else at Knopf who has supported me.

At Listening Library: Gerard Doyle, who brings the world of Alaga& #235; sia to life; Taro Meyer for getting the pronunciation of my languages just right; Jacob Bronstein for pulling all the threads together; and Tim Ditlow, publisher of Listening Library.

Thank you all.

One more volume to go and we shall reach the end of this tale. One more manuscript of heartache, ecstasy, and perseverance. . One more codex of dreams.

Stay with me, if it please you, and let us see where this winding path will carry us, both in this world and in Alaga& #235; sia.

S& #233; onr sverdar sitja hvass!

Christopher Paolini

August 23, 2005

ABOUT THEAUTHOR

Christopher Paolini’s abiding love of fantasy and science fiction inspired him to begin writing his debut novel, Eragon, when he graduated from high school at fifteen after being homeschooled all his life. He became aNew York Times bestselling author at nineteen. Christopher lives in Montana, where the dramatic landscape feeds his visions of Alaga& #235; sia. He is at work on the final volume in the Inheritance trilogy.

You can find out more about Christopher, Eldest, and Inheritance atwww. alagaesia. com.

is also available in an unabridged

audio edition from Listening Library

Cassette ISBN 1-4000-9862-9

$45. 00 U. S. / $65. 0 °CAN.

CD ISBN 0-307-28072-1

$55. 00 U. S. / $77. 0 °CAN.

A TWINDISASTER

The songs of the dead are the lamentations of the living.

So thought Eragon as he stepped over a twisted and hacked Urgal, listening to the keening of women who removed loved ones from the blood-muddied ground of Farthen D& #251; r. Behind him Saphira delicately skirted the corpse, her glittering blue scales the only color in the gloom that filled the hollow mountain.

It was three days since the Varden and dwarves had fought the Urgals for possession of Tronjheim, the mile-high, conical city nestled in the center of Farthen D& #251; r, but the battlefield was still strewn with carnage. The sheer number of bodies had stymied their attempts to bury the dead. In the distance, a mountainous fire glowed sullenly by Farthen D& #251; r’s wall where the Urgals were being burned. No burial or honored resting place for them.

Since waking to find his wound healed by Angela, Eragon had tried three times to assist in the recovery effort. On each occasion he had been racked by terrible pains that seemed to explode from his spine. The healers gave him various potions to drink. Arya and Angela said that he was perfectly sound. Nevertheless, he hurt. Nor could Saphira help, only share his pain as it rebounded across their mental link.

Eragon ran a hand over his face and looked up at the stars showing through Farthen D& #251; r’s distant top, which were smudged with sooty smoke from the pyre. Three days. Three days since he had killed Durza; three days since people began calling him Shadeslayer; three days since the remnants of the sorcerer’s consciousness had ravaged his mind and he had been saved by the mysterious Togira Ikonoka, the Cripple Who Is Whole. He had told no one about that vision but Saphira. Fighting Durza and the dark spirits that controlled him had transformed Eragon; although for better or for worse he was still unsure. He felt fragile, as if a sudden shock would shatter his reconstructed body and consciousness.

And now he had come to the site of the combat, driven by a morbid desire to see its aftermath. Upon arriving, he found nothing but the uncomfortable presence of death and decay, not the glory that heroic songs had led him to expect.

Before his uncle, Garrow, was slain by the Ra’zac months earlier, the brutality that Eragon had witnessed between the humans, dwarves, and Urgals would have destroyed him. Now it numbed him. He had realized, with Saphira’s help, that the only way to stay rational amid such pain was todo things. Beyond that, he no longer believed that life possessed inherent meaning — not after seeing men torn apart by the Kull, a race of giant Urgals, and the ground a bed of thrashing limbs and the dirt so wet with blood it soaked through the soles of his boots. If any honor existed in war, he concluded, it was in fighting to protect others from harm.

He bent and plucked a tooth, a molar, from the dirt. Bouncing it on his palm, he and Saphira slowly made a circuit through the trampled plain. They stopped at its edge when they noticed J& #246; rmundur — Ajihad’s second in command in the Varden — hurrying toward them from Tronjheim. When he came near, J& #246; rmundur bowed, a gesture Eragon knew he would never have made just days before.

“I’m glad I found you in time, Eragon. ” He clutched a parchment note in one hand. “Ajihad is returning, and he wants you to be there when he arrives. The others are already waiting for him by Tronjheim’s west gate. We’ll have to hurry to get there in time. ”

Eragon nodded and headed toward the gate, keeping a hand on Saphira. Ajihad had been gone most of the three days, hunting down Urgals who had managed to escape into the dwarf tunnels that honeycombed the stone beneath the Beor Mountains. The one time Eragon had seen him between expeditions, Ajihad was in a rage over discovering that his daughter, Nasuada, had disobeyed his orders to leave with the other women and children before the battle. Instead, she had secretly fought among the Varden’s archers.

Murtagh and the Twins had accompanied Ajihad: the Twins because it was dangerous work and the Varden’s leader needed the protection of their magical skills, and Murtagh because he was eager to continue proving that he bore the Varden no ill will. It surprised Eragon how much people’s attitudes toward Murtagh had changed, considering that Murtagh’s father was the Dragon Rider Morzan, who had betrayed the Riders to Galbatorix. Even though Murtagh despised his father and was loyal to Eragon, the Varden had not trusted him. But now, no one was willing to waste energy on a petty hate when so much work remained. Eragon missed talking with Murtagh and looked forward to discussing all that had happened, once he returned.

As Eragon and Saphira rounded Tronjheim, a small group became visible in the pool of lantern light before the timber gate. Among them were Orik — the dwarf shifting impatiently on his stout legs — and Arya. The white bandage around her upper arm gleamed in the darkness, reflecting a faint highlight onto the bottom of her hair. Eragon felt a strange thrill, as he always did when he saw the elf. She looked at him and Saphira, green eyes flashing, then continued watching for Ajihad.

By breaking Isidar Mithrim — the great star sapphire that was sixty feet across and carved in the shape of a rose — Arya had allowed Eragon to kill Durza and so win the battle. Still, the dwarves were furious with her for destroying their most prized treasure. They refused to move the sapphire’s remains, leaving them in a massive circle inside Tronjheim’s central chamber. Eragon had walked through the splintered wreckage and shared the dwarves’ sorrow for all the lost beauty.

He and Saphira stopped by Orik and looked out at the empty land that surrounded Tronjheim, extending to Farthen D& #251; r’s base five miles away in each direction. “Where will Ajihad come from? ” asked Eragon.

Orik pointed at a cluster of lanterns staked around a large tunnel opening a couple of miles away. “He should be here soon. ”

Eragon waited patiently with the others, answering comments directed at him but preferring to speak with Saphira in the peace of his mind. The quiet that filled Farthen D& #251; r suited him.

Half an hour passed before motion flickered in the distant tunnel. A group of ten men climbed out onto the ground, then turned and helped up as many dwarves. One of the men — Eragon assumed it was Ajihad — raised a hand, and the warriors assembled behind him in two straight lines. At a signal, the formation marched proudly toward Tronjheim.

Before they went more than five yards, the tunnel behind them swarmed with a flurry of activity as more figures jumped out. Eragon squinted, unable to see clearly from so far away.

Those are Urgals! exclaimed Saphira, her body tensing like a drawn bowstring.

Eragon did not question her. “Urgals! ” he cried, and leaped onto Saphira, berating himself for leaving his sword, Zar’roc, in his room. No one had expected an attack now that the Urgal army had been driven away.

His wound twinged as Saphira lifted her azure wings, then drove them down and jumped forward, gaining speed and altitude each second. Below them, Arya ran toward the tunnel, nearly keeping apace with Saphira. Orik trailed her with several men, while J& #246; rmundur sprinted back toward the barracks.

Eragon was forced to watch helplessly as the Urgals fell on the rear of Ajihad’s warriors; he could not work magic over such a distance. The monsters had the advantage of surprise and quickly cut down four men, forcing the rest of the warriors, men and dwarves alike, to cluster around Ajihad in an attempt to protect him. Swords and axes clashed as the groups pressed together. Light flashed from one of the Twins, and an Urgal fell, clutching the stump of his severed arm.

For a minute, it seemed the defenders would be able to resist the Urgals, but then a swirl of motion disturbed the air, like a faint band of mist wrapping itself around the combatants. When it cleared, only four warriors were standing: Ajihad, the Twins, and Murtagh. The Urgals converged on them, blocking Eragon’s view as he stared with rising horror and fear.

No! No! No!

Before Saphira could reach the fight, the knot of Urgals streamed back to the tunnel and scrambled underground, leaving only prone forms behind.

The moment Saphira touched down, Eragon vaulted off, then faltered, overcome by grief and anger. I can’t do this. It reminded him too much of when he had returned to the farm to find his uncle Garrow dying. Fighting back his dread with every step, he began to search for survivors.

The site was eerily similar to the battlefield he had inspected earlier, except that here the blood was fresh.

In the center of the massacre lay Ajihad, his breastplate rent with numerous gashes, surrounded by five Urgals he had slain. His breath still came in ragged gasps. Eragon knelt by him and lowered his face so his tears would not land on the leader’s ruined chest. No one could heal such wounds. Running up to them, Arya paused and stopped, her face transformed with sorrow when she saw that Ajihad could not be saved.

“Eragon. ” The name slipped from Ajihad’s lips — no more than a whisper.

“Yes, I am here. ”

“Listen to me, Eragon. . I have one last command for you. ” Eragon leaned closer to catch the dying man’s words. “You must promise me something: promise that you. . won’t let the Varden fall into chaos. They are the only hope for resisting the Empire. . They must be kept strong. You must promise me. ”

“I promise. ”

“Then peace be with you, Eragon Shadeslayer. . ” With his last breath, Ajihad closed his eyes, setting his noble face in repose, and died.

Eragon bowed his head. He had trouble breathing past the lump in his throat, which was so hard it hurt. Arya blessed Ajihad in a ripple of the ancient language, then said in her musical voice, “Alas, his death will cause much strife. He is right, you must do all you can to avert a struggle for power. I will assist where possible. ”

Unwilling to speak, Eragon gazed at the rest of the bodies. He would have given anything to be elsewhere. Saphira nosed one of the Urgals and said, This should not have happened. It is an evil doing, and all the worse for coming when we should be safe and victorious. She examined another body, then swung her head around. Where are the Twins and Murtagh? They’re not among the dead.

Eragon scanned the corpses. You’re right! Elation surged within him as he hurried to the tunnel’s mouth. There pools of thickening blood filled the hollows in the worn marble steps like a series of black mirrors, glossy and oval, as if several torn bodies had been dragged down them. The Urgals must have taken them! But why? They don’t keep prisoners or hostages. Despair instantly returned. It doesn’t matter. We can’t pursue them without reinforcements; you wouldn’t even fit through the opening.

They may still be alive. Would you abandon them?

What do you expect me to do? The dwarf tunnels are an endless maze! I would only get lost. And I couldn’t catch Urgals on foot, though Arya might be able to.

Then ask her to.

Arya! Eragon hesitated, torn between his desire for action and his loathing to put her in danger. Still, if any one person in the Varden could handle the Urgals, it was she. With a groan, he explained what they had found.

Arya’s slanted eyebrows met in a frown. “It makes no sense. ”

“Will you pursue them? ”

She stared at him for a heavy moment. “Wiol ono. ” For you. Then she bounded forward, sword flashing in her hand as she dove into the earth’s belly.

Burning with frustration, Eragon settled cross-legged by Ajihad, keeping watch over the body. He could barely assimilate the fact that Ajihad was dead and Murtagh missing. Murtagh. Son of one of the Forsworn — the thirteen Riders who had helped Galbatorix destroy their order and anoint himself king of Alaga& #235; sia — and Eragon’s friend. At times Eragon had wished Murtagh gone, but now that he had been forcibly removed, the loss left an unexpected void. He sat motionless as Orik approached with the men.

When Orik saw Ajihad, he stamped his feet and swore in Dwarvish, swinging his ax into the body of an Urgal. The men only stood in shock. Rubbing a pinch of dirt between his callused hands, the dwarf growled, “Ah, now a hornet’s nest has broken; we’ll have no peace among the Varden after this. Barz& #251; ln, but this makes things complicated. Were you in time to hear his last words? ”

Eragon glanced at Saphira. “They must wait for the right person before I’ll repeat them. ”

“I see. And where’d be Arya? ”

Eragon pointed.

Orik swore again, then shook his head and sat on his heels.

J& #246; rmundur soon arrived with twelve ranks of six warriors each. He motioned for them to wait outside the radius of bodies while he proceeded onward alone. He bent and touched Ajihad on the shoulder. “How can fate be this cruel, my old friend? I would have been here sooner if not for the size of this cursed mountain, and then you might have been saved. Instead, we are wounded at the height of our triumph. ”

Eragon softly told him about Arya and the disappearance of the Twins and Murtagh.

“She should not have gone, ” said J& #246; rmundur, straightening, “but we can do naught about it now. Guards will be posted here, but it will be at least an hour before dwarf guides can be found for another expedition into the tunnels. ”

“I’d be willing to lead it, ” offered Orik.

J& #246; rmundur looked back at Tronjheim, his gaze distant. “No, Hrothgar will need you now; someone else will have to go. I’m sorry, Eragon, but everyone importantmust stay here until Ajihad’s successor is chosen. Arya will have to fend for herself. . We could not overtake her anyway. ”

Eragon nodded, accepting the inevitable.

J& #246; rmundur swept his gaze around before saying so all could hear, “Ajihad has died a warrior’s death! Look, he slew five Urgals where a lesser man might have been overwhelmed by one. We will give him every honor and hope his spirit pleases the gods. Bear him and our companions back to Tronjheim on your shields. . and do not be ashamed to let your tears be seen, for this is a day of sorrow that all will remember. May we soon have the privilege of sheathing our blades in the monsters who have slain our leader! ”

As one, the warriors knelt, baring their heads in homage to Ajihad. Then they stood and reverently lifted him on their shields so he lay between their shoulders. Already many of the Varden wept, tears flowing into beards, yet they did not disgrace their duty and allow Ajihad to fall. With solemn steps, they marched back to Tronjheim, Saphira and Eragon in the middle of the procession.

THECOUNCIL OFELDERS

Eragon roused himself and rolled to the edge of the bed, looking about the room, which was suffused with the dim glow of a shuttered lantern. He sat and watched Saphira sleep. Her muscled sides expanded and contracted as the great bellows of her lungs forced air through her scaled nostrils. Eragon thought of the raging inferno that she could now summon at will and send roaring out of her maw. It was an awesome sight when flames hot enough to melt metal rushed past her tongue and ivory teeth without harming them. Since she first breathed fire during his fight with Durza — while plunging toward them from the top of Tronjheim — Saphira had been insufferably proud of her new talent. She was constantly releasing little jets of flame, and she took every opportunity to light objects ablaze.

Because Isidar Mithrim was shattered, Eragon and Saphira had been unable to remain in the dragonhold above it. The dwarves had given them quarters in an old guardroom on Tronjheim’s bottom level. It was a large room, but with a low ceiling and dark walls.

Anguish gripped Eragon as he remembered the events of the previous day. Tears filled his eyes, spilling over, and he caught one on his hand. They had heard nothing from Arya until late that evening, when she emerged from the tunnel, weary and footsore. Despite her best efforts — and all her magic — the Urgals had escaped her. “I found these, ” she said. Then she revealed one of the Twins’ purple robes, torn and bloodied, and Murtagh’s tunic and both his leather gauntlets. “They were strewn along the edge of a black chasm, the bottom of which no tunnel reaches. The Urgals must have stolen their armor and weapons and thrown the bodies into the pit. I scryed both Murtagh and the Twins, and saw naught but the shadows of the abyss. ” Her eyes met Eragon’s. “I’m sorry; they are gone. ”

Now, in the confines of his mind, Eragon mourned Murtagh. It was a dreadful, creeping feeling of loss and horror made worse by the fact that he had grown ever more familiar with it in past months.

As he stared at the tear in his hand — a small, glistening dome — he decided to scry the three men himself. He knew it was a desperate and futile prospect, but he had to try in order to convince himself that Murtagh was really gone. Even so, he was uncertain if he wanted to succeed where Arya had failed, if it would make him feel any better to catch a glimpse of Murtagh lying broken at the base of a cliff deep below Farthen D& #251; r.

He whispered, “Draumr k& #243; pa. ” Darkness enveloped the liquid, turning it into a small dot of night on his silver palm. Movement flickered through it, like the swish of a bird across a clouded moon. . then nothing.

Another tear joined the first.

Eragon took a deep breath, leaned back, and let calm settle over him. Since recovering from Durza’s wound, he had realized — humbling as it was — that he had prevailed only through sheer luck. If I ever face another Shade, or the Ra’zac, or Galbatorix, I mustbe stronger if I expect to win. Brom could have taught me more, I know he could have. But without him, I have but one choice: the elves.

Saphira’s breathing quickened, and she opened her eyes, yawning expansively. Good morning, little one.

Is it? He looked down and leaned on his hands, compressing the mattress. It’s terrible. . Murtagh and Ajihad. . Why didn’t sentries in the tunnels warn us of the Urgals? They shouldn’t have been able to trail Ajihad’s group without being noticed. . Arya was right, it doesn’t make sense.

We may never know the truth, said Saphira gently. She stood, wings brushing the ceiling. You need to eat, then we must discover what the Varden are planning. We can’t waste time; a new leader could be chosen within hours.

Eragon agreed, thinking of how they had left everyone yesterday: Orik rushing off to give King Hrothgar the tidings, J& #246; rmundur taking Ajihad’s body to a place where it would rest until the funeral, and Arya, who stood alone and watched the goings-on.

Eragon rose and strapped on Zar’roc and his bow, then bent and lifted Snowfire’s saddle. A line of pain sheared through his torso, driving him to the floor, where he writhed, scrabbling at his back. It felt like he was being sawed in half. Saphira growled as the ripping sensation reached her. She tried to soothe him with her own mind but was unable to alleviate his suffering. Her tail instinctually lifted, as if to fight.

It took minutes before the fit subsided and the last throb faded away, leaving Eragon gasping. Sweat drenched his face, making his hair stick and his eyes sting. He reached back and gingerly fingered the top of his scar. It was hot and inflamed and sensitive to touch. Saphira lowered her nose and touched him on the arm. Oh, little one. .

It was worse this time, he said, staggering upright. She let him lean against her as he wiped off the sweat with a rag, then he tentatively stepped toward the door.

Are you strong enough to go?

We have to. We’re obliged as dragon and Rider to make a public choice regarding the next head of the Varden, and perhaps even influence the selection. I won’t ignore the strength of our position; we now wield great authority within the Varden. At least the Twins aren’t here to grab the position for themselves. That’s the only good in the situation.

Very well, but Durza should suffer a thousand years of torture for what he did to you.

He grunted. Just stay close to me.

Together they made their way through Tronjheim, toward the nearest kitchen. In the corridors and hallways, people stopped and bowed to them, murmuring “Argetlam” or “Shadeslayer. ” Even dwarves made the motions, though not as often. Eragon was struck by the somber, haunted expressions of the humans and the dark clothing they wore to display their sadness. Many women were dressed entirely in black, lace veils covering their faces.

In the kitchen, Eragon brought a stone platter of food to a low table. Saphira watched him carefully in case he should have another attack. Several people tried to approach him, but she lifted a lip and growled, sending them scurrying away. Eragon picked at his food and pretended to ignore the disturbances. Finally, trying to divert his thoughts from Murtagh, he asked, Who do you think has the means to take control of the Varden now that Ajihad and the Twins are gone?

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