I … I remember a little, said Saphira, and Eragon relayed her words to the king. She did not want to communicate directly with the king, nor would the king have allowed it. Keeping their minds separate was the best way to protect themselves when not in open conflict.
Galbatorix nodded. “And I am sure you will remember more the longer you stay within these walls. You may not have been fully aware of it at the time, but you spent most of your life in a room not far from here. This is your home, Saphira. It is where you belong. And it is where you will build your nest and lay your eggs.”
Saphira’s eyes narrowed, and Eragon felt a strange yearning from her, mixed with a burning hatred.
The king moved on. “Arya Dröttningu. Fate, it seems, has a sense of humor, for here you are, even as I ordered you to be brought so long ago. Your path was a roundabout one, but still you have come, and of your own accord. I find that rather amusing. Don’t you?”
Arya pressed her lips together and refused to answer.
Galbatorix chuckled. “I admit you have been a thorn in my side for quite some time now. You’ve not caused as much mischief as that bumbling meddler Brom, but neither have you been idle. One might even say that this whole situation is your fault, as it was you who sent Saphira’s egg to Eragon. However, I hold no enmity toward you. If not for you, Saphira might not have hatched and I might never have been able to flush the last of my enemies from hiding. For that, I thank you.
“And then there is you, Elva. The girl with the sigil of a Rider upon her brow. Dragon-marked and blessed with the wherewithal to perceive all that pains a person and all that will pain them. How you must have suffered these past months. How you must despise those around you for their weaknesses, even as you are forced to share in their misery. The Varden have used you poorly. Today I shall end the battles that have so tormented you, and you shall no longer have to endure the mistakes and misfortunes of others. That I promise. On occasion, I may have need of your skill, but in the main, you may live as you please, and peace shall be yours.”
Elva frowned, but it was obvious that the king’s offer tempted her. Listening to Galbatorix, Eragon realized, could be as dangerous as listening to Elva herself.
Galbatorix paused and fingered the wire-wrapped hilt of his sword while he regarded them with a hooded gaze. Then he looked past them toward the point in the air where the Eldunarí floated hidden from sight, and his mood seemed to darken. “Convey my words to Umaroth as I speak them,” he said. “Umaroth! We are ill met once again. I thought I killed you on Vroengard.”
Umaroth responded, and Eragon began to relay his words: “He says—”
“—that you killed only his body,” Arya finished.
“That much is obvious,” said Galbatorix. “Where did the Riders hide you and those with you? On Vroengard? Or was it elsewhere? My servants and I searched the ruins of Doru Araeba most closely.”
Eragon hesitated to deliver the dragon’s answer, as it was sure to displease the king, but he could think of no other option. “He says … that he will never share that information with you of his own free will.”
Galbatorix’s eyebrows met above his nose. “Does he now? Well, he’ll tell me soon enough, whether he wishes to or not.” The king tapped the pommel of his glaringly white sword. “I took this blade from his Rider, you know, when I killed him—when I killed Vrael—in the watchtower that overlooks Palancar Valley. Vrael had his own name for this sword. He called it Islingr, ‘Light-bringer.’ I thought Vrangr was more … appropriate.”
Vrangr meant “awry,” and Eragon agreed that it fitted the sword better.
A dull boom sounded behind them, and Galbatorix smiled again. “Ah, good. Murtagh and Thorn shall be joining us shortly, and then we can begin properly.” Another sound filled the chamber, then a great gusting noise that seemed to come from several directions at once. Galbatorix glanced over his shoulder and said, “It was inconsiderate of you to attack so early in the morning. I was already awake—I rise well before dawn—but you woke Shruikan. He gets rather irritated when he’s tired, and when he’s irritated, he tends to eat people. My guards learned long ago not to disturb him when he’s resting. You would have done well to follow their example.”
As Galbatorix spoke, the curtains behind his throne shifted and rose toward the ceiling.
With a sense of shock, Eragon realized that they were actually Shruikan’s wings.
The black dragon lay curled on the floor with his head close to the throne, the bulk of his massive body forming a wall too steep and too high for any to climb without magic. His scales had not the radiance of Saphira’s or Thorn’s but rather sparkled with a dark, liquid brilliance. Their inky color made them almost opaque, which gave them an appearance of strength and solidity that Eragon had not seen in a dragon’s scales before; it was as if Shruikan were plated with stone or metal, not gems.
The dragon was enormous. Eragon at first had difficulty comprehending that the entire shape before them was a single living creature. He saw part of Shruikan’s corded neck and thought he was seeing the main part of the dragon’s body; he saw the side of one of Shruikan’s hind feet and mistook it for a shin. A fold of a wing was an entire wing in his mind. Only when he looked up and found the spikes atop the dragon’s spine did Eragon grasp the full extent of Shruikan’s size. Each spike was as wide as the trunk of an ancient oak tree; the scales surrounding them were a foot thick, if not more.
Then Shruikan opened an eye and looked down at them. His iris was a pale blue white, the color of a high mountain glacier, and it appeared startlingly bright amid the black of his scales.
The dragon’s huge slitted orb darted back and forth as he studied their faces. His gaze seemed to contain nothing but fury and madness, and Eragon felt certain that Shruikan would kill them in an instant if Galbatorix allowed it.
The stare of the enormous eye—especially when it held such evident malice—made Eragon want to run and hide in a burrow deep, deep underground. It was, he imagined, very much how a rabbit must feel when confronted by a large, toothy creature.
Beside him, Saphira growled, and the scales along her back rippled and lifted like hackles.
In response, jets of fire appeared in the yawning pits of Shruikan’s nostrils, and then he growled as well, drowning out Saphira and filling the chamber with a rumble like that of a rockslide.
On the dais, the two children squeaked and curled into balls, tucking their heads between their knees.
“Peace, Shruikan,” said Galbatorix, and the black dragon grew silent again. His eyelid descended, but it did not close completely; the dragon continued to watch them through a gap a few inches wide, as if waiting for the right moment to pounce.
“He does not like you,” said Galbatorix. “But then, he does not like anyone … do you now, Shruikan?” The dragon snorted, and the smell of smoke tinged the air.
Hopelessness again overwhelmed Eragon. Shruikan could kill Saphira with a bat of his paw. And as large as the chamber was, it was still too small for Saphira to evade the great black dragon for long.
His hopelessness turned to frustrated rage, and he wrenched at his invisible bonds. “How is it you can do this?” he shouted, straining every muscle in his body.