Däthedr inclined his head in return. If the elf took offense at the king’s tone, it did not show. “There is no hiding that Galbatorix is dead. Even now, word of our victory wings its way across the land. By the end of the week, Galbatorix’s demise shall be known throughout the greater part of Alagaësia.”
“As it should be,” said Nasuada. She had changed out of the tunic her jailers had given her and into a dark red dress, which made the weight she had lost during her captivity all the more apparent, for the dress hung loosely off her shoulders and her waist was painfully small. But though she appeared frail, she seemed to have regained some of her strength. When Eragon and Saphira had returned to the citadel, Nasuada had been on the verge of collapse, from both mental and physical exhaustion. The moment Jörmundur had seen her, he bundled her off to their camp, and she spent the rest of the day in seclusion. Eragon had been unable to consult with her before the meeting, so he was not sure of her opinion on the subject they had assembled to discuss. If he had to, he would contact her directly with his thoughts, but he hoped to avoid that, for he did not want to intrude on her privacy. Not then. Not after what she had endured.
“As it should be,” said Däthedr, his voice strong and clear beneath the vaulted ceiling of that high, round chamber. “However, as people learn that Galbatorix has fallen, the first question they shall ask is who has taken his place.” Däthedr looked around at their faces. “We must provide them with an answer now before unrest begins to spread. Our queen is dead. King Orrin, you are wounded. Rumors aplenty are afoot, I am sure. It is important that we quell them before they cause harm. To delay would be disastrous. We cannot allow every lord with a measure of troops to believe that he can set himself up as ruler of his own petty monarchy. Should that happen, the Empire will disintegrate into a hundred different kingdoms. None of us want that. A successor must be chosen—chosen and named, however difficult that may be.”
Without turning around, Grimrr said, “You cannot lead a pack if you are weak.”
King Orrin smiled again, but the smile did not touch his eyes. “And what part do you seek to play in this, Arya, Lord Däthedr? Or you, King Orik? Or you, King Halfpaw? We are grateful for your friendship and your help, but this is a matter for humans to decide, not you. We rule ourselves, and we do not let others choose our kings.”
Nasuada rubbed her crossed arms and, to Eragon’s surprise, said, “I agree. This is something we must settle on our own.” She looked across the room at Arya and Däthedr. “Surely you can understand. You would not allow us to tell you whom you ought to appoint as your new king or queen.” She looked at Orik. “Nor would the clans have allowed us to select you as Hrothgar’s successor.”
“No,” said Orik. “That they wouldn’t have.”
“The decision is, of course, yours to make,” said Däthedr. “We would not presume to dictate what you should or should not do. However, as your friends and allies, have we not earned the right to offer our advice upon such a weighty matter, especially when it shall affect us all? Whatever you decide will have far-reaching implications, and you would do well to understand those implications ere you make your choice.”
Eragon understood well enough. It was a threat. Däthedr was saying that if they made a decision the elves disapproved of, there would be unpleasant consequences. Eragon resisted the urge to scowl. The elves’ stance was only to be expected. The stakes were high, and a mistake now could end up causing problems for decades more.
“That … seems reasonable,” said Nasuada. She glanced over at King Orrin.
Orrin stared into his goblet as he tilted it around, swirling the liquid within. “And just how would you advise us to choose, Lord Däthedr? Do tell; I am most curious.”
The elf paused. In the low, warm light from the setting sun, his silver hair glowed in a diffuse halo around his head. “Whoever is to wear the crown must have the skill and experience needed to rule effectively from the start. There is no time to instruct someone in the ways of command, nor can we afford the mistakes of a novice. In addition, this person must be morally fit to assume such a high office; he or she must be an acceptable choice to the warriors of the Varden and, to a lesser extent, the people of the Empire; and if at all possible, this person should also be one whom we and your other allies will find agreeable.”
“You limit our choices a great deal with your requirements,” said King Orrin.
“They merely make for good statesmanship. Or do you see it differently?”
“I see several options you have overlooked or disregarded, perhaps because you consider them distasteful. But no matter. Continue.”
Däthedr’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained as smooth as ever. “The most obvious choice—and the one the people of the Empire will likely expect—is the person who actually killed Galbatorix. That is, Eragon.”
The air in the chamber grew brittle, as if it were made of glass.
Everyone looked at Eragon, even Saphira and the werecat, and he could feel Umaroth and the other Eldunarí observing him closely too. He stared back at the people around him, neither frightened nor angered by their scrutiny. He searched Nasuada’s face for a hint as to her reaction, but other than the seriousness of her expression, he could discern nothing of what she thought or felt.
It unsettled him to realize that Däthedr was correct: he could become king.
For a moment, Eragon allowed himself to entertain the possibility. There was no one who could stop him from taking the throne, no one except Elva and perhaps Murtagh—but he now knew how to counter Elva’s ability, and Murtagh was no longer there to challenge him. Saphira, he could sense from her mind, would not oppose him, whatever he chose. And though he could not read Nasuada’s expression, he had a strange feeling that, for the first time, she would be willing to step aside and allow him to take command.
What do you want? asked Saphira.
Eragon thought about it. I want … to be of use. But power and dominion over others—those things that Galbatorix sought—they hold little appeal for me. In any case, we have other responsibilities.
Shifting his attention back to those watching, he said, “No. It would not be right.”
King Orrin grunted and took another swig of his wine, while Arya, Däthedr, and Nasuada seemed to relax, if however slightly. Like them, the Eldunarí seemed pleased with his decision, although they did not comment upon it with words.
“I am glad to hear you say it,” said Däthedr. “No doubt you would make a fine ruler, but I do not think it would be good for your kind, nor for the other races of Alagaësia, were another Dragon Rider to assume the crown.”
Then Arya motioned to Däthedr. The silver-haired elf stepped back slightly, and Arya said, “Roran would be another obvious choice.”
“Roran!” said Eragon, incredulous.
Arya gazed at him, her eyes solemn and—in the sideways light—bright and fierce, like emeralds cut in a rayed pattern. “It was by his actions that the Varden captured Urû’baen. He is the hero of Aroughs and of many other battles besides. The Varden and the rest of the Empire would follow him without hesitation.”
“He’s rude and overconfident, and he hasn’t the experience needed,” said Orrin. Then he glanced over at Eragon with a slightly guilty expression. “He is a good warrior, though.”