Then the High Priest and its followers raised their faces toward the ceiling and began to intone a strange, oddly accented song that Eragon had trouble understanding. He wondered if it was in the dialect of Tosk. At times, he heard what he thought were words in the ancient language—mangled and misused, but still the ancient language.
When the grotesque congregation finished, ending with another chorus of “As Tosk wrote, so shall it be,” the three novitiates shook the bells in an ecstasy of religious fervor, and the resulting clamor seemed loud enough to bring down the ceiling.
Still shaking the bells, the novitiates filed out of the room. The four-and-twenty lesser priests departed next, and then, bringing up the rear of the procession, their limbless master, transported upon its bier by the six oiled slaves.
The door closed behind them with an ominous boom, and Eragon heard a heavy bar fall into place on the other side.
He turned to look at Arya. The expression in her eyes was that of despair, and he knew she had no more idea of how to escape than he did.
He gazed upward again and pulled on the chain that held him, using as much of his strength as he dared. The sores on his wrists again tore open, and they sprinkled him with drops of blood.
In front of them, the leftmost egg began to rock back and forth ever so slightly, and from it came a faint tapping, like the rapping of a tiny hammer.
A profound sense of horror suffused Eragon. Of all the ways he could imagine dying, being eaten alive by a Ra’zac was by far the worst. He yanked on the chain with renewed determination, biting his gag to help him withstand the agony in his arms. The resulting pain caused his vision to flicker.
Next to him, Arya thrashed and twisted as well, both of them fighting in deadly silence to free themselves.
And still the tap-tap-tapping continued on the blue-black shell.
It’s no use, Eragon realized. The chain would not give. As soon as he accepted the fact, it became obvious that it would be impossible to avoid being hurt far worse than he already was. The only question was whether his injuries would be forced upon him or whether they would be of his own choosing. If nothing else, I have to save Arya.
He studied the iron bands around his wrists. If I can break my thumbs, I might be able to pull my hands out. Then at least I could fight. Maybe I could grab a piece of the Ra’zac’s shell and use it as a knife. With something to cut, he could free his legs as well, though the thought was so terrifying, he ignored it for the time being. All I would have to do is crawl out of the circle of stones. He would be able to use magic then, and he could stop the pain and the bleeding. What he was considering would only take a few minutes, but he knew they would be the longest minutes of his life.
He drew in a breath in preparation. Left hand first.
Before he could start, Arya screamed.
He spun toward her and uttered a wordless exclamation as he saw the mangled fingers of her right hand. Her skin was pushed up like a glove toward her nails, and the white of bone showed amid crimson muscle. Arya sagged and appeared to lose consciousness for a moment; then she recovered and pulled on her arm once more. Eragon cried out with her as her hand slid through the metal cuff, tearing off skin and flesh. Her arm fell to her side, hiding the hand from his sight, though he could see the blood splattering on the floor by her feet.
Tears blurred his eyes, and he shouted her name into his gag, but she seemed not to hear him.
As she braced herself to repeat the process, the door to the right of the altar opened, and one of the golden-robed novitiates slipped into the chamber. Seeing him, Arya hesitated, though Eragon knew she would pull her other hand out of the manacle at the slightest hint of danger.
The young man looked askance at Arya, then cautiously made his way to the center of the patterned disk, casting apprehensive glances at the egg that was rocking back and forth. The youth was slight, with large eyes and delicate features; it seemed obvious to Eragon that he had been chosen for his position because of his appearance.
“Here,” whispered the youth. “I brought these.” From within his robes, he produced a file, a chisel, and a wooden mallet. “If I help, you have to take me with you. I can’t stand it here any longer. I hate it. It’s horrible! Promise you’ll take me with you!”
Even before he finished speaking, Eragon was nodding his assent. As the young man started toward him, though, Eragon growled and motioned with his head in Arya’s direction. It took a few seconds before the novitiate understood.
“Oh, yes,” murmured the young man, and went over to Arya instead. Eragon ground his teeth through the gag in anger over the youth’s slowness.
The harsh scrape of the file soon drowned out the tapping from within the wobbling egg.
Eragon watched as best he could while their would-be rescuer sawed on a section of chain above Arya’s left hand. Keep the file on the same link, you fool! Eragon raged. The novitiate looked as if he had never used a file before, and Eragon doubted that the youth had the strength or endurance to cut through even a small amount of metal.
Arya hung limply while the novitiate worked, her long hair covering her face. She trembled at regular intervals, and the fall of blood from her ruined hand continued unabated.
To Eragon’s dismay, the file did not seem to be leaving a mark on the chain. Whatever magics protected the metal, they were too strong for something as simple as a file to overcome.
The novitiate huffed, appearing petulant at his lack of progress. He paused and wiped his brow, then, frowning, attacked the chain once again, elbows flailing, chest heaving, the sleeves of his robe flapping wildly.
Don’t you realize it’s not going to work? thought Eragon. Try the chisel on the shackles around her ankles instead.
The young man continued as he was.
A sharp crack echoed through the chamber, and Eragon saw a thin fissure appear at the top of the dark, pitted egg. The fissure lengthened, and a web of hairline fractures spread outward from it.
Then the second egg began to wobble as well, and from it came another tap-tap-tapping, which joined with the first to form a maddening rhythm.
The novitiate went pale, then dropped the file and backed away from Arya, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.… I’m sorry. It’s too late.” His face crumpled, and tears rolled from his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Eragon’s alarm increased as the young man pulled a dagger from within his robes. “There’s nothing else I can do,” he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “Nothing else …” He sniffed and moved toward Eragon. “It’s for the best.”
As the young man stepped forward, Eragon wrenched at his bonds, trying to pull one of his hands out of the manacles. The iron cuffs were too tight, however, and all he succeeded in doing was scraping more of the skin off his wrists.
“I’m sorry,” whispered the young man as he stopped in front of Eragon and drew back the dagger.
No! Eragon shouted in his mind.
A chunk of glittering amethyst hurtled out of the tunnel that had brought Eragon and Arya to the chamber. It struck the novitiate in the back of the head, and he fell against Eragon. Eragon flinched as he felt the edge of the dagger slide across his ribs. Then the young man tumbled to the floor and lay there, unconscious.
From within the depths of the tunnel emerged a small, limping figure. Eragon stared, and as the figure moved into the light, he saw that it was none other than Solembum.