3-Brisingr-3 (66 page)

Standing, she staggered around the table, heading toward a small collection of swords and axes mounted on the wall behind Eragon, next to an alcove covered by a curtain of red silk. Afraid that she intended to cause herself further injury, Eragon leaped to his feet, knocking over the oak chair in his haste. He reached for her and then saw that she was walking toward the curtained alcove, not the weapons, and he snatched his arm back before he caused offense.

The brass rings sewn on top of the silk drapery clattered against one another as Glûmra swept aside the cloth to expose a deep, shadowed shelf carved with runes and shapes of such fantastic detail, Eragon thought he could stare at them for hours and still not grasp them in their entirety. On the low shelf rested statues of the six major dwarf gods, as well as nine other entities Eragon was unfamiliar with, all carved with exaggerated features and postures to better convey the character of the being portrayed.

Glûmra removed an amulet of gold and silver from within her bodice, which she kissed and then held against the hollow of her throat as she knelt before the alcove. Her voice rising and falling in the strange patterns of dwarf music, she began to croon a dirge in her native language. The melody brought tears to Eragon’s eyes. For several minutes, Glûmra sang, and then she fell silent and continued to gaze at the figurines, and as she gazed, the lines of her grief-ravaged face softened, and where before Eragon had perceived only anger, distress, and hopelessness, her countenance assumed an air of calm acceptance, of peacefulness, and of sublime transcendence. A soft glow seemed to emanate from her features. So complete was Glûmra’s transformation, Eragon almost did not recognize her.

She said, “Tonight Kvîstor will dine in Morgothal’s hall. That I know.” She kissed her amulet again. “I wish I might break bread with him, along with mine husband, Bauden, but it is not mine time to sleep in the catacombs of Tronjheim, and Morgothal refuses entry to his hall to those who quicken their arrival.

But in time, our family shall be reunited, including all of our ancestors since Gûntera created the world from darkness. That I know.”

Eragon knelt next to her, and in a hoarse voice, he asked, “How do you know this?”

“I know because it is so.” Her movements slow and respectful, Glûmra touched the chiseled feet of each of the gods with the tips of her fingers. “How could it be otherwise? Since the world could not have created itself any more than a sword or a helm might, and since the only beings with the wherewithal to forge the earth and the heavens into shape are those with divine power, it is to the gods we must look for our answers. Them I trust to ensure the rightness of the world, and by mine trust, I free myself of the burdens of mine flesh.”

She spoke with such conviction, Eragon felt a sudden desire to share in her belief. He longed to toss aside his doubts and fears and to know that, however horrible the world might seem at times, life was not mere confusion. He wished to know for certain that who he was would not end if a sword should shear off his head and that one day he would meet again with Brom, Garrow, and everyone else he had cared for and lost. A desperate yearning for hope and comfort filled him, confused him, left him unsteady upon the face of the earth.

And yet.

Part of himself held back and would not allow him to commit to the dwarf gods and bind his identity and his sense of well-being to something he did not understand. He also had difficulty accepting that if gods did exist, the dwarf gods were the only ones. Eragon was certain that if he asked Nar Garzhvog or a member of the nomad tribes, or even the black priests of Helgrind, if their gods were real, they would uphold the supremacy of their deities just as vigorously as Glûmra would uphold hers.
How am I
supposed to know which religion is the true religion?
he wondered.
Just because someone follows a
certain faith does not necessarily mean it is the right path. . . . Perhapsno one religion contains all
of the truth of the world. Perhaps every religion contains fragments of the truth and it is our
responsibility to identify those fragments and piece them together. Or perhaps the elves are right
and there are no gods. But how can I know for sure?

With a long sigh, Glûmra murmured a phrase in Dwarvish, then rose from her knees and drew closed the silk curtain over the alcove. Eragon likewise stood, wincing as his battle-sore muscles stretched, and followed her to the table, where he returned to his chair. From a stone cupboard set into the wall, the dwarf woman took two pewter mugs, then retrieved a bladder full of wine from where it hung from the ceiling and poured a drink for both her and Eragon. She raised her mug and uttered a toast in Dwarvish, which Eragon struggled to imitate, and then they drank.

“It is good,” said Glûmra, “to know that Kvîstor still lives on, to know that even now he is garbed in robes fit for a king while he enjoys the evening feast in Morgothal’s hall. May he win much honor in the service of the gods!” And she drank again.

Once he had emptied his mug, Eragon began to bid farewell to Glûmra, but she forestalled him with a motion of her hand. “Have you a place to stay, Shadeslayer, safe from those who wish you dead?”

Whereupon Eragon told her how he was supposed to remain hidden underneath Tronjheim until Orik sent a messenger for him. Glûmra nodded with a short, definitive jerk of her chin and said, “Then you and your companions must wait here until the messenger arrives, Shadeslayer. I insist upon it.” Eragon started to protest, but she shook her head. “I could not allow the men who fought with mine son to languish in the damp and the dark of the caves while I yet have life in mine bones. Summon your companions, and we shall eat and be merry this gloomy night.”

Eragon realized that he could not leave without upsetting Glûmra, so he called to his guards and his translator. Together, they helped Glûmra to prepare a dinner of bread, meat, and pie, and when it was ready, the lot of them ate and drank and talked late into the night. Glûmra was particularly lively; she drank the most, laughed the loudest, and was always the first to make a witty remark. At first Eragon was shocked by her behavior, but then he noticed how her smiles never reached her eyes and how, if she thought no one was looking, the mirth would drain from her face and her expression would become one of somber quietude. Entertaining them, he concluded, was her way of celebrating her son’s memory, as well as fending off her grief at Kvîstor’s death.

I have never met anyone like you before,
he thought as he watched her.

Long after midnight, someone knocked on the door of the hut. Hûndfast ushered in a dwarf who was garbed in full armor and who seemed edgy and ill at ease; he kept glancing at the doors and windows and shadowed corners. With a series of phrases in the ancient language, he convinced Eragon that he was Orik’s messenger, and then he said, “I am Farn, son of Flosi. . . . Argetlam, Orik bids you return with all possible haste. He has most important tidings concerning the events of today.”

At the doorway, Glûmra grasped Eragon’s left forearm with fingers like steel, and as he gazed down into her flinty eyes, she said, “Remember your oath, Shadeslayer, and do not let the killers of mine son escape without retribution!”

“That I shall not,” he promised.

CLANMEET

The dwarves standing watch outside of Orik’s chambers threw open the double doors that led inside as Eragon strode toward them.

The entryway beyond was long and ornate, furnished with three circular seats upholstered with red fabric set in a line down the middle of the room. Embroidered hangings decorated the walls, along with the dwarves’ ubiquitous flameless lanterns, while the ceiling had been carved to depict a famous battle from dwarven history.

Orik stood consulting with a group of his warriors and several gray-bearded dwarves of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. As Eragon approached, Orik turned toward him, his face grim. “Good, you did not delay!

Hûndfast, you may retire to your quarters now. We must needs speak in private.”

Eragon’s translator bowed and disappeared through an archway to the left, his footsteps echoing on the polished agate floor. Once he was out of hearing, Eragon said, “You don’t trust him?”

Orik shrugged. “I do not know whom to trust at the moment; the fewer people who know what we have discovered, the better. We cannot risk the news escaping to another clan before tomorrow. If it does, it will certainly mean a clan war.” The dwarves behind him muttered among themselves, appearing disconcerted.

“What is your news, though?” asked Eragon, worried.

The warriors gathered behind Orik moved aside as he gestured at them, revealing as they did so three bound and bloodied dwarves stacked on top of one another in the corner. The dwarf on the bottom groaned and kicked his feet in the air but was unable to extricate himself from under his fellow prisoners.

“Who are they?” asked Eragon.

Orik replied, “I had several of our smiths examine the daggers your attackers carried. They identified the craftsmanship as that of one Kiefna Long-nose, a bladesmith of our clan who has achieved great renown among our people.”

“So he can tell us who bought the daggers and thus who our enemies are?”

A brusque laugh shook Orik’s chest. “Hardly, but we were able to track the daggers from Kiefna to an armorer in Dalgon, many leagues from here, who sold them to a knurlaf with—”

“A knurlaf?” Eragon asked.

Orik scowled. “A woman. A woman with seven fingers on each hand bought the daggers two months ago.”

“And did you find her? There can’t be very many women with that number of fingers.”

“Actually, the condition is fairly common among our people,” said Orik. “Be that as it may, after quite a bit of difficulty, we managed to locate the woman in Dalgon. My warriors there questioned her most closely. She is of Dûrgrimst Nagra, but so far as we can determine, she was acting of her own accord, and not under orders from the leaders of her clan. From her, we learned that a dwarf had engaged her to buy the daggers and then to deliver them to a wine merchant who would take them with him from Dalgon. The woman’s employer did not tell her where the daggers were destined, but by asking among the merchants of the city, we discovered that he traveled directly from Dalgon to one of the cities held by Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.”

“So it
was
them!” Eragon exclaimed.

“That or it could have been someone who wished us to think it was them. We needed more evidence before we could establish Az Sweldn rak Anhûin’s guilt for certain.” A twinkle appeared in Orik’s eyes, and he raised a finger. “So, by means of a very, very clever spell, we retraced the path of the assassins back through the tunnels and caves and up to a deserted area on the twelfth level of Tronjheim, off the subadjunct auxiliary hall of the southern spoke in the western quadrant, along the . . . ah, well, it does not matter. But someday I will have to teach you how the rooms are arranged in Tronjheim, so that if ever you need to find a place within the city by yourself, you can. In any event, the trail led us to an abandoned storeroom where those three”—he gestured toward the bound dwarves—“had been staying.

They were not expecting us, and so we were able to capture them alive, although they tried to kill themselves. It was not easy, but we broke the minds of two of them—leaving the third for the other grimstborithn to interrogate at their pleasure—and we took from them everything they knew about this matter.” Orik pointed at the prisoners again. “It was they who equipped the assassins for the attack, gave them the daggers and their black clothes, and fed and sheltered them last night.”

“Who are they?” asked Eragon.

“Bah!” exclaimed Orik, and spat on the floor. “They are Vargrimstn, warriors who have disgraced themselves and are now clanless. No one deals with such filth unless they are engaged in villainy themselves and do not wish others to know of it. And so it was with those three. They took their orders directly from Grimstborith Vermûnd of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.”

“There is no doubt?”

Orik shook his head. “There is no doubt; it is Az Sweldn rak Anhûin who tried to kill you, Eragon. We will probably never know if any other clans joined them in the attempt, but if we expose Az Sweldn rak Anhûin’s treachery, it will force everyone else who might have been involved in the plot to disparage their former confederates; to abandon, or at least delay, further attacks on Dûrgrimst Ingeitum; and, if this is handled properly, to give me their vote for king.”

An image flashed in Eragon’s mind of the prismatic blade emerging from the back of Kvîstor’s neck and of the dwarf’s agonized expression as he had fallen to the floor, dying. “How will we punish Az Sweldn rak Anhûin for this crime? Should we kill Vermûnd?”

“Ah, leave that to me,” said Orik, and tapped the side of his nose. “I have a plan. But we must tread carefully, for this is a situation of the utmost delicacy. Such a betrayal has not occurred in many long years. As an outsider, you cannot know how abhorrent we find it that one of our own should attack a guest. You being the only free Rider left to oppose Galbatorix only worsens the offense. Further bloodshed may yet be necessary, but at the moment, it would only bring about another clan war.”

“A clan war might be the only way to deal with Az Sweldn rak Anhûin,” Eragon pointed out.

“I think not, but if I am mistaken and war is unavoidable, we must ensure it is a war between the rest of the clans and Az Sweldn rak Anhûin. That would not be so bad. Together, we could crush them inside of a week. A war with the clans split into two or three factions, however, would destroy our country. It is crucial, then, that before we draw our swords, we convince the other clans of what Az Sweldn rak Anhûin has done. Toward that end, will you allow magicians from different clans to examine your memories of the attack so they may see it happened as we shall say it did and that we did not stage it for our own benefit?”

Eragon hesitated, reluctant to open his mind to strangers, then nodded toward the three dwarves stacked on top of one another. “What about them? Won’t their memories be enough to convince the clans of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin’s guilt?”