Inheritance (40 page)

The old dragon had not been enthusiastic about the mission when Eragon told him about it, but neither had he opposed it. After discussing various contingencies, Glaedr had said:
Beware of the shadows, Eragon. Strange things lurk in dark places
, which, Eragon thought, was hardly an encouraging statement.

He wiped the accumulated moisture off his face, keeping his other hand close to the hilt of his sword. The leather of his glove was warm and smooth against his skin.

Lowering his hand, he hooked his thumb under his sword belt, the belt of Beloth the Wise, conscious of the weight of the twelve flawless diamonds concealed within. That morning, he had gone to the livestock pens, and as the cooks killed the birds and sheep for the army’s breakfast, he had transferred the animals’ dying energy into the gems. He hated doing so; when he reached out with his mind to an animal—if it still had its head attached—the animal’s fear and pain became his own, and as it slipped into the void, he felt as if he himself were dying. It was a horrible, panic-inducing experience. Whenever he could, he had whispered words in the ancient language to the animals in an attempt to comfort them. Sometimes
it worked, sometimes not. Though the creatures would have died in any case, and though he needed the energy, he hated the practice, for it made him feel as if
he
were responsible for their deaths. It made him feel unclean.

Now he fancied that the belt was slightly heavier than before, laden as it was with the energy from so many animals. Even if the diamonds within had been worthless, Eragon would have regarded the belt as valuable beyond gold, on account of the dozens of lives that had gone into filling it.

As Wyrden ceased singing, Arya asked, “Have you found it?”

“This way,” said Wyrden, standing.

Relief and trepidation swept through Eragon.
Jeod was right!

Wyrden led them over a road and a series of small hills, then down into a shallow wash hidden within the folds of the land. “The mouth of the tunnel should be somewhere here,” said the elf, and gestured at the western bank of the depression.

The herbalist increased the brightness of her werelight enough for them to search by; then Eragon, Arya, and Wyrden began to comb through the brush along the side of the bank, poking at the ground with sticks. Twice Eragon barked his shins against the stumps of fallen birch trees, causing him to suck in his breath with pain. He wished he was wearing bracers, but he had left them behind, along with his shield, because they would have attracted too much attention in the city.

For twenty minutes, they searched, ranging up and down the bank as they worked their way out from their starting point. At last Eragon heard a ring of metal, and then Arya softly called, “Here.”

He and the others hurried toward her, where she stood by a small, overgrown hollow in the side of the bank. Arya drew aside the brush to reveal a stone-lined tunnel five feet tall and three feet wide. A rusting iron grate covered the gaping hole.

“Look,” said Arya, and she pointed at the ground.

Eragon looked, and he saw a path leading out of the tunnel. Even by the weird red illumination of the herbalist’s werelight, Eragon
could tell that the trail had been worn into place by the passage of tramping feet. One or more people must have been using the tunnel to surreptitiously enter and exit Dras-Leona.

“We should proceed with caution,” whispered Wyrden.

Angela made a faint noise in her throat. “How else were you planning to proceed? With blaring trumpets and shouting heralds? Really.”

The elf refrained from answering, but he appeared distinctly uncomfortable.

Arya and Wyrden pulled off the grating and cautiously moved into the tunnel. Both conjured werelights of their own. The flameless orbs floated over their heads like small red suns, though they emitted no more light than a handful of coals.

Eragon hung back and said to Angela, “Why do the elves treat you so respectfully? They seem almost afraid of you.”

“Am I not deserving of respect?”

He hesitated. “One of these days, you know, you’re going to have to tell me about yourself.”

“What makes you think that?” And she pushed past him to enter the tunnel, her cloak flapping like the wings of a Lethrblaka.

Shaking his head, Eragon followed.

The short herbalist did not have to bend much in order to avoid bumping into the ceiling, but Eragon had to hunch like an old man with rheumatism, as did the two elves. For the most part, the tunnel was empty. A fine layer of caked dirt covered the floor. A few sticks and rocks, and even a discarded snakeskin, were scattered near the mouth of the tunnel. The passageway smelled like damp straw and moth wings.

Eragon and the others walked as quietly as they could, but the tunnel magnified sounds. Every bump and scrape echoed, filling the air with a multitude of overlapping whispers that seemed to murmur and sigh with a life of their own. The whispers made Eragon feel as if they were surrounded by a host of disembodied spirits who were commenting on their every move.

So much for sneaking up on anyone
, he thought as he scuffed his boot against a rock, which bounced against the side of the tunnel with a loud
clack
that multiplied a hundredfold as it spread through the tunnel.

“Sorry,” he mouthed as everyone looked at him.

A wry smile touched his lips.
At least we know what causes the strange sounds underneath Dras-Leona
. He would have to tell Jeod on their return.

When they had gone a fair ways down the tunnel, Eragon paused and looked back at the entrance, which was already lost in darkness. The gloom seemed almost palpable, like a heavy cloth draped over the world. Combined with the close-set walls and low ceiling, it left him feeling cramped and constricted. Normally, he did not mind being in enclosed places, but the tunnel reminded him of the warren of rough-hewn passageways within Helgrind where he and Roran had fought the Ra’zac—hardly a pleasant memory.

He took a deep breath, then released it.

Just as he was about to continue forward, he caught a glimpse of two large eyes gleaming in the shadows, like a pair of copper-colored moonstones. He grabbed Brisingr and had already drawn the sword several inches from its scabbard when Solembum appeared out of the murk, padding along on silent paws.

The werecat stopped at the edge of the light. He twitched his black-tipped ears, and his jaws parted in what seemed to be an expression of amusement.

Eragon relaxed and acknowledged the werecat’s presence with a dip of his head.
I should have guessed
. Wherever Angela went, Solembum invariably followed. Again Eragon wondered about the herbalist’s past:
How did she ever win his loyalty?

As the rest of the party grew distant, the shadows crept over Solembum once more, hiding him from Eragon’s sight.

Comforted by the knowledge that the werecat was watching his back, Eragon hurried to catch up.

Before the group left the camp, Nasuada had briefed them on
the exact number of soldiers in the city, as well as where they were stationed and their duties and habits. She had also given them details about Murtagh’s sleeping quarters, what he ate, and even his mood the previous evening. Her information had been remarkably precise. When questioned, she had smiled and explained that, since the Varden had arrived, the werecats had been spying for her within Dras-Leona. Once Eragon and his companions emerged within the city, the werecats would escort them to the southern gates but would not reveal their own presence to the Empire if at all possible, else they would no longer be able to supply Nasuada with intelligence as effectively. After all, who would suspect that the unusually large cat lounging nearby was actually an enemy spy?

It occurred to Eragon then, as he reviewed Nasuada’s briefing, that one of Murtagh’s greatest weaknesses was that he still had to sleep.
If we don’t capture or kill him today, the next time we meet, it might help us to find a way to wake him in the middle of the night—and for more nights than one, if we could manage it. Three or four days without proper sleep and he’d be in no fit shape to fight
.

On and on they went through the tunnel, which ran straight as an arrow, never bending, never turning. Eragon thought he detected a slight upward slant to the floor—which would make sense, as it was designed to channel waste out of the city—but he was not entirely sure.

After a while, the dirt beneath their feet began to soften and stick to their boots, like wet clay. Water dripped from the ceiling, sometimes landing on the nape of Eragon’s neck and rolling down his spine, like the touch of a cold finger. He slipped once on a patch of mud and, when he put out a hand for balance, found the wall covered in slime.

An indeterminate amount of time passed. They might have spent an hour in the tunnel. They might have spent ten. Or maybe it was only a few minutes. Whatever the case, Eragon’s neck and shoulders hurt from standing half bent over, and he grew tired of staring at what seemed to be the same twenty feet of rose-hued stone.

At last he noticed the echoes were waning and ever more of a delay was appearing between each repetition of the sounds. Soon afterward, the tunnel disgorged them into a large rectangular chamber with a ridged, half-dome ceiling over fifteen feet high at its apex. The chamber was empty, except for a rotting barrel in one corner. Across from them, three identical archways opened to three identical rooms, small and dark. Where those led, Eragon could not see.

The group stopped, and Eragon slowly straightened his back, wincing as his sore muscles stretched.

“This would not have been part of Erst Graybeard’s plans,” said Arya.

“Which path should we pick?” asked Wyrden.

“Isn’t it obvious?” asked the herbalist. “The left one. It’s always the left one.” And she strode toward that selfsame arch even as she spoke.

Eragon could not help himself. “Left according to which direction? If you were starting from the other side, left—”

“Left would be right and right would be left, yes, yes,” said the herbalist. Her eyes narrowed. “Sometimes you’re too clever for your own good, Shadeslayer.… Very well, we’ll try it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if we end up wandering around here for days on end.”

Eragon would actually have preferred to take the center archway, as it seemed the most likely to lead them up to the streets, but he did not want to get into an argument with the herbalist.
Either way, we’ll find stairs soon enough
, he thought.
There can’t be that many chambers under Dras-Leona
.

Holding her werelight aloft, Angela took the lead. Wyrden and Arya followed while Eragon brought up the rear.

The room through the rightmost archway was larger than it had first appeared, for it extended to the side for twenty feet, then turned and continued for another few yards, whereupon it ended at a corridor studded with empty sconces. Down the corridor was another
small room lined with three arches, each of which led to rooms with even more archways, and so on.

Who built these and why?
Eragon wondered, bewildered. All the rooms they saw were deserted and empty of furnishings. The only things they found within were a two-legged stool that fell apart when he nudged it with the tip of his boot and a pile of broken pottery lying in a corner beneath a veil of spiderwebs.

Angela never hesitated or seemed confused about which direction to go, for without fail, she chose the path to the right. Eragon would have objected, except that he could think of no better alternative to her method.

The herbalist stopped when they arrived at a circular room with seven equally spaced archways placed along the walls. Seven corridors, including the one they had just traversed, stretched out from the archways.

“Mark where we came from, or we’ll get completely turned around,” said Arya.

Eragon went to the corridor and, with the tip of Brisingr’s cross-guard, scratched a line on the stone wall. As he did, he peered into the darkness, searching for a glimpse of Solembum, but he saw not so much as a whisker. Eragon hoped the werecat had not gotten lost somewhere in the maze of rooms. He almost reached out with his mind to find him, but resisted the urge; if anyone else felt him groping around, it might alert the Empire to their location.

“Ah!” exclaimed Angela, and the shadows around Eragon shifted as the herbalist stood on tiptoe and raised her werelight as high as she could.

Eragon hurried to the center of the room, where she stood with Arya and Wyrden. “What is it?” he whispered.

“The ceiling, Eragon,” murmured Arya. “Look at the ceiling.”

He did as he was told, but saw only blocks of ancient, mold-covered stones crazed with so many cracks, it seemed amazing the ceiling had not collapsed long ago.

Then his vision shifted and he gasped.

The lines were not cracks but rather deeply carved runes—rows of them. They were neat and small, with sharp angles and straight stems. Mold and the passage of centuries had obscured parts of the text, but most of it remained legible.

Eragon struggled with the runes for a short while, but he recognized only a few of the words, and those were spelled differently than he was used to. “What does it say?” he asked. “Is it Dwarvish?”

“No,” said Wyrden. “It is the language of your people, but as it was spoken and written long ago, and of a very particular dialect: that of the zealot Tosk.”

The name struck a chord in Eragon. “When Roran and I rescued Katrina, we heard the priests of Helgrind mention a book of Tosk.”

Wyrden nodded. “It serves as the foundation of their faith. Tosk was not the first to offer up prayers to Helgrind, but he was the first to codify his beliefs and practices, and many others have imitated him since. Those who worship Helgrind regard him as a prophet of the divine. And
this
”—the elf cast his arms out wide—“is a history of Tosk, from his birth to his death: a true history, such as his disciples have never shared with those outside their sect.”

“We could learn much from this,” said Angela, never taking her eyes off the ceiling. “If only we had the time …” Eragon was surprised to see her so enthralled.