It had been wise of Arya, Eragon thought, to stage the meeting in Orik’s pavilion. The dwarf king was known to be a staunch supporter of Nasuada and the Varden—as well as being Eragon’s clan chief and foster brother—but no one could accuse him of aspiring to Nasuada’s position, nor would the humans necessarily accept him as her replacement.
Still, by staging the meeting in Orik’s pavilion, Arya had strengthened Eragon’s case and undercut his critics, without appearing to endorse or attack either. She was, Eragon had to admit, far more accomplished at manipulating others than he. The only risk in what she had done was that it might cause others to think Orik was his master, but that was a risk Eragon was willing to accept in exchange for his friend’s support.
“I never wanted this,” he repeated, then lifted his gaze to meet the watchful eyes of those around him. “But now that it’s happened, I swear on the graves of all we’ve lost that I’ll do my best to live up to Nasuada’s example and lead the Varden to victory against Galbatorix and the Empire.” He strove to project an air of confidence, but the truth was, the enormity of the situation frightened him and he had no idea whether he was up to the task. Nasuada had been impressively capable, and it was intimidating to consider trying to do even half of what she had done.
“Very commendable, I’m sure,” said King Orrin. “However, the Varden has always worked in concert with its allies—with the men of Surda; with our royal friend King Orik and the dwarves of the Beor Mountains; with the elves; and now, more recently, with the Urgals, as led by Nar Garzhvog, and with the werecats.” He nodded toward Grimrr, who nodded briefly in return. “It would not do for the rank and file to see us disagreeing with one another in public. Would you not agree?”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” said King Orrin. “I take it, then, you will continue to consult with us on matters of importance, even as Nasuada did?” Eragon hesitated, but before he could reply, Orrin resumed speaking: “All of us”—he motioned toward the others in the tent—“have risked an enormous amount in this venture, and none of us would appreciate being dictated to. Nor would we submit to it. To be blunt, despite your many accomplishments, Eragon Shadeslayer, you are still young and inexperienced, and that inexperience might very well prove fatal. The rest of us have had the benefit of many years leading our respective forces, or watching others lead. We can help guide you onto the right path, and perhaps together we can still find a way to right this mess and overthrow Galbatorix.”
Everything Orrin said was true, Eragon thought—he was still young and inexperienced, and he did need the others’ advice—but he could not admit as much without appearing weak.
So, instead, he replied, “You may rest assured that I will consult with you when needed, but my decisions, as always, will remain my own.”
“Forgive me, Shadeslayer, but I have difficulty believing that. Your familiarity with the elves”—Orrin eyed Arya—“is commonly known. What’s more, you are an adopted member of the Ingeitum clan, and subject to the authority of their clan chief, who just so happens to be King Orik. Perhaps I am mistaken, but it seems doubtful that your decisions will be your own.”
“First, you counsel me to listen to our allies. Now you don’t. Is it perhaps that you would prefer I listen to you, and you alone?” Eragon’s anger grew as he spoke.
“I would prefer that your choices be in the best interests of our people, and not those of another race!”
“They have been,” growled Eragon. “And they will continue to be. I owe my allegiance to both the Varden and the Ingeitum clan, yes, but also to Saphira, and Nasuada, and my family as well. Many have claim on me, even as many have claim on you, Your Majesty. My foremost concern, however, is defeating Galbatorix and the Empire. It always has been, and if there is a conflict among my loyalties, that is what shall take precedence. Question my judgment, if you must, but do not question my motives. And I would thank you to refrain from implying that I’m a traitor to my kind!”
Orrin scowled, color rising in his cheeks, and he was about to utter a retort when a loud bang interrupted him as Orik struck his war hammer, Volund, against his shield.
“Enough of this nonsense!” exclaimed Orik, glowering. “You worry about a crack in the floor while the whole mountain is about to come down upon us!”
Orrin’s scowl deepened, but he did not pursue the matter further. Instead, he picked up his goblet of wine from the table and sank back into the depths of his chair, where he stared at Eragon with a dark, smoldering gaze.
I think he hates you, said Saphira.
That, or he hates what I represent. Either way, I’m an obstacle to him. He’ll bear watching.
“The question before us is simple,” said Orik. “What should we do now that Nasuada is gone?” He placed Volund flat on the table and ran his gnarled hand over his head. “Mine opinion is that our situation is the same as it was this morning. Unless we admit defeat and sue for peace, we still have only one choice: march to Urû’baen fast as our feet will carry us. Nasuada herself was never going to fight Galbatorix. That will fall to you”—he motioned toward Eragon and Saphira—“and the elves. Nasuada brought us this far, and while she will be greatly missed, we do not need her to continue. Our path allows for little deviation. Even if she were present, I cannot see her doing anything else. To Urû’baen, we must go, and that’s the end of it.”
Grimrr toyed with a small black-bladed dagger, seemingly indifferent to the conversation.
“I agree,” said Arya. “We have no other choice.”
Above them, Garzhvog’s massive head dipped, causing misshapen shadows to glide across the pavilion walls. “The dwarf speaks well. The Urgralgra will stay with the Varden as long as Firesword is war chief. With him and Flametongue to lead our charges, we will collect the debt of blood that the lack-horned betrayer, Galbatorix, still owes us.”
Eragon shifted slightly, uncomfortable.
“That’s all very well and good,” said King Orrin, “but I’ve yet to hear how we are supposed to defeat Murtagh and Galbatorix when we get to Urû’baen.”
“We have the Dauthdaert,” Eragon pointed out, for Yaela had retrieved the spear, “and with it, we can—”
King Orrin waved one hand. “Yes, yes, the Dauthdaert. It didn’t help you stop Thorn, and I can’t imagine that Galbatorix will let you come anywhere near him or Shruikan with it. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still no match for that black-hearted traitor. Blast it, Shadeslayer, you’re not even a match for your own brother, and he’s been a Rider for less time than you!”
Half brother, Eragon thought, but he held his tongue. He could find no way to rebut Orrin’s points; they were valid, each and every one, and they left him feeling shamed.
The king continued: “We entered this war with the understanding that you would find a way of countering Galbatorix’s unnatural strength. So Nasuada promised and assured us. And yet here we are, about to confront the most powerful magician in recorded history, and we’re no closer to defeating him than when we began!”
“We went to war,” Eragon said quietly, “because it was the first time since the Riders fell that we’ve had even the slightest chance of overthrowing Galbatorix. You know that.”
“What chance?” sneered the king. “We’re puppets, all of us, dancing according to Galbatorix’s whims. The only reason we’ve gotten this far is because he’s let us. Galbatorix wants us to go to Urû’baen. He wants us to bring you to him. If he cared about stopping us, he would have flown out to meet us at the Burning Plains and crushed us then and there. And once he has you in his reach, he’ll do just that: crush us.”
The air in the tent seemed to grow taut between them.