Careful, said Saphira to Eragon. He’ll leave the pack if you can’t convince him otherwise.
Arya appeared similarly worried.
Eragon spread his hands flat on the table and took a moment to gather his thoughts. He did not want to lie, but at the same time he had to find a way to inspire hope in Orrin, which was difficult when Eragon felt little himself. Is this what it was like for Nasuada all those times she rallied us to the cause, convinced us to keep going even when we couldn’t see a way clear?
“Our position isn’t quite as … precarious as you make it out to be,” said Eragon.
Orrin snorted and drank from his goblet.
“The Dauthdaert is a threat to Galbatorix,” continued Eragon, “and that’s to our advantage. He’ll be wary of it. Because of that, we can force him to do what we want, perhaps just a bit. Even if we can’t use it to kill him, we might be able to kill Shruikan. Theirs isn’t a true pairing of dragon and Rider, but Shruikan’s death would still wound him to the core.”
“It’ll never happen,” said Orrin. “He knows that we have the Dauthdaert now, and he’ll take the appropriate precautions.”
“Maybe not. I doubt Murtagh and Thorn recognized it.”
“No, but Galbatorix will when he examines their memories.”
And he’ll also know of Glaedr’s existence, if they haven’t told him already, Saphira said to Eragon.
Eragon’s spirits sank further. He had not thought of that, but she was right. So much for any hope of surprising him. We have no more secrets.
Life is full of secrets. Galbatorix cannot predict exactly how we will choose to fight him. In that, at least, we can confound him.
“Which of the death spears have you found, O Shadeslayer?” asked Grimrr in a seemingly bored tone.
“Du Niernen—the Orchid.”
The werecat blinked, and Eragon had the impression that he was surprised, although Grimrr’s expression remained blank as ever. “The Orchid. Is that so? How very strange to find such a weapon in this age, especially that … particular weapon.”
“Why so?” asked Jörmundur.
Grimrr’s small pink tongue passed over his fangs. “Niernen is notoriousss.” He drew out the end of the word into a short hiss.
Before Eragon could press the werecat for more information, Garzhvog spoke, his voice grinding like boulders: “What is this death spear you speak of, Firesword? Is it the lance that wounded Saphira in Belatona? We heard tales of it, but they were odd indeed.”
Eragon belatedly remembered that Nasuada had told neither the Urgals nor the werecats what Niernen truly was. Oh well, he thought. It can’t be helped.
He explained to Garzhvog about the Dauthdaert, then insisted everyone in the pavilion swear an oath in the ancient language that they would not discuss the spear with anyone else without permission. There was some grumbling, but in the end they all complied, even the werecat. Trying to hide the spear from Galbatorix might have been pointless, but Eragon could see no good in allowing the Dauthdaert to become general knowledge.
When the last of them had finished their oaths, Eragon resumed speaking, “So. First, we have the Dauthdaert, and that’s more than we had before. Second, I don’t plan on facing Murtagh and Galbatorix together; I’ve never planned to. When we arrive at Urû’baen, we’ll lure Murtagh out of the city, and then we’ll surround him, with the whole army if necessary—the elves included—and we’ll kill or capture him once and for all.” He looked round at the gathered faces, trying to impress them with the force of his conviction. “Third—and this is what you have to believe deep in your hearts—Galbatorix isn’t invulnerable, however powerful he is. He might have cast thousands upon thousands of wards to protect himself, but in spite of all his knowledge and cunning, there are still spells that can kill him, if only we are clever enough to think of them. Now, maybe I’ll be the one to find the spell that is his undoing, but it might just as well be an elf or a member of Du Vrangr Gata. Galbatorix seems untouchable, I know, but there’s always a weakness—there’s always a crevice you can slip a blade through and thus stab your foe.”
“If the Riders of old couldn’t find his weakness, what is the likelihood we can?” demanded King Orrin.
Eragon spread his hands, palms upward. “Maybe we can’t. Nothing is certain in life, much less in war. However, if the combined spellcasters of our five races can’t kill him, then we might as well accept that Galbatorix is going to rule as long as he pleases, and nothing we can do is going to change that.”
Silence pervaded the tent, short and profound.
Then Roran stepped forward. “I would speak,” he said.
Eragon saw the others around the table exchange glances.
“Say what you will, Stronghammer,” said Orik, to King Orrin’s evident annoyance.
“It is this: too much blood and too many tears have been shed for us to turn back now. It would be disrespectful, both to the dead and to those who remember the dead. This may be a battle between gods”—he appeared perfectly serious to Eragon as he said this—“but I for one will keep fighting until the gods strike me down, or until I strike them down. A dragon might kill ten thousand wolves one at a time, but ten thousand wolves together can kill a dragon.”
Not likely, Saphira snorted in the privacy of her and Eragon’s shared mind space.
Roran smiled without humor. “And we have a dragon of our own. Decide as you wish. But I, for one, am going to Urû’baen, and I’ll face Galbatorix, even if I have to do it by myself.”