Eragon staggered over to Murtagh and knelt next to him.
“And to Eragon goes the victory,” said the king, his sonorous voice filling the great hall.
Murtagh looked up at Eragon, his sweat-beaded face contorted with pain. “You couldn’t just let me win, could you?” he growled in an undertone. “You can’t beat Galbatorix, but you still had to prove that you are better than me.… Ah!” He shuddered and began to rock back and forth upon his shins.
Eragon put a hand on his shoulder. “Why?” he asked, knowing that Murtagh would understand the question.
The answer came as a barely audible whisper: “Because I hoped to gain his favor so that I could save her.” Tears blurred Murtagh’s eyes, and he looked away.
At that, Eragon realized that Murtagh had been telling the truth earlier, and he felt a sense of dismay.
Another moment passed, and Eragon was aware of Galbatorix watching them with keen interest.
Then Murtagh said, “You tricked me.”
“It was the only way.”
Murtagh grunted. “That was always the difference between you and me.” He eyed Eragon. “You were willing to sacrifice yourself. I wasn’t.… Not then.”
“But now you are.”
“I’m not the person I once was. I have Thorn now, and …” Murtagh hesitated; then his shoulders rose and fell in a tiny shrug. “I’m not fighting for myself anymore.… It makes a difference.” He took a shallow breath and winced. “I used to think you were a fool to keep risking your life as you have.… I know better now. I understand … why. I understand.…” His eyes widened and his grimace relaxed, as if his pain was forgotten, and an inner light seemed to illuminate his features. “I understand—we understand,” he whispered, and Thorn uttered a strange sound that was half whimper and half growl.
Galbatorix stirred on his throne, as if uneasy, and in a harsh voice, he said, “Enough of this talk. Your duel is over, and Eragon has won. Now the time has arrived for our guests to bend their knees and give to me their oaths of fealty.… Come closer, the both of you, and I shall heal your wounds, and then we shall proceed.”
Eragon started to stand, but Murtagh grabbed his forearm, stopping him.
“Now!” said Galbatorix, his heavy brows drawing together. “Or I will leave you to suffer from your wounds until we have finished.”
Ready yourself, Murtagh mouthed to Eragon.
Eragon hesitated, not sure what to expect; then he nodded and warned Arya, Saphira, Glaedr, and the other Eldunarí.
Then Murtagh pushed Eragon aside, and he rose up on his knees, still clutching his belly. He looked at Galbatorix. And he shouted the Word.
Galbatorix recoiled and lifted a hand, as if to shield himself.
Still shouting, Murtagh voiced other words in the ancient language, speaking too quickly for Eragon to understand the purpose of the spell.
The air around Galbatorix flashed red and black, and for an instant, his body appeared to be wreathed in flames. There was a sound like that of a high summer wind stirring the branches of an evergreen forest. Then Eragon heard a series of thin shrieks as twelve orbs of light appeared around Galbatorix’s head and fled outward from him and passed through the walls of the chamber and thus vanished. They looked like spirits, but Eragon saw them for such a brief span, he could not be certain.
Thorn spun around—as fast as a cat whose tail has been stepped on—and he pounced on Shruikan’s immense neck. The black dragon bellowed and scrambled backward, shaking his head in an attempt to throw Thorn off. The noise of his growls was painfully loud, and the floor shook from the weight of the two dragons.
On the steps of the dais, the two children screamed and covered their ears with their hands.
Eragon saw Arya, Elva, and Saphira lurch forward, no longer bound by Galbatorix’s magic. Dauthdaert in hand, Arya started toward the throne, while Saphira loped toward where Thorn clung to Shruikan. Meanwhile, Elva put her hand to her mouth and seemed to say something to herself, but what it was Eragon could not hear over the sound of the dragons.
Fist-sized drops of blood rained down around them and lay smoking on the stone.
Eragon rose from where Murtagh had pushed him, and he followed Arya toward the throne.
Then Galbatorix spoke the name of the ancient language, along with the word letta. Invisible bonds seized hold of Eragon’s limbs, and throughout the chamber, silence fell as the king’s magic restrained everyone, even Shruikan.
Rage and frustration boiled within Eragon. They had been so close to striking at the king, and still they were helpless before his spells. “Get him!” he shouted, both with his mind and his tongue. They had already tried to attack Galbatorix and Shruikan; the king would kill the two children whether or not they continued. The only path left to Eragon and those with him—the only hope of victory that yet remained—was to break past Galbatorix’s mental barriers and seize control of his thoughts.
Along with Saphira and Arya and the Eldunarí they had brought with them, Eragon stabbed outward with his consciousness toward the king, pouring all his hate, anger, and pain into the single, burning ray that he drove into the center of Galbatorix’s being.
For an instant, Eragon felt the king’s mind: a terrible, shadow-ridden vista swept with bitter cold and searing heat—ruled by bars of iron, hard and unyielding, which portioned off areas of his consciousness.