Galbatorix must have had his men find the nearest hatchlings, she replied. We didn’t give him time to do much else.
I suppose.
Thorn sat a number of yards away from Saphira, and Nasuada helped Murtagh down from his back. Then Murtagh slumped against Thorn’s belly. Eragon heard him begin to recite spells of healing.
Eragon likewise attended to Saphira’s wounds, ignoring his own, for hers were more serious. The gash on her left foreleg was as wide as both his hands put together, and a pool of blood was forming about her foot.
Tooth or claw? he asked as he examined the wound.
Claw, she said.
He used her strength, as well as Glaedr’s, to mend the gash. When he finished, he turned his attention to his own wounds, starting with the burning line of pain in his side, where Murtagh had stabbed him.
As he worked, he kept an eye on Murtagh—watched as Murtagh healed his gut wound, Thorn’s broken wing, and the dragon’s other injuries. Nasuada stayed by him the whole while, her hand on his shoulder. He had, Eragon saw, somehow reacquired Zar’roc on the way out of the throne room.
Eragon then turned to Elva, who was standing nearby. She appeared pained, but he saw no blood upon her. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head. “No, but many of them are.” And she pointed at the people fleeing the citadel.
“Mmh.” Eragon glanced over at Murtagh again. He and Nasuada were standing now, talking to each other.
Nasuada frowned.
Then Murtagh reached out, grasped the neck of her tunic, and pulled it to the side, tearing the fabric.
Eragon had drawn Brisingr halfway out of its sheath before he saw the map of angry-looking welts below Nasuada’s collarbone. The sight struck him like a blow; it reminded him of the wounds on Arya’s back after he and Murtagh had rescued her from Gil’ead.
Nasuada nodded and bowed her head.
Again Murtagh began to speak, this time, Eragon was sure, in the ancient language. He placed his hands upon various parts of Nasuada’s body, his touch gentle—even hesitant—and her expression of relief was all the evidence Eragon needed to understand how much pain she had been suffering.
Eragon watched for a minute longer, then a sudden rush of emotion swept through him. His knees grew weak, and he sat on Saphira’s right paw. She lowered her head and nuzzled his shoulder, and he leaned his head against her.
We did it, she said in a quiet tone.
We did it, he said, hardly able to believe the words.
He could feel Saphira thinking about Shruikan’s death; as dangerous as Shruikan had been, she still mourned the passing of one of the last remaining members of her race.
Eragon gripped her scales. He felt light, almost dizzy, as if he might float away from the surface of the earth. What now …?
Now we will rebuild, said Glaedr. His own emotions were a curious mixture of satisfaction, grief, and weariness. You acquitted yourself well, Eragon. No one else would have thought to attack Galbatorix as you did.
“I just wanted him to understand,” he murmured wearily. But if Glaedr heard, he chose not to respond.
At last, the Oath-breaker is dead, crowed Umaroth.
It seemed impossible that Galbatorix was no more. As Eragon contemplated the fact, something within his mind seemed to release, and he remembered—as if he had never forgotten—everything that had transpired during their time in the Vault of Souls.
A tingle passed through him. Saphira—
I know, she said, her excitement rising. The eggs!
Eragon smiled. Eggs! Dragon eggs! As a race, they would not pass into the void. They would survive, and flourish, and return to their former glory, as they had been before the fall of the Riders.
Then a horrible suspicion occurred to him. Did you make us forget anything else? he asked Umaroth.
If we did, how would we know? replied the white dragon.