“Rise now as queen, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad and Nadara.”
A fanfare of trumpets rang forth, and the gathered crowd—which had been deathly silent—began to cheer. It was a strange cacophony, what with the bellows of Urgals intermingled with the melodious voices of the elves.
Then Nasuada sat upon the throne. King Orrin came before her and swore his allegiance, followed by Arya, King Orik, Grimrr Halfpaw, and Nar Garzhvog, who each pledged the friendship of their respective races.
The event affected Eragon strongly. He found himself holding back tears as he gazed at Nasuada sitting regnant on her throne. Only with her coronation did it feel as if the specter of Galbatorix’s oppression had begun to recede.
Afterward, they feasted, and the Varden and their allies celebrated throughout the night and into the next day. Eragon remembered little of the festivities, save the dancing of the elves, the pounding of the dwarves’ drums, and the four Kull who climbed a tower along the city wall and there stood blowing horns made from the skulls of their fathers. The people of the city joined in the celebrations as well, and among them, Eragon saw relief and jubilation that Galbatorix was no longer king. And underlying their emotions, and those of everyone present, was an awareness of the importance of the moment, for they knew they were witnessing the end of one age and the beginning of another.
Upon the fifth day, when the gate was nearly rebuilt and the city seemed reasonably secure, Nasuada ordered Eragon and Saphira to fly to Dras-Leona, and thence to Belatona, Feinster, and Aroughs, and in each place to use the name of the ancient language to release from their oaths everyone who had sworn fealty to Galbatorix. She also asked Eragon to bind the soldiers and nobles with spells—even as he had bound the people of Urû’baen—to keep them from trying to undermine the newly established peace. That, Eragon had refused, for he felt it was too similar to how Galbatorix had controlled those who served him. In Urû’baen, the risk of hidden killers or other loyalists was great enough that Eragon had been willing to do as she wished. But not elsewhere. To his relief, Nasuada agreed with him after some consideration.
He and Saphira took with them over half the Eldunarí from Vroengard; the rest remained behind with the hearts of hearts that had been rescued from Galbatorix’s treasure room. Blödhgarm and his spellcasters—who were no longer bound to defend Eragon and Saphira—moved those Eldunarí to a castle several miles northeast of Urû’baen, where it would be easy to protect the hearts against any who might seek to steal them, and where the thoughts of the mad dragons would not affect the minds of any but their caretakers.
Only once Eragon and Saphira were satisfied that the Eldunarí were safe did they depart.
When they arrived at Dras-Leona, Eragon was astounded by the number of spells he found woven throughout the city, as well as in the dark tower of stone, Helgrind. Many of them, he guessed, were hundreds of years old, if not older: forgotten enchantments from ages past. He left those that seemed harmless and removed those that did not, but ofttimes it was difficult to tell, and he was reluctant to tamper with spells whose purpose he did not understand. Here the Eldunarí proved helpful; in several cases, they remembered who had cast a spell and why, or else they were able to divine its purpose from information that meant nothing to him.
When it came to Helgrind and the various holdings of the priests—who had gone into hiding as soon as news of Galbatorix’s demise had reached them—Eragon did not bother trying to determine which spells were dangerous and which were not; he removed them all. He also used the name of names to search for the belt of Beloth the Wise in the ruins of the great cathedral, but without success.
They stayed in Dras-Leona for three days, then they proceeded to Belatona. There too Eragon removed Galbatorix’s enchantments, as well as at Feinster and Aroughs. In Feinster, someone tried to kill him with a poisoned drink. His wards protected him, but the incident angered Saphira.
If I ever corner the rat-coward who did this, I’ll eat him alive from the toes up, she growled.
On the return trip to Urû’baen, Eragon suggested a slight change of direction. Saphira agreed and altered her course, tilting so the horizon stood on end and the world was divided equally between the dark blue sky and the green and brown earth.
It took a half day of searching, but at last Saphira found the cluster of sandstone hills and, among them, one hill in particular: a tall, sloping mound of reddish stone with a cave halfway up its side. And upon its crest, a glittering tomb of diamond.
The hill looked exactly as Eragon remembered. When he gazed upon it, he felt his chest grow tight.
Saphira landed next to the tomb. Her claws scraped against the pitted stone, chipping off flakes.
With slow fingers, Eragon unbuckled his legs. Then he slid to the ground. A wave of dizziness passed through him at the smell of the warm stone, and for a moment, he felt as if he were in the past.
Then he shook himself, and his mind cleared. He walked to the tomb and looked into its crystal depths, and there he saw Brom.
There he saw his father.
Brom’s appearance had not changed. The diamond that encased his body protected him from the ravages of time, and his flesh showed no hint of decay. The skin of his lined face was firm, and it had a rosy tint, as if hot blood still coursed beneath the surface. At any moment, it seemed as if Brom might open his eyes and rise to his feet, ready to continue on their unfinished journey. In a way, he had become deathless, for he no longer aged as others did, but would remain forever the same, caught in a dreamless sleep.
Brom’s sword lay atop his chest and the long white pennant of his beard, with his hands folded over the hilt, just as Eragon had placed them. By his side was his gnarled staff, carved, Eragon now realized, with dozens of glyphs from the ancient language.
Tears welled in Eragon’s eyes. He fell to his knees and wept quietly for a timeless while. He heard Saphira join him, felt her with his mind, and he knew that she too mourned Brom’s passing.
At last Eragon got to his feet and leaned against the edge of the tomb as he studied the shape of Brom’s face. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the similarities between their features, blurred and obscured by age and by Brom’s beard, but still unmistakable. The angle of Brom’s cheekbones, the crease between his eyebrows, the way his upper lip curved; all those Eragon recognized. He had not inherited Brom’s hooked nose, however. His nose he had gotten from his mother.
Eragon looked down, breathing heavily as his eyes again grew blurry. “It’s done,” he said in an undertone. “I did it.… We did it. Galbatorix is dead, Nasuada is on the throne, and both Saphira and I are unharmed. That would please you, wouldn’t it, you old fox?” He laughed shortly and wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “What’s more, there are dragon eggs in Vroengard. Eggs! The dragons aren’t going to die out. And Saphira and I will be the ones to raise them. You never foresaw that, now did you?” He laughed again, feeling silly and grief-stricken at the same time. “What would you think of this all, I wonder? You’re the same as ever, but we’re not. Would you even recognize us?”
Of course he would, said Saphira. You are his son. She touched him with her snout. Besides, your face isn’t so different that he would mistake you for someone else, even if your scent has changed.
“It has?”
You smell more like an elf now.… Anyway, he would hardly think I was Shruikan or Glaedr, now would he?
“No.”
Eragon sniffed and pushed himself off the tomb. Brom looked so lifelike within the diamond, the sight of him inspired an idea: a wild, improbable idea that he almost dismissed but that his emotions would not let him ignore. He thought of Umaroth and the Eldunarí—of all their collected knowledge and of what they had accomplished with his spell in Urû’baen—and a spark of desperate hope kindled within his heart.
Speaking both to Saphira and Umaroth, he said, Brom had only just died when we buried him. Saphira didn’t turn the stone to diamond until the following day, but he was still encased in stone, away from the air, through the night. Umaroth, with your strength and your knowledge, maybe … maybe we could still heal him. Eragon shivered as if he were in the grip of a fever. I didn’t know how to mend his wound before, but now—now I think I could.