CHAPTER IX

New Beginnings

The last words of Irsk’s telling faded to silence in the main hall of the hold, high on Mount Arngor. Then the Urgal struck the drum between his knees, and a dull, booming note reverberated off the stone walls, marking an end to the story.

Eragon blinked and rubbed his face, feeling as if he too were waking from a dream. Around the hearth, the rest of the Urgals likewise stirred, statues coming to life.

With a growl, Skarghaz shoved himself to his feet and strode over to where Irsk sat. He grabbed the smaller Urgal by the horns and, with a violent, jerking motion, butted him in the head.

The Urgals roared with laughter, and Skarghaz said, “Well done, Irsk! Well said. You do your clan proud.”

The impact knocked Irsk back, but he bared his teeth in a fierce grin and—with just as much vigor—butted Skarghaz in return. “Honor for the clan, Nar Skarghaz.”

The fire had burned down to a bed of coals, and a chill had crept into the air while Irsk told his tale. Eragon glanced out the windows, wondering at the hour. The sky was black, without so much as a glimmer of the silver moon, and even the round-eyed owls that roosted in the dark pine trees were silent in their nests. It was late—far later than he made a habit of staying up—but he didn’t mind.

“That was a most excellent story, Irsk,” he said, and bowed as best he could while sitting. “Thank you.” He understood now why the Kull had requested that particular story, and Eragon was glad of it. It seemed there was always something for him to learn, even from the Urgals.

What did you think? he asked Saphira.

Approval radiated from her. I liked Ilgra. And I liked Vêrmund even more. It is only right that the dragon would win.

Eragon smiled slightly. Then he said out loud, “Was that a true story?”

“Of course it was a true story!” exclaimed Skarghaz, stomping back to his chair. “We would not tell you a story that said wrong things about the world, Rider.”

“No, I mean, did it really happen? Did Ilgra actually exist? And Vêrmund, and the mountain Kulkaras?”

Skarghaz scratched his chin, a thoughtful look in his yellow eyes. “It is an old story, Rider. Perhaps going back to the time before our kind crossed the sea. But I think the story happened as it says….Even to this day, the Urgralgra often name their daughters Ilgra, and because of her, every one of us knows that there is a Vêrmund we cannot best. It is a good lesson to learn, I think.”

“A good lesson indeed,” said Eragon. In some ways, he had defeated his own Vêrmund in the person of Galbatorix, but there were still things in life he could not overcome—things that no one could. It was a sobering thought. When Eragon was younger, the knowledge would have bothered him to no end. Now, though, he understood the wisdom of acceptance. Even if it didn’t make him happy, it at least gave him peace, and that was no small gift.

Happiness, Eragon had decided, was a fleeting, futile thing to pursue. Contentment, on the other hand, was a far more worthwhile goal.

“The Anointed,” he said, “are those—”

“What in our tongue we call the Kull,” said Irsk.

Eragon had thought as much. “And the Nrech, they are Lethrblaka?” A shadow seemed to descend upon the hall as he named the creatures.

Skarghaz coughed. “Gah! Yes, if you must speak of the blasted things, yes. We are fortunate you killed the last of them, Rider. And you as well, dragon.” He nodded toward Saphira, who blinked once in return.

“If we are so lucky,” said Eragon under his breath. Many a night he still wondered about Galbatorix’s claim to have hidden more of the Ra’zac’s eggs throughout Alagaësia. For Ra’zac, once grown, transformed into Lethrblaka, as caterpillars into butterflies. Even with all Eragon knew of magic, the thought of having to again face the creatures, Ra’zac or Lethrblaka both, was unsettling indeed.

A commotion sounded at the back of the hall, and at the same time, he sensed a disturbance among the Eldunarí in the Hall of Colors.

Alarmed, he struggled to his feet. Saphira hissed and did the same, her claws scrabbling on the floor.

Blödhgarm, Ästrith, Rílven, and the rest of the elves hurried toward them from across the hall. The elves were smiling—beautiful, broad, white-toothed smiles—and their steps were quick and light. It was such a contrast with their usual decorum, Eragon wasn’t sure how to react. He would have found scowls and blank, impassive expressions far less unnerving.

“Ebrithil,” said Blödhgarm, the midnight-blue fur along his shoulders rippling with excitement.

“What’s wrong?” said Eragon. Behind him, he heard stomps and clatters as the Urgals gathered in ranks, as if they expected the elves to attack. At the same time, the minds of the Eldunarí were a riot of conflicting words, thoughts, images, and emotions—a storm of sensations that made Eragon wince and that defied his attempts to decipher.

Saphira shook herself and growled, baring her long white fangs.

Blödhgarm’s smile widened, and he laughed in a delighted fashion. “Nothing is wrong, Ebrithil. Quite the opposite, in fact; everything is right with the world.”

Then Ästrith said, “One of the eggs has hatched.”

Eragon blinked. “One of—”

“A dragon has hatched, Ebrithil!” said Blödhgarm. “Another dragon is born!”

Saphira craned back her neck and crowed toward the shadowed ceiling, and the Urgals stomped and shouted until the entire hall rang with the sounds of celebration.

Eragon grinned, and he threw his cup over his head and let loose with an entirely undignified whoop. All of their hard work—all of the late nights and early mornings, the spells that left him exhausted and the endless worrying about provisions and politics and people—all of it had been worth it.

A new beginning had dawned for the dragons.