Inheritance by Christopher Paolini Page B

returned to himself, Eragon became aware of someone knocking on the front pole of his tent, and then he heard Arya say, “Eragon? May I enter?”
    He sniffed and blinked to clear his eyes. “Of course.”
    The dim gray light from the cloudy sky fell upon him as Arya pushed aside the entrance flap. He felt a sudden pang as his eyes met hers—green, slanted, and unreadable—and an ache of longing filled him.
    “Has there been any change?” she asked, and came to kneel by him. Instead of armor, she was wearing the same black leather shirt, trousers, and thin-soled boots as when he had rescued her in Gil’ead. Her hair was damp from washing and hung down her back in long, heavy ropes. The scent of crushed pine needles attended her, as it so often did, and it occurred to Eragon to wonder whether she used a spell to create the aroma or if that was how she smelled naturally. He would have liked to ask her, but he did not dare.
    In answer to her question, he shook his head.
    “May I?” She indicated Glaedr’s heart of hearts.
    He moved out of the way. “Please.”
    Arya placed her hands on either side of the Eldunarí and then closed her eyes. While she sat, he took the opportunity to study her with an openness and intensity that would have been offensive otherwise. In every aspect, she seemed the epitome of beauty, even though he knew that another might say her nose was too long, or her face too angled, or her ears too pointed, or her arms too muscled.
    With a sharp intake of breath, Arya jerked her hands away from the heart of hearts, as if it had burned her. Then she bowed her head, and Eragon saw her chin quiver ever so faintly. “He is the most unhappy creature I have ever met.… I would we could helphim. I do not think he will be able to find his way out of the darkness on his own.”
    “Do you think …” Eragon hesitated, not wanting to give voice to his suspicion, then continued: “Do you think he will go mad?”
    “He may have already. If not, then he dances on the very cusp of insanity.”
    Sorrow came over Eragon as they both gazed at the golden stone.
    When at last he was able to bring himself to speak again, he asked, “Where is the Dauthdaert?”
    “Hidden within my tent even as you have hidden Glaedr’s Eldunarí. I can bring it here, if you want, or I can continue to safeguard it until you need it.”
    “Keep it. I can’t carry it around with me, or Galbatorix may learn of its existence. Besides, it would be foolish to store so many treasures in one place.”
    She nodded.
    The ache inside of Eragon intensified. “Arya, I—” He stopped as Saphira saw one of the blacksmith Horst’s sons—Albriech, he thought, although it was difficult to tell him from his brother, Baldor, because of the distortions in Saphira’s vision—running toward the tent. The interruption relieved Eragon, as he had not known what he was going to say.
    “Someone’s coming,” he announced, and closed the lid of the chest.
    Loud, wet footsteps sounded in the mud outside. Then Albriech, for it was Albriech, shouted, “Eragon! Eragon!”
    “What!”
    “Mother’s birth pains have just begun! Father sent me to tell you and to ask if you will wait with him, in case anything goes wrong and your skill with magic is needed. Please, if you can—”
    Whatever else he said was lost to Eragon as he rushed to lock and bury the chest. Then he cast his cloak over his shoulders and was fumbling with the clasp when Arya touched him on the arm andsaid, “May I accompany you? I have some experience with this. If your people will let me, I can make the birth easier for her.”
    Eragon did not even pause to consider his decision. He motioned toward the entrance of the tent. “After you.”

W HAT I S A M AN?
    he mud clung to Roran’s boots each time he lifted his feet, slowing his progress and making his already-tired legs burn from the effort. It felt as if the very ground were trying to pull off his shoes. Thick as it was, the