The Madness and the Plan

Galbatorix stormed out of the council hall in a murderous rage. He stomped through the grounds of Illirea until he reached the garden. He barely paused to throw open the gates and then continued across the springy grass. The flowers around him, kept in constant bloom by the elves magic, held no charm for him. All he saw in front of his eyes was a smoky red haze.

But this anger would not get him anywhere; he needed to calm down, to plan. He leant against a giant rowan tree and looked up at the sky. Above his head was a cobweb, strung between two branches. Morning dew still clung to the gossamer threads, giving it the appearance of dozens of pearl necklaces.

To Galbatorix, it was hideous.

"Brisingr!" He muttered, and the cobweb instantly shrivelled into ash, releasing a foul cloud of acrid smoke and steam.

Curse the elders! He thought.

Curse those fat fools who sit on their golden thrones and have the guile to refuse me another dragon!

It was their fault Jarnunvosk died! Their fault!

He leant against the tree, fuming, clenching his hands into fists again and again, and imagining how it would feel to wrap them around Vrael's throat.

"They must pay," he whispered to himself.

"All of them, every one, they must pay. But how?"

Then he caught sight of the apprentice Morzan strutting through the garden, with that young idiot Brom trailing along at his heels, looking up at him admiringly.

Galbatorix saw the muscles wrapped around Morzan's arms, and a plan came to his mind.

He will help me. He thought.

He will help me to get a new dragon, and to get my revenge.

And for the first time in more months that he could count, Galbatorix smiled.