Chapter Five

At the Sign of the Golden Dragon

Once he had left the herbalist's house, Arren travelled slowly through Furnost on his crutches, looking for somewhere to stay. He found it in the form of an inn called the Golden Dragon, which was a fair-sized place in the middle of the town whose sign bore a painted image of a dragon with its wings spread. There he purchased lodgings for a month in one of the two pokey rooms over the bar, and once he had put his belongings in there and pocketed the key he set out back into the town to do some shopping. He found a tailor's shop and bought a new outfit – a black robe similar to the one he had on, but made from rough wool. It was very cheap compared to what his original outfit had been like, but at least it was warm and wasn't torn to rags. He wasn't sure why he bought the robe instead of a more sensible tunic and trousers. It simply felt right. As if his clothes were part of who he was, or had been before that day in the mountains and perhaps would be again some day. With the new robe slung over his shoulder, he began to browse through the other shops in the area, ignoring the stares he got from people on the street. For some reason he knew exactly what he wanted to buy – a pair of scissors, some soap, a bottle of conditioning lotion, a mirror, a comb and brush and a razor. He carried all this back to his room, though he had a hard time negotiating the stairs on his crutches, especially weighed down by his purchases. He managed it in the end by going backwards, clamping one crutch under his elbow and holding onto the handrail, and taking the steps one at a time. By the time he got to the top he was exhausted, but he unlocked his room and went in, awkwardly banging into the door on the way and bruising his knee. Muttering irritably, he locked the door behind him and slumped gratefully onto the bed.

Once he had rested, he set to work. First he stripped off the remains of his old robe and then, clad only in his undershirt, he limped over to the room's only table, where a basin of clean water had been thoughtfully provided by the owner of the inn. There was a folded towel next to it. He sat down and began to wash himself, using the soap he'd bought, carefully scrubbing off all the dirt which Sabriel had missed and then drying himself with the towel. That done, he cleaned and conditioned his hair, then meticulously dried and combed it. While it was still damp, he took the scissors and trimmed the ends, leaving it long but making sure it was all neat and even. Once again he was uncertain why he was putting so much effort into this. No, no, it made perfect sense, his subconscious told him. He was a mess, including his hair. And he'd always been very particular about his…

Arren paused in the act of running the brush through his hair. He lifted a lock of it, rolling it between his fingers, staring at it, his face suddenly blank. There was something stirring in his brain. Something… he remembered something. He remembered that there was someone… a hand that wasn't his. He remembered fingers running through his hair, caressing it. He remembered a feeling of warmth and safety.

He sat still, his eyes distant, and his right hand came up and absently touched the back of his head, trying to recall that feeling of being touched there by… by someone else.

The moment passed, and he blinked, feeling as if time had stopped during it. He resumed brushing his hair, and kept on doing it obsessively until it was dry, well-ordered and glossy. That was better. This done, he turned his attention to his beard. That would need trimming as well, but he'd need to use the mirror.

He picked it up, and glanced at his reflection. The instant he saw it, it suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what he looked like. He'd simply never wondered about it – perhaps he'd just assumed that he already knew. But now that he saw himself in the mirror, he found himself looking at a stranger.

The stranger had the same long, curly black hair that he did, and his face was pale and sunken. He looked very ill and tired, more so than he had realised. He had a beard and the beginnings of a moustache – the original beard had obviously been short and pointed and without a moustache, but it had become overgrown and messy after weeks without being attended to. But it was the man's eyes that bothered Arren most. The man's – no, his eyes – were black and had exhausted grey smudges under them, but the expression in them was terrible. They were… lost. Lost and despairing. And somewhere in them a spark of madness danced its awful dance.

'You've lost your mind,' a voice said.

It took several minutes for Arren to realise that it was his own. He tore his gaze away from the mirror with difficulty and began lathering his face. He shaved off the moustache, and cleaned away the stubble from around his beard, though he left the beard itself alone. This done, he rinsed and then began to trim his beard with the scissors, using the mirror to make sure he got it right. While he worked, he thought over what had happened. The little scrap of memory that had returned was still vivid in his mind, but he was unable to recall anything else to go with it. Just that, just hands touching his hair, and a feeling of love and security connected with the touch. But although he did not know who those hands belonged to, he did know part of what the memory meant. It meant that he had been loved. And perhaps the one he loved was out there somewhere, waiting for him.

A new resolve came to Arren. He decided then and there that, no matter what happened, he would find her. No matter where she was or who she was, he would find her. Because he needed her.

Later on, once he had cleaned himself up and had a nap, he put on the new robe and went downstairs to the bar. It was evening by now, and there were plenty of other people there, sitting around the tables in groups to eat, drink and talk.

Arren went to the counter and ordered a bowl of stew, then sat down at a table on his own to eat it. While he ate, he watched the bar's other occupants. They were all relaxing after a day's work, and their cheerful, relaxed chatter filled the air, puncuated by the occasional laugh or shout. The sight of them made him feel inexplicably sad. He wondered if he had had friends in his old life, the one he had forgotten. Had he once sat with them and laughed and talked like this? He simply didn't know. It made him feel hollow inside.

He finished his dinner, and was just wondering whether he should get a drink to wash it down with when a group of men approached his table. He tensed automatically, but then one of them, who was holding a pitcher of beer, said; 'D'you mind if we sit with you? There ain't any other tables left.'

'Oh… sure,' said Arren.

'Cheers,' said the man, pulling up a chair. His friends took their places as well, and the one with the pitcher distributed the tankards he'd had in his other hand and poured out the drinks. 'Here,' he said, pushing one toward Arren. 'Help yourself.'

'Thanks,' said Arren, picking it up.

'My name's Carnoc,' said the man in a friendly way. 'And these lugs are Danh, Leonol and Ulfrid.'

'I'm Arren,' said Arren, tasting the beer. It was good; mild in flavour but with plenty of kick. He shivered slightly, feeling the alcohol in it warming him up.

'Pleased to meet you,' said the one called Ulfrid. He eyed Arren's splinted arm. 'So what did you do to yourself? Pardon me for sayin' so, but you ain't lookin' too healthy.'

'I fell,' said Arren briefly.

'Must've been a hell of a big fall to do that to you,' said Danh, raising his eyebrows.

'Off a mountain,' said Arren. 'Those ones over that way.' He pointed awkwardly with his injured arm.

'What the heck were you doing up there?' said Carnoc.

'Looking for someone,' said Arren, making it up as he went along. 'They'd disappeared there a few months ago, and I went to find them. Me and a friend.'

'So what happened?' said Carnoc, interested.

Arren shrugged. 'We came across a group of bandits hiding out up there. Got into a fight, and they robbed us and threw us both off a cliff. My friend died, and I ended up like this.'

'You got back here with a broken leg?' said Ulfrid, in awed tones. 'Damn. You must be tough. That's terrible about your friend.'

Arren shook his head, staring at the foam on his beer. 'I'd rather not talk about it,' he said.

'So where are you from?' said Carnoc, taking the hint.

'Teirm,' said Arren. The answer simply popped into his head.

'That's a long way away,' said Leonol.

'Yes, and getting back there with a broken leg will be a pain. So I'm staying here for a while. Until I can walk without these.' He indicated the crutches propped up against his chair.

'Sounds like you've had a rough time of it,' said Carnoc.

'Don't I know it,' said Arren with a wry expression. He was relaxing now, warming to his new role. It all felt so natural…

'So, have you heard the latest?' said Leonol.

'Spill it,' said Carnoc.

'Urû'baen's been sacked,' said Leonal. He paused and took a drink to let this sink in. His friends muttered among themselves.

'That's what I heard, too,' said Danh. 'Burnt to the ground. Now the Brat is calling himself King.'

'The Brat?' said Arren.

'Oh… Eragon,' said Danh. 'The one who used to lead the Varden, before Galbatorix mopped the floor with them.'

'Who?' said Arren.

'The King, idiot,' said Danh, not really paying attention. 'Well, he used to be King, anyway. Until he got himself killed last month.'

'I heard the Queen poisoned him,' said Carnoc.

'Didn't do her any good if she did,' Leonal resumed. 'She's dead.'

'They got her, did they?' said Ulfrid.

'Yeah,' said Leonal. 'They caught her trying to escape Urû'baen. Eragon had her executed this morning. The child, too.'

The other men shivered. 'That's cold,' said Ulfrid. 'They didn't have to kill the kid, did they?'

'If they hadn't, he'd only have grown up and caused trouble later on,' Carnoc noted wisely. 'It's cruel, but it's only sensible.'

'So the riders are back, eh?' said Danh. 'Wonder how that'll change things?'

'Not much, probably,' said Carnoc. 'If you ask me, one King's pretty much like another.'

'The Dras-Leoneans won't be happy about it,' said Ulfrid. 'The Brat's got the old-school views on religion. He'll have the priesthood put to death by the end of the week, you mark my words.'

'I don't reckon I like the idea of having him in charge,' said Leonal.

'Why not?' said Danh.

'He's just a kid, for one,' said Leonal. 'And a damn fool into the bargain. And let's not forget how he ran off and left the Varden to fend for 'emselves. Some leader, if he goes and does that. Galbatorix, now… he used to fight his enemies in person. Went straight into Farthen Dûr to rescue the Queen, he did. Risked his life.'

'Hah. And you think the Brat's an idiot,' said Danh. 'Anyone who'd take risks like that had it coming to him.'

'Oh, everyone knows he had it coming to him for years,' said Carnoc.

'Oh yeah,' said Leonal. 'Now he's dead I s'pose we can tell that story. Everyone's probably got a different version, mind you.'

'I've heard a few,' said Danh. 'Didn't believe half of 'em, though.'

'Hey, Arren,' said Leonal, suddenly turning to him. 'You ain't said much so far. What's the story they tell in Teirm?'

'Hm?' said Arren. 'Oh… I've never heard it.'

'Really?' said Leonal. 'The Empire must've had a pretty strong grip there. I'll tell it, then. If you'd like to hear it.'

'Go ahead,' said Arren, sipping his beer. He wondered just who this Galbatorix person was. His story must be something special if it had been forbidden to tell.

'All right then,' said Leonal. He paused, gathering his thoughts and finishing off the contents of his tankard. Then he began. 'Well now,' he said. 'You all know that once Alagaësia was ruled by the riders. It was a very long time ago, but they was damn powerful people. No-one who stood up to 'em lasted long. Things were more peaceful back then – well, they'd have to be, wouldn't they? No-one was strong enough to fight against the riders. Rebels would try an' start something, and get wiped out just like that-,' he snapped his fingers to illustrate the point. 'Anyway, so… where was I? Oh, yeah. Every year they'd send kids to Ellesméra to be tested, and some of 'em would be chosen to join the riders. And this kid from… can't remember where – he got chosen. And he got to be pretty famous before long. Good with magic, good with a sword… did lots of crazy things, so they say, just to show off. Anyway, so he goes to Ilirea, the riders' capital, and trains there under Vrael himself. Lord of the riders an' all. So the kid – Galbatorix, of course – gets to be pretty powerful. And then one day… well, no-one's sure what happened. He ran away from Ilirea. Some say he raped a female rider and ran away before they could punish him for it. Others say different. Any road, they sent other riders after him. He fought them and killed them all, single-handed. But his dragon got killed. After that he went mad. Decided he hated the riders. He got another dragon from somewhere – a black one this time – and gathered a bunch of followers. The Forsworn, they called themselves. They made war on the riders and won. Killed every last one of 'em, so they did. And after it was all over Galbatorix made himself King. That's about it, really. What's up with you, Arren?'

Arren had gone pale. 'No,' he whispered. 'No, it wasn't like that.'

'Wasn't like what?' said Leonal.

'The riders betrayed him,' said Arren, looking up. 'They tried to kill him for a crime he didn't commit. His dragon died because they couldn't tolerate anyone who was different, like he was. And the riders were tyrants. They drove whole races to extinction because they didn't fit into their ideals. Galbatorix destroyed them because he had to. Because what they were doing was wrong.'

Silence followed these words. 'Where did you hear that, Arren?' asked Carnoc.

'I'm… not sure,' said Arren. 'But the boy should not be allowed to rule here. It would be the end of everything.'

'What so you're planning to stop him?' Ulfrid chortled. 'I'd like to see that!'

'Me?' said Arren. 'Hah. There's nothing I can do. Even after this leg has healed I'll still be a cripple for life. But you were right about the Dras-Leoneans, Ulfrid. The old riders hated religion. They burnt down temples and killed people who had gods. And they nearly destroyed the urgals.'

'Doubt anyone would have missed 'em,' said Danh.

'They're still a people,' Arren insisted. 'Whether we like them or not. But the urgals were lucky. There were so many other peoples the riders killed. The dark elves – they're all dead now, and their civilisation was destroyed down to the last book and piece of jewellry. The red dwarves – gone. The wild men of the East – killed or absorbed into cities like this one. The plains dragons – massacred and their eggs stolen when they wouldn't give them to the riders of their own free will. The skin-changers who used to live in the forests – killed or scattered because the riders thought their powers were unnatural. The silver elves all died after the trees they worshipped were poisoned and then burnt. All those races died at the hands of the riders. But no-one remembers. They talk about a golden age that none of them ever saw because they want to believe that things used to be better. They don't want to face up to the fact that the Empire they hated was born because someone dared to stand up and demand justice. That's what this is all about. And don't think that the Brat's war will bring back this imaginary golden age, because it won't. It will bring death. That's all.'

He fell silent, and realised that he was shaking slightly.

They were all staring at him. 'Bloody hell!' said Carnoc. 'Where did that come from?'

'You're weird,' said Danh.

Arren stood up and retrieved his crutches. 'Excuse me,' he muttered, and left as quickly as he could.

After he'd gone, Danh said; 'Boy, you sure know how to pick 'em, don't you, Carnoc?'

'D'you think any of that was true?' said Leonal, watching Arren disappear up the stairs.

'Who cares?' said Ulfrid. 'The man was crazy!'

'I dunno,' said Carnoc. 'After that little speech, I'd be prepared to follow him into the pit of hell if he asked me to.'

Leonal nodded. 'You've got to admit… he's pretty persuasive.'

'Charismatic,' Carnoc nodded.

'Completely off his head,' said Danh.

'Half the time it's the same thing,' said Ulfrid.

Arren reached his room, and sat down very sharply on the bed. His heart was pounding.

'What the hell happened?' he asked himself out loud.

He hadn't the faintest idea where any of his speech had come from. It had just been there, the words forming in his mouth before he had the chance to think about it. But even now he still believed that they had all been true. It was something about the story Leonal had told. He didn't recall ever hearing it before, but for some reason it had made him burn with anger. He had known it wasn't true, and the knowledge had enraged him, driven him to speak as he had. It left him full of a fierce certainty – this Eragon, whoever he was, was doing something deeply, terribly wrong, and someone had to stop him.

That certainty brought burning impatience with it. He could not stay in Furnost for months as Sabriel had advised. He couldn't stay another day. He had to leave, and soon. There had to be something he could do to stop this from happening. What it was he didn't know, but he was sure he'd know when the time came.

But how? What could he do? Travelling with a broken leg would be nigh-on impossible. He remembered the strange power he had used back in the mountains to make fire appear from nowhere. Could that help? Yes, yes, it could. He could use this power to do what he needed to do. Somehow. Perhaps there was some word he should say.

He tried to force himself to remember whatever it might be, but that didn't work. His mind remained blank. But he didn't give in. He sat still and let himself relax, thinking about the problem at hand rather than the solution. Perhaps concentrating on the one would lead to the other. It had to be worth a try.

My arm and leg are broken, he thought, spelling the words out in his head. I can't travel while they're like that. I must be able to travel.

A wonderful calm filled him. He raised his right hand, holding it out over his arm. The words came to him, free and easy as a bird. 'Waíse heill.'

At once, pain shot through his arm. He cringed – what had he done? A horrible cracking, splintering sound came from inside the damaged limb, which twitched once or twice and felt as though it were being stabbed along its entire length. He grabbed it with his good hand, trying to hold it still, and the pain abruptly faded away. He prodded the arm tentatively, expecting the pain to flare up again in response. It didn't. He flexed it experimentally. No pain. Flushed with excitement, he rashly tore off the bandages and began feeling the arm, checking the bones. And he found nothing at all. No breaks, no swelling. Just ordinary, healthy bone. His arm was healed. He grinned and smacked his left fist into the bedpost.

'Damn!'

Rubbing his bruised knuckles, he turned his attention to the leg. Perhaps he could heal that, too. What were the words he'd used? Oh, yes.

'Waíse heill.'

The power responded. But this time it did not go so well. The leg cracked loudly, and this time the pain was white-hot, so bad he nearly fainted. At the same time, weakness spread through him. He could feel his strength flowing out of him, through his hand and into the leg. Panicking, he closed his hand and moved it away from the leg, cutting off the energy. But the damage was done. The leg continued to crack and to hurt, and whatever it was he had done left him exhausted. His vision went grey and hazy, and he fell back onto the bed without a sound.

While he was in this half-sleep, half-fainted state, he dreamed. Of dragons. Two of them. One was pure white, the other jet-black. Their eyes were dead and sunken, and blood dripped from their jaws. All wasted and bony, they stood side-by-side, nuzzling each other and crooning, their long necks intertwined. Then they merged into each other, and became one dragon. This one was female, and her scales shone like moonlight. She stared at him and then held out something for him to take. It was a silver dragon's egg. He reached for it, but it was too far away. And then an arrow came out of nowhere and hit him in the chest, and he was falling, falling into darkness. As he fell he shouted a name. He could not hear it.