Chapter Thirteen

Eragon's Punishment

As Galbatorix and the black dragon flew back out of the Spine, Valdyr following, they spoke very little at first. Galbatorix was quiet and melancholy, and neither dragon could think of a way to broach the subject that was on both their minds. Eventually the larger of the two said; 'Do I have to stay like this for much longer?'

Galbatorix stirred. 'What's the matter, Lifrasir?' he asked. 'Don't you like being black?'

'It's fine,' Lifrasir answered. 'But… well, I liked my old colour.'

'Don't worry, I'll change you back eventually,' said Galbatorix.

But Lifrasir saw right through his cheerful tones. 'Father,' she said. 'I… I heard what Murtagh said.'

Galbatorix said nothing.

'But it can't be true, can it?' Lifrasir went on. 'He must have been mistaken.'

'He sounded awfully certain,' Valdyr put in darkly.

'Shut up, Valdyr,' said Lifrasir. 'It's ridiculous. People don't come back from the dead. You had a lucky escape, though, didn't you, Father?'

'Yes,' said Galbatorix. 'I did.'

But he was unable to keep the unease out of his voice. Lifrasir and Valdyr were both silent, clearly sensing that there was something more to it than that, but neither one spoke. Crouched on Lifrasir's back, Galbatorix closed his eyes. In his head, screams echoed. Old screams. And, behind them, voices speaking words in a language even more ancient than that which bound and controlled magic. One of those voices was his own, lighter and more passionate than it would later become. He shuddered and forced the sounds from his mind as he had done many times before. To distract himself, he concentrated on Skade. He summoned up a memory of the victory feast he had held to celebrate the defeat of the Varden at Farthen Dûr, where he and Skade had sat side by side, talking and laughing together long into the night. Sharing their time.

He wondered if he would ever see her again. Or if he even deserved to.

Two weeks later, Eragon and Nasuada stood on the wall at Urû'baen, Vervada standing silently behind them like a guard, and watched as chaos consumed the ruined city below them. The outer wall of the city had been breached in hardly any time, and now the attacking army was grappling with Eragon's own followers, slowly but surely making its way toward the castle. Overhead the last remaining members of Baen-Letta were locked in battle with the wild dragons, led by Kullervo.

After his return and the victory at Dras-Leona, Galbatorix had acted fast and decisively. He had sent messengers to the nearby settlements, calling for supporters to join him, and many had come to his side. As soon as he had an army organised, he had unhesitatingly led it straight to Urû'baen and its new occupant. Eragon could see him now, fighting on foot in the city, the black dragon hovering overhead like a hunting falcon.

Galbatorix fought steadily, surrounded by shouts and screams and clashing steel – the sound which some poets called 'the music of battle'. Galbatorix, who unlike most poets had experienced real battle many times before, did not have such a romanticised view of it and in fact had always despised poetry. But if the sound of battle was music, then no-one danced to it more gracefully than he did, even with his crippled leg.

He forged forward, frowning in concentration, wielding his sword one-handed. It was not White Violence, of course, but a green-bladed rider's sword called Svard-Hvass, whose name meant, literally, 'sharp grass'. It was a good weapon, but he didn't much like it. He could still remember all too clearly how he had killed its previous owner.

Still, he found that he was enjoying the fight. He hadn't realised just how much he had missed the warrior's life until he was forced to live it again, but now that he found himself in the midst of a battle he found that the thrill of it lit a fire in his blood and made him relive his youth, fraught and violent as much of it had been. Just for a moment, he imagined that Laela was alive again. He could almost see the white dragon fighting beside him, her eyes alight and her fangs bared in a terrible grin. But, of course, he could never think of her without remembering that she was dead. He could never forget the agony.

He blocked the memory as he had done many times before, and fought on determinedly. He was winning and he knew it. His troops were slowly but surely overrunning the city, and he could see the enemy beginning to retreat toward the castle. The risk he had taken in attacking Urû'baen directly was paying off. But he knew that it wouldn't mean a thing to him unless he found and killed the one person responsible for all that had happened to him – Eragon. He could see him up on the wall with Nasuada and a dragon he didn't recognise, watching everything. Burning with hatred, he fought his way toward the castle as fast as he could, followed by a gang of the best fighters under his command. They reached the wall, and Galbatorix blasted the nearest door open with magic before charging through it. Up through the castle he ran, killing anyone who got in his way, heedless of the pain in his leg. In his head, Lifrasir's voice said; 'The Brat and his female have gone inside. The dragon has taken shelter in the practise yard.'

'Thankyou,' Galbatorix replied.

He had reached the banqueting hall by this time, and there he stopped to rest. The big table hadn't been repaired, and still had a great split down the middle from Eragon's sword. Galbatorix, leaning on the table, examined the damage.

'Dammit, this table cost me a fortune,' he muttered.

A door in the opposite wall was suddenly kicked open at this point, and Eragon himself came charging through it, Nasuada close behind him. Galbatorix reacted quickly. He vaulted straight over the table with an athleticism that surprised everyone, and almost as soon as he'd landed he launched an assault on Eragon.

Eragon already had his sword in his hand, and the two riders began to fight each other one-on-one. There was no hesitation here, no cautious prelude – they threw themselves into the fight with a speed and brutality that made it absolutely clear that they were both only interested in one thing: killing their opponent. Galbatorix did not have his usual air of calm now – his face was suffused with hatred. Eragon was no different. There could be only one outcome to this fight: one of them was about to die.

Nasuada and those fighters who had come with Galbatorix hung back uncertainly.

'What should we do, sire?' one man asked.

'Do nothing!' Galbatorix shouted back. 'I'll kill him myself.'

'Wishful thinking,' Eragon rasped.

The green-bladed sword flicked sideways, cutting Eragon's neck. 'My, what a short memory you have,' said Galbatorix. 'Seems to me last time we fought like this, you lost.'

'Because you cheated!' Eragon shouted back.

Galbatorix grabbed his arm with one lightning-fast movement, and headbutted the other rider in the face. Eragon yelped and staggered backward, and Galbatorix rushed at him, driving him back with a flurry of blows from the green-bladed sword. He flicked Eragon's sword out of his grasp and knocked him down, but the fight wasn't over yet. Eragon raised his right hand so that the silver rider's mark was visible, and shouted a word in the ancient language. Blue magic leapt the gap between them, but Galbatorix blocked it with a casual, wordless gesture.

'Looks like you lose, brat,' he said, fending off a second magical attack. 'Oh, don't bother – hlíf! – fighting me with magic. I've had a hundred years of practise at it.'

'Brisingr!' Eragon shouted, the word sending a large blue fireball Galbatorix's way.

'Hlíf,' Galbatorix countered again, and the fireball bounced off the shielding spell and vanished. 'Are you finished yet?' He made a gesture and Nasuada, who had charged at him in an attempt to save Eragon, fell over backward.

Eragon lowered his hand and glared up at his enemy, his chest heaving. 'I'll – never – give in to you,' he vowed.

'Who said I wanted you to?' said Galbatorix. He raised the green-bladed sword, his eyes full of deadly intent.

And then it happened. Eragon felt it. Nasuada felt it. Galbatorix and his warriors felt it. The two armies in the city outside felt it. A wave of coldness swept through every mind in Urû'baen; smothering, horrible and impossible to resist. The dragons fell from the sky like autumn leaves, and on the ground and inside the castle every man, elf and dwarf dropped to his knees. In the banqueting hall, Galbatorix saw his warriors slump to the ground like broken puppets. Nasuada took a few wobbly steps backward and then slid down the wall, ending up sitting with her back to it, her eyes glazed. Only himself and Eragon appeared unaffected.

And then the ground shook. There was a deafening crack, and the entire castle trembled to its very foundations. Galbatorix staggered backward into the table, and grabbed onto it to support himself. Eragon got up off the floor, but then the ground shook again and he fell onto his backside. There were more rumblings and crashings from outside, and then half of the wall behind Eragon and Nasuada collapsed. But it didn't fall inward, it fell outward. The stones blasted away from them, toward the corridor on the other side. Or, at least, toward the spot where the corridor used to be. The wall's destruction brought daylight into the hall – daylight streaming in from the massive hole that had torn right through the castle. And, standing in the midst of the wreckage, was a dragon. A silver dragon. A dragon that Galbatorix recognised.

'No,' he half-whispered in disbelief.

The dragon came forward through the hole, her tail dragging over the shattered masonry and her wings half-spread. And beside her walked a tall, slim figure clad in white.

Galbatorix straightened up, readying his sword. On the floor, Eragon struggled to stand but appeared strangely weak.

The dragon and her companion reached the lip of the hole where the hall's wall had once been. There the dragon halted, and the white-clad figure came forward alone. She appeared to be a human woman, but her hair was as white as her clothes. Her eyes were silver, and there were black tattoos on her forehead.

The woman raised one elegant, ring-laden hand to her shoulder, and drew the magnificent yellow-bladed sword that was strapped to her back.

'Rangda,' said Galbatorix.

The woman nodded briefly to him. 'Hello, Galbatorix,' she said.

The Shade walked past Eragon, thumping him in the stomach with one of her white-leather booted feet on her way. He curled up, gasping, and Rangda stepped over to where Nasuada lay sprawled and lifted her by the front of her shirt with scarcely an effort.

'Nasuada!' Eragon shouted. 'Let – her go!'

At the sound of his voice, Nasuada suddenly awoke from her stupor and began to scrabble at Rangda's hand, trying to make her let go. It was a futile struggle. Rangda turned to face Eragon and Galbatorix, holding the dark-skinned woman off the floor.

'Well now,' she said in cool, calm tones. 'I see that you have all gathered here as I wished. Good. Very good.' She glanced over at Vervada, who was crouched just outside the hole, watching it all with a bland expression. 'You did your work well, Hefnd-þrœll.'

Vervada inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement.

'What are you doing here, Rangda?' Galbatorix demanded.

'Why, to collect my due, of course,' said Rangda. 'Thankyou for your help, half-breed. You've been very useful, keeping the Brat occupied.'

'This was your doing!' Galbatorix shouted, starting forward. 'You were the one who made all this happen, you-!'

Rangda stared at him, and he suddenly fell backward, thumping into the table and landing in a heap by it, suddenly unable to speak.

'Don't you dare interrupt me with your little accusations,' said Rangda. 'I have more important things to do here than listen to you. Besides, you should be grateful toward me, half-breed. I'm here to do what you wanted to do but were unable to. And don't worry, I'm not interested in killing you. Not that I would be able to, would I?'

Galbatorix, clutching at his throat, stared at the Shade through his unreadable eyes.

'No need to give me that look,' said Rangda. She sighed. 'You really shouldn't be so high and mighty toward me. Not you, of all people.' Turning away from him, she looked down at Eragon. 'I am well aware that you aren't the brightest star in the sky, Brat – after all, your stupidity is legend – but I will admit you were right about one thing. The half-breed here is every bit the monster you claimed he was – how else do you think he was able to cheat death so many times? I imagine Oromis only hinted at what his true crime was, but it's not my place to reveal that secret. Half-human he may be, but he has the heart of a Shade. Perhaps that's why I always admired him. But it's not him I hate, and it's not him I came here for. No, Brat. It is you I came for. You that I hate.'

Eragon, wide-eyed, finally managed to stand up. 'I don't know you,' he whispered. 'I don't know…'

'There are many things you don't know,' said Rangda. 'But know this, Shadeslayer. I want you to know it before you die.' She pointed the yellow-bladed sword at Eragon, the tip resting against his throat. 'You are here today because I planned it. Saphira died because I willed it. You found thirteen followers because I allowed you to. Everything that has happened over the last five years happened because of me. With the help of my partner Vervada, of course. You blamed Galbatorix when Saphira's egg hatched into a monster, but you were wrong. I was the one who made Vervada the way she is. She is unique. A dragon who is a Shade. Her powers… well, you've experienced her powers. She was the one who steered your thoughts and turned you into the thing you hated most. You are no hero, Eragon Shadeslayer. You are a power-hungry tyrant, and the blood of thousands is on your hands. Alagaësia may never recover from what you did to it, and history will curse your name as much as it cursed the half-breed's.'

As Rangda spoke, something happened to Eragon. He stared at the Shade, uncomprehending, unable to feel the full horror of her words. But then, slowly but surely, the stifling, ice-cold veil of Vervada's control withdrew from his mind and he was free to think and feel for the first time since she had hatched and begun to destroy his life. Now, all at once, he experienced all the guilt and shame that he would have felt if he had been in his right mind when all that had happened had happened. He relived everything he had said and done, and knew that they were the words and actions of a greedy warlord, not a hero. He saw the look in Galbatorix's eyes in the moment Shruikan died. He heard his own voice giving the order to kill both Skade and her newborn child the instant they were found. And most of all he remembered Saphira's death. Felt the agony of it in his heart.

Eragon, his eyes gone wide and staring, fell to his knees. 'What have I done?' he moaned.

'You have been punished,' said Rangda. 'For what you did. Durza was my beloved, and you killed him. And you sought to destroy the Empire which he helped build. I have tormented you by making you live as Galbatorix once lived, and I have made you experience both his sufferings and mine. You became what you hated most. And now all that remains is for me to finish it.'

Rangda threw Nasuada to the floor, lifted the yellow-bladed sword and stabbed it through her midriff with one cruel thrust.

'Nasuada!' Eragon howled.

'Too late,' said Rangda. She pulled the sword out and kicked Nasuada's still-living body aside.

Eragon pulled himself upright. 'No!' he screamed, and rushed toward Rangda with all his strength.

But all his strength was not enough. Rangda thrust out an arm, catching the young rider around the throat. He struggled wildly to be free, but she hauled him toward her and held him close, so close that their faces were almost touching. 'Nasuada was carrying your child, you know,' the Shade whispered. 'Such a shame. Now you know what pain feels like, Shadeslayer. But don't worry. Your pain is over now. Forever.'

And then she kissed him. Pressing her mouth to his, almost violently, Rangda held him still, closing her eyes blissfully.

From the floor Galbatorix looked on, aghast, but became aware of the sound of laboured, painful breathing from nearby. Nasuada had landed close to him, and was curled up by the table-leg, clutching at the mortal wound in her stomach, blood leaking between her fingers. Galbatorix watched her for a moment or two, and then began to drag himself toward her.

Eragon, trapped in that horrendous embrace with the Shade who had taken everything from him, tried with all his might to break free of her. But she was many times stronger than him, and she would not let him go. He tried to summon his magic, but Vervada had re-entered his mind and was blocking it. And still Rangda's cold lips were pressed to his, making him feel as if he were suffocating.

And then he began to feel something else. Something so ghastly that it made his heart pause its beating. It was… a numbness. And mixed with it was a horror of the soul so profound that he thought he was about to die. It grew and spread throughout his entire being, and then his whole body went as cold as ice.

Galbatorix, crouched by Nasuada's side, saw Eragon go rigid and begin to twitch, his lips still pressed against Rangda's. He could see a white light glowing between them where they touched, and in that light, dark shapes moved. They passed from Rangda's mouth into Eragon's, horribly visible through the skin, and as more and more of them entered the young rider's body he began to change. His skin went deathly pale. His hair started to redden. Black shapes swirled over the skin on his face, and finally settled on his forehead, forming eerie black tattoos.

Nasuada had gone limp, but she was still breathing. She looked up at Eragon. 'What's… happening to him?' she breathed.

'I think I know,' Galbatorix replied. 'I'm sorry, Nasuada.'

'Don't be,' Nasuada whispered back. 'I'm… done for anyway.'

Her eyes closed. Galbatorix glanced up quickly at Eragon and Rangda, then spread his right hand over Nasuada's bloodied midriff. 'Waíse heill,' he said in an undertone.

In that moment, Eragon's eyes snapped open. They were still brown, but only for a few seconds. Their colour warped and changed, reddening just like his hair. Rangda finally let him go, but he did not attack her. He stood looking at her, and she looked at him, and Eragon Shadeslayer was no more. He still looked the same, more or less. But his skin was as pale as a corpse's, traced with faint black veins. On his forehead were strange black tattoos. His hair was flame-red and his eyes were maroon, with just the same cold power burning in them as Rangda's.

There was silence for a time. Then the man that Eragon had become said; 'Rangda.'

His voice was different. Deeper. Smoother. More dignified.

Rangda smiled. 'Durza,' she said.

And Eragon said; 'Yes.'

The two of them regarded each other for a time, and then they embraced passionately, whispering each other's names before they kissed – a real kiss this time.

Over by the broken table, Galbatorix acted quickly. He stood up, hauling Nasuada to her feet, and ran for the door, dragging her with him. Nasuada, her injury healed, tried to pull away from him, her eyes fixed on the man who had been Eragon. But Galbatorix was stronger than her, and would not let her go. He dashed around the table and ran for the door, sword in hand, only to be met by the group of fighters who had accompanied him into the hall in the first place. They rose to their feet and advanced on their erstwhile leader, eyes glazed. Galbatorix halted and glanced back over his shoulder. The two Shades were oblivious, caught up in their reunion, but Vervada had risen from her crouch and was staring straight at him. She no longer had the blank black eyes or the hideous veins, but he still recognised her. She still had the eyes of a Shade. And she would not let him leave.

Galbatorix gritted his teeth. He pushed Nasuada behind him and ruthlessly cut down Vervada's puppets, killing them with both his sword and his magic. It felt like betrayal, but he had no other choice. Once the last of them was dead, he turned to face Vervada and did something that he almost never did. He broke into her mind. Tearing down its barriers by force, he sent a wave of his own psychic energy into the dragon's consciousness. She resisted powerfully, but he was stronger and, not caring if it caused her pain, he tore through her mind and disabled it. Vervada crashed to the floor, landing comatose on a heap of rubble, and before she had even finished falling Galbatorix turned and ran for it.

Rangda and the man who had been Eragon but was now Durza turned their heads sharply toward the door, just as Nasuada reached it. She made eye-contact with Durza. Saw his eyes staring out of Eragon's face. Her heart wilted inside her, and she ran.

Nasuada was fast, and she easily caught up with Galbatorix, who was moving surprisingly quickly on his crippled leg. Nasuada followed him, their enmity completely forgotten in the urgency of the moment. Her instincts told her that she could trust him, and she drew level with him and shouted; 'What should we do?'

'Make for the roof!' Galbatorix replied. 'And fast!'

'What's happening?' Nasuada asked. 'What happened to Eragon? Can't we-?'

'The – Eragon is gone,' said Galbatorix, glancing at her. To her shock, she thought she saw sympathy in his eyes. 'I'm sorry,' he added.

They ran on through a corridor and up a flight of stairs, but they could hear the sound of pursuit just behind them.

'This way,' said Galbatorix, ducking through a side-door. It led to a long room with a door at the other end, and they ran through it. But the door was thrown open before they reached it, and Roran came running through it. He was wearing a breastplate and his warhammer was in his hand, and he halted when he saw them coming. His eyes flicked toward Galbatorix.

'You,' he snarled, raising his hammer.

'No time!' Galbatorix shouted. Without slowing down he muttered a word and the hammer shattered into pieces. He shoved Roran aside and ran past him, Nasuada close behind.

'Nasuada!' Roran exclaimed, turning to follow them. 'What's going on?'

'Run, Roran!' Nasuada called back over her shoulder. 'There's a Shade! Two Shades! Run!'

'A Shade…?' Roran faltered.

Galbatorix and Nasuada ran through the still-open door and were gone, just as the one they had come in through disintegrated into powder. Roran turned to look, and saw two people enter the room. One was a white-clad woman he didn't recognise. The other one was…

'Eragon?' said Roran.

Durza sneered at him. 'Not any more,' he said.

The two Shades stalked toward him like a pair of hunting panthers, and Roran hesitated, not knowing what to do.

Durza raised a hand. 'Drepa sasí hǒlđr,' he intoned.

Then darkness took Roran Stronghammer. He died before he even knew what was happening. Rangda and Durza watched contemptuously, then walked away, leaving his body abandoned on the floor.