Chapter Fifty-Eight

Liar

'Sir? Sir? Sir! Can you hear me? Sir!'

Galbatorix groaned and tried to open his eyes. They did so slowly, and light reluctantly came back into his world. He stared at a large blurry object that was hanging over him, unable to do more than wonder what it was.

'Sir!' the voice said again. 'Sir, can you hear me? Are you all right? Say something?'

Galbatorix coughed. 'Mor… Morzan…?'

The blur slowly focused itself into an image of Morzan's craggy, scarred face, looking down at him with concern. 'Yes, it's me, sir,' the big rider's voice said.

Galbatorix blinked slowly. 'Am I dead?'

Morzan shook his head. 'No… no, sir, you're not. Are you hurt? Can you get up?'

Galbatorix breathed in shakily and moved his head a fraction, peering at his surroundings. He couldn't remember what had happened or where he was, and all he could see in any direction was whiteness.

Morzan took him by the shoulder and hauled him upright with scarcely an effort – the room span around him and he instinctively seized hold of a handful of Morzan's tunic to stop himself falling over. Morzan supported him until his head cleared, and he looked around, blinking.

The sight of the elders' cave brought the memory of what had happened rushing back. Fear stabbed into his chest, and he tore his robe open as fast as he could. The fabric was wet and sticky with blood, but when he pulled it aside to expose the wound over his heart, he found nothing there. Nothing at all. No wound, no scar, not even a hint of redness. The horrible swelling and purple discolouration had vanished. He was healed. He flexed his arms experimentally, and they were strong and pain-free. His back, which normally ached after a fight, felt fine. He was in perfect health.

He refastened the front of his robe, his heart fluttering with relief, but even as he fumbled with the last fastening he suddenly realised that he could hear something. He had been hearing it ever since he had woken up.

The air was full of wailing and moaning; an awful, high, dirgelike sound that terrified him more than the noise of an oncoming foe. It came from several voices. Voices he knew. Galbatorix looked up slowly, and saw a sight that he would never forget for the rest of his life.

The prisoners had not moved from where they had been chained. The riders lay slumped, their wrists still connected to the rings in the floor, and many of the dragons had rolled onto their sides, head and wings curled in upon their bellies, unmoving. Every single one of them was lying in a pool of blood – blood that had oozed from their eyes, their mouths and nostrils… from every part of them. Their skins had shrivelled, drawn tight over their bones as if they had been lying in the desert under a baking sun for decades. He could see their faces, still twisted into the masks of agony they had worn as they died. His sacrifices.

The Forsworn had not moved far. It was still night, and the moon shone in through a massive hole that had appeared in the roof, bathing his friends and followers in its eerie white light. It was they who were moaning, he realised coldly.

He started to walk toward them, his stomach churning with dread. Some of them were moving. Others were not.

He saw Orwyne, cradling Roland's head on her lap and sobbing brokenly. Roland did not move to comfort her. He was dead, one hand still reaching out toward the spot where Keth's body lay on its side, mouth open in a tired snarl. Lalla and Elric were also dead, while Ana, still living, stood over them, staring blankly at her brother's corpse as if she did not know what it was. Tranah was trying to free Carina's body of its manacles, her hands fumbling, tears running down her face, while Aedua bellowed her agony over Talziri's limp form. Vander lay crumpled face-down, and Ymazu, who had dragged herself to his side, was nosing at him and whining, trying to make him wake up.

Galbatorix stood and stared at them all, an icy coldness swimming inside him.

Morzan stood beside him, loyal to the last. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but after he had opened his mouth several times without saying a word he silently turned and walked away to where Idün crouched, waiting for him.

Tuomas appeared at his old master's side. 'Master,' he said, tugging at Galbatorix's sleeve. 'Master… are you all right?'

Galbatorix looked at him. 'Yes.' His voice seemed to be coming from far away.

Tuomas' face was bewildered. 'I think Kaelyn and Gern are dead. They're not breathing. Master, what should I do?'

Galbatorix started to speak, and stopped. He paused, sighed, and shook his head. Turning away from Tuomas, he stumbled toward the others. They, caught up in their grief, barely noticed him. He stood over Orwyne, wanting to say something, but the words wouldn't come. He couldn't bear to look at Tranah, or Ana. Instead he went to Vander.

Ymazu looked up at him when he approached, and then looked away. Galbatorix crouched by Vander's side, and touched him on the shoulder.

Vander's skin was warm. Galbatorix turned him onto his back and patted his face. 'Vander? Vander? Vander! Vander, wake up! Please, wake up!'

Vander's face twitched, and he mumbled something. Galbatorix checked him for injuries, but found none. 'Vander?' he said again. 'Vander, it's me, it's…' for some reason he couldn't say his own name.

Vander opened his eyes at last, and focused on him.

'Vander,' Galbatorix said again, and Ymazu crooned and nuzzled her partner's chest, comforting him with her presence.

Vander reached up to touch her, and sighed.

'Are you all right?' Galbatorix asked.

Vander looked at him, his dark eyes blank and empty of expression. 'They're dead,' he said in a flat voice.

Galbatorix's voice caught in his throat, and he nodded jerkily. 'The spell… failed,' he intoned.

Vander only stared at him. 'You're alive,' he said.

Galbatorix wordlessly helped him up, and he stood, albeit a little shakily, leaning on Ymazu's neck.

When Galbatorix turned, he saw them. The surviving Forsworn had risen and gathered together in a ragged group. Tuomas, Morzan, Tranah, Orwyne and Ana. Five survivors. They stared at him silently, pale-faced and red-eyed, like the living dead, and he knew that, even now, at the very edge of life and sanity, they were looking to him to guide them.

'What happened?' said Galbatorix, his voice echoing in the chamber, as flat and dead as he felt.

'The spell was interrupted,' Tranah said in a low voice. 'The ring was broken.'

'By what?' said Vander.

'Glaedr,' said Tuomas. 'I saw him. He flew in here… he tore a hole in the roof. He took Oromis. Carried him out of here. I saw him go, and then…'

'The energy was too much,' said Orwyne. 'The shock of it… I managed to pull out in time. But we…'

Tuomas let out a sob. 'What are we gonna do, sir?' he said. 'What're we gonna…?'

Galbatorix stared at the ground. 'We have to bury them,' he said huskily. 'In the… the catacombs. Under the city.'

At the word "catacombs", Orwyne let out a passionate sound, half-scream and half wail. She wrapped her arms around Tranah and held onto her, sobbing into her shoulder. Tranah supported her while she cried, her broad, freckled face pale and blank.

'What about… the others, sir?' said Morzan, not looking at the remains of the prisoners.

'Them too,' said Galbatorix. 'I'll… I'll…' he broke off suddenly, as another recollection thudded into his brain. Shruikan! He reached out desperately with his mind, searching for the black dragon. For a few heart-stopping seconds he couldn't find him, but then, at last, he heard the voice in his head.

'Galbatorix? Galbatorix? Where are you?'

'I'm here, Shruikan.'

Shruikan's relief was overwhelming. 'Galbatorix! Thank the sea and the sky, I thought you were dead! I couldn't find you…'

'I know. I shut you out. Where are you?'

'I chased after that crippled coward Glaedr. He escaped, Northwards. I'm coming back now. Galbatorix, what happened in there? Are you hurt?'

'No. I'm… fine.'

'You feel strong,' said Shruikan. 'Does that mean…?'

'Yes, Shruikan. The magic… worked. The wound has been healed.'

Shruikan sighed. 'Thankyou, Galbatorix. For finding the strength. You've saved us both.'

Galbatorix stared at the withered corpses of Yansan and Saraswati where they lay, twisted and contorted with the final throes of death. 'Yes,' he said coldly.

Morzan had been watching him. Now he pointed at Tuomas. 'You, boy,' he said hoarsely. 'Help me with them.'

Tuomas glanced at Galbatorix and went to Morzan's side, and the two of them began to arrange the bodies of Kaelyn and Gern, closing their eyes and folding their arms over their chests. Leahdorus lay dead, close to her rider, but Sartago was nowhere to be seen. Galbatorix walked toward them. 'Lay them down in the middle of the floor,' he said. 'In a clear spot. I will… I'll go below and get some people to help us.' Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked away across the chamber, toward the nearest door. His path led him over the very centre, where he had stood to cast the spell. The pool of blood was still there, drying out in the cold night breeze that blew in through the shattered roof. He could see the cracks in the floor from where he had stamped on it and, half-hidden by the patch of congealing blood, were two boot-shaped burn marks. He bent to touch them, running his fingers over the stone. The heat had been so intense that it had not just burned the stone, but melted it. The soles of his boots, when he examined them, were coated in hard white stone, perfectly imitating the original shape of the tread.

He saw something gleaming dully on the floor, between the burn-marks, half-lost in the pool of blood, and picked it up. A little triangle of metal, as large as the nail on his forefinger. He cupped it in his palm, staring vacantly at it. How could something this small have been the cause of all this? How could…?

He stood up abruptly and walked on toward the half-open door, his stone-soled boots clinking softly.

The Elders' Tower was almost completely deserted, but he saw plenty evidence of the fighting that had taken place inside it as he made his way down. Bodies lay here and there, enemy and ally alike, abandoned where they had fallen. Doors had been smashed in, and wall hangings had been torn down and carried off as loot. He passed a few people who were still alive, abandoned by their comrades. Many of them were moaning or sobbing in pain, and those who were members of the rebel army reached toward him, appealing to him for help. He barely saw them. He walked on and left them to their fate, feeling nothing but a hollow void inside his chest, until at last he reached the ground floor.

He found Durza there with a number of humans and urgals, helping them root out and kill a group of elves who had barricaded themselves inside a storeroom. Galbatorix stood by and watched as the Shade broke down the door with magic and then charged through it, his companions hot on his heels. Crashes and screams came from the storeroom, and, a few seconds later, a desperate elf ran out through the shattered doorway, straight into him. Galbatorix caught him as he tried to escape, and ruthlessly broke his neck. He let the body fall, and stared at it blankly. Had he done that?

Durza emerged, cleaning the blood off his sword. He saw Galbatorix and bowed. 'My Lord. It's good to see you're alive.'

The human and urgal warriors, having finished the fight in the storeroom, came out too. But when they saw Galbatorix, many of them went white. They lowered their weapons and cringed away from him as if he were coming at them with a sword, and he stared at them, bewildered.

'My Lord?' said Durza. 'What are your orders?'

Galbatorix blinked. 'How is… how did the battle go?'

'Well,' said Durza. 'We have captured most of the city. A few of the enemy have managed to hold on inside the buildings, but they will not last long. The Ra'zac have accounted for most of those who tried to flee. Unfortunately, the city is badly damaged. It will take a long time to repair.'

Galbatorix shook his head. 'No. We won't repair it. We'll destroy it.'

Durza blinked – a rare thing for him. 'All of it, my Lord?'

'Yes. Down to the foundations. Ilirea is an elvish city. We will build a new city. A human one. Durza…'

'Yes, my Lord?'

'We need help,' said Galbatorix, in a faraway voice. 'Up in the… in the elders' cave. Some of… we need some stretchers. And people to carry them. And… some urns. Large ones. Organise some people to go up and help.' He was looking at the people standing behind Durza – his followers. Their faces, turned toward him, were full of fear. 'What's wrong with them?' he said aloud.

Durza laughed a short, flat, Shade-laugh. 'You have changed, my Lord,' he said. 'Do not think the men in the city could not hear what you were doing in the elders' cave. None of them dared to go up there, even when Glaedr attacked. Many of them will believe you're dead. You will have to show yourself to them to change their minds.'

Galbatorix touched his hair, and realised it was stiff with blood. He looked at Durza. Saw the strange, dark amusement in the Shade's eyes. He turned away. 'Organise some stretchers. As many as you can find. Now.'

'Yes, my Lord,' said Durza.

As the Shade left, his followers in tow, some of them stopped to look at Galbatorix. Most of them simply turned away without a word, but one or two of them reached out to touch his robe. 'My Lord,' they murmured, and he could hear the fear and anxiety in their voices. Worse still, he knew it was not so much fear for themselves as for him.

He made no attempt to speak with them, and walked away back the way he had come, up the endless ramps and flights of stairs that led to the elders' cave and the horror inside it. He did not feel any fatigue. His muscles were strong and carried him on without the slightest twinge. He had never been able to climb the interior of any one of Ilirea's towers without being forced to stop and rest, but now he found himself able to go on and on, scarcely noticing the effort it took. Did that mean he had achieved true immortality? Was this what it was like to have the power a god? Or was he simply too numb to be aware of his true exhaustion? He didn't know, and he couldn't think about it. The memory of the look in Durza's red Shade-eyes lingered in his mind, and he shivered.

He reached the elders' cave to find that the others had been at work. They had laid out the bodies of the dead riders in a neat row, with Gern, Kaelyn, Roland, Strein, Lalla and Elric side-by-side at one end. The dragons, less easy to move, were spaced around the edges of the chamber. The surviving Forsworn were walking among the bodies of their friends, sometimes stopping to stare at them before they moved on. Tranah and Morzan both had a vacant look about them, as if they were in a trance. Orwyne kept sobbing, and Vander was holding onto Ymazu, his crooked fingers gripping her scales as if he would never let her go. Tuomas was kneeling by the bodies of Kaelyn and Gern, head bowed. He was praying, Galbatorix realised dully. Just as Roland had taught him to.

Galbatorix watched them all and realised that he didn't know what to do. Over the last few years, ever since he had become the Great Betrayer, he had always seemed to know what to do. But here, and now, when there was no-one to fight and no need to hide, he felt useless, his mind empty of thought or tangible emotion.

A terrible loneliness came over him, and he reached out for Shruikan. 'Shruikan?'

'I come,' the dragon replied.

A few moments later, Shruikan swooped in through the entrance. He landed not far from the row of bodies, faltering when he saw them. Galbatorix felt his surprise, and went to meet him. Shruikan turned to look at him, and shared a feeling of dull shock. 'Galbatorix,' he said, stepping toward his partner. 'What in the gods' names happened here? What have you done to yourself?'

Galbatorix stood before the dragon, head bowed, as if he were a student in disgrace reporting to his master. He tried to speak, but couldn't.

'Look at me,' Shruikan commanded.

Galbatorix raised his head and stared into the dragon's golden eyes. He saw them widen.

'Galbatorix… what have you done?'

Galbatorix found his voice at last. 'I don't… I don't know, Shruikan.'

Shruikan sniffed at him. 'You've… you don't… you're different. You've changed. But I don't know… I can't… you're not hurt?'

'No.'

Shruikan was silent, struggling to find the words he needed. In the end, unable to express what had disturbed him so much, he sent Galbatorix an image – of himself.

Galbatorix saw himself as Shruikan could see him, and when he did, he felt as if someone had thumped him in the stomach. He was alive… but he didn't look alive. His face was pale, his hair matted with blood. His robe hung off him, stained with more blood. He looked like a man on the very edge of his strength, as if the slightest breeze could knock him over. And his eyes, darkened and staring, were not those of a living thing. They were blank and cold and empty, two black voids set into his face. He looked like a living corpse.

'Oh gods…' he whispered.

Shruikan stirred and looked around at the bodies. 'How did they die?'

Galbatorix could not make himself follow the dragon's gaze. 'I made… I did… it was an accident.'

'What accident? What did you do? Did Glaedr…?'

'No. It was a spell. We used magic… all of us working together. To save me… us. To heal the wound. Glaedr… interrupted it. The shock killed them.'

Shruikan groaned softly. 'Magic… I hate it. I always have. It's unnatural. It's…'

'It saved me,' Galbatorix said bitterly.

'Sir, they're here,' Morzan's voice interrupted, from behind him.

Galbatorix turned. Sure enough, a group of men had entered the elders' cave, carrying stretchers and a number of large urns.

'We found these down below,' one of them explained. 'The Shade's got some other people bringing more. What do we do with them?'

'The urns… are for the dragons,' Galbatorix said gruffly. 'Put one beside each of them. The stretchers are to carry the bodies. See if… send someone to find the armoury. Look for ceremonial armour. Six suits of it. Whatever there is.'

The man nodded, and he and his comrades set to work, placing an urn next to each dead dragon, and a stretcher for each body. As they worked, others arrived with more urns and stretchers, enough for each of the corpses. Galbatorix nodded to them, and once they had completed their task they moved silently out of the way as the Forsworn looked to their leader.

'I will cast the black fire over the dragons,' Galbatorix said. 'The ashes will be put into the urns and taken downstairs… to wait for us. We'll carry the… the others. The urns will go into the tombs with them.'

No-one spoke. Galbatorix turned away, toward Keth, and unleashed his magic. It came easily – much more easily than it ever had before, and powerfully as well. Once the golden dragon's body was alight he moved on to the next, and the next, one by one, murmuring the funeral rites as he did so. The magic did not tire him at all; it continued to flow effortlessly, without draining his energy.

When he had done, and the ashes had been packed into the urns and each one marked with a name, he helped the others to lift the bodies of the dead riders onto the stretchers, friend and enemy alike. No-one spoke, but Orwyne continued to sob as she laid Roland's body down. When a pair of men came to lift Strein's stretcher, Tranah came forward and displaced one of them. 'I'll take her,' she said quietly.

Galbatorix lifted a pair of urns, and nodded silently to the others before he walked away, toward the door and through it. They followed, forming themselves into a procession, leaving the surviving dragons behind, huddled together in a silent group.

Galbatorix led the way down the inside of the tower, the hollow clinking of his stone-coated soles echoing off the white walls the only sound that accompanied the journey to the catacombs. He knew the way there; he had visited it once, long ago, as a student. Vrael had insisted that he and Flell both go there and see the tombs that had been carved for them – to remind them that no matter how far their life's journeys went they would both end in the same place – a cold stone tomb beneath Ilirea's towers.

He found the thick wooden door that led down into them easily enough – it had remained undisturbed during the battle, and he opened it and descended into the darkness beyond, muttering a word that summoned up a magical light to guide him down the steps. Down and down he went, weighed down by the heavy urns, until the floor levelled out and he was in a long narrow chamber, its walls lined with tombs. Each one was carved with a likeness of the rider who owned it, armed and armoured for battle, with their dragon beside them. Some were sealed shut, but others remained open, the stone slab that would close them and complete the carving placed neatly against the wall beside them.

Galbatorix walked slowly past the silent tombs, pausing to read the names until he reached one he recognised. There, he stopped.

The procession caught up with him, and he put the urns down and turned to face them. 'Roland,' he said softly.

Orwyne came forward, carrying the front half of the stretcher that bore his body. She and her fellow bearer laid it down in front of the open tomb, and Galbatorix placed the urn containing Keth's ashes beside it. 'We'll leave him here,' he said. 'Until we have some armour for him to wear.' He picked up the other urn and walked on.

He stopped when he reached the tomb at the very end of the first chamber, turning to stare at the carving. This one was open, and the wall above the hole that would one day receive a body had the head and shoulders of a man and a dragon carved into it. More a boy than a man, really. Tall and sinewy, with a mane of curly hair. The face was angular and coldly handsome, the eyes staring confidently into the distance, the mouth set into a slight smile. Beside him was carved a slender female dragon with a long, intelligent face and smiling eyes. Her wings were half-spread as if she were about to take flight, and one front paw was raised.

Galbatorix ran his fingers over the stone, staring at the image for a moment before he abruptly turned away and moved on.

The catacombs went deep into the earth, branching out into dozens of different chambers. None of them were arranged in any particular order, and there were no separate places for elders or any other honoured rank. In death, all men were equal. One by one they found the tombs of the dead riders and placed the bodies beside them, until they were done and Galbatorix dismissed their helpers. Once they had departed, under orders to find six suits of ceremonial armour, Galbatorix stood by the body of Saraswati and said; 'We can bury her now.' He bent to lift the stretcher. 'Help me.'

Morzan came to help, and between them they gently lifted Saraswati's body off its stretcher and into the tomb, laying her sword and the urn containing Vandana's ashes beside it. They stood back once this was done, and Galbatorix began to say the funeral rites he had been taught, the ones that should accompany the burial of a rider. 'In death, as in life, let this woman be remembered. Saraswati Sweetsword, daughter of…' he paused, realising he didn't know who Saraswati's parents had been, and then continued, '…let her be remembered for all she was and all she did in life, and let her death be but a final chapter in a glorious book. May she find peace and rest, and may her memory be honoured by friend and foe alike. May none speak ill of her from hereon, for in death all but a man's virtues are forgotten. Courage. Honesty. Integrity. Duty. Justice. Honour. These are the virtues of a rider, and the virtues which Saraswati Sweetsword upheld until her dying day. May peace embrace her now that her journey is ended, may her soul be bound for eternity to that of her dragon, Vandana, as it was in life, that the two of them be united in love until the very ending of the world itself. All this I beseech of the great power of life and death which binds us all, in the names of the great men and dragons of the past. Receive our departed Saraswati Sweetsword now, and be the balm to our grief.' He looked at Morzan and added, 'Let the tomb be sealed.'

The two of them lifted the stone slab into place between them, and once it had been fitted into the hole carved for it Galbatorix spoke a spell over it which made the stone meld into place, sealing the tomb and leaving no trace of a join behind.

After that they had to move on, back through the catacombs, sealing the tombs of the dead riders, one by one. Galbatorix did not know the names of many of them, or even recognise their faces. Had he ever met them? He didn't know.

He didn't falter until they reached the last of the tombs – Carina's. Tranah came forward to help him lift her sister's withered corpse into the recess carved to receive it, and Galbatorix placed Leaf's ashes beside it. Her sword had not been brought into the catacombs, but no-one suggested going to find it.

Galbatorix recited the funeral rites, but when he reached Carina's name he found he couldn't say it. It caught in his throat, choking him, and he turned away, reaching blindly for the wall, dry-eyed and silent.

Tranah quietly took his place and completed the rites, and Morzan helped her seal the tomb. When she had done, she put her hand on Galbatorix's shoulder. 'Come on,' she told him curtly. 'We have work to do.'

He followed her in silence, and they left the catacombs for the tower above. There, several sets of finely-decorated ceremonial armour had been found and laid on a table in one of the dining halls for them to inspect. They chose six of them and took them back into the catacombs for the final part of that night's cold work.

Working together, they armoured the bodies of Roland, Gern, Lalla, Elric, Kaelyn and Strein and entombed them. Galbatorix spoke the rites for each of them as if half-asleep, his gaze fixed on nothing. The others cried and turned to each other for comfort, but he remained utterly silent, his expression vacant and his eyes dry, neither crying not attempting to support them in their grief. Nobody spoke to him.

Strein's tomb was the last. Galbatorix placed her body inside along with Talziri's ashes, but when he picked up her sword in order to lay it on her chest, Tranah came and took it out of his hand.

'Let me keep it,' she said softly.

Galbatorix nodded and moved aside, while she crouched by the open tomb, laying the sword down beside her. Tears running silently down her face, she leaned over Strein's body and kissed her cheek, whispering her name before she withdrew and stood up, holding the brown-bladed sword in her hand.

As Galbatorix began the funeral rites, Tranah began to sob quietly; dry, hoarse, weak sobs that made her shudder gently, her grip tightening on the hilt of her beloved's sword. When Morzan and Ana lifted the slab into place, she turned away and leaned against the opposite wall, her face turned away from them.

Galbatorix stood silently and watched as Morzan went to her, gently touching her arm. 'Tranh…'

Tranah turned around suddenly, her gaze fixed on Galbatorix. 'Did you know?' she said.

Galbatorix said nothing.

'I said, did you know?' Tranah said again. 'Did you know that was going to happen, Galbatorix?'

'Tranah, don't,' said Morzan. 'He didn't plan any of that. It's not his fault.'

Tranah ignored him. 'What was that spell you made us use?' she said in a low, steady voice, though the hand that held Strein's sword was trembling slightly.

Galbatorix finally spoke. 'It was… a healing spell,' he said in a voice that didn't seem to belong to him any more.

'The prisoners,' said Tranah. 'I felt it. We all felt it. Felt what was happening to them before Glaedr came.' She stepped closer, her eyes hard. 'Did you know that was going to happen? Did you know it was going to kill them?'

'Stop it!' Morzan snapped. 'He didn't. He wouldn't-,'

But still Galbatorix said nothing.

Tranah seized him by the front of his robe. 'Answer me!' she snarled. 'I said, did you know? Did you know?'

Galbatorix looked away. 'Yes,' he whispered.

Silence followed. Deep, dark silence. Tranah let go of him and backed away, staring at him in disbelief. The others, too, were looking at him, their eyes widening, dull shock showing in their faces.

'No,' said Morzan. 'No, it's not… you didn't…'

Tranah let out a sudden, wild scream and lashed out at him with her free hand, hitting him in the face. His head snapped back as the others shouted, but Tranah came on, teeth bared, drawing back Strein's sword.

Galbatorix freed White Violence and brought it up to meet the brown blade, knocking it aside. His boot connected hard with Tranah's knee, knocking her over, and he leapt at her, pressing White Violence's tip into her throat.

Orwyne and Vander strode forward and pulled him away from her, and Orwyne took White Violence from him. 'Stop it!' she shouted, as Tranah got up and rushed at Galbatorix again. 'Both of you! For gods' sakes, haven't enough people died today?' her voice broke and she hurled White Violence away and left the catacombs.

'Orwyne-,' Vander let go of Galbatorix's shoulder and hurried after her.

Ana looked at Tranah, then at Galbatorix, and silently departed.

Galbatorix, standing by Strein's tomb, looked at Morzan. 'Morzan…'

Morzan's dark eyes were full of bewilderment. 'You lied,' he said softly. 'You lied to us.'

'Morzan, I didn't mean-,'

But Morzan turned away. He took Tuomas by the arm as he passed him. 'C'mon,' he muttered. Tuomas kept glancing back as the other rider led him away, but in moments the two of them had gone. Tranah picked up Strein's sword. She stared at Galbatorix with pure hatred and followed Morzan, leaving him standing there in his bloodstained robe, utterly alone.

Galbatorix stood by Strein's tomb for a long time, still bathed in the glow of his magic. The sound of the departing footsteps of his friends faded away and silence closed in on him from all sides, cold and smothering. He picked up White Violence and stared blankly at it. Its blade was pure white, gleaming with silver veins. Unstained after so long. He pressed the palm of his hand against its edge and pulled it toward the hilt, gritting his teeth as he felt the skin split open. He let go and stared at his palm and the deep cut that went clear across the gedwëy ignaesia, splitting it in half. Blood oozed out onto the silvery skin, and he watched it obsessively… waiting.

Nothing happened. He cradled his hand against his chest and closed his eyes as a pair of cold tears slowly trickled down his face. He had failed and he had lost. Laela had been wrong. His true name had indeed revealed his true nature to him, and now he saw it truly.

'Destroyer,' he whispered.

Moving jerkily, he put White Violence back into its sheath and walked away, past the rows of silent tombs, surrounded by the dark and the cold. He did not stop until he reached the first of the chambers, at the base of the stairs, where a tomb lay open. Waiting.

He fell to his knees before it, bowing his head beneath the face that smiled down on him.

'In death, as in life, let this man be remembered,' he whispered. 'Arren Cardockson, son of Cardock and Freyja, born in Teirm, let him be remembered for all he was and all he did in life, and let his death be but a final chapter in a glorious book. May he find peace and rest, and may his memory be honoured by friend and foe alike. May none speak ill of him from hereon, for in death all but a man's virtues are forgotten. Courage… Honesty…' he fumbled in his pocket and brought out a small object – a carved wooden comb, decorated with dragons. 'Integrity… Duty… Justice… Honour… These are the virtues of a rider, and the virtues which Arren Cardockson, son of Cardock, upheld until his dying day. May peace embrace him now that his journey is ended, may his soul be bound for eternity to that of his dragon, Laela, as it was in life, that the two of them be united in love until the very ending of the world itself. All this I beseech of the great power of life and death which binds us all, in the names of the great men and dragons of the past. Receive my departed Arren Cardockson, and be the balm to my grief.'

As he spoke the final words, he placed the comb inside the tomb. He took White Violence out of its sheath and laid it down, and then glanced up at the carved image of his old self. 'Let the tomb be sealed,' he said, and climbed into the dark space made to receive his body, so long ago. He reached out with his magic and pulled the stone slab into place, sealing himself inside. The magical light faded as he lay down on his side, listening to the sound of his own breathing. Darkness swallowed him.