Chapter Sixty-One

The Conqueror's Throne

Galbatorix came back to Ilirea just as quietly and anonymously as he had left it. Shruikan flew up to the entrance of the elders' cave at midday, about a week after Vrael's death.

They had seen him coming. When Shruikan landed at the centre of the cave he found the others already there, standing silently in a semicircle, waiting.

Galbatorix dismounted and walked toward them, the clinking of his boots the only sound in the cave. Morzan, Tranah, Orwyne, Ana, Vander and Tuomas stood still, watching his approach, and he halted at the centre of the circle and threw Vrael's sword down at their feet. He took the severed head out of its bag and held it up for them all to see, and he saw them blink and shift slightly where they stood.

'Vrael is dead,' he intoned. 'I have kept my promise.'

No-one spoke. The surviving members of the Forsworn glanced at each other and then looked at him once more, stone-faced.

Galbatorix looked at the ground. 'I didn't think you'd still be here,' he said quietly.

'We had no choice,' Vander said at last. 'We must do our duty.'

'Consider it done,' said Galbatorix. 'The war is over and Alagaësia is free. You can do whatever you choose from now on. As for me, I'm leaving.'

'Leaving to go where?' Morzan demanded.

Galbatorix glanced over his shoulder, toward the entrance and the open sky beyond. 'Shruikan and I are leaving the country,' he said. 'We're going away over the sea. There's nothing for me here any more. I want to look for… for someone.'

'You can't do that… sir,' said Vander. 'We need you here.'

Galbatorix laughed bitterly. 'No-one needs me.'

'Yes we do,' Orwyne said sharply. 'It's too late for you to turn your back on us now, sir. The country is yours to rule. Take Vrael's place.'

'No. I won't.'

'Sir, the country needs a ruler,' said Vander. 'Civil war is already breaking out. If you don't do something soon, thousands of people will die.'

Galbatorix's eyes were icy. 'Let someone else do it. I've done enough.'

Tranah looked up for the first time. Her eyes were red. 'You piece of filth,' she said in a low voice. 'How dare you?'

'I promised to win you the war,' Galbatorix snapped back. 'That was all. I've done that now.'

'Strein died to save you,' Tranah snarled. 'Roland died. All those people died so that you could live. And now you're going to run away and betray everything they cared about.' She spat. 'I should never have followed you. You're a liar and a coward.'

Galbatorix drew his sword and pointed it at her. 'Don't – call – me – a coward!' he roared.

Tranah showed no sign of fear. Nor did she draw her own sword. She glared at him, teeth bared. 'Don't you understand? Are you really that stupid? We weren't fighting to destroy the elders, we were fighting to replace them. Those people out there came here to fight and die for you. Not me, not Morzan, not Orwyne or any of us, but for you. And now you're going to abandon them? How can you be so unfeeling?'

Galbatorix's face was a mask of agony. 'I – can't feel – anything any more! There's nothing left inside me, don't you understand? I can't smile, I can't laugh, I can't even cry.' Tears started to glisten in his eyes, but his face remained dry. 'I'm a dead man, Tranah,' he said, his voice breaking. 'I'm walking around, I'm breathing, but I'm dead. I'm dead but I can't lie down and die. I've got nothing left, nothing… nothing…'

Galbatorix's outburst died away and he dropped Vrael's head and covered his face with his hands, his shoulders heaving.

Silence reigned in the chamber for a time. No-one moved to comfort him. Shruikan, standing by the entrance, let out a little moan of unhappiness.

At last, Morzan spoke up. 'If you won't rule,' he said. 'Then I will.'

Galbatorix looked up. 'You can't.'

'Says who?' Morzan retorted. 'If you won't do it, then I will. And the first thing I'll do is send you back to the North where you belong and make sure you don't ever come back.'

'You wouldn't dare!'

'Oh yes I bloody well would,' said Morzan. 'You already betrayed one ruler – who says you won't do it again?'

'Shut up, Morzan,' Tranah snapped.

'Be quiet,' said Vander, his quiet voice cutting across them all. 'Sir,' he turned to Galbatorix. 'This is not our decision to make.' He pointed at the entrance to the cave, toward the city below. 'Your followers are waiting out there,' he said. 'Many of them are refusing to go home. They've been calling for you all this while. They need to see you again, to know you're alive. Go out there, sir, and ask them what they want you to do. You owe them that.'

Galbatorix's anger drained away as suddenly as it had come, and he sheathed White Violence. He stood still for a moment, staring at his boots, and then bent and picked up Vrael's sword and severed head. He looked at Vander, his eyes dead and empty. 'You should have left me in that tomb,' he said quietly. 'You should have sealed me in and left me.' He turned and walked out of the circle, toward the door leading into the tower, head bowed.

When Galbatorix emerged from the doors at the base of the tower and came out onto the steps leading into the city, he found Shruikan waiting for him. And, gathered in front of the tower, were his followers. Hundreds upon hundreds of people – humans and urgals both – packed into the streets around the tower and watching for his arrival.

When he appeared, the response was instantaneous. Every single member of the crowd raised his fist over his head, and roared. A thousand voices shouted out his name. Calling to him.

Galbatorix stood at the top of the steps, looking down at them all. Every eye was fixed on him. He could hear their voices, chanting. 'Galbatorix, Galbatorix, Lord Galbatorix!'

He sighed deeply, and muttered the spell that would amplify his voice. Then he raised his arms, holding up Vrael's head in one hand and his sword in the other, showing them to the crowd. 'Vrael is dead!' he shouted.

Shouts rose from the crowd, and cheers, and the chanting of his name grew yet louder. Standing on the steps beside the doors, Shruikan lifted his head and roared.

Silence fell.

Galbatorix stood still for a moment, unspeaking. Then he knelt. He laid down the sword and the head, and fell to his knees, bowing his head to the assembled people. 'I have kept my promise,' he said, his voice echoing out over the city. 'Vrael is dead and the elves vanquished. You helped me do this, and now I have come to ask you: what would you have me do now, to repay you for what you have done for me? Ask what you will of me, and I will do it. I am yours.'

Silence. Great, deep, waiting silence.

And then, from the crowd, someone shouted into the silence.

'KING GALBATORIX!'

Galbatorix looked up, bewildered.

'King Galbatorix!' someone else shouted. 'King of Alagaësia!'

The rest of the crowd started to join in. Hundreds of voices cried out to him, becoming one voice, one deep, commanding voice. 'King Galbatorix!' it shouted.

Galbatorix stood, his heart pounding. 'Would you have me be your King?'

The shouts became yet louder. 'King Galbatorix! King Galbatorix!'

Quiet despair settled over him. He reached into his robe, into a hidden pocket sewn inside it. His fingers closed around the object he kept in there, and he pulled it out.

Saethryn's crown gleamed silver in the sunlight. The stone set into it was the pale, hard blue of a frozen lake, and the circlet itself was etched with dark elvish runes. Galbatorix knew what they said. For the greatest of all servants.

'King Galbatorix!' the crowd shouted.

A voice echoed to him from far away, journeying back to him from out of the past, in a better time, when the boy called Arren was still alive, and an old elf told him things he did not want to hear.

I saw you. The eyes of a dark elf, the ears of a human, bearing a white sword and wearing a silver crown. I saw a great King.

'King Galbatorix!'

King, the Great King, the Great King…

A voice whispered in his head. How much longer will you keep running, Sire?

A tear slowly trickled down Galbatorix's face. He lifted the crown and put it on.

It fitted perfectly.

Two days later, in the great hall at the base of the Elders' Tower, Galbatorix sat on a carved chair with his sword across his lap. Morzan, Tranah, Vander, Tuomas, Orwyne and Ana stood in a row behind him, glad in ceremonial armour inlaid with enamel to match their swords.

Galbatorix wore his usual black robe over an ornate breastplate, emblazoned with the triple-spiral symbol. His hair was neatly combed, shining with health, and his beard trimmed into a perfect point. His face was calm, his look full of confidence and authority. Few people there ever noticed the expression that showed in his eyes from time to time, or the coldness in the faces of the Forsworn. They saw a group of victorious warriors standing behind their leader, side-by-side, united and invulnerable in their power. Nar Kvarn and several other urgal chieftains stood beside Galbatorix's chair, their horns decorated with ceremonial bone carvings and feathers, and the hall itself was packed with people. Even the Ra'zac were there, and Durza as well, standing on Galbatorix's other side.

Orwyne, as the oldest of the Forsworn, was the one to conduct the ceremony. She came forward to stand in front of the crowd, her green-inlaid armour shining in the sunlight from the windows, and began. 'All those gathered here,' she intoned, 'Bear witness to this, the naming of Alagaësia's new ruler. You, the people of this country, united under a common banner, have chosen him to lead you, and from this day forth all those who challenge him will be guilty of having committed treason against you. Your loyalty is the only return asked of you. Be faithful, and peace and prosperity shall be yours.' She moved to stand behind the throne, and lifted the silver circlet, holding it over Galbatorix's head as she spoke in the ancient language. 'May you be judge and warlord, master and protector, may you care for your people above all else, may you live long and shield us from misfortune.' She repeated the words in the common language, and then she placed the crown on his head. 'Rise, King Galbatorix Taranisäii-Traeganni the First, Lord of Alagaësia.'

Cheers rose to the roof as Galbatorix stood. He looked down on his new subjects, and they knelt to him, bowing their heads. The Forsworn knelt too, and Durza, and Nar Kvarn, and the Ra'zac. He saw them all, and their devotion, and closed his eyes for a moment. Laela…

Orwyne looked up. 'What is your first command, Sire?'

Galbatorix sighed and gathered his resolve. 'My… my people,' he said, letting his voice fill the hall. 'I have decided… we are going to destroy this city. We will level it to the ground and leave nothing but the foundations. Ilirea was an elvish city. We will build another city in its place. A human city. My government will have its seat there. Those who wish to may go back to their homes. I will send my followers out from here, to keep the peace just as riders should. Nar Kvarn…' he turned to face the urgal chief, who bowed his head to him. 'You and your people will be given land. Those who wish to live alongside humans, in our cities, may do so, as long as they agree to abide by our laws.' He turned to the Forsworn. 'Morzan. You will govern in Gil'ead. Tranah, Teirm is yours to command. Orwyne, you and Tuomas will rule Dras-Leona and oversee the rebuilding of the Cathedral of the Three Peaks. Ana, you will be responsible for Kuasta. Vander, you will go to Feinster and guard the Surdan border. Durza, you and the Ra'zac will remain with me.'

They bowed to him. 'Yes, Sire.'

Galbatorix put White Violence back into its sheath. 'Go,' he told the people. 'We have work to do. All of us.'

He followed them out of the hall, and the Forsworn went with him. When he stopped in the open doorway to watch the people spread out through the city, they came to stand around him in a little group.

'What do we do now… Sire?' said Morzan.

'Call the dragons,' Galbatorix said briefly. 'We will begin destroying the city today. Fire, magic… whatever it takes. Leave the outer walls intact.'

'Yes, Sire.'

They left, some heading into the city and others returning to the tower. Galbatorix stayed where he was, watching as smoke started to rise once more from among Ilirea's white buildings. A few moments later, he saw Idün rise from the ground not far away and fly low over the city, blasting it with fire. The other dragons of the Forsworn soon joined her, and in less than half an hour Ilirea was ablaze, its stone walls crumbling in the heat.

There was a rush of air from overhead, and Shruikan came down to land beside his partner. Galbatorix patted the dragon's shoulder, his eyes still fixed on the burning city below them.

'I'll never see Skade again,' he said aloud.

Shruikan nudged him gently with his snout. 'She'll come back, Galbatorix. One day. You'll see.'

Galbatorix sighed. He touched the crown, adjusting its set on his black curls. A deafening crash came from below as a building collapsed in on itself, sending dust and flames into the air. The Forsworn had moved on to begin demolishing the towers; he could hear the sound of magic exploding against the white stone, and the low, ominous rumbling of falling walls.

'And so begin the days of the King,' he said.

Something was prodding him in the side. It hurt, and he moaned softly.

A voice came from somewhere far away. 'Oh my gods… I think he's alive.'

Hands rolled him over onto his back, and someone patted his face.

'Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?'

He coughed weakly and mumbled a word.

'Help me with him,' the voice said. 'C'mon, move it!'

Strong arms lifted him up off the ground where he lay, and after that he saw nothing but darkness for a long time.

Over the next day or so he woke and slept, woke and slept again. Sometimes, when he was awake, he was aware that there were people there. They brought him water and asked him questions, but he couldn't remember how to speak. He couldn't remember who he was. Nor did he particularly care.

The people who had found him didn't know what to make of him. They did their best to care for the wild-eyed boy, bringing him food and water and making sure he stayed warm. Most of the time he seemed barely aware that they were there. All he did was stare blankly at the walls or the ceiling, his eyes roving here and there as if in search for something. When he slept, he mumbled a strange word over and over again – the only one he seemed to know how to say. Saphira. Just that one word.

They suspected that he was a survivor from the massacre at Vroengard, and were careful to keep his presence in their home a secret. Nowadays, it was a bad idea to even talk about the old riders or the massacres, and if they were sheltering someone loyal to them it could mean trouble. They argued about it several times, frightened and uncertain, not knowing what they should do with him or whether they should go on caring for him when he could be a danger to them.

In the end, however, he solved their problem for them. After over a month spent in the same demented state he had been in when they found him, he suddenly vanished during the night – leaving behind nothing but a broken window to tell the tale. Neither of his carers would ever see him again.

The boy, however, knew where he was going. He left the village under cover of night for the countryside beyond, and headed North. There was nothing left inside him – no memories, no knowledge… nothing but pain. And, in the midst of it all, a voice that called to him. Go North. Go to the forest. Go to Ellesméra. Go.

So he went, walking on doggedly through day and night, heedless of all else, through wind and rain, starvation and exhaustion, bent on reaching his goal. He had to get there. He had to get home. She was waiting for him there. He knew it.

The time of the elves was over. The Ellesmérans knew it.

The survivors of Galbatorix's massacres had gathered together in the city and begun rebuilding it, though there seemed little point in doing so. They had lost all hope of their race's recovery.

When Oromis came, comatose in Glaedr's claws, what had at first felt like a spark of hope quickly revealed itself to be just the final blow to the elves. Though Oromis remained in a coma for some days, Glaedr was able to give some account of what was happening in the outside world, and it was all bad. The war was over, and the traitors had won. Ilirea was destroyed and the last of Vrael's riders had been killed or had fled. No-one now had the strength to fight back against the Forsworn, and the humans of Alagaësia had risen up and taken full control of its lands, declaring themselves a free people who would not submit to elvish rule any more.

And, when Oromis finally revived, he gave a chilling account of what he had seen and what had happened to him. 'Yansan and Saraswati are dead,' he told Islanzadí, his voice hushed. 'Vrael has fled. He won't survive long. The Betrayer will-,' he broke off, and suddenly let out a sob.

'What is it, my Lord?' Islanzadí asked softly, taking his hand.

'I'm sorry,' said Oromis, shuddering. 'I… I saw…'

'What, my Lord? What did you see?'

'I saw terrible things in Ilirea,' Oromis whispered. 'I saw evil. I saw, I saw, I… the half-breed, he-,' he started to sob, his normal haughty calm utterly gone.

It was a long time before he could control himself again.

'Yansan and Saraswati are dead,' he said again. 'I saw them die. And their dragons. And… other riders. Prisoners. The half-breed… he… I…'

'What did he do, Oromis. Please tell me.'

'Magic,' Oromis said at last. 'Dark magic. Evil magic. He used us. Drained our energy, used us to give himself power. It was… I felt it. I felt them die. I felt them all die. I was… I was the only survivor. When the circle was broken, everyone died, all at once. And I felt them die…'

Islanzadí listened, and afterwards she could find nothing to say. She left Oromis alone, unable to comfort him. What could she possibly say to him after what had happened to him, or console him for a pain she could scarcely imagine? No…

Oromis gradually regained some of his strength after this, but it soon became apparent that he would never completely recover. He moved slowly now, sometimes wincing in pain, and his hands had a tremor, as if he were some feeble old human. He eventually confessed privately to Islanzadí that he was no longer able to use magic. The ability to channel magical energy had simply left him.

'I am sorry, my Lady,' he told her. 'I have failed you, and I cannot fight for you any more.'

'No, Oromis,' said Islanzadí. 'Do not apologise. You have done more and more bravely than any other warrior I have ever known, and you should not be ashamed of yourself. No-one can fight against the half-breed's evil. Not even Vrael himself. We have all failed, and the guilt belongs to us all.' She bowed her head. 'Darkness has taken over this land. The ending of our time, and the destruction of our people, is our punishment.'

Oromis nodded slowly. 'Yes… we should not have allowed humans to become riders. Our faith in their goodness was our undoing.'

'The half-breed is not human,' Islanzadí reminded him.

'No. You are right, Islanzadí. And some day, perhaps, a human will come who can redeem his race.'

'It is our only hope,' said Islanzadí.