Disclaimer

Given that my writing style has at best a superficial similarity to Paolini's, you'd think people would guess that Inheritence was not mine.

Chapter 1

Murtagh strolled through the passageways of Urû'baen citadel, a slight swagger in his steps concealing the anxiety that was consuming his thoughts. He was not looking forward to this. Meeting with the king was never pleasant, and in light of his recent failure…

Sensing his worry through their bond, Thorn sent a wave of comforting emotion, which Murtagh received gratefully, sending back a few wordless assurances. He smiled slightly at the gesture, but it failed to abate his worry. Thorn was just as nervous as him.

The servants all jumped out of his way and averted their eyes as he passed, just as terrified of him as they were the kings more 'colorful' minions. At first this had been profoundly off-putting, but he was gradually retraining himself not to see servants.

He'd been with Thorn in the caverns, keeping his dragon company and discussing how to relay the events of his engagement with the elvish rider when the King demanded his report. He knew it was not necessary, that the king knew what had happened better then he himself, but Galbatorix wanted to hear it from him. And Murtagh, the unwilling slave, would answer the call at his king's request. It wasn't as though he had a choice. He'd even tried to refuse, but had been physically incapable of doing so. It was maddening.

Thorn was yet to recover from the injuries the bigger dragon had dealt him, and spent his time lying motionless, conserving his strength. Even with a team of spell casters gradually patching the damage, his tail would still take the better part of a year to grow back, and until then it would be unsafe to fly, as Thorn would have trouble steering. He'd miss it, the flying. They both would. Flying with Thorn was one of his life's few pleasures. But he was also relieved. Without Thorn, he was functionally useless to the king, and there was no point in forcing him to fight the Varden. For the moment, his brother was safe. He was unsure about what he thought of Eragon, but anything that hurt Galbatorix was fine by him.

As he followed the passages towards the keep, the hall widened, and the rooms became smaller and closer placed. Hangings and tapestries appeared on the walls, a long rug carpeted the hallway, windows became more common and the occasional statue or sculpture decorated alcoves. For the most part that was the extent of the change, Galbatorix having little interest in superficialities, and the majority of his court following his example, if reluctantly. In truth, there seemed little to differentiate this area as the realm of the privileged.

Taking a few more turns and a stairway, he came at last to the massive, oaken doors that led the way to the central keep. With a portcullis and hinges thicker then his forearm, these doors could withstand a siege from inside the castle were it necessary. It was also the only room in the citadel that was carpeted, thick strings of cotton braided in an intricate series of knots. It was beautiful, in its way, but inexplicable. It certainly wasn't a sign of wealth, but neither did it see to serve any noticeable purpose.

As usual, the passage was totally deserted. It always was, no one was allowed to come here without the king's permission. When he was young and still living with his father he had met a few boys his age and been dared to sneak in to Galbatorix's tower. When he had tried he had made it halfway up the corridor before a spell had caught him and held him in place, keeping him unable to so much as blink until his father had found him hours later. It had earned him the biggest thrashing he had received until that point, and had imbued these silent doors with a terrifying mystique that clung to him even this day.

Taking a deep breath he walked up and pushed them open, making his way into the grey, drab corridors beyond, if anything more austere then the corridors he'd just left.

Many wondered about what the rooms beyond the doorway held. Very few had ever been allowed in, and those that had seldom saw more then the throne room and perhaps a few others that they caught glimpses of. But it was a huge tower, and there was a lot of space unaccounted for. Rumors flew amongst both the nobility and the servants alike about the contents, ranging from a personal harem to a vast dungeon where he kept his greatest enemies, to a great school where he and other philosophers discussed great things mere mortals couldn't comprehend without years of study. Others maintained it was a vast treasury containing room after room of gold and jewels, while others claimed it was a place to house the monsters that he had brought under his control.

Murtagh didn't have the heart to tell them that most of the rooms were empty. The top floor consisted of his private quarters, which Murtagh had never seen, nor knew where to look for, and the Throne room. The first five floors contained nothing of interest, simply blank space and storage for some basic commodities, such as grain and steel the king stored there, for reasons known only to himself.

The sixth floor was a massive room the size of a hall devoted to obstinately for training, but seemed to Murtagh to be more of a place to hold the trophies of his victories. There were over two hundred riders swords in there, as well as trophies from a range of dangerous creatures he'd killed and relics of his conquests. Dragon horns and fangs, skins of exotic, rare or dangerous creatures, articles paid by his greatest cities as tribute that had caught his eye, a range of artworks that predated the Riders and a series of things that Murtagh didn't even know the names of. It was also the room that Galbatorix used when showcasing his swordsmanship. What the king called training would be better described as humbling his opponent beyond any chance of recovering. Murtagh had rarely met his match in swordsmanship, but the king was not simply better, but a different order of being.

The entirety of the next floor was a place to store the books and magic compendiums the king had 'liberated' from the riders, the elves and several libraries once he took power. The king called it a library, but it was no more one then Dras-Leona's so-called cathedral was a place of worship. Both had the trappings of their names, but none of the soul that was so integral to the originals they copied from. They were little more then pale copies. Despite this, Murtagh suspected that every magician in the empire would give what was left of their souls to spend an uninterrupted hour there. It seemed a shame that almost no one ever did get to see the inside, and those that did under heavy supervision.

Then there was the throne room, where the mad king played god. The room was large enough to fit nearly every inhabitant in the castle, and dominated by a great tapestry depicting the entirety of Alagaësia, beneath which sat a great throne of obsidian trimmed with gold on a raised platform. The room was designed to humble petitioners, but it was a wasted effort as few of them got this far. Just the same, it was impressive, and Murtagh could never totally repress the feeling of awe when he found himself standing before the throne.

After coming to the top of the great winding staircase that took him to the peak of the tower, Murtagh breathed deeply a few times to steady his nerves and prepare for the coming ordeal. After a moment to compose himself he pushed open the door and strode confidently into the center of the room.

The throne was empty, the king nowhere to be seen. Leaning on the thrones armrest was a man dressed in a robe reminiscent of a monk, black velvet of the highest quality left plain and unadorned as a bedsheet, with the hood pulled down over his eyes. Turning to face Murtagh he pulled it back and smiled a thin lipped smile. Murtagh glared.

His face was pale from hours of long study, but it was healthy, would even be handsome if not from the perpetual look of bitter cynicism and gaunt, wasted cheeks. The eyes were a deep brown as cold as glass that reflected back what they saw. The black, unadorned robes revealed the stooped and shattered frame of a wreck of a man, scrawny and malnourished, deliberately so. And yet he stood tall and strong, as though daring the world to try and strike him down.

"You just missed him." The magician mocked, his soft, deep voice stretched with just the hint of a lisp. Murtagh recognized him at once. It was a face he knew all to well. It was Tarascus, the kings pet sorcerer and the man assigned to teach him magic. Murtagh hated him with a fervor he usually reserved for the king. It always felt like he was being mocked, though not in any way that he could challenge. But under that hate was the slightest undercurrent of fear. The magician was powerful, and Murtagh did not understand him or his motivations. He was perhaps the greatest mystery in the king's shadowy court.

"Well, then where is he?" Murtagh replied, not bothering to keep the loathing out of his voice. Tarascus knew what he thought of him.

The sorcerer's lips twisted into a mocking smile that did reach the rest of his face. "Your majesty awaits you in his courtyard, if it's not too much trouble." He sneered, his eyes narrowing. "Come." He finished, than turned and swept out of the room, limping only slightly, not bothering to ensure Murtagh followed. He knew he would. However he felt about Tarascus, he feared the king too much to openly attempt defiance. Besides, doing so served no purpose. He couldn't refuse if he tried.

*****

Galbatorix was seated at a small table in the courtyard, enjoying a meal with a tall, striking women, while his manservant stood at his shoulder. The king was a tall, lean man, with a sharp patricians face, hawklike nose and heavy brow, where two dark eyes stared out, seemingly constantly at motion. He was thin as a sabre and hard as a poker, appearing cold and deadly, even in the relaxed atmosphere. He wore dark leather armor despite the obvious casualness of the courtyard, forgoing mail for the greater flexibility it allowed him. His sword was belted on his hip in easy reach, and he would habitually stroke it when thinking.

The women he was eating with was tall and thin, with clothes more suited to a young rake out prowling the taverns to a noble women, despite her station being clear by the way she held herself. Yet the incongruity did nothing to diminish her presence, which rivaled the kings own. She wore knee high boots and red leather breaches that clung to her long legs. A soft whit shirt rose above a silver trimmed belt, that circled her slender waist, that was in turn covered by a black leather chest, the straps unbuckled where the garment constrained the swell of he breast. A heart shaped face rose above this, framed by delicate flaxen locks. Her eyes were like sapphires, beautiful and vibrant, yet harder then steel, and her full lips were pursed.

Seeing Murtagh open his mouth, Galbatorix tilted his head, a clear indication to join them. Murtagh sat at an empty chair, but did not touch the food. Tarascus bowed mockingly, then more respectfully to the king, and turned on his heel, vanishing back into the confines of the tower.

"How did events proceed?" The king enquired politely, setting aside his meal. The food looked delicious, but somehow Murtagh didn't feel like eating. Murtagh didn't reply. Instead he unbuckled the sword on his right hip and dropped it on the table, with a resonating clang. Galbatorix inspected the gold tinted blade he had found near the Rider's carcass critically for a moment, then handed it to his manservant.

Galbatorix rubbed his scalp. "I offered him clemency, I offered him peace. And he spat in my face. I thought him wiser then that, thought he could let go of his hate and see the present. But he was a fool. Just another notch on Zar'Roc now." Murtagh winced at the last part, but was unsure how to reply, or even if he should. He didn't know if the king was lying. He doubted the man honestly cared for peace, but then, all his motives seemed to be inscrutable. He wondered if the man ever acted predictably. He took refuge in silence.

Galbatorix steepled his fingers in front of him and stared at the young Rider, his black eyes boring holes in Murtagh. "So what was it like to kill a legend?"

Murtagh groped for words. "I… I felt…"

The king spoke over him, remaining perfectly still as he did so. "You hated Oromis. You blamed him for your own situation. Surely another Rider could save you, break these bonds I hold you by. Yet he ignored you, left you to suffer."

Murtagh nodded. He didn't see any point in disputing the claim. He felt the anger against the elf welling up in his breast, but he kept it confined.

"Oromis's greatest flaw was is own knowledge. He knew that people could change, but he never understood it. He passed his judgement, and then never changed it, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. He assumed that once you took my side, whatever your initial reasons, you were beyond saving, no matter what you did. If you had thrown down your sword and begged his mercy he would have given no quarter."

"Knew him well did you?" Murtagh sneered at the king.

"He was a member of Vrael's council of three. One of the Riders leaders." Galbatorix replied mildly. "You could say that."

Galbatorix lifted his goblet, the drained its contents in two great gulps. Placing it back down looked up at Murtagh and made a gesture with his left hand.

"So, aside from that unpleasantness, how did the rest of the battle progress? I am well aware that we lost Gil'ead, a messenger killed five horses to tell me such two hours ago. But I would like to hear your summary." Galbatorix said reasonably, setting aside his wooden cutlery and iron goblet, and leaning forward. "Tell me what happened that day."

Murtagh felt like shrugging. The king had ignored him for three days after he had returned, but Murtagh had spent that time with Thorn. He had a vague idea of what to say, but he was unsure how to word it.

"We… we made the elves pay dearly. I estimate there were perhaps a thousand in their army. I believe they lost a sixth of that. Our men died to the last, the elves took no prisoners and there was no retreat."

An odd look came over Galbatorix's face, seeming to contain triumph and disappointment in equal measure. The king sighed gravely, and the look vanished. "Their oaths did not require or demand that. But perhaps it is for the best. Preferable to capture." He sighed running his hand over his scalp. "But so few? Perhaps it is time to take stronger measures." He said in a heavy voice.

He turned to Duncan Halec, his manservant. "Inform lord Meric he is to handle our next offensive. He has whatever resources he wants."

Halec nodded, taking the sword and departing back towards the keep. Galbatorix left his meal half-eaten and stood up, stretching to his impressive height. "Murtagh, son of my friend, this is Lady Silja Isolde." The women had spent the time staring at him, her blue eyes like chips of ice. "Charmed." She said, extending her hand and clasping his wrist in a warrior's handshake.

"We have been discussing the matter of Dras-Leona."

Murtagh blinked. "But how could they besiege it so quickly? The distance involved…"

Galbatorix waited for him to stop, then shook his head. "Of course it isn't. My enemies will leave it alone until after they depose me. The matter is rather more simple." His hand came down to rest on the handle of his sword. "Six months ago I dragged Marcus Tabar of his throne, or more correctly out of the bed he shared with his mistresses, to await execution for crimes against the empire. I told his heir I would not recognize a sovereign of Tabar's blood, and since then a steward has been running things. A decent temporary measure, but this state of affairs cannot continue."

Murtagh blinked again. Surely the king couldn't be so arrogant. "Your majesty, there is a war going on."

"Precisely. What better time to change a dynasty?" Seeing Murtagh's confused look, he sighed loudly in clear annoyance. "Marcus Tabar is a gross incompetent, unfit to lead a backwater village. What's more he is greedy and ineffectual, easily intimidated but fond of bullying those he can, and enjoys exercising his power but is terrified of loosing it. Not the sort of man fit for rulership. And yet I put him in charge of one of the empire's greatest cities. Really I had little to do with it, I just did not oppose his ascension after his father died, despite the fact I was well aware of his incompetence. Why?"

Murtagh looked blank. "Because you don't care?"

Galbatorix shook his head, disappointment clear on his face. "Quite the opposite. Because I do care. The city Dras-Leona has become a breeding ground for every vice and corruption the inhabitant's diseased minds can conceive. Slavery, cannibalism, torture, every form of decadence imaginable. Marcus himself was even rumored to be guilty of incest, among other things. Marcus has single handedly managed to send it backwards hundreds of years in governance and infrastructure. Now it has sunk so low that even the cities inhabitants want it purged."

Murtagh felt even more mystified. "So, why Marcus?"

Galbatorix began pacing. "It was that very incompetence that made him useful. I am a supreme ruler, but I cannot simply replace whom I choose. If I did I would loose the loyalty of the ruling classes and soon find a rebellion on my hands that would make what I face now seem even more insignificant. I rule through their acceptance. If I alienate them I lose their loyalty, and they stop listening to me. Then what? Kill them and make every decision myself? Or be killed by them and leave the Empire in a state of anarchy as each one seeks to expand his borders into his neighbors? No, I cannot simply act as I choose." He was fingering the blade at his side again, his index finger tracing the intricacies of the rune on its hilt.

"No, I needed an indisputable reason, which Marcus provided." Galbatorix continued at last. "After he had all but ruined the city, I would step in and replace him, being hailed a hero in the process, and whoever took his place could make any reforms and changes I wanted under the pretense of restoring the city to it's former glory and casting off the old regime. The war will make it even easier, as people will focus on that instead of what occurs behind the front lines."

Murtagh found himself nodding slowly. It did make a sick kind of sense. "So who takes over?"

Galbatorix stopped pacing and fixed the two of them with an intense stare. "That, son of my friend, is why the two of you are here. At first I thought of you, Murtagh, but I decided against it. Your… talents are of more use to me here then in an administrative position, and once your dragon recovers I will return you to the front lines. And I don't believe I can trust you yet. Fear is a suitable enough motivator, but do I really want you to have so much independence? So I searched through those at court until I found someone suitable. Dras-Leona goes to Lady Silja, along with a few titles and a minor estate in the capital."

Murtagh appraised the women again, his curiosity now afire. "Who exactly is she?"

Silja glared at him, her ice blue eyes narrowing dangerously. No doubt she did not appreciate being ignored, and Murtagh's manner was not exactly endearing. "I am the daughter of a minor baron who's estate borders the Spine. He was granted his title for exemplary service in the kings armies, and maintains a large force to this day. Having no sons he raised me as his heir apparent." She growled, her wide eyes narrowing at Murtagh.

"And you believe she is suitable?" Murtagh asked, still addressing the king directly which prompted another glare from Silja.

"I do. She is loyal to the empire, idealistic and more then a match for those weak blooded nobles at the court. In addition, I believe she has the courage to do what needs to be done. I will give her my full support in any endeavors she believes are necessary."

Silja looked mildly gratified at the complement, but she did not seem to have forgiven Murtagh. Taking he knife she began to stab at the meat on her plate, as though attempting to quarter an enemy.

Murtagh merely nodded, unsure on what was expected of him to say or do. Conversations with the king always left him floundering. The man's brain seemed to work on several levels at once, and he seemed to know every move well in advance that both sides would make in any engagement. It was terrifying, and left people like Murtagh stumbling in his wake.

The king sat back down, but still did not resume his meal. "I would appreciate it if you would take my place at the table tonight. I will be otherwise engaged." He said after a moment, seemingly casual but with an undertone of steel. This was not up for debate.

Murtagh grimaced, but shook his head, well aware that the defiance would cost him, but not willing to simply let the king have his way. He had to maintain his independence, or at least attempt to.

Galbatorix's eyes narrowed, and Murtagh felt a blow against his hastily erected mental defenses. It sent him staggering of his chair, and left him on the tiled floor gasping. "So be it. I order you to take my place at the table tonight. Act as you wish, but let it slip to Lord Gurney that I am appointing my mistress dominion over Dras-Leona." The king said, the veneer of casualness gone from his voice.

"Wha… Why?" Murtagh gasped as he slowly got to his feet, panting at the mental blow.

Galbatorix shook his head again, once more seeming disappointed. "Gurney is boisterous, and has never bothered to learn to keep his mouth shut. He will not think to use the information himself, but his personal retainer is a spy for the Varden."

Murtagh blinked. "If you know he's a spy, why don't you kill him?"

Gallbatorix stared at him condescendingly. "Why bother? They'll just send another. It's not as though he knows anything useful. Quite the opposite, he is full of misinformation. I use spies to control my enemy's perceptions of me. It's an easy enough strategy. If I can convince them I have given over to vice and enjoyment of power they will cease to take me seriously."

Murtagh nodded at this, confused but wanting to get out before Galbatorix lost his patience again. The king didn't seem to have anything else to say, and Murtagh wanted to leave at the first opportunity.

"Any more questions?"

Murtagh swallowed. "No... sir."

"Good. Tell Halec to send up Evendir later, tell him I require his usual services. And Murtagh? Don't try to use the spy to send a message to your brother. That's an order."

Murtagh blanched, guilty that he hadn't even thought of that. "Yes, your majesty."

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