Inheritance

We are not alone, little one, said Saphira.

A smile crept across his face.

And the ship sailed onward, gliding serenely down the moonlit river toward the dark lands beyond.

“The courting of dragons is no gentle affair,” he said to Arya.

“Did you expect soft words and tender caresses?”

“I suppose not.”

Galbatorix stopped a foot in front of him and glared at him, a thick, forked vein prominent on his brow, the muscles of his heavy jaw knotting. “Think you to challenge me, boy?” he growled, fairly spitting with rage.

“Perhaps,” said the elf woman Invidia, “he expected the pits to capture us before we reached the rest of the traps.”

He was not the best person in the world, but neither was he the worst.

Then the plain vanished, as did most of her suffering, and she reminded herself: It is only in my mind. I shall not give in. I am not an animal; I am stronger than the weakness of my flesh.

“Does Galbatorix know where you are?” she finally asked.

“He might, but I doubt it. He’s busy playing with his favorite concubines. That, or he’s asleep. It’s the middle of the night right now.

The wind is not your friend, Saphira. It can help you, but it can also destroy you.

If he had to die, he decided that he would want an apple tree planted over him, so that his friends and family could eat the fruit born of his body.

The concept had amused him tremendously, albeit in a rather morbid manner.

“This is good for him,” said Arya. “You are good for him. Without something to give him purpose, his grief would have killed him. That he has survived at all is … impressive. I admire him for it. Few beings

—human, elf, or dragon—could continue to function rationally after such a loss.”

“Brom did.”

“He was equally remarkable.”