Eragon: Book One (The Inheritance cycle 1)
Eragon: Chapter 37

WAKE UP, ERAGON. He stirred and groaned.

I need your help. Something is wrong! Eragon tried to ignore the voice and return to sleep.

Arise!

Go away, he grumbled.

Eragon! A bellow rang in the cave. He bolted upright, fumbling for his bow. Saphira was crouched over Brom, who had rolled off the ledge and was thrashing on the cave floor. His face was contorted in a grimace; his fists were clenched. Eragon rushed over, fearing the worst.

“Help me hold him down. He’s going to hurt himself!” he cried to Murtagh, clasping Brom’s arms. His side burned sharply as the old man spasmed. Together they restrained Brom until his convulsions ceased. Then they carefully returned him to the ledge.

Eragon touched Brom’s forehead. The skin was so hot that the heat could be felt an inch away. “Get me water and a cloth,” he said worriedly. Murtagh brought them, and Eragon gently bathed Brom’s face, trying to cool him down. With the cave quiet again, he noticed the sun shining outside. How long did we sleep? he asked Saphira.

A good while. I’ve been watching Brom for most of that time. He was fine until a minute ago when he started thrashing. I woke you once he fell to the floor.

He stretched, wincing as his ribs twinged painfully. A hand suddenly gripped his shoulder. Brom’s eyes snapped opened and fixed a glassy stare on Eragon. “You!” he gasped. “Bring me the wineskin!”

“Brom?” exclaimed Eragon, pleased to hear him talk. “You shouldn’t drink wine; it’ll only make you worse.”

“Bring it, boy—just bring it … ,” sighed Brom. His hand slipped off Eragon’s shoulder.

“I’ll be right back—hold on.” Eragon dashed to the saddlebags and rummaged through them frantically. “I can’t replace it!” he cried, looking around desperately.

“Here, take mine,” said Murtagh, holding out a leather skin.

Eragon grabbed it and returned to Brom. “I have the wine,” he said, kneeling. Murtagh retreated to the cave’s mouth so they could have privacy.

Brom’s next words were faint and indistinct. “Good …” He moved his arm weakly. “Now … wash my right hand with it.”

“What—” Eragon started to ask.

“No questions! I haven’t time.” Mystified, Eragon unstoppered the wineskin and poured the liquid onto Brom’s palm. He rubbed it into the old man’s skin, spreading it around the fingers and over the back of the hand. “More,” croaked Brom. Eragon splashed wine onto his hand again. He scrubbed vigorously as a brown dye floated off Brom’s palm, then stopped, his mouth agape with amazement. There on Brom’s palm was the gedwëy ignasia.

“You’re a Rider?” he asked incredulously.

A painful smile flickered on Brom’s face. “Once upon a time that was true … but no more. When I was young … younger than you are now, I was chosen … chosen by the Riders to join their ranks. While they trained me, I became friends with another apprentice … Morzan, before he was a Forsworn.” Eragon gasped—that had been over a hundred years ago. “But then he betrayed us to Galbatorix … and in the fighting at Dorú Areaba—Vroengard’s city—my young dragon was killed. Her name … was Saphira.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” asked Eragon softly.

Brom laughed. “Because … there was no need to.” He stopped. His breathing was labored; his hands were clenched. “I am old, Eragon … so old. Though my dragon was killed, my life has been longer than most. You don’t know what it is to reach my age, look back, and realize that you don’t remember much of it; then to look forward and know that many years still lie ahead of you. … After all this time I still grieve for my Saphira … and hate Galbatorix for what he tore from me.” His feverish eyes drilled into Eragon as he said fiercely, “Don’t let that happen to you. Don’t! Guard Saphira with your life, for without her it’s hardly worth living.”

“You shouldn’t talk like this. Nothing’s going to happen to her,” said Eragon, worried.

Brom turned his head to the side. “Perhaps I am rambling.” His gaze passed blindly over Murtagh, then he focused on Eragon. Brom’s voice grew stronger. “Eragon! I cannot last much longer. This … this is a grievous wound; it saps my strength. I have not the energy to fight it. … Before I go, will you take my blessing?”

“Everything will be all right,” said Eragon, tears in his eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”

“It is the way of things … I must. Will you take my blessing?” Eragon bowed his head and nodded, overcome. Brom placed a trembling hand on his brow. “Then I give it to you. May the coming years bring you great happiness.” He motioned for Eragon to bend closer. Very quietly, he whispered seven words from the ancient language, then even more softly told him what they meant. “That is all I can give you. … Use them only in great need.”

Brom blindly turned his eyes to the ceiling. “And now,” he murmured, “for the greatest adventure of all. …”

Weeping, Eragon held his hand, comforting him as best he could. His vigil was unwavering and steadfast, unbroken by food or drink. As the long hours passed, a gray pallor crept over Brom, and his eyes slowly dimmed. His hands grew icy; the air around him took on an evil humor. Powerless to help, Eragon could only watch as the Ra’zac’s wound took its toll.

The evening hours were young and the shadows long when Brom suddenly stiffened. Eragon called his name and cried for Murtagh’s help, but they could do nothing. As a barren silence dampened the air, Brom locked his eyes with Eragon’s. Then contentment spread across the old man’s face, and a whisper of breath escaped his lips. And so it was that Brom the storyteller died.

With shaking fingers, Eragon closed Brom’s eyes and stood. Saphira raised her head behind him and roared mournfully at the sky, keening her lamentation. Tears rolled down Eragon’s cheeks as a sense of horrible loss bled through him. Haltingly, he said, “We have to bury him.”

“We might be seen,” warned Murtagh.

“I don’t care!”

Murtagh hesitated, then bore Brom’s body out of the cave, along with his sword and staff. Saphira followed them. “To the top,” Eragon said thickly, indicating the crown of the sandstone hill.

“We can’t dig a grave out of stone,” objected Murtagh.

“I can do it.”

Eragon climbed onto the smooth hilltop, struggling because of his ribs. There, Murtagh lay Brom on the stone.

Eragon wiped his eyes and fixed his gaze on the sandstone. Gesturing with his hand, he said, “Moi stenr!” The stone rippled. It flowed like water, forming a body-length depression in the hilltop. Molding the sandstone like wet clay, he raised waist-high walls around it.

They laid Brom inside the unfinished sandstone vault with his staff and sword. Stepping back, Eragon again shaped the stone with magic. It joined over Brom’s motionless face and flowed upward into a tall faceted spire. As a final tribute, Eragon set runes into the stone:

HERE LIES BROM

Who was a Dragon Rider

And like a father

To me.

May his name live on in glory.

Then he bowed his head and mourned freely. He stood like a living statue until evening, when light faded from the land.

That night he dreamed of the imprisoned woman again.

He could tell that something was wrong with her. Her breathing was irregular, and she shook—whether from cold or pain, he did not know. In the semidarkness of the cell, the only thing clearly illuminated was her hand, which hung over the edge of the cot. A dark liquid dripped from the tips of her fingers. Eragon knew it was blood.