Inheritance Quotes

“As she and Murtagh continued to talk, their conversation grew easier and more relaxed. Despite their unpleasant circumstances, she found that she enjoyed speaking with him. He was smart and well educated, and he had a mordant wit that she appreciated, especially given her current predicament.
Murtagh seemed to enjoy their conversation as much as she did. Still, the time came when they both recognized that it would be foolish to keep talking, for fear of being caught. So she returned to the slab, where she lay down and allowed him to strap her to the unforgiving block of stone once again.
As he was about to leave, she said, “Murtagh.”
He paused and turned to regard her.
She hesitated for a moment, then mustered her courage and said, “Why?” She thought he understood her meaning: Why her? Why save her, and now why try to rescue her? She had guessed at the answer, but she wanted to hear him say it.
He stared at her for the longest while, and then, in a low, hard voice, he said, “You know why.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Besides,” she said, “there was always a chance I might escape.”
He snorted. “And dragons might start eating grass.”
“Even so, I had to try.”
“I understand. If I could have, I would have done the same when the Twins first brought me here.”
“And now?”
“I still can’t, and even if I could, what purpose would it serve?”
To that, she had no answer. Silence followed, and then she said, “Murtagh, if it’s not possible to free me from here, then I want your promise that you’ll help me escape by…other means. I wouldn’t ask…I wouldn’t place this burden upon you, but your assistance would make the task easier, and I may not have the opportunity to do it myself.” His lips grew thin and hard as she spoke, but he did not interrupt. “Whatever happens, I won’t allow myself to become a plaything for Galbatorix to order about as he will. I’ll do anything, anything at all to avoid that fate. Can you understand that?”
His chin dipped in a short nod.
“Then do I have your word?”
He looked down and clenched his fists, his breathing ragged. “You do.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Now I have a question for you: why did you kill those men? You knew you wouldn’t make it out of the citadel. Was it just to spite Galbatorix, as he said?”
She sighed and pushed herself off Murtagh’s chest so she was sitting upright. With some reluctance, he released his hold around her shoulders. She sniffed, then looked him square in the eyes. “I couldn’t just lie there and let him do whatever he wanted to me. I had to fight back; I had to show him that he hadn’t broken me, and I wanted to hurt him however I could.”
“So it was spite!”
“In part. What of it?” She expected him to express disgust or condemnation at her actions, but instead he gave her an appraising look and his lips curved in a small, knowing smile.
“Then I say well done,” he replied.
After a moment, she returned his smile.
“Besides,” she said, “there was always a chance I might escape.”
He snorted. “And dragons might start eating grass.”
“Even so, I had to try.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“After a while, she felt him touch her shoulder, and she jerked away. She could not help it. He had hurt her more in the past few days than anyone else ever had, and though she knew he had not wanted to do it, she could not forget that it was he who had wielded the hot iron.
Even so, when she saw how her reaction stung him, she relented and reached out and took his hand. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, then put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. She resisted for a moment, then relaxed into his embrace and laid her head on his chest as she continued to cry, her quiet sobs echoing in the bare stone room.
Some minutes later, she felt him move beneath her as he said, “I’ll find a way to free you, I swear. It’s too late for Thorn and me. But not for you. As long as you don’t pledge fealty to Galbatorix, there’s still a chance I can spirit you out of Urû’baen.”
She looked up at him and decided he meant what he said. “How?” she whispered.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he admitted with a roguish smile. “But I will. Whatever it takes. You have to promise me, though, that you won’t give up--not until I’ve tried. Agreed?”
“I don’t think I can endure that…thing again. If he puts it on me again, I’ll give him whatever he wants.”
“You won’t have to; he doesn’t intend to use the burrow grubs again.”
“…What does he intend?”
Murtagh was silent for a minute more. “He’s decided to start manipulating what you see, hear, feel, and taste. If that doesn’t work, then he’ll attack your mind directly. You won’t be able to resist him if he does. No one ever has. Before it comes to that, though, I’m sure I’ll be able to rescue you. All you have to do is keep fighting for another few days. That’s it--just another few days.”
“How can I if I can’t trust my senses?”
“There is one sense he cannot feign.” Murtagh twisted to look at her more directly. “Will you let me touch your mind? I won’t try to read your thoughts. I only want you to know what my mind feels like, so you can recognize it--so you can recognize me--in the future.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“To Saphira, he said, If only everyone could see what we have seen, perhaps there would be less fighting in the world.
You cannot expect wolves to become sheep.
No, but neither do the wolves have to be cruel to the sheep.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“As she hurtled downward, Eragon said, If we had enough jewels, and if we stored enough energy in them, do you think we could fly all the way to the moon?
Who knows what is possible? said Glaedr.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“It occurred to him that perhaps this was how shooting stars were made: a bird or a dragon or some other earthly creature snatched upward by the inexorable wind and thrown skyward with such speed, they flamed like siege arrows. If so, then he guessed he, Saphira, and Glaedr would make the brightest, most spectacular shooting star in living memory, if anyone was close enough to see their demise so far out to sea.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“If I can keep fighting,” she said, “then so can you.”
“Back to the stone,” he said in a harsh voice.
“I know you’re not a coward, Murtagh. Better to die than to live as a slave to one such as Galbatorix. At least then you might accomplish some good, and your name might be remembered with a measure of kindness after you’re gone.”
“Back to the stone,” he growled, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her over to the slab.
She allowed him to push her onto the ash-colored block, fasten the restraints around her wrists and ankles, and then tighten the strap around her head. When he finished, he stood looking at her, his eyes dark and wild, the lines of his body like cords stretched taut.
“You have to decide whether you are willing to risk your life in order to save yourself,” she said. “You and Thorn both. And you have to decide now, while there is still time. Ask yourself: what would Tornac have wanted you to do?”
Without answering, Murtagh extended his right arm and placed his hand upon the upper part of her chest, his palm hot against her skin. Her breath hitched at the shock of the contact.
Then, hardly louder than a whisper, he began to speak in the ancient language. As the strange words tumbled from his lips, her fear grew ever stronger.
He spoke for what seemed like minutes. She felt no different when he stopped, but that was neither a favorable nor an unfavorable sign where magic was concerned.
Cool air washed over the patch on her chest, chilling it as Murtagh lifted his hand away. He stepped back then and started to walk past her, toward the entrance of the chamber. She was about to call out to him--to ask what he had done to her--when he paused and said, “That should shield you from the pain of most any wound, but you’ll have to pretend otherwise, or Galbatorix will discover what I’ve done.”
And then he left.
“Thank you,” she whispered to the empty room.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Eragon looked over at Arya. He suddenly felt awkward, unable to think of anything but the most obvious things to say. The beauty of her eyes still captivated him; the effect she had on him never seemed to lessen.
Then she took his head in her hands, and she kissed him once, formally, on the brow.
Eragon stared at her, dumbstruck.
“Guliä waíse medh ono, Argetlam.” Luck be with you, Silverhand.
As she released him, he caught her hands in his own. “Nothing bad is going to happen to us. I won’t let it. Not even if Galbatorix is waiting for us. If I have to, I’ll tear apart mountains with my bare hands, but I promise, we’re going to make it back safely.”
Before she could respond, he let go of her hands and climbed onto Saphira’s back.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“As he gazed at the sun-darkened, battle-worn warriors before him, he decided that he would rather fight a hundred enemies by himself than have to stand up in public and risk the disapproval of others.
Until the moment he opened his mouth, Eragon was not sure what he was going to say. Once he started, the words seemed to pour out of their own accord, but he was so tense, he could not remember much of what he said. The speech passed in a blur; his main impressions were of heat and sweat, the groans of the warriors when they learned of Nasuada’s fate, the ragged cheers when he exhorted them to victory, and the general roar from the crowd when he finished. With relief, he jumped down from the back of the wagon to where Arya and Orik were waiting next to Saphira.
As he did, his guards formed a circle around the four of them, shielding them from the crowd and holding back those who wished to speak with him.
“Well done, Eragon!” said Orik, clapping him on the arm.
“Was it?” Eragon asked, feeling dazed.
“You were most eloquent,” said Arya.
Eragon shrugged, embarrassed. It intimidated him to remember that Arya had known most of the leaders of the Varden, and he could not help but think that Ajihad or his predecessor, Deynor, would have done a better job with the speech.
Orik pulled on his sleeve. Eragon bent toward the dwarf. In a voice barely loud enough to be heard over the crowd, Orik said, “I hope that whatever you find is worth the trip, my friend. Take care you don’t get yourselves killed, eh?”
“I’ll try not to.”
To Eragon’s surprise, Orik grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him into a rough embrace. “May Gûntera watch over you.” As they separated, Orik reached over and slapped the palm of his hand against Saphira’s side. “And you as well, Saphira. Safe journeys to the both of you.”
Saphira responded with a low hum.
Eragon looked over at Arya. He suddenly felt awkward, unable to think of anything but the most obvious things to say. The beauty of her eyes still captivated him; the effect she had on him never seemed to lessen.
Then she took his head in her hands, and she kissed him once, formally, on the brow.
Eragon stared at her, dumbstruck.
“Guliä waíse medh ono, Argetlam.” Luck be with you, Silverhand.
As she released him, he caught her hands in his own. “Nothing bad is going to happen to us. I won’t let it. Not even if Galbatorix is waiting for us. If I have to, I’ll tear apart mountains with my bare hands, but I promise, we’re going to make it back safely.”
Before she could respond, he let go of her hands and climbed onto Saphira’s back.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“As he gazed at the sun-darkened, battle-worn warriors before him, he decided that he would rather fight a hundred enemies by himself than have to stand up in public and risk the disapproval of others.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“In all your travels around Alagaësia, with Angela and without, you’ve never found anything that might explain this mystery? Or even just something that might be of use against Galbatorix.”
I found you, didn’t I?
“That’s not funny,” growled Eragon. “Blast it, you have to know something more.”
I do not.
“Think, then! If I can’t find some sort of help against Galbatorix, we’ll lose, Solembum. We’ll lose, and most of the Varden, including the werecats, will die.”
Solembum hissed again. What do you expect of me, Eragon? I cannot invent help where none exists. Read the book.
“We’ll be at Urû’baen before I can finish it. The book might as well not exist.”
Solembum’s ears flattened again. That is not my fault.
“I don’t care if it is. I just want a way to keep us from ending up dead or enslaved. Think! You have to know something else!”
Solembum uttered a low, warbling growl. I do not. And--
“You have to, or we’re doomed!”
Even as Eragon uttered the words, he saw a change come over the werecat. Solembum’s ears swiveled until they were upright, his whiskers relaxed, and his gaze softened, losing its hard-edged brilliance. At the same time, the werecat’s mind grew unusually empty, as if his consciousness had been stilled or removed.
Eragon froze, uncertain.
Then he felt Solembum say, with thoughts that were as flat and colorless as a pool of water beneath a wintry, cloud-ridden sky: Chapter forty-seven. Page three. Start with the second passage thereon.
Solembum’s gaze sharpened, and his ears returned to their previous position. What? he said with obvious irritation. Why are you gaping at me like that?
“What did you just say?”
I said that I do not know anything else. And that--
“No, no, the other thing, about the chapter and page.”
Do not toy with me. I said no such thing.
“You did.”
Solembum studied him for several seconds. Then, with thoughts that were overly calm, he said, Tell me exactly what you heard, Dragon Rider.
So, Eragon repeated the words as closely as he could. When he finished, the werecat was silent for a while. I have no memory of that, he said.
“What do you think it means?”
It means that we should look and see what’s on page three of chapter forty-seven.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“In all your travels around Alagaësia, with Angela and without, you’ve never found anything that might explain this mystery? Or even just something that might be of use against Galbatorix.”
I found you, didn’t I?
“That’s not funny,” growled Eragon.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“At last Angela turned in to the space between the pews. She picked her way around Solembum--who crouched next to the novitiate he had killed, every hair on his body standing on end--and then carefully made her way over the corpses of the three novitiates Eragon had slain.
As she approached, the High Priest began to thrash like a hooked fish in an attempt to push itself farther up the pew. At the same time, the pressure on Eragon’s mind lessened, although not enough for him to risk moving.
The herbalist stopped when she reached the High Priest, and the High Priest surprised Eragon by giving up its struggle and lying panting on the seat of the bench. For a minute, the hollow-eyed creature and the short, stern-faced woman glared at each other, an invisible battle of wills taking place between them.
Then the High Priest flinched, and a smile appeared on Angela’s lips. She dropped her poniard and, from within her dress, drew forth a tiny dagger with a blade the color of a ruddy sunset. Leaning over the High Priest, she whispered, ever so faintly, “You ought to know my name, tongueless one. If you had, you never would have dared oppose us. Here, let me tell it to you…
Her voice dropped even lower then, too low for Eragon to hear, but as she spoke, the High Priest blanched, and its puckered mouth opened, forming a round black oval, and an unearthly howl emanated from its throat, and the whole of the cathedral rang with the creature’s baying.
“Oh, be quiet!” exclaimed the herbalist, and she buried her sunset-colored dagger in the center of the High Priest’s chest.
The blade flashed white-hot and vanished with a sound like a far-off thunderclap. The area around the wound glowed like burning wood; then skin and flesh began to disintegrate into a fine, dark soot that poured into the High Priest’s chest. With a choked gargle, the creature’s howl ceased as abruptly as it had begun.
The spell quickly devoured the rest of the High Priest, reducing its body to a pile of black powder, the shape of which matched the outline of the priest’s head and torso.
“And good riddance,” said Angela with a firm nod.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Have you gotten any other strange feelings in the past few months?” asked Eragon.
Only the urge to eat a small red mushroom, but it passed quickly enough.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Why would you, the werecats, have been entrusted with this information?
Because, I would guess, we have always been friends of the Riders and friends of the dragons…We are the watchers. The listeners. The wanderers. We walk alone in the dark places of the world, and we remember what is and what has been.
Solembum’s gaze shifted away. Understand this, Eragon. None of us have been happy with the situation. We long debated whether it would cause more harm than good to pass on this information should the moment arise. In the end, the decision was mine, and I decided to tell you, for it seemed you needed all the help you could get. Make of it what you will.
“But what am I supposed to do?” said Eragon. “How am I supposed to find the Rock of Kuthian?”
That I cannot say.
“Then what use is the information? I might as well have never heard it.”
Solembum blinked, once. There is one other thing I can tell you. It may mean nothing, but perhaps it can show you the way.
“What? What is it?”
If you but wait, I will tell you. When I first met you in Teirm, I had a strange feeling that you ought to have the book Domia abr Wyrda. It took me time to arrange it, but it was I who was responsible for Jeod giving the book to you. Then the werecat lifted his other paw and, after a cursory examination, began to lick it.
“Have you gotten any other strange feelings in the past few months?” asked Eragon.
Only the urge to eat a small red mushroom, but it passed quickly enough.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“A dragon might kill ten thousand wolves one at a time, but ten thousand wolves together can kill a dragon.”
Not likely, Saphira snorted in the privacy of her and Eragon’s shared mind space.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“A dragon might kill ten thousand wolves one at a time, but ten thousand wolves together can kill a dragon.”
Not likely, Saphira snorted in the privacy of her and Eragon’s shared mind space.
Roran smiled without humor. “And we have a dragon of our own. Decide as you wish. But I, for one, am going to Urû’baen, and I’ll face Galbatorix, even if I have to do it by myself.”
“Not by yourself,” said Arya. “I know I speak for Queen Islanzadí when I say that our people will stand with you.”
“As will ours,” rumbled Garzhvog.
“And ours,” affirmed Orik.
“And ours,” Eragon said in a tone that he hoped would discourage dissent.
When, after a pause, the four of them turned toward Grimrr, the werecat sniffed and said, “Well, I suppose we’ll be there too.” He inspected his sharp nails. “Someone has to sneak past enemy lines, and it certainly won’t be the dwarves bumbling around in their iron boots.”
Orik’s eyebrows rose, but if he was offended, he hid it well.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“He gave the empty flask to Arya, and as she took it, he grasped her hand, her right hand, and turned it toward the light. The skin was once more smooth and unblemished. No sign of her injury remained. “Blödhgarm healed you?” said Eragon.
Arya nodded, and he released her. “Mostly. I have full use of my hand again.” She demonstrated by opening and closing it several times. “But there is still a patch of skin by the base of my thumb where I have no feeling.” She pointed with her left index finger.
Eragon reached out and lightly touched the area. “Here?”
“Here,” she said, and moved his hand a bit to the right.
“And Blödhgarm wasn’t able to do anything about it?”
She shook her head. “He tried a half-dozen spells, but the nerves refuse to rejoin.” She made dismissive motion. “It’s of no consequence. I can still wield a sword and I can still draw a bow. That is all that matters.”
Eragon hesitated, then said, “You know…how grateful I am for what you did--what you tried to do. I’m only sorry it left you with a permanent mark. If I could have prevented it somehow…”
“Do not feel bad because of it. It’s impossible to go through life unscathed. Nor should you want to. By the hurts we accumulate, we measure both our follies and our accomplishments.”
“Angela said something similar about enemies--that if you didn’t make them, you were a coward or worse.”
Arya nodded. “There is some truth to that.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“As he drew near his tent, he saw Arya waiting for him by the entrance. Eragon quickened his stride, but before he could greet her, someone called out: “Shadeslayer!”
Eragon turned and saw one of Nasuada’s pages trotting toward them. “Shadeslayer,” the boy repeated, somewhat out of breath, and bowed to Arya. “Lady Nasuada would like you to come to her tent an hour before dawn tomorrow morning, in order to confer with her. What shall I tell her, Lady Arya?”
“You may tell her I will be there when she wishes,” Arya replied, inclining her head slightly.
The page bowed again, and then he spun around and ran off in the direction from which he had come.
“It’s somewhat confusing, now that we’ve both killed a Shade,” Eragon observed with a faint grin.
Arya smiled as well, the motion of her lips almost invisible in the darkness. “Would you rather I had let Varaug live?”
“No…no, not at all.”
“I could have kept him as a slave, to do my bidding.”
“Now you’re teasing me,” he said.
She made a soft sound of amusement.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Up on her back, Blödhgarm loosened the straps that held his legs in Saphira’s saddle, then slid down her side. For a moment, Eragon had the supremely disorienting experience of meeting himself. He immediately decided that he disliked how his hair curled at the temples.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“They landed with a crash that split paving stones and jarred the nearby houses. Something cracked in Thorn’s left wing-shoulder, and his back arched unnaturally as Murtagh’s wards kept the dragon from crushing him flat.
Saphira could hear Murtagh cursing from underneath Thorn, and she decided that it would be best to move away before the angry two-legs-round-ears started casting spells.
She jumped up, kicking Thorn in the belly as she did so, and alit on the peak of the house behind the red dragon. The building was too weak to support her, so she took flight again and, just for good measure, set the row of buildings on fire.
Let them deal with that, she thought, satisfied, as the flames gnawed hungrily at the wooden structures.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“There was a bell clanging in the tower of the building next to the black-shrike-thorn-cave. She found the noise irritating, so she twisted her neck and loosed a jet of blue and yellow flame at it. The tower did not catch fire, as it was stone, but the rope and beams supporting the bell ignited, and a few seconds later, the bell fell crashing into the interior of the tower.
That pleased her, as did the two-legs-round-ears who ran screaming from the area. She was a dragon, after all. It was only right that they should fear her.
One of the two-legs paused by the edge of the square in front of the black-shrike-thorn-cave, and she heard him shout a spell at her, his voice like the squeaking of a frightened mouse. Whatever the spell was, Eragon’s wards shielded her from it--at least she assumed they did, for she noticed no difference in how she felt or in the appearance of the world around her.
The wolf-elf-in-Eragon’s-shape killed the magician for her. She could feel how Blödhgarm grasped hold of the spellcaster’s mind and wrestled the two-legs-round-ears’ thoughts into submission, whereupon Blödhgarm uttered a single word in the ancient-elf-magic-language, and the two-legs-round-ears fell to the ground, blood seeping from his open mouth.
Then the wolf-elf tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Ready yourself, Brightscales. Here they come.”
She saw Thorn rising above the edge of the rooftops, Eragon-half-brother-Murtagh a small, dark figure on his back. In the light of the morning sun, Thorn shone and sparkled almost as brilliantly as she herself did. Her scales were cleaner than his, though, as she had taken special care when grooming earlier. She could not imagine going into battle looking anything but her best. Her enemies should not only fear her, but admire her.
She knew it was vanity on her part, but she did not care. No other race could match the grandeur of the dragons. Also, she was the last female of her kind, and she wanted those who saw her to marvel at her appearance and to remember her well, so if dragons were to vanish forevermore, two-legs would continue to speak of them with the proper respect, awe, and wonder.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“There was a bell clanging in the tower of the building next to the black-shrike-thorn-cave. She found the noise irritating, so she twisted her neck and loosed a jet of blue and yellow flame at it. The tower did not catch fire, as it was stone, but the rope and beams supporting the bell ignited, and a few seconds later, the bell fell crashing into the interior of the tower.
That pleased her, as did the two-legs-round-ears who ran screaming from the area. She was a dragon, after all. It was only right that they should fear her.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“In that case,” the herbalist said to Eragon, “you had best have this, since it seems you and I are to do most of the fighting.” She handed him her short sword, then drew a poniard with a jeweled hilt from within the folds of her dress.
“What is it made of?” Eragon asked as he peered through the transparent blade of the sword, noticing how it caught and reflected the light. The substance reminded him of diamond, but he could not imagine that anyone would make a weapon out of a gemstone; the amount of energy required to keep the stone from breaking with every blow would soon exhaust any normal magician.
“Neither stone nor metal,” said the herbalist. “A word of caution, though. You must take great care when handling it. Never touch the edge or allow anything you cherish to come near it, else you will regret it. Likewise, never lean the sword against something you might need--your leg, for example.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Maybe he can tell us where they took our things.”
Dropping into a squat, the herbalist placed two fingers against the youth’s jugular vein, feeling his pulse. Then she slapped his cheeks and peeled back his eyelids.
The novitiate remained slack and motionless.
His lack of response seemed to annoy the herbalist. “One moment,” she said, closing her eyes. A slight frown creased her brow. For a while, she was still; then she sprang upward with sudden speed. “What a self-absorbed little wretch! No wonder his parents sent him to join the priests. I’m surprised they put up with him as long as they did.”
“Does he know anything of use?” asked Eragon.
“Only the path to the surface.” She pointed toward the door to the left of the altar, the same door through which the priests had entered and departed. “It’s amazing that he tried to free you; I suspect it’s the first time in his life he’s ever done anything of his own accord.”
“We have to bring him with us.” Eragon hated to say it, but duty compelled him. “I promised we would if he helped us.”
“He tried to kill you!”
“I gave my word.”
Angela sighed and rolled her eyes. To Arya, she said, “I don’t suppose you can convince him otherwise?”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“We thought you were dead.”
“They’ll have to try harder than that if they want to kill me. Bunglers, the lot of them.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Eragon and the others walked as quietly as they could, but the tunnel magnified sounds. Every bump and scrape echoed, filling the air with a multitude of overlapping whispers that seemed to murmur and sigh with a life of their own. The whispers made Eragon feel as if they were surrounded by a host of disembodied spirits who were commenting on their every move.
So much for sneaking up on anyone, he thought as he scuffed his boot against a rock, which bounced against the side of the tunnel with a loud clack that multiplied a hundredfold as it spread through the tunnel.
“Sorry,” he mouthed as everyone looked at him.
A wry smile touched his lips. At least we know what causes the strange sounds underneath Dras-Leona.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“We should proceed with caution,” whispered Wyrden.
Angela made a faint noise in her throat. “How else were you planning to proceed? With blaring trumpets and shouting heralds? Really.”
The elf refrained from answering, but he appeared distinctly uncomfortable.
Arya and Wyrden pulled off the grating and cautiously moved into the tunnel. Both conjured werelights of their own. The flameless orbs floated over their heads like small red suns, though they emitted no more light than a handful of coals.
Eragon hung back and said to Angela, “Why do the elves treat you so respectfully? They seem almost afraid of you.”
“Am I not deserving of respect?”
He hesitated. “One of these days, you’re going to have to tell me about yourself.”
“What makes you think that?” And she pushed past him to enter the tunnel, her cloak flapping like the wings of a Lethrblaka.
Shaking his head, Eragon followed.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“The old dragon had not been enthusiastic about the mission when Eragon told him about it, but neither had he opposed it. After discussing various contingencies, Glaedr had said: Beware of the shadows, Eragon. Strange things lurk in dark places, which, Eragon thought, was hardly an encouraging statement.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance