Inheritance Quotes

“I could search for the tunnel. I know how to hide myself with magic; the sentries would never see me.”
“Perhaps,” murmured Nasuada. “But I still don’t like the idea of having you or anyone else running about. The likelihood of the Empire noticing is too high. What if Murtagh is watching? Could you fool him? Do you even know what he is capable of now?” She shook her head. “No, we must act as if the tunnel exists and make our decisions accordingly. If events prove otherwise, it won’t have cost us anything, but if the tunnel is there…it should allow us to capture Dras-Leona once and for all.”
“What have you in mind?” asked King Orrin in a tone of caution.
“Something bold; something…unexpected.”
Eragon snorted softly. “Perhaps you should consult Roran, then.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Only then did Eragon again become aware of Saphira and Glaedr pressing against his consciousness, watching with steadfast attentiveness every thought that flickered through his mind. Both of the dragons were as tense as Eragon had ever felt them. If he were to poke Saphira, he guessed she would be so startled, she would twist herself in circles.
And if I were to poke you, nothing would be left but a smear, she commented.
Eragon smiled.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“They talked for another few minutes, then Arya made her excuses and rose to leave.
As she stepped past him, Eragon reached toward her, as if to stop her, then quickly drew back his hand. “Wait,” he said softly, unsure of what he hoped for, but hoping nevertheless. The beat of his heart increased, pounding in his ears, and his cheeks grew warm.
Arya paused with her back to him by the entrance of the tent. “Good night, Eragon,” she said. Then she slipped out between the entrance flaps and vanished into the night, leaving him to sit alone in the dark.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Arya?”
“Yes?” She drew the word out, her voice rising and falling with a faint lilt.
“What do you want to do once this is all over?” If we’re still alive, that is.
“What do you want to do?”
He fingered Brisingr’s pommel as he considered the question. “I don’t know. I haven’t let myself think much past Urû-baen…It would depend on what she wants, but I suppose Saphira and I might return to Palancar Valley. I could build a hall on one of the foothills of the mountains. We might not spend much time there, but at least we would have a home to return to when we weren’t flying from one part of Alagaësia to another.” He half smiled. “I’m sure there will be plenty to keep us busy, even if Galbatorix is dead…But you still haven’t answered my question: what will you do if we win? You must have some idea. You’ve had longer to think about it than I have.”
Arya drew one leg up onto the stool, wrapped her arms around it, and rested her chin on her knee. In the dim half-light of the tent, her face appeared to float against a featureless black background, like an apparition conjured out of the night.
“I have spent more time among humans and dwarves than I have among the älfakyn,” she said, using the elves’ name in the ancient language. “I have grown used to it, and I would not want to return to live in Ellesméra. Too little happens there; centuries can slip by without notice while you sit and stare at the stars. No, I think I will continue to serve my mother as her ambassador. The reason I first left Du Weldenvarden was because I wanted to help right the balance of the world. As you said, there will still be much htat needs doing if we manage to topple Galbatorix, much that needs putting right, and I would be a part of it.”
“Ah.” It was not exactly what he had hoped she might say, but at least it presented the possibility that they would not entirely lose contact after Urû’baen, and that he would still be able to see her now and then.
If Arya noticed his discontent, she gave no sign of it.
They talked for another few minutes, then Arya made her excuses and rose to leave.
As she stepped past him, Eragon reached toward her, as if to stop her, then quickly drew back his hand. “Wait,” he said softly, unsure of what he hoped for, but hoping nevertheless. The beat of his heart increased, pounding in his ears, and his cheeks grew warm.
Arya paused with her back to him by the entrance of the tent. “Good night, Eragon,” she said. Then she slipped out between the entrance flaps and vanished into the night, leaving him to sit alone in the dark.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“In a way that he did not entirely understand, their sparring seemed to have become something more than just a test of arms; it had become a test of who he was: of his character, of his strength, and of his resilience. Nor was it Glaedr who was testing him, or so he felt, but rather Arya. It was as if she wanted something from him, as if she wanted him to prove…what, he knew not, but he was determined to acquit himself as well as he could. However long she was willing to keep sparring, so too was he, no matter how much it hurt.
A drop of sweat rolled into his left eye. He blinked, and Arya lunged at him, shouting.
Once more they engaged in their deadly dance, and once more they fought to a standstill. Fatigue made them clumsy, yet they moved together with a rough harmony that prevented either from gaining victory.
Eventually, they ended up standing face to face, their swords locked at the hilts, pushing at each other with what little remained of their strength.
Then, as they stood there, struggling back and forth without avail, Eragon said in a low, fierce voice, “I…see…you.”
A bright spark appeared in Arya’s eyes, then vanished just as quickly.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“It may not have been very big, she said, but everyone will notice that it’s missing. How could they not? One might as well overlook a bare patch of earth on the crest of a snow-covered mountain. And her eyes rolled forward as she tried to peer down her long snout at the small, dark hole above her nostril.
Eragon laughed and splashed a handful of water at her. Then, to soothe her injured pride, he said, “No one will notice, Saphira. Trust me. Besides, even if they do, they’ll take it for a battle wound and consider you all the more fearsome because of it.”
You think so? She returned to examining herself in the lake. The water and her scales reflected off each other in a dazzling array of rainbow-hued flecks. What if a soldier stabs me there? The blade would go right through me. Perhaps I should ask the dwarves to make a metal plate to cover the area until the scale regrows.
“That would look exceedingly ridiculous.”
It would?
“Mm-hmm.” He nodded, on the verge of laughing again.
She sniffed. There’s no need to make fun of me. How would you like it if the fur on your head started falling out, or you lost one of those silly little nubs you call teeth? I would end up having to comfort you, no doubt.
“No doubt,” he agreed easily. “But then, teeth don’t grow back.” He pushed himself off the rock and made his way up the shore to where he had left his boots, stepping carefully to avoid hurting his feet on the stones and branches that littered the water’s edge. Saphira followed him, the soft earth squishing between her talons.
You could cast a spell to protect just that spot, she said as he pulled on his boots.
“I could. Do you want me to?”
I do.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“You’re fine,” said Eragon, exasperated. “Stop worrying. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway.”
Saphira growled and continued to study her image in the lake. She turned her head from side to side, then exhaled heavily, releasing a cloud of smoke that drifted out over the water like a small, lost thundercloud.
Are you sure? she asked, and looked toward him. What if it doesn’t grow back?
“Dragons grow new scales all the time. You know that.”
Yes, but I’ve never lost one before!
He did not bother to hide his smile; he knew she would sense his amusement. “You shouldn’t be so upset. It wasn’t very big.” Reaching out, he traced the diamond-shaped hole on the left side of her snout, where the object of her consternation had so recently been ensconced. The gap in her sparkling armor was no larger than the end of his thumb and about an inch deep. At the bottom of it, her leathery blue hide was visible.
Curious, he touched her skin with the tip of his index finger. It felt warm and smooth, like the belly of a calf.
Saphira snorted and pulled her head away from him. Stop that; it tickles.
He chuckled and kicked at the water by the base of the rock he was sitting on, enjoying the sensation against the bottom of his bare feet.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Stronghammer is my name,” he said. With a single deft movement, he gathered up the knucklebones, tossed them skyward, and caught three on his hand. “Roran Stronghammer, and Eragon Shadeslayer is my cousin. You might have heard mention of him, if not of me.”
A rustle of unease spread among the line of horsemen, and Roran thought he saw Tharos’s eyes widen for an instant. “An impressive claim, that, but how can we be sure of its veracity? Any man might say he is another if it served his purpose.”
Roran drew his hammer and slammed it down on the table with a muffled thump. Then, ignoring the soldiers, he resumed his game. He uttered a noise of disgust as two of the bones fell from the back of his hand, costing him the round.
“Ah,” said Tharos, and coughed, clearing his throat. “You have a most illustrious reputation, Stronghammer, although some argue that it has been exaggerated beyond all reason. Is it true, for example, that you single-handedly felled nigh on three hundred men in the village of Deldarad in Surda?”
“I never learned what the place was called, but if Deldarad it was, then yes, I slew many a soldier there. It was only a hundred ninety-three, however, and I was well guarded by my own men while I fought.”
“Only a hundred ninety-three?” Tharos said in a wondering tone. “You are too modest, Stronghammer. Such a feat might earn a man a place in many a song and story.”
Roran shrugged and lifted the horn to his mouth, feigning the action of swallowing, for he could not afford to have his mind clouded by the potent dwarf brew. “I fight to win, not to lose.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Ho there, my fine fellow!” said the same man who had ordered the soldiers to halt. “Ho there, I say! Who are you to sit here this splendid morning, drinking and enjoying a merry game of chance, as if you hadn’t a care in the world? Do we not merit the courtesy of being met with drawn swords? Who are you, I say?”
Slowly, as if he had just noticed the presence of the soldiers and considered it to be of little importance, Roran raised his gaze from the table to regard a small bearded man with a flamboyantly plumed helm who sat before him on an enormous black war-horse, which was heaving like a pair of bellows.
“I’m nobody’s fine fellow, and certainly not yours,” Roran said, making no effort to conceal his dislike at being addressed in such a familiar manner. “Who are you, I might ask, to interrupt my game so rudely?”
The long, striped feathers mounted atop the man’s helm bobbed and fluttered as he looked Roran over, as if Roran were an unfamiliar creature he had encountered while hunting. “Tharos the Quick is my name, Captain of the Guard. Rude as you are, I must tell you, it would grieve me mightily to kill a man as bold as yourself without knowing his name.” As if to emphasize his words, Tharos lowered the spear he held until it was pointing at Roran.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“He looks more like an elf than he does his own flesh and blood. I wouldn’t count on his loyalty any more than the Urgals’.”
The third man spoke up again: “Have you noticed, he’s always freshly shaven, no mater how early in the morning we break camp?”
“He must use magic for a razor.”
“Goes against the natural order of things, it does. That and all the other spells being tossed around nowadays. Makes you want to hide in a cave somewhere and let the magicians kill each other off without any interference from us.”
“I don’t seem to recall you complaining when the healers used a spell instead of a pair of tongs to remove that arrow from your shoulder.”
“Maybe, but the arrow never would have ended up in my shoulder if it weren’t for Galbatorix. And it’s him and his magic that’s caused this whole mess.”
Someone snorted. “True enough, but I’d bet every last copper I have that, Galbatorix or no, you still would’ve ended up with an arrow sticking out of you. You’re too mean to do anything other than fight.”
“Eragon saved my life in Feinster, you know,” said Svern.
“Aye, and if you bore us with the story one more time, I’ll have you scrubbing pots for a week.”
“Well, he did…”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“A deep-voiced fellow was saying, “--and the way they stare down their noses at you, as if you’re the lowest of the low. Half the time they won’t even talk to you when you ask them a friendly question. They just turn their shoulder and walk away.”
“Aye,” said another man. “And their women--as beautiful as statues and about half as inviting.”
“That’s because you’re a right ugly bastard, Svern, that’s why.”
“It’s not my fault my father had a habit of seducing milkmaids wherever he went. Besides, you’re hardly one to point fingers; you could give children nightmares with that face of yours.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Go on, ask me another question. I’m rather enjoying this game.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her and, although he was certain it was pointless, he said, “Cheep cheep?”
The herbalist brayed with laughter, and some of the werecats opened their mouths in what appeared to be toothy smiles. However, Shadowhunter seemed displeased, for she dug her claws into Eragon’s legs, making him wince.
“Well,” said Angela, still laughing, “if you must have answers, that’s as good a story as any. Let’s see…Several years ago, when I was traveling along the edge of Du Weldenvarden, way out to the west, miles and miles from any city, town, or village, I happened upon Grimrr. At the time, he was only the leader of a small tribe of werecats, and he still had full use of both his paws. Anyway, I found him toying with a fledgling robin that had fallen out of its nest in a nearby tree. I wouldn’t have minded if he had just killed the bird and eaten it--that’s what cats are supposed to do, after all--but he was torturing the poor thing: pulling on its wings; nibbling its tail; letting it hop away, then knocking it over.” Angela wrinkled her nose with distaste. “I told him that he ought to stop, but he only growled and ignored me.” She fixed Eragon with a stern gaze. “I don’t like it when people ignore me. So, I took the bird away from him, and I wiggled my fingers and cast a spell, and for the next week, whenever he opened his mouth, he chirped like a songbird.”
“He chirped?”
Angela nodded, beaming with suppressed mirth. “I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. None of the other werecats would go anywhere near him for the whole week.”
“No wonder he hates you.”
“What of it? If you don’t make a few enemies every now and then, you’re a coward--or worse. Besides, it was worth it to see his reaction. Oh, he was angry!”
Shadowhunter uttered a soft warning growl and tightened her claws again.
Grimacing, Eragon said, “Maybe it would be best to change the subject?”
“Mmm.”
Before he could suggest a new topic, a loud scream rang out from somewhere in the middle of the camp. The cry echoed three times over the rows of tents before fading into silence.
Eragon looked at Angela, and she at him, and then they both began to laugh.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“And why did Garzhvog call you Uluthrek?”
“It is the title the Urgals gave me long, long ago, when I traveled among them.”
“What does it mean?”
“Mooneater.”
“Mooneater? What a strange name. How did you come by it?”
“I ate the moon, of course. How else?”
Eragon frowned and concentrated on petting the werecat for a minute. Then: “Why did Garzhvog give you that stone?”
“Because I told him a story. I thought that was obvious.”
“But what is it?”
“A piece of rock. Didn’t you notice?” She clucked with disapproval. “Really, you ought to pay better attention to what’s going on around you. Otherwise, someone’s liable to stick a knife in you when you’re not looking. And then whom would I exchange cryptic remarks with?” She tossed her hair. “Go on, ask me another question. I’m rather enjoying this game.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“So it was you!” Eragon exclaimed. “All my life I’ve heard it said that Galbatorix once lost half his men in the Spine, but no one could tell me how or why.”
“More than half his men, Firesword.” Garzhvog rolled his shoulders and made a guttural noise in the back of his throat. “And now I see we must work to spread word of it if any are to know of our victory. We will track down your chanters, your bards, and we will teach them the songs concerning Nar Tulkhqa, and we will make sure that they remember to recite them often and loudly.” He nodded once, as if his mind was made up--an impressive gesture considering the ponderous size of his head--then said, “Farewell, Firesword. Farewell, Uluthrek.” Then he and his warriors lumbered off into the darkness.
Angela chuckled, startling Eragon.
“What?” he asked, turning to her.
She smiled. “I’m imagining the expression some poor lute player is going to have in a few minutes when he looks out his tent and sees twelve Urgals, four of them Kull, standing outside, eager to give him an education in Urgal culture. I’ll be impressed if we don’t hear him scream.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Despite his sense of futility, the effort had proved helpful in at least one regard: Arya no longer defeated him every time they crossed blades. He had watched her with redoubled attention--studying her as closely as a deer he was stalking--and as a result, he had won a few of their matches. However, he still was not her equal, much less her better.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“After several long, tense minutes, one of the hounds began to bark excitedly somewhere in the trees upstream. The other dogs rushed in that direction and resumed the deep-chested baying that meant they were in close pursuit of their quarry.
When the clamor had receded, Roran slowly rose to his full height and swept his gaze over the trees and bushes. “All clear,” he said, keeping his voice subdued.
As the others stood, Hamund--who was tall and shaggy-haired and had deep lines next to his mouth, although he was only a year older than Roran--turned on Carn, scowling, and said, “Why couldn’t you have done that before, instead of letting us go riding willy-nilly over the countryside and almost breaking our necks coming down that hill?” He motioned back toward the stream.
Carn responded with an equally angry tone: “Because I hadn’t thought of it yet, that’s why. Given that I just saved you the inconvenience of having a host of small holes poked in your hide, I would think you might show a bit of gratitude.”
“Is that so? Well, I think that you ought to spend more time working on your spells before we’re chased halfway to who-knows-where and--”
Fearing that their argument could turn dangerous, Roran stepped between them. “Enough,” he said. Then he asked Carn, “Will your spell hide us from the guards?”
Carn shook his head. “Men are harder to fool than dogs.” He cast a disparaging look at Hamund. “Most of them, at least.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Riding at full gallop for three days--combined with less than three hours of sleep for every twelve spent in the saddle--had left him frighteningly weak.
I might as well be going into battle drunk, sick, and beaten half out of my senses.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“If I remember correctly, you’ve never learned to read, have you?”
He shrugged. “What for? I can count and figure as well as any man. My father said that teaching us to read made no more sense than teaching a dog to walk on his hind legs: amusing, but hardly worth the effort.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“What do you think? he asked.
Go slowly, so that you do not bite your tail by accident.
He agreed with her, then, feeling impish, asked, And have you ever done that? Bitten your tail, I mean?
She remained silently aloof, but he caught a brief flash of sensations: a medley of images--trees, grass, sunshine, the mountains of the Spine--as well as the cloying scent of red orchids and a sudden painful, pinching sensation, as if a door had slammed shut on her tail.
Eragon chuckled quietly to himself, then concentrated on composing the spells he thought he would need to heal the girl. It took quite a while, almost a half hour. He and Saphira spent most of that time going over the arcane sentences again and again, examining and debating every word and phrase--and even his pronunciation--in an attempt to ensure that the spells would do what he intended and nothing more.
In the midst of their silent conversation, Gertrude shifted in her seat and said, “She looks the same as ever. The work goes badly, doesn’t it? There is no need to hide the truth from me, Eragon; I have dealt with far worse in my day.”
Eragon raised his eyebrows and, in a mild voice, said, “The work has not yet begun.”
And Gertrude sank back, subdued.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“And what is it you desire of us in exchange for your assistance, King Halfpaw?” She glanced at Eragon and smiled, then added, “We can offer you as much cream as you want, but beyond that, our resources are limited. If your warriors expect to be paid for their troubles, I fear they will be sorely disappointed.”
“Cream is for kittens, and gold holds no interest for us,” said Grimrr. As he spoke, he lifted his right hand and inspected his nails with a heavy-lidded gaze. “Our terms are thus: Each of us will be given a dagger to fight with, if we do not already have one. Each of us shall have two suits of armor made to fit, one for when on two legs we stand, and one for when on four. We need no other equipment than that--no tents, no blankets, no plates, no spoons. Each of us will be promised a single duck, grouse, chicken, or similar bird per day, and every second day, a bowl of freshly chopped liver. Even if we do not choose to eat it, the food will be set aside for us. Also, should you win this war, then whoever becomes your next king or queen--and all who claim that title thereafter--will keep a padded cushion next to their throne, in a place of honor, for one of us to sit on, if we so wish.”
“You bargain like a dwarven lawgiver,” said Nasuada in a dry tone. She leaned over to Jörmundur, and Eragon heard her whisper, “Do we have enough liver to feed them all?”
“I think so,” Jörmundur replied in an equally hushed voice. “But it depends on the size of the bowl.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“In a low voice that only Eragon and Jörmundur could hear, Nasuada said, “If we can but gain their support…”
“What will they want in return, though?” asked Jörmundur. “Our coffers are near empty, and our future uncertain.”
Her lips barely moving, she said, “Perhaps they wish nothing more of us than a chance to strike back at Galbatorix.” She paused. “But if not, we shall have to find means other than gold to persuade them to join our ranks.”
“You could offer them barrels of cream,” said Eragon, which elicited a chortle from Jörmundur and a soft laugh from Nasuada.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Try not to burn down Aroughs, would you? Cities are rather hard to replace.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“You believe dragons are better than gods?”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“The only thing she could be certain of was that she existed. All else was suspect, even her own thoughts.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Who is it who decides that one man should live and another should die? My life wasn’t worth any more than his, but he’s the one who’s buried, while I get to enjoy at least a few more hours above the ground. Is it chance, random and cruel, or is there some purpose or pattern to all this, even if it lies beyond our ken?”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Ia tersadar bahwa hal yang dianggapnya luas ternyata hanya sebagian kecil dari sesuatu yang lebih luas lagi”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Takdir punya selera humor yang kejam - Murtagh”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“What of it? If you don't make a few enemies every now and then, you're a coward - or worse. Besides, it was worth it to see his reaction.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“Think without thinking, so that you act as if out of instinct and not reason.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance

“The war between the Varden and the Empire seemed inconsequential when compared with the true size of the world, and he thought how petty were most of the hurts and concerns that bedeviled people, when looked at from on high.”
― Christopher Paolini, Inheritance