3-Brisingr-3 (4 page)

“I still don’t understand what this has to do with tomorrow.”

I do,
said Saphira to both of them. She had immediately grasped the implications.
It means that, over
the past century, Galbatorix
—

“—may have placed wards around the Ra’zac—”

—
that will protect them against
—

“—a whole range of spells. I probably won’t—”

—be able to kill them with any—

“—of the words of death I was taught, nor any—”

—attacks that we can invent now or then. We may—

“—have to rely—”

“Stop!” exclaimed Roran. He gave a pained smile. “Stop, please. My head hurts when you do that.”

Eragon paused with his mouth open; until that moment, he had been unaware that he and Saphira were speaking in turn. The knowledge pleased him: it signified that they had achieved new heights of cooperation and were acting together as a single entity—which made them far more powerful than either would be on their own. It also troubled him when he contemplated how such a partnership must, by its very nature, reduce the individuality of those involved.

He closed his mouth and chuckled. “Sorry. What I’m worried about is this: if Galbatorix has had the foresight to take certain precautions, then force of arms may be the only means by which we can slay the Ra’zac. If that’s true—”

“I’ll just be in your way tomorrow.”

“Nonsense. You may be slower than the Ra’zac, but I have no doubt you’ll give them cause to fear your weapon, Roran Stronghammer.” The compliment seemed to please Roran. “The greatest danger for you is that the Ra’zac or the Lethrblaka will manage to separate you from Saphira and me. The closer we stay together, the safer we’ll all be. Saphira and I will try to keep the Ra’zac and Lethrblaka occupied, but some of them may slip past us. Four against two are only good odds if you’re among the four.”

To Saphira, Eragon said,
If I had a sword, I’m sure I could slay the Ra’zac by myself, but I don’t
know if I can beat two creatures who are quick as elves, using nothing but this staff.

You were the one who insisted on carrying that dry twig instead of a proper weapon,
she said.

Remember, I told you it might not suffice against enemies as dangerous as the Ra’zac.

Eragon reluctantly conceded the point.
If my spells fail us, we will be far more vulnerable than I
expected. . . . Tomorrow could end very badly indeed
.

Continuing the strand of conversation he had been privy to, Roran said, “This magic is a tricky business.”

The log he sat on gave a drawn-out groan as he rested his elbows on his knees.

“It is,” Eragon agreed. “The hardest part is trying to anticipate every possible spell; I spend most of my time asking how can I protect myself if I’m attacked like
this
and would another magician expect me to do
that
.”

“Could you make me as strong and fast as you are?”

Eragon considered the suggestion for several minutes before saying, “I don’t see how. The energy needed to do that would have to come from somewhere. Saphira and I could give it to you, but then we would lose as much speed or strength as you gained.” What he did not mention was that one could also extract energy from nearby plants and animals, albeit at a terrible price: namely, the deaths of the smaller beings whose life force you drew upon. The technique was a great secret, and Eragon felt that he should not reveal it lightly, if at all. Moreover, it would be of no use to Roran, as too little grew or lived on Helgrind to fuel a man’s body.

“Then can you teach me to use magic?” When Eragon hesitated, Roran added, “Not now, of course.

We don’t have the time, and I don’t expect one can become a magician overnight anyway. But in general, why not? You and I are cousins. We share much the same blood. And it would be a valuable skill to have.”

“I don’t know how someone who’s not a Rider learns to use magic,” confessed Eragon. “It’s not something I studied.” Glancing around, he plucked a flat, round stone from the ground and tossed it to Roran, who caught it backhand. “Here, try this: concentrate on lifting the rock a foot or so into the air and say, ‘Stenr rïsa.’ ”

“Stenr rïsa?”

“Exactly.”

Roran frowned at the stone resting on his palm in a pose so reminiscent of Eragon’s own training that Eragon could not help feeling a flash of nostalgia for the days he spent being drilled by Brom.

Roran’s eyebrows met, his lips tightened into a snarl, and he growled, “Stenr rïsa!” with enough intensity, Eragon half expected the stone to fly out of sight.

Nothing happened.

Scowling even harder, Roran repeated his command: “Stenr rïsa!”

The stone exhibited a profound lack of movement.

“Well,” said Eragon, “keep trying. That’s the only advice I can give you. But”—and here he raised a finger—“if you
should
happen to succeed, make sure you immediately come to me or, if I’m not around, another magician. You could kill yourself and others if you start experimenting with magic without understanding the rules. If nothing else, remember this: if you cast a spell that requires too much energy, you
will
die. Don’t take on projects that are beyond your abilities, don’t try to bring back the dead, and don’t try to unmake anything.”

Roran nodded, still looking at the stone.

“Magic aside, I just realized there’s something far more important that you need to learn.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, you need to be able to hide your thoughts from the Black Hand, Du Vrangr Gata, and others like them. You know a lot of things now that could harm the Varden. It’s crucial, then, that you master this skill as soon as we return. Until you can defend yourself from spies, neither Nasuada nor I nor anyone else can trust you with information that might help our enemies.”

“I understand. But why did you include Du Vrangr Gata in that list? They serve you and Nasuada.”

“They do, but even among our allies there are more than a few people who would give their right arm”—he grimaced at the appropriateness of the phrase—“to ferret out our plans and secrets. And yours too, no less. You have become a
somebody,
Roran. Partly because of your deeds, and partly because we are related.”

“I know. It is strange to be recognized by those you have not met.”

“That it is.” Several other, related observations leaped to the tip of Eragon’s tongue, but he resisted the urge to pursue the topic; it was a subject to explore another time. “Now that you know what it feels like when one mind touches another, you might be able to learn to reach out and touch other minds in turn.”

“I’m not sure that is an ability I want to have.”

“No matter; you also might
not
be able to do it. Either way, before you spend time finding out, you should first devote yourself to the art of defense.”

His cousin cocked an eyebrow. “How?”

“Choose something—a sound, an image, an emotion, anything—and let it swell within your mind until it blots out any other thoughts.”

“That’s all?”

“It’s not as easy as you think. Go on; take a stab at it. When you’re ready, let me know, and I’ll see how well you’ve done.”

Several moments passed. Then, at a flick of Roran’s fingers, Eragon launched his consciousness toward his cousin, eager to discover what he had accomplished.

The full strength of Eragon’s mental ray rammed into a wall composed of Roran’s memories of Katrina and was stopped. He could take no ground, find no entrance or purchase, nor undermine the impenetrable barrier that stood before him. At that instant, Roran’s entire identity was based upon his feelings for Katrina; his defenses exceeded any Eragon had previously encountered, for Roran’s mind was devoid of anything else Eragon could grasp hold of and use to gain control over his cousin.

Then Roran shifted his left leg and the wood underneath released a harsh squeal.

With that, the wall Eragon had hurled himself against fractured into dozens of pieces as a host of competing thoughts distracted Roran:
What was . . . Blast! Don’t pay attention to it; he’ll break
through. Katrina, remember Katrina. Ignore Eragon. The night she agreed to marry me, the smell
of the grass and her hair . . . Is that him? No! Focus! Don’t—

Taking advantage of Roran’s confusion, Eragon rushed forward and, by the force of his will, immobilized Roran before he could shield himself again.

You understand the basic concept,
said Eragon, then withdrew from Roran’s mind and said out loud,

“but you have to learn to maintain your concentration even when you’re in the middle of a battle. You must learn to think without thinking . . . to empty yourself of all hopes and worries, save that one idea that is your armor. Something the elves taught me, which I have found helpful, is to recite a riddle or a piece of a poem or song. Having an action that you can repeat over and over again makes it much easier to keep your mind from straying.”

“I’ll work on it,” promised Roran.

In a quiet voice, Eragon said, “You really love her, don’t you?” It was more a statement of truth and wonder than a question—the answer being self-evident—and one he felt uncertain making. Romance was not a topic Eragon had broached with his cousin before, notwithstanding the many hours they had devoted in years past to debating the relative merits of the young women in and around Carvahall. “How did it happen?”

“I liked her. She liked me. What importance are the details?”

“Come now,” said Eragon. “I was too angry to ask before you left for Therinsford, and we have not seen each other again until just four days ago. I’m curious.”

The skin around Roran’s eyes pulled and wrinkled as he rubbed his temples. “There’s not much to tell.

I’ve always been partial to her. It meant little before I was a man, but after my rites of passage, I began to wonder whom I would marry and whom I wanted to become the mother of my children. During one of our visits to Carvahall, I saw Katrina stop by the side of Loring’s house to pick a moss rose growing in the shade of the eaves. She smiled as she looked at the flower. . . . It was such a tender smile, and so happy, I decided right then that I wanted to make her smile like that again and again and that I wanted to look at that smile until the day I died.” Tears gleamed in Roran’s eyes, but they did not fall, and a second later, he blinked and they vanished. “I fear I have failed in that regard.”

After a respectful pause, Eragon said, “You courted her, then?

Aside from using me to ferry compliments to Katrina, how else did you proceed?”

“You ask like one who seeks instruction.”

“I did not. You’re imagining—”

“Come now, yourself,” said Roran. “I know when you’re lying. You get that big foolish grin, and your ears turn red. The elves may have given you a new face, but that part of you hasn’t changed. What is it that exists between you and Arya?”

The strength of Roran’s perception disturbed Eragon. “Nothing! The moon has addled your brain.”

“Be honest. You dote upon her words as if each one were a diamond, and your gaze lingers upon her as if you were starving and she a grand feast arrayed an inch beyond your reach.”

A plume of dark gray smoke erupted from Saphira’s nostrils as she made a choking-like noise.

Eragon ignored her suppressed merriment and said, “Arya is an elf.”

“And very beautiful. Pointed ears and slanted eyes are small flaws when compared with her charms.

You look like a cat yourself now.”

“Arya is over a hundred years old.”

That particular piece of information caught Roran by surprise; his eyebrows went up, and he said, “I find that hard to believe! She’s in the prime of her youth.”

“It’s true.”

“Well, be that as it may, these are reasons you give me, Eragon, and the heart rarely listens to reason.

Do you fancy her or not?”

If he fancied her any more,
Saphira said to both Eragon and Roran,
I’d be trying to kiss Arya myself
.

Saphira!
Mortified, Eragon swatted her on the leg.

Roran was prudent enough not to rib Eragon further. “Then answer my original question and tell me how things stand between you and Arya. Have you spoken to her or her family about this? I have found it’s unwise to let such matters fester.”

“Aye,” said Eragon, and stared at the length of polished hawthorn. “I spoke with her.”

“To what end?” When Eragon did not immediately reply, Roran uttered a frustrated exclamation.

“Getting answers out of you is harder than dragging Birka through the mud.” Eragon chuckled at the mention of Birka, one of their draft horses. “Saphira, will you solve this puzzle for me? Otherwise, I fear I’ll never get a full explanation.”

“To no end. No end at all. She’ll not have me.” Eragon spoke dispassionately, as if commenting on a stranger’s misfortune, but within him raged a torrent of hurt so deep and wild, he felt Saphira withdraw somewhat from him.

“I’m sorry,” said Roran.

Eragon forced a swallow past the lump in his throat, past the bruise that was his heart, and down to the knotted skein of his stomach. “It happens.”

“I know it may seem unlikely at the moment,” said Roran, “but I’m sure you will meet another woman who will make you forget this Arya. There are countless maids—and more than a few married women, I’d wager—who would be delighted to catch the eye of a Rider. You’ll have no trouble finding a wife among all the lovelies in Alagaësia.”

“And what would you have done if Katrina rejected your suit?”

The question struck Roran dumb; it was obvious he could not imagine how he might have reacted.

Eragon continued. “Contrary to what you, Arya, and everyone else seem to believe, I
am
aware that other eligible women exist in Alagaësia and that people have been known to fall in love more than once.

No doubt, if I spent my days in the company of ladies from King Orrin’s court, I might indeed decide that I fancy one. However, my path is not so easy as that. Regardless of whether I can shift my affections to another—and the heart, as you observed, is a notoriously fickle beast—the question remains: should I?”