Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (41 page)

“Of course,” said Oromis. “He was my pupil as a boy in Ilirea. I am glad

that you gave him a proper burial, for he had a hard life and few enough

ever showed him kindness. I hope that he found peace before he entered

the void.”

Eragon slowly frowned. “Did you know Morzan as well?”

“He was my apprentice before Brom.”

“And Galbatorix?”

“I was one of the Elders who denied him another dragon after his first

was killed, but no, I never had the misfortune to teach him. He made

sure to personally hunt down and kill each of his mentors.”

Eragon wanted to inquire further, but he knew that it would be better

to wait, so he stood and unlaced the top of his tunic. It seems, he said to

Saphira, that we will never learn all of Brom’s secrets. He shivered as he

pulled off the tunic in the cool air, then squared his shoulders and lifted

his chest.

Oromis circled him, stopping with an astonished exclamation as he saw

the scar that crossed Eragon’s back. “Did not Arya or one of the Varden’s

healers offer to remove this weal? You should not have to carry it.”

“Arya did offer, but. .” Eragon stopped, unable to articulate his feelings.

Finally, he just said, “It’s part of me now, just as Murtagh’s scar is part of

him.”

“Murtagh’s scar?”

“Murtagh bore a similar mark. It was inflicted when his father, Morzan,

threw Zar’roc at him while he was only a child.”

Oromis stared at him seriously for a long time before he nodded and

moved on. “You have a fair amount of muscle, and you are not as lop-

sided as most swordsmen. Are you ambidextrous?”

“Not really, but I had to teach myself to fight with my left hand after I

259

broke my wrist by Teirm.”

“Good. That will save some time. Clasp your hands behind your back

and lift them as high as possible.” Eragon did as he was told, but the pos-

ture hurt his shoulders and he could barely make his hands meet. “Now

bend forward while keeping your knees straight. Try to touch the

ground.” This was even harder for Eragon; he ended up bowed like a

hunchback, with his arms hanging uselessly by his head while his ham-

strings twinged and burned. His fingers were still nine or ten inches from

the ground. “At least you can stretch without hurting yourself. I had not

hoped for so much. You can perform a number of exercises for flexibility

without overexerting. Yes.”

Then Oromis addressed Saphira: “I would know your capabilities as

well, dragon.” He gave her a number of complex poses that had her con-

tort every foot of her sinuous length in fantastic ways, culminating in a

series of aerial acrobatics the likes of which Eragon had never seen before.

Only a few things exceeded her ability, such as executing a backward

loop while corkscrewing through the air.

When she landed, it was Glaedr who said, I fear that we coddled the

Riders. If our hatchlings had been forced to care for themselves in the

wild—as you were, and so our ancestors were—then perhaps they would

have possessed your skill.

“No,” said Oromis, “even if Saphira had been raised on Vroengard using

the established methods, she would still be an extraordinary flier. I’ve

rarely seen a dragon so naturally suited to the sky.” Saphira blinked, then

shuffled her wings and busied herself cleaning one of her claws in a man-

ner that hid her head from view. “You have room to improve, as do we

all, but little, very little.” The elf reseated himself, his back perfectly

straight.

For the next five hours, by Eragon’s reckoning, Oromis delved into

every aspect of his and Saphira’s knowledge, from botany to woodwork-

ing to metallurgy and medicine, although he mainly concentrated on their

grasp of history and the ancient language. The interrogation comforted

Eragon, as it reminded him of how Brom used to quiz him during their

long treks to Teirm and Dras-Leona.

When they broke for lunch, Oromis invited Eragon into his house,

leaving the two dragons alone. The elf’s quarters were barren except for

those few essentials necessary for food, hygiene, and the pursuit of an in-

tellectual life. Two entire walls were dotted with cubbyholes that held

260

hundreds of scrolls. Next to the table hung a golden sheath—the same

color as Glaedr’s scales—and a matching sword with a blade the color of

iridescent bronze.

On the inner pane of the door, set within the heart of the wood, was a

flat panel one span high and two wide. It depicted a beautiful, towering

city built against an escarpment and caught in the ruddy light of a rising

harvest moon. The pitted lunar face was bisected by the horizon and ap-

peared to sit on the ground like a maculated dome as large as a mountain.

The picture was so clear and perfectly detailed, Eragon at first took it to

be a magical window; it was only when he saw that the image was indeed

static that he could accept it as a piece of art.

“Where is this?” he asked.

Oromis’s slanted features tightened for an instant. “You would do well

to memorize that landscape, Eragon, for there lies the heart of your mis-

ery. You see what was once our city of Ilirea. It was burned and aban-

doned during Du Fyrn Skulblaka and became the capital of the Broddring

Kingdom and now is the black city of Urû’baen. I made that fairth on the

night that I and others were forced to flee our home before Galbatorix

arrived.”

“You painted this. . fairth?”

“No, no such thing. A fairth is an image fixed by magic upon a square

of polished slate that is prepared beforehand with layers of pigments. The

landscape upon that door is exactly how Ilirea presented itself to me at

the moment I uttered my spell.”

“And,” said Eragon, unable to stop the flow of questions, “what was the

Broddring Kingdom?”

Oromis’s eyes widened with dismay. “You don’t know?” Eragon shook

his head. “How can you not? Considering your circumstances and the fear

that Galbatorix wields among your people, I might understand that you

were raised in darkness, ignorant of your heritage. But I cannot credit

Brom with being so lax with your instruction as to neglect subjects that

even the youngest elf or dwarf knows. The children of your Varden

could tell me more about the past.”

“Brom was more concerned with keeping me alive than teaching me

about people who are already dead,” retorted Eragon.

261

This drew silence from Oromis. Finally, he said, “Forgive me. I did not

mean to impugn Brom’s judgment, only I am impatient beyond reason;

we have so little time, and each new thing you must learn reduces that

which you can master during your tenure here.” He opened a series of

cupboards hidden within the curved wall and removed bread rolls and

bowls of fruit, which he rowed out on the table. He paused for a mo-

ment over the food with his eyes closed before beginning to eat. “The

Broddring Kingdom was the human’s country before the Riders fell. After

Galbatorix killed Vrael, he flew on Ilirea with the Forsworn and deposed

King Angrenost, taking his throne and titles for his own. The Broddring

Kingdom then formed the core of Galbatorix’s conquests. He added Vro-

engard and other lands to the east and south to his holdings, creating the

empire you are familiar with. Technically, the Broddring Kingdom still

exists, though, at this point, I doubt that it is much more than a name on

royal decrees.”

Afraid to pester the elf with further inquiries, Eragon concentrated on

his food. His face must have betrayed him, though, because Oromis said,

“You remind me of Brom when I chose him as my apprentice. He was

younger than you, only ten, but his curiosity was just as great. I doubt I

heard aught from him for a year but how, what, when, and, above all else,

why. Do not be shy to ask what lies in your heart.”

“I want to know so much,” whispered Eragon. “Who are you? Where

do you come from?. . Where did Brom come from? What was Morzan

like? How, what, when, why ? And I want to know everything about

Vroengard and the Riders. Maybe then my own path will be clearer.”

Silence fell between them as Oromis meticulously disassembled a

blackberry, prying out one plump segment at a time. When the last cor-

puscle vanished between his port-red lips, he rubbed his hands flat to-

gether—“polishing his palms,” as Garrow used to say—and said, “Know

this about me, then: I was born some centuries past in our city of Lu-

thivíra, which stood in the woods by Lake Tüdosten. At the age of

twenty, like all elf children, I was presented to the eggs that the dragons

had given the Riders, and Glaedr hatched for me. We were trained as

Riders, and for near a century, we traveled the world over, doing Vrael’s

will. Eventually, the day arrived when it was deemed appropriate for us

to retire and pass on our experience to the next generation, so we took a

position in Ilirea and taught new Riders, one or two at a time, until Gal-

batorix destroyed us.”

“And Brom?”

262

“Brom came from a family of illuminators in Kuasta. His mother was

Nelda and his father Holcomb. Kuasta is so isolated by the Spine from

the rest of Alagaësia, it has become a peculiar place, full of strange cus-

toms and superstitions. When he was still new to Ilirea, Brom would

knock on a door frame three times before entering or leaving a room.

The human students teased him about it until he abandoned the practice

along with some of his other habits.

“Morzan was my greatest failure. Brom idolized him. He never left his

side, never contradicted him, and never believed that he could best Mor-

zan in any venture. Morzan, I’m ashamed to admit—for it was within my

power to stop—was aware of this and took advantage of Brom’s devotion

in a hundred different ways. He grew so proud and cruel that I consid-

ered separating him from Brom. But before I could, Morzan helped Gal-

batorix to steal a dragon hatchling, Shruikan, to replace the one Galba-

torix had lost, killing the dragon’s original Rider in the process. Morzan

and Galbatorix then fled together, sealing our doom.

“You cannot begin to fathom the effect Morzan’s betrayal had on Brom

until you understand the depth of Brom’s affection for him. And when

Galbatorix at last revealed himself and the Forsworn killed Brom’s

dragon, Brom focused all of his anger and pain on the one who he felt

was responsible for the destruction of his world: Morzan.”

Oromis paused, his face grave. “Do you know why losing your dragon,

or vice versa, usually kills the survivor?”

“I can imagine,” said Eragon. He quailed at the thought.

“The pain is shock enough—although it isn’t always a factor—but what

really causes the damage is feeling part of your mind, part of your iden-

tity, die. When it happened to Brom, I fear that he went mad for a time.

After I was captured and escaped, I brought him to Ellesméra for safety,

but he refused to stay, instead marching with our army to the plains of

Ilirea, where King Evandar was slain.

“The confusion then was indescribable. Galbatorix was busy consolidat-

ing his power, the dwarves were in retreat, the southwest was a mass of

war as the humans rebelled and fought to create Surda, and we had just

lost our king. Driven by his desire for vengeance, Brom sought to use the

turmoil to his advantage. He gathered together many of those who had

been exiled, freed some who had been imprisoned, and with them he

formed the Varden. He led them for a few years, then surrendered the

position to another so that he was free to pursue his true passion, which

263

was Morzan’s downfall. Brom personally killed three of the Forsworn, in-

cluding Morzan, and he was responsible for the deaths of five others. He

was rarely happy during his life, but he was a good Rider and a good man,

and I am honored to have known him.”

“I never heard his name mentioned in connection to the Forsworn’s

deaths,” objected Eragon.

“Galbatorix did not want to publicize the fact that any still existed who

could defeat his servants. Much of his power resides in the appearance of

invulnerability.”

Once again, Eragon was forced to revise his conception of Brom, from

the village storyteller that Eragon had first taken him to be, to the warrior

and magician he had traveled with, to the Rider he was at last revealed as,

and now firebrand, revolutionary leader, and assassin. It was hard to rec-

oncile all of those roles. I feel as if I barely knew him. I wish that we had

had a chance to talk about all of this at least once. “He was a good man,”

agreed Eragon.

He looked out one of the round windows that faced the edge of the

cliff and allowed the afternoon warmth to suffuse the room. He watched

Saphira, noting how she acted with Glaedr, seeming both shy and coy.

One moment she would twist around to examine some feature of the

clearing, the next she would shuffle her wings and make small advances

on the larger dragon, weaving her head from side to side, the tip of her

tail twitching as if she were about to pounce on a deer. She reminded Er-