Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (42 page)

agon of a kitten trying to bait an old tomcat into playing with her, only

Glaedr remained impassive throughout her machinations.

Saphira, he said. She responded with a distracted flicker of her

thoughts, barely acknowledging him. Saphira, answer me.

What?

I know you’re excited, but don’t make a fool of yourself.

You’ve made a fool of yourself plenty of times, she snapped.

Her reply was so unexpected, it stunned him. It was the sort of casually

cruel remark that humans often make, but that he had never thought to

hear from her. He finally managed to say, That doesn’t make it any better.

She grunted and closed her mind to his, although he could still feel the

thread of her emotions connecting them.

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Eragon returned to himself to find Oromis’s gray eyes heavy upon him.

The elf’s gaze was so perceptive, Eragon was sure that Oromis under-

stood what had transpired. Eragon forced a smile and motioned toward

Saphira. “Even though we’re linked, I can never predict what she’s going

to do. The more I learn about her, the more I realize how different we

are.”

Then Oromis made his first statement that Eragon thought was truly

wise: “Those whom we love are often the most alien to us.” The elf

paused. “She is very young, as are you. It took Glaedr and I decades be-

fore we fully understood each other. A Rider’s bond with his dragon is

like any relationship—that is, a work in progress. Do you trust her?”

“With my life.”

“And does she trust you?”

“Yes.”

“Then humor her. You were brought up as an orphan. She was brought

up to believe that she was the last sane individual of her entire race. And

now she has been proved wrong. Don’t be surprised if it takes some

months before she stops pestering Glaedr and returns her attention to

you.”

Eragon rolled a blueberry between his thumb and forefinger; his appe-

tite had vanished. “Why don’t elves eat meat?”

“Why should we?” Oromis held up a strawberry and rotated it so that

the light reflected off its dimpled skin and illuminated the tiny hairs that

bearded the fruit. “Everything that we need or want we sing from the

plants, including our food. It would be barbaric to make animals suffer

that we might have additional courses on the table.. . Our choice will

make greater sense to you before long.”

Eragon frowned. He had always eaten meat and did not look forward to

living solely on fruit and vegetables while in Ellesméra. “Don’t you miss

the taste?”

“You cannot miss that which you have never had.”

“What about Glaedr, though? He can’t live off grass.”

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“No, but neither does he needlessly inflict pain. We each do the best

we can with what we are given. You cannot help who or what you are

born as.”

“And Islanzadí? Her cape was made of swan feathers.”

“Loose feathers gathered over the course of many years. No birds were

killed to make her garment.”

They finished the meal, and Eragon helped Oromis to scour the dishes

clean with sand. As the elf stacked them in the cupboard, he asked, “Did

you bathe this morning?” The question startled Eragon, but he answered

that no, he had not. “Please do so tomorrow then, and every day follow-

ing.”

“Every day! The water’s too cold for that. I’ll catch the ague.”

Oromis eyed him oddly. “Then make it warmer.”

Now it was Eragon’s turn to look askance. “I’m not strong enough to

heat an entire stream with magic,” he protested.

The house echoed as Oromis laughed. Outside, Glaedr swung his head

toward the window and inspected the elf, then returned to his earlier po-

sition. “I assume that you explored your quarters last night.” Eragon nod-

ded. “And you saw a small room with a depression in the floor?”

“I thought that it might be for washing clothes or linens.”

“It is for washing you. Two nozzles are concealed in the side of the wall

above the hollow. Open them and you can bathe in water of any tem-

perature. Also,” he gestured at Eragon’s chin, “while you are my student, I

expect you to keep yourself clean-shaven until you can grow a full

beard—if you so choose—and not look like a tree with half its leaves

blown off. Elves do not shave, but I will have a razor and mirror found

and sent to you.”

Wincing at the blow to his pride, Eragon agreed. They returned out-

side, whereupon Oromis looked at Glaedr and the dragon said, We have

decided upon a curriculum for Saphira and you.

The elf said, “You will start—”

—an hour after sunrise tomorrow, in the time of the Red Lily. Return here

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then.

“And bring the saddle that Brom made for you, Saphira,” continued

Oromis. “Do what you wish in the meantime; Ellesméra holds many

wonders for a foreigner, if you care to see them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Eragon, bowing his head. “Before I go, Mas-

ter, I want to thank you for helping me in Tronjheim after I killed Durza.

I doubt that I would have survived without your assistance. I am in your

debt.”

We are both in your debt, added Saphira.

Oromis smiled slightly and inclined his head.

267

THE SECRET LIVES OF ANTS

The moment that Oromis and Glaedr were out of sight, Saphira said,

Eragon, another dragon! Can you believe it?

He patted her shoulder. It’s wonderful. High above Du Weldenvarden,

the only sign of habitation in the forest was an occasional ghostly plume

of smoke that rose from the crown of a tree and soon faded into clear air.

I never expected to encounter another dragon, except for Shruikan. Maybe

rescue the eggs from Galbatorix, yes, but that was the extent of my hopes.

And now this! She wriggled underneath him with joy. Glaedr is incredible,

isn’t he? He’s so old and strong and his scales are so bright. He must be two,

no, three times bigger than me. Did you see his claws? They...

She continued on in that manner for several minutes, waxing eloquent

about Glaedr’s attributes. But stronger than her words were the emotions

Eragon sensed roiling within her: eagerness and enthusiasm, twined over

what he could only identify as a longing adoration.

Eragon tried to tell Saphira what he had learned from Oromis—since

he knew that she had not paid attention—but he found it impossible to

change the subject of conversation. He sat silently on her back, the world

an emerald ocean below, and felt himself the loneliest man in existence.

Back at their quarters, Eragon decided against any sightseeing; he was

far too tired from the day’s events and the weeks of traveling. And

Saphira was more than content to sit on her bed and chatter about

Glaedr while he examined the mysteries of the elves’ wash closet.

Morning came, and with it a package wrapped in onionskin paper con-

taining the razor and mirror that Oromis had promised. The blade was of

elvish make, so it needed no sharpening or stropping. Grimacing, Eragon

first bathed in steaming hot water, then held up the mirror and con-

fronted his visage.

I look older. Older and worn. Not only that, but his features had be-

come far more angled, giving him an ascetic, hawklike appearance. He

was no elf, but neither would anyone take him to be a purebred human

if they inspected him closely. Pulling back his hair, he bared his ears,

which now tapered to slight points, more evidence of how his bond with

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Saphira had changed him. He touched one ear, letting his fingers wander

over the unfamiliar shape.

It was difficult for him to accept the transformation of his flesh. Even

though he had known it would occur—and occasionally welcomed the

prospect as the last confirmation that he was a Rider—the reality of it

filled him with confusion. He resented the fact that he had no say in how

his body was being altered, yet at the same time he was curious where

the process would take him. Also, he was aware that he was still in the

midst of his own, human adolescence, and its attendant realm of myster-

ies and difficulties.

When will I finally know who and what I am?

He placed the edge of the razor against his cheek, as he had seen Gar-

row do, and dragged it across his skin. The hairs came free, but they were

cut long and ragged. He altered the angle of the blade and tried again

with a bit more success.

When he reached his chin, though, the razor slipped in his hand and

cut him from the corner of his mouth to the underside of his jaw. He

howled and dropped the razor, clapping his hand over the incision, which

poured blood down his neck. Spitting the words past bared teeth, he said,

“Waíse heill.” The pain quickly receded as magic knitted his flesh back

together, though his heart still pounded from the shock.

Eragon! cried Saphira. She forced her head and shoulders into the vesti-

bule and nosed open the door to the closet, flaring her nostrils at the

scent of blood.

I’ll live, he assured her.

She eyed the sanguine water. Be more careful. I’d rather you were as

ragged as a molting deer than have you decapitate yourself for the sake of a

close shave.

So would I. Go on, I’m fine.

Saphira grunted and reluctantly withdrew.

Eragon sat, glaring at the razor. Finally, he muttered, “Forget this.”

Composing himself, he reviewed his store of words from the ancient lan-

guage, selected those that he needed, and then allowed his invented spell

to roll off his tongue. A faint stream of black powder fell from his face as

269

his stubble crumbled into dust, leaving his cheeks perfectly smooth.

Satisfied, Eragon went and saddled Saphira, who immediately took to

the air, aiming their course toward the Crags of Tel’naeír. They landed

before the hut and were met by Oromis and Glaedr.

Oromis examined Saphira’s saddle. He traced each strap with his fin-

gers, pausing on the stitching and buckles, and then pronounced it pass-

able handiwork considering how and when it had been constructed.

“Brom was always clever with his hands. Use this saddle when you must

travel with great speed. But when comfort is allowed—” He stepped into

his hut for a moment and reappeared carrying a thick, molded saddle

decorated with gilt designs along the seat and leg pieces. “—use this. It

was crafted in Vroengard and imbued with many spells so that it will

never fail you in time of need.”

Eragon staggered under the weight of the saddle as he received it from

Oromis. It had the same general shape as Brom’s, with a row of buckles—

intended to immobilize his legs—hanging from each side. The deep seat

was sculpted out of the leather in such a way that he could fly for hours

with ease, both sitting upright and lying flat against Saphira’s neck. Also,

the straps encircling Saphira’s chest were rigged with slips and knots so

that they could extend to accommodate years of growth. A series of

broad ties on either side of the head of the saddle caught Eragon’s atten-

tion. He asked their purpose.

Glaedr rumbled, Those secure your wrists and arms so that you are not

killed like a rat shaken to death when Saphira performs a complex maneu-

ver.

Oromis helped Eragon relieve Saphira of her current saddle. “Saphira,

you will go with Glaedr today, and I will work with Eragon here.”

As you wish, she said, and crowed with excitement. Heaving his golden

bulk off the ground, Glaedr soared off to the north, Saphira close behind.

Oromis did not give Eragon long to ponder Saphira’s departure; the elf

marched him to a square of hard-packed dirt beneath a willow tree at the

far side of the clearing. Standing opposite him in the square, Oromis said,

“What I am about to show you is called the Rimgar, or the Dance of

Snake and Crane. It is a series of poses that we developed to prepare our

warriors for combat, although all elves use it now to maintain their

health and fitness. The Rimgar consists of four levels, each more difficult

than the last. We will start with the first.”

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Apprehension for the coming ordeal sickened Eragon to the point

where he could barely move. He clenched his fists and hunched his

shoulders, his scar tugging at the skin of his back as he glared between his

feet.

“Relax,” advised Oromis. Eragon jerked open his hands and let them

hang limply at the end of his rigid arms. “I asked you to relax, Eragon.

You can’t do the Rimgar if you are as stiff as a piece of rawhide.”

“Yes, Master.” Eragon grimaced and reluctantly loosened his muscles

and joints, although a knot of tension remained coiled in his belly.

“Place your feet together and your arms at your sides. Look straight

ahead. Now take a deep breath and lift your arms over your head so that

your palms meet. . Yes, like that. Exhale and bend down as far as you

can, put your palms on the ground, take another breath. . and jump back.

Good. Breathe in and bend up, looking toward the sky. . and exhale, lift-

ing your hips until you form a triangle. Breathe in through the back of

your throat. . and out. In. . and out. In. .”

To Eragon’s utter relief, the stances proved gentle enough to hold with-