Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (54 page)

Crouching low on the path, Saphira nudged Eragon in the side. Stop

daydreaming and get on my back. Climbing up her left foreleg, he took

his usual place, then clutched the neck spike in front of him as Saphira

rose to her full height. After a few steps: How can you criticize my behav-

ior with Glaedr and then go and do something like that? What were you

thinking?

You know how I feel about her, he grumbled.

Pah! If you are my conscience and I am yours, then it’s my duty to tell

you when you’re acting like a deluded popinjay. You’re not using logic, like

Oromis keeps telling us to. What do you really expect to happen between

you and Arya? She’s a princess!

And I’m a Rider.

She’s an elf; you’re a human!

I look more like an elf every day.

Eragon, she’s over a hundred years old!

I’ll live as long as her or any elf.

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Ah, but you haven’t yet, and that’s the problem. You can’t overcome such

a vast difference. She’s a grown woman with a century of experience, while

you’re—

What? What am I? he snarled. A child? Is that what you mean?

No, not a child. Not after what you have seen and done since we were

joined. But you are young, even by the reckoning of your short-lived race—

much less by that of the dwarves, dragons, and elves.

As are you.

His retort silenced her for a minute. Then: I’m just trying to protect you,

Eragon. That’s all. I want you to be happy, and I’m afraid you won’t be if

you insist on pursuing Arya.

The two of them were about to retire when they heard the trapdoor in

the vestibule bang open and the jingle of mail as someone climbed inside.

Zar’roc in hand, Eragon threw back the screen door, ready to confront the

intruder.

His hand dropped as he saw Orik on the floor. The dwarf took a hearty

draught from the bottle he wielded in his left hand, then squinted at Er-

agon. “Bricks and bones, where be you? Ah, there you shtand. I wondered

where you were. Couldn’t find you, so I thought that given this fine do-

lorous night, I might go find you. . and here you are! What shall we talk

about, you and I, now that we’re together in this delectable bird’s nest?”

Taking hold of the dwarf’s free arm, Eragon pulled him upright, sur-

prised, as he always was, by how dense Orik was, like a miniature boul-

der. When Eragon removed his support, Orik swayed from one side to

the other, achieving such precarious angles that he threatened to topple

at the slightest provocation.

“Come on in,” said Eragon in his own language. He closed the trapdoor.

“You’ll catch cold out here.”

Orik blinked his round, deep-set eyes at Eragon. “I’ve not sheen you

round my leafy exile, no I haven’t. You’ve abandoned me to the company

of elves. . and misherable, dull company they are, yesh indeed.”

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A touch of guilt made Eragon disguise himself with an awkward smile.

He had forgotten the dwarf amid the goings-on. “I’m sorry I haven’t vis-

ited you, Orik, but my studies have kept me busy. Here, give me your

cloak.” As he helped the dwarf out of his brown mantle, he asked, “What

are you drinking?”

“Faelnirv,” declared Orik. “A mosht wonderful, ticklish potion. The

besht and greatest of the elves’ tricksty inventions; it gives you the gift of

loquacion. Words float from your tongue like shoals of flapping min-

nows, like flocks of breathlessh hummingbirds, like rivers of writhing

shnakes.” He paused, apparently taken by the unique magnificence of his

similes. As Eragon ushered him into the bedroom, Orik saluted Saphira

with his bottle and said, “Greetings, O Irontooth. May your shcales shine

as bright as the coals of Morgothal’s forge.”

Greetings, Orik, said Saphira, laying her head on the rim of her bed.

What has put you in this state? It is not like you. Eragon repeated her

question.

“What has put me in mine shtate?” repeated Orik. He dropped into the

chair that Eragon provided—his feet dangling several inches above the

ground—and began to shake his head. “Red cap, green cap, elves here and

elves there. I drown in elvesh and their thrice-damned courtesy. Bloodless

they be. Taciturn they are. Yesh sir, no shir, three bagsh full, sir, yet nary

a pip more can I extract.” He looked at Eragon with a mournful expres-

sion. “What am I to do while you meander through your instruction? Am

I to sit and twiddle mine thumbs while I turn to shtone and join the

shpirits of mine anshestors? Tell me, O sagacious Rider.”

Have you no skills or hobbies that you might occupy yourself with? asked

Saphira.

“Aye,” said Orik. “I’m a fair enough smith by any who’d care to judge.

But why should I craft bright armsh and armor for those who treasure

them not? I’m usheless here. As usheless as a three-legged Feldûnost.”

Eragon extended a hand toward the bottle. “May I?” Orik glanced be-

tween him and the bottle, then grimaced and gave it up. The faelnirv was

cold as ice as it ran down Eragon’s throat, stinging and smarting. He

blinked as his eyes watered. After he indulged in a second quaff, he

passed the bottle back to Orik, who seemed disappointed by how little

of the concoction remained.

“And what mischief,” asked Orik, “have you two managed to ferret out

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of Oromis and yon bucolic woods?”

The dwarf alternately chuckled and groaned as Eragon described his

training, his misplaced blessing in Farthen Dûr, the Menoa tree, his back,

and all else that had filled the past few days. Eragon ended with the topic

that was dearest to him at the moment: Arya. Emboldened by the li-

queur, he confessed his affection for her and described how she had dis-

missed his advance.

Wagging a finger, Orik said, “The rock beneath you is flawed, Eragon.

Don’t tempt fate. Arya. .” He stopped, then growled and took another

gulp of faelnirv. “Ah, it’s too late for thish. Who am I to say what is wis-

dom and what isn’t?”

Saphira had closed her eyes a while ago. Without opening them, she

asked, Are you married, Orik? The question surprised Eragon; he had

never stopped to wonder about Orik’s personal life.

“Eta,” said Orik. “Although I’m promished to fair Hvedra, daughter of

Thorgerd One-eye and Himinglada. We were to be wed thish spring, un-

til the Urgals attacked and Hrothgar sent me on this accursed trip.”

“Is she of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum?” asked Eragon.

“Of coursh!” roared Orik, pounding his fist on the side of the chair.

“Thinkest thou I would marry outside my clan? She’s the granddaughter

of mine aunt Vardrûn, Hrothgar’s coushin twice removed, with white,

round calves as smooth as satin, cheeks as red as apples, and the pretti-

esht dwarf maid who ever did exist.”

Undoubtedly, said Saphira.

“I’m sure it won’t be long before you see her again,” said Eragon.

“Hmph.” Orik squinted at Eragon. “Do you believe in giants? Tall giants,

shtrong giants, thick and bearded giants with fingers like spadeses?”

“I’ve never seen nor heard of them,” said Eragon, “except in stories. If

they do exist, it’s not in Alagaësia.”

“Ah, but they do! They do!” exclaimed Orik, waving the bottle about

his head. “Tell me, O Rider, if a fearshome giant were to meet you on the

garden path, what might he call you, if not dinner?”

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“Eragon, I would presume.”

“No, no. He’d call you a dwarf, for dwarf you’d be to him.” Orik guf-

fawed and nudged Eragon in the ribs with his hard elbow. “See you now?

Humans and elvesh are the giants. The land’s full of them, here, there,

and everywhere, stomping about with their big feet and casting us in

endless shadowses.” He continued laughing, rocking back in his chair until

it tipped over and he fell to the floor with a solid thump.

Helping him upright, Eragon said, “I think you’d better stay here for the

night. You’re in no condition to go down those stairs in the dark.”

Orik agreed with cheery indifference. He allowed Eragon to remove his

mail and bundle him onto one side of the bed. Afterward, Eragon sighed,

covered the lights, and lay on his side of the mattress.

He fell asleep hearing the dwarf mutter, “. . Hvedra. . Hvedra. .

Hvedra. .”

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THE NATURE OF EVIL

Bright morning arrived all too soon.

Jolted to awareness by the buzz of the vibrating timepiece, Eragon

grabbed his hunting knife and sprang out of bed, expecting an attack. He

gasped as his body shrieked with protest from the abuse of the past two

days.

Blinking away tears, Eragon rewound the timepiece. Orik was gone; the

dwarf must have slipped away in the wee hours of the morning. With a

groan, Eragon hobbled to the wash closet for his daily ablutions, like an

old man afflicted by rheumatism.

He and Saphira waited by the tree for ten minutes before they were

met by a solemn, black-haired elf. The elf bowed, touched two fingers to

his lips—which Eragon mirrored—and then preempted Eragon by saying,

“May good fortune rule over you.”

“And may the stars watch over you,” replied Eragon. “Did Oromis send

you?”

The elf ignored him and said to Saphira, “Well met, dragon. I am Vanir

of House Haldthin.” Eragon scowled with annoyance.

Well met, Vanir.

Only then did the elf address Eragon: “I will show you where you may

practice with your blade.” He strode away, not waiting for Eragon to

catch up.

The sparring yard was dotted with elves of both sexes fighting in pairs

and groups. Their extraordinary physical gifts resulted in flurries of blows

so quick and fast, they sounded like bursts of hail striking an iron bell.

Under the trees that fringed the yard, individual elves performed the

Rimgar with more grace and flexibility than Eragon thought he would

ever achieve.

After everyone on the field stopped and bowed to Saphira, Vanir un-

sheathed his narrow blade. “If you will guard your sword, Silver Hand, we

can begin.”

Eragon eyed the inhuman swordsmanship of the other elves with trepi-

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dation. Why do I have to do this? he asked. I’ll just be humiliated.

You’ll be fine, said Saphira, yet he could sense her concern for him.

Right.

As he prepared Zar’roc, Eragon’s hands trembled with dread. Instead of

throwing himself into the fray, he fought Vanir from a distance, dodging,

sidestepping, and doing everything possible to avoid triggering another fit.

Despite Eragon’s evasions, Vanir touched him four times in rapid succes-

sion—once each on his ribs, shin, and both shoulders.

Vanir’s initial expression of stoic impassivity soon devolved into open

contempt. Dancing forward, he slid his blade up Zar’roc’s length while at

the same time twirling Zar’roc in a circle, wrenching Eragon’s wrist. Er-

agon allowed Zar’roc to fly out of his hand rather than resist the elf’s su-

perior strength.

Vanir dropped his sword onto Eragon’s neck and said, “Dead.” Shrug-

ging off the sword, Eragon trudged over to retrieve Zar’roc. “Dead,” said

Vanir. “How do you expect to defeat Galbatorix like this? I expected

better, even from a weakling human.”

“Then why don’t you fight Galbatorix yourself instead of hiding in Du

Weldenvarden?”

Vanir stiffened with outrage. “Because,” he said, cool and haughty, “I’m

not a Rider. And if I were, I would not be such a coward as you.”

No one moved or spoke on the field.

His back to Vanir, Eragon leaned on Zar’roc and craned his neck to-

ward the sky, snarling to himself. He knows nothing. This is just one more

test to overcome.

“Coward, I say. Your blood is as thin as the rest of your race’s. I think

that Saphira was confused by Galbatorix’s wiles and made the wrong

choice of Rider.” The spectating elves gasped at Vanir’s words and mut-

tered among themselves with open disapproval for his atrocious breach

of etiquette.

Eragon ground his teeth. He could stand insults to himself, but not to

Saphira. She was already moving when his pent-up frustration, fear, and

pain burst within him and he whirled around, the tip of Zar’roc whistling

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through the air.

The blow would have killed Vanir had he not blocked it at the last

second. He looked surprised by the ferocity of the attack. Holding noth-

ing in reserve, Eragon drove Vanir to the center of the field, jabbing and

slashing like a madman—determined to hurt the elf however he could.

He nicked Vanir on the hip with enough force to draw blood, even with

Zar’roc’s blunted edge.

At that instant, Eragon’s back ruptured in an explosion of agony so in-

tense, he experienced it with all five senses: as a deafening, crashing wa-

terfall of sound; a metallic taste that coated his tongue; an acrid, eye-

watering stench in his nostrils, redolent of vinegar; pulsing colors; and,

above all, the feeling that Durza had just laid open his back.

He could see Vanir standing over him with a derisive sneer. It occurred

to Eragon that Vanir was very young.

After the seizure, Eragon wiped the blood from his mouth with his

hand and showed it to Vanir, asking, “Thin enough?” Vanir did not deign