Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (55 page)

to respond, but rather sheathed his sword and walked away.

“Where are you going?” demanded Eragon. “We have unfinished busi-

ness, you and I.”

“You are in no fit condition to spar,” scoffed the elf.

“Try me.” Eragon might be inferior to the elves, but he refused to give

them the satisfaction of fulfilling their low expectations of him. He

would earn their respect through sheer persistence, if nothing else.

He insisted on completing Oromis’s assigned hour, after which Saphira

marched up to Vanir and touched him on the chest with the point of

one of her ivory talons. Dead, she said. Vanir paled. The other elves

edged away from him.

Once they were in the air, Saphira said, Oromis was right.

About what?

You give more of yourself when you have an opponent.

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At Oromis’s hut, the day resumed its usual pattern: Saphira accompa-

nied Glaedr for her instruction while Eragon remained with Oromis.

Eragon was horrified when he discovered that Oromis expected him to

do the Rimgar in addition to his earlier exercises. It took all of his courage

to obey. His apprehension proved groundless, though, for the Dance of

Snake and Crane was too gentle to injure him.

That, coupled with his meditation in the secluded glade, provided Er-

agon with his first opportunity since the previous day to order his

thoughts and consider the question that Oromis had posed him.

While he did, he observed his red ants invade a smaller, rival anthill,

overrunning the inhabitants and stealing their resources. By the end of the

massacre, only a handful of the rival ants were left alive, alone and pur-

poseless in the vast and hostile pine-needle barrens.

Like the dragons in Alagaësia, thought Eragon. His connection to the

ants vanished as he considered the dragons’ unhappy fate. Bit by bit, an

answer to his problem revealed itself to him, an answer that he could live

with and believe in.

He finished his meditations and returned to the hut. This time Oromis

seemed reasonably satisfied with what Eragon had accomplished.

As Oromis served the midday meal, Eragon said, “I know why fighting

Galbatorix is worth it, though thousands of people may die.”

“Oh?” Oromis seated himself. “Do tell me.”

“Because Galbatorix has already caused more suffering over the past

hundred years than we ever could in a single generation. And unlike a

normal tyrant, we cannot wait for him to die. He could rule for centuries

or millennia—persecuting and tormenting people the entire time—unless

we stop him. If he became strong enough, he would march on the

dwarves and you here in Du Weldenvarden and kill or enslave both races.

And. .,” Eragon rubbed the heel of his palm against the edge of the table,

“. . because rescuing the two eggs from Galbatorix is the only way to save

the dragons.”

The strident warble of Oromis’s teakettle intruded, escalating in vol-

ume until Eragon’s ears rang. Standing, Oromis hooked the kettle off the

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cookfire and poured the water for blueberry tea. The creases around his

eyes softened. “Now,” he said, “you understand.”

“I understand, but I take no pleasure in it.”

“Nor should you. But now we can be confident that you won’t shrink

from the path when you are confronted by the injustices and atrocities

that the Varden will inevitably commit. We cannot afford to have you

consumed by doubts when your strength and focus are most needed.”

Oromis steepled his fingers and gazed into the dark mirror of his tea, con-

templating whatever he saw in its tenebrous reflection. “Do you believe

that Galbatorix is evil?”

“Of course!”

“Do you believe that he considers himself evil?”

“No, I doubt it.”

Oromis tapped his forefingers against each other. “Then you must also

believe that Durza was evil?”

The fragmented memories Eragon had gleaned from Durza when they

fought in Tronjheim returned to him now, reminding him how the young

Shade—Carsaib, then—had been enslaved by the wraiths he had sum-

moned to avenge the death of his mentor, Haeg. “He wasn’t evil himself,

but the spirits that controlled him were.”

“And what of the Urgals?” asked Oromis, sipping his tea. “Are they

evil?”

Eragon’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his spoon. “When I think of

death, I see an Urgal’s face. They’re worse than beasts. The things they

have done. .” He shook his head, unable to continue.

“Eragon, what kind of opinion would you form of humans if all you

knew of them were the actions of your warriors on the field of battle?”

“That’s not. .” He took a deep breath. “It’s different. Urgals deserve to be

wiped out, every last one of them.”

“Even their females and children? The ones who haven’t harmed you

and likely never will? The innocents? Would you kill them and condemn

an entire race to the void?”

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“They wouldn’t spare us, given the chance.”

“Eragon!” exclaimed Oromis in biting tones. “I never want to hear you

use that excuse again, that because someone else has done—or would

do—something means that you should too. It’s lazy, repugnant, and in-

dicative of an inferior mind. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Master.”

The elf raised his mug to his lips and drank, his bright eyes fixed on Er-

agon the entire time. “What do you actually know of Urgals?”

“I know their strengths, weaknesses, and how to kill them. It’s all I need

to know.”

“Why do they hate and fight humans, though? What about their history

and legends, or the way in which they live?”

“Does it matter?”

Oromis sighed. “Just remember,” he said gently, “that at a certain point,

your enemies may have to become your allies. Such is the nature of life.”

Eragon resisted the urge to argue. He swirled his own tea in its mug, ac-

celerating the liquid into a black whirlpool with a white lens of foam at

the bottom of the vortex. “Is that why Galbatorix enlisted the Urgals?”

“That is not an example I would have chosen, but yes.”

“It seems strange that he befriended them. After all, they were the ones

who killed his dragon. Look what he did to us, the Riders, and we

weren’t even responsible for his loss.”

“Ah,” said Oromis, “mad Galbatorix may be, but he’s still as cunning as

a fox. I guess that he intended to use the Urgals to destroy the Varden

and the dwarves—and others, if he had triumphed in Farthen Dûr—

thereby removing two of his enemies while simultaneously weakening

the Urgals so that he could dispose of them at his leisure.”

Study of the ancient language devoured the afternoon, whereupon they

took up the practice of magic. Much of Oromis’s lectures concerned the

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proper way in which to control various forms of energy, such as light,

heat, electricity, and even gravity. He explained that since these forces

consumed strength faster than any other type of spell, it was safer to find

them already in existence in nature and then shape them with gramarye,

instead of trying to create them from nothing.

Abandoning the subject, Oromis asked, “How would you kill with

magic?”

“I’ve done it many ways,” said Eragon. “I’ve hunted with a pebble—

moving and aiming it with magic—as well as using the word jierda to

break Urgals’ legs and necks. Once, with thrysta, I stopped a man’s heart.”

“There are more efficient methods,” revealed Oromis. “What does it

take to kill a man, Eragon? A sword through the chest? A broken neck?

The loss of blood? All it takes is for a single artery in the brain to be

pinched off, or for certain nerves to be severed. With the right spell, you

could obliterate an army.”

“I should have thought of that in Farthen Dûr,” said Eragon, disgusted

with himself. Not just Farthen Dûr either, but also when the Kull chased us

from the Hadarac Desert. “Again, why didn’t Brom teach me this?”

“Because he did not expect you to face an army for months or years to

come; it is not a tool given to untested Riders.”

“If it’s so easy to kill people, though, what’s the point of us or Galba-

torix raising an army?”

“To be succinct, tactics. Magicians are vulnerable to physical attack

when they are embroiled in their mental struggles. Therefore, they need

warriors to protect them. And the warriors must be shielded, at least in

part, from magical attacks, else they would be slain within minutes.

These limitations mean that when armies confront one another, their

magicians are scattered throughout the bulk of their forces, close to the

edge but not so close as to be in danger. The magicians on both sides

open their minds and attempt to sense if anyone is using or is about to

use magic. Since their enemies might be beyond their mental reach, ma-

gicians also erect wards around themselves and their warriors to stop or

lessen long-range attacks, such as a pebble sent flying toward their head

from a mile away.”

“Surely one man can’t defend an entire army,” said Eragon.

353

“Not alone, but with enough magicians, you can provide a reasonable

amount of protection. The greatest danger in this sort of conflict is that a

clever magician may think of a unique attack that can bypass your wards

without tripping them. That itself could be enough to decide a battle.

“Also,” said Oromis, “you must keep in mind that the ability to use

magic is exceedingly rare among the races. We elves are no exception,

although we have a greater allotment of spellweavers than most, as a re-

sult of oaths we bound ourselves with centuries ago. The majority of

those blessed with magic have little or no appreciable talent; they strug-

gle to heal even so much as a bruise.”

Eragon nodded. He had encountered magicians like that in the Varden.

“But it still takes the same amount of energy to accomplish a task.”

“Energy, yes, but lesser magicians find it harder than you or I do to feel

the flow of magic and immerse themselves in it. Few magicians are strong

enough to pose a threat to an entire army. And those who are usually

spend the bulk of their time during battles evading, tracking, or fighting

their opposites, which is fortunate from the standpoint of ordinary war-

riors, else they would all soon be killed.”

Troubled, Eragon said, “The Varden don’t have many magicians.”

“That is one reason why you are so important.”

A moment passed as Eragon reflected on what Oromis had told him.

“These wards, do they only drain energy from you when they are acti-

vated?”

“Aye.”

“Then, given enough time, you could acquire countless layers of wards.

You could make yourself. .” He struggled with the ancient language as he

attempted to express himself. “. . untouchable?. . impregnable?. . impreg-

nable to any assault, magical or physical.”

“Wards,” said Oromis, “rely upon the strength of your body. If that

strength is exceeded, you die. No matter how many wards you have, you

will only be able to block attacks so long as your body can sustain the

output of energy.”

“And Galbatorix’s strength has been increasing each year. . How is that

possible?”

354

It was a rhetorical question, yet when Oromis remained silent, his al-

mond eyes fixed on a trio of swallows pirouetting overhead, Eragon real-

ized that the elf was considering how best to answer him. The birds

chased each other for several minutes. When they flitted from view,

Oromis said, “It is not appropriate to have this discussion at the present.”

“Then you know?” exclaimed Eragon, astonished.

“I do. But that information must wait until later in your training. You

are not ready for it.” Oromis looked at Eragon, as if expecting him to ob-

ject.

Eragon bowed. “As you wish, Master.” He could never prize the infor-

mation out of Oromis until the elf was willing to share it, so why try?

Still, he wondered what could be so dangerous that Oromis dared not tell

him, and why the elves had kept it secret from the Varden. Another

thought presented itself to him, and he said, “If battles with magicians are

conducted like you said, then why did Ajihad let me fight without wards

in Farthen Dûr? I didn’t even know that I needed to keep my mind open

for enemies. And why didn’t Arya kill most or all of the Urgals? No ma-

gicians were there to oppose her except for Durza, and he couldn’t have

defended his troops when he was underground.”

“Did not Ajihad have Arya or one of Du Vrangr Gata set defenses

around you?” demanded Oromis.

“No, Master.”

“And you fought thus?”

“Yes, Master.”

Oromis’s eyes unfocused, withdrawing into himself as he stood mo-

tionless on the greensward. He spoke without warning: “I have consulted

Arya, and she says that the Twins of the Varden were ordered to assess

your abilities. They told Ajihad you were competent in all magic, includ-

ing wards. Neither Ajihad nor Arya doubted their judgment on that mat-

ter.”

“Those smooth-tongued, bald-pated, tick-infested, treacherous dogs,”

swore Eragon. “They tried to get me killed!” Reverting to his own lan-