Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (65 page)

them in order to protect each other from unnecessary suffering, even insan-

ity. And since the soul cannot be torn from the flesh, you must resist the

temptation to try to take your partner’s soul into your own body and shelter

it there, as that will result in both your deaths. Even if it were possible, it

would be an abomination to have multiple consciousnesses in one body.

“How terrible,” said Eragon, “to die alone, separate even from the one

who is closest to you.”

Everyone dies alone, Eragon. Whether you are a king on a battlefield or a

lowly peasant lying in bed among your family, no one can accompany you

into the void.... Now I will have you practice separating your conscious-

nesses. Start by...

Eragon stared at the tray of dinner left in the anteroom of the tree

house. He cataloged the contents: bread with hazelnut butter, berries,

beans, a bowl of leafy greens, two hard-boiled eggs—which, in accor-

dance with the elves’ beliefs, were unfertilized—and a stoppered jug of

fresh spring water. He knew that each dish was prepared with the ut-

most care, that the elves lavished all of their culinary skill upon his meals,

and that not even Islanzadí ate better than him.

He could not bear the sight of the tray.

I want meat, he growled, stomping back into the bedroom. Saphira

looked up at him from her dais. I’d even settle for fish or fowl, anything

besides this never-ending stream of vegetables. They don’t fill up my stom-

ach. I’m not a horse; why should I be fed like one?

Saphira unfolded her legs, walked to the edge of the teardrop gap over-

looking Ellesméra, and said, I have needed to eat these past few days.

Would you like to join me? You can cook as much meat as you like and the

elves will never know.

That I would, he said, brightening. Should I get the saddle?

413

We won’t go that far.

Eragon fetched his supply of salt, herbs, and other seasonings from his

bags and then, careful not to overexert himself, climbed into the gap be-

tween the spikes along Saphira’s spine.

Launching herself off the ground, Saphira let an updraft waft her high

above the city, whereupon she glided off the column of warm air, slip-

ping down and sideways as she followed a braided stream through Du

Weldenvarden to a pond some miles thence. She landed and hunched

low to the ground, making it easier for Eragon to dismount.

She said, There are rabbits in the grass by the edge of the water. See if you

can catch them. In the meantime, I go to hunt deer.

What, you don’t want to share your own prey?

No, I don’t, she replied grumpily. Though I will if those oversized mice

elude you.

He grinned as she took off, then faced the tangled clumps of grass and

cow parsnip that surrounded the pond and set about procuring his din-

ner.

Less than a minute later, Eragon collected a brace of dead rabbits from

their nest. It had taken him but an instant to locate the rabbits with his

mind and then kill them with one of the twelve death words. What he

had learned from Oromis had drained the challenge and excitement from

the chase. I didn’t even have to stalk them, he thought, remembering the

years he had spent honing his tracking abilities. He grimaced with sour

amusement. I can finally bag any game I want and it seems meaningless to

me. At least when I hunted with a pebble with Brom, it was still a chal-

lenge, but this... this is slaughter.

The warning of the sword-shaper Rhunön returned to him then:

“When you can have anything you want by uttering a few words, the goal

matters not, only the journey to it.”

I should have paid more attention to her, realized Eragon.

With practiced movements, he drew his old hunting knife, skinned and

gutted the rabbits, and then—putting aside the hearts, lungs, kidneys, and

livers—buried the viscera so that the scent would not attract scavengers.

Next he dug a pit, filled it with wood, and lit a small blaze with magic,

414

since he had not thought to bring his flint and steel. He tended the fire

until he had a bed of coals. Cutting a wand of dogwood, he stripped the

bark and seared the wood over the coals to burn off the bitter sap, then

spitted the carcasses on the wand and suspended them between two

forked branches pounded into the ground. For the organs, he placed a flat

stone upon a section of the coals and greased it with fat for a makeshift

frying pan.

Saphira found him crouched by the fire, slowly turning the wand to

cook the meat evenly. She landed with a limp deer hanging from her jaws

and the remains of a second deer clutched in her talons. Measuring her

length out in the fragrant grass, she proceeded to gorge upon her prey,

eating the entire deer, including the hide. Bones cracked between her ra-

zor teeth, like branches snapping in a gale.

When the rabbits were ready, Eragon waved them in the air to cool

them, then stared at the glistening, golden meat, the smell of which he

found almost unbearably enticing.

As he opened his mouth to take the first bite, his thoughts turned un-

bidden to his meditations. He remembered his excursions into the minds

of birds and squirrels and mice, how full of energy they felt and how vig-

orously they fought for the right to exist in the face of danger. And if this

life is all they have...

Gripped by revulsion, Eragon thrust the meat away, as appalled by the

fact that he had killed the rabbits as if he had murdered two people. His

stomach churned and threatened to make him purge himself.

Saphira paused in her feast to eye him with concern.

Taking a long breath, Eragon pressed his fists against his knees in an at-

tempt to master himself and understand why he was so strongly affected.

His entire life he had eaten meat, fish, and fowl. He enjoyed it. And yet it

now made him physically ill to consider dining upon the rabbits. He

looked at Saphira. I can’t do it, he said.

It is the way of the world that everything eats everything else. Why do you

resist the order of things?

He pondered her question. He did not condemn those who did partake

of flesh—he knew that it was the only means of survival for many a poor

farmer. But he could no longer do so himself unless faced with starvation.

Having been inside of a rabbit and having felt what a rabbit feels. . eating

415

one would be akin to eating himself. Because we can better ourselves, he

answered Saphira. Should we give in to our impulses to hurt or kill any who

anger us, to take whatever we want from those who are weaker, and, in gen-

eral, to disregard the feelings of others? We are made imperfect and must

guard against our flaws lest they destroy us. He gestured at the rabbits. As

Oromis said, why should we cause unnecessary suffering?

Would you deny all of your desires, then?

I would deny those that are destructive.

You are adamant on this?

Aye.

In that case, said Saphira, advancing upon him, these will make a fine

dessert. In a blink, she gulped down the rabbits and then licked clean the

stone with the organs, abrading the slate with the barbs on her tongue. I,

at least, cannot live on plants alone—that is food for prey, not a dragon. I

refuse to be ashamed about how I must sustain myself. Everything has its

place in the world. Even a rabbit knows that.

I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, he said, patting her on the leg.

This is a personal decision. I won’t force my choice upon anyone.

Very wise, she said with a touch of sarcasm.

416

BROKEN EGG AND SCATTERED NEST

“Concentrate, Eragon,” said Oromis, though not unkindly.

Eragon blinked and rubbed his eyes in an attempt to focus on the

glyphs that decorated the curling parchment paper before him. “Sorry,

Master.” Weariness dragged upon him like lead weights tied to his limbs.

He squinted at the curved and spiked glyphs, raised his goose-feather

quill, and began to copy them again.

Through the window behind Oromis, the green shelf on top of the

Crags of Tel’naeír was streaked with shadows from the descending sun.

Beyond, feathery clouds banded the sky.

Eragon’s hand jerked as a line of pain shot up his leg, and he broke the

nib of the quill and sprayed ink across the paper, ruining it. Across from

him, Oromis also started, clutching his right arm.

Saphira! cried Eragon. He reached for her with his mind and, to his be-

wilderment, was deflected by impenetrable barriers that she had erected

around herself. He could barely feel her. It was as if he were trying to

grasp an orb of polished granite coated with oil. She kept slipping away

from him.

He looked at Oromis. “Something’s happened to them, hasn’t it?”

“I know not. Glaedr returns, but he refuses to talk to me.” Taking his

blade, Naegling, from the wall, Oromis strode outside and stood upon the

edge of the crags, head uplifted as he waited for the gold dragon to ap-

pear.

Eragon joined him, thinking of everything—probable and improb-

able—that might have befallen Saphira. The two dragons had left at

noon, flying north to a place called the Stone of Broken Eggs, where the

wild dragons had nested in ages past. It was an easy trip. It couldn’t be Ur-

gals; the elves don’t allow them into Du Weldenvarden, he told himself.

At last Glaedr came into view high above as a winking speck among

the darkening clouds. As he descended to land, Eragon saw a wound on

the back of the dragon’s right foreleg, a tear in his lapped scales as wide as

Eragon’s hand. Scarlet blood laced the grooves between the surrounding

scales.

417

The moment Glaedr touched the ground, Oromis rushed toward him,

only to stop when the dragon growled at him. Hopping on his injured leg,

Glaedr crawled to the edge of the forest, where he curled up beneath the

outstretched boughs, his back to Eragon, and set about licking clean his

wound.

Oromis went and knelt in the clover by Glaedr, keeping his distance

with calm patience. It was obvious that he would wait as long as need be.

Eragon fidgeted as the minutes elapsed. Finally, by some unspoken signal,

Glaedr allowed Oromis to draw near and inspect his leg. Magic glowed

from Oromis’s gedwëy ignasia as he placed his hand over the rent in

Glaedr’s scales.

“How is he?” asked Eragon when Oromis withdrew.

“It looks a fearsome wound, but it is no more than a scratch for one so

large as Glaedr.”

“What about Saphira, though? I still can’t contact her.”

“You must go to her,” said Oromis. “She is hurt, in more ways than one.

Glaedr said little of what transpired, but I have guessed much, and you

would do well to hurry.”

Eragon glanced about for any means of transportation and groaned with

anguish when he confirmed that none existed. “How can I reach her? It’s

too far to run, there’s no trail, and I can’t—”

“Calm thyself, Eragon. What was the name of the steed who bore you

hence from Sílthrim?”

It took Eragon a moment to recall. “Folkvír.”

“Then summon him with your skill at gramarye. Name him and your

need in this, the most powerful of languages, and he will come to your

assistance.”

Letting the magic suffuse his voice, Eragon cried out for Folkvír, send-

ing his plea echoing over the forested hills toward Ellesméra with all the

urgency he could muster.

Oromis nodded, satisfied. “Well done.”

Twelve minutes later, Folkvír emerged like a silver ghost from the dark

418

shadows among the trees, tossing his mane and snorting with excitement.

The stallion’s sides heaved from the speed of his journey.

Throwing a leg over the small elven horse, Eragon said, “I’ll return as

soon as I can.”

“Do what you must,” said Oromis.

Then Eragon touched his heels to Folkvír’s ribs and shouted, “Run,

Folkvír! Run!” The horse leaped forward and bounded into Du Welden-

varden, threading his way with incredible dexterity between the gnarled

pines. Eragon guided him toward Saphira with images from his mind.

Lacking a trail through the underbrush, a horse like Snowfire would

have taken three or four hours to reach the Stone of Broken Eggs. Folkvír

managed the trip in a bit over an hour.

At the base of the basalt monolith—which ascended from the forest

floor like a mottled green pillar and stood a good hundred feet higher

than the trees—Eragon murmured, “Halt,” then slid to the ground. He

looked at the distant top of the Stone of Broken Eggs. Saphira was up

there.

He walked around the perimeter, searching for a means to achieve the

pinnacle, but in vain, for the weathered formation was impregnable. It

possessed no fissures, crevices, or other faults near enough to the ground

that he could use to climb its sides.

This might hurt, he thought.

“Stay here,” he told Folkvír. The horse looked at him with intelligent

eyes. “Graze if you want, but stay here, okay?” Folkvír nickered and, with

his velvet muzzle, nudged Eragon’s arm. “Yes, good boy. You’ve done

well.”