Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (77 page)

and find a new land in which to build a life for ourselves. There we could

wait until Galbatorix is no more. Even he cannot endure forever. The only

certainty is that, eventually, all things shall pass.

They moved on then from tactics to logistics, and here the debate be-

came far more acrimonious as the Council of Elders argued with Orrin’s

advisers over the distribution of responsibilities between the Varden and

Surda: who should pay for this or that, provide rations for laborers who

worked for both groups, manage the provisions for their respective war-

riors, and how numerous other related subjects should be dealt with.

In the midst of the verbal fray, Orrin pulled a scroll from his belt and

said to Nasuada, “On the matter of finances, would you be so kind as to

explain a rather curious item that was brought to my attention?”

“I’ll do my best, Sire.”

“I hold in my hand a complaint from the weavers’ guild, which asserts

that weavers throughout Surda have lost a good share of their profits be-

cause the textile market has been inundated with extraordinarily cheap

lace—lace they swear originates with the Varden.” A pained look crossed

his face. “It seems foolish to even ask, but does their claim have basis in

fact, and if so, why would the Varden do such a thing?”

Nasuada made no attempt to hide her smile. “If you remember, Sire,

when you refused to lend the Varden more gold, you advised me to find

another way for us to support ourselves.”

“So I did. What of it?” asked Orrin, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, it struck me that while lace takes a long time to make by hand,

which is why it’s so expensive, lace is quite easy to produce using magic

due to the small amount of energy involved. You of all people, as a natu-

ral philosopher, should appreciate that. By selling our lace here and in the

Empire, we have been able to fully fund our efforts. The Varden no

longer want for food or shelter.”

Few things in her life pleased Nasuada so much as Orrin’s incredulous

expression at that instant. The scroll frozen halfway between his chin and

the table, his slightly parted mouth, and the quizzical frown upon his

brow conspired to give him the stunned appearance of a man who had

just seen something he did not understand. She savored the sight.

“Lace?” he sputtered.

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“Yes, Sire.”

“You can’t fight Galbatorix with lace !”

“Why not, Sire?”

He struggled for a moment, then growled, “Because. . because it’s not

respectable, that’s why. What bard would compose an epic about our

deeds and write about lace ?”

“We do not fight in order to have epics written in our praise.”

“Then blast epics! How am I supposed to answer the weavers’ guild? By

selling your lace so cheaply, you hurt people’s livelihoods and undermine

our economy. It won’t do. It won’t do at all.”

Letting her smile become sweet and warm, Nasuada said in her friend-

liest tone, “Oh dear. If it’s too much of a burden for your treasury, the

Varden would be more than willing to offer you a loan in return for the

kindness you’ve shown us. . at a suitable rate of interest, of course.”

The Council of Elders managed to maintain their decorum, but behind

Nasuada, Elva uttered a quick laugh of amusement.

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RED BLADE, WHITE BLADE

The moment the sun appeared over the tree-lined horizon, Eragon

deepened his breathing, willed his heart to quicken, and opened his eyes

as he returned to full awareness. He had not been asleep, for he had not

slept since his transformation. When he felt weary and lay himself down

to rest, he entered a state that was unto a waking dream. There he beheld

many wondrous visions and walked among the gray shades of his memo-

ries, yet all the while remained aware of his surroundings.

He watched the sunrise and thoughts of Arya filled his mind, as they

had every hour since the Agaetí Blödhren two days before. The morning

after the celebration, he had gone looking for her in Tialdarí Hall—

intending to try and make amends for his behavior—only to discover that

she had already left for Surda. When will I see her again? he wondered. In

the clear light of day, he had realized just how much the elves’ and drag-

ons’ magic had dulled his wits during the Agaetí Blödhren. I may have

acted a fool, but it wasn’t entirely my fault. I was no more responsible for

my conduct than if I were drunk.

Still, he had meant every word he said to Arya—even if normally he

would not have revealed so much of himself. Her rejection cut Eragon to

the quick. Freed of the enchantments that had clouded his mind, he was

forced to admit that she was probably right, that the difference between

their ages was too great to overcome. It was a difficult thing for him to

accept, and once he had, the knowledge only increased his anguish.

Eragon had heard the expression “heartbroken” before. Until then, he

always considered it a fanciful description, not an actual physical symp-

tom. But now he felt a deep ache in his chest—like that of a sore mus-

cle—and each beat of his heart pained him.

His only comfort was Saphira. In those two days, she had never criti-

cized what he had done, nor did she leave his side for more than a few

minutes at a time, lending him the support of her companionship. She

talked to him a great deal as well, doing her best to draw him out of his

shell of silence.

To keep himself from brooding over Arya, Eragon took Orik’s puzzle

ring from his nightstand and rolled it between his fingers, marveling at

how keen his senses had become. He could feel every flaw in the twisted

metal. As he studied the ring, he perceived a pattern in the arrangement

of the gold bands, a pattern that had escaped him before. Trusting his in-

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stinct, he manipulated the bands in the sequence suggested by his obser-

vation. To his delight, the eight pieces fit together perfectly, forming a

solid whole. He slid the ring onto the fourth finger of his right hand, ad-

miring how the woven bands caught the light.

You could not do that before, observed Saphira from the bowl in the

floor where she slept.

I can see many things that were once hidden to me.

Eragon went to the wash closet and performed his morning ablutions,

including removing the stubble from his cheeks with a spell. Despite the

fact that he now closely resembled an elf, he had retained the ability to

grow a beard.

Orik was waiting for them when Eragon and Saphira arrived at the

sparring field. His eyes brightened as Eragon lifted his hand and displayed

the completed puzzle ring. “You solved it, then!”

“It took me longer than I expected,” said Eragon, “but yes. Are you here

to practice as well?”

“Eh. I already got in a bit o’ ax work with an elf who took a rather

fiendish delight in cracking me over the head. No. . I came to watch you

fight.”

“You’ve seen me fight before,” pointed out Eragon.

“Not for a while, I haven’t.”

“You mean you’re curious to see how I’ve changed.” Orik shrugged in

response.

Vanir approached from across the field. He cried, “Are you ready,

Shadeslayer?” The elf’s condescending demeanor had lessened since their

last duel before the Agaetí Blödhren, but not by much.

“I’m ready.”

Eragon and Vanir squared off against each other in an open area of the

field. Emptying his mind, Eragon grasped and drew Zar’roc as fast as he

could. To his surprise, the sword felt as if it weighed no more than a wil-

low wand. Without the expected resistance, Eragon’s arm snapped

straight, tearing the sword from his hand and sending it whirling twenty

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yards to his right, where it buried itself in the trunk of a pine tree.

“Can you not even hold on to your blade, Rider?” demanded Vanir.

“I apologize, Vanir-vodhr,” gasped Eragon. He clutched his elbow, rub-

bing the bruised joint to lessen the pain. “I misjudged my strength.”

“See that it does not happen again.” Going to the tree, Vanir gripped

Zar’roc’s hilt and tried to pull the sword free. The weapon remained mo-

tionless. Vanir’s eyebrows met as he frowned at the unyielding crimson

blade, as if he suspected some form of trickery. Bracing himself, the elf

heaved backward and, with the crack of wood, yanked Zar’roc out of the

pine.

Eragon accepted the sword from Vanir and hefted Zar’roc, troubled by

how light it was. Something’s wrong, he thought.

“Take your place!”

This time it was Vanir who initiated the fight. In a single bound, he

crossed the distance between them and thrust his blade toward Eragon’s

right shoulder. To Eragon, it seemed as if the elf moved slower than

usual, as if Vanir’s reflexes had been reduced to the level of a human’s. It

was easy for Eragon to deflect Vanir’s sword, blue sparks flying from the

metal as their blades grated against one another.

Vanir landed with an astonished expression. He struck again, and Er-

agon evaded the sword by leaning back, like a tree swaying in the wind.

In quick succession, Vanir rained a score of heavy blows upon Eragon,

each of which Eragon dodged or blocked, using Zar’roc’s sheath as often

as the sword to foil Vanir’s onslaught.

Eragon soon realized that the spectral dragon from the Agaetí Blödhren

had done more than alter his appearance; it had also granted him the

elves’ physical abilities. In strength and speed, Eragon now matched even

the most athletic elf.

Fired by that knowledge and a desire to test his limits, Eragon jumped

as high as he could. Zar’roc flashed crimson in the sunlight as he flew

skyward, soaring more than ten feet above the ground before he flipped

like an acrobat and came down behind Vanir, facing the direction from

which he had started.

A fierce laugh erupted from Eragon. No more was he helpless before

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elves, Shades, and other creatures of magic. No more would he suffer the

elves’ contempt. No more would he have to rely on Saphira or Arya to

rescue him from enemies like Durza.

He charged Vanir, and the field rang with a furious din as they strove

against each other, raging back and forth upon the trampled grass. The

force of their blows created gusts of wind that whipped their hair into

tangled disarray. Overhead, the trees shook and dropped their needles.

The duel lasted long into the morning, for even with Eragon’s newfound

skill, Vanir was still a formidable opponent. But in the end, Eragon would

not be denied. Playing Zar’roc in a circle, he darted past Vanir’s guard and

struck him upon the upper arm, breaking the bone.

Vanir dropped his blade, his face turning white with shock. “How swift

is your sword,” he said, and Eragon recognized the famous line from The

Lay of Umhodan.

“By the gods!” exclaimed Orik. “That was the best swordsmanship I’ve

ever seen, and I was there when you fought Arya in Farthen Dûr.”

Then Vanir did what Eragon had never expected: the elf twisted his

uninjured hand in the gesture of fealty, placed it upon his sternum, and

bowed. “I beg your pardon for my earlier behavior, Eragon-elda. I thought

that you had consigned my race to the void, and out of my fear I acted

most shamefully. However, it seems that your race no longer endangers

our cause.” In a grudging voice, he added: “You are now worthy of the ti-

tle Rider.”

Eragon bowed in return. “You honor me. I’m sorry that I injured you so

badly. Will you allow me to heal your arm?”

“No, I shall let nature tend to it at her own pace, as a memento that I

once crossed blades with Eragon Shadeslayer. You needn’t fear that it will

disrupt our sparring tomorrow; I am equally good with my left hand.”

They both bowed again, and then Vanir departed.

Orik slapped a hand on his thigh and said, “Now we have a chance at

victory, a real chance! I can feel it in my bones. Bones like stone, they say.

Ah, this’ll please Hrothgar and Nasuada to no end.”

Eragon kept his peace and concentrated on removing the block from

Zar’roc’s edges, but he said to Saphira, If brawn were all that was required

to depose Galbatorix, the elves would have done it long ago. Still, he could

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not help being pleased by his heightened prowess, as well as by his long-

awaited reprieve from the torment of his back. Without the constant

bursts of pain, it was as if a haze had been lifted from his mind, allowing

him to think clearly once again.

A few minutes remained before they were supposed to meet with

Oromis and Glaedr, so Eragon took his bow and quiver from where they

hung on Saphira’s back and walked to the range where elves practiced

archery. Since the elves’ bows were much more powerful than his, their

padded targets were both too small and too far away for him. He had to

shoot from halfway down the range.

Taking his place, Eragon nocked an arrow and slowly pulled back the

string, delighted by how easy it had become. He aimed, released the ar-

row, and held his position, waiting to see if he would hit his mark. Like a

maddened hornet, the dart buzzed toward the target and buried itself in