Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (78 page)

the center. He grinned. Again and again, he fired at the target, his speed

increasing with his confidence until he loosed thirty arrows in a minute.

At the thirty-first arrow, he pulled on the string slightly harder than he

had ever done—or was capable of doing—before. With an explosive re-

port, the yew bow broke in half underneath his left hand, scratching his

fingers and discharging a burst of splinters from the back of the bow. His

hand went numb from the jolt.

Eragon stared at the remains of his weapon, dismayed by the loss. Gar-

row had made it as a birthday present for him over three years ago. Since

then, hardly a week went by when Eragon had not used his bow. It had

helped him to provide food for his family on numerous occasions when

they would have otherwise gone hungry. With it, he had killed his first

deer. With it, he had killed his first Urgal. And through it, he had first

used magic. Losing his bow was like losing an old friend who could be

relied upon in even the worst situation.

Saphira sniffed the two pieces of wood dangling from his grip and said,

It seems you need a new stick thrower. He grunted—in no mood to talk—

and stomped out to retrieve his arrows.

From the open field, he and Saphira flew to the white Crags of

Tel’naeír and presented themselves to Oromis, who was seated on a stool

in front of his hut, gazing out over the cliff with his farseeing eyes. He

said, “Have you entirely recovered, Eragon, from the potent magic of the

Blood-oath Celebration?”

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“I have, Master.”

A long silence followed as Oromis drank from a cup of blackberry tea

and resumed contemplating the ancient forest. Eragon waited without

complaint; he was used to such pauses when dealing with the old Rider.

At length, Oromis said, “Glaedr explained to me, as best he could, what

was done to you during the celebration. Such a thing has never before oc-

curred in the history of the Riders. . Once again, the dragons have proved

themselves capable of far more than we imagined.” He sipped his tea.

“Glaedr was uncertain exactly what changes you would experience, so I

would like you to describe the full extent of your transformation, includ-

ing your appearance.”

Eragon quickly summarized how he had been altered, detailing the in-

creased sensitivity of his sight, smell, hearing, and touch, and ending with

an account of his clash with Vanir.

“And how,” asked Oromis, “do you feel about this? Do you resent that

your body was manipulated without your permission?”

“No, no! Not at all. I might have resented it before the battle of Farthen

Dûr, but now I’m just grateful that my back doesn’t hurt anymore. I

would have willingly submitted myself to far greater changes in order to

escape Durza’s curse. No, my only response is gratitude.”

Oromis nodded. “I am glad that you are wise enough to take that posi-

tion, for your gift is worth more than all the gold in the world. With it, I

believe that our feet are at last set upon the correct path.” Again, he

sipped his tea. “Let us proceed. Saphira, Glaedr expects you at the Stone

of Broken Eggs. Eragon, you will begin today with the third level of

Rimgar, if you can. I would know everything you are capable of.”

Eragon started toward the square of tamped earth where they usually

performed the Dance of Snake and Crane, then hesitated when the silver-

haired elf remained behind. “Master, won’t you join me?”

A sad smile graced Oromis’s face. “Not today, Eragon. The spells re-

quired by the Blood-oath Celebration exacted a heavy toll from me. That

and my. . condition. It took the last of my strength to come sit outside.”

“I am sorry, Master.” Does he resent that the dragons didn’t choose to heal

him as well? wondered Eragon. He immediately discounted the thought;

Oromis would never be so petty.

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“Do not be. It is no fault of yours that I am crippled.”

As Eragon struggled to complete the third level of the Rimgar, it be-

came obvious that he still lacked the elves’ balance and flexibility, two

attributes that even the elves had to work to acquire. In a way, he wel-

comed those limitations, for if he was perfect, what was left for him to

accomplish?

The following weeks were difficult for Eragon. On one hand, he made

enormous progress with his training, mastering subject after subject that

had once confounded him. He still found Oromis’s lessons challenging,

but he no longer felt as if he were drowning in a sea of his own inade-

quacy. It was easier for Eragon to read and write, and his increased

strength meant that he could now cast elven spells that required so much

energy, they would kill any normal human. His strength also made him

aware of how weak Oromis was compared to other elves.

And yet, despite those accomplishments, Eragon experienced a growing

sense of discontent. No matter how hard he tried to forget Arya, every

day that passed increased his yearning, an agony made worse by knowing

that she did not want to see or talk with him. But more than that, it

seemed to him as if an ominous storm was gathering beyond the edge of

the horizon, a storm that threatened to break at any moment and sweep

across the land, devastating everything in its path.

Saphira shared his unease. She said, The world is stretched thin, Eragon.

Soon it will snap and madness will burst forth. What you feel is what we

dragons feel and what the elves feel—the inexorable march of grim fate as

the end of our age approaches. Weep for those who will die in the chaos that

shall consume Alagaësia. And hope that we may win a brighter future by

the strength of your sword and shield and my fangs and talons.

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VISIONS NEAR AND FAR

The day came when Eragon went to the glade beyond Oromis’s hut,

seated himself on the polished white stump in the center of the mossy

hollow, and—when he opened his mind to observe the creatures around

him—sensed not just the birds, beasts, and insects but also the plants of

the forest.

The plants possessed a different type of consciousness than animals:

slow, deliberate, and decentralized, but in their own way just as cogni-

zant of their surroundings as Eragon himself was. The faint pulse of the

plants’ awareness bathed the galaxy of stars that wheeled behind his

eyes—each bright spark representing a life—in a soft, omnipresent glow.

Even the most barren soil teemed with organisms; the land itself was

alive and sentient.

Intelligent life, he concluded, existed everywhere.

As Eragon immersed himself in the thoughts and feelings of the beings

around him, he was able to attain a state of inner peace so profound that,

during that time, he ceased to exist as an individual. He allowed himself

to become a nonentity, a void, a receptacle for the voices of the world.

Nothing escaped his attention, for his attention was focused on nothing.

He was the forest and its inhabitants.

Is that what a god feels like? wondered Eragon when he returned to

himself.

He left the glade, sought out Oromis in his hut, and knelt before the

elf, saying, “Master, I have done as you told me to. I listened until I heard

no more.”

Oromis paused in his writing and, with a thoughtful expression, looked

at Eragon. “Tell me.” For an hour and a half, Eragon waxed eloquent

about every aspect of the plants and animals that populated the glade,

until Oromis raised his hand and said, “I am convinced; you heard all

there was to hear. But did you understand it all?”

“No, Master.”

“That is as it should be. Comprehension will come with age.. . Well

done, Eragon-finiarel. Well done indeed. If you were my student in Ilirea,

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before Galbatorix rose to power, you would have just graduated from

your apprenticeship and would be considered a full member of our order

and accorded the same rights and privileges as even the oldest Riders.”

Oromis pushed himself up out of his chair and then remained standing in

place, swaying. “Lend me your shoulder, Eragon, and help me outside. My

limbs betray my will.”

Hurrying to his master’s side, Eragon supported the elf’s slight weight as

Oromis hobbled to the brook that rushed headlong toward the edge of

the Crags of Tel’naeír. “Now that you have reached this stage in your

education, I can teach you one of the greatest secrets of magic, a secret

that even Galbatorix may not know. It is your best hope of matching his

power.” The elf’s gaze sharpened. “What is the cost of magic, Eragon?”

“Energy. A spell costs the same amount of energy as it would to com-

plete the task through mundane means.”

Oromis nodded. “And where does the energy come from?”

“The spellcaster’s body.”

“Does it have to?”

Eragon’s mind raced as he considered the awesome implications of

Oromis’s question. “You mean it can come from other sources?”

“That is exactly what happens whenever Saphira assists you with a

spell.”

“Yes, but she and I share a unique connection,” protested Eragon. “Our

bond is the reason I can draw upon her strength. To do that with some-

one else, I would have to enter. .” He trailed off as he realized what

Oromis was driving at.

“You would have to enter the consciousness of the being—or beings—

who was going to provide the energy,” said Oromis, completing Eragon’s

thought. “Today you proved that you can do just that with even the

smallest form of life. Now. .” He stopped and pressed a hand against his

chest as he coughed, then continued, “I want you to extract a sphere of

water from the stream, using only the energy you can glean from the for-

est around you.”

“Yes, Master.”

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As Eragon reached out to the nearby plants and animals, he felt

Oromis’s mind brush against his own, the elf watching and judging his

progress. Frowning with concentration, Eragon endeavored to eke the

needed force from the environment and hold it within himself until he

was ready to release the magic. ..

“Eragon! Do not take it from me! I am weak enough as is.”

Startled, Eragon realized that he had included Oromis in his search. “I’m

sorry, Master,” he said, chastised. He resumed the process, careful to

avoid draining the elf’s vitality, and when he was ready, commanded,

“Up!”

Silent as the night, a sphere of water a foot wide rose from the brook

until it floated at eye level across from Eragon. And while Eragon experi-

enced the usual strain that results from intense effort, the spell itself

caused him no fatigue.

The sphere was only in the air for a moment when a wave of death

rolled through the smaller creatures Eragon was in contact with. A line of

ants keeled over motionless. A baby mouse gasped and entered the void

as it lost the strength to keep its heart beating. Countless plants withered

and crumbled and became inert as dust.

Eragon flinched, horrified by what he had caused. Given his new re-

spect for the sanctity of life, he found the crime appalling. What made it

worse was that he was intimately linked with each being as it ceased to

exist; it was as if he himself were dying over and over. He severed the

flow of magic—letting the sphere of water splash across the ground—and

then whirled on Oromis and growled, “You knew that would happen!”

An expression of profound sorrow engulfed the ancient Rider. “It was

necessary,” he replied.

“Necessary that so many had to die?”

“Necessary that you understand the terrible price of using this type of

magic. Mere words cannot convey the feeling of having those whose

minds you share die. You had to experience it for yourself.”

“I won’t do that again,” vowed Eragon.

“Nor will you have to. If you are disciplined, you can choose to draw

the power only from plants and animals that can withstand the loss. It’s

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impractical in battle, but you may do so in your lessons.” Oromis gestured

at him, and, still simmering, Eragon allowed the elf to lean on him as they

returned to the hut. “You see why this technique was not taught to

younger riders. If it were to become known to a spellweaver of evil dis-

position, he or she could wreak vast amounts of destruction, especially

since it would be difficult to stop anyone with access to so much power.”

Once they were back inside, the elf sighed, lowered himself into his

chair, and pressed the tips of his fingers together.

Eragon sat as well. “Since it’s possible to absorb energy from”— he

waved his hand—“from life, is it also possible to absorb it directly from

light or fire or from any of the other forms of energy?”

“Ah, Eragon, if it were, we could destroy Galbatorix in an instant. We

can exchange energy with other living beings, we can use that energy to

move our bodies or to fuel a spell, and we can even store that energy in

certain objects for later use, but we cannot assimilate the fundamental

forces of nature. Reason says that it can be done, but no one has managed

to devise a spell that allows it.”

Nine days later, Eragon presented himself to Oromis and said, “Master,