Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (57 page)

Eragon, who quailed under the weight of his stare. Without a word,

Oromis handed the tablet to Arya.

Her hair obscured her face as she bowed over the tablet, but Eragon

saw cords and veins ridge her hands as she clenched the slate. It shook in

her grip.

“Well, what is it?” asked Orik.

Raising the fairth over her head, Arya hurled it against the ground, shat-

tering the picture into a thousand pieces. Then she drew herself upright

and, with great dignity, walked past Eragon, across the clearing, and into

the tangled depths of Du Weldenvarden.

Orik picked up one of the fragments of slate. It was blank. The image

had vanished when the tablet broke. He tugged his beard. “In all the dec-

ades I’ve known her, Arya has never lost her temper like that. Never.

What did you do, Eragon?”

Dazed, Eragon said, “A portrait of her.”

Orik frowned, obviously puzzled. “A portrait? Why would that—”

“I think it would be best if you left now,” said Oromis. “The lesson is

over, in any case. Come back tomorrow or the day after if you want a

better idea of Eragon’s progress.”

The dwarf squinted at Eragon, then nodded and brushed the dirt from

his palms. “Yes, I believe I’ll do that. Thank you for your time, Oromis-

elda. I appreciate it.” As he headed back toward Ellesméra, he said over

his shoulder to Eragon, “I’ll be in the common room of Tialdarí Hall, if

you want to talk.”

When Orik was gone, Oromis lifted the hem of his tunic, knelt, and

began to gather up the remains of the tablet. Eragon watched him, unable

to move.

“Why?” he asked in the ancient language.

“Perhaps,” said Oromis, “Arya was frightened by you.”

“Frightened? She never gets frightened.” Even as he said it, Eragon knew

that it was not true. She just concealed her fear better than most. Drop-

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ping to one knee, he took a piece of the fairth and pressed it into

Oromis’s palm. “Why would I frighten her?” he asked. “Please, tell me.”

Oromis stood and walked to the edge of the stream, where he scattered

the fragments of slate over the bank, letting the gray flakes trickle

through his fingers. “Fairths only show what you want them to. It’s possi-

ble to lie with them, to create a false image, but to do so requires more

skill than you yet have. Arya knows this. She also knows, then, that your

fairth was an accurate representation of your feelings for her.”

“But why would that frighten her?”

Oromis smiled sadly. “Because it revealed the depth of your infatua-

tion.” He pressed his fingertips together, forming a series of arches. “Let

us analyze the situation, Eragon. While you are old enough to be consid-

ered a man among your people, in our eyes, you are no more than a

child.” Eragon frowned, hearing echoes of Saphira’s words from the pre-

vious night. “Normally, I would not compare a human’s age to an elf’s,

but since you share our longevity, you must also be judged by our stan-

dards.

“And you are a Rider. We rely upon you to help us defeat Galbatorix;

it could be disastrous for everyone in Alagaësia if you are distracted from

your studies.

“Now then,” said Oromis, “how should Arya have responded to your

fairth? It’s clear that you see her in a romantic light, yet—while I have no

doubt Arya is fond of you—a union between the two of you is impossi-

ble due to your own youth, culture, race, and responsibilities. Your inter-

est has placed Arya in an uncomfortable position. She dare not confront

you, for fear of disrupting your training. But, as the queen’s daughter, she

cannot ignore you and risk offending a Rider—especially one upon which

so much depends. . Even if you were a fit match, Arya would refrain

from encouraging you so that you could devote all of your energy to the

task at hand. She would sacrifice her happiness for the greater good.”

Oromis’s voice thickened: “You must understand, Eragon, that slaying

Galbatorix is more important than any one person. Nothing else matters.”

He paused, his gaze gentle, then added, “Given the circumstances, is it so

strange Arya was frightened that your feelings for her could endanger

everything we have worked for?”

Eragon shook his head. He was ashamed that his behavior had caused

Arya distress, and dismayed by how reckless and juvenile he had been. I

could have avoided this entire mess if I’d just kept better control of myself.

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Touching him on the shoulder, Oromis guided him back inside the hut.

“Think not that I am devoid of sympathy, Eragon. Everyone experiences

ardor like yours at one point or another during their lives. It’s part of

growing up. I also know how hard it is for you to deny yourself the usual

comforts of life, but it’s necessary if we are to prevail.”

“Yes, Master.”

They sat at the kitchen table, and Oromis began to lay out writing ma-

terials for Eragon to practice the Liduen Kvaedhí. “It would be unreason-

able of me to expect you to forget your fascination with Arya, but I do

expect you to prevent it from interfering with my instruction again. Can

you promise me that?”

“Yes, Master. I promise.”

“And Arya? What would be the honorable thing to do about her pre-

dicament?”

Eragon hesitated. “I don’t want to lose her friendship.”

“No.”

“Therefore. . I will go to her, I will apologize, and I will reassure her

that I never intend to cause her such hardship again.” It was difficult for

him to say, but once he did, he felt a sense of relief, as if acknowledging

his mistake cleansed him of it.

Oromis appeared pleased. “By that alone, you prove that you have ma-

tured.”

The sheets of paper were smooth underneath Eragon’s hands as he

pressed them flat against the tabletop. He stared at the blank white ex-

panse for a moment, then dipped a quill in ink and began to transcribe a

column of glyphs. Each barbed line was like a streak of night against the

paper, an abyss into which he could lose himself and try to forget his

confused feelings.

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THE OBLITERATOR

The following morn, Eragon went looking for Arya in order to apolo-

gize. He searched for over an hour without success. It seemed as if she

had vanished among the many hidden nooks within Ellesméra. He caught

a glimpse of her once as he paused by the entrance to Tialdarí Hall and

called out to her, but she slipped away before he could reach her side.

She’s avoiding me, he finally realized.

As the days rolled by, Eragon embraced Oromis’s training with a zeal

that the elder Rider praised, devoting himself to his studies in order to

distract himself from thoughts of Arya.

Night and day, Eragon strove to master his lessons. He memorized the

words of making, binding, and summoning; learned the true names of

plants and animals; and studied the perils of transmutation, how to call

upon the wind and the sea, and the myriad skills needed to understand

the forces of the world. At spells that dealt with the great energies—such

as light, heat, and magnetism—he excelled, for he possessed the talent to

judge nigh exactly how much strength a task required and whether it

would exceed that of his body.

Occasionally, Orik would come and watch, standing without comment

by the edge of the clearing while Oromis tutored Eragon, or while Eragon

struggled alone with a particularly difficult spell.

Oromis set many challenges before him. He had Eragon cook meals

with magic, in order to teach him finer control of his gramarye; Eragon’s

first attempts resulted in a blackened mess. The elf showed Eragon how

to detect and neutralize poisons of every sort and, from then on, Eragon

had to inspect his food for the different venoms Oromis was liable to slip

into it. More than once Eragon went hungry when he could not find the

poison or was unable to counteract it. Twice he became so sick, Oromis

had to heal him. And Oromis had Eragon cast multiple spells simultane-

ously, which required tremendous concentration to keep the spells di-

rected at their intended targets and prevent them from shifting among

the items Eragon wanted to affect.

Oromis devoted long hours to the craft of imbuing matter with energy,

either to be released at a later time or to give an object certain attributes.

He said, “This is how Rhunön charmed the Riders’ swords so they never

break or dull; how we sing plants into growing as we desire; how a trap

might be set in a box, only to be triggered when the box is opened; how

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we and the dwarves make the Erisdar, our lanterns; and how you may

heal one who is injured, to name but a few uses. These are the most po-

tent of spells, for they can lie dormant for a thousand years or more and

are difficult to perceive or avert. They permeate much of Alagaësia,

shaping the land and the destiny of those who live here.”

Eragon asked, “You could use this technique to alter your body,

couldn’t you? Or is that too dangerous?”

Oromis’s lips quirked in a faint smile. “Alas, you have stumbled upon

elves’ greatest weakness: our vanity. We love beauty in all its forms, and

we seek to represent that ideal in our appearance. That is why we are

known as the Fair Folk. Every elf looks exactly as he or she wishes to.

When elves learn the spells for growing and molding living things, they

often choose to modify their appearance to better reflect their personali-

ties. A few elves have gone beyond mere aesthetic changes and altered

their anatomy to adapt to various environments, as you will see during

the Blood-oath Celebration. Oftentimes, they are more animal than elf.

“However, transferring power to a living creature is different from

transferring power to an inanimate object. Very few materials are suit-

able for storing energy; most either allow it to dissipate or become so

charged with force that when you touch the object, a bolt of lightning

drives through you. The best materials we have found for this purpose

are gemstones. Quartz, agates, and other lesser stones are not as efficient

as, say, a diamond, but any gem will suffice. That is why Riders’ swords

always have a jewel set in their pommels. It is also why your dwarf neck-

lace—which is entirely metal—must sap your strength to fuel its spell,

since it can hold no energy of its own.”

When not with Oromis, Eragon supplemented his education by reading

the many scrolls the elf gave him, a habit he soon became addicted to.

Eragon’s rearing—limited as it was by Garrow’s scant tutelage—had ex-

posed him only to the knowledge needed to run a farm. The information

he discovered on the miles of paper flooded into him like rain on parched

desert, sating a previously unknown thirst. He devoured texts on geogra-

phy, biology, anatomy, philosophy, and mathematics, as well as memoirs,

biographies, and histories. More important than mere facts was his intro-

duction to alternative ways of thinking. They challenged his beliefs and

forced him to reexamine his assumptions about everything from the

rights of an individual within society to what caused the sun to move

across the sky.

He noticed that a number of scrolls concerned Urgals and their culture.

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Eragon read them and made no mention of it, nor did Oromis broach the

topic.

From his studies, Eragon learned much about the elves, a subject that

he avidly pursued, hoping that it would help him to better understand

Arya. To his surprise, he discovered that the elves did not practice mar-

riage, but rather took mates for however long they wanted, whether it be

for a day or a century. Children were rare, and having a child was consid-

ered by the elves to be the ultimate vow of love.

Eragon also learned that since their two races had first met, only a

handful of elf-human couples had existed: mainly human Riders who

found appropriate mates among the elves. However, as best he could tell

from the cryptic records, most such relationships ended in tragedy, either

because the lovers were unable to relate to one another or because the

humans aged and died while the elves escaped the ravages of time.

In addition to nonfiction, Oromis presented Eragon with copies of the

elves’ greatest songs, poems, and epics, which captured Eragon’s imagina-

tion, for the only stories he was familiar with were the ones Brom had

recited in Carvahall. He savored the epics as he might a well-cooked

meal, lingering over The Deed of Gëda or The Lay of Umhodan so as to

prolong his enjoyment of the tales.

Saphira’s own training proceeded apace. Linked as he was to her mind,

Eragon got to watch as Glaedr put her through an exercise regimen every

bit as strenuous as his. She practiced hovering in the air while lifting

boulders, as well as sprints, dives, and other acrobatics. To increase her

endurance, Glaedr had her breathe fire for hours upon a natural stone pil-

lar in an attempt to melt it. At first Saphira could only maintain the

flames for a few minutes at a time, but before long the blistering torch

roared from her maw for over a half hour uninterrupted, heating the pil-