Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (52 page)

not all elves have trained their minds properly.”

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“How do you intend to teach me this logic?”

Oromis’s smile broadened. “By the oldest and most effective method:

debating. I will ask you a question, then you will answer and defend your

position.” He waited while Eragon refilled his bowl with stew. “For ex-

ample, why do you fight the Empire?”

The sudden change of topic caught Eragon off guard. He had a feeling

that Oromis had just reached the subject that he had been driving toward

all along. “As I said before, to help those who suffer from Galbatorix’s

rule and, to a lesser extent, for personal vengeance.”

“Then you fight for humanitarian reasons?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you fight to help the people who Galbatorix has harmed and to

stop him from hurting any more.”

“Exactly,” said Eragon.

“Ah, but answer me this, my young Rider: Won’t your war with Galba-

torix cause more pain than it will ever prevent? The majority of people

in the Empire live normal, productive lives untouched by their king’s

madness. How can you justify invading their land, destroying their homes,

and killing their sons and daughters?”

Eragon gaped, stunned that Oromis could ask such a question—

Galbatorix was evil —and stunned because no easy reply presented itself.

He knew that he was in the right, but how could he prove it? “Don’t you

believe that Galbatorix should be overthrown?”

“That is not the question.”

“You must believe it, though,” persisted Eragon. “Look what he did to

the Riders.”

Dunking his bread in his stew, Oromis resumed eating, letting Eragon

fume in silence. When he finished, Oromis folded his hands in his lap and

asked, “Have I upset you?”

“Yes, you have.”

“I see. Well then, continue to ponder the matter until you find an an-

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swer. I expect it to be a convincing one.”

330

BLACK MORNING GLORY

They cleared the table and took the dishes outside, where they cleaned

them with sand. Oromis crumbled what remained of the bread around

his house for the birds to eat, then they returned inside.

Oromis brought out pens and ink for Eragon, and they resumed his

education of the Liduen Kvaedhí, the written form of the ancient lan-

guage, which was so much more elegant than the humans’ or dwarves’

runes. Eragon lost himself in the arcane glyphs, happy to have a task that

required nothing more strenuous than rote memorization.

After hours spent bent over the paper sheets, Oromis waved a hand

and said, “Enough. We will continue this tomorrow.” Eragon leaned back

and rolled his shoulders while Oromis selected five scrolls from their

nooks in the wall. “Two of these are in the ancient language, three are in

your native tongue. They will help you to master both alphabets, as well

as give you valuable information that would be tedious for me to vocal-

ize.”

“Vocalize?”

With unerring accuracy, Oromis’s hand darted out and plucked a mas-

sive sixth scroll from the wall, which he added to the pyramid in Eragon’s

arms. “This is a dictionary. I doubt you can, but try to read it all.”

When the elf opened the door for him to leave, Eragon said, “Master?”

“Yes, Eragon?”

“When will we start working with magic?”

Oromis leaned on one arm against the doorway, caving in on himself as

if he no longer possessed the will to remain upright. Then he sighed and

said, “You must trust me to guide your training, Eragon. Still, I suppose it

would be foolish of me to delay any longer. Come, leave the scrolls on

the table, and let us go explore the mysteries of gramarye.”

On the greensward before the hut, Oromis stood looking out over the

Crags of Tel’naeír, his back to Eragon, his feet shoulder width apart, and

his hands clasped in the small of his back. Without turning around, he

asked, “What is magic?”

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“The manipulation of energy through the use of the ancient language.”

There was a pause before Oromis responded. “Technically, you are cor-

rect, and many spellcasters never understand more than that. However,

your description fails to capture the essence of magic. Magic is the art of

thinking, not strength or language—you already know that a limited vo-

cabulary is no obstacle to using magic. As with everything else you must

master, magic relies on having a disciplined intellect.

“Brom bypassed the normal training regimen and ignored the subtleties

of gramarye to ensure that you had the skills you needed to remain alive.

I too must distort the regimen in order to focus on the skills that you will

likely require in the coming battles. However, whereas Brom taught you

the crude mechanics of magic, I will teach you its finer applications, the

secrets that were reserved for the wisest of the Riders: how you can kill

with no more energy than moving your finger, the method by which you

can instantaneously transport an item from one point to another, a spell

that will allow you to identify poisons in your food and drink, a variation

on scrying that allows you to hear as well as to see, how you can draw

energy from your surroundings and thus preserve your own strength, and

how you can maximize your strength in every possible way.

“These techniques are so potent and dangerous, they were never shared

with novice Riders such as yourself, but circumstances demand that I di-

vulge them and trust that you won’t abuse them.” Raising his right arm to

his side, his hand a hooked claw, Oromis proclaimed, “Adurna!”

Eragon watched as a sphere of water coalesced from the brook by the

hut and floated through the air until it hovered between Oromis’s out-

stretched fingers.

The brook was dark and brown under the branches of the forest, but

the sphere, removed from it, was as colorless as glass. Flecks of moss, dirt,

and other bits of detritus floated inside the orb.

Still gazing toward the horizon, Oromis said, “Catch.” He tossed the

sphere back over his shoulder toward Eragon.

Eragon tried to grab the ball, but as soon as it touched his skin, the wa-

ter lost cohesion and splashed across his chest.

“Catch it with magic,” said Oromis. Again, he cried, “Adurna!” and a

sphere of water gathered itself from the surface of the brook and leaped

into his hand like a trained hawk obeying its master.

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This time Oromis threw the ball without warning. Eragon was pre-

pared, though, and said, “Reisa du adurna,” even as he reached for the ball.

It slowed to a halt a hairsbreadth from the skin of his palm.

“An awkward word choice,” said Oromis, “but workable, nevertheless.”

Eragon grinned and whispered, “Thrysta.”

The ball reversed its course and sped toward the base of Oromis’s silver

head. However, the sphere did not land where Eragon had intended, but

rather shot past the elf, whipped around, and flew back at Eragon with

increased velocity.

The water remained as hard and solid as polished marble when it

struck Eragon, producing a dull thunk as it collided with his skull. The

blow knocked him sprawling on the turf, where he lay stunned, blinking

as pulsing lights swam across the sky.

“Yes,” said Oromis. “A better word might be letta or kodthr. ” He finally

turned to look at Eragon and raised an eyebrow with apparent surprise.

“Whatever are you doing? Get up. We can’t lay about all day.”

“Yes, Master,” groaned Eragon.

When Eragon got back on his feet, Oromis had him manipulate the wa-

ter in various ways—shaping it into complex knots, changing the color of

light that it absorbed or reflected, and freezing it in certain prescribed se-

quences—none of which proved difficult for him.

The exercises continued for so long that Eragon’s initial interest faded

and was replaced by impatience and puzzlement. He was chary of of-

fending Oromis, but he saw no point to what the elf was doing; it was as

if Oromis were avoiding any spells that would require him to use more

than a minimal amount of strength. I’ve already demonstrated the extent of

my skills. Why does he persist in reviewing these fundamentals? He said,

“Master, I know all of this. Can we not move on?”

The muscles in Oromis’s neck hardened, and his shoulders were like

chiseled granite for all they moved; even the elf’s breathing halted before

he said, “Will you never learn respect, Eragon-vodhr? So be it!” Then he

uttered four words from the ancient language in a voice so deep that

their meaning escaped Eragon.

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Eragon yelped as he felt each of his legs enveloped by pressure up to

the knee, squeezing and constricting his calves in such a way that made it

impossible for him to walk. His thighs and upper body were free to

move, but other than that, it was as if he had been cast in lime mortar.

“Free yourself,” said Oromis.

Here now was a challenge that Eragon had never dealt with before:

how to counter someone else’s spells. He could sever his invisible bonds

using one of two different methods. The most effective would be if he

knew how Oromis had immobilized him—whether by affecting his body

directly or using an external source—for then he could redirect the ele-

ment or force to disperse Oromis’s power. Or he could use a generic,

vague spell to block whatever Oromis was doing. The downside to the

tactic was that it would lead to a direct contest of strength between

them. It had to happen sometime, thought Eragon. He entertained no hope

of prevailing against an elf.

Assembling the required phrase, he said, “Losna kalfya iet.” Release my

calves.

The surge of energy that deserted Eragon was greater than he had an-

ticipated; he went from being moderately tired from the day’s pains and

exertions to feeling as if he had hiked over rough terrain since morn.

Then the pressure vanished from his legs, causing him to stagger as he re-

gained his balance.

Oromis shook his head. “Foolish,” he said, “very foolish. If I had com-

mitted more to maintaining my spell, that would have killed you. Never

use absolutes.”

“Absolutes?”

“Never word your spells so that only two outcomes are possible: suc-

cess or death. If an enemy had trapped your legs and if he were stronger

than you, then you would have expended all of your energy trying to

break his spell. You would have died with no chance to abort the at-

tempt once you realized that it was futile.”

“How do I avoid that?” asked Eragon.

“It’s safer to make the spell a process that you can terminate at your dis-

cretion. Instead of saying release my calves, which is an absolute, you

could say reduce the magic imprisoning my calves. A bit wordy, but you

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could then decide how much you wanted your opponent’s spell de-

creased and if it were safe to remove it entirely. We will try again.”

The pressure returned to Eragon’s legs as soon as Oromis mouthed his

inaudible invocation. Eragon was so tired, he doubted that he could pro-

vide much opposition. Nevertheless, he reached for the magic.

Before the ancient language left Eragon’s mouth, he became aware of a

curious sensation as the weight constraining his legs lessened at a steady

rate. It tickled and felt like he was being pulled out of a mire of cold,

slick mud. He glanced at Oromis and saw the elf’s face scribed by passion,

as if he clung to something precious that he could not bear to lose. A

vein throbbed at one of Oromis’s temples.

When Eragon’s arcane fetters ceased to exist, Oromis recoiled as if he

had been pricked by a wasp and stood with his gaze fixed on his two

hands, his thin chest heaving. For perhaps a minute, he remained thus,

then he drew himself upright and walked to the very edge of the Crags of

Tel’naeír, a lone figure outlined against the pale sky.

Regret and sorrow welled in Eragon—the same emotions that had

gripped him when he first saw Glaedr’s mutilated foreleg. He cursed

himself for being so arrogant with Oromis, so oblivious to his infirmities,

and for not placing more confidence in the elf’s judgment. I’m not the only

one who must deal with past injuries. Eragon had not fully comprehended

what it meant when Oromis said that all but the slightest magic escaped

his grasp. Now he appreciated the depths of Oromis’s situation and the

pain that it must cause him, especially for one of his race, who was born

and bred with magic.

Eragon went to Oromis, knelt, and bowed in the fashion of the

dwarves, pressing his bruised forehead against the ground. “Ebrithil, I beg

your pardon.”

The elf gave no indication that he had heard.

The two of them lingered in their respective positions while the sun

declined before them, the birds sang their evening songs, and the air grew

cool and moist. From the north came the faint offbeat thumps of Saphira

and Glaedr’s wing strokes as they returned for the day.

In a low, distant voice, Oromis said, “We will begin anew tomorrow,

with this and other subjects.” From his profile, Eragon could tell that

Oromis had regained his customary expression of impassive reserve. “Is