Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (80 page)

a pure white background. It took Eragon a long moment to recognize the

man on the right as Roran. He was garbed in travel-worn clothes, a ham-

mer was stuck under his belt, a thick beard obscured his face, and he

bore a haunted expression that bespoke desperation. To the left was

Jeod. The men surged up and down, accompanied by the thunderous

crash of waves, which masked anything they said. After a while, Roran

turned and walked along what Eragon assumed was the deck of a ship,

bringing dozens of other villagers into view.

Where are they, and why is Jeod with them? demanded Eragon, bewil-

dered.

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Diverting the magic, he scryed in quick succession Teirm—shocked to

see that the city’s wharfs had been destroyed—Therinsford, Garrow’s old

farm, and then Carvahall, whereupon Eragon uttered a wounded cry.

The village was gone.

Every building, including Horst’s magnificent house, had been burned

to the ground. Carvahall no longer existed except as a sooty blot beside

the Anora River. The sole remaining inhabitants were four gray wolves

that loped through the wreckage.

The mirror dropped from Eragon’s hand and shattered across the floor.

He leaned against Saphira, tears burning in his eyes as he grieved anew for

his lost home. Saphira hummed deep in her chest and brushed his arm

with the side of her jaw, enveloping him in a warm blanket of sympathy.

Take comfort, little one. At least your friends are still alive.

He shuddered and felt a hard core of determination coalesce in his

belly. We have remained sequestered from the world for far too long. It’s

high time we leave Ellesméra and confront our fate, whatever it may be. For

now, Roran must fend for himself, but the Varden... the Varden we can

help.

Is it time to fight, Eragon? asked Saphira, an odd note of formality in her

voice.

He knew what she meant: Was it time to challenge the Empire head-

on, time to kill and rampage to the limit of their considerable abilities,

time to unleash every ounce of their rage until Galbatorix lay dead before

them? Was it time to commit themselves to a campaign that could take

decades to resolve?

It is time.

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GIFTS

Eragon packed his belongings in less than five minutes. He took the

saddle Oromis had given them, strapped it onto Saphira, then slung his

bags over her back and buckled them down.

Saphira tossed her head, nostrils flared, and said, I will wait for you at

the field. With a roar, she launched herself from the tree house, unfolding

her blue wings in midair, and flew off, skimming the forest canopy.

Quick as an elf, Eragon ran to Tialdarí Hall, where he found Orik sit-

ting in his usual corner, playing a game of Runes. The dwarf greeted him

with a hearty slap on the arm. “Eragon! What brings you here at this time

of the morn? I thought you’d be off banging swords with Vanir.”

“Saphira and I are leaving,” said Eragon.

Orik stopped with his mouth open, then narrowed his eyes, going seri-

ous. “You’ve had news?”

“I’ll tell you about it later. Do you want to come?”

“To Surda?”

“Aye.”

A wide smile broke across Orik’s hairy face. “You’d have to clap me in

irons before I’d stay behind. I’ve done nothing in Ellesméra but grow fat

and lazy. A bit of excitement will do me good. When do we leave?”

“As soon as possible. Gather your things and meet us at the sparring

grounds. Can you scrounge up a week’s worth of provisions for the two

of us?”

“A week’s? But that won’t—”

“We’re flying on Saphira.”

The skin above Orik’s beard turned pale. “We dwarves don’t do well

with heights, Eragon. We don’t do well at all. It’d be better if we could

ride horses, like we did coming here.”

Eragon shook his head. “That would take too long. Besides, it’s easy to

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ride Saphira. She’ll catch you if you fall.” Orik grunted, appearing both

queasy and unconvinced. Leaving the hall, Eragon sped through the syl-

van city until he rejoined Saphira, and then they flew to the Crags of

Tel’naeír.

Oromis was sitting upon Glaedr’s right forearm when they landed in

the clearing. The dragon’s scales gilded the landscape with countless chips

of golden light. Neither elf nor dragon stirred. Descending from Saphira’s

back, Eragon bowed. “Master Glaedr. Master Oromis.”

Glaedr said, You have taken it upon yourself to return to the Varden, have

you not?

We have, replied Saphira.

Eragon’s sense of betrayal overcame his self-restraint. “Why did you

hide the truth from us? Are you so determined to keep us here that you

must resort to such underhand trickery? The Varden are about to be at-

tacked and you didn’t even mention it!”

Calm as ever, Oromis asked, “Do you wish to hear why?”

Very much, Master, said Saphira before Eragon could respond. In pri-

vate, she scolded him, growling, Be polite!

“We withheld the tidings for two reasons. Chief among them was that

we ourselves did not know until nine days past that the Varden were

threatened, and the true size, location, and movements of the Empire’s

troops remained concealed from us until three days after that, when Lord

Däthedr pierced the spells Galbatorix used to deceive our scrying.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you said nothing of this.” Eragon

scowled. “Not only that, but once you discovered that the Varden were

in danger, why didn’t Islanzadí rouse the elves to fight? Are we not al-

lies?”

“She has roused the elves, Eragon. The forest echoes with the ring of

hammers, the tramp of armored boots, and the grief of those who are

about to be parted. For the first time in a century, our race is set to

emerge from Du Weldenvarden and challenge our greatest foe. The time

has come for elves to once more walk openly in Alagaësia.” Gently,

Oromis added, “You have been distracted of late, Eragon, and I under-

stand why. Now you must look beyond yourself. The world demands

your attention.”

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Shamefaced, all Eragon could say was, “I am sorry, Master.” He remem-

bered Blagden’s words and allowed himself a bitter smile. “I’m as blind as

a bat.”

“Hardly, Eragon. You have done well, considering the enormous re-

sponsibilities we have asked you to shoulder.” Oromis looked at him

gravely. “We expect to receive a missive from Nasuada in the next few

days, requesting assistance from Islanzadí and that you rejoin the Varden.

I intended to inform you of the Varden’s predicament then, when you

would still have enough time to reach Surda before swords are drawn. If I

told you earlier, you would have been honor-bound to abandon your

training and rush to the defense of your liegelord. That is why I and Islan-

zadí held our tongues.”

“My training won’t matter if the Varden are destroyed.”

“No. But you may be the only person who can prevent them from be-

ing destroyed, for a chance exists—slim but terrible—that Galbatorix

will be present at this battle. It is far too late for our warriors to assist the

Varden, which means that if Galbatorix is indeed there, you shall con-

front him alone, without the protection of our spellweavers. Under those

circumstances, it seemed vital that your training continue for as long as

possible.”

In an instant, Eragon’s anger melted away and was replaced with a cold,

hard, and brutally practical mind-set as he understood the necessity for

Oromis’s silence. Personal feelings were irrelevant in a situation as dire as

theirs. With a flat voice, he said, “You were right. My oath of fealty com-

pels me to ensure the safety of Nasuada and the Varden. However, I’m

not ready to confront Galbatorix. Not yet, at least.”

“My suggestion,” said Oromis, “is that if Galbatorix reveals himself, do

everything you can to distract him from the Varden until the battle is

decided for good or for ill and avoid directly fighting him. Before you go,

I ask but one thing: that you and Saphira vow that—once events per-

mit—you will return here to complete your training, for you still have

much to learn.”

We shall return, pledged Saphira, binding herself in the ancient lan-

guage.

“We shall return,” repeated Eragon, and sealed their fate.

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Appearing satisfied, Oromis reached behind himself and produced an

embroidered red pouch that he tugged open. “In anticipation of your de-

parture, I gathered together three gifts for you, Eragon.” From the pouch,

he withdrew a silver bottle. “First, some faelnirv I augmented with my

own enchantments. This potion can sustain you when all else fails, and

you may find its properties useful in other circumstances as well. Drink it

sparingly, for I only had time to prepare a few mouthfuls.”

He handed the bottle to Eragon, then removed a long black-and- blue

sword belt from the pouch. The belt felt unusually thick and heavy to

Eragon when he ran it through his hands. It was made of cloth threads

woven together in an interlocking pattern that depicted a coiling Lianí

Vine. At Oromis’s instruction, Eragon pulled at a tassel at the end of the

belt and gasped as a strip in its center slid back to expose twelve dia-

monds, each an inch across. Four diamonds were white, four were black,

and the remainder were red, blue, yellow, and brown. They glittered cold

and brilliant, like ice in the dawn, casting a rainbow of multicolored

specks onto Eragon’s hands.

“Master. .” Eragon shook his head, at a loss for words for several breaths.

“Is it safe to give this to me?”

“Guard it well so that none are tempted to steal it. This is the belt of

Beloth the Wise—who you read of in your history of the Year of Dark-

ness—and is one of the great treasures of the Riders. These are the most

perfect gems the Riders could find. Some we traded for with the

dwarves. Others we won in battle or mined ourselves. The stones have

no magic of their own, but you may use them as repositories for your

power and draw upon that reserve when in need. This, in addition to the

ruby set in Zar’roc’s pommel, will allow you to amass a store of energy so

that you do not become unduly exhausted casting spells in battle, or even

when confronting enemy magicians.”

Last, Oromis brought out a thin scroll protected inside a wooden tube

that was decorated with a bas-relief sculpture of the Menoa tree. Unfurl-

ing the scroll, Eragon saw the poem he had recited at the Agaetí

Blödhren. It was lettered in Oromis’s finest calligraphy and illustrated

with the elf’s detailed ink paintings. Plants and animals twined together

inside the outline of the first glyph of each quatrain, while delicate

scrollwork traced the columns of words and framed the images.

“I thought,” said Oromis, “that you would appreciate a copy for your-

self.”

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Eragon stood with twelve priceless diamonds in one hand and Oromis’s

scroll in the other, and he knew that it was the scroll he deemed the

most precious. Eragon bowed and, reduced to the simplest language by

the depth of his gratitude, said, “Thank you, Master.”

Then Oromis surprised Eragon by initiating the elves’ traditional greet-

ing and thereby indicating his respect for Eragon: “May good fortune rule

over you.”

“May the stars watch over you.”

“And may peace live in your heart,” finished the silver-haired elf. He

repeated the exchange with Saphira. “Now go and fly as fast as the north

wind, knowing that you—Saphira Brightscales and Eragon Shadeslayer—

carry the blessing of Oromis, last scion of House Thrándurin, he who is

both the Mourning Sage and the Cripple Who Is Whole.”

And mine as well, added Glaedr. Extending his neck, he touched the tip

of his nose to Saphira’s, his gold eyes glittering like swirling pools of em-

bers. Remember to keep your heart safe, Saphira. She hummed in response.

They parted with solemn farewells. Saphira soared over the tangled

forest and Oromis and Glaedr dwindled behind them, lonely on the crags.

Despite the hardships of his stay in Ellesméra, Eragon would miss being

among the elves, for with them he had found the closest thing to a home

since fleeing Palancar Valley.

I leave here a changed man, he thought, and closed his eyes, clinging to

Saphira.

Before going to meet with Orik, they made one more stop: Tialdarí

Hall. Saphira landed in the enclosed gardens, careful not to damage any of

the plants with her tail or claws. Without waiting for her to crouch, Er-

agon leaped straight to the ground, a drop that would have injured him

before.

A male elf came out, touched his lips with his first two fingers, and

asked if he could help them. When Eragon replied that he sought an au-

dience with Islanzadí, the elf said, “Please wait here, Silver Hand.”

Not five minutes later, the queen herself emerged from the wooded

depths of Tialdarí Hall, her crimson tunic like a drop of blood among the

white-robed elf lords and ladies who accompanied her. After the appro-

priate forms of address were observed, she said, “Oromis informed me of