Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (23 page)

ory remains unproven. Even if one could scry the past, it would be of

limited use. And to scry the future, one would have to know exactly

what was going to happen and where and when, which defeats the pur-

pose.

“It’s a mystery, then, how people can have premonitions while sleeping,

how they can do something unconsciously that has defeated our greatest

sages. Premonitions may be linked to the very nature and fabric of

magic. . or they may function in a similar way to the dragons’ ancestral

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memories. We don’t know. Many avenues of magic have yet to be ex-

plored.” She stood in a single fluid movement. “Take care not to lose

yourself among them.”

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DRIFTING

The valley widened throughout the morning as the rafts swept toward

a bright gap between two mountains. They reached the opening at mid-

day and found themselves looking out of shadow upon a sunny prairie

that faded into the north.

Then the current pushed them beyond the frosted crags and the walls

of the world dropped away to reveal a gigantic sky and flat horizon. Al-

most immediately, the air grew warmer. The Az Ragni curved to the

east, edging the foothills of the mountain range on one side and the plains

on the other.

The amount of open space seemed to unsettle the dwarves. They mut-

tered among themselves and glanced longingly at the cavernous rift be-

hind them.

Eragon found the sunlight invigorating. It was hard to ever really feel

awake when three-quarters of the day was spent in twilight. Behind his

raft, Saphira launched herself out of the water and flew up over the prai-

rie until she dwindled to a winking speck in the azure dome above.

What do you see? he asked.

I see vast herds of gazelles to the north and east. To the west, the Hadarac

Desert. That is all.

No one else? No Urgals, slavers, or nomads?

We are alone.

That evening, Thorv chose a small cove for their camp. While Dûth-

mér fixed dinner, Eragon cleared a space beside his tent, then drew

Zar’roc and settled into the ready stance Brom had taught him when they

first sparred. Eragon knew he was at a disadvantage compared to the

elves, and he had no intention of arriving in Ellesméra out of practice.

With excruciating slowness, he looped Zar’roc over his head and

brought it back down with both hands, as if to cleave an enemy’s helm.

He held the pose for a second. Keeping his motion under complete con-

trol, he pivoted to the right—twisting Zar’roc’s point to parry an imagi-

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nary blow—then stopped with rigid arms.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eragon noticed Orik, Arya, and Thorv

watching. He ignored them and focused only on the ruby blade in his

hands; he held it as if it were a snake that could writhe out of his grip and

bite his arm.

Turning again, he commenced a series of forms, flowing from one to

another with disciplined ease as he gradually increased his speed. In his

mind, he was no longer in the shadowy cove, but surrounded by a knot

of ferocious Urgals and Kull. He ducked and slashed, parried, riposted,

jumped to the side, and stabbed in a whirl of activity. He fought with

mindless energy, as he had in Farthen Dûr, with no thought for the safety

of his own flesh, dashing and tearing aside his imagined enemies.

He spun Zar’roc around—in an attempt to flip the hilt from one palm

to another—then dropped the sword as a jagged line of pain bisected his

back. He staggered and fell. Above him, he could hear Arya and the

dwarves babbling, but all he saw was a constellation of sparkling red

haze, like a bloody veil dropped over the world. No sensation existed

other than pain. It blotted out thought and reason, leaving only a feral

animal that screamed for release.

When Eragon recovered enough to notice his whereabouts, he found

that he had been placed inside his tent and wrapped tightly with blan-

kets. Arya sat beside him, while Saphira’s head stuck through the en-

trance flaps.

Was I out long? asked Eragon.

A while. You slept a little at the end. I tried to draw you from your body

into mine and shield you from the pain, but I could do little with you un-

conscious.

Eragon nodded and closed his eyes. His entire body throbbed. Taking a

deep breath, he looked up at Arya and quietly asked, “How can I train?. .

How can I fight, or use magic?. . I am a broken vessel.” His face felt heavy

with age as he spoke.

She answered just as softly: “You can sit and watch. You can listen. You

can read. And you can learn.”

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Despite her words, he heard a hitch of uncertainty, even fear, in her

voice. He rolled onto his side to avoid meeting her eyes. It shamed him to

appear so helpless before her. “How did the Shade do this to me?”

“I have no answers, Eragon. I am neither the wisest nor the strongest elf.

We all do our best, and you cannot be blamed for it. Perhaps time will

heal your wound.” Arya pressed her fingers to his brow and murmured,

“Sé mor’ranr ono finna,” then left the tent.

Eragon sat and winced as his cramped back muscles stretched. He

stared at his hands without seeing them. I wonder if Murtagh’s scar ever

pained him like mine does.

I don’t know, said Saphira.

A dead silence followed. Then: I’m afraid.

Why?

Because...He hesitated. Because nothing I do will prevent another attack.

I don’t know when or where it will happen, but I do know that it’s inevita-

ble. So I wait, and every moment I fear that if I lift something too heavy or

stretch in the wrong way, the pain will return. My own body has become the

enemy.

Saphira hummed deep in her throat. I have no answers either. Life is

both pain and pleasure. If this is the price you must pay for the hours you

enjoy, is it too much?

Yes, he snapped. He pulled off the blankets and shoved past her, stum-

bling into the center of the camp, where Arya and the dwarves sat

around a fire. “Is there food left?” asked Eragon.

Dûthmér wordlessly filled a bowl and handed it to him. With a defer-

ential expression, Thorv asked, “Are you better now, Shadeslayer?” He

and the other dwarves seemed awed by what they had seen.

“I’m fine.”

“You bear a heavy burden, Shadeslayer.”

Eragon scowled and abruptly walked to the edge of the tents, where he

seated himself in darkness. He could sense Saphira nearby, but she left

him in peace. He swore under his breath and jabbed Dûthmér’s stew

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with dull anger.

Just as he took a bite, Orik said from beside him, “You should not treat

them so.”

Eragon glared at Orik’s shadowed face. “What?”

“Thorv and his men were sent to protect you and Saphira. They will die

for you if need be, and trust their sacred burial to you. You should re-

member that.”

Eragon bit back a sharp retort and gazed at the black surface of the

river—always moving, never stopping—in an attempt to calm his mind.

“You’re right. I let my temper get away from me.”

Orik’s teeth gleamed in the night as he smiled. “It’s a lesson that every

commander must learn. I had it beaten into me by Hrothgar after I threw

my boot at a dwarf who left his halberd where someone could step on

it.”

“Did you hit him?”

“I broke his nose,” chuckled Orik.

Despite himself, Eragon laughed as well. “I’ll remember not to do that.”

He held the bowl with both hands to keep them warm.

Eragon heard the jangle of metal as Orik extracted something from a

pouch. “Here,” said the dwarf, dropping a knot of intertwined gold rings

on Eragon’s palm. “It’s a puzzle we use to test cleverness and dexterity.

There are eight bands. If you arrange them properly, they form a single

ring. I’ve found it useful for distracting myself when I’m troubled.”

“Thank you,” murmured Eragon, already entranced by the complexity

of the gleaming nest.

“You can keep it if you can put it together.”

When he returned to his tent, Eragon lay on his stomach and inspected

the rings in the dim firelight that seeped past the entrance flaps. Four

bands looped through four bands. Each was smooth on the bottom half

and an asymmetrical wriggling mass on the top, where it would weave

through the other pieces.

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As Eragon experimented with various configurations, he quickly be-

came frustrated by a simple fact: it seemed impossible to get the two sets

of bands parallel so they would lie flat together.

Absorbed by the challenge, he forgot the terror he had just endured.

Eragon woke right before dawn. Scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, he

exited the tent and stretched. His breath turned white in the brisk morn-

ing air. He nodded to Shrrgnien, who was keeping guard by the fire, then

strolled to the edge of the river and washed his face, blinking from the

shock of the cold water.

He located Saphira with a flick of his mind, belted on Zar’roc, and

headed toward her through the beech trees that lined the Az Ragni. Be-

fore long Eragon’s hands and face were slick with dew from a tangled

wall of chokecherry bushes that obstructed his way. With an effort, he

pushed through the net of branches and escaped onto the silent plains. A

round hill rose before him. On its crest—like two ancient statues—stood

Saphira and Arya. They faced east, where a molten glow crept into the

sky and burnished the prairie amber.

As the clear light struck the two figures, Eragon was reminded of how

Saphira had watched the sunrise from his bedpost only a few hours after

she hatched. She was like a hawk or falcon with her hard, sparkling eyes

under their bony ridges, the fierce arch of her neck, and the lean strength

etched into every line of her body. She was a huntress, and endowed with

all the savage beauty that the term implied. Arya’s angled features and

panther grace perfectly matched the dragon beside her. No discrepancy

existed between their demeanors as they stood bathed in dawn’s first

rays.

A tingle of awe and joy shuddered along Eragon’s spine. This was where

he belonged, as a Rider. Of all the things in Alagaësia, he had been lucky

enough to be joined with this. The wonder of it brought tears to his eyes

and a smile of wild exultation that dispelled all his doubts and fears in a

surge of pure emotion.

Still smiling, he mounted the hill and took his place by Saphira as they

surveyed the new day.

Arya looked at him. Eragon met her gaze, and something lurched

within him. He flushed without knowing why, feeling a sudden connec-

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tion with her, a sense that she understood him better than anyone other

than Saphira. His reaction confused him, for no one had affected him in

that manner before.

Throughout the rest of the day, all Eragon had to do was think back on

that moment to make himself smile and set his insides churning with a

mixture of odd sensations he could not identify. He spent most of his

time seated against the raft’s cabin, working on Orik’s ring and watching

the changing landscape.

Around midday they passed the mouth of a valley, and another river

melded into the Az Ragni, doubling its size and speed until the shores

were over a mile apart. It was all the dwarves could do to keep the rafts

from being tossed like flotsam before the inexorable current and to avoid

smashing into the trees that occasionally floated by.

A mile after the rivers joined, the Az Ragni turned north and flowed

past a lonely cloud-wreathed peak that stood separate from the main

body of the Beor range, like a gigantic watchtower built to keep vigil

over the plains.

The dwarves bowed to the peak when they saw it, and Orik told Er-

agon, “There is Moldûn the Proud. He is the last true mountain we shall

see on this journey.”

When the rafts were moored for the evening, Eragon saw Orik unwrap

a long black box inlaid with mother-of-pearl, rubies, and curved lines of

silver. Orik flicked a clasp, then raised the lid to reveal an unstrung bow

nestled in red velvet. The bow’s reflexed limbs were ebony, which

formed the background for intricate patterns of vines, flowers, animals,

and runes, all executed in the finest gold. It was such a luxurious weapon,

Eragon wondered how anyone dared use it.

Orik strung the bow—it was nearly as tall as he was, but still no bigger

than a child’s bow by Eragon’s standards—put the box away, and said,

“I’m going to find some fresh meat. I’ll be back in an hour.” With that he

disappeared into the brush. Thorv grunted disapprovingly, but made no

move to stop him.

True to his word, Orik returned with a brace of long-necked geese. “I

found a flock of them perched in a tree,” he said, tossing the birds to

Dûthmér.

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As Orik retrieved the bejeweled case, Eragon asked, “What kind of

wood is your bow made of?”

“Wood?” Orik laughed, shaking his head. “You can’t make a bow this

short out of wood and cast an arrow more than twenty yards; it breaks,

or follows the string after a few shots. No, this is an Urgal horn bow!”