Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (50 page)

his stomach.

By touch he found the edge of the cloth membrane that could be

pulled out of the wood to cover the opening. He prepared to launch

himself from one side of the gap to the next. If he slipped, nothing would

stop him from falling onto the roots of the tree.

Wait, said Saphira.

She backed off the low pedestal where she slept and laid her tail along-

side him so that he could use it as a handrail.

Holding the cloth with just his right hand, which took all his strength,

Eragon used the line of spikes on Saphira’s tail to pull himself across the

portal. As soon as he reached the far side, he grabbed the cloth with both

hands and pressed its edge into the groove that locked it in place.

The room went silent.

The membrane bulged inward under the force of the angry elements

but showed no sign of giving. Eragon poked it with his finger. The fabric

was as taut as a drum.

It’s amazing what the elves can do, he said.

Saphira cocked her head, then lifted it so that her head was flat against

the ceiling while she listened. You’d better close up the study; it’s being

wrecked.

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As he headed toward the stairs, the tree jolted and his leg buckled,

sending him down hard on one knee.

“Blast it,” he growled.

The study was a whirlwind of paper and quills, darting about as if they

had a mind of their own. He dove into the flurry with his arms wrapped

around his head. It felt like he was being pelted with stones when the

tips of the quills struck him.

Eragon struggled to close the upper portal without Saphira’s help. The

moment he did, pain—endless, mind-numbing pain— ripped open his

back.

He screamed once and went hoarse from the strength of his cry. His vi-

sion flashed with red and yellow, then faded to black as he toppled to his

side. Below, he heard Saphira howl with frustration; the staircase was too

small and, outside, the wind was too ferocious for her to reach him. His

connection with her receded. He surrendered to the waiting darkness as a

release from his agony.

A sour taste filled Eragon’s mouth when he woke. He did not know

how long he had been lying on the floor, but the muscles in his arms and

legs were knotted from being curled into a tight ball. The storm still as-

sailed the tree, accompanied by a thudding rain that matched the pound-

ing in his head.

Saphira... ?

I’m here. Can you come down?

I’ll try.

He was too weak to stand on the pitching floor, so he crawled to the

stairs and slid down one at a time, wincing with each impact. Halfway

down, he encountered Saphira, who had jammed her head and neck as

far up the stairs as she could, gouging the wood in her frenzy.

Little one. She flicked out her tongue and caught him on the hand with

its rough tip. He smiled. Then she arched her neck and tried to pull back,

but to no avail.

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What’s wrong?

I’m stuck.

You’re...He could not help it; he laughed even though it hurt. The

situation was too absurd.

She snarled and heaved her entire body, shaking the tree with her ef-

forts and knocking him over. Then she collapsed, panting. Well, don’t just

sit there grinning like an idiot fox. Help me!

Fighting the urge to giggle, he put his foot on her nose and pushed as

hard as he dared while Saphira twisted and squirmed in an attempt to

free herself.

It took more than ten minutes before she succeeded. Only then did Er-

agon see the full extent of the damage to the stairwell. He groaned. Her

scales had cut through the bark and obliterated the delicate patterns

grown out from the wood.

Oops, said Saphira.

At least you did it, not me.The elves might forgive you. They’d sing dwarf

love ballads night and day if you asked them to.

He joined Saphira on her dais and huddled against the flat scales of her

belly, listening as the storm roared about them. The wide membrane be-

came translucent whenever lightning pulsed in jagged shards of light.

What time do you think it is?

Several hours before we must meet Oromis. Go on, sleep and recover. I

will keep guard.

He did just that, despite the tree’s churning.

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WHY DO YOU FIGHT?

Oromis’s timepiece buzzed like a giant hornet, blaring in Eragon’s ears

until he retrieved the bauble and wound the mechanism.

His bashed knee had turned purple, he was sore both from his attack

and the elves’ Dance of Snake and Crane, and he could do no more than

croak with his ragged throat. The worst injury, though, was his sense of

foreboding that this would not be the last time Durza’s wound would

trouble him. The prospect sickened him, draining his strength and will.

So many weeks passed between attacks, he said, I began to hope that

maybe, just maybe, I was healed.... I suppose sheer luck is the only reason I

was spared that long.

Extending her neck, Saphira nuzzled him on the arm. You know you

aren’t alone, little one. I’ll do everything I can to help. He responded with

a weak smile. Then she licked his face and added, You should get ready to

leave.

I know. He stared at the floor, unwilling to move, then dragged himself

to the wash closet, where he scrubbed himself clean and used magic to

shave.

He was in the middle of drying himself when he felt a presence touch

his mind. Without pausing to think, Eragon began to fortify his mind,

concentrating on an image of his big toe to the exclusion of all else. Then

he heard Oromis say, Admirable, but unnecessary. Bring Zar’roc with you

today. The presence vanished.

Eragon released a shaky breath. I need to be more alert, he told Saphira. I

would have been at his mercy if he were an enemy.

Not with me around.

When his ablutions were complete, Eragon unhooked the membrane

from the wall and mounted Saphira, cradling Zar’roc in the crook of his

arm.

Saphira took flight with a rush of air, angling toward the Crags of

Tel’naeír. From their high vantage point, they could see the damage that

the storm had wreaked on Du Weldenvarden. No trees had fallen in

Ellesméra, but farther away, where the elves’ magic was weaker, numer-

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ous pines had been knocked over. The remaining wind made the crossed

branches and trees rub together, producing a brittle chorus of creaks and

groans. Clouds of golden pollen, as thick as dust, streamed out from the

trees and flowers.

While they flew, Eragon and Saphira exchanged memories of their

separate lessons from the day before. He told her what he had learned

about ants and the ancient language, and she told him about downdrafts

and other dangerous weather patterns and how to avoid them.

Thus, when they landed and Oromis interrogated Eragon about

Saphira’s lessons and Glaedr interrogated Saphira about Eragon’s, they

were able to answer every question.

“Very good, Eragon-vodhr.”

Aye. Well played, Bjartskular, added Glaedr to Saphira.

As before, Saphira was sent off with Glaedr while Eragon remained on

the cliffs, although this time he and Saphira were careful to maintain

their link so as to absorb each other’s instruction.

As the dragons departed, Oromis observed, “Your voice is rougher to-

day, Eragon. Are you sick?”

“My back hurt again this morning.”

“Ah. You have my sympathy.” He motioned with one finger. “Wait

here.”

Eragon watched as Oromis strode into his hut and then reappeared,

looking fierce and warlike with his silver mane rippling in the wind and

his bronze sword in hand. “Today,” he said, “we shall forgo the Rimgar

and instead cross our two blades, Naegling and Zar’roc. Draw thy sword

and guard its edge as your first master taught you.”

Eragon wanted nothing more than to refuse. However, he had no inten-

tion of breaking his vow or letting his resolve waver in front of Oromis.

He swallowed his trepidation. This is what it means to be a Rider, he

thought.

Drawing upon his reserves, he located the nub deep within his mind

that connected him to the wild flow of magic. He delved into it, and the

energy suffused him. “Gëuloth du knífr,” he said, and a winking blue star

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popped into existence between his thumb and forefinger, jumping from

one to the next as he ran it down Zar’roc’s perilous length.

The instant their swords met, Eragon knew that he was as out-matched

by Oromis as by Durza and Arya. Eragon was an exemplary human

swordsman, but he could not compete with warriors whose blood ran

thick with magic. His arm was too weak and his reflexes too slow. Still,

that did not stop him from trying to win. He fought to the limits of his

abilities, even if, in the end, it was a futile prospect.

Oromis tested him in every conceivable manner, forcing Eragon to util-

ize his entire arsenal of blows, counterblows, and underhand tricks. It was

all for naught. He could not touch the elf. As a last resort, he tried alter-

ing his style of fighting, which could unsettle even the most hardened

veteran. All it got him was a welt on his thigh.

“Move your feet faster,” cried Oromis. “He who stands like a pillar dies

in battle. He who bends like a reed is triumphant!”

The elf was glorious in action, a perfect blend of control and untamed

violence. He pounced like a cat, struck like a heron, and bobbed and

wove with the grace of a weasel.

They had been sparring for almost twenty minutes when Oromis fal-

tered, his narrow features clamped in a brief grimace. Eragon recognized

the symptoms of Oromis’s mysterious illness and lashed out with Zar’roc.

It was a low thing to do, but Eragon was so frustrated, he was willing to

take advantage of any opening, no matter how unfair, just to have the sat-

isfaction of marking Oromis at least once.

Zar’roc never reached its target. As Eragon twisted, he overextended

and strained his back.

The pain was upon him without warning.

The last thing he heard was Saphira shouting, Eragon!

Despite the intensity of the fit, Eragon remained conscious throughout

his ordeal. Not that he was aware of his surroundings, only the fire that

burned in his flesh and prolonged each second into an eternity. The worst

part was that he could do nothing to end his suffering but wait. . and

wait. .

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Eragon lay panting in the cold mud. He blinked as his vision came into

focus and he saw Oromis sitting on a stool next to him. Pushing himself

onto his knees, Eragon surveyed his new tunic with a mixture of regret

and disgust. The fine russet cloth was caked with dirt from his convul-

sions on the ground. Muck filled his hair as well.

He could sense Saphira in his mind, radiating concern as she waited for

him to notice her. How can you continue like this? she fretted. It’ll destroy

you.

Her misgivings undermined Eragon’s remaining fortitude. Saphira had

never before expressed doubt that he would prevail, not at Dras-Leona,

Gil’ead, or Farthen Dûr, nor with any of the dangers they had encoun-

tered. Her confidence had given him courage. Without it he was truly

afraid.

You should concentrate on your lesson, he said.

I should concentrate on you.

Leave me alone! He snapped at her like a wounded animal that wants

to nurse its injuries in silence and in dark. She fell silent, leaving just

enough of their connection intact so that he was vaguely aware of Glaedr

teaching her about fireweed, which she could chew to help her digestion.

Eragon combed the mud from his hair with his fingers, then spat out a

globule of blood. “Bit my tongue.”

Oromis nodded as if it were to be expected. “Do you require healing?”

“No.”

“Very well. Tend to your sword, then bathe and go to the stump in the

glade and listen to the thoughts of the forest. Listen, and when you hear

no more, come tell me what you have learned.”

“Yes, Master.”

As he sat on the stump, Eragon found that his turbulent thoughts and

emotions prevented him from mustering the concentration to open his

mind and sense the creatures in the hollow. Nor was he interested in do-

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ing so.

Still, the peaceful quality of his surroundings gradually ameliorated his

resentment, confusion, and stubborn anger. It did not make him happy,

but it did bring him a certain fatalistic acceptance. This is my lot in life,

and I’d better get used to it because it’s not about to improve in the foresee-

able future.

After a quarter of an hour, his faculties had regained their usual acuity,

so he resumed studying the colony of red ants that he had discovered the

day before. He also tried to be aware of everything else that was happen-

ing in the glade, as Oromis had instructed.

Eragon met with limited success. If he relaxed and allowed himself to

absorb input from all the consciousnesses nearby, thousands of images

and feelings rushed into his head, piling on top of one another in quick

flashes of sound and color, touch and smell, pain and pleasure. The