Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (58 page)

lar white-hot. Eragon was also privy to the dragon lore Glaedr imparted

to Saphira, details about the dragons’ lives and history that comple-

mented her instinctual knowledge. Much of it was incomprehensible to

Eragon, and he suspected that Saphira concealed even more from him,

secrets of her race that dragons shared with no one but themselves. One

thing he did glean, and that Saphira treasured, was the name of her sire,

Iormúngr, and her dam, Vervada, which meant Storm-cleaver in the old

speech. While Iormúngr had been bound to a Rider, Vervada was a wild

dragon who had laid many eggs but entrusted only one to the Riders:

Saphira. Both dragons perished in the Fall.

Some days Eragon and Saphira would fly with Oromis and Glaedr,

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practicing aerial combat or visiting crumbling ruins hidden within Du

Weldenvarden. Other days they would reverse the usual order of things,

and Eragon would accompany Glaedr while Saphira remained on the

Crags of Tel’naeír with Oromis.

Each morning Eragon sparred with Vanir, which, without exception,

ignited one or more of Eragon’s seizures. To make matters worse, the elf

continued to treat Eragon with haughty condescension. He delivered

oblique slights that, on the surface, never exceeded the bounds of polite-

ness, and he refused to be drawn to anger no matter how Eragon needled

him. Eragon hated him and his cool, mannered bearing. It seemed as if

Vanir was insulting him with every movement. And Vanir’s compan-

ions—who, as best Eragon could tell, were of a younger generation of

elves—shared his veiled distaste for Eragon, though they never displayed

aught but respect for Saphira.

Their rivalry came to a head when, after defeating Eragon six times in a

row, Vanir lowered his sword and said, “Dead yet again, Shadeslayer.

How repetitive. Do you wish to continue?” His tone indicated that he

thought it would be pointless.

“Aye,” grunted Eragon. He had already suffered an episode with his

back and was in no mood to bandy words.

Still, when Vanir said, “Tell me, as I am curious: How did you kill

Durza when you are so slow? I cannot fathom how you managed it,” Er-

agon felt compelled to reply: “I caught him by surprise.”

“Forgive me; I should have guessed trickery was involved.”

Eragon fought the impulse to grind his teeth. “If I were an elf or you a

human, you would not be able to match my blade.”

“Perhaps,” said Vanir. He assumed his ready position and, within the

span of three seconds and two blows, disarmed Eragon. “But I think not.

You should not boast to a better swordsman, else he may decide to pun-

ish your temerity.”

Eragon’s temper broke then, and he reached deep within himself and

into the torrent of magic. He released the pent-up energy with one of the

twelve minor words of binding, crying “Malthinae!” to chain Vanir’s legs

and arms in place and hold his jaw shut so that he could not utter a coun-

terspell. The elf’s eyes bulged with outrage.

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Eragon said, “And you should not boast to one who is more skilled in

magic than you.”

Vanir’s dark eyebrows met.

Without warning or a whisper of a sound, an invisible force clouted Er-

agon on the chest and threw him ten yards across the grass, where he

landed upon his side, driving the wind from his lungs. The impact dis-

rupted Eragon’s control of the magic and freed Vanir.

How did he do that?

Advancing upon him, Vanir said, “Your ignorance betrays you, human.

You do not know whereof you speak. To think that you were chosen to

succeed Vrael, that you were given his quarters, that you have had the

honor to serve the Mourning Sage. .” He shook his head. “It sickens me

that such gifts are bestowed upon one so unworthy. You do not even un-

derstand what magic is or how it works.”

Eragon’s anger resurged like a crimson tide. “What,” he said, “have I ever

done to wrong you? Why do you despise me so? Would you prefer it if

no Rider existed to oppose Galbatorix?”

“My opinions are of little consequence.”

“I agree, but I would hear them.”

“Listening, as Nuala wrote in Convocations, is the path to wisdom only

when the result of a conscious decision and not a void of perception.”

“Straighten your tongue, Vanir, and give me an honest answer!”

Vanir smiled coldly. “As you command, O Rider.” Drawing near so that

only Eragon could hear his soft voice, the elf said, “For eighty years after

the fall of the Riders, we held no hope of victory. We survived by hiding

ourselves through deceit and magic, which is but a temporary measure,

for eventually Galbatorix will be strong enough to march upon us and

sweep aside our defenses. Then, long after we had resigned ourselves to

our fate, Brom and Jeod rescued Saphira’s egg, and once again a chance

existed to defeat the foul usurper. Imagine our joy and celebration. We

knew that in order to withstand Galbatorix, the new Rider had to be

more powerful than any of his predecessors, more powerful than even

Vrael. Yet how was our patience rewarded? With another human like

Galbatorix. Worse. . a cripple. You doomed us all, Eragon, the instant you

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touched Saphira’s egg. Do not expect us to welcome your presence.”

Vanir touched his lips with his first and second finger, then sidestepped

Eragon and walked off the sparring field, leaving Eragon rooted in place.

He’s right, thought Eragon. I’m ill suited for this task. Any of these elves,

even Vanir, would make a better Rider than me.

Emanating outrage, Saphira broadened the contact between them. Do

you think so little of my judgment, Eragon? You forget that when I was in

my egg, Arya exposed me to each and every one of these elves—as well as

many of the Varden’s children—and that I rejected them all. I wouldn’t

have chosen someone to be my Rider unless they could help your race, mine,

and the elves, for the three of us share an intertwined fate. You were the

right person, at the right place, at the right time. Never forget that.

If ever that were true, he said, it was before Durza injured me. Now I see

naught but darkness and evil in our future. I won’t give up, but I despair

that we may not prevail. Perhaps our task is not to overthrow Galbatorix

but to prepare the way for the next Rider chosen by the remaining eggs.

At the Crags of Tel’naeír, Eragon found Oromis at the table in his hut,

painting a landscape with black ink along the bottom edge of a scroll he

had finished writing.

Eragon bowed and knelt. “Master.”

Fifteen minutes elapsed before Oromis finished limning the tufts of

needles on a gnarled juniper tree, laid aside his ink, cleaned his sable

brush with water from a clay pot, and then addressed Eragon, saying,

“Why have you come so early?”

“I apologize for disturbing you, but Vanir abandoned our contest part-

way through and I did not know what to do with myself.”

“Why did Vanir leave, Eragon-vodhr?”

Oromis folded his hands in his lap while Eragon described the encoun-

ter, ending with: “I should not have lost control, but I did, and I looked all

the more foolish because of it. I have failed you, Master.”

“You have,” agreed Oromis. “Vanir may have goaded you, but that was

no reason to respond in kind. You must keep a better hold over your

emotions, Eragon. It could cost you your life if you allow your temper to

sway your judgment during battle. Also, such childish displays do nothing

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but vindicate those elves who are opposed to you. Our machinations are

subtle and allow little room for such errors.”

“I am sorry, Master. It won’t happen again.”

As Oromis seemed content to wait in his chair until the time when

they normally performed the Rimgar, Eragon seized the opportunity to

ask, “How could Vanir have worked magic without speaking?”

“Did he? Perhaps another elf decided to assist him.”

Eragon shook his head. “During my first day in Ellesméra, I also saw Is-

lanzadí summon a downpour of flowers by clapping her hands, nothing

more. And Vanir said that I didn’t understand how magic works. What

did he mean?”

“Once again,” said Oromis, resigned, “you grasp at knowledge that you

are not prepared for. Yet, because of our circumstances, I cannot deny it

to you. Only know this: that which you ask for was not taught to Rid-

ers—and is not taught to our magicians—until they had, and have, mas-

tered every other aspect of magic, for this is the secret to the true nature

of magic and the ancient language. Those who know it may acquire great

power, yes, but at a terrible risk.” He paused for a moment. “How is the

ancient language bound to magic, Eragon-vodhr?”

“The words of the ancient language can release the energy stored within

your body and thus activate a spell.”

“Ah. Then you mean that certain sounds, certain vibrations in the air,

somehow tap into this energy? Sounds that might be produced at random

by any creature or thing?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Does not that seem absurd?”

Confused, Eragon said, “It doesn’t matter if it seems absurd, Master; it

just is. Should I think it absurd that the moon wanes and waxes, or that

the seasons turn, or that birds fly south in the winter?”

“Of course not. But how could mere sound do so much? Can particular

patterns of pitch and volume really trigger reactions that allow us to ma-

nipulate energy?”

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“But they do.”

“Sound has no control over magic. Saying a word or phrase in this lan-

guage is not what’s important, it’s thinking them in this language.” With a

flick of his wrist, a golden flame appeared over Oromis’s palm, then dis-

appeared. “However, unless the need is dire, we still utter our spells out

loud to prevent stray thoughts from disrupting them, which is a danger to

even the most experienced magic user.”

The implications staggered Eragon. He thought back to when he almost

drowned under the waterfall of the lake Kóstha-mérna and how he had

been unable to access magic because of the water surrounding him. If I

had known this then, I could have saved myself, he thought. “Master,” he

said, “if sound does not affect magic, why, then, do thoughts?”

Now Oromis smiled. “Why indeed? I must point out that we ourselves

are not the source of magic. Magic can exist on its own, independent of

any spell, such as the werelights in the bogs by Aroughs, the dream well

in Mani’s Caves in the Beor Mountains, and the floating crystal on Eoam.

Wild magic such as this is treacherous, unpredictable, and often stronger

than any we can cast.

“Eons ago, all magic was thus. To use it required nothing but the ability

to sense magic with your mind—which every magician must possess—

and the desire and strength to use it. Without the structure of the ancient

language, magicians could not govern their talent and, as a result, loosed

many evils upon the land, killing thousands. Over time they discovered

that stating their intentions in their language helped them to order their

thoughts and avoid costly errors. But it was no foolproof method. Even-

tually, an accident occurred so horrific that it almost destroyed every liv-

ing being in the world. We know of the event from fragments of manu-

scripts that survived the era, but who or what cast the fatal spell is hid-

den from us. The manuscripts say that, afterward, a race called the Grey

Folk—not elves, for we were young then—gathered their resources and

wrought an enchantment, perhaps the greatest that was or ever shall be.

Together the Grey Folk changed the nature of magic itself. They made it

so that their language, the ancient language, could control what a spell

does. . could actually limit the magic so that if you said burn that door and

by chance looked at me and thought of me, the magic would still burn

the door, not me. And they gave the ancient language its two unique

traits, the ability to prevent those who speak it from lying and the ability

to describe the true nature of things. How they did this remains a mys-

tery.

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“The manuscripts differ on what happened to the Grey Folk when they

completed their work, but it seems that the enchantment drained them

of their power and left them but a shadow of themselves. They faded

away, choosing to live in their cities until the stones crumbled to dust or

to take mates among the younger races and so pass into darkness.”

“Then,” said Eragon, “it is still possible to use magic without the ancient

language?”

“How do you think Saphira breathes fire? And, by your own account,

she used no word when she turned Brom’s tomb to diamond nor when

she blessed the child in Farthen Dûr. Dragons’ minds are different from

ours; they need no protection from magic. They cannot use it con-

sciously, aside from their fire, but when the gift touches them, their

strength is unparalleled. . You look troubled, Eragon. Why?”

Eragon stared down at his hands. “What does this mean for me, Mas-

ter?”

“It means that you will continue to study the ancient language, for you