Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (64 page)

for the first time. “Do you often write poetry?”

Arya extended her hand for the paper and, when he gave it to her,

rolled it into a tube so that the words were no longer visible. “It is cus-

tom that everyone who attends the Blood-oath Celebration should bring

a poem, a song, or some other piece of art that they have made and share

it with those assembled. I have but begun to work on mine.”

“I think it’s quite good.”

“If you had read much poetry—”

“I have.”

Arya paused, then dipped her head and said, “Forgive me. You are not

the person I first met in Gil’ead.”

“No. I. .” He stopped and twisted the goblet between his hands while

he searched for the right words. “Arya. . you’ll be leaving soon enough. I

would count it a shame if this is the last I see of you between now and

407

then. Could we not meet occasionally, as we did before, and you could

show Saphira and me more of Ellesméra?”

“It would not be wise,” she said in a gentle but firm voice.

He looked up at her. “Must the price of my indiscretion be our friend-

ship? I cannot help how I feel toward you, but I would rather suffer an-

other wound from Durza than allow my foolishness to destroy the com-

panionship that existed between us. I value it too highly.”

Lifting her goblet, Arya finished the last of her tea before responding.

“Our friendship shall endure, Eragon. As for us spending time together.. ”

Her lips curved with a hint of a smile. “Perhaps. However, we shall have

to wait and see what the future brings, for I am busy and can promise

nothing.”

He knew her words were the closest thing to a conciliation he was

likely to receive, and he was grateful for them. “Of course, Arya Svit-

kona,” he said, and bowed his head.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, but it was clear that Arya had

gone as far as she was willing to go that day, so Eragon returned to

Saphira, his hope restored by what he had accomplished. Now it’s up to

fate to decide the outcome, he thought as he settled before Oromis’s latest

scroll.

Reaching into the pouch at his belt, Eragon withdrew a soapstone con-

tainer of nalgask—beeswax melted with hazelnut oil—and smeared it

over his lips to protect them against the cold wind that scoured his face.

He closed the pouch, then wrapped his arms around Saphira’s neck and

buried his face in the crook of his elbow to reduce the glare from the

wimpled clouds beneath them. The tireless beat of Saphira’s wings domi-

nated his hearing, higher and faster than that of Glaedr’s, whom she fol-

lowed.

They flew southwest from dawn until early afternoon, often pausing

for enthusiastic sparring bouts between Saphira and Glaedr, during which

Eragon had to strap his arms onto the saddle to prevent himself from be-

ing thrown off by the stomach-turning acrobatics. He then would free

himself by pulling on slipknots with his teeth.

The trip ended at a cluster of four mountains that towered over the

408

forest, the first mountains Eragon had seen in Du Weldenvarden. White-

capped and windswept, they pierced the veil of clouds and bared their

crevassed brows to the beating sun, which was heatless at such altitude.

They look so small compared to the Beors, said Saphira.

As had become his habit during weeks of meditation, Eragon extended

his mind in every direction, touching upon the consciousnesses around

him in search of any who might mean him harm. He felt a marmot warm

in her burrow, ravens, nuthatches, and hawks, numerous squirrels run-

ning among the trees, and, farther down the mountain, rock snakes undu-

lating through the brush in search of the mice that were their prey, as

well as the hordes of ubiquitous insects.

When Glaedr descended to a bare ridge on the first mountain, Saphira

had to wait until he folded his massive wings before there was enough

room for her to land. The field of boulder-strewn talus they alighted

upon was brilliant yellow from a coating of hard, crenulated lichen.

Above them loomed a sheer black cliff. It acted as buttress and dam for a

cornice of blue ice that groaned and split under the wind, loosing jagged

slabs that shattered on the granite below.

This peak is known as Fionula, said Glaedr. And her brothers are

Ethrundr, Merogoven, and Griminsmal. Each has its own tale, which I shall

recount on the flight back. But for now, I shall address the purpose of this

trip, namely the nature of the bond forged between dragons and elves and,

later, humans. You both know something of it—and I have hinted at its full

implications to Saphira—but the time has come to learn the solemn and pro-

found meaning of your partnership so that you may uphold it when Oromis

and I are no more.

“Master?” asked Eragon, wrapping his cloak around himself to stay

warm.

Yes, Eragon.

“Why is Oromis not here with us?”

Because, rumbled Glaedr, it is my duty—as was always the duty of an

elder dragon in centuries past—to ensure that the newest generation of Rid-

ers understands the true importance of the station they have assumed. And

because Oromis is not as well as he appears.

The rocks cracked with muffled reports as Glaedr coiled up, nestling

409

himself among the scree and placing his majestic head upon the ground

lengthwise to Eragon and Saphira. He examined them with one gold eye

as large as a polished roundshield and twice as brilliant. A gray smudge of

smoke drifted from his nostrils and was blown to tatters by the wind.

Parts of what I am about to reveal were common knowledge among the

elves, Riders, and learned humans, but much of it was known only to the

leader of the Riders, a mere handful of elves, the humans’ current potentate,

and, of course, the dragons.

Listen now, my hatchlings. When peace was made between dragons and

elves at the end of our war, the Riders were created to ensure that such con-

flict would never again arise between our two races. Queen Tarmunora of

the elves and the dragon who had been selected to represent us, whose

name—he paused and conveyed a series of impressions to Eragon: long

tooth, white tooth, chipped tooth; fights won, fights lost; countless eaten

Shrrg and Nagra; seven-and-twenty eggs sired and nineteen offspring

grown to maturity—cannot be expressed in any language, decided that a

common treaty would not suffice. Signed paper means nothing to a dragon.

Our blood runs hot and thick and, given enough time, it was inevitable that

we would clash with the elves again, as we had with the dwarves over the

millennia. But unlike with the dwarves, neither we nor the elves could af-

ford another war. We were both too powerful, and we would have destroyed

each other. The one way to prevent that and to forge a meaningful accord

was to link our two races with magic.

Eragon shivered, and with a touch of amusement, Glaedr said, Saphira,

if you are wise, you will heat one of these rocks with the fire from your belly

so that your Rider does not freeze.

Thereupon Saphira arched her neck, and a jet of blue flame emanated

from between her serrated fangs and splashed against the scree, blacken-

ing the lichen, which released a bitter smell as it burned. The air grew so

hot that Eragon was forced to turn away. He felt the insects underneath

the rocks being crisped in the inferno. After a minute, Saphira clapped

shut her jaws, leaving a circle of stones five feet across glowing cherry

red.

Thank you, Eragon said to her. He hunched by the edge of the scorched

rocks and warmed his hands over them.

Remember, Saphira, to use your tongue to direct the stream, admonished

Glaedr. Now... it took nine years for the elves’ wisest magicians to devise the

needed spell. When they had, they and the dragons gathered together at

Ilirea. The elves provided the structure of the enchantment, the dragons pro-

410

vided the strength, and together they melded the souls of elves and dragons.

The joining changed us. We dragons gained the use of language and other

trappings of civilization, while the elves shared in our longevity, since before

that moment, their lives were as short as humans’. In the end, the elves were

the most affected. Our magic, dragons’ magic—which permeates every fiber

of our being—was transmitted to the elves and, in time, gave them their

much-vaunted strength and grace. Humans have never been influenced as

strongly, since you were added to the spell after its completion and it has not

had as much time to work upon you as with the elves. Still—and here

Glaedr’s eye gleamed—it has already gentled your race from the rough

barbarians who first landed in Alagaësia, though you have begun to regress

since the Fall.

“Were dwarves ever part of this spell?” asked Eragon.

No, and that is why there has never been a dwarf Rider. They do not care

for dragons, nor we for them, and they found the idea of being joined with

us repellent. Perhaps it is fortunate that they did not enter into our pact, for

they have escaped the decline of humans and elves.

Decline, Master? queried Saphira in what Eragon would have sworn

was a teasing tone of voice.

Aye, decline. If one or another of our three races suffer, so do they all. By

killing dragons, Galbatorix harmed his own race as well as the elves. The

two of you have not seen this, for you are new to Ellesméra, but the elves are

on the wane; their power is not what it once was. And humans have lost

much of their culture and been consumed by chaos and corruption. Only by

righting the imbalance between our three races shall order return to the

world.

The old dragon kneaded the scree with his talons, crumbling it into

gravel so that he was more comfortable. Layered within the enchantment

Queen Tarmunora oversaw was the mechanism that allows a hatchling to

be linked with his or her Rider. When a dragon decides to give an egg to the

Riders, certain words are said over the egg—which I shall teach you later—

that prevent the dragon inside from hatching until it is brought into contact

with the person with whom it decides to bond. As dragons can remain in

their eggs indefinitely, time is of no concern, nor is the infant harmed. You

yourself are an example of this, Saphira.

The bond that forms between a Rider and dragon is but an enhanced ver-

sion of the bond that already exists between our races. The human or elf be-

411

comes stronger and fairer, while some of the dragon’s fiercer traits are tem-

pered by a more reasoned outlook.... I see a thought biting at your tongue,

Eragon. What is it?

“It’s just. .” He hesitated. “I have a hard time imagining you or Saphira

being any fiercer. Not,” he added anxiously, “that that’s a bad thing.”

The ground shook as if with an avalanche as Glaedr chuckled, rolling

his great big staring eye behind its horny lid and back again. If ever you

met an unbonded dragon, you would not say so. A dragon alone answers to

no one and no thing, takes whatever pleases it, and bears no thought of

kindness for aught but its kith and kin. Fierce and proud were the wild

dragons, even arrogant.... The females were so formidable, it was accounted

a great accomplishment among the Riders’ dragons to mate with one.

The lack of this bond is why Galbatorix’s partnership with Shruikan, his

second dragon, is such a perverted union. Shruikan did not choose Galba-

torix as his partner; he was twisted by certain black magics into serving

Galbatorix’s madness. Galbatorix has constructed a depraved imitation of

the relationship that you, Eragon, and you, Saphira, possess and that he lost

when the Urgals murdered his original dragon.

Glaedr paused and looked between the two of them. His eye was all

that moved. That which links you exceeds any simple connection between

minds. Your very souls, your identities—call it what you will—have been

welded on a primal level. His eye flicked to Eragon. Do you believe that a

person’s soul is separate from his body?

“I don’t know,” said Eragon. “Saphira once took me out of my body and

let me see the world through her eyes. . It seemed like I was no longer

connected to my body. And if the wraiths that a sorcerer calls upon can

exist, then maybe our consciousness is independent of flesh as well.”

Extending the needle-sharp tip of his foreclaw, Glaedr flipped over a

rock to expose a woodrat cowering in its nest. He snapped up the rat

with a flash of his red tongue; Eragon winced as he felt the animal’s life

extinguished.

When the flesh is destroyed, so is the soul, said Glaedr.

“But an animal isn’t a person,” protested Eragon.

After your meditations, do you truly believe that any of us are so different

from a woodrat? That we are gifted with a miraculous quality that other

412

creatures do not enjoy and that somehow preserves our beings after death?

“No,” muttered Eragon.

I thought not. Because we are so closely joined, when a dragon or Rider is

injured, they must harden their hearts and sever the connection between