Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (79 page)

it struck me last night that neither you nor the hundreds of elven scrolls

I’ve read have mentioned your religion. What do elves believe?”

A long sigh was Oromis’s first answer. Then: “We believe that the

world behaves according to certain inviolable rules and that, by persistent

effort, we can discover those rules and use them to predict events when

circumstances repeat.”

Eragon blinked. That did not tell him what he wanted to know. “But

who, or what, do you worship?”

“Nothing.”

“You worship the concept of nothing?”

“No, Eragon. We do not worship at all.”

The thought was so alien, it took Eragon several moments to grasp

what Oromis meant. The villagers of Carvahall lacked a single overriding

doctrine, but they did share a collection of superstitions and rituals, most

of which concerned warding off bad luck. During the course of his train-

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ing, it had dawned upon Eragon that many of the phenomena that the

villagers attributed to supernatural sources were in fact natural processes,

such as when he learned in his meditations that maggots hatched from fly

eggs instead of spontaneously arising from the dirt, as he had thought be-

fore. Nor did it make sense for him to put out an offering of food to keep

sprites from turning the milk sour when he knew that sour milk was ac-

tually caused by a proliferation of tiny organisms in the liquid. Still, Er-

agon remained convinced that otherworldly forces influenced the world

in mysterious ways, a belief that his exposure to the dwarves’ religion had

bolstered. He said, “Where do you think the world came from, then, if it

wasn’t created by the gods?”

“Which gods, Eragon?”

“Your gods, the dwarf gods, our gods. . someone must have created it.”

Oromis raised an eyebrow. “I would not necessarily agree with you. But

be as that may, I cannot prove that gods do not exist. Nor can I prove

that the world and everything in it was not created by an entity or enti-

ties in the distant past. But I can tell you that in the millennia we elves

have studied nature, we have never witnessed an instance where the rules

that govern the world have been broken. That is, we have never seen a

miracle. Many events have defied our ability to explain, but we are con-

vinced that we failed because we are still woefully ignorant about the

universe and not because a deity altered the workings of nature.”

“A god wouldn’t have to alter nature to accomplish his will,” asserted

Eragon. “He could do it within the system that already exists. . He could

use magic to affect events.”

Oromis smiled. “Very true. But ask yourself this, Eragon: If gods exist,

have they been good custodians of Alagaësia? Death, sickness, poverty,

tyranny, and countless other miseries stalk the land. If this is the handi-

work of divine beings, then they are to be rebelled against and over-

thrown, not given obeisance, obedience, and reverence.”

“The dwarves believe—”

“Exactly! The dwarves believe. When it comes to certain matters, they

rely upon faith rather than reason. They have even been known to ignore

proven facts that contradict their dogma.”

“Like what?” demanded Eragon.

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“Dwarf priests use coral as proof that stone is alive and can grow, which

also corroborates their story that Helzvog formed the race of dwarves out

of granite. But we elves discovered that coral is actually an exoskeleton

secreted by minuscule animals that live inside the coral. Any magician

can sense the animals if he opens his mind. We explained this to the

dwarves, but they refused to listen, saying that the life we felt resides in

every kind of stone, although their priests are the only ones who are sup-

posed to be able to detect the life in landlocked stones.”

For a long time, Eragon stared out the window, turning Oromis’s words

over in his mind. “You don’t believe in an afterlife, then.”

“From what Glaedr said, you already knew that.”

“And you don’t put stock in gods.”

“We give credence only to that which we can prove exists. Since we

cannot find evidence that gods, miracles, and other supernatural things

are real, we do not trouble ourselves about them. If that were to change,

if Helzvog were to reveal himself to us, then we would accept the new

information and revise our position.”

“It seems a cold world without something. . more.”

“On the contrary,” said Oromis, “it is a better world. A place where we

are responsible for our own actions, where we can be kind to one another

because we want to and because it is the right thing to do instead of be-

ing frightened into behaving by the threat of divine punishment. I won’t

tell you what to believe, Eragon. It is far better to be taught to think

critically and then be allowed to make your own decisions than to have

someone else’s notions thrust upon you. You asked after our religion, and

I have answered you true. Make of it what you will.”

Their discussion—coupled with his previous worries—left Eragon so

disturbed that he had difficulty concentrating on his studies in the fol-

lowing days, even when Oromis began to show him how to sing to

plants, which Eragon had been eager to learn.

Eragon recognized that his own experiences had already led him to

adopt a more skeptical attitude; in principle, he agreed with much of

what Oromis had said. The problem he struggled with, though, was that

if the elves were right, it meant that nearly all the humans and dwarves

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were deluded, something Eragon found difficult to accept. That many

people can’t be mistaken, he insisted to himself.

When he asked Saphira about it, she said, It matters little to me, Eragon.

Dragons have never believed in higher powers. Why should we when deer

and other prey consider usto be a higher power? He laughed at that. Only

do not ignore reality in order to comfort yourself, for once you do, you make

it easy for others to deceive you.

That night, Eragon’s uncertainties burst forth in his waking dreams,

which raged like a wounded bear through his mind, tearing disparate im-

ages from his memories and mixing them into such a clamor, he felt as if

he were transported back into the confusion of the battle under Farthen

Dûr. He saw Garrow lying dead in Horst’s house, then Brom dead in the

lonely sandstone cave, and then the face of Angela the herbalist, who whis-

pered, “Beware, Argetlam, betrayal is clear. And it will come from within

your family. Beware, Shadeslayer!”

Then the crimson sky was torn apart and Eragon again beheld the two

armies from his premonition in the Beor Mountains. The banks of warriors

collided upon an orange and yellow field, accompanied by the harsh

screams of gore-crows and the whistle of black arrows. The earth itself

seemed to burn: green flames belched from scorched holes that dotted the

ground, charring the mangled corpses left in the armies’ wake. He heard the

roar of a gigantic beast from above that rapidly app—

Eragon jolted upright in bed and scrabbled at the dwarf necklace,

which burned at his throat. Using his tunic to protect his hand, he pulled

the silver hammer away from his skin and then sat and waited in the

dark, his heart thudding from the surprise. He felt his strength ebb as

Gannel’s spell thwarted whoever was trying to scry him and Saphira.

Once again, he wondered if Galbatorix himself was behind the spell, or if

it was one of the king’s pet magicians.

Eragon frowned and released the hammer as the metal grew cold again.

Something’s wrong. I know that much, and I’ve known it for a while, as has

Saphira. Too uneasy to resume the trancelike state that had replaced

sleep for him, he crept from their bedroom without waking Saphira and

climbed the spiral staircase to the study. There he unshuttered a white

lantern and read one of Analísia’s epics until sunrise in an attempt to

calm himself.

Just as Eragon put away the scroll, Blagden flew through the open por-

tal in the eastern wall and, with a flutter of wings, landed on the corner

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of the carved writing desk. The white raven fixed his beady eyes on Er-

agon and croaked, “Wyrda!”

Eragon inclined his head. “And may the stars watch over you, Master

Blagden.”

The raven hopped closer. He cocked his head to the side and uttered a

barking cough, as if he were clearing his throat, then recited in his hoarse

voice:

By beak and bone,

Mine blackened stone

Sees rooks and crooks

And bloody brooks!

“What does that mean?” asked Eragon.

Blagden shrugged and repeated the verse. When Eragon still pressed

him for an explanation, the bird ruffled his feathers, appearing displeased,

and cackled, “Son and father alike, both as blind as bats.”

“Wait!” exclaimed Eragon, jolting upright. “Do you know my father?

Who is he?”

Blagden cackled again. This time he seemed to be laughing.

While two may share two,

And one of two is certainly one,

One might be two.

“A name, Blagden. Give me a name!” When the raven remained silent,

Eragon reached out with his mind, intending to wrench the information

from the bird’s memories.

Blagden was too wily, however. He deflected Eragon’s probe with a

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flick of his thoughts. Shrieking “Wyrda!” he darted forward, plucked a

bright glass stopper from an inkwell, and sped away with his trophy

clutched in his beak. He dove out of sight before Eragon could cast a

spell to bring him back.

Eragon’s stomach knotted as he tried to decipher Blagden’s two riddles.

The last thing he had expected was to hear his father mentioned in

Ellesméra. Finally, he muttered, “That’s it.” I’ll find Blagden later and

wring the truth out of him. But right now... I would have to be a half-wit to

ignore these portents. He jumped to his feet and ran down the stairs, wak-

ing Saphira with his mind and telling her what had transpired during the

night. Retrieving his shaving mirror from the wash closet, Eragon sat be-

tween Saphira’s two front paws so that she could look over his head and

see what he saw.

Arya won’t appreciate it if we intrude on her privacy, warned Saphira.

I have to know if she’s safe.

Saphira accepted that without argument. How will you find her? You

said that after her imprisonment, she erected wards that—like your neck-

lace—prevent anyone from scrying her.

If I can scry the people she’s with, I might be able to figure out how Arya

is. Concentrating on an image of Nasuada, Eragon passed his hand over

the mirror and murmured the traditional phrase, “Dream stare.”

The mirror shimmered and turned white, except for nine people clus-

tered around an invisible table. Of them, Eragon was familiar with

Nasuada and the Council of Elders. But he could not identify a strange

girl hooded in black who lurked behind Nasuada. This puzzled him, for a

magician could only scry things that he had already seen, and Eragon was

certain he had never laid eyes upon the girl before. He forgot about her,

though, as he noticed that the men, and even Nasuada, were armed for

battle.

Let us hear their words, suggested Saphira.

The instant Eragon made the needed alteration to the spell, Nasuada’s

voice emanated from the mirror: “. . and confusion will destroy us. Our

warriors can afford but one commander during this conflict. Decide who

it is to be, Orrin, and quickly too.”

Eragon heard a disembodied sigh. “As you wish; the position is yours.”

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“But, sir, she is untried!”

“Enough, Irwin,” ordered the king. “She has more experience in war

than anyone in Surda. And the Varden are the only force to have de-

feated one of Galbatorix’s armies. If Nasuada were a Surdan general—

which would be peculiar indeed, I admit—you would not hesitate to

nominate her for the post. I shall be happy to deal with questions of au-

thority if they arise afterward, for they will mean I’m still on my feet and

not lying in a grave. As it is, we are so outnumbered I fear we are

doomed unless Hrothgar can reach us before the end of the week. Now,

where is that blasted scroll on the supply train?. . Ah, thank you, Arya.

Three more days without—”

After that the discussion turned to a shortage of bowstrings, which Er-

agon could glean nothing useful from, so he ended the spell. The mirror

cleared, and he found himself staring at his own face.

She lives, he murmured. His relief was overshadowed, though, by the

larger meaning of what they had heard.

Saphira looked at him. We are needed.

Aye. Why hasn’t Oromis told us about this? He must know of it.

Maybe he wanted to avoid disrupting our training.

Troubled, Eragon wondered what else of import was happening in Ala-

gaësia that he was unaware of. Roran. With a pang of guilt, Eragon real-

ized that it had been weeks since he last thought of his cousin, and even

longer since he scryed him on the way to Ellesméra.

At Eragon’s command, the mirror revealed two figures standing against