Paolini, Christopher - [Inheritance 02] - Eldest Page 16

  Arya came to the edge of the raft. “I’m glad you did not kill them. Fanghur are rare enough that those three would have been sorely missed.”

  “They still manage to eat enough of our herds,” growled Thorv from inside the cabin. The dwarf marched out to Eragon, champing irritably under the twisted knots of his beard. “Do not fly anymore while in these Beor Mountains, Shadeslayer. It is difficult enough to keep you unharmed without you and thine dragon fighting wind-vipers.”

  “We’ll stay on the ground until we reach the plains,” promised Eragon.

  “Good.”

  When they stopped for the night, the dwarves moored the rafts to aspen trees along the mouth of a small stream. Ama started a fire while Eragon helped Ekksvar pull Snowfire onto land. They picketed the stallion on a strip of grass.

  Thorv oversaw the erection of six large tents. Hedin gathered firewood to last until morning, and Dûthmér carried supplies off the second raft and began making dinner. Arya took up watch on the edge of camp, where she was soon joined by Ekksvar, Ama, and Tríhga when they finished their tasks.

  When Eragon realized he had nothing to do, he squatted by the fire with Orik and Shrrgnien. As Shrrgnien pulled off his gloves and held his scarred hands over the flames, Eragon noticed that a polished steel stud—perhaps a quarter of an inch long—protruded from each of the dwarf’s knuckles, except for on his thumbs.

  “What are those?” he asked.

  Shrrgnien looked at Orik and laughed. “These are mine Ascûdgamln… mine ‘fists of steel.’ ” Without standing, he twisted and punched the bole of an aspen, leaving four symmetrical holes in the bark. Shrrgnien laughed again. “They are good for hitting things, eh?”

  Eragon’s curiosity and envy were aroused. “How are they made? I mean, how are the spikes attached to your hands?”

  Shrrgnien hesitated, trying to find the right words. “A healer puts you in a deep sleep, so you feel no pain. Then a hole is—isdrilled, yes?—is drilled down through the joints…” He broke off and spoke quickly to Orik in the dwarf language.

  “A metal socket is embedded in each hole,” explained Orik. “Magic is used to seal it in place, and when the warrior has fully recovered, various-sized spikes can be threaded into the sockets.”

  “Yes, see,” said Shrrgnien, grinning. He gripped the stud above his left index finger, carefully twisted it free of his knuckle, and then handed it to Eragon.

  Eragon smiled as he rolled the sharp lump around his palm. “I wouldn’t mind having ‘fists of steel’ myself.” He returned the stud to Shrrgnien.

  “It’s a dangerous operation,” warned Orik. “Few knurlan get Ascûdgamln because you can easily lose the use of your hands if the drill goes too deep.” He raised his fist and showed it to Eragon. “Our bones are thicker than yours. It might not work for a human.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Still, Eragon could not help but imagine what it would be like to fight with Ascûdgamln, to be able to strike anything he wanted with impunity, including armored Urgals. He loved the idea.

  After eating, Eragon retired to his tent. The fire provided enough light that he could see the silhouette of Saphira nestled alongside the tent, like a figure cut from black paper and pasted against the canvas wall.

  Eragon sat with the blankets pulled over his legs and stared at his lap, drowsy but unwilling to sleep quite yet. Unbidden, his mind turned to thoughts of home. He wondered how Roran, Horst, and everyone else from Carvahall was doing, and if the weather in Palancar Valley was warm enough for the farmers to start planting their crops. Longing and sadness suddenly gripped Eragon.

  He removed a wood bowl from his pack and, taking his waterskin, filled it to the brim with liquid. Then he focused on an image of Roran and whispered, “Draumr kópa.”

  As always, the water went black before brightening to reveal the object being scryed. Eragon saw Roran sitting alone in a candlelit bedroom he recognized from Horst’s house. Roran must have given up his job in Therinsford, realized Eragon. His cousin leaned on his knees and clasped his hands, staring at the far wall with an expression that Eragon knew meant Roran was grappling with some difficult problem. Still, Roran seemed well enough, if a bit drawn, which comforted Eragon. After a minute, he released the magic, ending the spell and clearing the surface of the water.

  Reassured, Eragon emptied the bowl, then lay down, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He closed his eyes and sank into the warm dusk that separates consciousness and sleep, where reality bends and sways to the wind of thought, and where creativity blossoms in its freedom from boundaries and all things are possible.

  Slumber soon took him. Most of his rest was uneventful, but right before he woke, the usual night phantasms were replaced with a vision as clear and vibrant as any waking experience.

  He saw a tortured sky, black and crimson with smoke. Crows and eagles swirled high above flights of arrows that arched from one side to another of a great battle. A man sprawled in the clotted mud with a dented helm and bloody mail—his face concealed behind an upthrown arm.

  An armored hand entered Eragon’s view. The gauntlet was so near it blotted out half the world with polished steel. Like an inexorable machine, the thumb and last three fingers curled into a fist, leaving the trunk of the index finger to point at the downed man with all the authority of fate itself.

  The vision still filled Eragon’s mind when he crawled out of the tent. He found Saphira some distance from the camp, gnawing on a furry lump. When he told her what he had seen, she paused in midbite, then jerked her neck and swallowed a strip of meat.

  The last time this occurred,she said, it proved to be a true prediction of events elsewhere. Do you think a battle is in progress in Alagaësia?

  He kicked a loose branch. I’m not sure… Brom said you could only scry people, places, and things that you had already seen. Yet I’ve never seen this place. Nor had I seen Arya when I first dreamt about her in Teirm.

  Perhaps Togira Ikonoka will be able to explain it.

  As they prepared to leave, the dwarves seemed much more relaxed now that they were a good distance from Tarnag. When they started poling down the Az Ragni, Ekksvar—who was steering Snowfire’s raft—began chanting in his rough bass:

  Down the rushing mere-wash

  Of Kílf’s welling blood,

  We ride the twisting timbers,

  For hearth, clan, and honor.

  Under the ernes’ sky-vat,

  Through the ice-wolves’ forest bowls,

  We ride the gory wood,

  For iron, gold, and diamond.

  Let hand-ringer and bearded gaper fill my grip

  And battle-leaf guard my stone

  As I leave the halls of my fathers

  For the empty land beyond.

  The other dwarves joined Ekksvar, slipping into Dwarvish as they continued on to other verses. The low throb of their voices accompanied Eragon as he carefully made his way to the head of the raft, where Arya sat cross-legged.

  “I had a… vision during my sleep,” said Eragon. Arya looked at him with interest, and he recounted the images he had seen. “If it’s scrying, then—”

  “It’s not scrying,” said Arya. She spoke with deliberate slowness, as if to prevent any misunderstanding. “I thought for a long time about how you saw me imprisoned in Gil’ead, and I believe that as I lay unconscious, my spirit was searching for help, wherever I might find it.”

  “But why me?”

  Arya nodded toward where Saphira undulated through the water. “I grew accustomed to Saphira’s presence during the fifteen years I guarded her egg. I was reaching out for anything that felt familiar when I touched your dreams.”

  “Are you really strong enough to contact someone in Teirm from Gil’ead? Especially if you were drugged.”

  A ghost of a smile touched Arya’s lips. “I could stand on the very gates of Vroengard and still speak with you as clearly as I am now.” She paused. “If you did not scry me in Teirm, then you could not h
ave scryed this new dream. It must be a premonition. They have been known to occur throughout the sentient races, but especially among magic users.”

  Eragon clutched the netting around a bundle of supplies as the raft lurched. “If what I sawwill come to pass, then how can we change anything that happens? Do our choices matter? What if I threw myself off the raft right now and drowned?”

  “But you won’t.” Arya dipped her left forefinger in the river and stared at the single drop that clung to her skin, like a quivering lens. “Once, long ago, the elf Maerzadí had a premonition that he would accidentally kill his son in battle. Rather than live to see it happen, he committed suicide, saving his son, and at the same time proving that the future isn’t set. Short of killing yourself, however, you can do little to change your destiny, since you don’t know what choices will lead you to the particular point of time that you saw.” She flipped her hand and the drop splattered against the log between them. “We know that it’s possible to retrieve information from the future—fortunetellers can often sense the paths a person’s life may take—but we’ve been unable to refine the process to the point where you can choose what, where, or when you want to see.”

  Eragon found the entire concept of funneling knowledge through time profoundly disturbing. It raised too many questions about the nature of reality. Whether fate and destiny really exist, the only thing I can do is enjoy the present and live as honorably as possible. Yet he could not help asking, “What’s to stop me, though, from scrying one of my memories? I’ve seen everything in them… so I should be able to view them with magic.”

  Arya’s gaze darted to meet his. “If you value your life, never attempt it. Many years ago, several of our spellweavers devoted themselves to defeating time’s enigmas. When they tried to summon up the past, they only succeeded in creating a blurred image on their mirror before the spell consumed their energy and killed them. We made no more experiments on the subject. It is argued that the spell would work if more magicians participated, but no one is willing to accept the risk and the theory 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 purpose.

  “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 memories. We don’t know. Many avenues of magic have yet to be explored.” She stood in a single fluid movement. “Take care not to lose yourself among them.”

  DRIFTING

  The valley widened throughout the morning as the rafts swept toward a bright gap between two mountains. They reached the opening at midday 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. Almost 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 muttered among themselves and glanced longingly at the cavernous rift behind 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 prairie 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 Dûthmér 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 control, he pivoted to the right—twisting Zar’roc’s point to parry an imaginary 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 blankets. Arya sat beside him, while Saphira’s head stuck through the entrance 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 unconscious.

  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.”

  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 inevitable. 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, stumbling 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 deferential 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, Shades
layer.”

  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 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 remember 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.

  As Eragon experimented with various configurations, he quickly became frustrated by a simple fact: it seemed impossible to get the two sets of bands parallel so they would lie flat together.