Paolini, Christopher - [Inheritance 02] - Eldest Read online

  Conscious of the fact that the entire crowd was watching, Roran faced the mountains and the Igualda Falls. His shoulder throbbed beneath the leather strap. Behind him lay his father’s bones and everything he had known in life. Before him the jagged peaks piled high into the pale sky and blocked his way and his will. But he would not be denied. And he would not look back.

  Katrina.

  Lifting his chin, Roran strode forward. His staff knocked against the hard planks as he crossed the trench and passed out of Carvahall, leading the villagers into the wilderness.

  ON THE CRAGS OF TEL’NAEÍ

  Thud.

  Bright as a flaming sun, the dragon hung before Eragon and everyone clustered along the Crags of Tel’naeír, buffeting them with gusts from its mighty wings. The dragon’s body appeared to be on fire as the brilliant dawn illuminated its golden scales and sprayed the ground and trees with dazzling chips of light. It was far larger than Saphira, large enough to be several hundred years old, and proportionally thicker in its neck, limbs, and tail. Upon its back sat the Rider, robes startling white against the brilliance of the scales.

  Eragon fell to his knees, his face upturned. I’m not alone… Awe and relief coursed through him. No more would he have to bear the responsibility of the Varden and of Galbatorix by himself. Here was one of the guardians of old resurrected from the depths of time to guide him, a living symbol, and a testament to the legends he had been raised with. Here was his master. Herewas a legend!

  As the dragon turned to land, Eragon gasped; the creature’s left foreleg had been severed by a terrible blow, leaving a helpless white stump in place of the once mighty limb. Tears filled his eyes.

  A whirlwind of dry twigs and leaves enveloped the hilltop as the dragon settled on the sweet clover and folded its wings. The Rider carefully descended from his steed along the dragon’s intact front right leg, then approached Eragon, his hands clasped before him. He was an elf with silver hair, old beyond measure, though the only sign of age was the expression of great compassion and sadness upon his face.

  “Osthato Chetowä,” said Eragon. “The Mourning Sage… As you asked, I have come.” With a jolt, he remembered his manners and touched his lips. “Atra esterní ono thelduin.”

  The Rider smiled. He took Eragon by the shoulders and lifted him upright, staring at him with such kindness that Eragon could look at nothing else; he was consumed by the endless depths within the elf’s eyes. “Oromis is my proper name, Eragon Shadeslayer.”

  “You knew,” whispered Islanzadí with a hurt expression that quickly transformed into a storm of rage. “You knew of Eragon’s existence and yet you did not tell me? Why have you betrayed me, Shur’tugal?”

  Oromis released Eragon from his gaze and transferred it onto the queen. “I kept my peace because it was uncertain if Eragon or Arya would live long enough to come here; I had no wish to give you a fragile hope that might have been torn away at any moment.”

  Islanzadí spun about, her cape of swan feathers billowing like wings. “You had no right to withhold such information from me! I could have sent warriors to protect Arya, Eragon, and Saphira in Farthen Dûr and to escort them safely here.”

  Oromis smiled sadly. “I hid nothing from you, Islanzadí, but what you had already chosen not to see. If you had scryed the land, as is your duty, you would have discerned the source of the chaos that has swept Alagaësia and learned the truth of Arya and Eragon. That you might forget the Varden and the dwarves in your grief is understandable, but Brom? Vinr Älfakyn? The last of the Elf Friends? You have been blind to the world, Islanzadí, and lax upon your throne. I could not risk driving you further away by subjecting you to another loss.”

  Islanzadí‘s anger drained away, leaving her face pale and her shoulders slumped. “I am diminished,” she whispered.

  A cloud of hot, moist air pressed against Eragon as the gold dragon bent to examine him with eyes that glittered and sparked. We are well met, Eragon Shadeslayer. I am Glaedr. His voice—for it was unmistakably male—rumbled and shook through Eragon’s mind, like the growl of a mountain avalanche.

  All Eragon could do was touch his lips and say, “I am honored.”

  Then Glaedr brought his attention to bear on Saphira. She remained perfectly still, her neck arched stiffly as Glaedr sniffed her cheek and along the line of her wing. Eragon saw Saphira’s clenched leg muscles flutter with an involuntary tremor. You smell of humans, said Glaedr, and all you know of your own race is what your instincts have taught you, but you have the heart of a true dragon.

  During this silent exchange, Orik presented himself to Oromis. “Truly, this is beyond anything that I dared hope or expect. You are a pleasant surprise in these dark times, Rider.” He clapped his fist over his heart. “If it is not too presumptuous, I would ask a boon on behalf of my king and my clan, as was the custom between our people.”

  Oromis nodded. “And I will grant it if it is within my power.”

  “Then tell me: Why have you remained hidden for all these years? You were sorely needed, Argetlam.”

  “Ah,” said Oromis. “Many sorrows exist in this world, and one of the greatest is being unable to help those in pain. I could not risk leaving this sanctuary, for if I had died before one of Galbatorix’s eggs had hatched, then there would have been no one to pass on our secrets to the new Rider, and it would have been even harder to defeat Galbatorix.”

  “Thatwas your reason?” spat Orik. “Those are the words of a coward! The eggs might have never hatched.”

  Everyone went deathly quiet, except for a faint growl that emanated from between Glaedr’s teeth. “If you were not my guest here,” said Islanzadí, “I would strike you down myself for that insult.”

  Oromis spread his hands. “Nay, I am not offended. It is an apt reaction. Understand, Orik, that Glaedr and I cannot fight. Glaedr has his disability, and I,” he touched the side of his head, “I am also maimed. The Forsworn broke something within me when I was their captive, and while I can still teach and learn, I can no longer control magic, except for the smallest of spells. The power escapes me, no matter how much I struggle. I would be worse than useless in battle, I would be a weakness and a liability, one who could easily be captured and used against you. So I removed myself from Galbatorix’s influence for the good of the many, even though I yearned to openly oppose him.”

  “The Cripple Who Is Whole,” murmured Eragon.

  “Forgive me,” said Orik. He appeared stricken.

  “It is of no consequence.” Oromis placed a hand on Eragon’s shoulder. “Islanzadí Dröttning, by your leave?”

  “Go,” she said wearily. “Go and be done with you.”

  Glaedr crouched low to the ground, and Oromis nimbly climbed up his leg and into the saddle on his back. “Come, Eragon and Saphira. We have much to talk about.” The gold dragon leaped off the cliff and circled overhead, rising on an updraft.

  Eragon and Orik solemnly clasped arms. “Bring honor to your clan,” said the dwarf.

  As Eragon mounted Saphira, he felt as if he were about to embark on a long journey and that he should say farewell to those who remained behind. Instead, he just looked at Arya and smiled, letting his wonder and joy show. She half frowned, appearing troubled, but then he was gone, swept into the sky by the eagerness of Saphira’s flight.

  Together the two dragons followed the white cliff northward for several miles, accompanied only by the sound of their wings. Saphira flew abreast of Glaedr. Her enthusiasm boiled over into Eragon’s mind, heightening his own emotions.

  They landed in another clearing situated on the edge of the cliff, just before the wall of exposed stone crumbled back into the earth. A bare path led from the precipice to the doorstep of a low hut grown between the trunks of four trees, one of which straddled a stream that emerged from the moody depths of the forest. Glaedr would not fit inside; the hut could have easily sat between his ribs.

  “Welcome to my home,” said Oromis as he alighted on the ground with
uncommon ease. “I live here, on the brink of the Crags of Tel’naeír, because it provides me the opportunity to think and study in peace. My mind works better away from Ellesméra and the distractions of other people.”

  He disappeared inside the hut, then returned with two stools and flagons of clear, cold water for both himself and Eragon. Eragon sipped his drink and admired the spacious view of Du Weldenvarden in an attempt to conceal his awe and nervousness while he waited for the elf to speak. I’m in the presence of another Rider! Beside him, Saphira crouched with her eyes fixed on Glaedr, slowly kneading the dirt between her claws.

  The gap in their conversation stretched longer and longer. Ten minutes passed… half an hour… then an hour. It reached the point where Eragon began to measure the elapsed time by the sun’s progress. At first his mind buzzed with questions and thoughts, but those eventually subsided into calm acceptance. He enjoyed just observing the day.

  Only then did Oromis say, “You have learned the value of patience well. That is good.”

  It took Eragon a moment to find his voice. “You can’t stalk a deer if you are in a hurry.”

  Oromis lowered his flagon. “True enough. Let me see your hands. I find that they tell me much about a person.” Eragon removed his gloves and allowed the elf to grip his wrists with thin, dry fingers. He examined Eragon’s calluses, then said, “Correct me if I am wrong. You have wielded a scythe and plow more often than a sword, though you are accustomed to a bow.”

  “Aye.”

  “And you have done little writing or drawing, maybe none at all.”

  “Brom taught me my letters in Teirm.”

  “Mmm. Beyond your choice of tools, it seems obvious that you tend to be reckless and disregard your own safety.”

  “What makes you say that, Oromis-elda?” asked Eragon, using the most respectful and formal honorific that he could think of.

  “Notelda, ” corrected Oromis. “You may call me master in this tongue and ebrithil in the ancient language, nothing else. You will extend the same courtesy to Glaedr. We are your teachers; you are our students; and you will act with proper respect and deference.” Oromis spoke gently, but with the authority of one who expects absolute obedience.

  “Yes, Master Oromis.”

  “As will you, Saphira.”

  Eragon could sense how hard it was for Saphira to unbend her pride enough to say, Yes, Master.

  Oromis nodded. “Now. Anyone with such a collection of scars has either been hopelessly unfortunate, fights like a berserker, or deliberately pursues danger. Do you fight like a berserker?”

  “No.”

  “Nor do you seem unfortunate; quite the opposite. That leaves only one explanation. Unless you think differently?”

  Eragon cast his mind over his experiences at home and on the road, in an attempt to categorize his behavior. “I would say, rather, that once I dedicate myself to a certain project or path, I see it through, no matter the cost… especially if someone I love is in danger.” His gaze flicked toward Saphira.

  “And do you undertake challenging projects?”

  “I like to be challenged.”

  “So you feel the need to pit yourself against adversity in order to test your abilities.”

  “I enjoy overcoming challenges, but I’ve faced enough hardship to know that it’s foolish to make things more difficult than they are. It’s all I can do to survive as it is.”

  “Yet you chose to follow the Ra’zac when it would have been easier to remain in Palancar Valley. And you came here.”

  “It was the right thing to do… Master.”

  For several minutes, no one spoke. Eragon tried to guess what the elf was thinking, but could glean no information from his masklike visage. Finally, Oromis stirred. “Were you, perchance, given a trinket of some kind in Tarnag, Eragon? A piece of jewelry, armor, or even a coin?”

  “Aye.” Eragon reached inside of his tunic and fished out the necklace with the tiny silver hammer. “Gannel made this for me on Hrothgar’s orders, to prevent anyone from scrying Saphira or me. They were afraid that Galbatorix might have discovered what I look like… How did you know?”

  “Because,” said Oromis, “I could no longer sense you.”

  “Someone tried to scry me by Sílthrim about a week ago. Was that you?”

  Oromis shook his head. “After I first scryed you with Arya, I had no need to use such crude methods to find you. I could reach out and touch your mind with mine, as I did when you were injured in Farthen Dûr.” Lifting the amulet, he murmured several lines in the ancient language, then released it. “It contains no other spells I can detect. Keep it with you at all times; it is a valuable gift.” He pressed the tips of his long fingers together, his nails as round and bright as fish scales, and stared between the arches they formed toward the white horizon. “Why are you here, Eragon?”

  “To complete my training.”

  “And what do you think that process entails?”

  Eragon shifted uncomfortably. “Learning more about magic and fighting. Brom wasn’t able to finish teaching me everything that he knew.”

  “Magic, swordsmanship, and other such skills are useless unless you know how and when to apply them. This I will teach you. However, as Galbatorix has demonstrated, power without moral direction is the most dangerous force in the world. My main task, then, is to help you, Eragon and Saphira, to understand what principles guide you, so that you do not make the right choices for the wrong reasons. You must learn more about yourself, who you are and what you are capable of doing. That is why you are here.”

  When do we begin?asked Saphira.

  Oromis began to answer when he stiffened and dropped his flagon. His face went crimson and his fingers tightened into hooked claws that dragged at his robe like cockleburs. The change was frightening and instantaneous. Before Eragon could do more than flinch, the elf had relaxed again, although his entire body now bespoke weariness.

  Concerned, Eragon dared to ask, “Are you well?”

  A trace of amusement lifted the corner of Oromis’s mouth. “Less so than I might wish. We elves fancy ourselves immortal, but not even we can escape certain maladies of the flesh, which are beyond our knowledge of magic to do more than delay. No, do not worry… it isn’t contagious, but neither can I rid myself of it.” He sighed. “I have spent decades binding myself with hundreds of small, weak spells that, layered one upon another, duplicate the effect of enchantments that are now beyond my reach. I bound myself with them so that I might live long enough to witness the birth of the last dragons and to foster the Riders’ resurrection from the ruin of our mistakes.”

  “How long until…”

  Oromis lifted a sharp eyebrow. “How long until I die? We have time, but precious little for you or me, especially if the Varden decide to call upon your help. As a result—to answer your question, Saphira—we will begin your instruction immediately, and we will train faster than any Rider ever has or ever will, for I must condense decades of knowledge into months and weeks.”

  “You do know,” said Eragon, struggling against the embarrassment and shame that made his cheeks burn, “about my… my owninfirmity. ” He ground out the last word, hating the sound of it. “I am as crippled as you are.”

  Sympathy tempered Oromis’s gaze, though his voice was firm. “Eragon, you are only a cripple if you consider yourself one. I understand how you feel, but you must remain optimistic, for a negative outlook is more of a handicap than any physical injury. I speak from personal experience. Pitying yourself serves neither you nor Saphira. I and the other spellweavers will study your malady to see if we might devise a way to alleviate it, but in the meantime, your training will proceed as if nothing were amiss.”

  Eragon’s gut clenched and he tasted bile as he considered the implications. Surely Oromis wouldn’t make me endure that torment again! “The pain is unbearable,” he said frantically. “It would kill me. I—”

  “No, Eragon. It will not kill you. That much I know a
bout your curse. However, we both have our duty; you to the Varden, and I to you. We cannot shirk it for the sake of mere pain. Far too much is at risk, and we can ill afford to fail.” All Eragon could do was shake his head as panic threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to deny Oromis’s words, but their truth was inescapable. “Eragon. You must accept this burden freely. Have you no one or nothing that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for?”

  His first thought was of Saphira, but he was not doing this for her. Nor for Nasuada. Nor even for Arya. What drove him, then? When he had pledged fealty to Nasuada, he had done so for the good of Roran and the other people trapped within the Empire. But did they mean enough to him to put himself through such anguish?Yes, he decided. Yes, they do, because I am the only one who has a chance to help them, and because I won’t be free of Galbatorix’s shadow until they are as well. And because this is my only purpose in life. What else would I do? He shuddered as he mouthed the ghastly phrase, “I accept on behalf of those I fight for: the people of Alagaësia—of all races—who have suffered from Galbatorix’s brutality. No matter the pain, I swear that I will study harder than any student you’ve had before.”

  Oromis nodded gravely. “I ask for nothing less.” He looked at Glaedr for a moment, then said, “Stand and remove your tunic. Let me see what you are made of.”

  Wait,said Saphira. Was Brom aware of your existence here, Master? Eragon paused, struck by the possibility.

  “Of course,” said Oromis. “He was my pupil as a boy in Ilirea. I am glad that you gave him a proper burial, for he had a hard life and few enough ever showed him kindness. I hope that he found peace before he entered the void.”

  Eragon slowly frowned. “Did you know Morzan as well?”

  “He was my apprentice before Brom.”

  “And Galbatorix?”

  “I was one of the Elders who denied him another dragon after his first was killed, but no, I never had the misfortune to teach him. He made sure to personally hunt down and kill each of his mentors.”