Eldest: Book Two (The Inheritance cycle 2)
Eldest: Chapter 57

The moment the sun appeared over the tree-lined horizon, Eragon deepened his breathing, willed his heart to quicken, and opened his eyes as he returned to full awareness. He had not been asleep, for he had not slept since his transformation. When he felt weary and lay himself down to rest, he entered a state that was unto a waking dream. There he beheld many wondrous visions and walked among the gray shades of his memories, yet all the while remained aware of his surroundings.

He watched the sunrise and thoughts of Arya filled his mind, as they had every hour since the Agaetí Blödhren two days before. The morning after the celebration, he had gone looking for her in Tialdarí Hall—intending to try and make amends for his behavior—only to discover that she had already left for Surda. When will I see her again? he wondered. In the clear light of day, he had realized just how much the elves’ and dragons’ magic had dulled his wits during the Agaetí Blödhren. I may have acted a fool, but it wasn’t entirely my fault. I was no more responsible for my conduct than if I were drunk.

Still, he had meant every word he said to Arya—even if normally he would not have revealed so much of himself. Her rejection cut Eragon to the quick. Freed of the enchantments that had clouded his mind, he was forced to admit that she was probably right, that the difference between their ages was too great to overcome. It was a difficult thing for him to accept, and once he had, the knowledge only increased his anguish.

Eragon had heard the expression “heartbroken” before. Until then, he always considered it a fanciful description, not an actual physical symptom. But now he felt a deep ache in his chest—like that of a sore muscle—and each beat of his heart pained him.

His only comfort was Saphira. In those two days, she had never criticized what he had done, nor did she leave his side for more than a few minutes at a time, lending him the support of her companionship. She talked to him a great deal as well, doing her best to draw him out of his shell of silence.

To keep himself from brooding over Arya, Eragon took Orik’s puzzle ring from his nightstand and rolled it between his fingers, marveling at how keen his senses had become. He could feel every flaw in the twisted metal. As he studied the ring, he perceived a pattern in the arrangement of the gold bands, a pattern that had escaped him before. Trusting his instinct, he manipulated the bands in the sequence suggested by his observation. To his delight, the eight pieces fit together perfectly, forming a solid whole. He slid the ring onto the fourth finger of his right hand, admiring how the woven bands caught the light.

You could not do that before, observed Saphira from the bowl in the floor where she slept.

I can see many things that were once hidden to me.

Eragon went to the wash closet and performed his morning ablutions, including removing the stubble from his cheeks with a spell. Despite the fact that he now closely resembled an elf, he had retained the ability to grow a beard.

Orik was waiting for them when Eragon and Saphira arrived at the sparring field. His eyes brightened as Eragon lifted his hand and displayed the completed puzzle ring. “You solved it, then!”

“It took me longer than I expected,” said Eragon, “but yes. Are you here to practice as well?”

“Eh. I already got in a bit o’ ax work with an elf who took a rather fiendish delight in cracking me over the head. No … I came to watch you fight.”

“You’ve seen me fight before,” pointed out Eragon.

“Not for a while, I haven’t.”

“You mean you’re curious to see how I’ve changed.” Orik shrugged in response.

Vanir approached from across the field. He cried, “Are you ready, Shadeslayer?” The elf’s condescending demeanor had lessened since their last duel before the Agaetí Blödhren, but not by much.

“I’m ready.”

Eragon and Vanir squared off against each other in an open area of the field. Emptying his mind, Eragon grasped and drew Zar’roc as fast as he could. To his surprise, the sword felt as if it weighed no more than a willow wand. Without the expected resistance, Eragon’s arm snapped straight, tearing the sword from his hand and sending it whirling twenty yards to his right, where it buried itself in the trunk of a pine tree.

“Can you not even hold on to your blade, Rider?” demanded Vanir.

“I apologize, Vanir-vodhr,” gasped Eragon. He clutched his elbow, rubbing the bruised joint to lessen the pain. “I misjudged my strength.”

“See that it does not happen again.” Going to the tree, Vanir gripped Zar’roc’s hilt and tried to pull the sword free. The weapon remained motionless. Vanir’s eyebrows met as he frowned at the unyielding crimson blade, as if he suspected some form of trickery. Bracing himself, the elf heaved backward and, with the crack of wood, yanked Zar’roc out of the pine.

Eragon accepted the sword from Vanir and hefted Zar’roc, troubled by how light it was. Something’s wrong, he thought.

“Take your place!”

This time it was Vanir who initiated the fight. In a single bound, he crossed the distance between them and thrust his blade toward Eragon’s right shoulder. To Eragon, it seemed as if the elf moved slower than usual, as if Vanir’s reflexes had been reduced to the level of a human’s. It was easy for Eragon to deflect Vanir’s sword, blue sparks flying from the metal as their blades grated against one another.

Vanir landed with an astonished expression. He struck again, and Eragon evaded the sword by leaning back, like a tree swaying in the wind. In quick succession, Vanir rained a score of heavy blows upon Eragon, each of which Eragon dodged or blocked, using Zar’roc’s sheath as often as the sword to foil Vanir’s onslaught.

Eragon soon realized that the spectral dragon from the Agaetí Blödhren had done more than alter his appearance; it had also granted him the elves’ physical abilities. In strength and speed, Eragon now matched even the most athletic elf.

Fired by that knowledge and a desire to test his limits, Eragon jumped as high as he could. Zar’roc flashed crimson in the sunlight as he flew skyward, soaring more than ten feet above the ground before he flipped like an acrobat and came down behind Vanir, facing the direction from which he had started.

A fierce laugh erupted from Eragon. No more was he helpless before elves, Shades, and other creatures of magic. No more would he suffer the elves’ contempt. No more would he have to rely on Saphira or Arya to rescue him from enemies like Durza.

He charged Vanir, and the field rang with a furious din as they strove against each other, raging back and forth upon the trampled grass. The force of their blows created gusts of wind that whipped their hair into tangled disarray. Overhead, the trees shook and dropped their needles. The duel lasted long into the morning, for even with Eragon’s newfound skill, Vanir was still a formidable opponent. But in the end, Eragon would not be denied. Playing Zar’roc in a circle, he darted past Vanir’s guard and struck him upon the upper arm, breaking the bone.

Vanir dropped his blade, his face turning white with shock. “How swift is your sword,” he said, and Eragon recognized the famous line from The Lay of Umhodan.

“By the gods!” exclaimed Orik. “That was the best swordsmanship I’ve ever seen, and I was there when you fought Arya in Farthen Dûr.”

Then Vanir did what Eragon had never expected: the elf twisted his uninjured hand in the gesture of fealty, placed it upon his sternum, and bowed. “I beg your pardon for my earlier behavior, Eragon-elda. I thought that you had consigned my race to the void, and out of my fear I acted most shamefully. However, it seems that your race no longer endangers our cause.” In a grudging voice, he added: “You are now worthy of the title Rider.”

Eragon bowed in return. “You honor me. I’m sorry that I injured you so badly. Will you allow me to heal your arm?”

“No, I shall let nature tend to it at her own pace, as a memento that I once crossed blades with Eragon Shadeslayer. You needn’t fear that it will disrupt our sparring tomorrow; I am equally good with my left hand.”

They both bowed again, and then Vanir departed.

Orik slapped a hand on his thigh and said, “Now we have a chance at victory, a real chance! I can feel it in my bones. Bones like stone, they say. Ah, this’ll please Hrothgar and Nasuada to no end.”

Eragon kept his peace and concentrated on removing the block from Zar’roc’s edges, but he said to Saphira, If brawn were all that was required to depose Galbatorix, the elves would have done it long ago. Still, he could not help being pleased by his heightened prowess, as well as by his long-awaited reprieve from the torment of his back. Without the constant bursts of pain, it was as if a haze had been lifted from his mind, allowing him to think clearly once again.

A few minutes remained before they were supposed to meet with Oromis and Glaedr, so Eragon took his bow and quiver from where they hung on Saphira’s back and walked to the range where elves practiced archery. Since the elves’ bows were much more powerful than his, their padded targets were both too small and too far away for him. He had to shoot from halfway down the range.

Taking his place, Eragon nocked an arrow and slowly pulled back the string, delighted by how easy it had become. He aimed, released the arrow, and held his position, waiting to see if he would hit his mark. Like a maddened hornet, the dart buzzed toward the target and buried itself in the center. He grinned. Again and again, he fired at the target, his speed increasing with his confidence until he loosed thirty arrows in a minute.

At the thirty-first arrow, he pulled on the string slightly harder than he had ever done—or was capable of doing—before. With an explosive report, the yew bow broke in half underneath his left hand, scratching his fingers and discharging a burst of splinters from the back of the bow. His hand went numb from the jolt.

Eragon stared at the remains of his weapon, dismayed by the loss. Garrow had made it as a birthday present for him over three years ago. Since then, hardly a week went by when Eragon had not used his bow. It had helped him to provide food for his family on numerous occasions when they would have otherwise gone hungry. With it, he had killed his first deer. With it, he had killed his first Urgal. And through it, he had first used magic. Losing his bow was like losing an old friend who could be relied upon in even the worst situation.

Saphira sniffed the two pieces of wood dangling from his grip and said, It seems you need a new stick thrower. He grunted—in no mood to talk—and stomped out to retrieve his arrows.

From the open field, he and Saphira flew to the white Crags of Tel’naeír and presented themselves to Oromis, who was seated on a stool in front of his hut, gazing out over the cliff with his farseeing eyes. He said, “Have you entirely recovered, Eragon, from the potent magic of the Blood-oath Celebration?”

“I have, Master.”

A long silence followed as Oromis drank from a cup of blackberry tea and resumed contemplating the ancient forest. Eragon waited without complaint; he was used to such pauses when dealing with the old Rider. At length, Oromis said, “Glaedr explained to me, as best he could, what was done to you during the celebration. Such a thing has never before occurred in the history of the Riders.… Once again, the dragons have proved themselves capable of far more than we imagined.” He sipped his tea. “Glaedr was uncertain exactly what changes you would experience, so I would like you to describe the full extent of your transformation, including your appearance.”

Eragon quickly summarized how he had been altered, detailing the increased sensitivity of his sight, smell, hearing, and touch, and ending with an account of his clash with Vanir.

“And how,” asked Oromis, “do you feel about this? Do you resent that your body was manipulated without your permission?”

“No, no! Not at all. I might have resented it before the battle of Farthen Dûr, but now I’m just grateful that my back doesn’t hurt anymore. I would have willingly submitted myself to far greater changes in order to escape Durza’s curse. No, my only response is gratitude.”

Oromis nodded. “I am glad that you are wise enough to take that position, for your gift is worth more than all the gold in the world. With it, I believe that our feet are at last set upon the correct path.” Again, he sipped his tea. “Let us proceed. Saphira, Glaedr expects you at the Stone of Broken Eggs. Eragon, you will begin today with the third level of Rimgar, if you can. I would know everything you are capable of.”

Eragon started toward the square of tamped earth where they usually performed the Dance of Snake and Crane, then hesitated when the silver-haired elf remained behind. “Master, won’t you join me?”

A sad smile graced Oromis’s face. “Not today, Eragon. The spells required by the Blood-oath Celebration exacted a heavy toll from me. That and my … condition. It took the last of my strength to come sit outside.”

“I am sorry, Master.” Does he resent that the dragons didn’t choose to heal him as well? wondered Eragon. He immediately discounted the thought; Oromis would never be so petty.

“Do not be. It is no fault of yours that I am crippled.”

As Eragon struggled to complete the third level of the Rimgar, it became obvious that he still lacked the elves’ balance and flexibility, two attributes that even the elves had to work to acquire. In a way, he welcomed those limitations, for if he were perfect, what would be left for him to accomplish?

The following weeks were difficult for Eragon. On one hand, he made enormous progress with his training, mastering subject after subject that had once confounded him. He still found Oromis’s lessons challenging, but he no longer felt as if he were drowning in a sea of his own inadequacy. It was easier for Eragon to read and write, and his increased strength meant that he could now cast elven spells that required so much energy, they would kill any normal human. His strength also made him aware of how weak Oromis was compared to other elves.

And yet, despite those accomplishments, Eragon experienced a growing sense of discontent. No matter how hard he tried to forget Arya, every day that passed increased his yearning, an agony made worse by knowing that she did not want to see or talk with him. But more than that, it seemed to him as if an ominous storm was gathering beyond the edge of the horizon, a storm that threatened to break at any moment and sweep across the land, devastating everything in its path.

Saphira shared his unease. She said, The world is stretched thin, Eragon. Soon it will snap and madness will burst forth. What you feel is what we dragons feel and what the elves feel—the inexorable march of grim fate as the end of our age approaches. Weep for those who will die in the chaos that shall consume Alagaësia. And hope that we may win a brighter future by the strength of your sword and shield and my fangs and talons.