Paolini, Christopher - [Inheritance 02] - Eldest

by Dajala

  “How far in advance can she foretell events?”

  “Two or three hours at the most.”

  Leaning against the wall, Nasuada considered the newest complication in her life. Elva could be a potent weapon if she were applied correctly. Through her, I can discern my opponents’ troubles and weaknesses, as well as what will please them and make them amenable to my wishes. In an emergency, the girl could also act as an infallible guard if one of the Varden, like Eragon or Saphira, had to be protected.

  She can’t be left unsupervised. I need someone to watch her. Someone who understands magic and is comfortable enough with their own identity to resist Elva’s influence… and who I can trust to be reliable and honest. She immediately discounted Trianna.

  Nasuada looked at Angela. Though she was wary of the herbalist, she knew that Angela had helped the Varden with matters of the utmost delicacy and importance—like healing Eragon—and had asked for nothing in return. Nasuada could think of no one else who had the time, inclination, and expertise to look after Elva.

  “I realize,” said Nasuada, “that this is presumptuous of me, as you aren’t under my command and I know little of your life or duties, but I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Proceed.” Angela waved a hand.

  Nasuada faltered, disconcerted, then forged ahead. “Would you be willing to keep an eye on Elva for me? I need—”

  “Of course! And I’ll keep two eyes on her, if I can spare them. I relish the opportunity to study her.”

  “You’ll have to report to me,” warned Nasuada.

  “The poison dart hidden in the raisin tart. Ah, well, I suppose I can manage.”

  “I have your word, then?”

  “You have my word.”

  Relieved, Nasuada groaned and sank into a nearby chair. “Oh, what a mess. What aquagmire. As Eragon’s liegelord, I’m responsible for his deeds, but I never imagined that he would do anything as dreadful as this. It’s a blight on my honor as much as his.”

  A ripple of sharp pops filled the room as Angela cracked her knuckles. “Yes. I intend to speak to him about it once he returns from Ellesméra.”

  Her expression was so fierce, it alarmed Nasuada. “Well, don’t hurt him. We need him.”

  “I won’t… permanently.”

  RESURGENCE

  Ablast of ravening wind tore Eragon from his sleep.

  Blankets flapped over him as a tempest clawed at his room, hurling his possessions into the air and knocking the lanterns against the walls. Outside, the sky was black with thunderheads.

  Saphira watched as Eragon staggered upright and fought to keep his balance as the tree swayed like a ship at sea. He lowered his head against the gale and made his way around the room, clutching at the wall until he reached the teardrop portal through which the storm howled.

  Eragon looked past the heaving floor to the ground below. It appeared to rock back and forth. He swallowed and tried to ignore the churning in his stomach.

  By touch he found the edge of the cloth membrane that could be pulled out of the wood to cover the opening. He prepared to launch himself from one side of the gap to the next. If he slipped, nothing would stop him from falling onto the roots of the tree.

  Wait, said Saphira.

  She backed off the low pedestal where she slept and laid her tail alongside him so that he could use it as a handrail.

  Holding the cloth with just his right hand, which took all his strength, Eragon used the line of spikes on Saphira’s tail to pull himself across the portal. As soon as he reached the far side, he grabbed the cloth with both hands and pressed its edge into the groove that locked it in place.

  The room went silent.

  The membrane bulged inward under the force of the angry elements but showed no sign of giving. Eragon poked it with his finger. The fabric was as taut as a drum.

  It’s amazing what the elves can do, he said.

  Saphira cocked her head, then lifted it so that her head was flat against the ceiling while she listened. You’d better close up the study; it’s being wrecked.

  As he headed toward the stairs, the tree jolted and his leg buckled, sending him down hard on one knee.

  “Blast it,” he growled.

  The study was a whirlwind of paper and quills, darting about as if they had a mind of their own. He dove into the flurry with his arms wrapped around his head. It felt like he was being pelted with stones when the tips of the quills struck him.

  Eragon struggled to close the upper portal without Saphira’s help. The moment he did, pain—endless, mind-numbingpain— ripped open his back.

  He screamed once and went hoarse from the strength of his cry. His vision flashed with red and yellow, then faded to black as he toppled to his side. Below, he heard Saphira howl with frustration; the staircase was too small and, outside, the wind was too ferocious for her to reach him. His connection with her receded. He surrendered to the waiting darkness as a release from his agony.

  A sour taste filled Eragon’s mouth when he woke. He did not know how long he had been lying on the floor, but the muscles in his arms and legs were knotted from being curled into a tight ball. The storm still assailed the tree, accompanied by a thudding rain that matched the pounding in his head.

  Saphira… ?

  I’m here. Can you come down?

  I’ll try.

  He was too weak to stand on the pitching floor, so he crawled to the stairs and slid down one at a time, wincing with each impact. Halfway down, he encountered Saphira, who had jammed her head and neck as far up the stairs as she could, gouging the wood in her frenzy.

  Little one. She flicked out her tongue and caught him on the hand with its rough tip. He smiled. Then she arched her neck and tried to pull back, but to no avail.

  What’s wrong?

  I’m stuck.

  You’re…He could not help it; he laughed even though it hurt. The situation was too absurd.

  She snarled and heaved her entire body, shaking the tree with her efforts and knocking him over. Then she collapsed, panting. Well, don’t just sit there grinning like an idiot fox. Help me!

  Fighting the urge to giggle, he put his foot on her nose and pushed as hard as he dared while Saphira twisted and squirmed in an attempt to free herself.

  It took more than ten minutes before she succeeded. Only then did Eragon see the full extent of the damage to the stairwell. He groaned. Her scales had cut through the bark and obliterated the delicate patterns grown out from the wood.

  Oops, said Saphira.

  At leastyoudid it, not me . The elves might forgive you. They’d sing dwarf love ballads night and day if you asked them to.

  He joined Saphira on her dais and huddled against the flat scales of her belly, listening as the storm roared about them. The wide membrane became translucent whenever lightning pulsed in jagged shards of light.

  What time do you think it is?

  Several hours before we must meet Oromis. Go on, sleep and recover. I will keep guard.

  He did just that, despite the tree’s churning.

  WHY DO YOU FIGHT?

  Oromis’s timepiece buzzed like a giant hornet, blaring in Eragon’s ears until he retrieved the bauble and wound the mechanism.

  His bashed knee had turned purple, he was sore both from his attack and the elves’ Dance of Snake and Crane, and he could do no more than croak with his ragged throat. The worst injury, though, was his sense of foreboding that this would not be the last time Durza’s wound would trouble him. The prospect sickened him, draining his strength and will.

  So many weeks passed between attacks,he said, I began to hope that maybe, just maybe, I was healed… I suppose sheer luck is the only reason I was spared that long.

  Extending her neck, Saphira nuzzled him on the arm. You know you aren’t alone, little one. I’ll do everything I can to help. He responded with a weak smile. Then she licked his face and added, You should get ready to leave.

  I know. He stared at the floor, unwi
lling to move, then dragged himself to the wash closet, where he scrubbed himself clean and used magic to shave.

  He was in the middle of drying himself when he felt a presence touch his mind. Without pausing to think, Eragon began to fortify his mind, concentrating on an image of his big toe to the exclusion of all else. Then he heard Oromis say, Admirable, but unnecessary. Bring Zar’roc with you today . The presence vanished.

  Eragon released a shaky breath. I need to be more alert, he told Saphira. I would have been at his mercy if he were an enemy.

  Not with me around.

  When his ablutions were complete, Eragon unhooked the membrane from the wall and mounted Saphira, cradling Zar’roc in the crook of his arm.

  Saphira took flight with a rush of air, angling toward the Crags of Tel’naeír. From their high vantage point, they could see the damage that the storm had wreaked on Du Weldenvarden. No trees had fallen in Ellesméra, but farther away, where the elves’ magic was weaker, numerous pines had been knocked over. The remaining wind made the crossed branches and trees rub together, producing a brittle chorus of creaks and groans. Clouds of golden pollen, as thick as dust, streamed out from the trees and flowers.

  While they flew, Eragon and Saphira exchanged memories of their separate lessons from the day before. He told her what he had learned about ants and the ancient language, and she told him about downdrafts and other dangerous weather patterns and how to avoid them.

  Thus, when they landed and Oromis interrogated Eragon about Saphira’s lessons and Glaedr interrogated Saphira about Eragon’s, they were able to answer every question.

  “Very good, Eragon-vodhr.”

  Aye. Well played, Bjartskular, added Glaedr to Saphira.

  As before, Saphira was sent off with Glaedr while Eragon remained on the cliffs, although this time he and Saphira were careful to maintain their link so as to absorb each other’s instruction.

  As the dragons departed, Oromis observed, “Your voice is rougher today, Eragon. Are you sick?”

  “My back hurt again this morning.”

  “Ah. You have my sympathy.” He motioned with one finger. “Wait here.”

  Eragon watched as Oromis strode into his hut and then reappeared, looking fierce and warlike with his silver mane rippling in the wind and his bronze sword in hand. “Today,” he said, “we shall forgo the Rimgar and instead cross our two blades, Naegling and Zar’roc. Draw thy sword and guard its edge as your first master taught you.”

  Eragon wanted nothing more than to refuse. However, he had no intention of breaking his vow or letting his resolve waver in front of Oromis. He swallowed his trepidation. This is what it means to be a Rider, he thought.

  Drawing upon his reserves, he located the nub deep within his mind that connected him to the wild flow of magic. He delved into it, and the energy suffused him. “Gëuloth du knífr,” he said, and a winking blue star popped into existence between his thumb and forefinger, jumping from one to the next as he ran it down Zar’roc’s perilous length.

  The instant their swords met, Eragon knew that he was as out-matched by Oromis as by Durza and Arya. Eragon was an exemplary human swordsman, but he could not compete with warriors whose blood ran thick with magic. His arm was too weak and his reflexes too slow. Still, that did not stop him from trying to win. He fought to the limits of his abilities, even if, in the end, it was a futile prospect.

  Oromis tested him in every conceivable manner, forcing Eragon to utilize his entire arsenal of blows, counterblows, and underhand tricks. It was all for naught. He could not touch the elf. As a last resort, he tried altering his style of fighting, which could unsettle even the most hardened veteran. All it got him was a welt on his thigh.

  “Move your feet faster,” cried Oromis. “He who stands like a pillar dies in battle. He who bends like a reed is triumphant!”

  The elf was glorious in action, a perfect blend of control and untamed violence. He pounced like a cat, struck like a heron, and bobbed and wove with the grace of a weasel.

  They had been sparring for almost twenty minutes when Oromis faltered, his narrow features clamped in a brief grimace. Eragon recognized the symptoms of Oromis’s mysterious illness and lashed out with Zar’roc. It was a low thing to do, but Eragon was so frustrated, he was willing to take advantage of any opening, no matter how unfair, just to have the satisfaction of marking Oromis at least once.

  Zar’roc never reached its target. As Eragon twisted, he overextended and strained his back.

  The pain was upon him without warning.

  The last thing he heard was Saphira shouting, Eragon!

  Despite the intensity of the fit, Eragon remained conscious throughout his ordeal. Not that he was aware of his surroundings, only the fire that burned in his flesh and prolonged each second into an eternity. The worst part was that he could do nothing to end his suffering but wait…

  … and wait…

  Eragon lay panting in the cold mud. He blinked as his vision came into focus and he saw Oromis sitting on a stool next to him. Pushing himself onto his knees, Eragon surveyed his new tunic with a mixture of regret and disgust. The fine russet cloth was caked with dirt from his convulsions on the ground. Muck filled his hair as well.

  He could sense Saphira in his mind, radiating concern as she waited for him to notice her. How can you continue like this? she fretted. It’ll destroy you.

  Her misgivings undermined Eragon’s remaining fortitude. Saphira had never before expressed doubt that he would prevail, not at Dras-Leona, Gil’ead, or Farthen Dûr, nor with any of the dangers they had encountered. Her confidence had given him courage. Without it he was truly afraid.

  You should concentrate on your lesson, he said.

  I should concentrate on you.

  Leave me alone!He snapped at her like a wounded animal that wants to nurse its injuries in silence and in dark. She fell silent, leaving just enough of their connection intact so that he was vaguely aware of Glaedr teaching her about fireweed, which she could chew to help her digestion.

  Eragon combed the mud from his hair with his fingers, then spat out a globule of blood. “Bit my tongue.”

  Oromis nodded as if it were to be expected. “Do you require healing?”

  “No.”

  “Very well. Tend to your sword, then bathe and go to the stump in the glade and listen to the thoughts of the forest. Listen, and when you hear no more, come tell me what you have learned.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  As he sat on the stump, Eragon found that his turbulent thoughts and emotions prevented him from mustering the concentration to open his mind and sense the creatures in the hollow. Nor was he interested in doing so.

  Still, the peaceful quality of his surroundings gradually ameliorated his resentment, confusion, and stubborn anger. It did not make him happy, but it did bring him a certain fatalistic acceptance. This is my lot in life, and I’d better get used to it because it’s not about to improve in the foreseeable future.

  After a quarter of an hour, his faculties had regained their usual acuity, so he resumed studying the colony of red ants that he had discovered the day before. He also tried to be aware of everything else that was happening in the glade, as Oromis had instructed.

  Eragon met with limited success. If he relaxed and allowed himself to absorb input from all the consciousnesses nearby, thousands of images and feelings rushed into his head, piling on top of one another in quick flashes of sound and color, touch and smell, pain and pleasure. The amount of information was overwhelming. Out of pure habit, his mind would snatch one subject or another from the torrent, excluding all the rest before he noticed his lapse and wrenched himself back into a state of passive receptivity. The cycle repeated itself every few seconds.

  Despite that, he was able to improve his understanding of the ants’ world. He got his first clue as to their genders when he deduced that the huge ant in the heart of their underground lair was laying eggs, one every minute or so, which made it—her—a fema
le. And when he accompanied a group of the red ants up the stem of their rosebush, he got a vivid demonstration of the kind of enemies they faced: something darted out from underneath a leaf and killed one of the ants he was bound to. It was hard for him to guess exactly what the creature was, since the ants only saw fragments of it and, in any case, they placed more emphasis on smell than vision. If they had been people, he would have said that they were attacked by a terrifying monster the size of a dragon, which had jaws as powerful as the spiked portcullis at Teirm and could move with whiplash speed.

  The ants ringed in the monster like grooms working to capture a runaway horse. They darted at it with a total lack of fear, nipping at its knobbed legs and withdrawing an instant before they were caught in the monster’s iron pincers. More and more ants joined the throng. They worked together to overpower the intruder, never faltering, even when two were caught and killed and when several of their brethren fell off the stem to the ground below.

  It was a desperate battle, with neither side willing to give quarter. Only escape or victory would save the combatants from a horrible death. Eragon followed the fray with breathless anticipation, awed by the ants’ bravery and how they continued to fight in spite of injuries that would incapacitate a human. Their feats were heroic enough to be sung about by bards throughout the land.

  Eragon was so engrossed by the contest that when the ants finally prevailed, he loosed an elated cry so loud, it roused the birds from their roosts among the trees.

  Out of curiosity, he returned his attention to his own body, then walked to the rosebush to view the dead monster for himself. What he saw was an ordinary brown spider with its legs curled into a fist being transported by the ants down to their nest for food.

  Amazing.

  He started to leave, but then realized that once again he had neglected to keep watch over the myriad other insects and animals in the glade. He closed his eyes and whirled through the minds of several dozen beings, doing his best to memorize as many interesting details as he could. It was a poor substitute for prolonged observation, but he was hungry and he had already exhausted his assigned hour.