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.”
“That was 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.
“Not elda,” 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 li
nes 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 own infirmity.” 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 about 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.”
Eragon wanted to inquire further, but he knew that it would be better to wait, so he stood and unlaced the top of his tunic. It seems, he said to Saphira, that we will never learn all of Brom’s secrets. He shivered as he pulled off the tunic in the cool air, then squared his shoulders and lifted his chest.
Oromis circled him, stopping with an astonished exclamation as he saw the scar that crossed Eragon’s back. “Did not Arya or one of the Varden’s healers offer to remove this weal? You should not have to carry it.”
“Arya did offer, but…” Eragon stopped, unable to articulate his feelings. Finally, he just said, “It’s part of me now, just as Murtagh’s scar is part of him.”
“Murtagh’s scar?”
“Murtagh bore a similar mark. It was inflicted when his father, Morzan, threw Zar’roc at him while he was only a child.”
Oromis stared at him seriously for a long time before he nodded and moved on. “You have a fair amount of muscle, and you are not as lopsided as most swordsmen. Are you ambidextrous?”
“Not really, but I had to teach myself to fight with my left hand after I broke my wrist by Teirm.”
“Good. That will save some time. Clasp your hands behind your back and lift them as high as possible.” Eragon did as he was told, but the posture hurt his shoulders and he could barely make his hands meet. “Now bend forward while keeping your knees straight. Try to touch the ground.” This was even harder for Eragon; he ended up bowed like a hunchback, with his arms hanging uselessly by his head while his hamstrings twinged and burned. His fingers were still nine or ten inches from the ground. “At least you can stretch without hurting yourself. I had not hoped for so much. You can perform a number of exercises for flexibility without overexerting. Yes.”
Then Oromis addressed Saphira: “I would know your capabilities as well, dragon.” He gave her a number of complex poses that had her contort every foot of her sinuous length in fantastic ways, culminating in a series of aerial acrobatics the likes of which Eragon had never seen before. Only a few things exceeded her ability, such as executing a backward loop while corkscrewing through the air.
When she landed, it was Glaedr who said, I fear that we coddled the Riders. If our hatchlings had been forced to care for themselves in the wild—as you were, and so our ancestors were—then perhaps they would have possessed your skill.
“No,” said Oromis, “even if Saphira had been raised on Vroengard using the established methods, she would still be an extraordinary flier. I’ve rarely seen a dragon so nat
urally suited to the sky.” Saphira blinked, then shuffled her wings and busied herself cleaning one of her claws in a manner that hid her head from view. “You have room to improve, as do we all, but little, very little.” The elf reseated himself, his back perfectly straight.
For the next five hours, by Eragon’s reckoning, Oromis delved into every aspect of his and Saphira’s knowledge, from botany to woodworking to metallurgy and medicine, although he mainly concentrated on their grasp of history and the ancient language. The interrogation comforted Eragon, as it reminded him of how Brom used to quiz him during their long treks to Teirm and Dras-Leona.
When they broke for lunch, Oromis invited Eragon into his house, leaving the two dragons alone. The elf’s quarters were barren except for those few essentials necessary for food, hygiene, and the pursuit of an intellectual life. Two entire walls were dotted with cubbyholes that held hundreds of scrolls. Next to the table hung a golden sheath—the same color as Glaedr’s scales—and a matching sword with a blade the color of iridescent bronze.
On the inner pane of the door, set within the heart of the wood, was a flat panel one span high and two wide. It depicted a beautiful, towering city built against an escarpment and caught in the ruddy light of a rising harvest moon. The pitted lunar face was bisected by the horizon and appeared to sit on the ground like a maculated dome as large as a mountain. The picture was so clear and perfectly detailed, Eragon at first took it to be a magical window; it was only when he saw that the image was indeed static that he could accept it as a piece of art.
“Where is this?” he asked.
Oromis’s slanted features tightened for an instant. “You would do well to memorize that landscape, Eragon, for there lies the heart of your misery. You see what was once our city of Ilirea. It was burned and abandoned during Du Fyrn Skulblaka and became the capital of the Broddring Kingdom and now is the black city of Urû’baen. I made that fairth on the night that I and others were forced to flee our home before Galbatorix arrived.”
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