and carry a shield with my other. However, circumstances have not always been favorable to me, and I have often had to fight without a shield. Then I like being able to grip the hilt with both hands, so I can deliver a more powerful stroke. The pommel on Zar’roc was large enough to grasp with my left hand if I had to, but the ridges around the ruby were uncomfortable and they did not afford me a secure hold. It would be nice to have a slightly longer hilt.”
“I take it you do not want a true two-handed sword?” said Rhunon.
Eragon shook his head. “No, it would be too big for fighting indoors.”
“That depends upon the size of the hilt and the blade combined, but in general, you are correct. Would you be amenable to a hand-and-a-half sword instead?”
An image flashed in Eragon’s mind of Murtagh’s original sword, and he smiled.
“And how long would you like the blade?”
“No longer than Zar’roc’s.”
“Mmh. Do you want a straight blade or a curved blade?”
“Straight.”
“Have you any preferences as to the guard?”
“Not especially.”
Crossing her arms, Rhunon sat with her chin touching her breastbone, her eyes heavy-lidded. Her lips twitched. “What of the width of the blade? Remember, no matter how narrow it is, the sword shall not break.”
“Perhaps it could be a little wider at the guard than Zar’roc was.”
“Why?”
“I think it might look better.”
A harsh, cracked laugh broke from Rhunon’s throat. “But how would that improve the use of the sword?”
Embarrassed, Eragon shifted on the bench, at a loss for words.
“Never ask me to alter a weapon merely in order to improve its appearance,” admonished Rhunon. “A weapon is a tool, and if it is beautiful, then it is beautiful because it is useful. A sword that could not fulfill its function would be ugly to my eyes no matter how fair its shape, not even if it were adorned with the finest jewels and the most intricate engraving.” The elf woman pursed her lips, pushing them out as she thought. “So, a sword equally suited for the unrestrained bloodshed of a battlefield as it is for defending yourself in the narrow tunnels under Farthen Dur. A sword for all occasions, of middling length, but for the hilt, which shall be longer than average.”
“A sword for killing Galbatorix,” said Eragon.
Rhunon nodded. “And as such, it must be well protected against magic... ” Her chin sank to her chest again. “Armor has improved a great deal in the past century, so the tip will need to be narrower than I used to make them, the better to pierce plate and mail and to slip into the gaps between the various pieces. Mmh.” From a pouch by her side, Rhunon withdrew a knotted piece of twine, with which she took numerous measurements of Eragon’s hands and arms. Afterward, she retrieved a wrought-iron poker from the forge and tossed it toward Eragon. He caught it with one hand and raised an eyebrow at the elf woman. She motioned toward him with a finger and said, “Go on now. Up on your feet and let me see how you move with a sword.”
Walking out from under the roof of the open-walled forge, Eragon obliged her by demonstrating several of the forms Brom had taught him. After a minute, he heard the clink of metal on stone, then Rhunon coughed and said, “Oh, this is hopeless.” She stepped in front of Eragon, holding another poker. Her brow furrowed with a fierce scowl as she raised the poker before her in a salute and shouted, “Have at you, Shadeslayer!”
Rhunon’s heavy poker whistled through the air as she swung at him with a strong slashing blow. Dancing to the side, Eragon parried the attack. The poker jumped in his hand as the two rods of metal collided. For a brief while, he and Rhunon sparred. Although it was obvious she had not practiced her swordsmanship for some time, Eragon still found her a formidable opponent. At last they were forced to stop because the soft iron of the pokers had bent until the rods were as crooked as the branches of a yew tree.
Rhunon collected Eragon’s poker, then carried the two mangled pieces of metal over to a pile of broken tools. When she returned, the elf woman lifted her chin and said, “Now I know exactly what shape your sword should have.”
“But how will you make it?”
A twinkle of amusement appeared in Rhunon’s eyes. “I won’t. You shall make the sword instead of me, Shadeslayer.”
Eragon gaped at her for a moment, then sputtered and said, “Me? But I was never apprenticed to a blacksmith or a bladesmith. I have not the skill to forge even a common brush knife.”
The twinkle in Rhunon’s eyes brightened. “Nevertheless, you shall be the one to make this sword.”
“But how? Will you stand beside me and give me orders as I hammer the metal?”
“Hardly,” said Rhunon. “No, I shall guide your actions from within your mind so that your hands may do what mine cannot. It is not a perfect solution, but I can think of no other means of evading my oath that will also allow me to ply my craft.”
Eragon frowned. “If you move my hands for me, how is that any different from making the sword yourself?”
Rhunon’s expression darkened and, in a brusque voice, she said, “Do you want this sword or not, Shadeslayer?”
“I do.”
“Then refrain from pestering me with such questions. Making the sword through you is different because I think it is different. If I believed otherwise, then my oath would prevent me from participating in the process. So, unless you wish to return to the Varden empty-handed, you would be wise to remain silent on the subject.”
“Yes, Rhunon-elda.”
They went to the smelter then, and Rhunon had Saphira pry the still-warm mass of congealed brightsteel from the bottom of the brick trough. “Break it into fist-sized pieces,” Rhunon directed, and withdrew to a safe distance.
Lifting her front leg, Saphira stamped upon the rippled beam of brightsteel with all her strength. The earth shook, and the brightsteel cracked in several places. Three more times Saphira stamped upon the metal before Rhunon was satisfied with the results.
The elf woman gathered up the sharp lumps of metal in her apron and carried them to a low table next to her forge. There she sorted the metal according to its hardness, which, or so she told Eragon, she was able to determine by the color and texture of the fractured metal. “Some is too hard and some is too soft,” she said, “and while I could remedy that if I wanted to, it would require another heating. So we will only use the pieces that are already suitable for a sword. On the edges of the sword will go a slightly harder steel”—she touched a cluster of pieces that had a brilliant, sparkling grain—“the better to take a keen edge. The middle of the sword shall be made of a slightly softer steel”—she touched a cluster of pieces that were grayer and not so bright—“the better to bend and to absorb the shock of a blow. Before the metal can be forged into shape, though, it must be worked to rid it of the remaining impurities.”
“That you shall see momentarily.” Rhunon went to one of the poles that supported the roof of the forge, sat with her back against it, crossed her legs, and closed her eyes, her face still and composed. “Are you ready, Shadeslayer?” she asked.
“I am,” said Eragon, despite the tension gathered in his belly.
The first thing Eragon noticed about Rhunon as their minds met was the low chords that echoed through the dark and tangled landscape of her thoughts. The music was slow and deliberate and cast in a strange and unsettling key that scraped on his nerves. What it implied about Rhunon’s character, Eragon was not sure, but the eerie melody caused him to reconsider the wisdom of allowing her to control his flesh. But then he thought of Saphira sitting next to the forge, watching over him, and his trepidation receded, and he lowered the last of the defenses around his consciousness.
It felt to Eragon like a piece of raw wool sliding over his skin as Rhunon enveloped his mind with hers,
