fall.” Orik grunted, appearing both queasy and unconvinced. Leaving the hall, Eragon sped through the sylvan city until he rejoined Saphira, and then they flew to the Crags of Tel’naeir.
Oromis was sitting upon Glaedr’s right forearm when they landed in the clearing. The dragon’s scales gilded the landscape with countless chips of golden light. Neither elf nor dragon stirred. Descending from Saphira’s back, Eragon bowed. “Master Glaedr. Master Oromis.”
Glaedr said,
Eragon’s sense of betrayal overcame his self-restraint. “Why did you hide the truth from us? Are you so determined to keep us here that you must resort to such underhand trickery? The Varden are about to be attacked and you didn’t even mention it!”
Calm as ever, Oromis asked, “Do you wish to hear why?”
“We withheld the tidings for two reasons. Chief among them was that we ourselves did not know until nine days past that the Varden were threatened, and the true size, location, and movements of the Empire’s troops remained concealed from us until three days after that, when Lord Dathedr pierced the spells Galbatorix used to deceive our scrying.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you said nothing of this.” Eragon scowled. “Not only that, but once you discovered that the Varden were in danger, why didn’t Islanzadi rouse the elves to fight? Are we not allies?”
“She
Shamefaced, all Eragon could say was, “I am sorry, Master.” He remembered Blagden’s words and allowed himself a bitter smile. “I’m as blind as a bat.”
“Hardly, Eragon. You have done well, considering the enormous responsibilities we have asked you to shoulder.” Oromis looked at him gravely. “We expect to receive a missive from Nasuada in the next few days, requesting assistance from Islanzadi and that you rejoin the Varden. I intended to inform you of the Varden’s predicament then, when you would still have enough time to reach Surda before swords are drawn. If I told you earlier, you would have been honor-bound to abandon your training and rush to the defense of your liegelord. That is why I and Islanzadi held our tongues.”
“My training won’t matter if the Varden are destroyed.”
“No. But you may be the only person who can prevent them from being destroyed, for a chance exists — slim but terrible — that Galbatorix will be present at this battle. It is far too late for our warriors to assist the Varden, which means that if Galbatorix is indeed there, you shall confront him alone, without the protection of our spellweavers. Under those circumstances, it seemed vital that your training continue for as long as possible.”
In an instant, Eragon’s anger melted away and was replaced with a cold, hard, and brutally practical mind-set as he understood the necessity for Oromis’s silence. Personal feelings were irrelevant in a situation as dire as theirs. With a flat voice, he said, “You were right. My oath of fealty compels me to ensure the safety of Nasuada and the Varden. However, I’m not ready to confront Galbatorix. Not yet, at least.”
“My suggestion,” said Oromis, “is that if Galbatorix reveals himself, do everything you can to distract him from the Varden until the battle is decided for good or for ill and avoid directly fighting him. Before you go, I ask but one thing: that you and Saphira vow that — once events permit — you will return here to complete your training, for you still have much to learn.”
“We shall return,” repeated Eragon, and sealed their fate.
Appearing satisfied, Oromis reached behind himself and produced an embroidered red pouch that he tugged open. “In anticipation of your departure, I gathered together three gifts for you, Eragon.” From the pouch, he withdrew a silver bottle. “First, some faelnirv I augmented with my own enchantments. This potion can sustain you when all else fails, and you may find its properties useful in other circumstances as well. Drink it sparingly, for I only had time to prepare a few mouthfuls.”
He handed the bottle to Eragon, then removed a long black-and- blue sword belt from the pouch. The belt felt unusually thick and heavy to Eragon when he ran it through his hands. It was made of cloth threads woven together in an interlocking pattern that depicted a coiling Liani Vine. At Oromis’s instruction, Eragon pulled at a tassel at the end of the belt and gasped as a strip in its center slid back to expose twelve diamonds, each an inch across. Four diamonds were white, four were black, and the remainder were red, blue, yellow, and brown. They glittered cold and brilliant, like ice in the dawn, casting a rainbow of multicolored specks onto Eragon’s hands.
“Master...” Eragon shook his head, at a loss for words for several breaths. “Is it safe to give this to me?”
“Guard it well so that none are tempted to steal it. This is the belt of Beloth the Wise — who you read of in your history of the Year of Darkness — and is one of the great treasures of the Riders. These are the most perfect gems the Riders could find. Some we traded for with the dwarves. Others we won in battle or mined ourselves. The stones have no magic of their own, but you may use them as repositories for your power and draw upon that reserve when in need. This, in addition to the ruby set in Zar’roc’s pommel, will allow you to amass a store of energy so that you do not become unduly exhausted casting spells in battle, or even when confronting enemy magicians.”
Last, Oromis brought out a thin scroll protected inside a wooden tube that was decorated with a bas-relief sculpture of the Menoa tree. Unfurling the scroll, Eragon saw the poem he had recited at the Agaeti Blodhren. It was lettered in Oromis’s finest calligraphy and illustrated with the elf’s detailed ink paintings. Plants and animals twined together inside the outline of the first glyph of each quatrain, while delicate scrollwork traced the columns of words and framed the images.
“I thought,” said Oromis, “that you would appreciate a copy for yourself.”
Eragon stood with twelve priceless diamonds in one hand and Oromis’s scroll in the other, and he knew that it was the scroll he deemed the most precious. Eragon bowed and, reduced to the simplest language by the depth of his gratitude, said, “Thank you, Master.”
Then Oromis surprised Eragon by initiating the elves’ traditional greeting and thereby indicating his respect for Eragon: “May good fortune rule over you.”
“May the stars watch over you.”
“And may peace live in your heart,” finished the silver-haired elf. He repeated the exchange with Saphira. “Now go and fly as fast as the north wind, knowing that you — Saphira Brightscales and Eragon Shadeslayer — carry the blessing of Oromis, last scion of House Thrandurin, he who is both the Mourning Sage and the Cripple Who Is Whole.”
They parted with solemn farewells. Saphira soared over the tangled forest and Oromis and Glaedr dwindled behind them, lonely on the crags. Despite the hardships of his stay in Ellesmera, Eragon would miss being among the elves, for with them he had found the closest thing to a home since fleeing Palancar Valley.
Before going to meet with Orik, they made one more stop: Tialdari Hall. Saphira landed in the enclosed gardens, careful not to damage any of the plants with her tail or claws. Without waiting for her to crouch, Eragon leaped straight to the ground, a drop that would have injured him before.
A male elf came out, touched his lips with his first two fingers, and asked if he could help them. When Eragon replied that he sought an audience with Islanzadi, the elf said, “Please wait here, Silver Hand.”
Not five minutes later, the queen herself emerged from the wooded depths of Tialdari Hall, her crimson tunic like a drop of blood among the white-robed elf lords and ladies who accompanied her. After the appropriate forms of
