Eldest [en]

Helzvog’s statue was different from the rest. The nude god was bowed in half over a dwarf-sized lump of gray flint, caressing it with the tip of his forefinger. The muscles of his back bunched and knotted with inhuman strain, yet his expression was incredibly tender, as if a newborn child lay before him.

Gannel’s voice dropped to a low rasp: “Guntera may be King of the Gods, but it is Helzvog who holds our hearts. It was he who felt that the land should be peopled after the giants were vanquished. The other gods disagreed, but Helzvog ignored them and, in secret, formed the first dwarf from the roots of a mountain.

“When his deed was discovered, jealousy swept the gods and Guntera created elves to control Alagaesia for himself. Then Sindri brought forth humans from the soil, and Urur and Morgothal combined their knowledge and released dragons into the land. Only Kilf restrained herself. So the first races entered this world.”

Eragon absorbed Gannel’s words, accepting the clan chief’s sincerity but unable to quell a simple question: How does he know? Eragon sensed that it would be an awkward query, however, and merely nodded as he listened.

“This,” said Gannel, finishing the last of his ale, “leads to our most important rite, which I know Orik has discussed with you... All dwarves must be buried in stone, else our spirits will never join Helzvog in his hall. We are not of earth, air, or fire, but of stone. And as Ingeitum, it is your responsibility to assure a proper resting place for any dwarf who may die in your company. If you fail — in the absence of injury or enemies — Hrothgar will exile you, and no dwarf will acknowledge your presence until after your death.” He straightened his shoulders, staring hard at Eragon. “You have much more to learn, yet uphold the customs I outlined today and you will do well.”

“I won’t forget,” said Eragon.

Satisfied, Gannel led him away from the statues and up a winding staircase. As they climbed, the clan chief dipped a hand into his robe and withdrew a simple necklace, a chain threaded through the pommel of a miniature silver hammer. He gave it to Eragon.

“This is another favor Hrothgar asked of me,” Gannel explained. “He worries that Galbatorix may have gleaned an image of you from the minds of Durza, the Ra’zac, or any number of soldiers who saw you throughout the Empire.”

“Why should I fear that?”

“Because then Galbatorix could scry you. Perhaps he already has.”

A shiver of apprehension wormed down Eragon’s side, like an icy snake. I should have thought of that, he berated himself.

“The necklace will prevent anyone from scrying you or your dragon, as long as you wear it. I placed the spell myself, so it should hold before even the strongest mind. But be forewarned, when activated, the necklace will draw upon your strength until you either take it off or the danger has passed.”

“What if I’m asleep? Could the necklace consume all my energy before I was aware of it?”

“Nay. It will wake you.”

Eragon rolled the hammer between his fingers. It was difficult to avert another’s spells, least of all Galbatorix’s. If Gannel is so accomplished, what other enchantments might be hidden in his gift? He noticed a line of runes cut along the hammer’s haft. They spelled Astim Hefthyn. The stairs ended as he asked, “Why do dwarves write with the same runes as humans?”

For the first time since they met, Gannel laughed, his voice booming through the temple as his large shoulders shook. “It is the other way around; humans write with our runes. When your ancestors landed in Alagaesia, they were as illiterate as rabbits. However, they soon adopted our alphabet and matched it to this language. Some of your words even come from us, like father, which was originally farthen. ”

“So then Farthen Dur means...?” Eragon slipped the necklace over his head and tucked it under his tunic.

“Our Father.”

Stopping at a door, Gannel ushered Eragon through to a curved gallery located directly below the cupola. The passageway banded Celbedeil, providing a view through the open archways of the mountains behind Tarnag, as well as the terraced city far below.

Eragon barely glanced at the landscape, for the gallery’s inner wall was covered with a single continuous painting, a gigantic narrative band that began with a depiction of the dwarves’ creation under Helzvog’s hand. The figures and objects stood in relief from the surface, giving the panorama a feeling of hyperrealism with its saturated, glowing colors and minute detail.

Captivated, Eragon asked, “How was this made?”

“Each scene is carved out of small plates of marble, which are fired with enamel, then fitted into a single piece.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to use regular paint?”

“It would,” said Gannel, “but not if we wanted it to endure centuries — millennia — without change. Enamel never fades or loses its brilliancy, unlike oil paint. This first section was carved only a decade after the discovery of Farthen Dur, well before elves set foot on Alagaesia.”

The priest took Eragon by the arm and guided him along the tableau. Each step carried them through uncounted years of history.

Eragon saw how the dwarves were once nomads on a seemingly endless plain, until the land grew so hot and desolate they were forced to migrate south to the Beor Mountains. That was how the Hadarac Desert was formed, he realized, amazed.

As they proceeded down the mural, heading toward the back of Celbedeil, Eragon witnessed everything from the domestication of Feldunost to the carving of Isidar Mithrim, the first meeting between dwarves and elves, and the coronation of each new dwarf king. Dragons frequently appeared, burning and slaughtering. Eragon had difficulty restraining comment during those sections.

His steps slowed as the painting shifted to the event he had hoped to find: the war between elves and dragons. Here the dwarves had devoted a vast amount of space to the destruction wreaked upon Alagaesia by the two races. Eragon shuddered with horror at the sight of elves and dragons killing each other. The battles continued for yards, each image more bloody than the last, until the darkness lifted and a young elf was shown kneeling on the edge of a cliff, holding a white dragon egg.

“Is that...?” whispered Eragon.

“Aye, it’s Eragon, the First Rider. It’s a good likeness too, as he agreed to sit for our artisans.”

Drawn forward by his fascination, Eragon studied the face of his namesake. I always imagined him older. The elf had angled eyes that peered down a hooked nose and narrow chin, giving him a fierce appearance. It was an alien face, completely different from his own... and yet the set of his shoulders, high and tense, reminded Eragon of how he had felt upon finding Saphira’s egg. We’re not so different, you and I, he thought, touching the cool enamel. And once my ears match yours, we shall truly be brothers through time... I wonder, would you approve of my actions? He knew they had made at least one identical choice; they had both kept the egg.

He heard a door open and close and turned to see Arya approaching from the far end of the gallery. She scanned the wall with the same blank expression Eragon had seen her use when confronting the Council of Elders. Whatever her specific emotions, he sensed that she found the situation distasteful.

Arya inclined her head. “Grimstborith.”

“Arya.”

“You have been educating Eragon in your mythology?”

Gannel smiled flatly. “One should always understand the faith of the society that one belongs to.”

“Yet comprehension does not imply belief.” She fingered the pillar of an archway. “Nor does it mean that those who purvey such beliefs do so for more than... material gain.”

“You would deny the sacrifices my clan makes to bring comfort to our brethren?”

“I deny nothing, only ask what good might be accomplished if your wealth were spread among the needy, the starving, the homeless, or even to buy supplies for the Varden. Instead, you’ve piled it into a monument to your own wishful thinking.”

“Enough!” The dwarf clenched his fists, his face mottled. “Without us, the crops would wither in drought.