Eldest [en]

make, but that he had never thought to hear from her. He finally managed to say, That doesn’t make it any better. She grunted and closed her mind to his, although he could still feel the thread of her emotions connecting them.

Eragon returned to himself to find Oromis’s gray eyes heavy upon him. The elf’s gaze was so perceptive, Eragon was sure that Oromis understood what had transpired. Eragon forced a smile and motioned toward Saphira. “Even though we’re linked, I can never predict what she’s going to do. The more I learn about her, the more I realize how different we are.”

Then Oromis made his first statement that Eragon thought was truly wise: “Those whom we love are often the most alien to us.” The elf paused. “She is very young, as are you. It took Glaedr and I decades before we fully understood each other. A Rider’s bond with his dragon is like any relationship — that is, a work in progress. Do you trust her?”

“With my life.”

“And does she trust you?”

“Yes.”

“Then humor her. You were brought up as an orphan. She was brought up to believe that she was the last sane individual of her entire race. And now she has been proved wrong. Don’t be surprised if it takes some months before she stops pestering Glaedr and returns her attention to you.”

Eragon rolled a blueberry between his thumb and forefinger; his appetite had vanished. “Why don’t elves eat meat?”

“Why should we?” Oromis held up a strawberry and rotated it so that the light reflected off its dimpled skin and illuminated the tiny hairs that bearded the fruit. “Everything that we need or want we sing from the plants, including our food. It would be barbaric to make animals suffer that we might have additional courses on the table... Our choice will make greater sense to you before long.”

Eragon frowned. He had always eaten meat and did not look forward to living solely on fruit and vegetables while in Ellesmera. “Don’t you miss the taste?”

“You cannot miss that which you have never had.”

“What about Glaedr, though? He can’t live off grass.”

“No, but neither does he needlessly inflict pain. We each do the best we can with what we are given. You cannot help who or what you are born as.”

“And Islanzadi? Her cape was made of swan feathers.”

“Loose feathers gathered over the course of many years. No birds were killed to make her garment.”

They finished the meal, and Eragon helped Oromis to scour the dishes clean with sand. As the elf stacked them in the cupboard, he asked, “Did you bathe this morning?” The question startled Eragon, but he answered that no, he had not. “Please do so tomorrow then, and every day following.”

“Every day! The water’s too cold for that. I’ll catch the ague.”

Oromis eyed him oddly. “Then make it warmer.”

Now it was Eragon’s turn to look askance. “I’m not strong enough to heat an entire stream with magic,” he protested.

The house echoed as Oromis laughed. Outside, Glaedr swung his head toward the window and inspected the elf, then returned to his earlier position. “I assume that you explored your quarters last night.” Eragon nodded. “And you saw a small room with a depression in the floor?”

“I thought that it might be for washing clothes or linens.”

“It is for washing you. Two nozzles are concealed in the side of the wall above the hollow. Open them and you can bathe in water of any temperature. Also,” he gestured at Eragon’s chin, “while you are my student, I expect you to keep yourself clean-shaven until you can grow a full beard — if you so choose — and not look like a tree with half its leaves blown off. Elves do not shave, but I will have a razor and mirror found and sent to you.”

Wincing at the blow to his pride, Eragon agreed. They returned outside, whereupon Oromis looked at Glaedr and the dragon said, We have decided upon a curriculum for Saphira and you.

The elf said, “You will start—”

— an hour after sunrise tomorrow, in the time of the Red Lily. Return here then.

“And bring the saddle that Brom made for you, Saphira,” continued Oromis. “Do what you wish in the meantime; Ellesmera holds many wonders for a foreigner, if you care to see them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Eragon, bowing his head. “Before I go, Master, I want to thank you for helping me in Tronjheim after I killed Durza. I doubt that I would have survived without your assistance. I am in your debt.”

We are both in your debt, added Saphira.

Oromis smiled slightly and inclined his head.

THE SECRET LIVES OF ANTS

The moment that Oromis and Glaedr were out of sight, Saphira said, Eragon, another dragon! Can you believe it?

He patted her shoulder. It’s wonderful. High above Du Weldenvarden, the only sign of habitation in the forest was an occasional ghostly plume of smoke that rose from the crown of a tree and soon faded into clear air.

I never expected to encounter another dragon, except for Shruikan. Maybe rescue the eggs from Galbatorix, yes, but that was the extent of my hopes. And now this! She wriggled underneath him with joy. Glaedr is incredible, isn’t he? He’s so old and strong and his scales are so bright. He must be two, no, three times bigger than me. Did you see his claws? They...

She continued on in that manner for several minutes, waxing eloquent about Glaedr’s attributes. But stronger than her words were the emotions Eragon sensed roiling within her: eagerness and enthusiasm, twined over what he could only identify as a longing adoration.

Eragon tried to tell Saphira what he had learned from Oromis — since he knew that she had not paid attention — but he found it impossible to change the subject of conversation. He sat silently on her back, the world an emerald ocean below, and felt himself the loneliest man in existence.

Back at their quarters, Eragon decided against any sightseeing; he was far too tired from the day’s events and the weeks of traveling. And Saphira was more than content to sit on her bed and chatter about Glaedr while he examined the mysteries of the elves’ wash closet.

Morning came, and with it a package wrapped in onionskin paper containing the razor and mirror that Oromis had promised. The blade was of elvish make, so it needed no sharpening or stropping. Grimacing, Eragon first bathed in steaming hot water, then held up the mirror and confronted his visage.

I look older. Older and worn. Not only that, but his features had become far more angled, giving him an ascetic, hawklike appearance. He was no elf, but neither would anyone take him to be a purebred human if they inspected him closely. Pulling back his hair, he bared his ears, which now tapered to slight points, more evidence of how his bond with Saphira had changed him. He touched one ear, letting his fingers wander over the unfamiliar shape.

It was difficult for him to accept the transformation of his flesh. Even though he had known it would occur — and occasionally welcomed the prospect as the last confirmation that he was a Rider — the reality of it filled him with confusion. He resented the fact that he had no say in how his body was being altered, yet at the same time he was curious where the process would take him. Also, he was aware that he was still in the midst of his own, human adolescence, and its attendant realm of mysteries and difficulties.

When will I finally know who and what I am?

He placed the edge of the razor against his cheek, as he had seen Garrow do, and dragged it across his skin. The hairs came free, but they were cut long and ragged. He altered the angle of the blade and tried again with a bit more success.