Eldest [en]

When he reached his chin, though, the razor slipped in his hand and cut him from the corner of his mouth to the underside of his jaw. He howled and dropped the razor, clapping his hand over the incision, which poured blood down his neck. Spitting the words past bared teeth, he said, “Waise heill.” The pain quickly receded as magic knitted his flesh back together, though his heart still pounded from the shock.

Eragon! cried Saphira. She forced her head and shoulders into the vestibule and nosed open the door to the closet, flaring her nostrils at the scent of blood.

I’ll live, he assured her.

She eyed the sanguine water. Be more careful. I’d rather you were as ragged as a molting deer than have you decapitate yourself for the sake of a close shave.

So would I. Go on, I’m fine.

Saphira grunted and reluctantly withdrew.

Eragon sat, glaring at the razor. Finally, he muttered, “Forget this.” Composing himself, he reviewed his store of words from the ancient language, selected those that he needed, and then allowed his invented spell to roll off his tongue. A faint stream of black powder fell from his face as his stubble crumbled into dust, leaving his cheeks perfectly smooth.

Satisfied, Eragon went and saddled Saphira, who immediately took to the air, aiming their course toward the Crags of Tel’naeir. They landed before the hut and were met by Oromis and Glaedr.

Oromis examined Saphira’s saddle. He traced each strap with his fingers, pausing on the stitching and buckles, and then pronounced it passable handiwork considering how and when it had been constructed. “Brom was always clever with his hands. Use this saddle when you must travel with great speed. But when comfort is allowed—” He stepped into his hut for a moment and reappeared carrying a thick, molded saddle decorated with gilt designs along the seat and leg pieces. “— use this. It was crafted in Vroengard and imbued with many spells so that it will never fail you in time of need.”

Eragon staggered under the weight of the saddle as he received it from Oromis. It had the same general shape as Brom’s, with a row of buckles — intended to immobilize his legs — hanging from each side. The deep seat was sculpted out of the leather in such a way that he could fly for hours with ease, both sitting upright and lying flat against Saphira’s neck. Also, the straps encircling Saphira’s chest were rigged with slips and knots so that they could extend to accommodate years of growth. A series of broad ties on either side of the head of the saddle caught Eragon’s attention. He asked their purpose.

Glaedr rumbled, Those secure your wrists and arms so that you are not killed like a rat shaken to death when Saphira performs a complex maneuver.

Oromis helped Eragon relieve Saphira of her current saddle. “Saphira, you will go with Glaedr today, and I will work with Eragon here.”

As you wish, she said, and crowed with excitement. Heaving his golden bulk off the ground, Glaedr soared off to the north, Saphira close behind.

Oromis did not give Eragon long to ponder Saphira’s departure; the elf marched him to a square of hard- packed dirt beneath a willow tree at the far side of the clearing. Standing opposite him in the square, Oromis said, “What I am about to show you is called the Rimgar, or the Dance of Snake and Crane. It is a series of poses that we developed to prepare our warriors for combat, although all elves use it now to maintain their health and fitness. The Rimgar consists of four levels, each more difficult than the last. We will start with the first.”

Apprehension for the coming ordeal sickened Eragon to the point where he could barely move. He clenched his fists and hunched his shoulders, his scar tugging at the skin of his back as he glared between his feet.

“Relax,” advised Oromis. Eragon jerked open his hands and let them hang limply at the end of his rigid arms. “I asked you to relax, Eragon. You can’t do the Rimgar if you are as stiff as a piece of rawhide.”

“Yes, Master.” Eragon grimaced and reluctantly loosened his muscles and joints, although a knot of tension remained coiled in his belly.

“Place your feet together and your arms at your sides. Look straight ahead. Now take a deep breath and lift your arms over your head so that your palms meet... Yes, like that. Exhale and bend down as far as you can, put your palms on the ground, take another breath... and jump back. Good. Breathe in and bend up, looking toward the sky... and exhale, lifting your hips until you form a triangle. Breathe in through the back of your throat... and out. In... and out. In...”

To Eragon’s utter relief, the stances proved gentle enough to hold without igniting the pain in his back, yet challenging enough that sweat beaded his forehead and he panted for breath. He found himself grinning with joy at his reprieve. His wariness evaporated and he flowed through the postures — most of which far exceeded his flexibility — with more energy and confidence than he had possessed since before the battle in Farthen Dur. Maybe I’ve healed!

Oromis performed the Rimgar with him, displaying a level of strength and flexibility that astounded Eragon, especially for one so old. The elf could touch his forehead to his toes. Throughout the exercise, Oromis remained impeccably composed, as if he were doing no more than strolling down a garden path. His instruction was calmer and more patient than Brom’s, yet completely unyielding. No deviation was allowed from the correct path.

“Let us wash the sweat from our limbs,” said Oromis when they finished.

Going to the stream by the house, they quickly disrobed. Eragon surreptitiously watched the elf, curious as to what he looked like without his clothes. Oromis was very thin, yet his muscles were perfectly defined, etched under his skin with the hard lines of a woodcut. No hair grew upon his chest or legs, not even around his groin. His body seemed almost freakish to Eragon, compared to the men he was used to seeing in Carvahall — although it had a certain refined elegance to it, like that of a wildcat.

When they were clean, Oromis took Eragon deep into Du Weldenvarden to a hollow where the dark trees leaned inward, obscuring the sky behind branches and veils of snarled lichen. Their feet sank into the moss above their ankles. All was silent about them.

Pointing to a white stump with a flat, polished top three yards across that rested in the center of the hollow, Oromis said, “Sit here.” Eragon did as he was told. “Cross your legs and close your eyes.” The world went dark around him. From his right, he heard Oromis whisper, “Open your mind, Eragon. Open your mind and listen to the world around you, to the thoughts of every being in this glade, from the ants in the trees to the worms in the ground. Listen until you can hear them all and you understand their purpose and nature. Listen, and when you hear no more, come tell me what you have learned.”

Then the forest was quiet.

Unsure if Oromis had left, Eragon tentatively lowered the barriers around his mind and reached out with his consciousness, like he did when trying to contact Saphira at a great distance. Initially only a void surrounded him, but then pricks of light and warmth began to appear in the darkness, strengthening until he sat in the midst of a galaxy of swirling constellations, each bright point representing a life. Whenever he had contacted other beings with his mind, like Cadoc, Snowfire, or Solembum, the focus had always been on the one he wanted to communicate with. But this... this was as if he had been standing deaf in the midst of a crowd and now he could hear the rivers of conversation whirling around him.

He felt suddenly vulnerable; he was completely exposed to the world. Anyone or anything that might want to leap into his mind and control him could now do so. He tensed unconsciously, withdrawing back into himself, and his awareness of the hollow vanished. Remembering one of Oromis’s lessons, Eragon slowed his breathing and monitored the sweep of his lungs until he had relaxed enough to reopen his mind.

Of all the lives he could sense, the majority were, by far, insects. Their sheer number astounded him. Tens of thousands dwelled in a square foot of moss, teeming millions throughout the rest of the small hollow, and uncounted masses beyond. Their abundance actually frightened Eragon. He had always known that humans were scarce and beleaguered in Alagaesia, but he had never imagined that they were so outnumbered by even beetles.

Since they were one of the few insects that he was familiar with, and Oromis had mentioned them, Eragon concentrated his attention on the columns of red ants marching across the ground and up the stems of a wild rosebush. What he gleaned from them were not so much thoughts — their brains were too primitive — but urges: the urge to find food and avoid injury, the urge to defend one’s territory, the urge to mate. By examining the ants’ instincts, he could begin to puzzle out their behavior.

It fascinated him to discover that — except for the few individuals exploring outside the borders of their province — the ants knew exactly where they were going. He was unable to ascertain what mechanism guided