Eldest [en]

everything I can to help. He responded with a weak smile. Then she licked his face and added, You should get ready to leave.

I know. He stared at the floor, unwilling to move, then dragged himself to the wash closet, where he scrubbed himself clean and used magic to shave.

He was in the middle of drying himself when he felt a presence touch his mind. Without pausing to think, Eragon began to fortify his mind, concentrating on an image of his big toe to the exclusion of all else. Then he heard Oromis say, Admirable, but unnecessary. Bring Zar’roc with you today. The presence vanished.

Eragon released a shaky breath. I need to be more alert, he told Saphira. I would have been at his mercy if he were an enemy.

Not with me around.

When his ablutions were complete, Eragon unhooked the membrane from the wall and mounted Saphira, cradling Zar’roc in the crook of his arm.

Saphira took flight with a rush of air, angling toward the Crags of Tel’naeir. From their high vantage point, they could see the damage that the storm had wreaked on Du Weldenvarden. No trees had fallen in Ellesmera, but farther away, where the elves’ magic was weaker, numerous pines had been knocked over. The remaining wind made the crossed branches and trees rub together, producing a brittle chorus of creaks and groans. Clouds of golden pollen, as thick as dust, streamed out from the trees and flowers.

While they flew, Eragon and Saphira exchanged memories of their separate lessons from the day before. He told her what he had learned about ants and the ancient language, and she told him about downdrafts and other dangerous weather patterns and how to avoid them.

Thus, when they landed and Oromis interrogated Eragon about Saphira’s lessons and Glaedr interrogated Saphira about Eragon’s, they were able to answer every question.

“Very good, Eragon-vodhr.”

Aye. Well played, Bjartskular, added Glaedr to Saphira.

As before, Saphira was sent off with Glaedr while Eragon remained on the cliffs, although this time he and Saphira were careful to maintain their link so as to absorb each other’s instruction.

As the dragons departed, Oromis observed, “Your voice is rougher today, Eragon. Are you sick?”

“My back hurt again this morning.”

“Ah. You have my sympathy.” He motioned with one finger. “Wait here.”

Eragon watched as Oromis strode into his hut and then reappeared, looking fierce and warlike with his silver mane rippling in the wind and his bronze sword in hand. “Today,” he said, “we shall forgo the Rimgar and instead cross our two blades, Naegling and Zar’roc. Draw thy sword and guard its edge as your first master taught you.”

Eragon wanted nothing more than to refuse. However, he had no intention of breaking his vow or letting his resolve waver in front of Oromis. He swallowed his trepidation. This is what it means to be a Rider, he thought.

Drawing upon his reserves, he located the nub deep within his mind that connected him to the wild flow of magic. He delved into it, and the energy suffused him. “Geuloth du knifr,” he said, and a winking blue star popped into existence between his thumb and forefinger, jumping from one to the next as he ran it down Zar’roc’s perilous length.

The instant their swords met, Eragon knew that he was as out-matched by Oromis as by Durza and Arya. Eragon was an exemplary human swordsman, but he could not compete with warriors whose blood ran thick with magic. His arm was too weak and his reflexes too slow. Still, that did not stop him from trying to win. He fought to the limits of his abilities, even if, in the end, it was a futile prospect.

Oromis tested him in every conceivable manner, forcing Eragon to utilize his entire arsenal of blows, counterblows, and underhand tricks. It was all for naught. He could not touch the elf. As a last resort, he tried altering his style of fighting, which could unsettle even the most hardened veteran. All it got him was a welt on his thigh.

“Move your feet faster,” cried Oromis. “He who stands like a pillar dies in battle. He who bends like a reed is triumphant!”

The elf was glorious in action, a perfect blend of control and untamed violence. He pounced like a cat, struck like a heron, and bobbed and wove with the grace of a weasel.

They had been sparring for almost twenty minutes when Oromis faltered, his narrow features clamped in a brief grimace. Eragon recognized the symptoms of Oromis’s mysterious illness and lashed out with Zar’roc. It was a low thing to do, but Eragon was so frustrated, he was willing to take advantage of any opening, no matter how unfair, just to have the satisfaction of marking Oromis at least once.

Zar’roc never reached its target. As Eragon twisted, he overextended and strained his back.

The pain was upon him without warning.

The last thing he heard was Saphira shouting, Eragon!

Despite the intensity of the fit, Eragon remained conscious throughout his ordeal. Not that he was aware of his surroundings, only the fire that burned in his flesh and prolonged each second into an eternity. The worst part was that he could do nothing to end his suffering but wait...

... and wait...

Eragon lay panting in the cold mud. He blinked as his vision came into focus and he saw Oromis sitting on a stool next to him. Pushing himself onto his knees, Eragon surveyed his new tunic with a mixture of regret and disgust. The fine russet cloth was caked with dirt from his convulsions on the ground. Muck filled his hair as well.

He could sense Saphira in his mind, radiating concern as she waited for him to notice her. How can you continue like this? she fretted. It’ll destroy you.

Her misgivings undermined Eragon’s remaining fortitude. Saphira had never before expressed doubt that he would prevail, not at Dras-Leona, Gil’ead, or Farthen Dur, nor with any of the dangers they had encountered. Her confidence had given him courage. Without it he was truly afraid.

You should concentrate on your lesson, he said.

I should concentrate on you.

Leave me alone! He snapped at her like a wounded animal that wants to nurse its injuries in silence and in dark. She fell silent, leaving just enough of their connection intact so that he was vaguely aware of Glaedr teaching her about fireweed, which she could chew to help her digestion.

Eragon combed the mud from his hair with his fingers, then spat out a globule of blood. “Bit my tongue.”

Oromis nodded as if it were to be expected. “Do you require healing?”

“No.”

“Very well. Tend to your sword, then bathe and go to the stump in the glade and listen to the thoughts of the forest. Listen, and when you hear no more, come tell me what you have learned.”

“Yes, Master.”

As he sat on the stump, Eragon found that his turbulent thoughts and emotions prevented him from mustering the concentration to open his mind and sense the creatures in the hollow. Nor was he interested in doing so.

Still, the peaceful quality of his surroundings gradually ameliorated his resentment, confusion, and stubborn anger. It did not make him happy, but it did bring him a certain fatalistic acceptance. This is my lot in life, and I’d better get used to it because it’s not about to improve in the foreseeable future.

After a quarter of an hour, his faculties had regained their usual acuity, so he resumed studying the colony of red ants that he had discovered the day before. He also tried to be aware of everything else that was happening in the glade, as Oromis had instructed.

Eragon met with limited success. If he relaxed and allowed himself to absorb input from all the consciousnesses nearby, thousands of images and feelings rushed into his head, piling on top of one another in quick flashes of sound and color, touch and smell, pain and pleasure. The amount of information was overwhelming. Out of pure habit, his mind would snatch one subject or another from the torrent, excluding all the rest before he noticed his lapse and wrenched himself back into a state of passive receptivity. The cycle repeated itself every few seconds.