Eldest [en]

every movement. And Vanir’s companions — who, as best Eragon could tell, were of a younger generation of elves — shared his veiled distaste for Eragon, though they never displayed aught but respect for Saphira.

Their rivalry came to a head when, after defeating Eragon six times in a row, Vanir lowered his sword and said, “Dead yet again, Shadeslayer. How repetitive. Do you wish to continue?” His tone indicated that he thought it would be pointless.

“Aye,” grunted Eragon. He had already suffered an episode with his back and was in no mood to bandy words.

Still, when Vanir said, “Tell me, as I am curious: How did you kill Durza when you are so slow? I cannot fathom how you managed it,” Eragon felt compelled to reply: “I caught him by surprise.”

“Forgive me; I should have guessed trickery was involved.”

Eragon fought the impulse to grind his teeth. “If I were an elf or you a human, you would not be able to match my blade.”

“Perhaps,” said Vanir. He assumed his ready position and, within the span of three seconds and two blows, disarmed Eragon. “But I think not. You should not boast to a better swordsman, else he may decide to punish your temerity.”

Eragon’s temper broke then, and he reached deep within himself and into the torrent of magic. He released the pent-up energy with one of the twelve minor words of binding, crying “Malthinae!” to chain Vanir’s legs and arms in place and hold his jaw shut so that he could not utter a counterspell. The elf’s eyes bulged with outrage.

Eragon said, “And you should not boast to one who is more skilled in magic than you.”

Vanir’s dark eyebrows met.

Without warning or a whisper of a sound, an invisible force clouted Eragon on the chest and threw him ten yards across the grass, where he landed upon his side, driving the wind from his lungs. The impact disrupted Eragon’s control of the magic and freed Vanir.

How did he do that?

Advancing upon him, Vanir said, “Your ignorance betrays you, human. You do not know whereof you speak. To think that you were chosen to succeed Vrael, that you were given his quarters, that you have had the honor to serve the Mourning Sage...” He shook his head. “It sickens me that such gifts are bestowed upon one so unworthy. You do not even understand what magic is or how it works.”

Eragon’s anger resurged like a crimson tide. “What,” he said, “have I ever done to wrong you? Why do you despise me so? Would you prefer it if no Rider existed to oppose Galbatorix?”

“My opinions are of little consequence.”

“I agree, but I would hear them.”

“Listening, as Nuala wrote in Convocations, is the path to wisdom only when the result of a conscious decision and not a void of perception.”

“Straighten your tongue, Vanir, and give me an honest answer!”

Vanir smiled coldly. “As you command, O Rider.” Drawing near so that only Eragon could hear his soft voice, the elf said, “For eighty years after the fall of the Riders, we held no hope of victory. We survived by hiding ourselves through deceit and magic, which is but a temporary measure, for eventually Galbatorix will be strong enough to march upon us and sweep aside our defenses. Then, long after we had resigned ourselves to our fate, Brom and Jeod rescued Saphira’s egg, and once again a chance existed to defeat the foul usurper. Imagine our joy and celebration. We knew that in order to withstand Galbatorix, the new Rider had to be more powerful than any of his predecessors, more powerful than even Vrael. Yet how was our patience rewarded? With another human like Galbatorix. Worse... a cripple. You doomed us all, Eragon, the instant you touched Saphira’s egg. Do not expect us to welcome your presence.” Vanir touched his lips with his first and second finger, then sidestepped Eragon and walked off the sparring field, leaving Eragon rooted in place.

He’s right, thought Eragon. I’m ill suited for this task. Any of these elves, even Vanir, would make a better Rider than me.

Emanating outrage, Saphira broadened the contact between them. Do you think so little of my judgment, Eragon? You forget that when I was in my egg, Arya exposed me to each and every one of these elves — as well as many of the Varden’s children — and that I rejected them all. I wouldn’t have chosen someone to be my Rider unless they could help your race, mine, and the elves, for the three of us share an intertwined fate. You were the right person, at the right place, at the right time. Never forget that.

If ever that were true, he said, it was before Durza injured me. Now I see naught but darkness and evil in our future. I won’t give up, but I despair that we may not prevail. Perhaps our task is not to overthrow Galbatorix but to prepare the way for the next Rider chosen by the remaining eggs.

At the Crags of Tel’naeir, Eragon found Oromis at the table in his hut, painting a landscape with black ink along the bottom edge of a scroll he had finished writing.

Eragon bowed and knelt. “Master.”

Fifteen minutes elapsed before Oromis finished limning the tufts of needles on a gnarled juniper tree, laid aside his ink, cleaned his sable brush with water from a clay pot, and then addressed Eragon, saying, “Why have you come so early?”

“I apologize for disturbing you, but Vanir abandoned our contest partway through and I did not know what to do with myself.”

“Why did Vanir leave, Eragon-vodhr?”

Oromis folded his hands in his lap while Eragon described the encounter, ending with: “I should not have lost control, but I did, and I looked all the more foolish because of it. I have failed you, Master.”

“You have,” agreed Oromis. “Vanir may have goaded you, but that was no reason to respond in kind. You must keep a better hold over your emotions, Eragon. It could cost you your life if you allow your temper to sway your judgment during battle. Also, such childish displays do nothing but vindicate those elves who are opposed to you. Our machinations are subtle and allow little room for such errors.”

“I am sorry, Master. It won’t happen again.”

As Oromis seemed content to wait in his chair until the time when they normally performed the Rimgar, Eragon seized the opportunity to ask, “How could Vanir have worked magic without speaking?”

“Did he? Perhaps another elf decided to assist him.”

Eragon shook his head. “During my first day in Ellesmera, I also saw Islanzadi summon a downpour of flowers by clapping her hands, nothing more. And Vanir said that I didn’t understand how magic works. What did he mean?”

“Once again,” said Oromis, resigned, “you grasp at knowledge that you are not prepared for. Yet, because of our circumstances, I cannot deny it to you. Only know this: that which you ask for was not taught to Riders — and is not taught to our magicians — until they had, and have, mastered every other aspect of magic, for this is the secret to the true nature of magic and the ancient language. Those who know it may acquire great power, yes, but at a terrible risk.” He paused for a moment. “How is the ancient language bound to magic, Eragon-vodhr?”

“The words of the ancient language can release the energy stored within your body and thus activate a spell.”

“Ah. Then you mean that certain sounds, certain vibrations in the air, somehow tap into this energy? Sounds that might be produced at random by any creature or thing?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Does not that seem absurd?”

Confused, Eragon said, “It doesn’t matter if it seems absurd, Master; it just is. Should I think it absurd that the moon wanes and waxes, or that the seasons turn, or that birds fly south in the winter?”

“Of course not. But how could mere sound do so much? Can particular patterns of pitch and volume really trigger reactions that allow us to manipulate energy?”

“But they do.”

“Sound has no control over magic. Saying a word or phrase in this language is not what’s important, it’s thinking them in this language.” With a flick of his wrist, a golden flame appeared over Oromis’s palm, then disappeared. “However, unless the need is dire, we still utter our spells out loud to prevent stray thoughts from disrupting them, which is a danger to even the most experienced magic user.”