with it.
Too bad. He knelt and picked up a stone with a cavity large enough for a mouthful of water. He pressed a clump of dirt into the hollow and studied it thoughtfully. Now came the hard part. Somehow he had to convert the dirt into water. But what words should I use? He puzzled over it for a moment, then picked two he hoped would work. The icy magic rushed through him as he breached the familiar barrier in his mind and commanded, “Deloi moi!”
Immediately the dirt began to absorb his strength at a prodigious rate. Eragon’s mind flashed back to Brom’s warning that certain tasks could consume all of his power and take his life. Panic blossomed in his chest. He tried to release the magic but could not. It was linked to him until the task was complete or he was dead. All he could do was remain motionless, growing weaker every moment.
Just as he became convinced that he would die kneeling there, the dirt shimmered and morphed into a thimbleful of water. Relieved, Eragon sat back, breathing hard. His heart pounded painfully and hunger gnawed at his innards.
What happened? asked Saphira.
Eragon shook his head, still in shock from the drain on his body’s reserves. He was glad that he had not tried to transmute anything larger. This... this won’t work, he said. I don’t even have the strength to give myself a drink.
You should have been more careful, she chided. Magic can yield unexpected results when the ancient words are combined in new ways.
He glared at her. I know that, but this was the only way I could test my idea. I wasn’t going to wait until we were in the desert! He reminded himself that she was only trying to help. How did you turn Brom’s grave into diamond without killing yourself? I can barely handle a bit of dirt, much less all that sandstone.
I don’t know how I did it, she stated calmly. It just happened.
Could you do it again, but this time make water?
Eragon, she said, looking him squarely in the face. I’ve no more control over my abilities than a spider does. Things like that occur whether I will them or not. Brom told you that unusual events happen around dragons. He spoke truly. He gave no explanation for it, nor do I have one. Sometimes I can work changes just by feel, almost without thought. The rest of the time — like right now — I’m as powerless as Snowfire.
You’re never powerless, he said softly, putting a hand on her neck. For a long period they were both quiet. Eragon remembered the grave he had made and how Brom lay within it. He could still see the sandstone flowing over the old man’s face. “At least we gave him a decent burial,” he whispered.
He idly swirled a finger in the dirt, making twisting ridges. Two of the ridges formed a miniature valley, so he added mountains around it. With his fingernail he scratched a river down the valley, then deepened it because it seemed too shallow. He added a few more details until he found himself staring at a passable reproduction of Palancar Valley. Homesickness welled up within him, and he obliterated the valley with a swipe of his hand.
I don’t want to talk about it, he muttered angrily, staving off Saphira’s questions. He crossed his arms and glared at the ground. Almost against his will, his eyes flicked back to where he had gouged the earth. He straightened, surprised. Though the ground was dry, the furrow he had made was lined with moisture. Curious, he scraped away more dirt and found a damp layer a few inches under the surface. “Look at this!” he said excitedly.
Saphira lowered her nose to his discovery. How does this help us? Water in the desert is sure to be buried so deeply we would have to dig for weeks to find it.
Yes, said Eragon delightedly, but as long as it’s there, I can get it. Watch! He deepened the hole, then mentally accessed the magic. Instead of changing the dirt into water, he simply summoned forth the moisture that was already in the earth. With a faint trickle, water rushed into the hole. He smiled and sipped from it. The liquid was cool and pure, perfect for drinking. See! We can get all we need.
Saphira sniffed the pool. Here, yes. But in the desert? There may not be enough water in the ground for you to bring to the surface.
It will work, Eragon assured her. All I’m doing is lifting the water, an easy enough task. As long as it’s done slowly, my strength will hold. Even if I have to draw the water from fifty paces down, it won’t be a problem. Especially if you help me.
Saphira looked at him dubiously. Are you sure? Think carefully upon your answer, for it will mean our lives if you are wrong.
Eragon hesitated, then said firmly, I’m sure.
Then go tell Murtagh. I will keep watch while you sleep.
But you’ve stayed up all night like us, he objected. You should rest.
I’ll be fine — I’m stronger than you know, she said gently. Her scales rustled as she curled up with a watchful eye turned northward, toward their pursuers. Eragon hugged her, and she hummed deeply, sides vibrating. Go.
He lingered, then reluctantly returned to Murtagh, who asked, “Well? Is the desert open to us?”
“It is,” acknowledged Eragon. He flopped onto his blankets and explained what he had learned. When he finished, Eragon turned to the elf. Her face was the last thing he saw before falling asleep.
They forced themselves to rise early in the gray predawn hours. Eragon shivered in the cool air. “How are we going to transport the elf? She can’t ride on Saphira’s back much longer without getting sores from her scales. Saphira can’t carry her in her claws — it tires her and makes landing dangerous. A sledge won’t work; it would get battered to pieces while we ride, and I don’t want the horses slowed by the weight of another person.”
Murtagh considered the matter as he saddled Tornac. “If you were to ride Saphira, we could lash the elf onto Snowfire, but we’d have the same problem with sores.”
I have a solution, said Saphira unexpectedly. Why don’t you tie the elf to my belly? I’ll still be able to move freely, and she will be safer than anywhere else. The only danger will be if soldiers shoot arrows at me, but I can easily fly above those.
None of them could come up with a better idea, so they quickly adopted hers. Eragon folded one of his blankets in half lengthwise, secured it around the elf’s petite form, then took her to Saphira. Blankets and spare clothes were sacrificed to form ropes long enough to encircle Saphira’s girth. With those ropes, the elf was tied back-first against Saphira’s belly, her head between Saphira’s front legs. Eragon looked critically at their handiwork. “I’m afraid your scales may rub through the ropes.”
“We’ll have to check them occasionally for fraying,” commented Murtagh.
Shall we go now? Saphira asked, and Eragon repeated the question.
Murtagh’s eyes sparked dangerously, a tight smile lifting his lips. He glanced back the way they had come, where smoke from soldiers’ camps was clearly visible, and said, “I always did like races.”
“And now we are in one for our lives!”
Murtagh swung into Tornac’s saddle and trotted out of the camp. Eragon followed close behind on Snowfire. Saphira jumped into the air with the elf. She flew low to the ground to avoid being seen by the soldiers. In this fashion, the three of them made their way southeast toward the distant Hadarac Desert.
Eragon kept a quick eye out for pursuers as he rode. His mind repeatedly wandered back to the elf. An elf! He had actually seen one, and she was with them! He wondered what Roran would think of that. It struck him that if he ever returned to Carvahall, he would have a hard time convincing anyone that his adventures had actually occurred.
