Brisingr
Page 193
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As Saphira had predicted, Du Weldenvarden came into sight even as the sun neared setting. The forest appeared before them as an endless expanse of green. Deciduous trees—oaks and beeches and maples—dominated the outer parts of the forest, but farther in, Eragon knew, they gave way to the forbidding pine trees that formed the bulk of the woods.
Dusk had settled over the countryside by the time they arrived at the edge of Du Weldenvarden, and Saphira glided to a soft landing under the outstretched branches of a massive oak. She folded her wings and sat still for a while, too tired to continue. Her crimson tongue hung loose from her mouth. While she rested, Eragon listened to the rustle of leaves overhead and to the hoot of owls and the chirp of evening insects.
When she was sufficiently recovered, Saphira walked forward and passed between two giant, moss-covered oak trees and so crossed into Du Weldenvarden on foot. The elves had made it impossible for anyone or anything to enter the forest by means of magic, and since dragons did not rely upon their bodies alone to fly, Saphira could not enter while in the air, else her wings would fail her and she would fall from the sky.
That should be far enough, Saphira said, stopping in a small meadow several hundred feet from the perimeter of the forest.
Eragon unbuckled the straps from around his legs and slid down Saphira’s side. He searched the meadow until he found a bare patch of earth. With his hands, he scooped out a shallow hole a foot and a half wide. He summoned forth water to fill the hole, then uttered a spell of scrying.
The water shimmered and acquired a soft yellow glow as Eragon beheld the interior of Oromis’s hut. The silver-haired elf was sitting at his kitchen table, reading a tattered scroll. Oromis looked up at Eragon and nodded with unsurprised recognition.
“Master,” Eragon said, and twisted his hand over his chest.
“Greetings, Eragon. I have been expecting you. Where are you?”
“Saphira and I just reached Du Weldenvarden. . . . Master, I know we promised to return to Ellesméra, but the Varden are only a few days away from the city of Feinster, and they are vulnerable without us. We don’t have the time to fly all the way to Ellesméra. Could you answer our questions here, through the scrying pool?”
Oromis leaned back in his chair, his angled face grave and pensive. Then he said, “I will not instruct you at a distance, Eragon. I can guess at some of the things you wish to ask me, and they are subjects we must discuss in person.”
“Master, please. If Murtagh and Thorn—”
“No, Eragon. I understand the reason for your urgency, but your studies are just as important as protecting the Varden, maybe even more so. We must do this properly, or not at all.”
Eragon sighed and slumped forward. “Yes, Master.”
Oromis nodded. “Glaedr and I will be waiting for you. Fly safe and fly fast. We have much to talk about.”
“Yes, Master.”
Feeling numb and worn-out, Eragon ended the spell. The water soaked back into the ground. He held his head in his hands, staring at the patch of moist dirt between his feet. Saphira’s heavy breathing was loud beside him. I guess we have to keep going, he said. I’m sorry.
Her breathing paused for a moment as she licked her chops. It’s all right. I’m not about to collapse.
He looked up at her. Are you sure?
Yes.
Eragon reluctantly hoisted himself upright and climbed onto her back. As long as we’re going to Ellesméra, he said, tightening the straps around his legs, we should visit the Menoa tree again. Maybe we can finally figure out what Solembum meant. I could certainly use a new sword.
When Eragon had first met Solembum in Teirm, the werecat had told him, When the time comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls. Eragon still did not know where the Rock of Kuthian was, but during their first stay in Ellesméra, he and Saphira had had several chances to examine the Menoa tree. They had discovered no clue as to the exact whereabouts of the supposed weapon. Moss, dirt, bark, and the occasional ant were the only things they had seen among the roots of the Menoa tree, and none of them indicated where to excavate.
Solembum might not have meant a sword, Saphira pointed out. Werecats love riddles nearly as much as dragons do. If it even exists, this weapon might be a scrap of parchment with a spell inscribed on it, or a book, or a painting, or a sharp piece of rock, or any other dangerous thing.
Whatever it is, I hope we can find it. Who knows when we will have the chance to return to Ellesméra again?
Saphira raked aside a fallen tree that lay before her, then crouched and unfurled her velvety wings, her massive shoulder muscles bunching. Eragon yelped and grabbed the front of his saddle as she surged up and forward with unexpected force, rising above the tops of the trees in a single vertiginous bound.
Wheeling over the sea of shifting branches, Saphira oriented herself in a northwesterly direction and then set out toward the elves’ capital, the beats of her wings slow and heavy.
BUTTING HEADS
The raid on the supply train went almost exactly as Roran had planned: three days after leaving the main body of the Varden, he and his fellow horsemen rode down from the lip of a ravine and struck the meandering line of wagons broadside. Meanwhile, the Urgals sprang out from behind boulders scattered across the floor of the ravine and attacked the supply train from the front, stopping the procession in its tracks. The soldiers and wagoners put up a brave fight, but the ambush had caught them while sleepy and disorganized, and Roran’s force soon overwhelmed them. None of the humans or Urgals died in the attack, and only three suffered wounds: two humans and one Urgal.
Dusk had settled over the countryside by the time they arrived at the edge of Du Weldenvarden, and Saphira glided to a soft landing under the outstretched branches of a massive oak. She folded her wings and sat still for a while, too tired to continue. Her crimson tongue hung loose from her mouth. While she rested, Eragon listened to the rustle of leaves overhead and to the hoot of owls and the chirp of evening insects.
When she was sufficiently recovered, Saphira walked forward and passed between two giant, moss-covered oak trees and so crossed into Du Weldenvarden on foot. The elves had made it impossible for anyone or anything to enter the forest by means of magic, and since dragons did not rely upon their bodies alone to fly, Saphira could not enter while in the air, else her wings would fail her and she would fall from the sky.
That should be far enough, Saphira said, stopping in a small meadow several hundred feet from the perimeter of the forest.
Eragon unbuckled the straps from around his legs and slid down Saphira’s side. He searched the meadow until he found a bare patch of earth. With his hands, he scooped out a shallow hole a foot and a half wide. He summoned forth water to fill the hole, then uttered a spell of scrying.
The water shimmered and acquired a soft yellow glow as Eragon beheld the interior of Oromis’s hut. The silver-haired elf was sitting at his kitchen table, reading a tattered scroll. Oromis looked up at Eragon and nodded with unsurprised recognition.
“Master,” Eragon said, and twisted his hand over his chest.
“Greetings, Eragon. I have been expecting you. Where are you?”
“Saphira and I just reached Du Weldenvarden. . . . Master, I know we promised to return to Ellesméra, but the Varden are only a few days away from the city of Feinster, and they are vulnerable without us. We don’t have the time to fly all the way to Ellesméra. Could you answer our questions here, through the scrying pool?”
Oromis leaned back in his chair, his angled face grave and pensive. Then he said, “I will not instruct you at a distance, Eragon. I can guess at some of the things you wish to ask me, and they are subjects we must discuss in person.”
“Master, please. If Murtagh and Thorn—”
“No, Eragon. I understand the reason for your urgency, but your studies are just as important as protecting the Varden, maybe even more so. We must do this properly, or not at all.”
Eragon sighed and slumped forward. “Yes, Master.”
Oromis nodded. “Glaedr and I will be waiting for you. Fly safe and fly fast. We have much to talk about.”
“Yes, Master.”
Feeling numb and worn-out, Eragon ended the spell. The water soaked back into the ground. He held his head in his hands, staring at the patch of moist dirt between his feet. Saphira’s heavy breathing was loud beside him. I guess we have to keep going, he said. I’m sorry.
Her breathing paused for a moment as she licked her chops. It’s all right. I’m not about to collapse.
He looked up at her. Are you sure?
Yes.
Eragon reluctantly hoisted himself upright and climbed onto her back. As long as we’re going to Ellesméra, he said, tightening the straps around his legs, we should visit the Menoa tree again. Maybe we can finally figure out what Solembum meant. I could certainly use a new sword.
When Eragon had first met Solembum in Teirm, the werecat had told him, When the time comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls. Eragon still did not know where the Rock of Kuthian was, but during their first stay in Ellesméra, he and Saphira had had several chances to examine the Menoa tree. They had discovered no clue as to the exact whereabouts of the supposed weapon. Moss, dirt, bark, and the occasional ant were the only things they had seen among the roots of the Menoa tree, and none of them indicated where to excavate.
Solembum might not have meant a sword, Saphira pointed out. Werecats love riddles nearly as much as dragons do. If it even exists, this weapon might be a scrap of parchment with a spell inscribed on it, or a book, or a painting, or a sharp piece of rock, or any other dangerous thing.
Whatever it is, I hope we can find it. Who knows when we will have the chance to return to Ellesméra again?
Saphira raked aside a fallen tree that lay before her, then crouched and unfurled her velvety wings, her massive shoulder muscles bunching. Eragon yelped and grabbed the front of his saddle as she surged up and forward with unexpected force, rising above the tops of the trees in a single vertiginous bound.
Wheeling over the sea of shifting branches, Saphira oriented herself in a northwesterly direction and then set out toward the elves’ capital, the beats of her wings slow and heavy.
BUTTING HEADS
The raid on the supply train went almost exactly as Roran had planned: three days after leaving the main body of the Varden, he and his fellow horsemen rode down from the lip of a ravine and struck the meandering line of wagons broadside. Meanwhile, the Urgals sprang out from behind boulders scattered across the floor of the ravine and attacked the supply train from the front, stopping the procession in its tracks. The soldiers and wagoners put up a brave fight, but the ambush had caught them while sleepy and disorganized, and Roran’s force soon overwhelmed them. None of the humans or Urgals died in the attack, and only three suffered wounds: two humans and one Urgal.
