Eldest
Page 115
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The water remained as hard and solid as polished marble when it struck Eragon, producing a dullthunk as it collided with his skull. The blow knocked him sprawling on the turf, where he lay stunned, blinking as pulsing lights swam across the sky.
“Yes,” said Oromis. “A better word might beletta orkodthr. ” He finally turned to look at Eragon and raised an eyebrow with apparent surprise. “Whatever are you doing? Get up. We can’t lay about all day.”
“Yes, Master,” groaned Eragon.
When Eragon got back on his feet, Oromis had him manipulate the water in various ways—shaping it into complex knots, changing the color of light that it absorbed or reflected, and freezing it in certain prescribed sequences—none of which proved difficult for him.
The exercises continued for so long that Eragon’s initial interest faded and was replaced by impatience and puzzlement. He was chary of offending Oromis, but he saw no point to what the elf was doing; it was as if Oromis were avoiding any spells that would require him to use more than a minimal amount of strength.I’ve already demonstrated the extent of my skills. Why does he persist in reviewing these fundamentals? He said, “Master, I know all of this. Can we not move on?”
The muscles in Oromis’s neck hardened, and his shoulders were like chiseled granite for all they moved; even the elf’s breathing halted before he said, “Will you never learn respect, Eragon-vodhr? So be it!” Then he uttered four words from the ancient language in a voice so deep that their meaning escaped Eragon.
Eragon yelped as he felt each of his legs enveloped by pressure up to the knee, squeezing and constricting his calves in such a way that made it impossible for him to walk. His thighs and upper body were free to move, but other than that, it was as if he had been cast in lime mortar.
“Free yourself,” said Oromis.
Here now was a challenge that Eragon had never dealt with before: how to counter someone else’s spells. He could sever his invisible bonds using one of two different methods. The most effective would be if he knewhow Oromis had immobilized him—whether by affecting his body directly or using an external source—for then he could redirect the element or force to disperse Oromis’s power. Or he could use a generic, vague spell to block whatever Oromis was doing. The downside to the tactic was that it would lead to a direct contest of strength between them.It had to happen sometime, thought Eragon. He entertained no hope of prevailing against an elf.
Assembling the required phrase, he said, “Losna kalfya iet.” Release my calves.
The surge of energy that deserted Eragon was greater than he had anticipated; he went from being moderately tired from the day’s pains and exertions to feeling as if he had hiked over rough terrain since morn. Then the pressure vanished from his legs, causing him to stagger as he regained his balance.
Oromis shook his head. “Foolish,” he said, “very foolish. If I had committed more to maintaining my spell, that would have killed you. Never use absolutes.”
“Absolutes?”
“Never word your spells so that only two outcomes are possible: success or death. If an enemy had trapped your legs and if he were stronger than you, then you would have expended all of your energy trying to break his spell. You would have died with no chance to abort the attempt once you realized that it was futile.”
“How do I avoid that?” asked Eragon.
“It’s safer to make the spell aprocess that you can terminate at your discretion. Instead of sayingrelease my calves, which is an absolute, you could sayreduce the magic imprisoning my calves. A bit wordy, but you could then decide how much you wanted your opponent’s spell decreased and if it were safe to remove it entirely. We will try again.”
The pressure returned to Eragon’s legs as soon as Oromis mouthed his inaudible invocation. Eragon was so tired, he doubted that he could provide much opposition. Nevertheless, he reached for the magic.
Before the ancient language left Eragon’s mouth, he became aware of a curious sensation as the weight constraining his legs lessened at a steady rate. It tickled and felt like he was being pulled out of a mire of cold, slick mud. He glanced at Oromis and saw the elf’s face scribed by passion, as if he clung to something precious that he could not bear to lose. A vein throbbed at one of Oromis’s temples.
When Eragon’s arcane fetters ceased to exist, Oromis recoiled as if he had been pricked by a wasp and stood with his gaze fixed on his two hands, his thin chest heaving. For perhaps a minute, he remained thus, then he drew himself upright and walked to the very edge of the Crags of Tel’naeír, a lone figure outlined against the pale sky.
Regret and sorrow welled in Eragon—the same emotions that had gripped him when he first saw Glaedr’s mutilated foreleg. He cursed himself for being so arrogant with Oromis, so oblivious to his infirmities, and for not placing more confidence in the elf’s judgment.I’m not the only one who must deal with past injuries. Eragon had not fully comprehended what it meant when Oromis said that all but the slightest magic escaped his grasp. Now he appreciated the depths of Oromis’s situation and the pain that it must cause him, especially for one of his race, who was born and bred with magic.
Eragon went to Oromis, knelt, and bowed in the fashion of the dwarves, pressing his bruised forehead against the ground. “Ebrithil, I beg your pardon.”
The elf gave no indication that he had heard.
The two of them lingered in their respective positions while the sun declined before them, the birds sang their evening songs, and the air grew cool and moist. From the north came the faint offbeat thumps of Saphira and Glaedr’s wing strokes as they returned for the day.
“Yes,” said Oromis. “A better word might beletta orkodthr. ” He finally turned to look at Eragon and raised an eyebrow with apparent surprise. “Whatever are you doing? Get up. We can’t lay about all day.”
“Yes, Master,” groaned Eragon.
When Eragon got back on his feet, Oromis had him manipulate the water in various ways—shaping it into complex knots, changing the color of light that it absorbed or reflected, and freezing it in certain prescribed sequences—none of which proved difficult for him.
The exercises continued for so long that Eragon’s initial interest faded and was replaced by impatience and puzzlement. He was chary of offending Oromis, but he saw no point to what the elf was doing; it was as if Oromis were avoiding any spells that would require him to use more than a minimal amount of strength.I’ve already demonstrated the extent of my skills. Why does he persist in reviewing these fundamentals? He said, “Master, I know all of this. Can we not move on?”
The muscles in Oromis’s neck hardened, and his shoulders were like chiseled granite for all they moved; even the elf’s breathing halted before he said, “Will you never learn respect, Eragon-vodhr? So be it!” Then he uttered four words from the ancient language in a voice so deep that their meaning escaped Eragon.
Eragon yelped as he felt each of his legs enveloped by pressure up to the knee, squeezing and constricting his calves in such a way that made it impossible for him to walk. His thighs and upper body were free to move, but other than that, it was as if he had been cast in lime mortar.
“Free yourself,” said Oromis.
Here now was a challenge that Eragon had never dealt with before: how to counter someone else’s spells. He could sever his invisible bonds using one of two different methods. The most effective would be if he knewhow Oromis had immobilized him—whether by affecting his body directly or using an external source—for then he could redirect the element or force to disperse Oromis’s power. Or he could use a generic, vague spell to block whatever Oromis was doing. The downside to the tactic was that it would lead to a direct contest of strength between them.It had to happen sometime, thought Eragon. He entertained no hope of prevailing against an elf.
Assembling the required phrase, he said, “Losna kalfya iet.” Release my calves.
The surge of energy that deserted Eragon was greater than he had anticipated; he went from being moderately tired from the day’s pains and exertions to feeling as if he had hiked over rough terrain since morn. Then the pressure vanished from his legs, causing him to stagger as he regained his balance.
Oromis shook his head. “Foolish,” he said, “very foolish. If I had committed more to maintaining my spell, that would have killed you. Never use absolutes.”
“Absolutes?”
“Never word your spells so that only two outcomes are possible: success or death. If an enemy had trapped your legs and if he were stronger than you, then you would have expended all of your energy trying to break his spell. You would have died with no chance to abort the attempt once you realized that it was futile.”
“How do I avoid that?” asked Eragon.
“It’s safer to make the spell aprocess that you can terminate at your discretion. Instead of sayingrelease my calves, which is an absolute, you could sayreduce the magic imprisoning my calves. A bit wordy, but you could then decide how much you wanted your opponent’s spell decreased and if it were safe to remove it entirely. We will try again.”
The pressure returned to Eragon’s legs as soon as Oromis mouthed his inaudible invocation. Eragon was so tired, he doubted that he could provide much opposition. Nevertheless, he reached for the magic.
Before the ancient language left Eragon’s mouth, he became aware of a curious sensation as the weight constraining his legs lessened at a steady rate. It tickled and felt like he was being pulled out of a mire of cold, slick mud. He glanced at Oromis and saw the elf’s face scribed by passion, as if he clung to something precious that he could not bear to lose. A vein throbbed at one of Oromis’s temples.
When Eragon’s arcane fetters ceased to exist, Oromis recoiled as if he had been pricked by a wasp and stood with his gaze fixed on his two hands, his thin chest heaving. For perhaps a minute, he remained thus, then he drew himself upright and walked to the very edge of the Crags of Tel’naeír, a lone figure outlined against the pale sky.
Regret and sorrow welled in Eragon—the same emotions that had gripped him when he first saw Glaedr’s mutilated foreleg. He cursed himself for being so arrogant with Oromis, so oblivious to his infirmities, and for not placing more confidence in the elf’s judgment.I’m not the only one who must deal with past injuries. Eragon had not fully comprehended what it meant when Oromis said that all but the slightest magic escaped his grasp. Now he appreciated the depths of Oromis’s situation and the pain that it must cause him, especially for one of his race, who was born and bred with magic.
Eragon went to Oromis, knelt, and bowed in the fashion of the dwarves, pressing his bruised forehead against the ground. “Ebrithil, I beg your pardon.”
The elf gave no indication that he had heard.
The two of them lingered in their respective positions while the sun declined before them, the birds sang their evening songs, and the air grew cool and moist. From the north came the faint offbeat thumps of Saphira and Glaedr’s wing strokes as they returned for the day.
