Eldest
Page 88
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“And do you undertake challenging projects?”
“I like to be challenged.”
“So you feel the need to pit yourself against adversity in order to test your abilities.”
“I enjoy overcoming challenges, but I’ve faced enough hardship to know that it’s foolish to make things more difficult than they are. It’s all I can do to survive as it is.”
“Yet you chose to follow the Ra’zac when it would have been easier to remain in Palancar Valley. And you came here.”
“It was the right thing to do . . . Master.”
For several minutes, no one spoke. Eragon tried to guess what the elf was thinking, but could glean no information from his masklike visage. Finally, Oromis stirred. “Were you, perchance, given a trinket of some kind in Tarnag, Eragon? A piece of jewelry, armor, or even a coin?”
“Aye.” Eragon reached inside of his tunic and fished out the necklace with the tiny silver hammer. “Gannel made this for me on Hrothgar’s orders, to prevent anyone from scrying Saphira or me. They were afraid that Galbatorix might have discovered what I look like. . . . How did you know?”
“Because,” said Oromis, “I could no longer sense you.”
“Someone tried to scry me by Sílthrim about a week ago. Was that you?”
Oromis shook his head. “After I first scryed you with Arya, I had no need to use such crude methods to find you. I could reach out and touch your mind with mine, as I did when you were injured in Farthen Dûr.” Lifting the amulet, he murmured several lines in the ancient language, then released it. “It contains no other spells I can detect. Keep it with you at all times; it is a valuable gift.” He pressed the tips of his long fingers together, his nails as round and bright as fish scales, and stared between the arches they formed toward the white horizon. “Why are you here, Eragon?”
“To complete my training.”
“And what do you think that process entails?”
Eragon shifted uncomfortably. “Learning more about magic and fighting. Brom wasn’t able to finish teaching me everything that he knew.”
“Magic, swordsmanship, and other such skills are useless unless you know how and when to apply them. This I will teach you. However, as Galbatorix has demonstrated, power without moral direction is the most dangerous force in the world. My main task, then, is to help you, Eragon and Saphira, to understand what principles guide you, so that you do not make the right choices for the wrong reasons. You must learn more about yourself, who you are and what you are capable of doing. That is why you are here.”
When do we begin?asked Saphira.
Oromis began to answer when he stiffened and dropped his flagon. His face went crimson and his fingers tightened into hooked claws that dragged at his robe like cockleburs. The change was frightening and instantaneous. Before Eragon could do more than flinch, the elf had relaxed again, although his entire body now bespoke weariness.
Concerned, Eragon dared to ask, “Are you well?”
A trace of amusement lifted the corner of Oromis’s mouth. “Less so than I might wish. We elves fancy ourselves immortal, but not even we can escape certain maladies of the flesh, which are beyond our knowledge of magic to do more than delay. No, do not worry . . . it isn’t contagious, but neither can I rid myself of it.” He sighed. “I have spent decades binding myself with hundreds of small, weak spells that, layered one upon another, duplicate the effect of enchantments that are now beyond my reach. I bound myself with them so that I might live long enough to witness the birth of the last dragons and to foster the Riders’ resurrection from the ruin of our mistakes.”
“How long until . . .”
Oromis lifted a sharp eyebrow. “How long until I die? We have time, but precious little for you or me, especially if the Varden decide to call upon your help. As a result—to answer your question, Saphira—we will begin your instruction immediately, and we will train faster than any Rider ever has or ever will, for I must condense decades of knowledge into months and weeks.”
“You do know,” said Eragon, struggling against the embarrassment and shame that made his cheeks burn, “about my . . . my owninfirmity. ” He ground out the last word, hating the sound of it. “I am as crippled as you are.”
Sympathy tempered Oromis’s gaze, though his voice was firm. “Eragon, you are only a cripple if you consider yourself one. I understand how you feel, but you must remain optimistic, for a negative outlook is more of a handicap than any physical injury. I speak from personal experience. Pitying yourself serves neither you nor Saphira. I and the other spellweavers will study your malady to see if we might devise a way to alleviate it, but in the meantime, your training will proceed as if nothing were amiss.”
Eragon’s gut clenched and he tasted bile as he considered the implications.Surely Oromis wouldn’t make me endure that torment again! “The pain is unbearable,” he said frantically. “It would kill me. I—”
“No, Eragon. It will not kill you. That much I know about your curse. However, we both have our duty; you to the Varden, and I to you. We cannot shirk it for the sake of mere pain. Far too much is at risk, and we can ill afford to fail.” All Eragon could do was shake his head as panic threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to deny Oromis’s words, but their truth was inescapable. “Eragon. You must accept this burden freely. Have you no one or nothing that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for?”
“I like to be challenged.”
“So you feel the need to pit yourself against adversity in order to test your abilities.”
“I enjoy overcoming challenges, but I’ve faced enough hardship to know that it’s foolish to make things more difficult than they are. It’s all I can do to survive as it is.”
“Yet you chose to follow the Ra’zac when it would have been easier to remain in Palancar Valley. And you came here.”
“It was the right thing to do . . . Master.”
For several minutes, no one spoke. Eragon tried to guess what the elf was thinking, but could glean no information from his masklike visage. Finally, Oromis stirred. “Were you, perchance, given a trinket of some kind in Tarnag, Eragon? A piece of jewelry, armor, or even a coin?”
“Aye.” Eragon reached inside of his tunic and fished out the necklace with the tiny silver hammer. “Gannel made this for me on Hrothgar’s orders, to prevent anyone from scrying Saphira or me. They were afraid that Galbatorix might have discovered what I look like. . . . How did you know?”
“Because,” said Oromis, “I could no longer sense you.”
“Someone tried to scry me by Sílthrim about a week ago. Was that you?”
Oromis shook his head. “After I first scryed you with Arya, I had no need to use such crude methods to find you. I could reach out and touch your mind with mine, as I did when you were injured in Farthen Dûr.” Lifting the amulet, he murmured several lines in the ancient language, then released it. “It contains no other spells I can detect. Keep it with you at all times; it is a valuable gift.” He pressed the tips of his long fingers together, his nails as round and bright as fish scales, and stared between the arches they formed toward the white horizon. “Why are you here, Eragon?”
“To complete my training.”
“And what do you think that process entails?”
Eragon shifted uncomfortably. “Learning more about magic and fighting. Brom wasn’t able to finish teaching me everything that he knew.”
“Magic, swordsmanship, and other such skills are useless unless you know how and when to apply them. This I will teach you. However, as Galbatorix has demonstrated, power without moral direction is the most dangerous force in the world. My main task, then, is to help you, Eragon and Saphira, to understand what principles guide you, so that you do not make the right choices for the wrong reasons. You must learn more about yourself, who you are and what you are capable of doing. That is why you are here.”
When do we begin?asked Saphira.
Oromis began to answer when he stiffened and dropped his flagon. His face went crimson and his fingers tightened into hooked claws that dragged at his robe like cockleburs. The change was frightening and instantaneous. Before Eragon could do more than flinch, the elf had relaxed again, although his entire body now bespoke weariness.
Concerned, Eragon dared to ask, “Are you well?”
A trace of amusement lifted the corner of Oromis’s mouth. “Less so than I might wish. We elves fancy ourselves immortal, but not even we can escape certain maladies of the flesh, which are beyond our knowledge of magic to do more than delay. No, do not worry . . . it isn’t contagious, but neither can I rid myself of it.” He sighed. “I have spent decades binding myself with hundreds of small, weak spells that, layered one upon another, duplicate the effect of enchantments that are now beyond my reach. I bound myself with them so that I might live long enough to witness the birth of the last dragons and to foster the Riders’ resurrection from the ruin of our mistakes.”
“How long until . . .”
Oromis lifted a sharp eyebrow. “How long until I die? We have time, but precious little for you or me, especially if the Varden decide to call upon your help. As a result—to answer your question, Saphira—we will begin your instruction immediately, and we will train faster than any Rider ever has or ever will, for I must condense decades of knowledge into months and weeks.”
“You do know,” said Eragon, struggling against the embarrassment and shame that made his cheeks burn, “about my . . . my owninfirmity. ” He ground out the last word, hating the sound of it. “I am as crippled as you are.”
Sympathy tempered Oromis’s gaze, though his voice was firm. “Eragon, you are only a cripple if you consider yourself one. I understand how you feel, but you must remain optimistic, for a negative outlook is more of a handicap than any physical injury. I speak from personal experience. Pitying yourself serves neither you nor Saphira. I and the other spellweavers will study your malady to see if we might devise a way to alleviate it, but in the meantime, your training will proceed as if nothing were amiss.”
Eragon’s gut clenched and he tasted bile as he considered the implications.Surely Oromis wouldn’t make me endure that torment again! “The pain is unbearable,” he said frantically. “It would kill me. I—”
“No, Eragon. It will not kill you. That much I know about your curse. However, we both have our duty; you to the Varden, and I to you. We cannot shirk it for the sake of mere pain. Far too much is at risk, and we can ill afford to fail.” All Eragon could do was shake his head as panic threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to deny Oromis’s words, but their truth was inescapable. “Eragon. You must accept this burden freely. Have you no one or nothing that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for?”
