Eldest
Page 89
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
His first thought was of Saphira, but he was not doing this for her. Nor for Nasuada. Nor even for Arya. What drove him, then? When he had pledged fealty to Nasuada, he had done so for the good of Roran and the other people trapped within the Empire. But did they mean enough to him to put himself through such anguish?Yes, he decided.Yes, they do, because I am the only one who has a chance to help them, and because I won’t be free of Galbatorix’s shadow until they are as well. And because this is my only purpose in life. What else would I do? He shuddered as he mouthed the ghastly phrase, “I accept on behalf of those I fight for: the people of Alagaësia—of all races—who have suffered from Galbatorix’s brutality. No matter the pain, I swear that I will study harder than any student you’ve had before.”
Oromis nodded gravely. “I ask for nothing less.” He looked at Glaedr for a moment, then said, “Stand and remove your tunic. Let me see what you are made of.”
Wait,said Saphira.Was Brom aware of your existence here, Master? Eragon paused, struck by the possibility.
“Of course,” said Oromis. “He was my pupil as a boy in Ilirea. I am glad that you gave him a proper burial, for he had a hard life and few enough ever showed him kindness. I hope that he found peace before he entered the void.”
Eragon slowly frowned. “Did you know Morzan as well?”
“He was my apprentice before Brom.”
“And Galbatorix?”
“I was one of the Elders who denied him another dragon after his first was killed, but no, I never had the misfortune to teach him. He made sure to personally hunt down and kill each of his mentors.”
Eragon wanted to inquire further, but he knew that it would be better to wait, so he stood and unlaced the top of his tunic.It seems , he said to Saphira,that we will never learn all of Brom’s secrets. He shivered as he pulled off the tunic in the cool air, then squared his shoulders and lifted his chest.
Oromis circled him, stopping with an astonished exclamation as he saw the scar that crossed Eragon’s back. “Did not Arya or one of the Varden’s healers offer to remove this weal? You should not have to carry it.”
“Arya did offer, but . . .” Eragon stopped, unable to articulate his feelings. Finally, he just said, “It’s part of me now, just as Murtagh’s scar is part of him.”
“Murtagh’s scar?”
“Murtagh bore a similar mark. It was inflicted when his father, Morzan, threw Zar’roc at him while he was only a child.”
Oromis stared at him seriously for a long time before he nodded and moved on. “You have a fair amount of muscle, and you are not as lopsided as most swordsmen. Are you ambidextrous?”
“Not really, but I had to teach myself to fight with my left hand after I broke my wrist by Teirm.”
“Good. That will save some time. Clasp your hands behind your back and lift them as high as possible.” Eragon did as he was told, but the posture hurt his shoulders and he could barely make his hands meet. “Now bend forward while keeping your knees straight. Try to touch the ground.” This was even harder for Eragon; he ended up bowed like a hunchback, with his arms hanging uselessly by his head while his hamstrings twinged and burned. His fingers were still nine or ten inches from the ground. “At least you can stretch without hurting yourself. I had not hoped for so much. You can perform a number of exercises for flexibility without overexerting. Yes.”
Then Oromis addressed Saphira: “I would know your capabilities as well, dragon.” He gave her a number of complex poses that had her contort every foot of her sinuous length in fantastic ways, culminating in a series of aerial acrobatics the likes of which Eragon had never seen before. Only a few things exceeded her ability, such as executing a backward loop while corkscrewing through the air.
When she landed, it was Glaedr who said,I fear that we coddled the Riders. If our hatchlings had been forced to care for themselves in the wild—as you were, and so our ancestors were—then perhaps they would have possessed your skill.
“No,” said Oromis, “even if Saphira had been raised on Vroengard using the established methods, she would still be an extraordinary flier. I’ve rarely seen a dragon so naturally suited to the sky.” Saphira blinked, then shuffled her wings and busied herself cleaning one of her claws in a manner that hid her head from view. “You have room to improve, as do we all, but little, very little.” The elf reseated himself, his back perfectly straight.
For the next five hours, by Eragon’s reckoning, Oromis delved into every aspect of his and Saphira’s knowledge, from botany to woodworking to metallurgy and medicine, although he mainly concentrated on their grasp of history and the ancient language. The interrogation comforted Eragon, as it reminded him of how Brom used to quiz him during their long treks to Teirm and Dras-Leona.
When they broke for lunch, Oromis invited Eragon into his house, leaving the two dragons alone. The elf’s quarters were barren except for those few essentials necessary for food, hygiene, and the pursuit of an intellectual life. Two entire walls were dotted with cubbyholes that held hundreds of scrolls. Next to the table hung a golden sheath—the same color as Glaedr’s scales—and a matching sword with a blade the color of iridescent bronze.
On the inner pane of the door, set within the heart of the wood, was a flat panel one span high and two wide. It depicted a beautiful, towering city built against an escarpment and caught in the ruddy light of a rising harvest moon. The pitted lunar face was bisected by the horizon and appeared to sit on the ground like a maculated dome as large as a mountain. The picture was so clear and perfectly detailed, Eragon at first took it to be a magical window; it was only when he saw that the image was indeed static that he could accept it as a piece of art.
Oromis nodded gravely. “I ask for nothing less.” He looked at Glaedr for a moment, then said, “Stand and remove your tunic. Let me see what you are made of.”
Wait,said Saphira.Was Brom aware of your existence here, Master? Eragon paused, struck by the possibility.
“Of course,” said Oromis. “He was my pupil as a boy in Ilirea. I am glad that you gave him a proper burial, for he had a hard life and few enough ever showed him kindness. I hope that he found peace before he entered the void.”
Eragon slowly frowned. “Did you know Morzan as well?”
“He was my apprentice before Brom.”
“And Galbatorix?”
“I was one of the Elders who denied him another dragon after his first was killed, but no, I never had the misfortune to teach him. He made sure to personally hunt down and kill each of his mentors.”
Eragon wanted to inquire further, but he knew that it would be better to wait, so he stood and unlaced the top of his tunic.It seems , he said to Saphira,that we will never learn all of Brom’s secrets. He shivered as he pulled off the tunic in the cool air, then squared his shoulders and lifted his chest.
Oromis circled him, stopping with an astonished exclamation as he saw the scar that crossed Eragon’s back. “Did not Arya or one of the Varden’s healers offer to remove this weal? You should not have to carry it.”
“Arya did offer, but . . .” Eragon stopped, unable to articulate his feelings. Finally, he just said, “It’s part of me now, just as Murtagh’s scar is part of him.”
“Murtagh’s scar?”
“Murtagh bore a similar mark. It was inflicted when his father, Morzan, threw Zar’roc at him while he was only a child.”
Oromis stared at him seriously for a long time before he nodded and moved on. “You have a fair amount of muscle, and you are not as lopsided as most swordsmen. Are you ambidextrous?”
“Not really, but I had to teach myself to fight with my left hand after I broke my wrist by Teirm.”
“Good. That will save some time. Clasp your hands behind your back and lift them as high as possible.” Eragon did as he was told, but the posture hurt his shoulders and he could barely make his hands meet. “Now bend forward while keeping your knees straight. Try to touch the ground.” This was even harder for Eragon; he ended up bowed like a hunchback, with his arms hanging uselessly by his head while his hamstrings twinged and burned. His fingers were still nine or ten inches from the ground. “At least you can stretch without hurting yourself. I had not hoped for so much. You can perform a number of exercises for flexibility without overexerting. Yes.”
Then Oromis addressed Saphira: “I would know your capabilities as well, dragon.” He gave her a number of complex poses that had her contort every foot of her sinuous length in fantastic ways, culminating in a series of aerial acrobatics the likes of which Eragon had never seen before. Only a few things exceeded her ability, such as executing a backward loop while corkscrewing through the air.
When she landed, it was Glaedr who said,I fear that we coddled the Riders. If our hatchlings had been forced to care for themselves in the wild—as you were, and so our ancestors were—then perhaps they would have possessed your skill.
“No,” said Oromis, “even if Saphira had been raised on Vroengard using the established methods, she would still be an extraordinary flier. I’ve rarely seen a dragon so naturally suited to the sky.” Saphira blinked, then shuffled her wings and busied herself cleaning one of her claws in a manner that hid her head from view. “You have room to improve, as do we all, but little, very little.” The elf reseated himself, his back perfectly straight.
For the next five hours, by Eragon’s reckoning, Oromis delved into every aspect of his and Saphira’s knowledge, from botany to woodworking to metallurgy and medicine, although he mainly concentrated on their grasp of history and the ancient language. The interrogation comforted Eragon, as it reminded him of how Brom used to quiz him during their long treks to Teirm and Dras-Leona.
When they broke for lunch, Oromis invited Eragon into his house, leaving the two dragons alone. The elf’s quarters were barren except for those few essentials necessary for food, hygiene, and the pursuit of an intellectual life. Two entire walls were dotted with cubbyholes that held hundreds of scrolls. Next to the table hung a golden sheath—the same color as Glaedr’s scales—and a matching sword with a blade the color of iridescent bronze.
On the inner pane of the door, set within the heart of the wood, was a flat panel one span high and two wide. It depicted a beautiful, towering city built against an escarpment and caught in the ruddy light of a rising harvest moon. The pitted lunar face was bisected by the horizon and appeared to sit on the ground like a maculated dome as large as a mountain. The picture was so clear and perfectly detailed, Eragon at first took it to be a magical window; it was only when he saw that the image was indeed static that he could accept it as a piece of art.
