Eldest
Page 91

“The confusion then was indescribable. Galbatorix was busy consolidating his power, the dwarves were in retreat, the southwest was a mass of war as the humans rebelled and fought to create Surda, and we had just lost our king. Driven by his desire for vengeance, Brom sought to use the turmoil to his advantage. He gathered together many of those who had been exiled, freed some who had been imprisoned, and with them he formed the Varden. He led them for a few years, then surrendered the position to another so that he was free to pursue his true passion, which was Morzan’s downfall. Brom personally killed three of the Forsworn, including Morzan, and he was responsible for the deaths of five others. He was rarely happy during his life, but he was a good Rider and a good man, and I am honored to have known him.”
“I never heard his name mentioned in connection to the Forsworn’s deaths,” objected Eragon.
“Galbatorix did not want to publicize the fact that any still existed who could defeat his servants. Much of his power resides in the appearance of invulnerability.”
Once again, Eragon was forced to revise his conception of Brom, from the village storyteller that Eragon had first taken him to be, to the warrior and magician he had traveled with, to the Rider he was at last revealed as, and now firebrand, revolutionary leader, and assassin. It was hard to reconcile all of those roles.I feel as if I barely knew him. I wish that we had had a chance to talk about all of this at least once. “He was a good man,” agreed Eragon.
He looked out one of the round windows that faced the edge of the cliff and allowed the afternoon warmth to suffuse the room. He watched Saphira, noting how she acted with Glaedr, seeming both shy and coy. One moment she would twist around to examine some feature of the clearing, the next she would shuffle her wings and make small advances on the larger dragon, weaving her head from side to side, the tip of her tail twitching as if she were about to pounce on a deer. She reminded Eragon of a kitten trying to bait an old tomcat into playing with her, only Glaedr remained impassive throughout her machinations.
Saphira,he said. She responded with a distracted flicker of her thoughts, barely acknowledging him.Saphira, answer me.
What?
I know you’re excited, but don’t make a fool of yourself.
You’ve made a fool of yourself plenty of times,she snapped.
Her reply was so unexpected, it stunned him. It was the sort of casually cruel remark that humans often make, but that he had never thought to hear from her. He finally managed to say,That doesn’t make it any better. She grunted and closed her mind to his, although he could still feel the thread of her emotions connecting them.
Eragon returned to himself to find Oromis’s gray eyes heavy upon him. The elf’s gaze was so perceptive, Eragon was sure that Oromis understood what had transpired. Eragon forced a smile and motioned toward Saphira. “Even though we’re linked, I can never predict what she’s going to do. The more I learn about her, the more I realize how different we are.”
Then Oromis made his first statement that Eragon thought was truly wise: “Those whom we love are often the most alien to us.” The elf paused. “She is very young, as are you. It took Glaedr and I decades before we fully understood each other. A Rider’s bond with his dragon is like any relationship—that is, a work in progress. Do you trust her?”
“With my life.”
“And does she trust you?”
“Yes.”
“Then humor her. You were brought up as an orphan. She was brought up to believe that she was the last sane individual of her entire race. And now she has been proved wrong. Don’t be surprised if it takes some months before she stops pestering Glaedr and returns her attention to you.”
Eragon rolled a blueberry between his thumb and forefinger; his appetite had vanished. “Why don’t elves eat meat?”
“Why should we?” Oromis held up a strawberry and rotated it so that the light reflected off its dimpled skin and illuminated the tiny hairs that bearded the fruit. “Everything that we need or want we sing from the plants, including our food. It would be barbaric to make animals suffer that we might have additional courses on the table. . . . Our choice will make greater sense to you before long.”
Eragon frowned. He had always eaten meat and did not look forward to living solely on fruit and vegetables while in Ellesméra. “Don’t you miss the taste?”
“You cannot miss that which you have never had.”
“What about Glaedr, though? He can’t live off grass.”
“No, but neither does he needlessly inflict pain. We each do the best we can with what we are given. You cannot help who or what you are born as.”
“And Islanzadí? Her cape was made of swan feathers.”
“Loose feathers gathered over the course of many years. No birds were killed to make her garment.”
They finished the meal, and Eragon helped Oromis to scour the dishes clean with sand. As the elf stacked them in the cupboard, he asked, “Did you bathe this morning?” The question startled Eragon, but he answered that no, he had not. “Please do so tomorrow then, and every day following.”
“Every day! The water’s too cold for that. I’ll catch the ague.”
Oromis eyed him oddly. “Then make it warmer.”
Now it was Eragon’s turn to look askance. “I’m not strong enough to heat an entire stream with magic,” he protested.
The house echoed as Oromis laughed. Outside, Glaedr swung his head toward the window and inspected the elf, then returned to his earlier position. “I assume that you explored your quarters last night.” Eragon nodded. “And you saw a small room with a depression in the floor?”