Brisingr
Page 127
The diamonds in the belt of Beloth the Wise seemed to be able to absorb an almost unlimited amount of energy, so he stopped when he was unable to bear the prospect of immersing himself in the death throes of another animal. Shaking and dripping with sweat from head to toe, he leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and gazed at the ground between his feet, struggling not to be ill. Memories not his own intruded upon his thoughts, memories of Saphira soaring over Leona Lake with him on her back, of them plunging into the clear, cool water, a cloud of white bubbles swarming past them, of their shared delight in flying and swimming and playing together.
His breathing calmed, and he looked at Saphira where she sat among the remnants of her kill, chewing on the cow’s skull. He smiled and sent her his gratitude for her help.
We can go now, he said.
Swallowing, she replied, Take my strength as well. You may need it.
No.
This is one argument you will not win. I insist.
And I insist otherwise. I won’t leave you here weakened and unfit for battle. What if Murtagh and Thorn attack later today? We both need to be ready to fight at any moment. You’ll be in more danger than I will because Galbatorix and the whole of the Empire will still believe I’m with you.
Yes, but you will be alone with a Kull in the middle of the wilderness.
I am as accustomed to the wilderness as you. Being away from civilization does not frighten me. As for a Kull, well, I don’t know if I could beat one at a wrestling match, but my wards will protect me from any treachery. . . . I have enough energy, Saphira. You don’t need to give me more.
She eyed him, considering his words, then lifted a paw and started licking it clean of blood. Very well, I will keep myself . . . to myself? The corners of her mouth seemed to lift with amusement. Lowering her paw, she said, Would you be so kind as to roll that barrel over to me? With a grunt, he got to his feet and did as she asked. She extended a single talon and punched two holes in the top of the barrel, which released the sweet smell of apple-honey mead. Arching her neck so her head was directly above the barrel, she grasped it between her massive jaws, then lifted it skyward and poured the gurgling contents down her gullet. The empty barrel shattered against the ground when she dropped it, and one of the iron hoops rolled several yards away. Her upper lip wrinkled, Saphira shook her head, then her breath hitched and she sneezed so hard that her nose struck the ground and a gout of fire erupted from both her mouth and her nostrils.
Eragon yelped with surprise and jumped sideways, batting at the smoking hem of his tunic. The right side of his face felt seared raw by the heat of the fire. Saphira, be more careful! he exclaimed.
Oops. She lowered her head and rubbed her dust-caked snout against the edge of one foreleg, scratching at her nostrils. The mead tickles.
Really, you ought to know better by now, he grumbled as he climbed onto her back.
After rubbing her snout against her foreleg once more, Saphira leaped high into the air and, gliding over the Varden’s camp, returned Eragon to his tent. He slid off her, then stood looking up at Saphira. For a time, they said nothing, allowing their shared emotions to speak for them.
Saphira blinked, and he thought her eyes glistened more than normal. This is a test, she said. If we pass it, we shall be the stronger for it, as dragon and Rider.
We must be able to function by ourselves if necessary, else we will forever be at a disadvantage compared with others.
Yes. She gouged the earth with her clenching claws. Knowing that does nothing to ease my pain, however. A shiver ran the length of her sinuous body. She shuffled her wings. May the wind rise under your wings and the sun always be at your back. Travel well and travel fast, little one.
Goodbye, he said.
Eragon felt that if he remained with her any longer, he would never leave, so he whirled around and, without a backward glance, plunged into the dark interior of his tent. The connection between them—which had become as integral to him as the structure of his own flesh—he severed completely. They would soon be too far apart to sense each other’s minds anyway, and he had no desire to prolong the agony of their parting. He stood where he was for a moment, gripping the hilt of the falchion and swaying as if he were dizzy. Already the dull ache of loneliness suffused him, and he felt small and isolated without the comforting presence of Saphira’s consciousness. I did this before, and I can do this again, he thought, and forced himself to square his shoulders and lift his chin.
From underneath his cot, he removed the pack he had made during his trip from Helgrind. Into it he placed the carved wooden tube wrapped in cloth that contained the scroll of the poem he had written for the Agaetí Blödhren, which Oromis had copied for him in his finest calligraphy; the flask of enchanted faelnirv and the small soapstone box of nalgask that were also gifts from Oromis; the thick book, Domia abr Wyrda, which was Jeod’s present; his whetstone and his strop; and, after some hesitation, the many pieces of his armor, for he reasoned, If the occasion arises where I need it, I will be more happy to have it than I will be miserable carrying it all the way to Farthen Dûr. Or so he hoped. The book and the scroll he took because—after having done so much traveling—he had concluded that the best way to avoid losing the objects he cared about was to keep them with him wherever he went.
The only extra clothes he decided to bring were a pair of gloves, which he stuffed inside his helmet, and his heavy woolen cloak, in case it got cold when they stopped nights. All the rest, he left rolled up in Saphira’s saddlebags. If I really am a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, he thought, they will clothe me properly when I arrive at Bregan Hold.
His breathing calmed, and he looked at Saphira where she sat among the remnants of her kill, chewing on the cow’s skull. He smiled and sent her his gratitude for her help.
We can go now, he said.
Swallowing, she replied, Take my strength as well. You may need it.
No.
This is one argument you will not win. I insist.
And I insist otherwise. I won’t leave you here weakened and unfit for battle. What if Murtagh and Thorn attack later today? We both need to be ready to fight at any moment. You’ll be in more danger than I will because Galbatorix and the whole of the Empire will still believe I’m with you.
Yes, but you will be alone with a Kull in the middle of the wilderness.
I am as accustomed to the wilderness as you. Being away from civilization does not frighten me. As for a Kull, well, I don’t know if I could beat one at a wrestling match, but my wards will protect me from any treachery. . . . I have enough energy, Saphira. You don’t need to give me more.
She eyed him, considering his words, then lifted a paw and started licking it clean of blood. Very well, I will keep myself . . . to myself? The corners of her mouth seemed to lift with amusement. Lowering her paw, she said, Would you be so kind as to roll that barrel over to me? With a grunt, he got to his feet and did as she asked. She extended a single talon and punched two holes in the top of the barrel, which released the sweet smell of apple-honey mead. Arching her neck so her head was directly above the barrel, she grasped it between her massive jaws, then lifted it skyward and poured the gurgling contents down her gullet. The empty barrel shattered against the ground when she dropped it, and one of the iron hoops rolled several yards away. Her upper lip wrinkled, Saphira shook her head, then her breath hitched and she sneezed so hard that her nose struck the ground and a gout of fire erupted from both her mouth and her nostrils.
Eragon yelped with surprise and jumped sideways, batting at the smoking hem of his tunic. The right side of his face felt seared raw by the heat of the fire. Saphira, be more careful! he exclaimed.
Oops. She lowered her head and rubbed her dust-caked snout against the edge of one foreleg, scratching at her nostrils. The mead tickles.
Really, you ought to know better by now, he grumbled as he climbed onto her back.
After rubbing her snout against her foreleg once more, Saphira leaped high into the air and, gliding over the Varden’s camp, returned Eragon to his tent. He slid off her, then stood looking up at Saphira. For a time, they said nothing, allowing their shared emotions to speak for them.
Saphira blinked, and he thought her eyes glistened more than normal. This is a test, she said. If we pass it, we shall be the stronger for it, as dragon and Rider.
We must be able to function by ourselves if necessary, else we will forever be at a disadvantage compared with others.
Yes. She gouged the earth with her clenching claws. Knowing that does nothing to ease my pain, however. A shiver ran the length of her sinuous body. She shuffled her wings. May the wind rise under your wings and the sun always be at your back. Travel well and travel fast, little one.
Goodbye, he said.
Eragon felt that if he remained with her any longer, he would never leave, so he whirled around and, without a backward glance, plunged into the dark interior of his tent. The connection between them—which had become as integral to him as the structure of his own flesh—he severed completely. They would soon be too far apart to sense each other’s minds anyway, and he had no desire to prolong the agony of their parting. He stood where he was for a moment, gripping the hilt of the falchion and swaying as if he were dizzy. Already the dull ache of loneliness suffused him, and he felt small and isolated without the comforting presence of Saphira’s consciousness. I did this before, and I can do this again, he thought, and forced himself to square his shoulders and lift his chin.
From underneath his cot, he removed the pack he had made during his trip from Helgrind. Into it he placed the carved wooden tube wrapped in cloth that contained the scroll of the poem he had written for the Agaetí Blödhren, which Oromis had copied for him in his finest calligraphy; the flask of enchanted faelnirv and the small soapstone box of nalgask that were also gifts from Oromis; the thick book, Domia abr Wyrda, which was Jeod’s present; his whetstone and his strop; and, after some hesitation, the many pieces of his armor, for he reasoned, If the occasion arises where I need it, I will be more happy to have it than I will be miserable carrying it all the way to Farthen Dûr. Or so he hoped. The book and the scroll he took because—after having done so much traveling—he had concluded that the best way to avoid losing the objects he cared about was to keep them with him wherever he went.
The only extra clothes he decided to bring were a pair of gloves, which he stuffed inside his helmet, and his heavy woolen cloak, in case it got cold when they stopped nights. All the rest, he left rolled up in Saphira’s saddlebags. If I really am a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, he thought, they will clothe me properly when I arrive at Bregan Hold.
