Brisingr
Page 53
“We may not always have the privacy we need to work magic.”
“Find a way to get it. I need to know where you two are and whether you’re safe.”
Arya considered for a moment and then said, “If I can, I will do as you ask, but not if it puts Eragon in danger.”
“Agreed.”
Taking advantage of the ensuing pause in the conversation, Eragon said, “Nasuada, is Saphira near at hand? I would like to talk to her. . . . We haven’t spoken since Helgrind.”
“She left an hour ago to scout our perimeter. Can you maintain this spell while I find out if she has returned?”
“Go,” said Arya.
A single step carried Nasuada out of their field of view, leaving behind a static image of the table and chairs inside her red pavilion. For a good while, Eragon appraised the contents of the tent, but then restlessness overtook him and he allowed his eyes to drift from the pool of water to the back of Arya’s neck. Her thick black hair fell to one side, exposing a strip of smooth skin just above the collar of her dress. That transfixed him for the better part of a minute, and then he stirred and leaned against the charred stump.
There came the sound of breaking wood, and then a field of sparkling blue scales covered the pool as Saphira forced herself into the pavilion. It was hard for Eragon to tell what part of her he saw, it was such a small part. The scales slid past the pool and he glimpsed the underside of a thigh, a spike on her tail, the baggy membrane of a folded wing, and then the gleaming tip of a tooth as she turned and twisted, trying to find a position from which she could comfortably view the mirror Nasuada used for arcane communications. From the alarming noises that originated behind Saphira, Eragon guessed she was crushing most of the furniture. At last she settled in place, brought her head close to the mirror—so that one large sapphire eye occupied the entire pool—and peered out at Eragon.
They looked at each other for a full minute, neither of them moving. It surprised Eragon how relieved he was to see her. He had not truly felt safe since he and she had separated.
“I missed you,” he whispered.
She blinked once.
“Nasuada, are you still there?”
The muffled answer floated toward him from somewhere to the right of Saphira: “Yes, barely.”
“Would you be so kind as to relay Saphira’s comments to me?”
“I’m more than happy to, but at the moment, I’m caught between a wing and a pole, and there’s no path free, so far as I can tell. You may have difficulty hearing me. If you’re willing to bear with me, though, I’ll give it a try.”
“Please do.”
Nasuada was quiet for several heartbeats, and then in a tone so like Saphira’s that Eragon almost laughed, she said, “You are well?”
“I’m healthy as an ox. And you?”
“To compare myself with a bovine would be both ridiculous and insulting, but I’m as fit as ever, if that is what you are asking. I’m pleased Arya is with you. It’s good for you to have someone sensible around to watch your back.”
“I agree. Help is always welcome when you’re in danger.” While Eragon was grateful that he and Saphira were able to talk, albeit in a roundabout fashion, he found the spoken word a poor substitute for the free exchange of thoughts and emotions they enjoyed when in close proximity. Furthermore, with Arya and Nasuada privy to their conversation, Eragon was reluctant to address topics of a more personal nature, such as whether Saphira had forgiven him for forcing her to leave him in Helgrind. Saphira must have shared in his reluctance, for she too refrained from broaching the subject. They chatted about other, inconsequential happenings and then bade each other farewell. Before he stepped away from the pool, Eragon touched his fingers to his lips and silently mouthed, I’m sorry.
A sliver of space appeared around each of the small scales that rimmed Saphira’s eye as the underlying flesh softened. She blinked long and slow, and he knew she understood his message and that she bore him no ill will.
After Eragon and Arya took their leave of Nasuada, Arya terminated her spell and stood. With the back of her hand, she knocked the dirt from her dress.
While she did, Eragon fidgeted, impatient as he had not been before; right then he wanted nothing else but to run straight to Saphira and curl up with her in front of a campfire.
“Let us be off,” he said, already moving.
A DELICATE MATTER
The muscles of Roran’s back popped and rippled as he heaved the boulder off the ground.
He rested the large rock on his thighs for an instant and then, grunting, pressed it overhead and locked his arms straight. For a full minute, he held the crushing weight in the air. When his shoulders were trembling and about to fail, he threw the boulder onto the ground in front of him. It landed with a dull thud, leaving an indentation several inches deep in the dirt.
On either side of Roran, twenty of the Varden’s warriors struggled to lift boulders of similar size. Only two succeeded; the rest returned to the lighter rocks they were accustomed to. It pleased Roran that the months he had spent in Horst’s forge and the years of farmwork before had given him the strength to hold his own with men who had drilled with their weapons every day since they turned twelve.
Roran shook the fire from his arms and took several deep breaths, the air cool against his bare chest. Reaching up, he massaged his right shoulder, cupping the round ball of muscle and exploring it with his fingers, confirming once again that no trace remained of the injury he had suffered when the Ra’zac had bitten him. He grinned, glad to be whole and sound again, being as it had seemed no likelier to him than a cow dancing a jig.
“Find a way to get it. I need to know where you two are and whether you’re safe.”
Arya considered for a moment and then said, “If I can, I will do as you ask, but not if it puts Eragon in danger.”
“Agreed.”
Taking advantage of the ensuing pause in the conversation, Eragon said, “Nasuada, is Saphira near at hand? I would like to talk to her. . . . We haven’t spoken since Helgrind.”
“She left an hour ago to scout our perimeter. Can you maintain this spell while I find out if she has returned?”
“Go,” said Arya.
A single step carried Nasuada out of their field of view, leaving behind a static image of the table and chairs inside her red pavilion. For a good while, Eragon appraised the contents of the tent, but then restlessness overtook him and he allowed his eyes to drift from the pool of water to the back of Arya’s neck. Her thick black hair fell to one side, exposing a strip of smooth skin just above the collar of her dress. That transfixed him for the better part of a minute, and then he stirred and leaned against the charred stump.
There came the sound of breaking wood, and then a field of sparkling blue scales covered the pool as Saphira forced herself into the pavilion. It was hard for Eragon to tell what part of her he saw, it was such a small part. The scales slid past the pool and he glimpsed the underside of a thigh, a spike on her tail, the baggy membrane of a folded wing, and then the gleaming tip of a tooth as she turned and twisted, trying to find a position from which she could comfortably view the mirror Nasuada used for arcane communications. From the alarming noises that originated behind Saphira, Eragon guessed she was crushing most of the furniture. At last she settled in place, brought her head close to the mirror—so that one large sapphire eye occupied the entire pool—and peered out at Eragon.
They looked at each other for a full minute, neither of them moving. It surprised Eragon how relieved he was to see her. He had not truly felt safe since he and she had separated.
“I missed you,” he whispered.
She blinked once.
“Nasuada, are you still there?”
The muffled answer floated toward him from somewhere to the right of Saphira: “Yes, barely.”
“Would you be so kind as to relay Saphira’s comments to me?”
“I’m more than happy to, but at the moment, I’m caught between a wing and a pole, and there’s no path free, so far as I can tell. You may have difficulty hearing me. If you’re willing to bear with me, though, I’ll give it a try.”
“Please do.”
Nasuada was quiet for several heartbeats, and then in a tone so like Saphira’s that Eragon almost laughed, she said, “You are well?”
“I’m healthy as an ox. And you?”
“To compare myself with a bovine would be both ridiculous and insulting, but I’m as fit as ever, if that is what you are asking. I’m pleased Arya is with you. It’s good for you to have someone sensible around to watch your back.”
“I agree. Help is always welcome when you’re in danger.” While Eragon was grateful that he and Saphira were able to talk, albeit in a roundabout fashion, he found the spoken word a poor substitute for the free exchange of thoughts and emotions they enjoyed when in close proximity. Furthermore, with Arya and Nasuada privy to their conversation, Eragon was reluctant to address topics of a more personal nature, such as whether Saphira had forgiven him for forcing her to leave him in Helgrind. Saphira must have shared in his reluctance, for she too refrained from broaching the subject. They chatted about other, inconsequential happenings and then bade each other farewell. Before he stepped away from the pool, Eragon touched his fingers to his lips and silently mouthed, I’m sorry.
A sliver of space appeared around each of the small scales that rimmed Saphira’s eye as the underlying flesh softened. She blinked long and slow, and he knew she understood his message and that she bore him no ill will.
After Eragon and Arya took their leave of Nasuada, Arya terminated her spell and stood. With the back of her hand, she knocked the dirt from her dress.
While she did, Eragon fidgeted, impatient as he had not been before; right then he wanted nothing else but to run straight to Saphira and curl up with her in front of a campfire.
“Let us be off,” he said, already moving.
A DELICATE MATTER
The muscles of Roran’s back popped and rippled as he heaved the boulder off the ground.
He rested the large rock on his thighs for an instant and then, grunting, pressed it overhead and locked his arms straight. For a full minute, he held the crushing weight in the air. When his shoulders were trembling and about to fail, he threw the boulder onto the ground in front of him. It landed with a dull thud, leaving an indentation several inches deep in the dirt.
On either side of Roran, twenty of the Varden’s warriors struggled to lift boulders of similar size. Only two succeeded; the rest returned to the lighter rocks they were accustomed to. It pleased Roran that the months he had spent in Horst’s forge and the years of farmwork before had given him the strength to hold his own with men who had drilled with their weapons every day since they turned twelve.
Roran shook the fire from his arms and took several deep breaths, the air cool against his bare chest. Reaching up, he massaged his right shoulder, cupping the round ball of muscle and exploring it with his fingers, confirming once again that no trace remained of the injury he had suffered when the Ra’zac had bitten him. He grinned, glad to be whole and sound again, being as it had seemed no likelier to him than a cow dancing a jig.
