Eldest
Page 172
Vanir dropped his blade, his face turning white with shock. “How swift is your sword,” he said, and Eragon recognized the famous line fromThe Lay of Umhodan.
“By the gods!” exclaimed Orik. “That was the best swordsmanship I’ve ever seen, and I was there when you fought Arya in Farthen Dûr.”
Then Vanir did what Eragon had never expected: the elf twisted his uninjured hand in the gesture of fealty, placed it upon his sternum, and bowed. “I beg your pardon for my earlier behavior, Eragon-elda. I thought that you had consigned my race to the void, and out of my fear I acted most shamefully. However, it seems that your race no longer endangers our cause.” In a grudging voice, he added: “You are now worthy of the title Rider.”
Eragon bowed in return. “You honor me. I’m sorry that I injured you so badly. Will you allow me to heal your arm?”
“No, I shall let nature tend to it at her own pace, as a memento that I once crossed blades with Eragon Shadeslayer. You needn’t fear that it will disrupt our sparring tomorrow; I am equally good with my left hand.”
They both bowed again, and then Vanir departed.
Orik slapped a hand on his thigh and said, “Now we have a chance at victory, a real chance! I can feel it in my bones. Bones like stone, they say. Ah, this’ll please Hrothgar and Nasuada to no end.”
Eragon kept his peace and concentrated on removing the block from Zar’roc’s edges, but he said to Saphira,If brawn were all that was required to depose Galbatorix, the elves would have done it long ago. Still, he could not help being pleased by his heightened prowess, as well as by his long-awaited reprieve from the torment of his back. Without the constant bursts of pain, it was as if a haze had been lifted from his mind, allowing him to think clearly once again.
A few minutes remained before they were supposed to meet with Oromis and Glaedr, so Eragon took his bow and quiver from where they hung on Saphira’s back and walked to the range where elves practiced archery. Since the elves’ bows were much more powerful than his, their padded targets were both too small and too far away for him. He had to shoot from halfway down the range.
Taking his place, Eragon nocked an arrow and slowly pulled back the string, delighted by how easy it had become. He aimed, released the arrow, and held his position, waiting to see if he would hit his mark. Like a maddened hornet, the dart buzzed toward the target and buried itself in the center. He grinned. Again and again, he fired at the target, his speed increasing with his confidence until he loosed thirty arrows in a minute.
At the thirty-first arrow, he pulled on the string slightly harder than he had ever done—or was capable of doing—before. With an explosive report, the yew bow broke in half underneath his left hand, scratching his fingers and discharging a burst of splinters from the back of the bow. His hand went numb from the jolt.
Eragon stared at the remains of his weapon, dismayed by the loss. Garrow had made it as a birthday present for him over three years ago. Since then, hardly a week went by when Eragon had not used his bow. It had helped him to provide food for his family on numerous occasions when they would have otherwise gone hungry. With it, he had killed his first deer. With it, he had killed his first Urgal. And through it, he had first used magic. Losing his bow was like losing an old friend who could be relied upon in even the worst situation.
Saphira sniffed the two pieces of wood dangling from his grip and said,It seems you need a new stick thrower. He grunted—in no mood to talk—and stomped out to retrieve his arrows.
From the open field, he and Saphira flew to the white Crags of Tel’naeír and presented themselves to Oromis, who was seated on a stool in front of his hut, gazing out over the cliff with his farseeing eyes. He said, “Have you entirely recovered, Eragon, from the potent magic of the Blood-oath Celebration?”
“I have, Master.”
A long silence followed as Oromis drank from a cup of blackberry tea and resumed contemplating the ancient forest. Eragon waited without complaint; he was used to such pauses when dealing with the old Rider. At length, Oromis said, “Glaedr explained to me, as best he could, what was done to you during the celebration. Such a thing has never before occurred in the history of the Riders. . . . Once again, the dragons have proved themselves capable of far more than we imagined.” He sipped his tea. “Glaedr was uncertain exactly what changes you would experience, so I would like you to describe the full extent of your transformation, including your appearance.”
Eragon quickly summarized how he had been altered, detailing the increased sensitivity of his sight, smell, hearing, and touch, and ending with an account of his clash with Vanir.
“And how,” asked Oromis, “do you feel about this? Do you resent that your body was manipulated without your permission?”
“No, no! Not at all. I might have resented it before the battle of Farthen Dûr, but now I’m just grateful that my back doesn’t hurt anymore. I would have willingly submitted myself to far greater changes in order to escape Durza’s curse. No, my only response is gratitude.”
Oromis nodded. “I am glad that you are wise enough to take that position, for your gift is worth more than all the gold in the world. With it, I believe that our feet are at last set upon the correct path.” Again, he sipped his tea. “Let us proceed. Saphira, Glaedr expects you at the Stone of Broken Eggs. Eragon, you will begin today with the third level of Rimgar, if you can. I would know everything you are capable of.”
“By the gods!” exclaimed Orik. “That was the best swordsmanship I’ve ever seen, and I was there when you fought Arya in Farthen Dûr.”
Then Vanir did what Eragon had never expected: the elf twisted his uninjured hand in the gesture of fealty, placed it upon his sternum, and bowed. “I beg your pardon for my earlier behavior, Eragon-elda. I thought that you had consigned my race to the void, and out of my fear I acted most shamefully. However, it seems that your race no longer endangers our cause.” In a grudging voice, he added: “You are now worthy of the title Rider.”
Eragon bowed in return. “You honor me. I’m sorry that I injured you so badly. Will you allow me to heal your arm?”
“No, I shall let nature tend to it at her own pace, as a memento that I once crossed blades with Eragon Shadeslayer. You needn’t fear that it will disrupt our sparring tomorrow; I am equally good with my left hand.”
They both bowed again, and then Vanir departed.
Orik slapped a hand on his thigh and said, “Now we have a chance at victory, a real chance! I can feel it in my bones. Bones like stone, they say. Ah, this’ll please Hrothgar and Nasuada to no end.”
Eragon kept his peace and concentrated on removing the block from Zar’roc’s edges, but he said to Saphira,If brawn were all that was required to depose Galbatorix, the elves would have done it long ago. Still, he could not help being pleased by his heightened prowess, as well as by his long-awaited reprieve from the torment of his back. Without the constant bursts of pain, it was as if a haze had been lifted from his mind, allowing him to think clearly once again.
A few minutes remained before they were supposed to meet with Oromis and Glaedr, so Eragon took his bow and quiver from where they hung on Saphira’s back and walked to the range where elves practiced archery. Since the elves’ bows were much more powerful than his, their padded targets were both too small and too far away for him. He had to shoot from halfway down the range.
Taking his place, Eragon nocked an arrow and slowly pulled back the string, delighted by how easy it had become. He aimed, released the arrow, and held his position, waiting to see if he would hit his mark. Like a maddened hornet, the dart buzzed toward the target and buried itself in the center. He grinned. Again and again, he fired at the target, his speed increasing with his confidence until he loosed thirty arrows in a minute.
At the thirty-first arrow, he pulled on the string slightly harder than he had ever done—or was capable of doing—before. With an explosive report, the yew bow broke in half underneath his left hand, scratching his fingers and discharging a burst of splinters from the back of the bow. His hand went numb from the jolt.
Eragon stared at the remains of his weapon, dismayed by the loss. Garrow had made it as a birthday present for him over three years ago. Since then, hardly a week went by when Eragon had not used his bow. It had helped him to provide food for his family on numerous occasions when they would have otherwise gone hungry. With it, he had killed his first deer. With it, he had killed his first Urgal. And through it, he had first used magic. Losing his bow was like losing an old friend who could be relied upon in even the worst situation.
Saphira sniffed the two pieces of wood dangling from his grip and said,It seems you need a new stick thrower. He grunted—in no mood to talk—and stomped out to retrieve his arrows.
From the open field, he and Saphira flew to the white Crags of Tel’naeír and presented themselves to Oromis, who was seated on a stool in front of his hut, gazing out over the cliff with his farseeing eyes. He said, “Have you entirely recovered, Eragon, from the potent magic of the Blood-oath Celebration?”
“I have, Master.”
A long silence followed as Oromis drank from a cup of blackberry tea and resumed contemplating the ancient forest. Eragon waited without complaint; he was used to such pauses when dealing with the old Rider. At length, Oromis said, “Glaedr explained to me, as best he could, what was done to you during the celebration. Such a thing has never before occurred in the history of the Riders. . . . Once again, the dragons have proved themselves capable of far more than we imagined.” He sipped his tea. “Glaedr was uncertain exactly what changes you would experience, so I would like you to describe the full extent of your transformation, including your appearance.”
Eragon quickly summarized how he had been altered, detailing the increased sensitivity of his sight, smell, hearing, and touch, and ending with an account of his clash with Vanir.
“And how,” asked Oromis, “do you feel about this? Do you resent that your body was manipulated without your permission?”
“No, no! Not at all. I might have resented it before the battle of Farthen Dûr, but now I’m just grateful that my back doesn’t hurt anymore. I would have willingly submitted myself to far greater changes in order to escape Durza’s curse. No, my only response is gratitude.”
Oromis nodded. “I am glad that you are wise enough to take that position, for your gift is worth more than all the gold in the world. With it, I believe that our feet are at last set upon the correct path.” Again, he sipped his tea. “Let us proceed. Saphira, Glaedr expects you at the Stone of Broken Eggs. Eragon, you will begin today with the third level of Rimgar, if you can. I would know everything you are capable of.”
