Eldest: Book Two (The Inheritance cycle 2)

At last I understand the nature of my enemies, thought Eragon. He had feared the Ra’zac ever since they first appeared in Carvahall, not only because of their villainous deeds but because he knew so little about the creatures. In his ignorance, he credited the Ra’zac with more powers than they actually possessed and regarded them with an almost superstitious dread. Nightmares indeed. But now that Oromis’s explanation had stripped away the Ra’zac’s aura of mystery, they no longer seemed quite so formidable. The fact that they were vulnerable to light and water strengthened Eragon’s conviction that when next they met, he would destroy the monsters that had killed Garrow and Brom.

“Are their parents called Ra’zac as well?” he asked.

Oromis shook his head. “Lethrblaka, we named them. And whereas their offspring are narrow-minded, if cunning, Lethrblaka have all the intelligence of a dragon. A cruel, vicious, and twisted dragon.”

“Where do they come from?”

“From whatever land your ancestors abandoned. Their depredations may have been what forced King Palancar to emigrate. When we, the Riders, became aware of the Ra’zac’s foul presence in Alagaësia, we did our best to eradicate them, as we would leaf blight. Unfortunately, we were only partially successful. Two Lethrblaka escaped, and they along with their pupae are the ones who have caused you so much grief. After he killed Vrael, Galbatorix sought them out and bargained for their services in return for his protection and a guaranteed amount of their favorite food. That is why Galbatorix allows them to live by Dras-Leona, one of the Empire’s largest cities.”

Eragon’s jaw tightened. “They have much to answer for.” And they will, if I have my way.

“That they do,” Oromis agreed. Returning to the hut, he stepped through the black shadow of the doorway, then reappeared carrying a half-dozen slate tablets about a half-foot wide and a foot high. He presented one to Eragon. “Let us abandon such unpleasant topics for a time. I thought you might enjoy learning how to make a fairth. It is an excellent device for focusing your thoughts. The slate is impregnated with enough ink to cover it with any combination of colors. All you need do is concentrate upon the image that you wish to capture and then say, ‘Let that which I see in my mind’s eye be replicated on the surface of this tablet.’ ” As Eragon examined the clay-smooth slate, Oromis gestured at the clearing. “Look about you, Eragon, and find something worth preserving.”

The first objects that Eragon noticed seemed too obvious, too banal to him: a yellow lily by his feet, Oromis’s overgrown hut, the white stream, and the landscape itself. None were unique. None would give an observer an insight into the subject of the fairth or he who had created it. Things that change and are lost, that is what’s worth preserving, he thought. His eye alighted upon the pale green nubs of spring growth at the tip of a tree’s branches and then the deep, narrow wound that seamed the trunk where a storm had broken a bough, tearing off a rope of bark with it. Translucent orbs of sap encrusted the seam, catching and refracting the light.

Eragon positioned himself alongside the trunk so that the rotund galls of the tree’s congealed blood bulged out in silhouette and were framed by a cluster of shiny new needles. Then he fixed the scene in his mind as best he could and uttered the spell.

The surface of the gray tablet brightened as splashes of color bloomed across it, blending and mixing to produce the proper array of hues. When the pigments at last stopped moving, Eragon found himself looking at a strange copy of what he had wanted to reproduce. The sap and needles were rendered with vibrant, razor-sharp detail, while all else was slurred and bleary, as if seen through half-opened eyes. It was far removed from the universal clarity of Oromis’s fairth of Ilirea.

At a sign from Oromis, Eragon handed the tablet to him. The elf studied it for a minute, then said, “You have an unusual way of thinking, Eragon-finiarel. Most humans have difficulty achieving the proper concentration to create a recognizable image. You, on the other hand, seem to observe nearly everything about whatever interests you. It’s a narrow focus, though. You have the same problem here that you do with your meditation. You must relax, broaden your field of vision, and allow yourself to absorb everything around you without judging what is important or not.” Setting aside the picture, Oromis took a second, blank tablet from the grass and gave it to Eragon. “Try again with what I—”

“Hail, Rider!”

Startled, Eragon turned and saw Orik and Arya emerge side by side from the forest. The dwarf raised his arm in greeting. His beard was freshly trimmed and braided, his hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, and he wore a new tunic—courtesy of the elves—that was red and brown and embroidered with gold thread. His appearance gave no indication of his condition the previous night.

Eragon, Oromis, and Arya exchanged the traditional greeting, then, abandoning the ancient language, Oromis asked, “To what may I attribute this visit? You are both welcome to my hut, but as you can see, I am in the midst of working with Eragon, and that is of paramount importance.”

“I apologize for disturbing you, Oromis-elda,” said Arya, “but—”

“The fault is mine,” said Orik. He glanced at Eragon before continuing: “I was sent here by Hrothgar to ensure that Eragon receives the instruction he is due. I have no doubt that he is, but I am obliged to see his training with my own eyes so that when I return to Tronjheim, I may give my king a true account of events.”

Oromis said, “That which I teach Eragon is not to be shared with anyone else. The secrets of the Riders are for him alone.”

“And I understand that. However, we live in uncertain times; the stone that once was fixed and solid is now unstable. We must adapt to survive. So much depends on Eragon, we dwarves have a right to verify that his training proceeds as promised. Do you believe our request is an unreasonable one?”

“Well spoken, Master Dwarf,” said Oromis. He tapped his fingers together, inscrutable as always. “May I assume, then, that this is a matter of duty for you?”

“Duty and honor.”

“And neither will allow you to yield on this point?”

“I fear not, Oromis-elda,” said Orik.

“Very well. You may stay and watch for the duration of this lesson. Will that satisfy you?”

Orik frowned. “Are you near the end of the lesson?”

“We have just begun.”

“Then yes, I will be satisfied. For the moment, at least.”

While they spoke, Eragon tried to catch Arya’s eye, but she kept her attention centered on Oromis.

“… Eragon!”

He blinked, jolted out of his reverie. “Yes, Master?”

“Don’t wander, Eragon. I want you to make another fairth. Keep your mind open, like I told you before.”

“Yes, Master.” Eragon hefted the tablet, his hands slightly damp at the thought of having Orik and Arya there to judge his performance. He wanted to do well in order to prove that Oromis was a good teacher. Even so, he could not concentrate on the pine needles and sap; Arya tugged at him like a lodestone, drawing his attention back to her whenever he thought of something else.

At last he realized that it was futile for him to resist the attraction. He composed an image of her in his head—which took but a heartbeat, since he knew her features better than his own—and voiced the spell in the ancient language, pouring all of his adoration, love, and fear of her into the currents of fey magic.

The result left him speechless.

The fairth depicted Arya’s head and shoulders against a dark, indistinct background. She was bathed in firelight on her right side and gazed out at the viewer with knowing eyes, appearing not just as she was but as he thought of her: mysterious, exotic, and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It was a flawed, imperfect picture, but it possessed such intensity and passion that it evoked a visceral response from Eragon. Is this how I really see her? Whoever this woman was, she was so wise, so powerful, and so hypnotic, she could consume any lesser man.

From a great distance, he heard Saphira whisper, Be careful.…

“What have you wrought, Eragon?” demanded Oromis.

“I … I don’t know.” Eragon hesitated as Oromis extended his hand for the fairth, reluctant to let the others examine his work, especially Arya. After a long, terrifying pause, Eragon pried his fingers off the tablet and released it to Oromis.

The elf’s expression grew stern as he looked at the fairth, then back at Eragon, who quailed under the weight of his stare. Without a word, Oromis handed the tablet to Arya.

Her hair obscured her face as she bowed over the tablet, but Eragon saw cords and veins ridge her hands as she clenched the slate. It shook in her grip.

“Well, what is it?” asked Orik.

Raising the fairth over her head, Arya hurled it against the ground, shattering the picture into a thousand pieces. Then she drew herself upright and, with great dignity, walked past Eragon, across the clearing, and into the tangled depths of Du Weldenvarden.

Orik picked up one of the fragments of slate. It was blank. The image had vanished when the tablet broke. He tugged his beard. “In all the decades I’ve known her, Arya has never lost her temper like that. Never. What did you do, Eragon?”

Dazed, Eragon said, “A portrait of her.”

Orik frowned, obviously puzzled. “A portrait? Why would that—”

“I think it would be best if you left now,” said Oromis. “The lesson is over, in any case. Come back tomorrow or the day after if you want a better idea of Eragon’s progress.”

The dwarf squinted at Eragon, then nodded and brushed the dirt from his palms. “Yes, I believe I’ll do that. Thank you for your time, Oromis-elda. I appreciate it.” As he headed back toward Ellesméra, he said over his shoulder to Eragon, “I’ll be in the common room of Tialdarí Hall, if you want to talk.”

When Orik was gone, Oromis lifted the hem of his tunic, knelt, and began to gather up the remains of the tablet. Eragon watched him, unable to move.

“Why?” he asked in the ancient language.

“Perhaps,” said Oromis, “Arya was frightened by you.”

“Frightened? She never gets frightened.” Even as he said it, Eragon knew that it was not true. She just concealed her fear better than most. Dropping to one knee, he took a piece of the fairth and pressed it into Oromis’s palm. “Why would I frighten her?” he asked. “Please, tell me.”

Oromis stood and walked to the edge of the stream, where he scattered the fragments of slate over the bank, letting the gray flakes trickle through his fingers. “Fairths only show what you want them to. It’s possible to lie with them, to create a false image, but to do so requires more skill than you yet have. Arya knows this. She also knows, then, that your fairth was an accurate representation of your feelings for her.”

“But why would that frighten her?”

Oromis smiled sadly. “Because it revealed the depth of your infatuation.” He pressed his fingertips together, forming a series of arches. “Let us analyze the situation, Eragon. While you are old enough to be considered a man among your people, in our eyes, you are no more than a child.” Eragon frowned, hearing echoes of Saphira’s words from the previous night. “Normally, I would not compare a human’s age to an elf’s, but since you share our longevity, you must also be judged by our standards.

“And you are a Rider. We rely upon you to help us defeat Galbatorix; it could be disastrous for everyone in Alagaësia if you are distracted from your studies.

“Now then,” said Oromis, “how should Arya have responded to your fairth? It’s clear that you see her in a romantic light, yet—while I have no doubt Arya is fond of you—a union between the two of you is impossible due to your own youth, culture, race, and responsibilities. Your interest has placed Arya in an uncomfortable position. She dare not confront you, for fear of disrupting your training. But, as the queen’s daughter, she cannot ignore you and risk offending a Rider—especially one upon which so much depends.… Even if you were a fit match, Arya would refrain from encouraging you so that you could devote all of your energy to the task at hand. She would sacrifice her happiness for the greater good.” Oromis’s voice thickened: “You must understand, Eragon, that slaying Galbatorix is more important than any one person. Nothing else matters.” He paused, his gaze gentle, then added, “Given the circumstances, is it so strange Arya was frightened that your feelings for her could endanger everything we have worked for?”

Eragon shook his head. He was ashamed that his behavior had caused Arya distress, and dismayed by how reckless and juvenile he had been. I could have avoided this entire mess if I’d just kept better control of myself.

Touching him on the shoulder, Oromis guided him back inside the hut. “Think not that I am devoid of sympathy, Eragon. Everyone experiences ardor like yours at one point or another during their lives. It’s part of growing up. I also know how hard it is for you to deny yourself the usual comforts of life, but it’s necessary if we are to prevail.”

“Yes, Master.”

They sat at the kitchen table, and Oromis began to lay out writing materials for Eragon to practice the Liduen Kvaedhí. “It would be unreasonable of me to expect you to forget your fascination with Arya, but I do expect you to prevent it from interfering with my instruction again. Can you promise me that?”

“Yes, Master. I promise.”

“And Arya? What would be the honorable thing to do about her predicament?”

Eragon hesitated. “I don’t want to lose her friendship.”

“No.”

“Therefore … I will go to her, I will apologize, and I will reassure her that I never intend to cause her such hardship again.” It was difficult for him to say, but once he did, he felt a sense of relief, as if acknowledging his mistake cleansed him of it.

Oromis appeared pleased. “By that alone, you prove that you have matured.”

The sheets of paper were smooth underneath Eragon’s hands as he pressed them flat against the tabletop. He stared at the blank white expanse for a moment, then dipped a quill in ink and began to transcribe a column of glyphs. Each barbed line was like a streak of night against the paper, an abyss into which he could lose himself and try to forget his confused feelings.