“Derundann, Eragon … Saphira,” said Orik without looking up.
“Derundann,” said Eragon, repeating the traditional dwarvish greeting, and squatted on the other side of the puddle. He watched as Orik continued to refine the contours of the ball, smoothing and shaping it with the outer curve of his right thumb. Every so often, Orik reached down, grabbed a handful of dry dirt, and sprinkled it over the yellowish orb of earth, then gently brushed off the excess.
“I never thought to see the king of the dwarves crouched on the ground, playing in the mud like a child,” Eragon said.
Orik huffed, blowing out his mustache. “And I never thought to have a dragon and a Rider staring at me while I made an Erothknurl.”
“And what is an Erothknurl?”
“A thardsvergundnzmal.”
“A thardsver-?” Eragon gave up halfway through the word, unable to remember the whole of it, much less pronounce it. “And that is …?”
“Something that appears to be other than what it actually is.” Orik raised the ball of dirt. “Like this. This is a stone fashioned from earth. Or, rather, so it shall seem when I am done.”
“A stone from earth.… Is it magic?”
“No, it is mine own skill. Nothing more.”
When Orik failed to explain further, Eragon asked, “How is it done?”
“If you are patient, you will see.” Then, after a while, Orik relented and said, “First, you must find some dirt.”
“A hard task, that.”
From under his bushy eyebrows, Orik gave him a look. “Some types of dirt are better than others. Sand, for example, will not work. The dirt must have particles of varying size, so that it will stick together properly. Also, it should have some clay in it, as this does. But most important, if I do this”-and he patted his hand against a bare strip of ground among the clumps of trampled grass-“there must be lots of dust in the dirt. See?” He held up his hand, showing Eragon the layer of fine powder that clung to his palm.
“Why is that important?”
“Ah,” said Orik, and tapped the side of his nose, leaving behind a whitish smear. He resumed rubbing the sphere with his hands, turning it so that it would remain symmetrical. “Once you have good dirt, you wet it and you mix it like water and flour until you have a nice, thick mud.” He nodded at the pool by his feet. “From the mud, you form a ball, like so, eh? Then you squeeze it and wring out every drop you can. Then you make the ball perfectly round. When it begins to feel sticky, you do as I am doing: you pour dirt over it, to draw out more moisture from the interior. This you continue until the ball is dry enough to hold its shape, but not so dry that it cracks.
“Mine Erothknurl is almost to that point. When it gets there, I shall bear it to mine tent and leave it in the sun for a goodly while. The light and the warmth will draw out even more moisture from the center; then I shall again pour dirt over it and again clean it off. After three or four times, the outside of mine Erothknurl should be as hard as the hide of a Nagra.”
“All that just to have a ball of dry mud?” said Eragon, puzzled. Saphira shared his sentiment.
Orik scooped up another handful of dirt. “No, because that’s not the end of it. Next is when the dust becomes of use. I take it, and I smear the outside of the Erothknurl with it, which forms a thin, smooth shell. Then I will let the ball rest and wait for more moisture to seep to the surface, then dust, then wait, then dust, then wait, and so on.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Until the dust no longer adheres to the Erothknurl. The shell it forms is what gives an Erothknurl its beauty. Over the course of a day, it will acquire a brilliant sheen, as if it were made of polished marble. With no buffing, no grinding, no magic-with only your heart, head, and hands-you will have made a stone out of common earth … a fragile stone, it is true, but a stone nevertheless.”
Despite Orik’s insistence, Eragon still found it hard to believe that the mud at his feet could be transformed into anything like what Orik had described without the use of magic.
Why are you making one, though, Orik dwarf king? Saphira asked. You must have many responsibilities now that you are ruler of your people.
Orik grunted. “I have nothing I must needs do at the moment. My men are ready for battle, but there is no battle for us to fight, and it would be bad for them if I were to fuss over them like a mother hen. Nor do I want to sit alone in my tent, watching mine beard grow.… Thus the Erothknurl.”
He fell silent then, but it seemed to Eragon that something was bothering Orik, so Eragon held his tongue and waited to see if Orik would say anything else. After a minute, Orik cleared his throat and said, “Used to be, I could drink and play dice with the others of mine clan, and it mattered not that I was Hrothgar’s adopted heir. We could still talk and laugh together without it feeling uncomfortable. I asked for no favors, nor did I show any. But now it is different. My friends cannot forget that I am their king, and I cannot ignore how their behavior has changed toward me.”
“That is only to be expected,” Eragon pointed out. He empathized with Orik’s plight, for he had experienced much the same thing since becoming a Rider.
“Perhaps. But knowing it makes it no easier to bear.” Orik made an exasperated sound. “Ach, life is a strange, cruel journey sometimes.… I admired Hrothgar as a king, but it often seemed to me that he was short with those he dealt with when he had no reason to be. Now I understand better why he was the way he was.” Orik cupped the ball of dirt with both hands and gazed at it, his brow knotted in a scowl. “When you met with Grimstborith Gannel in Tarnag, did he explain to you the significance of the Erothknurln?”
“He never mentioned it.”
“I suppose there were other matters that needed talking about.… Still, as one of the Ingeitum, and as an adopted knurla, you should know the import and symbology of the Erothknurln. It is not just a way to focus the mind, pass the time, and create an interesting keepsake. No. The act of making a stone out of earth is a sacred one. By it, we reaffirm our faith in Helzvog’s power and offer tribute to him. One should approach the task with reverence and purpose. Crafting an Erothknurl is a form of worship, and the gods do not look kindly on those who perform the rites in a frivolous manner.… From stone, flesh; from flesh, earth; and from earth, stone again. The wheel turns and we see but a glimpse of the entirety.”
Only then did Eragon appreciate the depth of Orik’s disquiet. “You ought to have Hvedra with you,” he said. “She would keep you company and prevent you from becoming so grim. I’ve never seen you as happy as when you were with her at Bregan Hold.”
The lines around Orik’s downcast eyes deepened as he smiled. “Aye.… But she is the grimstcarvlorss of the Ingeitum, and she cannot abandon her duties just to comfort me. Besides, I could not rest easy if she were within a hundred leagues of Murtagh and Thorn or, worse, Galbatorix and his accursed black dragon.”
In an attempt to cheer Orik up, Eragon said, “You remind me of the answer to a riddle: a dwarf king sitting on the ground, making a stone out of dirt. I’m not sure how the riddle itself would go, but perhaps, something along the lines of:
Strong and stout,
Thirteen stars upon his brow,
Living stone sat shaping dead earth into dead stone.
“It doesn’t rhyme, but then, you can’t expect me to compose proper verse on the spur of the moment. I would imagine that a riddle like that would be quite a head-scratcher for most people.”
“Humph,” said Orik. “Not for a dwarf. Even our children could solve it quick as you please.”
A dragon too, said Saphira.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Eragon.
Then he asked Orik about everything that had happened among the dwarves after he and Saphira had left Tronjheim for their second trip to the forest of the elves. Eragon had not had an opportunity to talk with Orik for any great length of time since the dwarves had arrived at Dras-Leona, and he was eager to hear how his fri
end had gotten along since assuming the throne.
Orik did not seem to mind explaining the intricacies of the dwarves’ politics. Indeed, as he spoke, his expression brightened and he became increasingly animated. He spent nearly an hour recounting the bickering and maneuvering that had gone on between the dwarf clans prior to assembling their army and marching to join the Varden. The clans were a fractious lot, as Eragon well knew, and even as king, Orik had difficulty commanding their obedience.
“It’s like trying to herd a flock of geese,” said Orik. “They’re always trying to go off on their own, they make an obnoxious noise, and they’ll bite your hand first chance they get.”
During the course of Orik’s narration, Eragon thought to ask about Vermund. He had often wondered what had become of the dwarf chief who had plotted to assassinate him. He liked to know where his enemies were, especially one as dangerous as Vermund.
“He returned to his home village of Feldarast,” Orik said. “There, by all accounts, he sits and drinks and rages about what is and what might have been. But none now listen to him. The knurlan of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin are proud and stubborn. In most cases, they would remain loyal to Vermund regardless of what the other clans might do or say, but attempting to kill a guest is an unforgivable offense. And not all of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin hate you like Vermund does. I cannot believe that they will agree to remain cut off from the rest of their kind just to protect a grimstborith who has lost every scrap of his honor. It may take years, but eventually they will turn against him. Already I have heard that many of the clan shun Vermund, even as they themselves are shunned.”
“What do you think will happen to him?”
“He will accept the inevitable and step down, or else one day someone will slip poison into his mead, or perhaps a dagger between his ribs. Either way, he is no longer a threat to you as the leader of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin.”
They continued to talk until Orik had finished the first few stages of shaping his Erothknurl and was ready to take the ball of dirt and set it to rest upon a piece of cloth by his tent to dry. As Orik rose to his feet and gathered up his bucket and stick, he said, “I appreciate you being so kind as to listen to me, Eragon. And you as well, Saphira. Strange as it may seem, you are the only ones besides Hvedra to whom I can talk freely. Everyone else …” He shrugged. “Bah.”
Eragon got to his feet as well. “You’re our friend, Orik, whether you are king of the dwarves or not. We’re always happy to talk with you. And you know, you don’t have to worry about us telling others what you’ve said.”
“Aye, I know that, Eragon.” Orik squinted up at him. “You participate in the goings-on of the world, and yet you haven’t gotten caught up in all the petty scheming around you.”
“It doesn’t interest me. Besides, there are more important things to deal with at the moment.”
“That’s good. A Rider should stand apart from everyone else. Otherwise, how can you judge things for yourself? I never used to appreciate the Riders’ independence, but now I do, if only for selfish reasons.”
“I don’t stand entirely apart,” said Eragon. “I’m sworn both to you and to Nasuada.”
Orik inclined his head. “True enough. But you are not fully part of the Varden-or the Ingeitum either, for that matter. Whatever the case may be, I’m glad I can trust you.”
A smile crept across Eragon’s face. “As am I.”
“After all, we’re foster brothers, aren’t we? And brothers ought to watch each other’s backs.”
That they should, thought Eragon, though he did not say it out loud. “Foster brothers,” he agreed, and clapped Orik on the shoulder.
THE WAY OF KNOWING
Later that afternoon, when it seemed increasingly unlikely that the Empire would launch an attack from Dras-Leona in the few remaining hours of sunlight, Eragon and Saphira went to the sparring field at the rear of the Varden camp.
There Eragon met with Arya, as he had done every day since arriving at the city. He asked after her, and she answered briefly-she had been stuck in a tiresome conference with Nasuada and King Orrin since before dawn. Then Eragon drew his sword and Arya hers, and they took up positions opposite each other. For a change, they had agreed beforehand to use shields; it was closer to the reality of actual combat, and it introduced a welcome element of variety into their duels.
They circled each other with short, smooth steps, moving like dancers over the uneven ground, feeling their way with their feet and never looking down, never looking away from one another.
This was Eragon’s favorite part of their fights. There was something profoundly intimate about staring into Arya’s eyes, without blinking, without wavering, and having her stare back at him with the same degree of focus and intensity. It could be disconcerting, but he enjoyed the sense of connection it created between them.
Arya initiated the first attack, and within the span of a second, Eragon found himself standing hunched over at an awkward angle, her blade pressed against the left side of his neck, tugging painfully at his skin. Eragon remained frozen until Arya saw fit to release the pressure and allow him to stand upright.
“That was sloppy,” she said.
“How is it you keep besting me?” he growled, far from pleased.
“Because,” she replied, and feinted toward his right shoulder, causing him to raise his shield and leap backward in alarm, “I’ve had over a hundred years of practice. It would be odd if I weren’t better than you, now wouldn’t it? You should be proud that you’ve managed to mark me at all. Few can.”
Brisingr whistled through the air as Eragon struck at her lead thigh. A loud clang resounded as she stopped the blow with her shield. She countered with a clever twisting stab that caught him on his sword wrist and sent icy needles shooting up his arm and shoulder to the base of his skull.
Wincing, he disengaged, seeking a temporary reprieve. One of the challenges of fighting elves was that because of their speed and strength, they could lunge forward and engage an enemy at distances far greater than any human could. Therefore, to be safe from Arya, he had to move nearly a hundred feet away from her.
Before he could put much distance between them, Arya sprang after him, taking two flying steps, her hair streaming behind her. Eragon swung at her while she was still airborne, but she turned so that his sword passed along the length of her body, without touching it. Then she slipped the edge of her shield underneath his and yanked it away, leaving his chest completely exposed. Fast as could be, she brought her sword up and again pressed it against his neck, this time underneath his chin.
She held him in that position, her large, wide-set eyes only inches away from his. There was a ferocity and intentness to her expression that he was uncertain how to interpret, but it gave him pause.
A shadow seemed to flit across Arya’s face then, and she lowered her sword and stepped away.
Eragon rubbed his throat. “If you know so much about swordsmanship,” he said, “then why can’t you teach me to be better?”
Her emerald eyes burned with even greater force. “I’m trying,” she said, “but the problem is not here.” She tapped her sword against his right arm. “The problem is here.” She tapped his helm, metal clinking against metal. “And I don’t know how else to teach you what you need to learn except by showing you your mistakes over and over again until you stop making them.” She rapped his helm once more. “Even if it means I have to beat you black-and-blue in order to do it.”
That she continued to defeat him with such regularity hurt his pride far more than he was willing to admit, even to Saphira, and it made him doubt whether he would ever be able to triumph over Galbatorix, Murtagh, or any other truly formidable opponent, should he be so unfortunate as to face them in single combat without the help of Saphira or his magic.
Wheeling away from Arya, Eragon stomped over to a spot some ten yards distant.
“Well?” he said through clenched teeth. “Get on with it, then.” And he settled into a low
crouch as he readied himself for another onslaught.
Arya narrowed her eyes to slits, which gave her angled face an evil look. “Very well.”
They rushed at each other, both shouting war cries, and the field echoed with the sounds of their furious clash. Match after match they fought, until they were tired, sweaty, and coated with dust, and Eragon was striped with many painful welts. And still they continued to dash themselves against one another with a grim-faced determination that had hitherto been absent from their duels. Neither of them asked to end their brutal, bruising contest, and neither of them offered to.
Saphira watched from the side of the field, where she lay sprawled across the springy mat of grass. For the most part, she kept her thoughts to herself, so as to avoid distracting Eragon, but every now and then she made a short observation about his technique or Arya’s, observations that Eragon invariably found helpful. Also, he suspected that she had intervened on more than one occasion to save him from a particularly dangerous blow, for at times his arms and legs seemed to move slightly faster than they should have, or even slightly before he intended to move them himself, and when that happened, he felt a tickle in the back of his mind that he knew meant Saphira was meddling with some part of his consciousness.
At last he asked her to stop. I have to be able to do this myself, Saphira, he said. You can’t help me every time I need it.
I can try.
I know. I feel the same way about you. But this is my mountain to climb, not yours.
The edge of her lip twitched. Why climb when you can fly? You’ll never get anywhere on those short little legs of yours.
That’s not true and you know it. Besides, if I were flying, it would be on borrowed wings, and I would gain nothing by it other than the cheap thrill of an unearned victory.
Victory is victory and dead is dead, however it is achieved.
Saphira …, he said warningly.
Little one.
Still, to his relief, she left him to his own devices after that, though she continued to watch him with unceasing vigilance.
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