“I enjoy overcoming challenges, but I’ve faced enough hardship to know that it’s foolish to make things more difficult than they are. It’s all I can do to survive as it is.”
“Yet you chose to follow the Ra’zac when it would have been easier to remain in Palancar Valley. And you came here.”
“It was the right thing to do … Master.”
For several minutes, no one spoke. Eragon tried to guess what the elf was thinking, but could glean no information from his masklike visage. Finally, Oromis stirred. “Were you, perchance, given a trinket of some kind in Tarnag, Eragon? A piece of jewelry, armor, or even a coin?”
“Aye.” Eragon reached inside of his tunic and fished out the necklace with the tiny silver hammer. “Gannel made this for me on Hrothgar’s orders, to prevent anyone from scrying Saphira or me. They were afraid that Galbatorix might have discovered what I look like.… How did you know?”
“Because,” said Oromis, “I could no longer sense you.”
“Someone tried to scry me by Sílthrim about a week ago. Was that you?”
Oromis shook his head. “After I first scryed you with Arya, I had no need to use such crude methods to find you. I could reach out and touch your mind with mine, as I did when you were injured in Farthen Dûr.” Lifting the amulet, he murmured several lines in the ancient language, then released it. “It contains no other spells I can detect. Keep it with you at all times; it is a valuable gift.” He pressed the tips of his long fingers together, his nails as round and bright as fish scales, and stared between the arches they formed toward the white horizon. “Why are you here, Eragon?”
“To complete my training.”
“And what do you think that process entails?”
Eragon shifted uncomfortably. “Learning more about magic and fighting. Brom wasn’t able to finish teaching me everything that he knew.”
“Magic, swordsmanship, and other such skills are useless unless you know how and when to apply them. This I will teach you. However, as Galbatorix has demonstrated, power without moral direction is the most dangerous force in the world. My main task, then, is to help you, Eragon and Saphira, to understand what principles guide you, so that you do not make the right choices for the wrong reasons. You must learn more about yourself, who you are and what you are capable of doing. That is why you are here.”
When do we begin? asked Saphira.
Oromis began to answer when he stiffened and dropped his flagon. His face went crimson and his fingers tightened into hooked claws that dragged at his robe like cockleburs. The change was frightening and instantaneous. Before Eragon could do more than flinch, the elf had relaxed again, although his entire body now bespoke weariness.
Concerned, Eragon dared to ask, “Are you well?”
A trace of amusement lifted the corner of Oromis’s mouth. “Less so than I might wish. We elves fancy ourselves immortal, but not even we can escape certain maladies of the flesh, which are beyond our knowledge of magic to do more than delay. No, do not worry … it isn’t contagious, but neither can I rid myself of it.” He sighed. “I have spent decades binding myself with hundreds of small, weak spells that, layered one upon another, duplicate the effect of enchantments that are now beyond my reach. I bound myself with them so that I might live long enough to witness the birth of the last dragons and to foster the Riders’ resurrection from the ruin of our mistakes.”
“How long until …”
Oromis lifted a sharp eyebrow. “How long until I die? We have time, but precious little for you or me, especially if the Varden decide to call upon your help. As a result—to answer your question, Saphira—we will begin your instruction immediately, and we will train faster than any Rider ever has or ever will, for I must condense decades of knowledge into months and weeks.”
“You do know,” said Eragon, struggling against the embarrassment and shame that made his cheeks burn, “about my … my own infirmity.” He ground out the last word, hating the sound of it. “I am as crippled as you are.”
Sympathy tempered Oromis’s gaze, though his voice was firm. “Eragon, you are only a cripple if you consider yourself one. I understand how you feel, but you must remain optimistic, for a negative outlook is more of a handicap than any physical injury. I speak from personal experience. Pitying yourself serves neither you nor Saphira. I and the other spellweavers will study your malady to see if we might devise a way to alleviate it, but in the meantime, your training will proceed as if nothing were amiss.”
Eragon’s gut clenched and he tasted bile as he considered the implications. Surely Oromis wouldn’t make me endure that torment again! “The pain is unbearable,” he said frantically. “It would kill me. I—”
“No, Eragon. It will not kill you. That much I know about your curse. However, we both have our duty; you to the Varden, and I to you. We cannot shirk it for the sake of mere pain. Far too much is at risk, and we can ill afford to fail.” All Eragon could do was shake his head as panic threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to deny Oromis’s words, but their truth was inescapable. “Eragon. You must accept this burden freely. Have you no one or nothing that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for?”
His first thought was of Saphira, but he was not doing this for her. Nor for Nasuada. Nor even for Arya. What drove him, then? When he had pledged fealty to Nasuada, he had done so for the good of Roran and the other people trapped within the Empire. But did they mean enough to him to put himself through such anguish? Yes, he decided. Yes, they do, because I am the only one who has a chance to help them, and because I won’t be free of Galbatorix’s shadow until they are as well. And because this is my only purpose in life. What else would I do? He shuddered as he mouthed the ghastly phrase, “I accept on behalf of those I fight for: the people of Alagaësia—of all races—who have suffered from Galbatorix’s brutality. No matter the pain, I swear that I will study harder than any student you’ve had before.”
Oromis nodded gravely. “I ask for nothing less.” He looked at Glaedr for a moment, then said, “Stand and remove your tunic. Let me see what you are made of.”
Wait, said Saphira. Was Brom aware of your existence here, Master? Eragon paused, struck by the possibility.
“Of course,” said Oromis. “He was my pupil as a boy in Ilirea. I am glad that you gave him a proper burial, for he had a hard life and few enough ever showed him kindness. I hope that he found peace before he entered the void.”
Eragon slowly frowned. “Did you know Morzan as well?”
“He was my apprentice before Brom.”
“And Galbatorix?”
“I was one of the Elders who denied him another dragon after his first was killed, but no, I never had the misfortune to teach him. He made sure to personally hunt down and kill each of his mentors.”
Eragon wanted to inquire further, but he knew that it would be better to wait, so he stood and unlaced the top of his tunic. It seems, he said to Saphira, that we will never learn all of Brom’s secrets. He shivered as he pulled off the tunic in the cool air, then squared his shoulders and lifted his chest.
Oromis circled him, stopping with an astonished exclamation as he saw the scar that crossed Eragon’s back. “Did not Arya or one of the Varden’s healers offer to remove this weal? You should not have to carry it.”
“Arya did offer, but …” Eragon stopped, unable to articulate his feelings. Finally, he just said, “It’s part of me now, just as Murtagh’s scar is part of him.”
“Murtagh’s scar?”
“Murtagh bore a similar mark. It was inflicted when his father, Morzan, threw Zar’roc at him while he was only a child.”
Oromis stared at him seriously for a long time before he nodded and moved on. “You have a fair amount of muscle, and you are not as lopsided as most swordsmen. Are you ambidextrous?”
“Not really, but I had to teach myself to fight with my left hand after I broke my wrist by Teirm.”
“Good. That will save some time. Clasp your hands behind
your back and lift them as high as possible.” Eragon did as he was told, but the posture hurt his shoulders and he could barely make his hands meet. “Now bend forward while keeping your knees straight. Try to touch the ground.” This was even harder for Eragon; he ended up bowed like a hunchback, with his arms hanging uselessly by his head while his hamstrings twinged and burned. His fingers were still nine or ten inches from the ground. “At least you can stretch without hurting yourself. I had not hoped for so much. You can perform a number of exercises for flexibility without overexerting. Yes.”
Then Oromis addressed Saphira: “I would know your capabilities as well, dragon.” He gave her a number of complex poses that had her contort every foot of her sinuous length in fantastic ways, culminating in a series of aerial acrobatics the likes of which Eragon had never seen before. Only a few things exceeded her ability, such as executing a backward loop while corkscrewing through the air.
When she landed, it was Glaedr who said, I fear that we coddled the Riders. If our hatchlings had been forced to care for themselves in the wild—as you were, and so our ancestors were—then perhaps they would have possessed your skill.
“No,” said Oromis, “even if Saphira had been raised on Vroengard using the established methods, she would still be an extraordinary flier. I’ve rarely seen a dragon so naturally suited to the sky.” Saphira blinked, then shuffled her wings and busied herself cleaning one of her claws in a manner that hid her head from view. “You have room to improve, as do we all, but little, very little.” The elf reseated himself, his back perfectly straight.
For the next five hours, by Eragon’s reckoning, Oromis delved into every aspect of his and Saphira’s knowledge, from botany to woodworking to metallurgy and medicine, although he mainly concentrated on their grasp of history and the ancient language. The interrogation comforted Eragon, as it reminded him of how Brom used to quiz him during their long treks to Teirm and Dras-Leona.
When they broke for lunch, Oromis invited Eragon into his house, leaving the two dragons alone. The elf’s quarters were barren except for those few essentials necessary for food, hygiene, and the pursuit of an intellectual life. Two entire walls were dotted with cubbyholes that held hundreds of scrolls. Next to the table hung a golden sheath—the same color as Glaedr’s scales—and a matching sword with a blade the color of iridescent bronze.
On the inner pane of the door, set within the heart of the wood, was a flat panel one span high and two wide. It depicted a beautiful, towering city built against an escarpment and caught in the ruddy light of a rising harvest moon. The pitted lunar face was bisected by the horizon and appeared to sit on the ground like a maculated dome as large as a mountain. The picture was so clear and perfectly detailed, Eragon at first took it to be a magical window; it was only when he saw that the image was indeed static that he could accept it as a piece of art.
“Where is this?” he asked.
Oromis’s slanted features tightened for an instant. “You would do well to memorize that landscape, Eragon, for there lies the heart of your misery. You see what was once our city of Ilirea. It was burned and abandoned during Du Fyrn Skulblaka and became the capital of the Broddring Kingdom and now is the black city of Urû’baen. I made that fairth on the night that I and others were forced to flee our home before Galbatorix arrived.”
“You painted this … fairth?”
“No, no such thing. A fairth is an image fixed by magic upon a square of polished slate that is prepared beforehand with layers of pigments. The landscape upon that door is exactly how Ilirea presented itself to me at the moment I uttered my spell.”
“And,” said Eragon, unable to stop the flow of questions, “what was the Broddring Kingdom?”
Oromis’s eyes widened with dismay. “You don’t know?” Eragon shook his head. “How can you not? Considering your circumstances and the fear that Galbatorix wields among your people, I might understand that you were raised in darkness, ignorant of your heritage. But I cannot credit Brom with being so lax with your instruction as to neglect subjects that even the youngest elf or dwarf knows. The children of your Varden could tell me more about the past.”
“Brom was more concerned with keeping me alive than teaching me about people who are already dead,” retorted Eragon.
This drew silence from Oromis. Finally, he said, “Forgive me. I did not mean to impugn Brom’s judgment, only I am impatient beyond reason; we have so little time, and each new thing you must learn reduces that which you can master during your tenure here.” He opened a series of cupboards hidden within the curved wall and removed bread rolls and bowls of fruit, which he rowed out on the table. He paused for a moment over the food with his eyes closed before beginning to eat. “The Broddring Kingdom was the human’s country before the Riders fell. After Galbatorix killed Vrael, he flew on Ilirea with the Forsworn and deposed King Angrenost, taking his throne and titles for his own. The Broddring Kingdom then formed the core of Galbatorix’s conquests. He added Vroengard and other lands to the east and south to his holdings, creating the empire you are familiar with. Technically, the Broddring Kingdom still exists, though, at this point, I doubt that it is much more than a name on royal decrees.”
Afraid to pester the elf with further inquiries, Eragon concentrated on his food. His face must have betrayed him, though, because Oromis said, “You remind me of Brom when I chose him as my apprentice. He was younger than you, only ten, but his curiosity was just as great. I doubt I heard aught from him for a year but how, what, when, and, above all else, why. Do not be shy to ask what lies in your heart.”
“I want to know so much,” whispered Eragon. “Who are you? Where do you come from? … Where did Brom come from? What was Morzan like? How, what, when, why? And I want to know everything about Vroengard and the Riders. Maybe then my own path will be clearer.”
Silence fell between them as Oromis meticulously disassembled a blackberry, prying out one plump segment at a time. When the last corpuscle vanished between his port-red lips, he rubbed his hands flat together—“polishing his palms,” as Garrow used to say—and said, “Know this about me, then: I was born some centuries past in our city of Luthivíra, which stood in the woods by Lake Tüdosten. At the age of twenty, like all elf children, I was presented to the eggs that the dragons had given the Riders, and Glaedr hatched for me. We were trained as Riders, and for near a century, we traveled the world over, doing Vrael’s will. Eventually, the day arrived when it was deemed appropriate for us to retire and pass on our experience to the next generation, so we took a position in Ilirea and taught new Riders, one or two at a time, until Galbatorix destroyed us.”
“And Brom?”
“Brom came from a family of illuminators in Kuasta. His mother was Nelda and his father Holcomb. Kuasta is so isolated by the Spine from the rest of Alagaësia, it has become a peculiar place, full of strange customs and superstitions. When he was still new to Ilirea, Brom would knock on a door frame three times before entering or leaving a room. The human students teased him about it until he abandoned the practice along with some of his other habits.
“Morzan was my greatest failure. Brom idolized him. He never left his side, never contradicted him, and never believed that he could best Morzan in any venture. Morzan, I’m ashamed to admit—for it was within my power to stop—was aware of this and took advantage of Brom’s devotion in a hundred different ways. He grew so proud and cruel that I considered separating him from Brom. But before I could, Morzan helped Galbatorix to steal a dragon hatchling, Shruikan, to replace the one Galbatorix had lost, killing the dragon’s original Rider in the process. Morzan and Galbatorix then fled together, sealing our doom.
“You cannot begin to fathom the effect Morzan’s betrayal had on Brom until you understand the depth of Brom’s affection for him. And when Galbatorix at last revealed himself and the Forsworn killed Brom’s dragon, Brom focused all of his anger and pain on the one who he felt was responsible for the destruction of his world: Morzan.”
Oromis paused, his face grave. “Do you know why losing your dragon, or vice versa, usually kills the survivor?”
“I can imagine,” said Eragon. He quailed at the thought.
“The pain is shock enough—although it isn’t always a factor—but what really causes the damage is feeling part of your mind, part of your identity, die. When it happened to Brom, I fear that he went mad for a time. After I was captured and escaped, I brought him to Ellesméra for safety, but he refused to stay, instead marching with our army to the plains of Ilirea, where King Evandar was slain.
“The confusion then was indescribable. Galbatorix was busy consolidating his power, the dwarves were in retreat, the southwest was a mass of war as the humans rebelled and fought to create Surda, and we had just lost our king. Driven by his desire for vengeance, Brom sought to use the turmoil to his advantage. He gathered together many of those who had been exiled, freed some who had been imprisoned, and with them he formed the Varden. He led them for a few years, then surrendered the position to another so that he was free to pursue his true passion, which was Morzan’s downfall. Brom personally killed three of the Forsworn, including Morzan, and he was responsible for the deaths of five others. He was rarely happy during his life, but he was a good Rider and a good man, and I am honored to have known him.”
“I never heard his name mentioned in connection to the Forsworn’s deaths,” objected Eragon.
“Galbatorix did not want to publicize the fact that any still existed who could defeat his servants. Much of his power resides in the appearance of invulnerability.”
Once again, Eragon was forced to revise his conception of Brom, from the village storyteller that Eragon had first taken him to be, to the warrior and magician he had traveled with, to the Rider he was at last revealed as, and now firebrand, revolutionary leader, and assassin. It was hard to reconcile all of those roles. I feel as if I barely knew him. I wish that we had had a chance to talk about all of this at least once. “He was a good man,” agreed Eragon.
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