Eragon had expected Rhunön to relinquish her hold on his body after they had forged, hardened, and tempered the blade, but to his surprise, she remained in his mind and continued to control his limbs.
Rhunön had him douse the forge, then she walked Eragon back to the bench with the files and scrapers and abrasive stones. There she sat him, and making use of ever finer stones, she polished the blade. From her memories, Eragon learned that she would normally spend a week or more polishing a blade, but because of the song they sang, she, through him, was able to complete the task in a mere four hours, in addition to carving a narrow groove down the middle of each side of the blade. As the brightsteel grew smoother, the true beauty of the metal was revealed; within it, Eragon could see a shimmering, cable-like pattern, every line of which marked the transition between two layers of the velvety steel. And along each edge of the sword was a rippling, silvery white band as wide as his thumb, which made it appear as if the edges burned with tongues of frozen fire.
The muscles in Eragon’s right arm gave way as Rhunön was covering the tang with decorative cross-hatching, and the file he was holding slipped off the tang and fell from his fingers. The extent of his exhaustion surprised him, for he had been concentrating upon the sword to the exclusion of all else.
Enough, said Rhunön, and she removed herself from Eragon’s mind without further ado.
Shocked by her sudden absence, Eragon swayed on his seat and nearly lost his balance before he regained control over his rebellious limbs. “But we’re not finished!” he protested, turning toward Rhunön. The night sounded unnaturally quiet to him without the strains of their extended duet.
Rhunön rose from where she had been sitting cross-legged against the pole and shook her head. “I have no more need of you, Shadeslayer. Go and dream until dawn.”
“But—”
“You are tired, and even with my magic, you are liable to ruin the sword if you continue to work on it. Now that the blade is done, I can attend to the rest without interference from my oath, so go. You will find a bed on the second floor of my house. If you are hungry, there is food in the pantry.”
Eragon hesitated, reluctant to leave, then nodded and shambled away from the bench, his feet dragging in the dirt. As he passed her, he ran a hand over Saphira’s wing and bade her good night, too weary to say more. In return, she tousled his hair with a warm puff of air and said, I shall watch and remember for you, little one.
Eragon paused on the threshold of Rhunön’s house and looked across the shadowy atrium to where Maud and the two elf children were still standing. He raised a hand in greeting, and Maud smiled at him, baring her sharp, pointed teeth. A tingle crawled down Eragon’s neck as the elf children gazed at him; their large, slanted eyes were slightly luminous in the gloom. When they made no other motion, he ducked his head and hurried inside, eager to lie down upon a soft mattress.
A RIDER IN FULL
Wake, little one, said Saphira. The sun has risen and Rhunön is impatient.
Eragon bolted upright, throwing off his blankets as easily as he cast off his waking dreams. His arms and shoulders were sore from his exertions of the previous day. He pulled on his boots, fumbling with the laces in his excitement, grabbed his grimy apron from the floor, and bounded down the elaborately carved stairs to the entryway of Rhunön’s curved house.
Outside, the sky was bright with the first light of dawn, although shadow still enveloped the atrium. Eragon spotted Rhunön and Saphira by the open-walled forge and trotted over to them, combing his hair into place with his fingers.
Rhunön stood leaning against the edge of the bench. There were dark bags under her eyes, and the lines on her face were heavier than before.
The sword lay before her, concealed beneath a length of white cloth.
“I have done the impossible,” she said, the words hoarse and broken. “I made a sword when I swore I would not. What is more, I made it in less than a day and with hands that were not my own. Yet the sword is not crude or shoddy. No! It is the finest sword I have ever forged. I would have preferred to use less magic during the process, but that is my only qualm, and it is a small one compared with the perfection of the results. Behold!”
Grasping the corner of the cloth, Rhunön pulled it aside, revealing the sword.
Eragon gasped.
He had thought that in the handful of hours since he had left her, Rhunön would only have had enough time to fabricate a plain hilt and crossguard for the sword, and maybe a simple wooden scabbard. Instead, the sword Eragon saw on the bench was as magnificent as Zar’roc, Naegling, and Támerlein and, in his opinion, more beautiful than any of them.
Covering the blade was a glossy scabbard of the same dark blue as the scales on Saphira’s back. The color displayed a slight variegation, like the mottled light at the bottom of a clear forest pond. A piece of blued brightsteel carved in the shape of a leaf capped the end of the scabbard while a collar decorated with stylized vines encircled the mouth. The curved crossguard was also made of blued brightsteel, as were the four ribs that held in place the large sapphire that formed the pommel. The hand-and-a-half hilt was made of hard black wood.
Overcome by a sense of reverence, Eragon reached out toward the sword, then paused and glanced at Rhunön. “May I?” he asked.
She inclined her head. “You may. I give it to thee, Shadeslayer.”
Eragon lifted the sword from the bench. The scabbard and the wood of the hilt were cool to the touch. For several minutes, he marveled at the details on the scabbard and the guard and the pommel. Then he tightened his grip around the hilt and unsheathed the blade.
Like the rest of the sword, the blade was blue, but of a slightly lighter shade; it was the blue of the scales in the hollow of Saphira’s throat rather than the blue of those on her back. And as it was on Zar’roc, the color was iridescent; as Eragon moved the sword about, the color would shimmer and shift, displaying any of the many tones of blue present on Saphira herself. Through the wash of color, the cable-like patterns within the brightsteel and the pale bands along the edges were still visible.
With a single hand, Eragon swung the sword through the air, and he laughed at how light and fast it felt. The sword almost seemed alive. He grasped the sword with both his hands then and was delighted to find that they fit perfectly on the longer hilt. Lunging forward, he stabbed at an imaginary enemy and was confident they would have died from the attack.
“Here,” said Rhunön, and pointed at a bundle of three iron rods planted upright in the ground outside the forge. “Try it on those.”
Eragon allowed himself a moment to focus his thoughts, then took a single step toward the rods. With a yell, he slashed downward and cut through all three rods. The blade emitted a single pure note that slowly faded into silence. When Eragon examined the edge where it had struck the iron, he saw that the impact had not damaged it in the slightest.
“Are you well pleased, Dragon Rider?” Rhunön asked.
“More than pleased, Rhunön-elda,” said Eragon, and bowed to her. “I do not know how I can thank you for such a gift.”
“You may thank me by killing Galbatorix. If there is any sword destined to slay that mad king, it is this one.”
“I shall try my hardest, Rhunön-elda.”
The elf woman nodded, appearing satisfied. “Well, you finally have a sword of your own, which is as it ought to be. Now you are truly a Dragon Rider!”
“Yes,” said Eragon, and held the sword up toward the sky, admiring it. “Now I am truly a Rider.”
“Before you leave, one last thing remains for you to do,” said Rhunön.
“Oh?”
She flicked a finger toward the sword. “You must name it so I can mark the blade and scabbard with the appropriate glyph.”
Eragon walked over to Saphira and said, What do you think?
I am not the one who must carry the blade. Name it as you see fit.
Yes, but you must have some ideas!
She
lowered her head toward him and sniffed at the sword, then said, Blue-gem-tooth is what I would name it. Or Blue-claw-red.
That would sound ridiculous to humans.
Then what of Reaver or Gutripper? Or maybe Battleclaw or Glitterthorn or Limbhacker? You could name it Terror or Pain or Armbiter or Eversharp or Ripplescale: that on account of the lines in the steel. There is also Tongue of Death and Elfsteel and Starmetal and many others besides.
Her sudden outpouring surprised Eragon. You have a talent for this, he said.
Inventing random names is easy. Inventing the right name, however, can try the patience of even an elf.
What of Kingkiller? he asked.
And what if we actually kill Galbatorix? What, then? Will you do nothing else of worth with your sword?
Mmh. Placing the sword alongside Saphira’s left foreleg, Eragon said, It’s exactly the same color as you.… I could name it after you.
A low growl sounded in Saphira’s chest. No.
He fought back a smile. Are you sure? Just imagine if we were in battle and—
Her claws sank into the earth. No. I am not a thing for you to wave about and make fun of.
No, you’re right. I’m sorry.… Well, what if I named it Hope in the ancient language? Zar’roc means “misery,” so wouldn’t it be fitting if I were to wield a sword that by its very name would counteract misery?
A noble sentiment, said Saphira. But do you really want to give your enemies hope? Do you want to stab Galbatorix with hope?
It’s an amusing pun, he said, chuckling.
Once, maybe, but no more.
Stymied, Eragon grimaced and rubbed his chin, studying the play of light across the glittering blade. As he gazed into the depths of the steel, his eye chanced upon the flamelike pattern that marked the transition between the softer steel of the spine and that of the edges, and he recalled the word Brom had used to light his pipe during the memory Saphira had shared with him. Then Eragon thought of Yazuac, where he had first used magic, and also of his duel with Durza in Farthen Dûr, and in that instant he knew without doubt that he had found the right name for his sword.
Eragon consulted with Saphira, and when she agreed with his choice, he lifted the weapon to shoulder level and said, “I am decided. Sword, I name thee Brisingr!”
And with a sound like rushing wind, the blade burst into fire, an envelope of sapphire-blue flames writhing about the razor-sharp steel.
Uttering a startled cry, Eragon dropped the sword and jumped back, afraid of being burned. The blade continued to blaze on the ground, the translucent flames charring a nearby clump of grass. It was then that Eragon realized it was he who was providing the energy to sustain the unnatural fire. He quickly ended the magic, and the fire vanished from the sword. Puzzled by how he could have cast a spell without intending to, he picked up the sword again and tapped the blade with the tip of a finger. It was no hotter than before.
A heavy scowl on her brow, Rhunön stalked forward, seized the sword from Eragon, and examined it from tip to pommel. “You are fortunate I have already protected it with wards against heat and damage, else you would have just scratched the guard and destroyed the temper of the blade. Do not drop the sword again, Shadeslayer—even if it should turn into a snake—or else I shall take it back and give you a worn-out hammer instead.” Eragon apologized, and appearing somewhat mollified, Rhunön handed the sword back to him. “Did you set fire to it on purpose?” she asked.
“No,” said Eragon, unable to explain what had happened.
“Say it again,” ordered Rhunön.
“What?”
“The name, the name, say it again.”
Holding the sword as far away from his body as he could, Eragon exclaimed, “Brisingr!”
A column of flickering flames engulfed the blade of the sword, the heat warming Eragon’s face. This time Eragon noticed the slight drain on his strength from the spell. After a few moments, he extinguished the smokeless fire.
Once more Eragon exclaimed, “Brisingr!” And once more the blade shimmered with blue, wraithlike tongues of flame.
Now there is a fitting sword for a Rider and dragon! said Saphira in a delighted tone. It breathes fire as easily as I do.
“But I wasn’t trying to cast a spell!” protested Eragon. “All I did was say Brisingr and—” He yelped and swore as the sword again caught fire, which he put out for the fourth time.
“May I?” asked Rhunön, extending a hand toward Eragon. He gave her the sword, and she too said, “Brisingr!” A shiver seemed to run down the blade, but other than that, it remained inanimate. Her expression contemplative, Rhunön returned the sword to Eragon and said, “I can think of two explanations for this marvel. One is that because you were involved with the forging, you imbued the blade with a portion of your personality and therefore it has become attuned to your wishes. My other explanation is that you have discovered the true name of your sword. Perhaps both those things are what has happened. In any event, you have chosen well, Shadeslayer. Brisingr! Yes, I like it. It is a good name for a sword.”
A very good name, Saphira agreed.
Then Rhunön placed her hand over the middle of Brisingr’s blade and murmured an inaudible spell. The Elvish glyph for fire appeared upon both sides of the blade. She did the same to the front of the scabbard.
Again Eragon bowed to the elf woman, and both he and Saphira expressed their gratitude to her. A smile appeared on Rhunön’s aged face, and she touched each of them upon their brows with her callused thumb. “I am glad I was able to help the Riders this once more. Go, Shadeslayer. Go, Brightscales. Return to the Varden, and may your enemies flee with fear when they see the sword you now wield.”
So Eragon and Saphira bade her farewell, and together they departed Rhunön’s house, Eragon cradling Brisingr in his arms as he would a newborn child.
GREAVES AND BRACERS
A single candle lit the inside of the gray wool tent, a poor substitute for the radiance of the sun.
Roran stood with his arms outstretched while Katrina laced up the sides of the padded jerkin she had fitted for him. When she finished, she tugged on the hem of the jerkin, smoothing out the wrinkles, and said, “There now. Is it too tight?”
He shook his head. “No.”
She retrieved his greaves from the cot they shared and knelt before him in the flickering candlelight. Roran watched as she buckled the greaves onto his lower legs. She cupped the curve of his calf with her hand as she secured the second piece of armor, her flesh warm against his through the fabric of his trousers.
Standing, she turned to the cot again and picked up his bracers. Roran held out his arms toward her and stared into her eyes, even as she stared into his. With slow, deliberate motions, she fastened the bracers onto his forearms, then drew her hands from the inside of his elbow down to his wrists, where he clasped her hands with his own.
She smiled and pulled free of his gentle grip.
Next from the cot, she took his shirt of mail. She rose up onto the tips of her toes and lifted the hauberk over his head and held it there while he fit his arms into the sleeves. The mail tinkled like ice as she released it and it fell onto his shoulders, unfurling so that the lower edge hung level with his knees.
On his head, she set his leather arming cap, tying it firmly in place with a knot under his chin. She held his face between her hands for a moment, then kissed him once upon the lips and fetched his peaked helm, which she carefully slid over the arming cap.
Roran slipped his arm around her thickening waist as she started back toward the cot, stopping her. “Listen to me,” he said. “I’ll be fine.” He tried to convey all his love for her through the tone of his voice and the strength of his gaze. “Don’t just sit here all alone. Promise me that. Go to Elain; she could use your help. She’s sick, and her child is overdue.”
Katrina lifted her chin, her eyes gleaming with tears he knew she would not shed until after he had left. “Must you march in the front lin
e?” she whispered.
“Someone must, and it might as well be me. Whom would you send in my stead?”
“Anyone … anyone at all.” Katrina looked down and was silent for a span, then she removed a red kerchief from the bodice of her dress and said, “Here, carry this favor of mine, so that the whole world may know how proud I am of you.” And she tied the kerchief to his sword belt.
Roran kissed her twice and released her, and she fetched his shield and spear from the cot. He kissed her a third time as he took them from her, then fit his arm through the strap on his shield.
“If something does happen to me—” he began to say.
Katrina placed a finger upon his lips. “Shh. Speak not of it, lest it should come true.”
“Very well.” He hugged her one last time. “Be safe.”
“And you.”
Although he hated to leave her, Roran raised his shield and strode out of the tent into the pale light of dawn. Men, dwarves, and Urgals streamed westward through the camp, heading toward the trampled field where the Varden were assembling.
Roran filled his lungs with the cool morning air and then followed, knowing that his band of warriors would be waiting for him. Once he arrived at the field, he sought out Jörmundur’s division and, after reporting to Jörmundur, made his way to the front of the group, where he chose to stand next to Yarbog.
The Urgal glanced at him, then grunted, “A good day for a battle.”
“A good day.”
A horn sounded at the forefront of the Varden as soon as the sun broke over the horizon. Roran hefted his spear and began to run forward, like everyone else around him, howling at the top of his lungs as arrows rained down upon them and boulders whistled past overhead, flying in either direction. Ahead of him, a stone wall eighty feet tall loomed.
The siege of Feinster had begun.
Inheritance Cycle Omnibus Page 186
