3-Brisingr-3 (82 page)

Just then, Yarbog’s head quivered as a muscle in the Urgal’s neck cramped. Yarbog grunted, the first sound he had made in over a minute, and in an undertone, he muttered, “Kill me, Stronghammer. I cannot best you.”

Adjusting his grip on Yarbog’s horns, Roran growled in an equally low tone, “No. If you want to die, find someone else to kill you. I have fought by your rules, now you will accept defeat according to mine.

Tell everyone that you submit to me. Say you were wrong to challenge me. Do that, and I’ll let you go. If not, I’ll keep you here until you change your mind, no matter how long it takes.”

Yarbog’s head twitched under Roran’s hands as the Urgal tried once more to free himself. He huffed, blowing a small cloud of dust into the air, then rumbled, “The shame would be too great, Stronghammer.

Kill me.”

“I don’t belong to your race, and I won’t abide by your customs,” said Roran. “If you are so worried about your honor, tell those who are curious that you were defeated by the cousin of Eragon Shadeslayer. Surely there is no shame in that.” When several minutes had passed and Yarbog still had not replied, Roran yanked on Yarbog’s horns and growled, “Well?”

Raising his voice so that all of the men and Urgals could hear, Yarbog said, “Gar! Svarvok curse me; I submit! I should not have challenged you, Stronghammer. You are worthy to be chief, and I am not.”

As one, the men cheered and shouted, banging the pommels of their swords on their shields. The Urgals shifted in place and said nothing.

Satisfied, Roran released Yarbog’s horns and rolled away from the gray Urgal. Feeling almost as if he had endured another flogging, Roran slowly got to his feet and hobbled out of the square to where Carn was waiting.

Roran winced as Carn draped a blanket over his shoulders and the fabric rubbed against his abused

skin. Grinning, Carn handed him a wineskin. “After he knocked you down, I thought for sure he would kill you. I should have learned by now to never count you out, eh, Roran? Ha! That was just about the finest fight I’ve ever seen. You must be the only man in history to have wrestled an Urgal.”

“Maybe not,” Roran said between sips of wine. “But I might be the only man who has survived the experience.” He smiled as Carn laughed. Roran looked over at the Urgals, who were clustered around Yarbog, talking with him in low grunts while two of their brethren wiped the grease and grime from Yarbog’s limbs. Although the Urgals appeared subdued, they did not seem angry or resentful, so far as he was able to judge, and he was confident that he would have no more trouble from them.

Despite the pain of his wounds, Roran felt pleased with the outcome of the match.
This won’t be the
last fight between our two races,
he thought,
but as long as we can return safely to the Varden, the
Urgals won’t break off our alliance, at least not on account of me
.

After taking one last sip, Roran stoppered the wineskin and handed it back to Carn, then shouted,

“Right, now stop standing around yammering like sheep and finish drawing up a list of what’s in those wagons! Loften, round up the soldiers’ horses, if they haven’t already wandered too far away! Dazhgra, see to the oxen. Make haste! Thorn and Murtagh could be flying here even now. Go on, snap to!

“And, Carn, where the blazes are my clothes?”

GENEALOGY

On the fourth day after leaving Farthen Dûr, Eragon and Saphira arrived in Ellesméra.

The sun was clear and bright overhead when the first of the city’s buildings—a narrow, twisting turret with glittering windows that stood between three tall pine trees and was grown out of their intermingled branches—came into view. Beyond the bark-sheathed turret, Eragon spotted the seemingly random collection of clearings that marked the location of the sprawling city.

As Saphira planed over the uneven surface of the forest, Eragon quested with his mind for the consciousness of Gilderien the Wise, who, as the wielder of the White Flame of Vándil, had protected Ellesméra from the elves’ enemies for over two and a half millennia. Projecting his thoughts toward the city, Eragon said in the ancient language,
Gilderien-elda, may we pass?

A deep, calm voice sounded in Eragon’s mind.
You may pass, Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira
Brightscales. So long as you keep the peace, you are welcome to stay in Ellesméra
.

Thank you, Gilderien-elda,
said Saphira.

Her claws brushed the crowns of the dark-needled trees, which rose over three hundred feet above the ground, as she glided across the pinewood city and headed toward the slope of inclined land on the other side of Ellesméra. Between the latticework of branches below, Eragon caught brief glimpses of the flowing shapes of buildings made of living wood, colorful beds of blooming flowers, rippling streams, the auburn glow of a flameless lantern, and, once or twice, the pale flash of an elf’s upturned face.

Tilting her wings, Saphira soared up the slope of land until she reached the Crags of Tel’naeír, which dropped over a thousand feet to the rolling forest at the base of the bare white cliff and extended for a league in either direction. Then she turned right and flew north along the ridge of stone, flapping twice to maintain her speed and altitude.

A grass-covered clearing appeared at the edge of the cliff. Set against the backdrop of the surrounding trees was a modest, single-story house grown out of four different pines. A chuckling, gurgling stream wandered out of the mossy forest and passed underneath the roots of one of the pines before disappearing into Du Weldenvarden once again. And curled up next to the house, there lay the golden dragon Glaedr, massive, glittering, his ivory teeth as thick around as Eragon’s chest, his claws like scythes, his folded wings soft as suede, his muscled tail nearly as long as all of Saphira, and the striations of his one visible eye sparkling like the rays within a star sapphire. The stump of his missing foreleg was concealed on the other side of his body. A small round table and two chairs had been placed in front of Glaedr. Oromis sat in the chair closest to him, the elf’s silver hair gleaming like metal in the sunlight.

Eragon leaned forward in his saddle as Saphira reared upright, slowing herself. She descended with a jolt upon the sward of green grass and ran forward several steps, raking her wings backward before she came to a halt.

His fingers clumsy from exhaustion, Eragon loosened the slipknots that bound the straps around his legs and then attempted to climb down Saphira’s right front leg. As he lowered himself, his knees buckled and he fell. He raised his hands to protect his face and landed upon all fours, scraping his shin on a rock hidden within the grass. He grunted with pain and, feeling as stiff as an old man, started to push himself onto his feet.

A hand entered his field of vision.

Eragon looked up and saw Oromis standing over him, a faint smile upon his timeless face. In the ancient language, Oromis said, “Welcome back to Ellesméra, Eragon-finiarel. And you as well, Saphira Brightscales, welcome. Welcome, both of you.”

Eragon took his hand, and Oromis pulled him upright without apparent effort. At first Eragon was unable to find his tongue, for he had barely spoken aloud since they had left Farthen Dûr and because fatigue blurred his mind. He touched the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips and, also in the ancient language, said, “May good fortune rule over you, Oromis-elda,” and then he twisted his hand over his sternum in the gesture of courtesy and respect the elves used.

“May the stars watch over you, Eragon,” replied Oromis.

Then Eragon repeated the ceremony with Glaedr. As always, the touch of the dragon’s sanguine consciousness awed and humbled Eragon.

Saphira did not greet either Oromis or Glaedr; she remained where she was, her neck drooping until her nose brushed the ground and her shoulders and haunches trembling as if with cold. Dry yellow foam encrusted the corners of her open mouth. Her barbed tongue hung limp from between her fangs.

By way of explanation, Eragon said, “We ran into a headwind the day after we left Farthen Dûr, and . .

.” He fell silent as Glaedr lifted his giant head and swung it across the clearing until he was looking down upon Saphira, who made no attempt to acknowledge his presence. Then Glaedr breathed out upon her, fingers of flame burning within the pits of his nostrils. A sense of relief washed over Eragon as he felt energy pour into Saphira, stilling her tremors and strengthening her limbs.

The flames in Glaedr’s nostrils vanished with a wisp of smoke.
I went hunting this morning,
he said, his mental voice resonating throughout Eragon’s being.
You will find what is left of my kills by the tree
with the white branch at the far end of the field. Eat what you want
.

Silent gratitude emanated from Saphira. Dragging her limp tail across the grass, she crawled over to the tree Glaedr had indicated and then settled down and began to tear at the carcass of a deer.

“Come,” said Oromis, and gestured toward the table and chairs. On the table was a tray with bowls of fruit and nuts, half a round of cheese, a loaf of bread, a decanter of wine, and two crystal goblets. As Eragon sat, Oromis indicated the decanter and asked, “Would you care for a drink to wash the dust from your throat?”

“Yes, please,” said Eragon.

With an elegant motion, Oromis unstoppered the decanter and filled both goblets. He handed one to Eragon and then settled back into his chair, arranging his white tunic with long, smooth fingers.

Eragon sipped the wine. It was mellow and tasted of cherries and plums. “Master, I—”

An upraised finger from Oromis stopped him. “Unless it is unbearably urgent, I would wait until Saphira joins us before we discuss what has brought you here. Are you agreed?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Eragon nodded and concentrated upon eating, savoring the flavor of the fresh fruit. Oromis seemed content to sit beside him in silence, drinking his wine and gazing out over the edge of the Crags of Tel’naeír. Behind him, Glaedr watched over the proceedings like a living statue of gold.

The better part of an hour passed before Saphira rose from her meal, crawled over to the stream, and lapped the water for another ten minutes. Drops of water still clung to her jaws when she turned away from the stream and, with a sigh, sprawled next to Eragon, her eyes heavy-lidded. She yawned, her teeth flashing, then exchanged salutations with Oromis and Glaedr.
Talk as you want,
she said.
However, do
not expect me to say much. I may fall asleep at any moment
.

If you do, we shall wait for you to wake before we continue,
said Glaedr.

That is most . . . kind,
replied Saphira, and her eyelids drifted even lower.

“More wine?” Oromis asked, and lifted the decanter an inch off the table. When Eragon shook his head, Oromis replaced the decanter, then pressed the tips of his fingers together, his round fingernails like polished opals. He said, “You do not need to tell me what has befallen you these past weeks, Eragon.

Since Islanzadí left the forest, Arya has kept her informed of the news of the land, and every three days, Islanzadí sends a runner from our army back to Du Weldenvarden. Thus, I know of your duel with Murtagh and Thorn on the Burning Plains. I know of your trip to Helgrind and how you punished the butcher from your village. And I know you attended the dwarves’ clanmeet in Farthen Dûr and the outcome thereof. Whatever you wish to say, then, you may say without fear of having to educate me about your recent doings.”

Eragon rolled a plump blueberry in the palm of his hand. “Do you know of Elva and what happened when I tried to free her of my curse?”

“Yes, even that. You may not have succeeded in removing the whole of the spell from her, but you paid your debt to the child, and that is what a Dragon Rider is supposed to do: fulfill his obligations, no matter how small or difficult they be.”

“She still feels the pain of those around her.”

“But now it is by her own choice,” said Oromis. “No longer does your magic force it upon her. . . . You did not come here to seek my opinion concerning Elva. What is it that weighs upon your heart, Eragon?

Ask what you will, and I promise I shall answer all of your questions to the best of my knowledge.”

“What,” said Eragon, “if I don’t know the right questions to ask?”

A twinkle appeared in Oromis’s gray eyes. “Ah, you begin to think like an elf. You must trust us as your mentors to teach you and Saphira those things of which you are ignorant. And you must also trust us to decide when it is appropriate to broach those subjects, for there are many elements of your training that should not be spoken of out of turn.”

Eragon placed the blueberry in the precise center of the tray, then in a quiet but firm voice said, “It seems as if there is much you have not spoken of.”

For a moment, the only sounds were the rustle of branches and the burble of the stream and the chatter of distant squirrels.