Page 15 of Eragon (The Inheritance Cycle 1)

  “I still don’t understand how this magic works,” said Eragon. “Exactly how do I use it?”

  Brom looked astonished. “I haven’t made that clear?”

  “No.”

  Brom took a deep breath and said, “To work with magic, you must have a certain innate power, which is very rare among people nowadays. You also have to be able to summon this power at will. Once it is called upon, you have to use it or let it fade away. Understood? Now, if you wish to employ the power, you must utter the word or phrase of the ancient language that describes your intent. For example, if you hadn’t said brisingr yesterday, nothing would have happened.”

  “So I’m limited by my knowledge of this language?”

  “Exactly,” crowed Brom. “Also, while speaking it, it’s impossible to practice deceit.”

  Eragon shook his head. “That can’t be. People always lie. The sounds of the ancient words can’t stop them from doing that.”

  Brom cocked an eyebrow and said, “Fethrblaka, eka weohnata néiat haina ono. Blaka eom iet lam.” A bird suddenly flitted from a branch and landed on his hand. It trilled lightly and looked at them with beady eyes. After a moment he said, “Eitha,” and it fluttered away.

  “How did you do that?” asked Eragon in wonder.

  “I promised not to harm him. He may not have known exactly what I meant, but in the language of power, the meaning of my words was evident. The bird trusted me because he knows what all animals do, that those who speak in that tongue are bound by their word.”

  “And the elves speak this language?”

  “Yes.”

  “So they never lie?”

  “Not quite,” admitted Brom. “They maintain that they don’t, and in a way it’s true, but they have perfected the art of saying one thing and meaning another. You never know exactly what their intent is, or if you have fathomed it correctly. Many times they only reveal part of the truth and withhold the rest. It takes a refined and subtle mind to deal with their culture.”

  Eragon considered that. “What do personal names mean in this language? Do they give power over people?”

  Brom’s eyes brightened with approval. “Yes, they do. Those who speak the language have two names. The first is for everyday use and has little authority. But the second is their true name and is shared with only a few trusted people. There was a time when no one concealed his true name, but this age isn’t as kind. Whoever knows your true name gains enormous power over you. It’s like putting your life into another person’s hands. Everyone has a hidden name, but few know what it is.”

  “How do you find your true name?” asked Eragon.

  “Elves instinctively know theirs. No one else has that gift. The human Riders usually went on quests to discover it—or found an elf who would tell them, which was rare, for elves don’t distribute that knowledge freely,” replied Brom.

  “I’d like to know mine,” Eragon said wistfully.

  Brom’s brow darkened. “Be careful. It can be a terrible knowledge. To know who you are without any delusions or sympathy is a moment of revelation that no one experiences unscathed. Some have been driven to madness by that stark reality. Most try to forget it. But as much as the name will give others power, so you may gain power over yourself, if the truth doesn’t break you.”

  And I’m sure that it would not, stated Saphira.

  “I still wish to know,” said Eragon, determined.

  “You are not easily dissuaded. That is good, for only the resolute find their identity, but I cannot help you with this. It is a search that you will have to undertake on your own.” Brom moved his injured arm and grimaced uncomfortably.

  “Why can’t you or I heal that with magic?” asked Eragon.

  Brom blinked. “No reason—I just never considered it because it’s beyond my strength. You could probably do it with the right word, but I don’t want you to exhaust yourself.”

  “I could save you a lot of trouble and pain,” protested Eragon.

  “I’ll live with it,” said Brom flatly. “Using magic to heal a wound takes just as much energy as it would to mend on its own. I don’t want you tired for the next few days. You shouldn’t attempt such a difficult task yet.”

  “Still, if it’s possible to fix your arm, could I bring someone back from the dead?”

  The question surprised Brom, but he answered quickly, “Remember what I said about projects that will kill you? That is one of them. Riders were forbidden to try to resurrect the dead, for their own safety. There is an abyss beyond life where magic means nothing. If you reach into it, your strength will flee and your soul will fade into darkness. Wizards, sorcerers, and Riders—all have failed and died on that threshold. Stick with what’s possible—cuts, bruises, maybe some broken bones—but definitely not dead people.”

  Eragon frowned. “This is a lot more complex than I thought.”

  “Exactly!” said Brom. “And if you don’t understand what you’re doing, you’ll try something too big and die.” He twisted in his saddle and swooped down, grabbing a handful of pebbles from the ground. With effort, he righted himself, then discarded all but one of the rocks. “See this pebble?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take it.” Eragon did and stared at the unremarkable lump. It was dull black, smooth, and as large as the end of his thumb. There were countless stones like it on the trail. “This is your training.”

  Eragon looked back at him, confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t,” said Brom impatiently. “That’s why I’m teaching you and not the other way around. Now stop talking or we’ll never get anywhere. What I want you to do is lift the rock off your palm and hold it in the air for as long as you can. The words you’re going to use are stenr reisa. Say them.”

  “Stenr reisa.”

  “Good. Go ahead and try.”

  Eragon focused sourly on the pebble, searching his mind for any hint of the energy that had burned in him the day before. The stone remained motionless as he stared at it, sweating and frustrated. How am I supposed to do this? Finally, he crossed his arms and snapped, “This is impossible.”

  “No,” said Brom gruffly. “I’ll say when it’s impossible or not. Fight for it! Don’t give in this easily. Try again.”

  Frowning, Eragon closed his eyes, setting aside all distracting thoughts. He took a deep breath and reached into the farthest corners of his consciousness, trying to find where his power resided. Searching, he found only thoughts and memories until he felt something different—a small bump that was a part of him and yet not of him. Excited, he dug into it, seeking what it hid. He felt resistance, a barrier in his mind, but knew that the power lay on the other side. He tried to breach it, but it held firm before his efforts. Growing angry, Eragon drove into the barrier, ramming against it with all of his might until it shattered like a thin pane of glass, flooding his mind with a river of light.

  “Stenr reisa,” he gasped. The pebble wobbled into the air over his faintly glowing palm. He struggled to keep it floating, but the power slipped away and faded back behind the barrier. The pebble dropped to his hand with a soft plop, and his palm returned to normal. He felt a little tired, but grinned from his success.

  “Not bad for your first time,” said Brom.

  “Why does my hand do that? It’s like a little lantern.”

  “No one’s sure,” Brom admitted. “The Riders always preferred to channel their power through whichever hand bore the gedwëy ignasia. You can use your other palm, but it isn’t as easy.” He looked at Eragon for a minute. “I’ll buy you some gloves at the next town, if it isn’t gutted. You hide the mark pretty well on your own, but we don’t want anyone to see it by accident. Besides, there may be times when you won’t want the glow to alert an enemy.”

  “Do you have a mark of your own?”

  “No. Only Riders have them,” said Brom. “Also, you should know that magic is affected by distance, just like an arrow or a spear. If you try to lift or move so

mething a mile away, it’ll take more energy than if you were closer. So if you see enemies racing after you from a league away, let them approach before using magic. Now, back to work! Try to lift the pebble again.”

  “Again?” asked Eragon weakly, thinking of the effort it had taken to do it just once.

  “Yes! And this time be quicker about it.”

  They continued with the exercises throughout most of the day. When Eragon finally stopped, he was tired and ill-tempered. In those hours, he had come to hate the pebble and everything about it. He started to throw it away, but Brom said, “Don’t. Keep it.” Eragon glared at him, then reluctantly tucked the stone into a pocket.

  “We’re not done yet,” warned Brom, “so don’t get comfortable.” He pointed at a small plant. “This is called delois.” From there on he instructed Eragon in the ancient language, giving him words to memorize, from vöndr, a thin, straight stick, to the morning star, Aiedail.

  That evening they sparred around the fire. Though Brom fought with his left hand, his skill was undiminished.

  The days followed the same pattern. First, Eragon struggled to learn the ancient words and to manipulate the pebble. Then, in the evening, he trained against Brom with the fake swords. Eragon was in constant discomfort, but he gradually began to change, almost without noticing. Soon the pebble no longer wobbled when he lifted it. He mastered the first exercises Brom gave him and undertook harder ones, and his knowledge of the ancient language grew.

  In their sparring, Eragon gained confidence and speed, striking like a snake. His blows became heavier, and his arm no longer trembled when he warded off attacks. The clashes lasted longer as he learned how to fend off Brom. Now, when they went to sleep, Eragon was not the only one with bruises.

  Saphira continued to grow as well, but more slowly than before. Her extended flights, along with periodic hunts, kept her fit and healthy. She was taller than the horses now, and much longer. Because of her size and the way her scales sparkled, she was altogether too visible. Brom and Eragon worried about it, but they could not convince her to allow dirt to obscure her scintillating hide.

  They continued south, tracking the Ra’zac. It frustrated Eragon that no matter how fast they went, the Ra’zac always stayed a few days ahead of them. At times he was ready to give up, but then they would find some mark or print that would renew his hope.

  There were no signs of habitation along the Ninor or in the plains, leaving the three companions undisturbed as the days slipped by. Finally, they neared Daret, the first village since Yazuac.

  The night before they reached the village, Eragon’s dreams were especially vivid.

  He saw Garrow and Roran at home, sitting in the destroyed kitchen. They asked him for help rebuilding the farm, but he only shook his head with a pang of longing in his heart. “I’m tracking your killers,” he whispered to his uncle.

  Garrow looked at him askance and demanded, “Do I look dead to you?”

  “I can’t help you,” said Eragon softly, feeling tears in his eyes.

  There was a sudden roar, and Garrow transformed into the Ra’zac. “Then die,” they hissed, and leapt at Eragon.

  He woke up feeling ill and watched the stars slowly turn in the sky.

  All will be well, little one, said Saphira gently.

  DARET

  Daret was on the banks of the Ninor River—as it had to be to survive. The village was small and wild-looking, without any signs of inhabitants. Eragon and Brom approached it with great caution. Saphira hid close to the town this time; if trouble arose, she would be at their sides within seconds.

  They rode into Daret, striving to be silent. Brom gripped his sword with his good hand, eyes flashing everywhere. Eragon kept his bow partially drawn as they passed between the silent houses, glancing at each other with apprehension. This doesn’t look good, commented Eragon to Saphira. She did not answer, but he felt her prepare to rush after them. He looked at the ground and was reassured to see the fresh footprints of children. But where are they?

  Brom stiffened as they entered the center of Daret and found it empty. Wind blew through the desolate town, and dust devils swirled sporadically. Brom wheeled Snowfire about. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t like the feel of this.” He spurred Snowfire into a gallop. Eragon followed him, urging Cadoc onward.

  They advanced only a few strides before wagons toppled out from behind the houses and blocked their way. Cadoc snorted and dug in his hooves, sliding to a stop next to Snowfire. A swarthy man hopped over the wagon and planted himself before them, a broadsword slung at his side and a drawn bow in his hands. Eragon swung his own bow up and pointed it at the stranger, who commanded, “Halt! Put your weapons down. You’re surrounded by sixty archers. They’ll shoot if you move.” As if on cue, a row of men stood up on the roofs of the surrounding houses.

  Stay away, Saphira! cried Eragon. There are too many. If you come, they’ll shoot you out of the sky. Stay away! She heard, but he was unsure if she would obey. He prepared to use magic. I’ll have to stop the arrows before they hit me or Brom.

  “What do you want?” asked Brom calmly.

  “Why have you come here?” demanded the man.

  “To buy supplies and hear the news. Nothing more. We’re on the way to my cousin’s house in Dras-Leona.”

  “You’re armed pretty heavily.”

  “So are you,” said Brom. “These are dangerous times.”

  “True.” The man looked at them carefully. “I don’t think you mean us ill, but we’ve had too many encounters with Urgals and bandits for me to trust you only on your word.”

  “If it doesn’t matter what we say, what happens now?” countered Brom. The men on top of the houses had not moved. By their very stillness, Eragon was sure that they were either highly disciplined . . . or frightened for their lives. He hoped it was the latter.

  “You say that you only want supplies. Would you agree to stay here while we bring what you need, then pay us and leave immediately?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” said the man, lowering his bow, though he kept it ready. He waved at one of the archers, who slid to the ground and ran over. “Tell him what you want.”

  Brom recited a short list and then added, “Also, if you have a spare pair of gloves that would fit my nephew, I’d like to buy those too.” The archer nodded and ran off.

  “The name’s Trevor,” said the man standing in front of them. “Normally I’d shake your hand, but under the circumstances, I think I’ll keep my distance. Tell me, where are you from?”

  “North,” said Brom, “but we haven’t lived in any place long enough to call it home. Have Urgals forced you to take these measures?”

  “Yes,” said Trevor, “and worse fiends. Do you have any news from other towns? We receive word from them rarely, but there have been reports that they are also beleaguered.”

  Brom turned grave. “I wish it wasn’t our lot to bring you these tidings. Nearly a fortnight ago we passed through Yazuac and found it pillaged. The villagers had been slaughtered and piled together. We would have tried to give them a decent burial, but two Urgals attacked us.”

  Shocked, Trevor stepped back and looked down with tears in his eyes. “Alas, this is indeed a dark day. Still, I don’t see how two Urgals could have defeated all of Yazuac. The people there were good fighters—some were my friends.”

  “There were signs that a band of Urgals had ravaged the town,” stated Brom. “I think the ones we encountered were deserters.”

  “How large was the company?”

  Brom fiddled with his saddlebags for a minute. “Large enough to wipe out Yazuac, but small enough to go unnoticed in the countryside. No more than a hundred, and no less than fifty. If I’m not mistaken, either number would prove fatal to you.” Trevor wearily agreed. “You should consider leaving,” Brom continued. “This area has become far too perilous for anyone to live in peace.”

  “I know, but the people here refuse to consider moving

. This is their home—as well as mine, though I have only been here a couple years—and they place its worth above their own lives.” Trevor looked at him seriously. “We have repulsed individual Urgals, and that has given the townspeople a confidence far beyond their abilities. I fear that we will all wake up one morning with our throats slashed.”

  The archer hurried out of a house with a pile of goods in his arms. He set them next to the horses, and Brom paid him. As the man left, Brom asked, “Why did they choose you to defend Daret?”

  Trevor shrugged. “I was in the king’s army for some years.”

  Brom dug through the items, handed Eragon the pair of gloves, and packed the rest of the supplies into their saddlebags. Eragon pulled the gloves on, being careful to keep his palm facing down, and flexed his hands. The leather felt good and strong, though it was scarred from use. “Well,” said Brom, “as I promised, we will go now.”

  Trevor nodded. “When you enter Dras-Leona, would you do us this favor? Alert the Empire to our plight and that of the other towns. If word of this hasn’t reached the king by now, it’s cause for worry. And if it has, but he has chosen to do nothing, that too is cause for worry.”

  “We will carry your message. May your swords stay sharp,” said Brom.

  “And yours.”

  The wagons were pulled out of their way, and they rode from Daret into the trees along the Ninor River. Eragon sent his thoughts to Saphira. We’re on our way back. Everything turned out all right. Her only response was simmering anger.

  Brom pulled at his beard. “The Empire is in worse condition than I had imagined. When the traders visited Carvahall, they brought reports of unrest, but I never believed that it was this widespread. With all these Urgals around, it seems that the Empire itself is under attack, yet no troops or soldiers have been sent out. It’s as if the king doesn’t care to defend his domain.”

  “It is strange,” agreed Eragon.

  Brom ducked under a low-hanging branch. “Did you use any of your powers while we were in Daret?”