agon of a kitten trying to bait an old tomcat into playing with her, only
Glaedr remained impassive throughout her machinations.
Saphira, he said. She responded with a distracted flicker of her
thoughts, barely acknowledging him. Saphira, answer me.
What?
I know you’re excited, but don’t make a fool of yourself.
You’ve made a fool of yourself plenty of times, she snapped.
Her reply was so unexpected, it stunned him. It was the sort of casually
cruel remark that humans often make, but that he had never thought to
hear from her. He finally managed to say, That doesn’t make it any better.
She grunted and closed her mind to his, although he could still feel the
thread of her emotions connecting them.
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Eragon returned to himself to find Oromis’s gray eyes heavy upon him.
The elf’s gaze was so perceptive, Eragon was sure that Oromis under-
stood what had transpired. Eragon forced a smile and motioned toward
Saphira. “Even though we’re linked, I can never predict what she’s going
to do. The more I learn about her, the more I realize how different we
are.”
Then Oromis made his first statement that Eragon thought was truly
wise: “Those whom we love are often the most alien to us.” The elf
paused. “She is very young, as are you. It took Glaedr and I decades be-
fore we fully understood each other. A Rider’s bond with his dragon is
like any relationship—that is, a work in progress. Do you trust her?”
“With my life.”
“And does she trust you?”
“Yes.”
“Then humor her. You were brought up as an orphan. She was brought
up to believe that she was the last sane individual of her entire race. And
now she has been proved wrong. Don’t be surprised if it takes some
months before she stops pestering Glaedr and returns her attention to
you.”
Eragon rolled a blueberry between his thumb and forefinger; his appe-
tite had vanished. “Why don’t elves eat meat?”
“Why should we?” Oromis held up a strawberry and rotated it so that
the light reflected off its dimpled skin and illuminated the tiny hairs that
bearded the fruit. “Everything that we need or want we sing from the
plants, including our food. It would be barbaric to make animals suffer
that we might have additional courses on the table.. . Our choice will
make greater sense to you before long.”
Eragon frowned. He had always eaten meat and did not look forward to
living solely on fruit and vegetables while in Ellesméra. “Don’t you miss
the taste?”
“You cannot miss that which you have never had.”
“What about Glaedr, though? He can’t live off grass.”
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“No, but neither does he needlessly inflict pain. We each do the best
we can with what we are given. You cannot help who or what you are
born as.”
“And Islanzadí? Her cape was made of swan feathers.”
“Loose feathers gathered over the course of many years. No birds were
killed to make her garment.”
They finished the meal, and Eragon helped Oromis to scour the dishes
clean with sand. As the elf stacked them in the cupboard, he asked, “Did
you bathe this morning?” The question startled Eragon, but he answered
that no, he had not. “Please do so tomorrow then, and every day follow-
ing.”
“Every day! The water’s too cold for that. I’ll catch the ague.”
Oromis eyed him oddly. “Then make it warmer.”
Now it was Eragon’s turn to look askance. “I’m not strong enough to
heat an entire stream with magic,” he protested.
The house echoed as Oromis laughed. Outside, Glaedr swung his head
toward the window and inspected the elf, then returned to his earlier po-
sition. “I assume that you explored your quarters last night.” Eragon nod-
ded. “And you saw a small room with a depression in the floor?”
“I thought that it might be for washing clothes or linens.”
“It is for washing you. Two nozzles are concealed in the side of the wall
above the hollow. Open them and you can bathe in water of any tem-
perature. Also,” he gestured at Eragon’s chin, “while you are my student, I
expect you to keep yourself clean-shaven until you can grow a full
beard—if you so choose—and not look like a tree with half its leaves
blown off. Elves do not shave, but I will have a razor and mirror found
and sent to you.”
Wincing at the blow to his pride, Eragon agreed. They returned out-
side, whereupon Oromis looked at Glaedr and the dragon said, We have
decided upon a curriculum for Saphira and you.
The elf said, “You will start—”
—an hour after sunrise tomorrow, in the time of the Red Lily. Return here
266
then.
“And bring the saddle that Brom made for you, Saphira,” continued
Oromis. “Do what you wish in the meantime; Ellesméra holds many
wonders for a foreigner, if you care to see them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Eragon, bowing his head. “Before I go, Mas-
ter, I want to thank you for helping me in Tronjheim after I killed Durza.
I doubt that I would have survived without your assistance. I am in your
debt.”
We are both in your debt, added Saphira.
Oromis smiled slightly and inclined his head.
267
THE SECRET LIVES OF ANTS
The moment that Oromis and Glaedr were out of sight, Saphira said,
Eragon, another dragon! Can you believe it?
He patted her shoulder. It’s wonderful. High above Du Weldenvarden,
the only sign of habitation in the forest was an occasional ghostly plume
of smoke that rose from the crown of a tree and soon faded into clear air.
I never expected to encounter another dragon, except for Shruikan. Maybe
rescue the eggs from Galbatorix, yes, but that was the extent of my hopes.
And now this! She wriggled underneath him with joy. Glaedr is incredible,
isn’t he? He’s so old and strong and his scales are so bright. He must be two,
no, three times bigger than me. Did you see his claws? They...
She continued on in that manner for several minutes, waxing eloquent
about Glaedr’s attributes. But stronger than her words were the emotions
Eragon sensed roiling within her: eagerness and enthusiasm, twined over
what he could only identify as a longing adoration.
Eragon tried to tell Saphira what he had learned from Oromis—since
he knew that she had not paid attention—but he found it impossible to
change the subject of conversation. He sat silently on her back, the world
an emerald ocean below, and felt himself the loneliest man in existence.
Back at their quarters, Eragon decided against any sightseeing; he was
far too tired from the day’s events and the weeks of traveling. And
Saphira was more than content to sit on her bed and chatter about
Glaedr while he examined the mysteries of the elves’ wash closet.
Morning came, and with it a package wrapped in onionskin paper con-
taining the razor and mirror that Oromis had promised. The blade was of
elvish make, so it needed no sharpening or stropping. Grimacing, Eragon
first bathed in steaming hot water, then held up the mirror and con-
fronted his visage.
I look older. Older and worn. Not only that, but his features had be-
come far more angled, giving him an ascetic, hawklike appearance. He
was no elf, but neither would anyone take him to be a purebred human
if they inspected him closely. Pulling back his hair, he bared his ears,
which now tapered to slight points, more evidence of how his bond with
268
Saphira had changed him. He touched one ear, letting his fingers wander
over the unfamiliar shape.
It was difficult for him to accept the transformation of his flesh. Even
though he had known it would occur—and occasionally welcomed the
prospect as the last confirmation that he was a Rider—the reality of it
filled him with confusion. He resented the fact that he had no say in how
his body was being altered, yet at the same time he was curious where
the process would take him. Also, he was aware that he was still in the
midst of his own, human adolescence, and its attendant realm of myster-
ies and difficulties.
When will I finally know who and what I am?
He placed the edge of the razor against his cheek, as he had seen Gar-
row do, and dragged it across his skin. The hairs came free, but they were
cut long and ragged. He altered the angle of the blade and tried again
with a bit more success.
When he reached his chin, though, the razor slipped in his hand and
cut him from the corner of his mouth to the underside of his jaw. He
howled and dropped the razor, clapping his hand over the incision, which
poured blood down his neck. Spitting the words past bared teeth, he said,
“Waíse heill.” The pain quickly receded as magic knitted his flesh back
together, though his heart still pounded from the shock.
Eragon! cried Saphira. She forced her head and shoulders into the vesti-
bule and nosed open the door to the closet, flaring her nostrils at the
scent of blood.
I’ll live, he assured her.
She eyed the sanguine water. Be more careful. I’d rather you were as
ragged as a molting deer than have you decapitate yourself for the sake of a
close shave.
So would I. Go on, I’m fine.
Saphira grunted and reluctantly withdrew.
Eragon sat, glaring at the razor. Finally, he muttered, “Forget this.”
Composing himself, he reviewed his store of words from the ancient lan-
guage, selected those that he needed, and then allowed his invented spell
to roll off his tongue. A faint stream of black powder fell from his face as
269
his stubble crumbled into dust, leaving his cheeks perfectly smooth.
Satisfied, Eragon went and saddled Saphira, who immediately took to
the air, aiming their course toward the Crags of Tel’naeír. They landed
before the hut and were met by Oromis and Glaedr.
Oromis examined Saphira’s saddle. He traced each strap with his fin-
gers, pausing on the stitching and buckles, and then pronounced it pass-
able handiwork considering how and when it had been constructed.
“Brom was always clever with his hands. Use this saddle when you must
travel with great speed. But when comfort is allowed—” He stepped into
his hut for a moment and reappeared carrying a thick, molded saddle
decorated with gilt designs along the seat and leg pieces. “—use this. It
was crafted in Vroengard and imbued with many spells so that it will
never fail you in time of need.”
Eragon staggered under the weight of the saddle as he received it from
Oromis. It had the same general shape as Brom’s, with a row of buckles—
intended to immobilize his legs—hanging from each side. The deep seat
was sculpted out of the leather in such a way that he could fly for hours
with ease, both sitting upright and lying flat against Saphira’s neck. Also,
the straps encircling Saphira’s chest were rigged with slips and knots so
that they could extend to accommodate years of growth. A series of
broad ties on either side of the head of the saddle caught Eragon’s atten-
tion. He asked their purpose.
Glaedr rumbled, Those secure your wrists and arms so that you are not
killed like a rat shaken to death when Saphira performs a complex maneu-
ver.
Oromis helped Eragon relieve Saphira of her current saddle. “Saphira,
you will go with Glaedr today, and I will work with Eragon here.”
As you wish, she said, and crowed with excitement. Heaving his golden
bulk off the ground, Glaedr soared off to the north, Saphira close behind.
Oromis did not give Eragon long to ponder Saphira’s departure; the elf
marched him to a square of hard-packed dirt beneath a willow tree at the
far side of the clearing. Standing opposite him in the square, Oromis said,
“What I am about to show you is called the Rimgar, or the Dance of
Snake and Crane. It is a series of poses that we developed to prepare our
warriors for combat, although all elves use it now to maintain their
health and fitness. The Rimgar consists of four levels, each more difficult
than the last. We will start with the first.”
270
Apprehension for the coming ordeal sickened Eragon to the point
where he could barely move. He clenched his fists and hunched his
shoulders, his scar tugging at the skin of his back as he glared between his
feet.
“Relax,” advised Oromis. Eragon jerked open his hands and let them
hang limply at the end of his rigid arms. “I asked you to relax, Eragon.
You can’t do the Rimgar if you are as stiff as a piece of rawhide.”
“Yes, Master.” Eragon grimaced and reluctantly loosened his muscles
and joints, although a knot of tension remained coiled in his belly.
“Place your feet together and your arms at your sides. Look straight
ahead. Now take a deep breath and lift your arms over your head so that
your palms meet. . Yes, like that. Exhale and bend down as far as you
can, put your palms on the ground, take another breath. . and jump back.
Good. Breathe in and bend up, looking toward the sky. . and exhale, lift-
ing your hips until you form a triangle. Breathe in through the back of
your throat. . and out. In. . and out. In. .”
To Eragon’s utter relief, the stances proved gentle enough to hold with-