guage, he indulged in several more pungent oaths.
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“Do not befoul the air,” said Oromis mildly. “It ill becomes you. . In any
case, I suspect the Twins allowed you into battle unprotected not so you
would be killed, but so that Durza could capture you.”
“What?”
“By your own account, Ajihad suspected that the Varden had been be-
trayed when Galbatorix began persecuting their allies in the Empire with
near-perfect accuracy. The Twins were privy to the identities of the
Varden’s collaborators. Also, the Twins lured you to the heart of Tron-
jheim, thereby separating you from Saphira and placing you within
Durza’s reach. That they were traitors is the logical explanation.”
“If they were traitors,” said Eragon, “it doesn’t matter now; they’re long
dead.”
Oromis inclined his head. “Even so. Arya said that the Urgals did have
magicians in Farthen Dûr and that she fought many of them. None of
them attacked you?”
“No, Master.”
“More evidence that you and Saphira were left for Durza to capture
and take to Galbatorix. The trap was well laid.”
Over the next hour, Oromis taught Eragon twelve methods to kill,
none of which took more energy than lifting an ink-laden pen. As he fin-
ished memorizing the last one, a thought struck Eragon that caused him
to grin. “The Ra’zac won’t stand a chance the next time they cross my
path.”
“You must still be wary of them,” cautioned Oromis.
“Why? Three words and they’ll be dead.”
“What do ospreys eat?”
Eragon blinked. “Fish, of course.”
“And if a fish were slightly faster and more intelligent than its brethren,
would it be able to escape a hunting osprey?”
“I doubt it,” said Eragon. “At least not for very long.”
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“Just as ospreys are designed to be the best possible hunters of fish,
wolves are designed to be the best hunters of deer and other large game,
and every animal is gifted to best suit its purpose. So too are the Ra’zac
designed to prey upon humans. They are the monsters in the dark, the
dripping nightmares that haunt your race.”
The back of Eragon’s neck prickled with horror. “What manner of crea-
tures are they?”
“Neither elf; man; dwarf; dragon; furred, finned, or feathered beast; rep-
tile; insect; nor any other category of animal.”
Eragon forced a laugh. “Are they plants, then?”
“Nor that either. They reproduce by laying eggs, like dragons. When
they hatch, the young—or pupae—grow black exoskeletons that mimic
the human form. It’s a grotesque imitation, but convincing enough to let
the Ra’zac approach their victims without undo alarm. All areas where
humans are weak, the Ra’zac are strong. They can see on a cloudy night,
track a scent like a bloodhound, jump higher, and move faster. However,
bright light pains them and they have a morbid fear of deep water, for
they cannot swim. Their greatest weapon is their evil breath, which fogs
the minds of humans—incapacitating many—though it is less potent on
dwarves, and elves are immune altogether.”
Eragon shivered as he remembered his first sight of the Ra’zac in Car-
vahall and how he had been unable to flee once they noticed him. “It felt
like a dream where I wanted to run but I couldn’t move, no matter how
hard I tried.”
“As good a description as any,” said Oromis. “Though the Ra’zac cannot
use magic, they are not to be underestimated. If they know that you hunt
them, they will not reveal themselves but keep to the shadows, where
they are strong, and plot to ambush you as they did by Dras-Leona. Even
Brom’s experience could not protect him from them. Never grow over-
confident, Eragon. Never grow arrogant, for then you will be careless and
your enemies will exploit your weakness.”
“Yes, Master.”
Oromis fixed Eragon with a steady gaze. “The Ra’zac remain pupae for
twenty years while they mature. On the first full moon of their twentieth
year, they shed their exoskeletons, spread their wings, and emerge as
adults ready to hunt all creatures, not just humans.”
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“Then the Ra’zac’s mounts, the ones they fly on, are really. .”
“Aye, their parents.”
358
IMAGE OF PERFECTION
At last I understand the nature of my enemies, thought Eragon. He had
feared the Ra’zac ever since they first appeared in Carvahall, not only be-
cause of their villainous deeds but because he knew so little about the
creatures. In his ignorance, he credited the Ra’zac with more powers than
they actually possessed and regarded them with an almost superstitious
dread. Nightmares indeed. But now that Oromis’s explanation had
stripped away the Ra’zac’s aura of mystery, they no longer seemed quite
so formidable. The fact that they were vulnerable to light and water
strengthened Eragon’s conviction that when next they met, he would de-
stroy the monsters that had killed Garrow and Brom.
“Are their parents called Ra’zac as well?” he asked.
Oromis shook his head. “Lethrblaka, we named them. And whereas
their offspring are narrow-minded, if cunning, Lethrblaka have all the in-
telligence of a dragon. A cruel, vicious, and twisted dragon.”
“Where do they come from?”
“From whatever land your ancestors abandoned. Their depredations
may have been what forced King Palancar to emigrate. When we, the
Riders, became aware of the Ra’zac’s foul presence in Alagaësia, we did
our best to eradicate them, as we would leaf blight. Unfortunately, we
were only partially successful. Two Lethrblaka escaped, and they along
with their pupae are the ones who have caused you so much grief. After
he killed Vrael, Galbatorix sought them out and bargained for their ser-
vices in return for his protection and a guaranteed amount of their favor-
ite food. That is why Galbatorix allows them to live by Dras-Leona, one
of the Empire’s largest cities.”
Eragon’s jaw tightened. “They have much to answer for.” And they will,
if I have my way.
“That they do,” Oromis agreed. Returning to the hut, he stepped
through the black shadow of the doorway, then reappeared carrying a
half-dozen slate tablets about a half-foot wide and a foot high. He pre-
sented one to Eragon. “Let us abandon such unpleasant topics for a time. I
thought you might enjoy learning how to make a fairth. It is an excellent
device for focusing your thoughts. The slate is impregnated with enough
ink to cover it with any combination of colors. All you need do is con-
centrate upon the image that you wish to capture and then say, ‘Let that
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which I see in my mind’s eye be replicated on the surface of this tablet.’ ”
As Eragon examined the clay-smooth slate, Oromis gestured at the clear-
ing. “Look about you, Eragon, and find something worth preserving.”
The first objects that Eragon noticed seemed too obvious, too banal to
him: a yellow lily by his feet, Oromis’s overgrown hut, the white stream,
and the landscape itself. None were unique. None would give an observer
an insight into the subject of the fairth or he who had created it. Things
that change and are lost, that is what’s worth preserving, he thought. His
eye alighted upon the pale green nubs of spring growth at the tip of a
tree’s branches and then the deep, narrow wound that seamed the trunk
where a storm had broken a bough, tearing off a rope of bark with it.
Translucent orbs of sap encrusted the seam, catching and refracting the
light.
Eragon positioned himself alongside the trunk so that the rotund galls
of the tree’s congealed blood bulged out in silhouette and were framed by
a cluster of shiny new needles. Then he fixed the scene in his mind as
best he could and uttered the spell.
The surface of the gray tablet brightened as splashes of color bloomed
across it, blending and mixing to produce the proper array of hues. When
the pigments at last stopped moving, Eragon found himself looking at a
strange copy of what he had wanted to reproduce. The sap and needles
were rendered with vibrant, razor-sharp detail, while all else was slurred
and bleary, as if seen through half-opened eyes. It was far removed from
the universal clarity of Oromis’s fairth of Ilirea.
At a sign from Oromis, Eragon handed the tablet to him. The elf stud-
ied it for a minute, then said, “You have an unusual way of thinking, Er-
agon-finiarel. Most humans have difficulty achieving the proper concen-
tration to create a recognizable image. You, on the other hand, seem to
observe nearly everything about whatever interests you. It’s a narrow fo-
cus, though. You have the same problem here that you do with your
meditation. You must relax, broaden your field of vision, and allow your-
self to absorb everything around you without judging what is important
or not.” Setting aside the picture, Oromis took a second, blank tablet
from the grass and gave it to Eragon. “Try again with what I—”
“Hail, Rider!”
Startled, Eragon turned and saw Orik and Arya emerge side by side
from the forest. The dwarf raised his arm in greeting. His beard was
freshly trimmed and braided, his hair was pulled back into a neat pony-
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tail, and he wore a new tunic—courtesy of the elves—that was red and
brown and embroidered with gold thread. His appearance gave no indica-
tion of his condition the previous night.
Eragon, Oromis, and Arya exchanged the traditional greeting, then,
abandoning the ancient language, Oromis asked, “To what may I attribute
this visit? You are both welcome to my hut, but as you can see, I am in
the midst of working with Eragon, and that is of paramount importance.”
“I apologize for disturbing you, Oromis-elda,” said Arya, “but—”
“The fault is mine,” said Orik. He glanced at Eragon before continuing:
“I was sent here by Hrothgar to ensure that Eragon receives the instruc-
tion he is due. I have no doubt that he is, but I am obliged to see his
training with my own eyes so that when I return to Tronjheim, I may
give my king a true account of events.”
Oromis said, “That which I teach Eragon is not to be shared with any-
one else. The secrets of the Riders are for him alone.”
“And I understand that. However, we live in uncertain times; the stone
that once was fixed and solid is now unstable. We must adapt to survive.
So much depends on Eragon, we dwarves have a right to verify that his
training proceeds as promised. Do you believe our request is an unrea-
sonable one?”
“Well spoken, Master Dwarf,” said Oromis. He tapped his fingers to-
gether, inscrutable as always. “May I assume, then, that this is a matter of
duty for you?”
“Duty and honor.”
“And neither will allow you to yield on this point?”
“I fear not, Oromis-elda,” said Orik.
“Very well. You may stay and watch for the duration of this lesson.
Will that satisfy you?”
Orik frowned. “Are you near the end of the lesson?”
“We have just begun.”
“Then yes, I will be satisfied. For the moment, at least.”
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While they spoke, Eragon tried to catch Arya’s eye, but she kept her at-
tention centered on Oromis.
“. . Eragon!”
He blinked, jolted out of his reverie. “Yes, Master?”
“Don’t wander, Eragon. I want you to make another fairth. Keep your
mind open, like I told you before.”
“Yes, Master.” Eragon hefted the tablet, his hands slightly damp at the
thought of having Orik and Arya there to judge his performance. He
wanted to do well in order to prove that Oromis was a good teacher.
Even so, he could not concentrate on the pine needles and sap; Arya
tugged at him like a lodestone, drawing his attention back to her when-
ever he thought of something else.
At last he realized that it was futile for him to resist the attraction. He
composed an image of her in his head—which took but a heartbeat, since
he knew her features better than his own—and voiced the spell in the
ancient language, pouring all of his adoration, love, and fear of her into
the currents of fey magic.
The result left him speechless.
The fairth depicted Arya’s head and shoulders against a dark, indistinct
background. She was bathed in firelight on her right side and gazed out at
the viewer with knowing eyes, appearing not just as she was but as he
thought of her: mysterious, exotic, and the most beautiful woman he had
ever seen. It was a flawed, imperfect picture, but it possessed such inten-
sity and passion that it evoked a visceral response from Eragon. Is this
how I really see her? Whoever this woman was, she was so wise, so pow-
erful, and so hypnotic, she could consume any lesser man.
From a great distance, he heard Saphira whisper, Be careful....
“What have you wrought, Eragon?” demanded Oromis.
“I. . I don’t know.” Eragon hesitated as Oromis extended his hand for
the fairth, reluctant to let the others examine his work, especially Arya.
After a long, terrifying pause, Eragon pried his fingers off the tablet and
released it to Oromis.
362
The elf’s expression grew stern as he looked at the fairth, then back at