A shadow seemed to flit across Arya’s face then, and she lowered her sword and stepped away.
Eragon rubbed his throat. “If you know so much about swordsmanship,” he said, “then why can’t you teach me to be better?”
Her emerald eyes burned with even greater force. “I’m trying,” she said, “but the problem is not here.” She tapped her sword against his right arm. “The problem is here.” She tapped his helm, metal clinking against metal. “And I don’t know how else to teach you what you need to learn except by showing you your mistakes over and over again until you stop making them.” She rapped his helm once more. “Even if it means I have to beat you black-and-blue in order to do it.”
That she continued to defeat him with such regularity hurt his pride far more than he was willing to admit, even to Saphira, and it made him doubt whether he would ever be able to triumph over Galbatorix, Murtagh, or any other truly formidable opponent, should he be so unfortunate as to face them in single combat without the help of Saphira or his magic.
Wheeling away from Arya, Eragon stomped over to a spot some ten yards distant.
“Well?” he said through clenched teeth. “Get on with it, then.” And he settled into a low crouch as he readied himself for another onslaught.
Arya narrowed her eyes to slits, which gave her angled face an evil look. “Very well.”
They rushed at each other, both shouting war cries, and the field echoed with the sounds of their furious clash. Match after match they fought, until they were tired, sweaty, and coated with dust, and Eragon was striped with many painful welts. And still they continued to dash themselves against one another with a grim-faced determination that had hitherto been absent from their duels. Neither of them asked to end their brutal, bruising contest, and neither of them offered to.
Saphira watched from the side of the field, where she lay sprawled across the springy mat of grass. For the most part, she kept her thoughts to herself, so as to avoid distracting Eragon, but every now and then she made a short observation about his technique or Arya’s, observations that Eragon invariably found helpful. Also, he suspected that she had intervened on more than one occasion to save him from a particularly dangerous blow, for at times his arms and legs seemed to move slightly faster than they should have, or even slightly before he intended to move them himself, and when that happened, he felt a tickle in the back of his mind that he knew meant Saphira was meddling with some part of his consciousness.
At last he asked her to stop. I have to be able to do this myself, Saphira, he said. You can’t help me every time I need it.
I can try.
I know. I feel the same way about you. But this is my mountain to climb, not yours.
The edge of her lip twitched. Why climb when you can fly? You’ll never get anywhere on those short little legs of yours.
That’s not true and you know it. Besides, if I were flying, it would be on borrowed wings, and I would gain nothing by it other than the cheap thrill of an unearned victory.
Victory is victory and dead is dead, however it is achieved.
Saphira … , he said warningly.
Little one.
Still, to his relief, she left him to his own devices after that, though she continued to watch him with unceasing vigilance.
Along with Saphira, the elves assigned to guard her and Eragon had gathered along the edge of the field. Their presence made Eragon uncomfortable—he disliked having anyone other than Saphira or Arya witness his failures—but he knew the elves would never agree to withdraw to the tents. In any event, they did serve one useful purpose aside from protecting him and Saphira: keeping the other warriors on the field from wandering over to gawk at a Rider and an elf going at it hammer and tongs. Not that Blödhgarm’s spellcasters did anything specific to discourage onlookers, but their very aspect was intimidating enough to ward off casual spectators.
The longer he fought with Arya, the more frustrated Eragon became. He won two of their matches—barely, frantically, with desperate ploys that succeeded more by luck than skill, and that he never would have attempted in a real duel unless he no longer cared for his own safety—but except for those isolated victories, Arya continued to beat him with depressing ease.
Eventually, Eragon’s anger and frustration boiled over, and all sense of proportion deserted him. Inspired by the methods that had granted him his few successes, Eragon lifted his right arm and prepared to throw Brisingr at Arya, even as he might a battle-ax.
Just at that moment, another mind touched Eragon’s, a mind that Eragon instantly knew belonged to neither Arya nor Saphira, nor any of the other elves, for it was unmistakably male, and it was unmistakably dragon. Eragon recoiled from the contact, racing to order his thoughts so as to ward off what he feared was an attack by Thorn. But before he could, an immense voice echoed through the shadowed byways of his consciousness, like the sound of a mountain shifting under its own weight:
Enough, said Glaedr.
Eragon stiffened and stumbled forward a half step, rising onto the balls of his feet, as he stopped himself from throwing Brisingr. He saw or sensed Arya, Saphira, and Blödhgarm’s spellcasters react as well, stirring with surprise, and he knew that they too had heard Glaedr.
The dragon’s mind felt much the same as before—old and unfathomable and torn with grief. But for the first time since Oromis’s death at Gil’ead, Glaedr seemed possessed of an urge to do something other than sink ever deeper into the all-enveloping morass of his private torments.
Glaedr-elda! Eragon and Saphira said at the same time.
How are you—
Are you all right—
Did you—
Others spoke as well—Arya; Blödhgarm; two more of the elves, whom Eragon could not identify—and their mass of conflicting words clattered together in an incomprehensible discord.
Enough, Glaedr repeated, sounding both weary and exasperated. Do you wish to attract unwanted attention?
At once everyone fell silent as they waited to hear what the golden dragon would say next. Excited, Eragon exchanged glances with Arya.
Glaedr did not speak immediately, but watched them for another few minutes, his presence weighing heavily against Eragon’s consciousness, even as Eragon was sure it did with the others.
Then, in his sonorous, magisterial voice, Glaedr said, This has gone on long enough. … Eragon, you should not spend so much time sparring. It is distracting you from more important matters. The sword in Galbatorix’s hand is not what you need fear the most, nor the sword in his mouth, but rather the sword in his mind. His greatest talent lies in his ability to worm his way into the smallest parts of your being and force you to obey his will. Instead of these bouts with Arya, you should concentrate on improving your mastery over your thoughts; they are still woefully undisciplined. … Why, then, do you still persist with this futile endeavor?
A host of answers leaped to the forefront of Eragon’s mind: that he enjoyed crossing blades with Arya, despite the aggravation it caused him; that he wanted to be the very best sword fighter he could—the very best in the world, if possible; that the exercise helped calm his nerves and shape his body; and many more reasons besides. He tried to suppress the welter of thoughts, both to preserve some measure of privacy and to avoid inundating Glaedr with unwanted information, thus confirming the dragon’s opinion about his lack of discipline. He did not entirely succeed, however, and a faint air of disappointment emanated from Glaedr.
Eragon chose his strongest arguments. If I can hold Galbatorix off with my mind—even if I can’t beat him—if I can just hold him off, then this may still be decided by the sword. In any case, the king isn’t the only enemy we should be worried about: there’s Murtagh, for one, and who knows what other kinds of men or creatures Galbatorix has in his service? I wasn’t able to defeat Durza by myself, nor Varaug, nor even Murtagh. Always I’ve had help. But I can’t rely on Arya or Saphira or Blödhgarm to rescue me every time I get into trouble. I have to b
e better with a blade, and yet I can’t seem to make any progress, no matter how hard I try.
Varaug? Glaedr queried. I have not heard that name before.
It fell to Eragon, then, to tell Glaedr about the capture of Feinster and how he and Arya had killed the newly born Shade even as Oromis and Glaedr had met their deaths—differing kinds of deaths, but both still mortal ends—while battling in the skies over Gil’ead. Eragon also summarized the Varden’s activities thereafter, for he realized that Glaedr had kept himself so isolated, he had little knowledge of them. The account took Eragon several minutes to deliver, during which time he and the elves stood frozen on the field, staring past each other with unseeing eyes, their attention turned inward as they concentrated on the rapid exchange of thoughts, images, and feelings.
Another long silence followed as Glaedr digested what he had learned. When he again deigned to speak, it was with a tinge of amusement: You are overly ambitious if your goal is to be able to kill Shades with impunity. Even the oldest and wisest of the Riders would have hesitated to attack a Shade alone. You have already survived encounters with two of them, which is two more than most. Be grateful you have been so lucky and leave it at that. Trying to outmatch a Shade is like trying to fly higher than the sun.
Yes, replied Eragon, but our foes are as strong as Shades or even stronger, and Galbatorix may create more of them just to slow our progress. He uses them carelessly, without heed for the destruction they could cause throughout the land.
Ebrithil, said Arya, he is right. Our enemies are deadly in the extreme … as you well know—this she added in a gentle tone—and Eragon is not at the level he needs to be. To prepare for what lies before us, he has to attain mastery. I have done my best to teach him, but mastery ultimately must come from within, not without.
Her defense of him warmed Eragon’s heart.
As before, Glaedr was slow to respond. Nor has Eragon mastered his thoughts, as he must also do. Neither of these abilities, mental or physical, is of much use alone, but of the two, the mental is more important. One can win a battle against both a spellcaster and a swordsman with the mind alone. Your mind and your body ought to be in balance, but if you must choose which of them to train, you should choose your mind. Arya … Blödhgarm … Yaela … you know this is true. Why have none of you taken it upon yourselves to continue Eragon’s instruction in this area?
Arya cast her eyes at the ground, somewhat like a chastised child, while the fur on Blödhgarm’s shoulders rippled and stood on end, and he pulled back his lips to reveal the tips of his sharp white fangs.
It was Blödhgarm who finally dared reply. Speaking wholly in the ancient language, the first to do so, he said, Arya is here as the ambassador of our people. I and my band are here to protect the lives of Saphira Brightscales and Eragon Shadeslayer, and it has been a difficult and time-consuming task. We have all tried to help Eragon, but it is not our place to train a Rider, nor would we presume to attempt it when one of his rightful masters was still alive and present … even if that master was neglecting his duty.
Dark clouds of anger gathered within Glaedr, like massive thunderheads building on the horizon. Eragon distanced himself from Glaedr’s consciousness, wary of the dragon’s wrath. Glaedr was no longer capable of physically harming anyone, but he was still incredibly dangerous, and should he lose control and lash out with his mind, none of them would be able to withstand his might.
Blödhgarm’s rudeness and insensitivity initially shocked Eragon—he had never heard an elf speak to a dragon like that before—but after a moment’s reflection, Eragon realized that Blödhgarm must have done it to draw Glaedr out and prevent him from retreating into his shell of misery. Eragon admired the elf’s courage, but he wondered whether insulting Glaedr was really the best approach. It certainly wasn’t the safest plan.
The billowing thunderheads swelled in size, illuminated by brief, lightning-like flashes, as Glaedr’s mind jumped from one thought to another. You have overstepped your bounds, elf, he growled, also in the ancient language. My actions are not for you to question. You cannot even begin to comprehend what I have lost. If it were not for Eragon and Saphira and my duty to them, I would have gone mad long ago. So do not accuse me of negligence, Blödhgarm, son of Ildrid, unless you wish to test yourself against the last of the high Old Ones.
Baring his teeth even more, Blödhgarm hissed. In spite of that, Eragon detected a hint of satisfaction in the elf’s visage. To Eragon’s dismay, Blödhgarm pressed on, saying, Then do not blame us for failing to fulfill what are your responsibilities, not ours, Old One. Our whole race mourns your loss, but you cannot expect us to make allowances for your self-pity when we are at war with the most deadly enemy in our history—the same enemy who exterminated nearly every one of your kind, and who also killed your Rider.
Glaedr’s fury was volcanic. Black and terrible, it battered against Eragon with such force, he felt as if the fabric of his being might split asunder, like a sail caught in the wind. On the other side of the field, he saw men drop their weapons and clutch at their heads, grimacing with pain.
My self-pity? said Glaedr, forcing out each word, and each word sounding like a pronouncement of doom. In the recesses of the dragon’s mind, Eragon sensed something unpleasant taking shape that, if allowed to reach fruition, might be the cause of much sorrow and regret.
Then Saphira spoke, and her mental voice cut through Glaedr’s churning emotions like a knife through water. Master, she said, I have been worried about you. It is good to know that you are well and strong again. None of us are your equal, and we have need of your help. Without you, we cannot hope to defeat the Empire.
Glaedr rumbled ominously, but he did not ignore, interrupt, or insult her. Indeed, her praise seemed to please him, even if only a little. After all, as Eragon reflected, if there was one thing dragons were susceptible to, it was flattery, as Saphira was well aware.
Without pausing to allow Glaedr to respond, Saphira said, Since you no longer have use of your wings, let me offer my own as a replacement. The air is calm, the sky is clear, and it would be a joy to fly high above the ground, higher than even the eagles dare soar. After so long trapped within your heart of hearts, you must yearn to leave all this behind and feel the currents of air rising beneath you once more.
The black storm within Glaedr abated somewhat, although it remained vast and threatening, teetering on the edge of renewed violence. That … would be pleasant.
Then we shall fly together soon. But, Master?
Yes, youngling?
There is something I wish to ask of you first.
Then ask it.
Will you help Eragon with his swordsmanship? Can you help him? He isn’t as skilled as he needs to be, and I don’t want to lose my Rider. Saphira remained dignified throughout, but there was a note of pleading in her voice that caused Eragon’s throat to tighten.
The thunderheads collapsed inward on themselves, leaving behind a bare gray landscape that seemed inexpressibly sad to Eragon. Glaedr paused. Strange, half-seen shapes moved slowly along the edge of the landscape—hulking monoliths that Eragon had no desire to meet up close.
Very well, Glaedr said at long last. I will do what I can for your Rider, but after we are done on this field, he must let me teach him as I see fit.
Agreed, said Saphira. Eragon saw Arya and the other elves relax, as if they had been holding their breath.
Eragon withdrew from the others for a moment as Trianna and several other magicians who served in the Varden contacted him, each demanding to know what they had just felt tearing at their minds and what had so upset the men and animals in the camp. Trianna overrode the others, saying, Are we under attack, Shadeslayer? Is it Thorn? Is it Shruikan?! Her panic was so strong, it made Eragon want to throw down his sword and shield and run for safety.
No, everything is fine, he said as evenly as he could. Glaedr’s existence was still a secret to most of the Varden, including Trianna and the magicians who answe
red to her. Eragon wanted to keep it that way, lest word of the golden dragon should reach the Empire’s spies. Lying while in communication with another person’s mind was difficult in the extreme—since it was nearly impossible to avoid thinking about whatever it was you wanted to keep hidden—so Eragon kept the conversation as short as he could. The elves and I were practicing magic. I’ll explain it later, but there’s no need to be worried.
He could tell that his reassurances did not entirely convince them, but they dared not press him for a more detailed explanation and bade him farewell before walling off their minds from his inner eye.
Arya must have noticed a change in his bearing, for she walked over to him and, in a low murmur, asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” Eragon replied in a similar undertone. He nodded toward the men who were picking up their weapons. “I had to answer a few questions.”
“Ah. You didn’t tell them who—”
“Of course not.”
Take up your positions as before, Glaedr rumbled, and Eragon and Arya separated and paced off twenty feet in either direction.
Knowing that it might be a mistake but unable to restrain himself, Eragon said, Master, can you really teach me what I need to know before we reach Urû’baen? So little time is left to us, I—
I can teach you right now, if you will listen to me, said Glaedr. But you will have to listen harder than ever before.
I am listening, Master. Still, Eragon could not help wondering how much the dragon really knew about sword fighting. Glaedr would have learned a great deal from Oromis, even as Saphira had learned from Eragon, but despite those shared experiences, Glaedr had never held a sword himself—how could he have? Glaedr instructing Eragon on fencing would be like Eragon instructing a dragon on how to navigate the thermals rising off the side of a mountain; Eragon could do it, but he would not be able to explain it as well as Saphira, for his knowledge was secondhand, and no amount of abstract contemplation could overcome that disadvantage.