Christopher Paolini - Eragon [en]

Orik smiled. “Oeí, that’s because you bruise everyone from head to toe with your monster sword.”

“Everyone except you,” he corrected.

“That’s because I’m faster than a giant like you.”

The man looked at Eragon again. “I’m Fredric. I’ve been told to find out what you can do. How strong are you?”

“Strong enough,” answered Eragon. “I have to be in order to fight with magic.”

Fredric shook his head; the coif clinked like a bag of coins. “Magic has no place in what we do here. Unless you’ve served in an army, I doubt any fights you’ve been in lasted more than a few minutes. What we’re concerned about is how you’ll be able to hold up in a battle that may drag on for hours, or even weeks if it’s a siege. Do you know how to use any weapons besides that sword and bow?”

Eragon thought about it. “Only my fists.”

“Good answer!” laughed Fredric. “Well, we’ll start you off with the bow and see how you do. Then once some space has cleared up on the field, we’ll try—” He broke off suddenly and stared past Eragon, scowling angrily.

The Twins stalked toward them, their bald heads pale against their purple robes. Orik muttered something in his own language as he slipped his war ax out of his belt. “I told you two to stay away from the training area,” said Fredric, stepping forward threateningly. The Twins seemed frail before his bulk.

They looked at him arrogantly. “We were ordered by Ajihad to test Eragon’s proficiency with magic— before you exhaust him banging on pieces of metal.”

Fredric glowered. “Why can’t someone else test him?”

“No one else is powerful enough,” sniffed the Twins. Saphira rumbled deeply and glared at them. A line of smoke trickled from her nostrils, but they ignored her. “Come with us,” they ordered, and strode to an empty corner of the field.

Shrugging, Eragon followed with Saphira. Behind him he heard Fredric say to Orik, “We have to stop them from going too far.”

“I know,” answered Orik in a low voice, “but I can’t interfere again. Hrothgar made it clear he won’t be able to protect me the next time it happens.”

Eragon forced back his growing apprehension. The Twins might know more techniques and words... Still, he remembered what Brom had told him: Riders were stronger in magic than ordinary men. But would that be enough to resist the combined power of the Twins?

Don’t worry so much; I will help you, said Saphira. There are two of us as well.

He touched her gently on the leg, relieved by her words. The Twins looked at Eragon and asked, “And how do you answer us, Eragon?”

Overlooking the puzzled expressions of his companions, he said flatly, “No.”

Sharp lines appeared at the corners of the Twins’ mouths. They turned so they faced Eragon obliquely and, bending at the waists, drew a large pentagram on the ground. They stepped in the middle of it, then said harshly, “We begin now. You will attempt to complete the tasks we assign you... that is all.”

One of the Twins reached into his robe, produced a polished rock the size of Eragon’s fist, and set it on the ground. “Lift it to eye level.”

That’s easy enough, commented Eragon to Saphira. “Stenr reisa!” The rock wobbled, then smoothly rose from the ground. Before it went more than a foot, an unexpected resistance halted it in midair. A smile touched the Twins’ lips. Eragon stared at them, enraged — they were trying to make him fail! If he became exhausted now, it would be impossible to complete the harder tasks. Obviously they were confident that their combined strength could easily wear him down.

But I’m not alone either, snarled Eragon to himself. Saphira, now! Her mind melded with his, and the rock jerked through the air to stop, quivering, at eye level. The Twins’ eyes narrowed cruelly.

“Very... good,” they hissed. Fredric looked unnerved by the display of magic. “Now move the stone in a circle.” Again Eragon struggled against their efforts to stop him, and again — to their obvious anger — he prevailed. The exercises quickly increased in complexity and difficulty until Eragon was forced to think carefully about which words to use. And each time, the Twins fought him bitterly, though the strain never showed on their faces.

It was only with Saphira’s support that Eragon was able to hold his ground. In a break between two of the tasks, he asked her, Why do they continue this testing? Our abilities were clear enough from what they saw in my mind. She cocked her head thoughtfully. You know what? he said grimly as comprehension came to him. They’re using this as an opportunity to figure out what ancient words I know and perhaps learn new ones themselves.

Speak softly then, so that they cannot hear you, and use the simplest words possible.

From then on, Eragon used only a handful of basic words to complete the tasks. But finding ways to make them perform in the same manner as a long sentence or phrase stretched his ingenuity to the limit. He was rewarded by the frustration that contorted the Twins’ faces as he foiled them again and again. No matter what they tried, they could not get him to use any more words in the ancient language.

More than an hour passed, but the Twins showed no sign of stopping. Eragon was hot and thirsty, but refrained from asking for a reprieve — he would continue as long as they did. There were many tests: manipulating water, casting fire, scrying, juggling rocks, hardening leather, freezing items, controlling the flight of an arrow, and healing scratches. He wondered how long it would take for the Twins to run out of ideas.

Finally the Twins raised their hands and said, “There is only one thing left to do. It is simple enough — any competent user of magic should find this easy.” One of them removed a silver ring from his finger and smugly handed it to Eragon. “Summon the essence of silver.”

Eragon stared at the ring in confusion. What was he supposed to do? The essence of silver, what was that? And how was it to be summoned? Saphira had no idea, and the Twins were not going to help. He had never learned silver’s name in the ancient language, though he knew it had to be part of argetlam. In desperation he combined the only word that might work, ethgrí, or “invoke,” with arget.

Drawing himself upright, he gathered together what power he had left and parted his lips to deliver the invocation. Suddenly a clear, vibrant voice split the air.

“Stop!”

The word rushed over Eragon like cool water — the voice was strangely familiar, like a half-remembered melody. The back of his neck tingled. He slowly turned toward its source.

A lone figure stood behind them: Arya. A leather strip encircled her brow, restraining her voluminous black hair, which tumbled behind her shoulders in a lustrous cascade. Her slender sword was at her hip, her bow on her back. Plain black leather clothed her shapely frame, poor raiment for one so fair. She was taller than most men, and her stance was perfectly balanced and relaxed. An unmarked face reflected none of the horrific abuse she had endured.

Arya’s blazing emerald eyes were fixed on the Twins, who had turned pale with fright. She approached on silent footsteps and said in soft, menacing tones, “Shame! Shame to ask of him what only a master can do. Shame that you should use such methods. Shame that you told Ajihad you didn’t know Eragon’s abilities. He is competent. Now leave!” Arya frowned dangerously, her slanted eyebrows meeting like lightning bolts in a sharp V, and pointed at the ring in Eragon’s hand. “Arget!” she exclaimed thunderously.