Eragon looked at Angela, and she at him, and then they both began to laugh.
RUMORS AND WRITING
t’s late, said Saphira as Eragon sauntered toward his tent, beside which she lay coiled, sparkling like a mound of azure coals in the dim light of the torches. She regarded him with a single, heavy-lidded eye.
He crouched by her head and pressed his brow against hers for several moments, hugging her spiky jaw. So it is, he said at last. And you need your rest after flying into the wind all day. Sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.
She blinked once in acknowledgment.
Inside his tent, Eragon lit a single candle for comfort. Then he pulled off his boots and sat on his cot with his legs folded under him. He slowed his breathing and allowed his mind to open and expand outward to touch all of the living things around him, from the worms and the insects in the ground to Saphira and the warriors of the Varden, and even the few remaining plants nearby, the energy from which was pale and hard to see compared with the burning brilliance of even the smallest animal.
For a long while, he sat there, empty of thoughts, aware of a thousand sensations, the sharp and the subtle, concentrating on nothing but the steady inflow and outflow of air in his lungs.
Off in the distance, he heard men talking as they stood around a watchfire. The night air carried their voices farther than they intended, far enough that his keen ears were able to make out their words. He could sense their minds as well, and he could have read their thoughts had he wanted, but instead he chose to respect their innermost privacy and merely listen.
A deep-voiced fellow was saying, “—and the way they stare down their noses at you, as if you’re the lowest of the low. Half the time they won’t even talk to you when you ask them a friendly question. They just turn their shoulder and walk away.”
“Aye,” said another man. “And their women—as beautiful as statues and about half as inviting.”
“That’s because you’re a right ugly bastard, Svern, that’s why.”
“It’s not my fault my father had a habit of seducing milkmaids wherever he went. Besides, you’re hardly one to point fingers; you could give children nightmares with that face of yours.”
The deep-voiced warrior grunted; then someone coughed and spat, and Eragon heard the sizzle of moisture evaporating as it struck a piece of burning wood.
A third speaker entered the conversation: “I don’t like the elves any more than you do, but we need them to win this war.”
“What if they turn on us afterward, though?” asked the deep-voiced man.
“Hear, hear,” added Svern. “Look what happened at Ceunon and Gil’ead. All his men, all his power, and Galbatorix still couldn’t stop them from swarming over the walls.”
“Maybe he wasn’t trying,” suggested the third speaker.
A long pause followed.
Then the deep-voiced man said, “Now, there’s a singularly unpleasant thought.… Still, whether he was or wasn’t, I don’t see how we could hold off the elves if they decided to reclaim their old territories. They’re faster and stronger than we are, and unlike us, there’s not one of them who can’t use magic.”
“Ah, but we have Eragon,” Svern countered. “He could drive them back to their forest all by himself, if he wanted to.”
“Him? Bah! He looks more like an elf than he does his own flesh and blood. I wouldn’t count on his loyalty any more than the Urgals’.”
The third man spoke up again: “Have you noticed, he’s always freshly shaven, no matter how early in the morning we break camp?”
“He must use magic for a razor.”
“Goes against the natural order of things, it does. That and all the other spells being tossed around nowadays. Makes you want to hide in a cave somewhere and let the magicians kill each other off without any interference from us.”
“I don’t seem to recall you complaining when the healers used a spell instead of a pair of tongs to remove that arrow from your shoulder.”
“Maybe, but the arrow never would have ended up in my shoulder if it weren’t for Galbatorix. And it’s him and his magic that’s caused this whole mess.”
Someone snorted. “True enough, but I’d bet every last copper I have that, Galbatorix or no, you still would’ve ended up with an arrow sticking out of you. You’re too mean to do anything other than fight.”
“Eragon saved my life in Feinster, you know,” said Svern.
“Aye, and if you bore us with the story one more time, I’ll have you scrubbing pots for a week.”
“Well, he did.…”
There was another silence, which was broken when the deep-voiced warrior sighed. “We need a way to protect ourselves. That’s the problem. We’re at the mercy of the elves, the magicians—ours and theirs—and every other strange creature that roams the land. It’s all well and fine for the likes of Eragon, but we’re not so fortunate. What we need is—”
“What we need,” said Svern, “are the Riders. They’d put the world in order.”
“Pfft. With what dragons? You can’t have Riders without dragons. Besides, we still wouldn’t be able to defend ourselves, and that’s what bothers me. I’m not a child to go hiding behind my mother’s skirts, but if a Shade were to appear out of the night, there isn’t a blasted thing we could do to keep it from tearing our heads off.”
“That reminds me, did you hear about Lord Barst?” asked the third man.
Svern uttered a sound of agreement. “I heard he ate his heart afterward.”
“What’s this now?” asked the deep-voiced warrior.
“Barst—”
“Barst?”
“You know, the earl with an estate up by Gil’ead—”
“Isn’t he the one who drove his horses into the Ramr just to spite—”
“Aye, that’s the one. Anyway, so he goes to this village and orders all the men to join Galbatorix’s army. Same story as always. Only, the men refuse, and they attack Barst and his soldiers.”
“Brave,” said the deep-voiced man. “Stupid, but brave.”
“Well, Barst was too clever for them; he had archers posted around the village before he went in. The soldiers kill half the men and thrash the rest within an inch of their lives. No surprise there. Then Barst takes the leader, the man who started the fight, and he grabs him by the neck, and with his bare hands, he pulls his head right off!”
“No.”
“Like a chicken. And what’s worse, he ordered the man’s family burned alive as well.”
“Barst must be as strong as an Urgal to tear off a man’s head,” said Svern.
“Maybe there’s a trick to it.”
“Could it be magic?” asked the deep-voiced man.
“By all accounts, he’s always been strong—strong and smart. When he was just a young man, he’s said to have killed a wounded ox with a single blow of his fist.”
“Still sounds like magic to me.”
“That’s because you see evil magicians lurking in every shadow, you do.”