He paused to let a trio of arguing dwarves cross the path in front of him. The dwarves wore no helms or insignia, but he knew they were not of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, for their plaited beards were trimmed with beads—a fashion he had never seen among the Ingeitum. Whatever the dwarves were quarreling about was a mystery to him—he could not understand more than a few words of their guttural language—but the topic was obviously of all-consuming importance, judging by their loud voices, unrestrained gestures, exaggerated expressions, and their failure to notice either him or Saphira standing in the path.
Eragon smiled as they passed; he found their preoccupation somewhat comical, despite their evident seriousness. Much to the relief of everyone in the Varden, the dwarves’ army, led by their new king, Orik, had arrived at Dras-Leona two days before. That, and Roran’s victory at Aroughs, had since become the main topics of conversation throughout the camp. The dwarves nearly doubled the size of the Varden’s allied forces and would substantially increase the chances of the Varden reaching Urû’baen and Galbatorix if a favorable solution to the impasse with Murtagh and Thorn could be found.
As he and Saphira walked through the camp, Eragon caught sight of Katrina sitting outside her tent, knitting clothes for her child-to-be. She greeted him with a raised hand and by calling, “Cousin!”
He replied in kind, as had become their habit since her marriage.
After both he and Saphira enjoyed a leisurely lunch—which involved a fair amount of tearing and crunching on Saphira’s part—they retired to the patch of soft, sunlit grass next to Eragon’s tent. By order of Nasuada, the patch was always left open for Saphira’s use, a dictate that the Varden observed with religious zeal.
There Saphira curled up to doze in the midday warmth, while Eragon fetched Domia abr Wyrda from his saddlebags, then climbed under the overhang of her left wing to nestle in the partially shaded hollow between the inner curve of her neck and her muscular foreleg. The light that shone through the folds of her wing, as well as that cast off in winking highlights from her scales, painted his skin a weird, purplish hue and covered the pages of the book with a smattering of glowing shapes that made it difficult to read the thin, angular runes. But he did not mind; the pleasure of sitting with Saphira more than made up for the inconvenience.
They sat together for an hour or two, until Saphira had digested her meal and Eragon was tired of deciphering the convoluted sentences of Heslant the Monk. Then, bored, they wandered through the camp, inspecting the defenses and occasionally exchanging words with the sentinels stationed along the perimeter.
Near the eastern edge of the camp, where the bulk of the dwarves were situated, they came across a dwarf who was squatting next to a bucket of water, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, molding a fist-sized ball of dirt with his hands. By his feet was a puddle of mud and a stick that had been used to stir it.
The sight was so incongruous, several moments elapsed before Eragon realized that the dwarf was Orik.
“Derûndânn, Eragon … Saphira,” said Orik without looking up.
“Derûndânn,” said Eragon, repeating the traditional dwarvish greeting, and squatted on the other side of the puddle. He watched as Orik continued to refine the contours of the ball, smoothing and shaping it with the outer curve of his right thumb. Every so often, Orik reached down, grabbed a handful of dry dirt, and sprinkled it over the yellowish orb of earth, then gently brushed off the excess.
“I never thought to see the king of the dwarves crouched on the ground, playing in the mud like a child,” Eragon said.
Orik huffed, blowing out his mustache. “And I never thought to have a dragon and a Rider staring at me while I made an Erôthknurl.”
“And what is an Erôthknurl?”
“A thardsvergûndnzmal.”
“A thardsver—?” Eragon gave up halfway through the word, unable to remember the whole of it, much less pronounce it. “And that is …?”
“Something that appears to be other than what it actually is.” Orik raised the ball of dirt. “Like this. This is a stone fashioned from earth. Or, rather, so it shall seem when I am done.”
“A stone from earth.… Is it magic?”
“No, it is mine own skill. Nothing more.”
When Orik failed to explain further, Eragon asked, “How is it done?”
“If you are patient, you will see.” Then, after a while, Orik relented and said, “First, you must find some dirt.”
“A hard task, that.”
From under his bushy eyebrows, Orik gave him a look. “Some types of dirt are better than others. Sand, for example, will not work. The dirt must have particles of varying size, so that it will stick together properly. Also, it should have some clay in it, as this does. But most important, if I do this”—and he patted his hand against a bare strip of ground among the clumps of trampled grass—“there must be lots of dust in the dirt. See?” He held up his hand, showing Eragon the layer of fine powder that clung to his palm.
“Why is that important?”
“Ah,” said Orik, and tapped the side of his nose, leaving behind a whitish smear. He resumed rubbing the sphere with his hands, turning it so that it would remain symmetrical. “Once you have good dirt, you wet it and you mix it like water and flour until you have a nice, thick mud.” He nodded at the pool by his feet. “From the mud, you form a ball, like so, eh? Then you squeeze it and wring out every drop you can. Then you make the ball perfectly round. When it begins to feel sticky, you do as I am doing: you pour dirt over it, to draw out more moisture from the interior. This you continue until the ball is dry enough to hold its shape, but not so dry that it cracks.
“Mine Erôthknurl is almost to that point. When it gets there, I shall bear it to mine tent and leave it in the sun for a goodly while. The light and the warmth will draw out even more moisture from the center; then I shall again pour dirt over it and again clean it off. After three or four times, the outside of mine Erôthknurl should be as hard as the hide of a Nagra.”
“All that just to have a ball of dry mud?” said Eragon, puzzled. Saphira shared his sentiment.
Orik scooped up another handful of dirt. “No, because that’s not the end of it. Next is when the dust becomes of use. I take it, and I smear the outside of the Erôthknurl with it, which forms a thin, smooth shell. Then I will let the ball rest and wait for more moisture to seep to the surface, then dust, then wait, then dust, then wait, and so on.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Until the dust no longer adheres to the Erôthknurl. The shell it forms is what gives an Erôthknurl its beauty. Over the course of a day, it will acquire a brilliant sheen, as if it were made of polished marble. With no buffing, no grinding, no magic—with only your heart, head, and hands—you will have made a stone out of common earth … a fragile stone, it is true, but a stone nevertheless.”
Despite Orik’s insistence, Eragon still found it hard to believe that the mud at his feet could be transformed into anything like what Orik had described without the use of magic.
Why are you making one, though, Orik dwarf king? Saphira asked. You must have many responsibilities now that you are ruler of your people.