Letting her smile become sweet and warm, Nasuada said in her friendliest tone, “Oh dear. If it’s too much of a burden for your treasury, the Varden would be more than willing to offer you a loan in return for the kindness you’ve shown us... at a suitable rate of interest, of course.”
The Council of Elders managed to maintain their decorum, but behind Nasuada, Elva uttered a quick laugh of amusement.
RED BLADE, WHITE BLADE
The moment the sun appeared over the tree-lined horizon, Eragon deepened his breathing, willed his heart to quicken, and opened his eyes as he returned to full awareness. He had not been asleep, for he had not slept since his transformation. When he felt weary and lay himself down to rest, he entered a state that was unto a waking dream. There he beheld many wondrous visions and walked among the gray shades of his memories, yet all the while remained aware of his surroundings.
He watched the sunrise and thoughts of Arya filled his mind, as they had every hour since the Agaetí Blödhren two days before. The morning after the celebration, he had gone looking for her in Tialdarí Hall — intending to try and make amends for his behavior — only to discover that she had already left for Surda. When will I see her again? he wondered. In the clear light of day, he had realized just how much the elves’ and dragons’ magic had dulled his wits during the Agaetí Blödhren. I may have acted a fool, but it wasn’t entirely my fault. I was no more responsible for my conduct than if I were drunk.
Still, he had meant every word he said to Arya — even if normally he would not have revealed so much of himself. Her rejection cut Eragon to the quick. Freed of the enchantments that had clouded his mind, he was forced to admit that she was probably right, that the difference between their ages was too great to overcome. It was a difficult thing for him to accept, and once he had, the knowledge only increased his anguish.
Eragon had heard the expression “heartbroken” before. Until then, he always considered it a fanciful description, not an actual physical symptom. But now he felt a deep ache in his chest — like that of a sore muscle — and each beat of his heart pained him.
His only comfort was Saphira. In those two days, she had never criticized what he had done, nor did she leave his side for more than a few minutes at a time, lending him the support of her companionship. She talked to him a great deal as well, doing her best to draw him out of his shell of silence.
To keep himself from brooding over Arya, Eragon took Orik’s puzzle ring from his nightstand and rolled it between his fingers, marveling at how keen his senses had become. He could feel every flaw in the twisted metal. As he studied the ring, he perceived a pattern in the arrangement of the gold bands, a pattern that had escaped him before. Trusting his instinct, he manipulated the bands in the sequence suggested by his observation. To his delight, the eight pieces fit together perfectly, forming a solid whole. He slid the ring onto the fourth finger of his right hand, admiring how the woven bands caught the light.
You could not do that before, observed Saphira from the bowl in the floor where she slept.
I can see many things that were once hidden to me.
Eragon went to the wash closet and performed his morning ablutions, including removing the stubble from his cheeks with a spell. Despite the fact that he now closely resembled an elf, he had retained the ability to grow a beard.
Orik was waiting for them when Eragon and Saphira arrived at the sparring field. His eyes brightened as Eragon lifted his hand and displayed the completed puzzle ring. “You solved it, then!”
“It took me longer than I expected,” said Eragon, “but yes. Are you here to practice as well?”
“Eh. I already got in a bit o’ ax work with an elf who took a rather fiendish delight in cracking me over the head. No... I came to watch you fight.”
“You’ve seen me fight before,” pointed out Eragon.
“Not for a while, I haven’t.”
“You mean you’re curious to see how I’ve changed.” Orik shrugged in response.
Vanir approached from across the field. He cried, “Are you ready, Shadeslayer?” The elf’s condescending demeanor had lessened since their last duel before the Agaetí Blödhren, but not by much.
“I’m ready.”
Eragon and Vanir squared off against each other in an open area of the field. Emptying his mind, Eragon grasped and drew Zar’roc as fast as he could. To his surprise, the sword felt as if it weighed no more than a willow wand. Without the expected resistance, Eragon’s arm snapped straight, tearing the sword from his hand and sending it whirling twenty yards to his right, where it buried itself in the trunk of a pine tree.
“Can you not even hold on to your blade, Rider?” demanded Vanir.
“I apologize, Vanir-vodhr,” gasped Eragon. He clutched his elbow, rubbing the bruised joint to lessen the pain. “I misjudged my strength.”
“See that it does not happen again.” Going to the tree, Vanir gripped Zar’roc’s hilt and tried to pull the sword free. The weapon remained motionless. Vanir’s eyebrows met as he frowned at the unyielding crimson blade, as if he suspected some form of trickery. Bracing himself, the elf heaved backward and, with the crack of wood, yanked Zar’roc out of the pine.
Eragon accepted the sword from Vanir and hefted Zar’roc, troubled by how light it was. Something’s wrong, he thought.
“Take your place!”
This time it was Vanir who initiated the fight. In a single bound, he crossed the distance between them and thrust his blade toward Eragon’s right shoulder. To Eragon, it seemed as if the elf moved slower than usual, as if Vanir’s reflexes had been reduced to the level of a human’s. It was easy for Eragon to deflect Vanir’s sword, blue sparks flying from the metal as their blades grated against one another.
Vanir landed with an astonished expression. He struck again, and Eragon evaded the sword by leaning back, like a tree swaying in the wind. In quick succession, Vanir rained a score of heavy blows upon Eragon, each of which Eragon dodged or blocked, using Zar’roc’s sheath as often as the sword to foil Vanir’s onslaught.
Eragon soon realized that the spectral dragon from the Agaetí Blödhren had done more than alter his appearance; it had also granted him the elves’ physical abilities. In strength and speed, Eragon now matched even the most athletic elf.
Fired by that knowledge and a desire to test his limits, Eragon jumped as high as he could. Zar’roc flashed crimson in the sunlight as he flew skyward, soaring more than ten feet above the ground before he flipped like an acrobat and came down behind Vanir, facing the direction from which he had started.
A fierce laugh erupted from Eragon. No more was he helpless before elves, Shades, and other creatures of magic. No more would he suffer the elves’ contempt. No more would he have to rely on Saphira or Arya to rescue him from enemies like Durza.
He charged Vanir, and the field rang with a furious din as they strove against each other, raging back and forth upon the trampled grass. The force of their blows created gusts of wind that whipped their hair into tangled disarray. Overhead, the trees shook and dropped their needles. The duel lasted long into the morning, for even with Eragon’s newfound skill, Vanir was still a formidable opponent. But in the end, Eragon would not be denied. Playing Zar’roc in a circle, he darted past Vanir’s guard and struck him upon the upper arm, breaking the bone.
Vanir dropped his blade, his face turning white with shock. “How swift is your sword,” he said, and Eragon recognized the famous line from The Lay of Umhodan.