Then Oromis addressed Saphira: “I would know your capabilities as well, dragon.” He gave her a number of complex poses that had her contort every foot of her sinuous length in fantastic ways, culminating in a series of aerial acrobatics the likes of which Eragon had never seen before. Only a few things exceeded her ability, such as executing a backward loop while corkscrewing through the air.
When she landed, it was Glaedr who said, I fear that we coddled the Riders. If our hatchlings had been forced to care for themselves in the wild — as you were, and so our ancestors were — then perhaps they would have possessed your skill.
“No,” said Oromis, “even if Saphira had been raised on Vroengard using the established methods, she would still be an extraordinary flier. I’ve rarely seen a dragon so naturally suited to the sky.” Saphira blinked, then shuffled her wings and busied herself cleaning one of her claws in a manner that hid her head from view. “You have room to improve, as do we all, but little, very little.” The elf reseated himself, his back perfectly straight.
For the next five hours, by Eragon’s reckoning, Oromis delved into every aspect of his and Saphira’s knowledge, from botany to woodworking to metallurgy and medicine, although he mainly concentrated on their grasp of history and the ancient language. The interrogation comforted Eragon, as it reminded him of how Brom used to quiz him during their long treks to Teirm and Dras-Leona.
When they broke for lunch, Oromis invited Eragon into his house, leaving the two dragons alone. The elf’s quarters were barren except for those few essentials necessary for food, hygiene, and the pursuit of an intellectual life. Two entire walls were dotted with cubbyholes that held hundreds of scrolls. Next to the table hung a golden sheath — the same color as Glaedr’s scales — and a matching sword with a blade the color of iridescent bronze.
On the inner pane of the door, set within the heart of the wood, was a flat panel one span high and two wide. It depicted a beautiful, towering city built against an escarpment and caught in the ruddy light of a rising harvest moon. The pitted lunar face was bisected by the horizon and appeared to sit on the ground like a maculated dome as large as a mountain. The picture was so clear and perfectly detailed, Eragon at first took it to be a magical window; it was only when he saw that the image was indeed static that he could accept it as a piece of art.
“Where is this?” he asked.
Oromis’s slanted features tightened for an instant. “You would do well to memorize that landscape, Eragon, for there lies the heart of your misery. You see what was once our city of Ilirea. It was burned and abandoned during Du Fyrn Skulblaka and became the capital of the Broddring Kingdom and now is the black city of Urû’baen. I made that fairth on the night that I and others were forced to flee our home before Galbatorix arrived.”
“You painted this... fairth?”
“No, no such thing. A fairth is an image fixed by magic upon a square of polished slate that is prepared beforehand with layers of pigments. The landscape upon that door is exactly how Ilirea presented itself to me at the moment I uttered my spell.”
“And,” said Eragon, unable to stop the flow of questions, “what was the Broddring Kingdom?”
Oromis’s eyes widened with dismay. “You don’t know?” Eragon shook his head. “How can you not? Considering your circumstances and the fear that Galbatorix wields among your people, I might understand that you were raised in darkness, ignorant of your heritage. But I cannot credit Brom with being so lax with your instruction as to neglect subjects that even the youngest elf or dwarf knows. The children of your Varden could tell me more about the past.”
“Brom was more concerned with keeping me alive than teaching me about people who are already dead,” retorted Eragon.
This drew silence from Oromis. Finally, he said, “Forgive me. I did not mean to impugn Brom’s judgment, only I am impatient beyond reason; we have so little time, and each new thing you must learn reduces that which you can master during your tenure here.” He opened a series of cupboards hidden within the curved wall and removed bread rolls and bowls of fruit, which he rowed out on the table. He paused for a moment over the food with his eyes closed before beginning to eat. “The Broddring Kingdom was the human’s country before the Riders fell. After Galbatorix killed Vrael, he flew on Ilirea with the Forsworn and deposed King Angrenost, taking his throne and titles for his own. The Broddring Kingdom then formed the core of Galbatorix’s conquests. He added Vroengard and other lands to the east and south to his holdings, creating the empire you are familiar with. Technically, the Broddring Kingdom still exists, though, at this point, I doubt that it is much more than a name on royal decrees.”
Afraid to pester the elf with further inquiries, Eragon concentrated on his food. His face must have betrayed him, though, because Oromis said, “You remind me of Brom when I chose him as my apprentice. He was younger than you, only ten, but his curiosity was just as great. I doubt I heard aught from him for a year but how, what, when, and, above all else, why. Do not be shy to ask what lies in your heart.”
“I want to know so much,” whispered Eragon. “Who are you? Where do you come from?... Where did Brom come from? What was Morzan like? How, what, when, why? And I want to know everything about Vroengard and the Riders. Maybe then my own path will be clearer.”
Silence fell between them as Oromis meticulously disassembled a blackberry, prying out one plump segment at a time. When the last corpuscle vanished between his port-red lips, he rubbed his hands flat together—“polishing his palms,” as Garrow used to say — and said, “Know this about me, then: I was born some centuries past in our city of Luthivíra, which stood in the woods by Lake Tüdosten. At the age of twenty, like all elf children, I was presented to the eggs that the dragons had given the Riders, and Glaedr hatched for me. We were trained as Riders, and for near a century, we traveled the world over, doing Vrael’s will. Eventually, the day arrived when it was deemed appropriate for us to retire and pass on our experience to the next generation, so we took a position in Ilirea and taught new Riders, one or two at a time, until Galbatorix destroyed us.”
“And Brom?”
“Brom came from a family of illuminators in Kuasta. His mother was Nelda and his father Holcomb. Kuasta is so isolated by the Spine from the rest of Alagaësia, it has become a peculiar place, full of strange customs and superstitions. When he was still new to Ilirea, Brom would knock on a door frame three times before entering or leaving a room. The human students teased him about it until he abandoned the practice along with some of his other habits.
“Morzan was my greatest failure. Brom idolized him. He never left his side, never contradicted him, and never believed that he could best Morzan in any venture. Morzan, I’m ashamed to admit — for it was within my power to stop — was aware of this and took advantage of Brom’s devotion in a hundred different ways. He grew so proud and cruel that I considered separating him from Brom. But before I could, Morzan helped Galbatorix to steal a dragon hatchling, Shruikan, to replace the one Galbatorix had lost, killing the dragon’s original Rider in the process. Morzan and Galbatorix then fled together, sealing our doom.
“You cannot begin to fathom the effect Morzan’s betrayal had on Brom until you understand the depth of Brom’s affection for him. And when Galbatorix at last revealed himself and the Forsworn killed Brom’s dragon, Brom focused all of his anger and pain on the one who he felt was responsible for the destruction of his world: Morzan.”