Oromis smiled slightly and inclined his head.
THE SECRET LIVES OF ANTS
The moment that Oromis and Glaedr were out of sight, Saphira said, Eragon, another dragon! Can you believe it?
He patted her shoulder. It’s wonderful. High above Du Weldenvarden, the only sign of habitation in the forest was an occasional ghostly plume of smoke that rose from the crown of a tree and soon faded into clear air.
I never expected to encounter another dragon, except for Shruikan. Maybe rescue the eggs from Galbatorix, yes, but that was the extent of my hopes. And now this! She wriggled underneath him with joy. Glaedr is incredible, isn’t he? He’s so old and strong and his scales are so bright. He must be two, no, three times bigger than me. Did you see his claws? They...
She continued on in that manner for several minutes, waxing eloquent about Glaedr’s attributes. But stronger than her words were the emotions Eragon sensed roiling within her: eagerness and enthusiasm, twined over what he could only identify as a longing adoration.
Eragon tried to tell Saphira what he had learned from Oromis — since he knew that she had not paid attention — but he found it impossible to change the subject of conversation. He sat silently on her back, the world an emerald ocean below, and felt himself the loneliest man in existence.
Back at their quarters, Eragon decided against any sightseeing; he was far too tired from the day’s events and the weeks of traveling. And Saphira was more than content to sit on her bed and chatter about Glaedr while he examined the mysteries of the elves’ wash closet.
Morning came, and with it a package wrapped in onionskin paper containing the razor and mirror that Oromis had promised. The blade was of elvish make, so it needed no sharpening or stropping. Grimacing, Eragon first bathed in steaming hot water, then held up the mirror and confronted his visage.
I look older. Older and worn. Not only that, but his features had become far more angled, giving him an ascetic, hawklike appearance. He was no elf, but neither would anyone take him to be a purebred human if they inspected him closely. Pulling back his hair, he bared his ears, which now tapered to slight points, more evidence of how his bond with Saphira had changed him. He touched one ear, letting his fingers wander over the unfamiliar shape.
It was difficult for him to accept the transformation of his flesh. Even though he had known it would occur — and occasionally welcomed the prospect as the last confirmation that he was a Rider — the reality of it filled him with confusion. He resented the fact that he had no say in how his body was being altered, yet at the same time he was curious where the process would take him. Also, he was aware that he was still in the midst of his own, human adolescence, and its attendant realm of mysteries and difficulties.
When will I finally know who and what I am?
He placed the edge of the razor against his cheek, as he had seen Garrow do, and dragged it across his skin. The hairs came free, but they were cut long and ragged. He altered the angle of the blade and tried again with a bit more success.
When he reached his chin, though, the razor slipped in his hand and cut him from the corner of his mouth to the underside of his jaw. He howled and dropped the razor, clapping his hand over the incision, which poured blood down his neck. Spitting the words past bared teeth, he said, “Waíse heill.” The pain quickly receded as magic knitted his flesh back together, though his heart still pounded from the shock.
Eragon! cried Saphira. She forced her head and shoulders into the vestibule and nosed open the door to the closet, flaring her nostrils at the scent of blood.
I’ll live, he assured her.
She eyed the sanguine water. Be more careful. I’d rather you were as ragged as a molting deer than have you decapitate yourself for the sake of a close shave.
So would I. Go on, I’m fine.
Saphira grunted and reluctantly withdrew.
Eragon sat, glaring at the razor. Finally, he muttered, “Forget this.” Composing himself, he reviewed his store of words from the ancient language, selected those that he needed, and then allowed his invented spell to roll off his tongue. A faint stream of black powder fell from his face as his stubble crumbled into dust, leaving his cheeks perfectly smooth.
Satisfied, Eragon went and saddled Saphira, who immediately took to the air, aiming their course toward the Crags of Tel’naeír. They landed before the hut and were met by Oromis and Glaedr.
Oromis examined Saphira’s saddle. He traced each strap with his fingers, pausing on the stitching and buckles, and then pronounced it passable handiwork considering how and when it had been constructed. “Brom was always clever with his hands. Use this saddle when you must travel with great speed. But when comfort is allowed—” He stepped into his hut for a moment and reappeared carrying a thick, molded saddle decorated with gilt designs along the seat and leg pieces. “— use this. It was crafted in Vroengard and imbued with many spells so that it will never fail you in time of need.”
Eragon staggered under the weight of the saddle as he received it from Oromis. It had the same general shape as Brom’s, with a row of buckles — intended to immobilize his legs — hanging from each side. The deep seat was sculpted out of the leather in such a way that he could fly for hours with ease, both sitting upright and lying flat against Saphira’s neck. Also, the straps encircling Saphira’s chest were rigged with slips and knots so that they could extend to accommodate years of growth. A series of broad ties on either side of the head of the saddle caught Eragon’s attention. He asked their purpose.
Glaedr rumbled, Those secure your wrists and arms so that you are not killed like a rat shaken to death when Saphira performs a complex maneuver.
Oromis helped Eragon relieve Saphira of her current saddle. “Saphira, you will go with Glaedr today, and I will work with Eragon here.”
As you wish, she said, and crowed with excitement. Heaving his golden bulk off the ground, Glaedr soared off to the north, Saphira close behind.
Oromis did not give Eragon long to ponder Saphira’s departure; the elf marched him to a square of hard-packed dirt beneath a willow tree at the far side of the clearing. Standing opposite him in the square, Oromis said, “What I am about to show you is called the Rimgar, or the Dance of Snake and Crane. It is a series of poses that we developed to prepare our warriors for combat, although all elves use it now to maintain their health and fitness. The Rimgar consists of four levels, each more difficult than the last. We will start with the first.”
Apprehension for the coming ordeal sickened Eragon to the point where he could barely move. He clenched his fists and hunched his shoulders, his scar tugging at the skin of his back as he glared between his feet.
“Relax,” advised Oromis. Eragon jerked open his hands and let them hang limply at the end of his rigid arms. “I asked you to relax, Eragon. You can’t do the Rimgar if you are as stiff as a piece of rawhide.”
“Yes, Master.” Eragon grimaced and reluctantly loosened his muscles and joints, although a knot of tension remained coiled in his belly.
“Place your feet together and your arms at your sides. Look straight ahead. Now take a deep breath and lift your arms over your head so that your palms meet... Yes, like that. Exhale and bend down as far as you can, put your palms on the ground, take another breath... and jump back. Good. Breathe in and bend up, looking toward the sky... and exhale, lifting your hips until you form a triangle. Breathe in through the back of your throat... and out. In... and out. In...”