Eragon yelped as he felt each of his legs enveloped by pressure up to the knee, squeezing and constricting his calves in such a way that made it impossible for him to walk. His thighs and upper body were free to move, but other than that, it was as if he had been cast in lime mortar.
“Free yourself,” said Oromis.
Here now was a challenge that Eragon had never dealt with before: how to counter someone else’s spells. He could sever his invisible bonds using one of two different methods. The most effective would be if he knew how Oromis had immobilized him — whether by affecting his body directly or using an external source — for then he could redirect the element or force to disperse Oromis’s power. Or he could use a generic, vague spell to block whatever Oromis was doing. The downside to the tactic was that it would lead to a direct contest of strength between them. It had to happen sometime, thought Eragon. He entertained no hope of prevailing against an elf.
Assembling the required phrase, he said, “Losna kalfya iet.” Release my calves.
The surge of energy that deserted Eragon was greater than he had anticipated; he went from being moderately tired from the day’s pains and exertions to feeling as if he had hiked over rough terrain since morn. Then the pressure vanished from his legs, causing him to stagger as he regained his balance.
Oromis shook his head. “Foolish,” he said, “very foolish. If I had committed more to maintaining my spell, that would have killed you. Never use absolutes.”
“Absolutes?”
“Never word your spells so that only two outcomes are possible: success or death. If an enemy had trapped your legs and if he were stronger than you, then you would have expended all of your energy trying to break his spell. You would have died with no chance to abort the attempt once you realized that it was futile.”
“How do I avoid that?” asked Eragon.
“It’s safer to make the spell a process that you can terminate at your discretion. Instead of saying release my calves, which is an absolute, you could say reduce the magic imprisoning my calves. A bit wordy, but you could then decide how much you wanted your opponent’s spell decreased and if it were safe to remove it entirely. We will try again.”
The pressure returned to Eragon’s legs as soon as Oromis mouthed his inaudible invocation. Eragon was so tired, he doubted that he could provide much opposition. Nevertheless, he reached for the magic.
Before the ancient language left Eragon’s mouth, he became aware of a curious sensation as the weight constraining his legs lessened at a steady rate. It tickled and felt like he was being pulled out of a mire of cold, slick mud. He glanced at Oromis and saw the elf’s face scribed by passion, as if he clung to something precious that he could not bear to lose. A vein throbbed at one of Oromis’s temples.
When Eragon’s arcane fetters ceased to exist, Oromis recoiled as if he had been pricked by a wasp and stood with his gaze fixed on his two hands, his thin chest heaving. For perhaps a minute, he remained thus, then he drew himself upright and walked to the very edge of the Crags of Tel’naeír, a lone figure outlined against the pale sky.
Regret and sorrow welled in Eragon — the same emotions that had gripped him when he first saw Glaedr’s mutilated foreleg. He cursed himself for being so arrogant with Oromis, so oblivious to his infirmities, and for not placing more confidence in the elf’s judgment. I’m not the only one who must deal with past injuries. Eragon had not fully comprehended what it meant when Oromis said that all but the slightest magic escaped his grasp. Now he appreciated the depths of Oromis’s situation and the pain that it must cause him, especially for one of his race, who was born and bred with magic.
Eragon went to Oromis, knelt, and bowed in the fashion of the dwarves, pressing his bruised forehead against the ground. “Ebrithil, I beg your pardon.”
The elf gave no indication that he had heard.
The two of them lingered in their respective positions while the sun declined before them, the birds sang their evening songs, and the air grew cool and moist. From the north came the faint offbeat thumps of Saphira and Glaedr’s wing strokes as they returned for the day.
In a low, distant voice, Oromis said, “We will begin anew tomorrow, with this and other subjects.” From his profile, Eragon could tell that Oromis had regained his customary expression of impassive reserve. “Is that agreeable to you?”
“Yes, Master,” said Eragon, grateful for the question.
“I think it best if, from now on, you endeavor to speak only in the ancient language. We have little time at our disposal, and this is the fastest way for you to learn.”
“Even when I talk to Saphira?”
“Even then.”
Adopting the elven tongue, Eragon vowed, “Then I will work ceaselessly until I not only think, but dream, in your language.”
“If you achieve that,” said Oromis, replying in kind, “our venture may yet succeed.” He paused. “Instead of flying directly here in the morning, you will accompany the elf I send to guide you. He will take you to where those of Ellesméra practice swordplay. Stay for an hour, then continue on as normal.”
“Won’t you teach me yourself?” asked Eragon, feeling slighted.
“I have naught to teach. You are as good a swordsman as ever I have met. I know no more of fighting than you, and that which I possess and you do not, I cannot give you. All that remains for you is to preserve your current level of skill.”
“Why can’t I do that with you... Master?”
“Because I do not appreciate beginning the day with alarum and conflict.” He looked at Eragon, then relented and added, “And because it will be good for you to become acquainted with others who live here. I am not representative of my race. But enough of that. Look, they approach.”
The two dragons glided across the flat disk of the sun. First came Glaedr with a roar of wind, blotting out the sky with his massive bulk before he settled on the grass and folded his golden wings, then Saphira, as quick and agile as a sparrow beside an eagle.
As they had that morning, Oromis and Glaedr asked a number of questions to ensure that Eragon and Saphira had paid attention to each other’s lessons. They had not always, but by cooperating and sharing information between themselves, they were able to answer all of the questions. Their only stumbling block was the foreign language they were required to communicate in.
Better, rumbled Glaedr afterward. Much better. He bent his gaze toward Eragon. You and I will have to train together soon.
“Of course, Skulblaka.”
The old dragon snorted and crawled alongside Oromis, half hopping with his front leg to compensate for his missing limb. Darting forward, Saphira nipped at the end of Glaedr’s tail, tossing it into the air with a flip of her head, like she would to break the neck of a deer. She recoiled as Glaedr twisted round and snapped at her neck, exposing his enormous fangs.
Eragon winced and, too late, covered his ears to protect them from Glaedr’s roar. The speed and intensity of Glaedr’s response suggested to Eragon that this was not the first time Saphira had annoyed him throughout the day. Instead of remorse, Eragon detected an excited playfulness in her — like a child with a new toy — and a near-blind devotion to the other dragon.
“Contain yourself, Saphira!” said Oromis. Saphira pranced backward and settled on her haunches, though nothing in her demeanor expressed contrition. Eragon muttered a feeble excuse, and Oromis waved a hand and said, “Begone, both of you.”