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2005 Book Reviews |
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Eldest
by Christopher Paolini |
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Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Family Young
novelist Christopher Paolini’s second installment
of the Inheritance series, Eldest,
continues the heroic journey of Eragon and his
dragon Saphira through the world of Alagaesia. On these 700 pages, readers find out more
about Eragon’s family, surprises and all, and the
importance of family becomes the theme of this book. There’s a maturity in
both Paolini and Eragon
in this book, especially when compared with Eragon,
which I rated with three stars last year, and noted then that I had to keep reminding
myself every hundred pages or so that Paolini wrote
that book between the ages of 15 and 17. Here’s an excerpt, all of the chapter
titled, “Drifting,” pp. 150-157: The valley widened throughout the
morning as the rafts swept toward a bright gap between two mountains. They
reached the opening at midday and found themselves looking out of shadow upon
a sunny prairie that faded into the north. Then the current pushed them beyond the
frosted crags and the walls of the world dropped away to reveal a gigantic
sky and flat horizon. Almost immediately, the air grew warmer. The Az Ragon curved to the east,
edging the foothills of the mountain range on one side and the plains on the
other. The amount of open space seemed to
unsettle the dwarves. They muttered among themselves and glanced longingly at
the cavernous rift behind them. Eragon found the sunlight invigorating. It
was hard to ever really feel awake when three-quarters of the day was spent
in twilight. Behind his raft, Saphira launched
herself out of the water and flew up over the prairie until she dwindled to a
winking speck in the azure dome above. What do you see? he asked. I see vast herds of gazelles to the
north and east. To the west, No one else? No Urgals,
slavers, or nomads? We are alone. That evening, Thorv
chose a small cove for their camp. Dûthmér fixed
dinner, Eragon cleared a space beside his tent,
then drew Zar’roc and settled into the ready stance
Brom had taught him when they first sparred. Eragon knew he was at a disadvantage compared to the
elves, and he had no intention of arriving in Ellesméra
out of practice. With excruciating
slowness, he looped Zar’roc over his head and
brought it back down with both
hands, as if to cleave an enemy’s helm. He held the pose for a second.
Keeping his motion under complete control, he pivoted to the right—twisting Zar’roc’s point to parry an imaginary blow—then stopped
with rigid arms. Out of the corner of his
eye, Eragon noticed Orik,
Arya, and Thorv watching.
He ignored them and focused only on the ruby blade in his hands; he held it as if it were a snake that could writhe out of his grip and bite his
arm. Turning again, he
commenced a series of forms, flowing from one to another with disciplined
ease as he gradually increased his speed. In his mind, he was no longer in
the shadowy cove, but surrounded by a knot of ferocious Urgals
and Kull. He ducked and slashed, parried,
riposted, jumped to the side, and stabbed in a whirl of activity. He fought
with mindless energy, as he had in Farthen Dûr, with no thought for the safety of his own flesh,
dashing and tearing aside his imagined enemies. He spun Zar’roc around—in an attempt to flip the hilt from one
palm to another—then dropped the sword as a jagged line of pain bisected his
back. He staggered and fell. Above him, he could hear Arya
and the dwarves babbling, but all he saw was a constellation of sparkling red
haze, like a bloody veil dropped over the world. No sensation existed other than pain. It blotted out thought and reason,
leaving only a feral animal that screamed for release. When Eragon
recovered enough to notice his whereabouts, he found that he had been placed
inside his tent and wrapped tightly with blankets. Arya
sat beside him, while Saphira’s head stuck through
the entrance flaps. Was
I out long? Asked eragon. A
while. You slept a little at the end. I tried to draw you from your body into
mine and shield you from the pain, but I could do little with you
unconscious. Eragon
nodded and closed his eyes. His entire body throbbed. Taking a deep breath,
he looked up at Arya and quietly asked, “How can I
train?.. . How can I fight, or use magic?. . . I am a broken vessel.” His face felt
heavy with age as he spoke. She
answered just as softly: “You can sit and watch. You can listen. You can
read. And you can learn.” Despite
her words, he heard a hitch of uncertainty, even fear, in her voice. He
rolled onto his side to avoid meeting her eyes. It shamed him to appear so
helpless before her. “How did the Shade do this to me?” “I
have no answers, Eragon. I am neither the wisest
nor the strongest elf. We all do our best, and you cannot be blamed for it. Perhaps time will heal your
wound.” Arya pressed her fingers to his brow and
murmured, “Sé mor’ranr ono finna,” then left the tent. Eragon sat and winced as his cramped back
muscles stretched. He stared at his hands without seeing them. I wonder if
Murtagh’s scar ever pained him like mine does. I
don’t know, said Saphira. A
dead silence followed. Then: I’m afraid. Why? Because
.
. . He hesitated. Because nothing I do will prevent another
attack. I don’t know when or where it will happen, but I do know that it’s
inevitable. So I wait, and every
moment I fear that if I lift some thing too heavy or stretch in the wrong
way, the pain will return. My own body has become the enemy. Saphira
hummed deep in her throat. I have no answers either. Life is both pain and
pleasure. If this is the price you must pay for the hours you enjoy, is it
too much? Yes, he
snapped. He pulled off the blankets and shoved past her, stumbling into the
center of the camp, where Arya and the dwarves sat
around a fire. “Is there food left?” asked Eragon. Dûthmér
wordlessly filled a bowl and handed it
to him. With a deferential expression, Thorv
asked, “Are you better now, Shadeslayer?” He and
the other dwarves seemed awed by what they had seen. “I’m fine.” “You bear a heavy burden,
Shadeslayer,” Eragon scowled and abruptly walked to the
edge of the tents, where he seated himself in darkness. He could sense Saphira nearby, but she left him in peace. He swore under
his breath and jabbed Dûthmér’s stew with dull
anger. Just as he took a bite, Orik said from beside him, “You should not treat them
so.” Eragon glared at Orik’s
shadowed face. “What?” “Thorv
and his men were sent to protect you and Saphira.
They will die for you if need be, and trust their sacred burial to you. You
should remember that.” Eragon bit back a sharp retort and gazed at
the black surface of the river—always moving, never stopping—in an attempt to
calm his mind. “You’re right. I let my temper get away from me.” Orik’s teeth gleamed in the night as he
smiled. “It’s a lesson that every commander must learn. I had it beaten into me by Hrothgar after I threw my boot at a dwarf who left his
halberd where someone could step on it.” “Did you hit him?” “I broke his nose,” chuckled Orik. Despite himself, Eragon laughed as well. “I’ll remember not to do that.”
He held the bowl with both hands to keep them warm. Eragon heard the jangle of metal as Orik extracted something from a pouch. “Here,” said the
dwarf, dropping a knot of intertwined gold rings on Eragon’s
palm. “It’s a puzzle we use to test cleverness and dexterity. There are eight
bands. If you arrange them properly, they form a single ring. I’ve found it useful for distracting myself
when I’m troubled.” “Thank you,” murmured Eragon, already entranced by the complexity of the
gleaming nest. “You can keep it if you can put it together.” When
he returned to his tent, Eragon lay on his stomach
and inspected the rings in the dim firelight that seeped past the entrance
flaps. Four bands looped through four bands. Each was smooth on the bottom
half and an asymmetrical wriggling mass on the top, where it would weave through the other
pieces. As
Eragon experimented with various configurations, he
quickly became frustrated by a simple fact: it seemed impossible to get the two sets of bands parallel so
they would lie flat together. Absorbed
by the challenge, he forgot the terror he had just endured. Eragon woke right before dawn. Scrubbing the
sleep from his eyes, he exited the tent and stretched His breath turned white
in the brisk morning air. He nodded to Shrrgnien,
who was keeping guard by the fire, then strolled to the edge of the river and
washed his face, blinking from the shock of the cold water. He
located Saphira with a flick of his mind, belted on
Zar’roc, and headed toward her through the beech
trees that lined the Az Ragni.
Before long Eragon’s hands and face were slick with
dew from a tangled wall of chokecherry bushes that obstructed his way. With
an effort, he pushed through the net of branches and escaped onto the silent
plains. A round hill rose before him. On its crest— like two ancient
statues—stood Saphira and Arya.
They faced east, where a molten glow crept into the sky and burnished the
prairie amber. As
the clear light struck the two figures, Eragon was
reminded of how Saphira had watched the sunrise
from his bedpost only a few hours after she hatched. She was like a hawk or
falcon with her hard, sparkling eyes under their bony ridges, the fierce arch
of her neck, and the lean
strength etched into every line of her body. She was a huntress, and endowed
with all the savage beauty that the term implied. Arya’s
angled features and panther grace, perfectly matched the dragon beside her.
No discrepancy existed between their demeanors as they stood bathed in dawn’s
first rays. A tingle of awe and joy
shuddered along Eragon’s spine. This was where he belonged, as a
Rider. Of all the things in Alagaësia, he had been
lucky enough to be joined with this.
The wonder of it brought
tears to his eyes and a smile of wild exultation that dispelled all his
doubts and fears in a surge of pure emotion. Still smiling, he mounted
the hill and took his place by Saphira as they
surveyed the new day. Arya looked at him. Eragon
met her gaze, and something lurched within him. He flushed without knowing
why, feeling a sudden connection with her, a sense that she understood him
better than anyone other than Saphira. His reaction
confused him, for no one had affected him in that manner before. Throughout the rest of
the day, all Eragon had to do was think back on
that moment to make himself smile and set his insides churning with a mixture
of odd sensations he could not identify. He spent most of his time seated
against the raft’s cabin, working on Orik’s ring
and watching the changing landscape. Around midday they passed
the mouth of a valley, and another river melded into the Az
Ragni, doubling its size and speed until the shores
were over a mile apart. It was all the dwarves could do to keep the rafts
from being tossed like flotsam before the inexorable current and to avoid
smashing into the trees that occasionally floated by. A mile after the rivers
joined, the Az Ragni
turned north and flowed past a lonely cloud-wreathed peak that stood separate
from the main body of the Beor range, like a
gigantic watchtower built to keep vigil over the plains. The dwarves bowed to the
peak when they saw it, and Orik told Eragon, “There is Moldfln the Proud. He is the last true mountain we shall
see on this journey.” When the rafts were
moored for the evening, Eragon saw Orik unwrap a long black box inlaid with mother-of-pearl,
rubies, and curved lines of silver. Orik flicked a
clasp, then raised the lid to reveal an unstrung
bow nestled in red velvet. The bow’s reflexed limbs
were ebony, which formed the background for intricate patterns of vines,
flowers, animals, and runes, all executed in the finest gold. It was such a
luxurious weapon, Eragon
wondered how anyone dared use it. Orik
strung the bow—it was nearly as tall as he was, but still no bigger than a
child’s bow by Eragon’s standards—put the box away,
and said, “I’m going to find some fresh meat. I’ll be back in an hour.” With
that he disappeared into the brush. Thorv grunted
disapprovingly, but made no move to stop him. True
to his word, Orik returned with a brace of
long-necked geese. “I found a flock of them perched in a tree,” he said,
tossing the birds to Dûthmér. As
Orik retrieved the bejeweled case, Eragon asked, “What kind of wood is your bow made of?” “Wood?”
Orik laughed, shaking his head. “You can’t make a
bow this short out of wood and cast an arrow more than twenty yards; it breaks, or follows the string
after a few shots. No, this is an Urgal horn bow!” Eragon
eyed him suspiciously, sure that the dwarf was trying to fool him. “Horn
isn’t flexible or springy enough to make a bow.” “Ah,”
chortled Orik, “that’s because you have to know how
to treat it right We first
learned to do it with Feldflnost horns, but it works just as well with an Urgal’s.
It’s done by cutting the horn in half lengthwise, then trimming the outside
coil until it’s the right thickness. The strip is boiled flat and sanded into
the final shape before being fixed to the belly of an ash stave with glue
made from fish scales and the skin from the roof of trout’s mouths. Then the
back of the stave is covered with multiple layers of sinew, they give the bow
its snap. The last step is
decoration. The entire process can take almost a decade.” “I’ve
never heard of a bow built like that before,” said Eragon.
It made his own weapon seem no more than a crudely
hacked branch. “How far does it shoot?” “See
for yourself,” said Orik. He let Eragon take the bow, which he held gingerly, for fear of
scuffing its finish. Orik removed an arrow from his
quiver and handed it to him.
“You’ll owe me an arrow, though.” Eragon fit shaft to string, aimed over the Az
Ragni, and pulled back. The bow’s draw length was
less than two feet, but he was surprised to find that its weight far
exceeded that of his own bow; he was barely strong enough to hold the string.
He released the arrow and it vanished
with a twang, only to
reappear far above the river. Eragon watched with
amazement as the arrow landed in a spray of water halfway across the Az Ragni. He immediately reached through the
barrier in his mind so that the magic’s power suffused him and said, “ Orik clapped his fist to his chest and then
embraced the arrow and bow with obvious delight. “Wonderful! Now I still have
an even two dozen. Otherwise, I would have had to wait until Hedarth to replenish my stock,” He deftly unstrung the
bow and stored it away,
wrapping the case in soft rags to protect it. Eragon saw Arya
watching. He asked her, “Do elves use horn bows as well? You’re so strong, a wood bow would shatter if it was made heavy enough for you.” “We sing our bows from three that do
not grow.” And then she walked away. For days, they drifted through fields
of spring grass while the Now that the Fanghur
were no longer a threat, Eragon flew a!most constantly with Saphira. It was their first opportunity since before Gil’ead to spend so much time together in the air, and
they took full advantage of it. Also,
Eragon welcomed the chance to escape the cramped
deck of the raft, where he felt awkward and unsettled with Arya so near. Plot and character continue to improve
with Eldest,
and I await the end of the trilogy in the next installment. Steve Hopkins,
October 25, 2005 |
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ã 2005 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the November 2005
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Eldest.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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