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Instead of Arya, I prefer her mom (Chapter 12)
🕑 Added 2023-09-14 18:27:38 +0000 UTCIn the following days, the little party of four spent a lot of time together. Eragon and Saphira were trained by Brom, while Cedric was… present. After his previous disobedience, the old rider wouldn’t let his apprentice out of his sight. Forced to ‘reflect’ on his behavior, he could barely sit or stand without being watched like a hawk.
Fortunately, he’d prepared the necessary spells to face the Ra’zac, and with backup, he was at least confident in driving them off. These included the previously demonstrated and aptly named ‘lightning-bolt’—his primary method of dealing damage—the ‘flashbang’, a burst of light and sound targeting the creatures’ weaknesses to light, and ‘air-bubble’; a way to neutralize their paralyzing breath by conjuring a sealed bubble of air around his own head.
Cedric’s bases were covered, and while that was the case for offense, his defense was somewhat lacking. Arguably, his biggest shortcoming was the inability to create wards without sapping his mana dry, as well as his ‘casting time’. He wasn’t yet at the stage where spells were near-instantaneous, requiring up to three seconds to cast lightning-bolt.
Which is why, when Brom produced a few oddly-shaped sticks (he assured Cedric they were training swords), beating him and Eragon black and blue, he was only a little miffed. Though he’d a preference for magic, learning some combat skills wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It would certainly come in handy in a pinch, when he didn’t have time for spells.
It soon became clear Eragon had more talent for swordplay than himself, and Cedric had a hunch as to why that was. Learning physical skills depended on a different part of the brain than, say, comprehending natural laws, and coming up with magical applications. Not only did overthinking get in the way of that, there simply wasn’t time for cooking-up plans and counterplans.
Eragon, quite simply, was better at turning off his brain. Having spent most of this life as a pure mage, it took Cedric a while to follow his lead. However, he eventually started catching up, matching Eragon blow-for-blow. If he was being entirely honest, his talent was still inferior, and he would’ve lagged behind if he hadn’t ‘cheated’.
When training, he made heavy use of the ‘flow state’—a type of mental state caused by, and conductive to, prolonged concentration—by inducing it artificially. This was done by running a low-voltage electrical current along his scalp, something that sounded ridiculous at best, and suicidal at worst. However, it indeed worked, and maintaining the proper intensity wasn’t hard—all Cedric needed to do was mimic that ‘static’ feeling, like when the air was dry, and one scrubbed their socked feet against a carpet.
(https://www.frontiersin.org/articles/10.3389/fnhum.2019.00274/ful)
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Two training swords battered against each other, creating quite the ruckus. Both Cedric and Eragon strove against each other’s defenses, near evenly matched. It was astonishing—how far they’d come in such a short time.
Initially, Brom served as sparring-partner for both, but when the boys had the basics down, he set them against each other. Neither could yet defeat him, but it was for that reason he chose the role of spectator and commentator.
He knew it was difficult, learning from one’s mistakes against an overwhelming opponent. The proper feedback was required—success, alongside failure. How would a young swordsman learn right from wrong if they were ruthlessly crushed, no matter what adjustments they made?
Suddenly, the battle ratcheted up as Cedric broke through Eragon’s guard, his blunt tip lancing toward his opponent’s cheek. However, the young rider didn’t flinch, nor retreated, but counterattacked, his own ‘sword’ sweeping toward Cedric’s side!
It seemed like the duel would end in mutual destruction, but at the last moment, both boys displayed uncanny reflexes, avoiding the strikes—Eragon by swiveling his neck, ducking his head under the trust, and Cedric by striking like a snake, snatching Eragon’s wrist.
It seemed they were about to start grappling and brawling when Brom raised his hand, projecting his thoughts directly into their minds.
‘Stop!’
When they’d released each other, breathing hard and covered in sheens of sweat, he walked over. Using his staff, he tapped Eragon’s sword, then Cedric’s gut.
“If this was a real duel, your guts would be all over the dirt. And even if you managed to avoid the edge, grabbing during a swordfight is usually a terrible idea.”
He then took Eragon’s wrist in his own hand, pulling it between the boy’s body and Cedric’s own.
“It won’t stop his movements. He could either thrust or pull. In the latter case, if you continued clinging, you would be off balance and out of position…”
For a few minutes, he continued lecturing both on the finer details before calling it a day.
“Alright, that’s enough. Go on home, get some rest. The sun’s already low. We’ll meet here tomorrow, around the same time. Make sure your chores are finished by then.”
He turned to Saphira, who sat like in a tree like some kind of giant, scaly cat. There was a moment of silence as they communicated telepathically, the contents of their conversation remaining private.
She’d noticeably grown over the past week-and-a-half, and was consequently much easier to spot. For that reason, she stayed far from town, making her lair in the mountains.
Eventually, their talk finished, and she cast one last look at her rider, ruffling her azure wings before leaping into the sky, gone in nary a heartbeat.
(For those not too familiar with the series, Brom revealed to Saphira early on he was a rider, though he kept it from Eragon. He may also have revealed he was the original custodian of her egg by showing his memories, so she ended up trusting him a lot.)
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After the farmhouse had settled down, the sun having long since set, Eragon lay sleepless in his bed. It was all so… overwhelming, and while he seemingly handled it well, that was only when his mind was otherwise preoccupied.
With nothing but silence in his ears and darkness in front of his eyes, his thoughts churned, considering how his life had changed. The dragons and magic were overwhelming enough, but adding Brom and Cedric to it all—people long-since part of a world he never knew existed—he just couldn’t come to terms with it.
Not to mention the king’s looming threat, and the sense of urgency he detected from both his new teacher and sparring partner. They knew something he didn’t, that was certain. Saphira’s continued silence regarding the matter didn’t help either.
He felt everything was out of his control, that unseen forces moved behind the scenes, deep currents pulling him along, and he couldn’t do a thing about it…
Despite his tired, sore body, it took a long time for Eragon to find sleep.
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The next day, after their spar, Eragon cornered Cedric. He couldn’t take it any more, all the mystery, the uncertainty. Training to fight, to hurt—because that was it, wasn’t it?
“I’d like to talk to you.”
Squaring his shoulders and settling his expression, he met Cedric’s eyes. His posture was one of utmost seriousness.
Despite him enjoying the exercise, and playful, almost childish nature of it all—sword-fighting, secret hideouts and hidden meetings—he was no child, and knew this wasn’t a game.
The taciturn boy raised his fine, red eyebrows, looking up from where he rested, seated on a stone with his back to the wind.
“I’m all ears.”
Eragon chewed his lip, unsure of how to go about this.
“… you and Brom… it’s… Damn it, I don’t know! What exactly is going on? He hasn’t said a thing, but I’m not a fool. I know he’s preparing for something, and it gives me a bad feeling. You’re not nearly as nervous as I am, so you must at least have a clue!”
Finished with his rambling, he watched, fists clenched at his sides, as Cedric took a hard biscuit from somewhere, putting it in his mouth. Staring at the distant, white-capped mountains and rolling, grey clouds, he chewed slowly.
“…if I seem calm, it’s only because I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you.”
He waved his hands, indicating vaguely. His ‘this’ seemed to encompass everything, all the weirdness Eragon experienced during the past month.
“Fact is, Brom hasn’t been my teacher for all that long either, though I hesitate to call him that. Not only has he barely taught me anything, he only recently caught on to my ‘talent’, when I moved in with him. Though I’d prefer he hadn’t…”
Cedric muttered the last part before turning his upper body toward his friend, continuing.
“…point is, I was three years old when I accidentally used magic for the first time. It’s been more than ten years since then. As you might imagine, that gave me a… unique perspective. All those stories we tell each other in front of the fire, about wizards, dragons, elves and monsters: to everyone else, they really were just stories. Not to me though. I knew better.”
Eragon listened with rapt attention as he spoke, fascinated by the revelation. Cedric had been… a wizard since he was three years old? And not only was he self-taught, he’d kept his abilities hidden for ten years! Despite knowing next to nothing about the subject, he vaguely sensed how amazing that was.
Feeling intensely curious, Eragon licked his lips, glancing around, searching for Brom. Seeing him and Saphira still gone—something that increasingly bothered him—he leaned closer.
“Can you… tell me what it is? Magic, I mean. And how does it work? I won’t share your secrets with anyone, you have my word!”
Cedric’s amber eyes glinted mischievously, his lips curving into a smile. It made Eragon feel a little uneasy, appearing more suited to a warlock than a wizard.
“I could tell you a few things, but you’d better do as I say, not as I do. I may seem a tad full of myself when I say this, but while I survived experimenting on my own, you may not.”
His voice was low, almost a raspy.
Eragon swallowed.
“You… speak the truth? Is magic really so dangerous?”
The red-haired boy nodded slowly.
“Yes. It’s an extremely dangerous ‘profession’, both to the practitioner and those nearby. I don’t exaggerate when I say losing your life is far from being the worst case. Your uncle, cousin, this whole village… it could all disappear like this.”
Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. A short distance away, a dry branch, laying on the ground, burst into flames, burning white-hot. Within seconds, nothing remained but a pile of ash, floating in a puddle of melted snow.
Eragon gasped, his eyes wide as dinner-plates. Even from where he stood, he felt the heat on his face! A feeling of wonder and respect surged in his chest, along with a hint of fear. All thoughts of Cedric being his junior had vanished. He could only wonder—was that really the kind of power a human being could, or should posses? To destroy so quickly and easily, without a word, and a mere flick of one’s fingers.
“I…”
Sensing his trepidation, Cedric stood, laying a hand on Eragon’s shoulder.
“Don’t get cold feet now. Whether you want to or not, this is something you’ll need to learn eventually. As a rider, if the king ever discovers your existence, he won’t hesitate to use every tool at his disposal—including magic—to capture you, or…”
Before either of them could dwell on the unsaid part, he chuckled, giving the new rider a comforting pat.
“…never mind, let’s not get so morbid. You wanted to know how magic works, and I’ve been going on a tangent.”
Releasing Eragon, he held up his hands, launching into an explanation.
“At the heart of magic lies a type of energy. Present in the body of a wizard, we draw on it to cast our spells, like water from a well. The more powerful the spell, the more it consumes, and the weaker, the less…”
His fingers curled, miming pulling on a rope, hauling a bucket of water up a well.
“…but here lies the danger to oneself. Similar to physical exertion, the more one draws, the more tired they grow. However, unlike pulling on a bowstring or lifting a log, nothing prevents the wizard from going too far. If something is literally too heavy, our arms simply can’t lift it, but if a spell draws too much energy…”
Suddenly, he clenched his fists, pulling them apart sharply. Another twig fell victim, this one bursting into tiny shards.
“…the caster pays the ultimate price, losing their life.”
Eragon remained silent, his brow furrowed in thought. A question immediately sprung to mind.
“How does a wizard know… if a spell is going to kill him?”
Cedric shook his head.
“We don’t. Or at least, I don’t. Maybe Brom knows how to tell, but I doubt it. Worrywart that he is, he would’ve told me. Best thing is to get a ‘feel’ for it. For example, when setting something on fire, I started with a small flame, noting the draw on my power. From there, I scaled up until I found my limit…”
His lips moved as he hesitated, evidently considering something.
“…but it’s a lot harder, working with complicated magic. The idea of starting small is still a good one, but some things… take a lotof energy, and it’s easy to overestimate yourself. For example, turning one thing into another thing.”
Again, Cedric returned to the tried-and-trusted stick, breaking one off a nearby brush.
“Do you think it would be hard, turning this dead branch into a living one? Doesn’t seem like it would be, would it?”
He smiled thinly, but his face was pale, a faint shadow of pain cast across his features.
“Gods above and devils below, do I regret ever attempting that. It was about four years ago—I was as close to death as when you fished me out of that river.”
He shivered a little, his fake smile also disappearing.
“If you ever become capable of magic—not impossible given you’re a rider—don’t try to turn dead things into living things. It’s a really, really bad idea, take it from me.”
Cedric took a breath, calming himself before dropping the stick.
“Anyway, my point is, it can be very hard to tell what’ll kill you and what wont. Safe bet is to keep one’s magic as simple and basic as possible. When it comes to more complicated things, there’s no telling what’ll happen.”
He stared at Eragon until he received a nod, sure his friend understood. Then he grabbed his pack, shouldering it.
“All this exercise and serious talk has me hungry. Let’s stop by the inn for something to eat. I’ll pay.”
At the mention of food, Eragon felt his own stomach clenching. He could already smell them, the meat pies—his favorite treat on a cold day.
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