“Yes, but she and I share a unique connection,” protested Eragon. “Our bond is the reason I can draw upon her strength. To do that with someone else, I would have to enter . . .” He trailed off as he realized what Oromis was driving at.

“You would have to enter the consciousness of the being—or beings—who was going to provide the energy,” said Oromis, completing Eragon’s thought. “Today you proved that you can do just that with even the smallest form of life. Now . . .” He stopped and pressed a hand against his chest as he coughed, then continued, “I want you to extract a sphere of water from the stream, using only the energy you can glean from the forest around you.”

“Yes, Master.”

As Eragon reached out to the nearby plants and animals, he felt Oromis’s mind brush against his own, the elf watching and judging his progress. Frowning with concentration, Eragon endeavored to eke the needed force from the environment and hold it within himself until he was ready to release the magic. . . .

“Eragon! Do not take it from me! I am weak enough as is.”

Startled, Eragon realized that he had included Oromis in his search. “I’m sorry, Master,” he said, chastised. He resumed the process, careful to avoid draining the elf’s vitality, and when he was ready, commanded, “Up!”

Silent as the night, a sphere of water a foot wide rose from the brook until it floated at eye level across from Eragon. And while Eragon experienced the usual strain that results from intense effort, the spell itself caused him no fatigue.

The sphere was only in the air for a moment when a wave of death rolled through the smaller creatures Eragon was in contact with. A line of ants keeled over motionless. A baby mouse gasped and entered the void as it lost the strength to keep its heart beating. Countless plants withered and crumbled and became inert as dust.

Eragon flinched, horrified by what he had caused. Given his new respect for the sanctity of life, he found the crime appalling. What made it worse was that he was intimately linked with each being as it ceased to exist; it was as if he himself were dying over and over. He severed the flow of magic—letting the sphere of water splash across the ground—and then whirled on Oromis and growled, “You knew that would happen!”

An expression of profound sorrow engulfed the ancient Rider. “It was necessary,” he replied.

“Necessary that so many had to die?”

“Necessary that you understand the terrible price of using this type of magic. Mere words cannot convey the feeling of having those whose minds you share die. You had to experience it for yourself.”

“I won’t do that again,” vowed Eragon.

“Nor will you have to. If you are disciplined, you can choose to draw the power only from plants and animals that can withstand the loss. It’s impractical in battle, but you may do so in your lessons.” Oromis gestured at him, and, still simmering, Eragon allowed the elf to lean on him as they returned to the hut. “You see why this technique was not taught to younger riders. If it were to become known to a spellweaver of evil disposition, he or she could wreak vast amounts of destruction, especially since it would be difficult to stop anyone with access to so much power.” Once they were back inside, the elf sighed, lowered himself into his chair, and pressed the tips of his fingers together.

Eragon sat as well. “Since it’s possible to absorb energy from”— he waved his hand—“fromlife, is it also possible to absorb it directly from light or fire or from any of the other forms of energy?”

“Ah, Eragon, if it were, we could destroy Galbatorix in an instant. We can exchange energy with other living beings, we can use that energy to move our bodies or to fuel a spell, and we can even store that energy in certain objects for later use, but we cannot assimilate the fundamental forces of nature. Reason says that it can be done, but no one has managed to devise a spell that allows it.”

Nine days later, Eragon presented himself to Oromis and said, “Master, it struck me last night that neither you nor the hundreds of elven scrolls I’ve read have mentioned your religion. What do elves believe?”

A long sigh was Oromis’s first answer. Then: “We believe that the world behaves according to certain inviolable rules and that, by persistent effort, we can discover those rules and use them to predict events when circumstances repeat.”

Eragon blinked. That did not tell him what he wanted to know. “But who, or what, do you worship?”

“Nothing.”

“You worship the concept of nothing?”

“No, Eragon. We do not worship at all.”

The thought was so alien, it took Eragon several moments to grasp what Oromis meant. The villagers of Carvahall lacked a single overriding doctrine, but they did share a collection of superstitions and rituals, most of which concerned warding off bad luck. During the course of his training, it had dawned upon Eragon that many of the phenomena that the villagers attributed to supernatural sources were in fact natural processes, such as when he learned in his meditations that maggots hatched from fly eggs instead of spontaneously arising from the dirt, as he had thought before. Nor did it make sense for him to put out an offering of food to keep sprites from turning the milk sour when he knew that sour milk was actually caused by a proliferation of tiny organisms in the liquid. Still, Eragon remained convinced that otherworldly forces influenced the world in mysterious ways, a belief that his exposure to the dwarves’ religion had bolstered. He said, “Where do you think the world came from, then, if it wasn’t created by the gods?”