“Why is that important?”
“Ah,” said Orik, and tapped the side of his nose, leaving behind a whitish smear. He resumed rubbing the sphere with his hands, turning it so that it would remain symmetrical. “Once you have good dirt, you wet it and you mix it like water and flour until you have a nice, thick mud.” He nodded at the pool by his feet. “From the mud, you form a ball, like so, eh? Then you squeeze it and wring out every drop you can. Then you make the ball perfectly round. When it begins to feel sticky, you do as I am doing: you pour dirt over it, to draw out more moisture from the interior. This you continue until the ball is dry enough to hold its shape, but not so dry that it cracks.
“Mine Erôthknurl is almost to that point. When it gets there, I shall bear it to mine tent and leave it in the sun for a goodly while. The light and the warmth will draw out even more moisture from the center; then I shall again pour dirt over it and again clean it off. After three or four times, the outside of mine Erôthknurl should be as hard as the hide of a Nagra.”
“All that just to have a ball of dry mud?” said Eragon, puzzled. Saphira shared his sentiment.
Orik scooped up another handful of dirt. “No, because that’s not the end of it. Next is when the dust becomes of use. I take it, and I smear the outside of the Erôthknurl with it, which forms a thin, smooth shell. Then I will let the ball rest and wait for more moisture to seep to the surface, then dust, then wait, then dust, then wait, and so on.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Until the dust no longer adheres to the Erôthknurl. The shell it forms is what gives an Erôthknurl its beauty. Over the course of a day, it will acquire a brilliant sheen, as if it were made of polished marble. With no buffing, no grinding, no magic—with only your heart, head, and hands—you will have made a stone out of common earth … a fragile stone, it is true, but a stone nevertheless.”
Despite Orik’s insistence, Eragon still found it hard to believe that the mud at his feet could be transformed into anything like what Orik had described without the use of magic.
Why are you making one, though, Orik dwarf king? Saphira asked. You must have many responsibilities now that you are ruler of your people.
Orik grunted. “I have nothing I must needs do at the moment. My men are ready for battle, but there is no battle for us to fight, and it would be bad for them if I were to fuss over them like a mother hen. Nor do I want to sit alone in my tent, watching mine beard grow.… Thus the Erôthknurl.”
He fell silent then, but it seemed to Eragon that something was bothering Orik, so Eragon held his tongue and waited to see if Orik would say anything else. After a minute, Orik cleared his throat and said, “Used to be, I could drink and play dice with the others of mine clan, and it mattered not that I was Hrothgar’s adopted heir. We could still talk and laugh together without it feeling uncomfortable. I asked for no favors, nor did I show any. But now it is different. My friends cannot forget that I am their king, and I cannot ignore how their behavior has changed toward me.”
“That is only to be expected,” Eragon pointed out. He empathized with Orik’s plight, for he had experienced much the same thing since becoming a Rider.
“Perhaps. But knowing it makes it no easier to bear.” Orik made an exasperated sound. “Ach, life is a strange, cruel journey sometimes.… I admired Hrothgar as a king, but it often seemed to me that he was short with those he dealt with when he had no reason to be. Now I understand better why he was the way he was.” Orik cupped the ball of dirt with both hands and gazed at it, his brow knotted in a scowl. “When you met with Grimstborith Gannel in Tarnag, did he explain to you the significance of the Erôthknurln?”
“He never mentioned it.”
“I suppose there were other matters that needed talking about.… Still, as one of the Ingeitum, and as an adopted knurla, you should know the import and symbology of the Erôthknurln. It is not just a way to focus the mind, pass the time, and create an interesting keepsake. No. The act of making a stone out of earth is a sacred one. By it, we reaffirm our faith in Helzvog’s power and offer tribute to him. One should approach the task with reverence and purpose. Crafting an Erôthknurl is a form of worship, and the gods do not look kindly on those who perform the rites in a frivolous manner.… From stone, flesh; from flesh, earth; and from earth, stone again. The wheel turns and we see but a glimpse of the entirety.”
Only then did Eragon appreciate the depth of Orik’s disquiet. “You ought to have Hvedra with you,” he said. “She would keep you company and prevent you from becoming so grim. I’ve never seen you as happy as when you were with her at Bregan Hold.”
The lines around Orik’s downcast eyes deepened as he smiled. “Aye.… But she is the grimstcarvlorss of the Ingeitum, and she cannot abandon her duties just to comfort me. Besides, I could not rest easy if she were within a hundred leagues of Murtagh and Thorn or, worse, Galbatorix and his accursed black dragon.”
In an attempt to cheer Orik up, Eragon said, “You remind me of the answer to a riddle: a dwarf king sitting on the ground, making a stone out of dirt. I’m not sure how the riddle itself would go, but perhaps, something along the lines of:
Strong and stout,
Thirteen stars upon his brow,
Living stone sat shaping dead earth into dead stone.
“It doesn’t rhyme, but then, you can’t expect me to compose proper verse on the spur of the moment. I would imagine that a riddle like that would be quite a head-scratcher for most people.”
“Humph,” said Orik. “Not for a dwarf. Even our children could solve it quick as you please.”
A dragon too, said Saphira.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Eragon.
Then he asked Orik about everything that had happened among the dwarves after he and Saphira had left Tronjheim for their second trip to the forest of the elves. Eragon had not had an opportunity to talk with Orik for any great length of time since the dwarves had arrived at Dras-Leona, and he was eager to hear how his friend had gotten along since assuming the throne.
Orik did not seem to mind explaining the intricacies of the dwarves’ politics. Indeed, as he spoke, his expression brightened and he became increasingly animated. He spent nearly an hour recounting the bickering and maneuvering that had gone on between the dwarf clans prior to assembling their army and marching to join the Varden. The clans were a fractious lot, as Eragon well knew, and even as king, Orik had difficulty commanding their obedience.
“It’s like trying to herd a flock of geese,” said Orik. “They’re always trying to go off on their own, they make an obnoxious noise, and they’ll bite your hand first chance they get.”
During the course of Orik’s narration, Eragon thought to ask about Vermûnd. He had often wondered what had become of the dwarf chief who had plotted to assassinate him. He liked to know where his enemies were, especially one as dangerous as Vermûnd.
“He returned to his home village of Feldarast,” Orik said. “There, by all accounts, he sits and drinks and rages about what is and what might have been. But none now listen to him. The knurlan of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin are proud and stubborn. In most cases, they would remain loyal to Vermûnd regardless of what the other clans might do or say, but attempting to kill a guest is an unforgivable offense. And not all of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin hate you like Vermûnd does. I cannot believe that they will agree to remain cut off from the rest of their kind just to protect a grimstborith who has lost every scrap of his honor. It may take years, but eventually they will turn against him. Already I have heard that many of the clan shun Vermûnd, even as they themselves are shunned.”