camp, trying to work out the kink in his neck that he had acquired
while sparring with Arya and Blödhgarm earlier that afternoon.
As he topped a small hill, which stood like a lone island amid the
sea of tents, he rested his hands on his hips and paused to take in the
view. Before him lay the dark spread of Leona Lake, gleaming in the
twilight as the crests of the shallow waves reflected the orange
torchlight from the camp. The road the Varden had been following
lay between the tents and the shore: a broad strip of paving stones set
with mortar that had been constructed, or so Jeod had informed him,
long before Galbatorix had overthrown the Riders. A quarter mile to
the north, a small, squat fishing village sat close against the water;
Eragon knew its inhabitants were far from happy that an army was
camped on their doorstep.
You must learn … to see what you are looking at
Since leaving Belatona, Eragon had spent hours pondering Glaedr’s
advice. He was not certain exactly what the dragon had meant by it,
as Glaedr had refused to say anything more after delivering his
enigmatic statement, so Eragon had chosen to interpret his instruction
literally. He had striven to truly
everything before him, no matter
how small or apparently insignificant, and to understand the meaning
of that which he beheld.
Try though he might, he felt as if he failed miserably. Wherever he
looked, he saw an overwhelming amount of detail, but he was
convinced there was even more that he was not perceptive enough to
notice. Worse, he was rarely able to make sense of what he
of, like why there was no smoke rising from three of the chimneys in
the fishing village.
Despite his sense of futility, the effort had proved helpful in at least