Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (25 page)

with a query in her dark eyes, and his stomach clenched as he tried to

find a way to voice his thoughts. Despite his best efforts, he ended up

just saying, “Are you well, Arya?. . You’ve seemed distracted and out of

sorts ever since we left Hedarth.”

As Arya’s face hardened into a blank mask, he winced inwardly, know-

ing that he had chosen the wrong approach, although he could not

fathom why the question should offend her.

“When we are in Du Weldenvarden,” she informed him, “I expect that

you will not speak to me in such a familiar way, unless you wish to cause

affront.” She stalked away.

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Run after her! exclaimed Saphira.

What?

We can’t afford to have her angry with you. Go apologize.

His pride rebelled. No! It’s her fault, not mine.

Go apologize, Eragon, or I’ll fill your tent with carrion. It was no idle

threat.

How?

Saphira thought for a second, then told him what to do. Without argu-

ing, he jumped to his feet and darted in front of Arya, forcing her to stop.

She regarded him with a haughty expression.

He touched his fingers to his lips and said, “Arya Svit-kona,” using the

honorific he had just learned for a woman of great wisdom. “I spoke

badly, and for that I cry your pardon. Saphira and I were concerned for

your welfare. After all you’ve done for us, it seemed the least we could

do was offer our help in return, if you need it.”

Finally, Arya relented and said, “Your concern is appreciated. And I too

spoke badly.” She looked down. In the dark, the outline of her limbs and

torso was painfully rigid. “You ask what troubles me, Eragon? Do you

truly wish to know? Then I will tell you.” Her voice was as soft as this-

tledown floating on the wind. “I am afraid.”

Dumbfounded, Eragon made no response, and she stepped past, leaving

him alone in the night.

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CERIS

On the morning of the fourth day, when Eragon rode alongside

Shrrgnien, the dwarf said, “So tell me, do men really have ten toes, as is

said? For truly I have never traveled beyond our borders before.”

“Of course we have ten toes!” said Eragon, astonished. He shifted in

Snowfire’s saddle, lifted his foot, removed his right boot and sock, and

wiggled his toes under Shrrgnien’s amazed eyes. “Don’t you?”

Shrrgnien shook his head. “Nay, we have seven on each foot. It is how

Helzvog made us. Five is too few and six is the wrong number, but

seven. . seven is just right.” He glanced at Eragon’s foot again, then spurred

his donkey ahead and began speaking animatedly to Ama and Hedin, who

eventually handed him several silver coins.

I think, said Eragon as he pulled the boot back on, that I was just the

source of a bet. For some reason, Saphira found that immensely amusing.

As dusk fell and the full moon rose, the Edda River drew ever closer to

the fringe of Du Weldenvarden. They rode down a narrow trail through

tangled dogwood and rosebushes in full bloom, which filled the evening

air with the flowers’ warm scent.

Eager anticipation swelled within Eragon as he gazed into the dark for-

est, knowing they had already entered the elves’ domain and were close

to Ceris. He leaned forward in Snowfire’s saddle, the reins pulled tight

between his hands. Saphira’s excitement was as great as his own; she

ranged overhead, flicking her tail back and forth with impatience.

Eragon felt as if they had wandered into a dream. It doesn’t seem real,

he said.

Aye. Here the legends of old still bestride the earth.

At last they came upon a small meadow set between the river and for-

est. “Stop here,” said Arya in a low voice. She walked forward until she

stood alone in the midst of the lush grass, then cried in the ancient lan-

guage, “Come forth, my brethren! You have nothing to fear. ’Tis I, Arya

of Ellesméra. My companions are friends and allies; they mean us no

harm.” She added other words as well, ones alien to Eragon.

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For several minutes, the only sound was the river rushing behind them,

until from underneath the still leaves came a line of Elvish, so quick and

fleeting that Eragon missed the meaning. Arya responded: “I do.”

With a rustle, two elves stood on the edge of the forest and two ran

lightly out on the boughs of a gnarled oak. Those on the ground bore long

spears with white blades, while the others held bows. All were garbed in

tunics the color of moss and bark underneath flowing cloaks clasped at

the shoulder with ivory brooches. One had tresses as black as Arya’s.

Three had hair like starlight.

The elves dropped from the trees and embraced Arya, laughing in their

clear, pure voices. They joined hands and danced in a circle around her

like children, singing merrily as they spun through the grass.

Eragon watched in amazement. Arya had never given him reason to

suspect that elves liked to—or even could —laugh. It was a wondrous

sound, like flutes and harps trilling with delight at their own music. He

wished that he could listen to it forever.

Then Saphira drifted over the river and settled beside Eragon. At her

approach, the elves cried out in alarm and aimed their weapons toward

her. Arya spoke quickly in soothing tones, motioning first at Saphira, then

at Eragon. When she paused for breath, Eragon drew back the glove on

his right hand, tilted his palm so that the gedwëy ignasia caught the

moonlight, and said, as he once had to Arya so long ago, “Eka fricai un

Shur’tugal.” I am a Rider and friend. Remembering his lesson from yester-

day, he touched his lips, adding, “Atra esterní ono thelduin.”

The elves lowered their weapons as their angled faces lit up with radi-

ant joy. They pressed their forefingers to their lips and bowed to Saphira

and him, murmuring their reply in the ancient language.

Then they rose, pointed at the dwarves, and laughed as if at a hidden

joke. Drifting back into the forest, they waved their hands and called,

“Come, come!”

Eragon followed Arya with Saphira and the dwarves, who were grum-

bling among themselves. As they passed between the trees, the canopy

overhead plunged them into velvet darkness, except where fragments of

moonlight gleamed through chinks in the shell of overlapping leaves. Er-

agon could hear the elves whispering and laughing all around, though he

could not see them. Occasionally, they would call directions when he or

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the dwarves blundered.

Ahead, a fire glowed through the trees, sending shadows racing like

sprites across the leafy ground. As Eragon entered the radius of light, he

saw three small huts clustered together around the base of a large oak.

High in the tree was a roofed platform where a watchman could observe

the river and forest. A pole had been lashed between two of the huts:

from it hung bundles of drying plants.

The four elves vanished into the huts, then returned with their arms

piled high with fruits and vegetables—but no meat—and began prepar-

ing a meal for their guests. They hummed as they worked, flitting from

one tune to another as the fancy took them. When Orik asked their

names, the dark-haired elf pointed to himself and said, “I am Lifaen of

House Rílvenar. And my companions are Edurna, Celdin, and Narí.”

Eragon sat beside Saphira, happy for an opportunity to rest and to

watch the elves. Though all four were male, their faces resembled Arya’s,

with delicate lips, thin noses, and large slanted eyes that shone under

their brows. The rest of their bodies matched, with narrow shoulders and

slender arms and legs. Each was more fair and noble than any human Er-

agon had seen, albeit in a rarefied, exotic manner.

Who ever thought I would get to visit the elves’ homeland? Eragon asked

himself. He grinned and leaned against the corner of a hut, drowsy with

the fire’s warmth. Above him, Saphira’s dancing blue eyes tracked the

elves with unwavering precision.

More magic is in this race, she finally remarked, than either humans or

dwarves. They do not feel as if they come from the earth or the stone, but

rather from another realm, half in, half out, like reflections seen through wa-

ter.

They certainly are graceful, he said. The elves moved like dancers, their

every action smooth and lithe.

Brom had told Eragon that it was rude for someone to speak with their

mind to a Rider’s dragon without permission, and the elves adhered to

that custom, voicing aloud their comments to Saphira, who would then

answer the elves directly. Saphira usually refrained from touching the

thoughts of humans and dwarves and allowed Eragon to relay her words,

since few members of those races had the training to guard their minds if

they wished for privacy. It also seemed an imposition to use such an in-

timate form of contact for casual exchanges. The elves had no such inhi-

160

bitions, though; they welcomed Saphira into their minds, reveling in her

presence.

At last the food was ready and served on carved plates that felt like

dense bone, although wood grain wandered through the flowers and

vines decorating the rim. Eragon was also supplied with a flagon of

gooseberry wine—made of the same unusual material—with a sculpted

dragon wrapped around its stem.

As they ate, Lifaen produced a set of reed pipes and began to play a

flowing melody, his fingers running along the various holes. Soon the tall-

est silver-haired elf, Narí, raised his voice and sang:

O!

The day is done; the stars are bright;

The leaves are still; the moon is white!

Laugh at woe and laugh at foe,

Menoa’s scion now is safe this night!

A forest child we lost to strife;

A sylvan daughter caught by life!

Freed of fear and freed of flame,

She tore a Rider from the shadows rife!

Again the dragons rise on wing,

And we avenge their suffering!

Strong of blade and strong of arm,

The time is ripe for us to kill a king!

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O!

The wind is soft; the river deep;

The trees are tall; the birds do sleep!

Laugh at woe and laugh at foe,

The hour has arrived for joy to reap!

When Narí finished, Eragon released his pent-up breath. He had never

heard such a voice before; it felt as if the elf had revealed his essence, his

very soul. “That was beautiful, Narí-vodhr.”

“A rough composition, Argetlam,” demurred Narí. “But I thank you,

nevertheless.”

Thorv grunted. “Very pretty, Master Elf. However, there are matters

more serious than reciting verse that we must attend to. Are we to ac-

company Eragon farther?”

“No,” said Arya quickly, drawing looks from the other elves. “You may

return home in the morning. We will assure that Eragon reaches Elles-

méra.”

Thorv dipped his head. “Then our task is complete.”

As Eragon lay on the bedding the elves had arranged for him, he

strained his ears to catch Arya’s speech, which drifted from one of the

huts. Though she used many unfamiliar words in the ancient language, he

deduced that she was explaining to their hosts how she had lost Saphira’s

egg and the events since. A long silence followed after she stopped, then

an elf said, “It is good that you have returned, Arya Dröttningu. Islanzadí

was sorely wounded by grief when you were captured and the egg was

stolen, and by Urgals no less! She was—and is—sick at heart.”

“Hush, Edurna. . hush,” chided another. “Dvergar are small, but they

have sharp ears, and I am sure these will report to Hrothgar.”

Then their voices dropped and Eragon could discern no more from the

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murmur of voices, which melded into the whisper of leaves as he drifted

to sleep, the elf’s song repeating endlessly through his dreams.

The scent of flowers was heavy in the air when Eragon woke to behold

a sun-drenched Du Weldenvarden. Above him arched a mottled panoply

of drifting leaves, supported by the thick trunks that buried themselves

in the dry, bare ground. Only moss, lichen, and a few low shrubs survived

in the pervasive green shade. The scarcity of underbrush made it possible

to see for great distances between the knotted pillars and to walk about

freely beneath the dappled ceiling.

Rolling to his feet, Eragon found Thorv and his guards packed and

ready to leave. Orik’s donkey was tied behind Ekksvar’s steed. Eragon ap-

proached Thorv and said, “Thank you, all of you, for protecting me and

Saphira. Please convey our gratitude to Ûndin.”

Thorv pressed his fist to his chest. “I will carry your words.” He hesi-

tated and looked back at the huts. “Elves are a queer race, full of light and

dark. In the morning, they drink with you; in the evening, they stab you.

Keep thine back to a wall, Shadeslayer. Capricious, they are.”

“I will remember that.”

“Mmm.” Thorv gestured toward the river. “They plan to travel up Eldor

Lake in boats. What will you do with thine horse? We could return him

to Tarnag with us, and from there, to Tronjheim.”

“Boats!” cried Eragon with dismay. He had always planned to bring