Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (30 page)

“Roran,” murmured Horst, crouching beside him. “We can’t attack now;

they’d slaughter us. Roran. . do you hear me?”

He heard but a whisper in the distance as he watched the smaller

Ra’zac jump onto one beast above the shoulders, then catch Katrina as

the other Ra’zac tossed her up. Sloan seemed upset and frightened now.

He began arguing with the Ra’zac, shaking his head and pointing at the

ground. Finally, the Ra’zac struck him across the mouth, knocking him

unconscious. Mounting the second beast, with the butcher slung over its

shoulder, the largest Ra’zac declared, “We will return once it isss sssafe

again. Kill the boy, and your livesss are forfeit.” Then the steeds flexed

their massive thighs and leaped into the sky, once again shadows upon

the field of stars.

No words or emotions were left to Roran. He was utterly destroyed.

All that remained was to kill the soldiers. He stood and raised his ham-

mer in preparation to charge, but as he stepped forward, his head

throbbed in unison with his wounded shoulder, the ground vanished in a

burst of light, and he toppled into oblivion.

189

ARROW TO THE HEART

Every day since leaving the outpost of Ceris was a hazy dream of warm

afternoons spent paddling up Eldor Lake and then the Gaena River. All

around them, water gurgled through the tunnel of verdant pines that

wound ever deeper into Du Weldenvarden.

Eragon found traveling with the elves delightful. Narí and Lifaen were

perpetually smiling, laughing, and singing songs, especially when Saphira

was around. They rarely looked elsewhere or spoke of another subject

but her in her presence.

However, the elves were not human, no matter the similarity of ap-

pearance. They moved too quickly, too fluidly, for creatures born of sim-

ple flesh and blood. And when they spoke, they often used roundabout

expressions and aphorisms that left Eragon more confused than when

they began. In between their bursts of merriment, Lifaen and Narí would

remain silent for hours, observing their surroundings with a glow of

peaceful rapture on their faces. If Eragon or Orik attempted to talk with

them during their contemplation, they would receive only a word or two

in response.

It made Eragon appreciate how direct and forthright Arya was by com-

parison. In fact, she seemed uneasy around Lifaen and Narí, as if she were

no longer sure how to behave with her own kind.

From the prow of the canoe, Lifaen looked over his shoulder and said,

“Tell me, Eragon-finiarel. . What do your people sing about in these dark

days? I remember the epics and lays I heard in Ilirea—sagas of your proud

kings and earls—but it was long, long ago and the memories are like

withered flowers in my mind. What new works have your people cre-

ated?” Eragon frowned as he tried to recall the names of stories Brom had

recited. When Lifaen heard them, he shook his head sorrowfully and said,

“So much has been lost. No court ballads survive, and, if you speak truly,

nor does most of your history or art, except for fanciful tales Galbatorix

has allowed to thrive.”

“Brom once told us about the fall of the Riders,” said Eragon defen-

sively. An image of a deer bounding over rotting logs flashed behind his

eyes from Saphira, who was off hunting.

“Ah, a brave man.” For a minute, Lifaen paddled silently. “We too sing

about the Fall. . but rarely. Most of us were alive when Vrael entered the

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void, and we still grieve for our burned cities—the red lilies of Éwayëna,

the crystals of Luthivíra—and for our slain families. Time cannot dull the

pain of those wounds, not if a thousand thousand years pass and the sun

itself dies, leaving the world to float in eternal night.”

Orik grunted in the back. “As it is with the dwarves. Remember, elf,

we lost an entire clan to Galbatorix.”

“And we lost our king, Evandar.”

“I never heard that,” said Eragon, surprised.

Lifaen nodded as he guided them around a submerged rock. “Few have.

Brom could have told you about it; he was there when the fatal blow was

struck. Before Vrael’s death, the elves faced Galbatorix on the plains of

Ilirea in our final attempt to defeat him. There Evandar—”

“Where is Ilirea?” asked Eragon.

“It’s Urû’baen, boy,” said Orik. “Used to be an elf city.”

Unperturbed by the interruption, Lifaen continued: “As you say, Ilirea

was one of our cities. We abandoned it during our war with the dragons,

and then, centuries later, humans adopted it as their capital after King

Palancar was exiled.”

Eragon said, “King Palancar? Who was he? Is that how Palancar Valley

got its name?”

This time the elf turned and looked at him with amusement. “You

have as many questions as leaves on a tree, Argetlam.”

“Brom was of the same opinion.”

Lifaen smiled, then paused, as if to gather his thoughts. “When your an-

cestors arrived in Alagaësia eight hundred years ago, they roamed far

across it, seeking a suitable place to live. Eventually, they settled in Palan-

car Valley—though it was not called such then—as it was one of the few

defendable locations that we or the dwarves had not claimed. There your

king, Palancar, began to build a mighty state.

“In an attempt to expand his borders, he declared war against us,

though we had offered no provocation. Three times he attacked, and

three times we prevailed. Our strength frightened Palancar’s nobles and

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they pled with their liege for peace. He ignored their counsel. Then the

lords approached us with a treaty, which we signed without the king’s

knowledge.

“With our help, Palancar was usurped and banished, but he, his family,

and their vassals refused to leave the valley. Since we had no wish to

murder them, we constructed the tower of Ristvak’baen so the Riders

could watch over Palancar and ensure he would never again rise to power

or attack anyone else in Alagaësia.

“Before long Palancar was killed by a son who did not wish to wait for

nature to take its course. Thereafter, family politics consisted of assassina-

tion, betrayal, and other depravities, reducing Palancar’s house to a

shadow of its former grandeur. However, his descendants never left, and

the blood of kings still runs in Therinsford and Carvahall.”

“I see,” said Eragon.

Lifaen lifted one dark eyebrow. “Do you? It has more significance than

you may think. It was this event that convinced Anurin—Vrael’s prede-

cessor as head Rider—to allow humans to become Riders, in order to

prevent similar disputes.”

Orik emitted a bark of laughter. “That must have caused some argu-

ment.”

“It was an unpopular decision,” admitted Lifaen. “Even now some ques-

tion the wisdom of it. It caused such a disagreement between Anurin and

Queen Dellanir that Anurin seceded from our government and estab-

lished the Riders on Vroengard as an independent entity.”

“But if the Riders were separated from your government, then how

could they keep the peace, as they were supposed to?” asked Eragon.

“They couldn’t,” said Lifaen. “Not until Queen Dellanir saw the wisdom

of having the Riders free of any lord or king and restored their access to

Du Weldenvarden. Still, it never pleased her that any authority could su-

persede her own.”

Eragon frowned. “Wasn’t that the whole point, though?”

“Yes. . and no. The Riders were supposed to guard against the failings of

the different governments and races, yet who watched the watchers? It

was that very problem that caused the Fall. No one existed who could

192

descry the flaws within the Riders’ own system, for they were above

scrutiny, and thus, they perished.”

Eragon stroked the water—first on one side and then the other—while

he considered Lifaen’s words. His paddle fluttered in his hands as it cut

diagonally across the current. “Who succeeded Dellanir as king or queen?”

“Evandar did. He took the knotted throne five hundred years ago—

when Dellanir abdicated in order to study the mysteries of magic—and

held it until his death. Now his mate, Islanzadí, rules us.”

“That’s—” Eragon stopped with his mouth open. He was going to say

impossible, but then realized how ridiculous the statement would sound.

Instead, he asked, “Are elves immortal?”

In a soft voice, Lifaen said, “Once we were like you, bright, fleeting, and

as ephemeral as the morning dew. Now our lives stretch endlessly

through the dusty years. Aye, we are immortal, although we are still vul-

nerable to injuries of the flesh.”

“You became immortal? How?” The elf refused to elaborate, though Er-

agon pressed him for details. Finally, Eragon asked, “How old is Arya?”

Lifaen turned his glittering eyes on him, probing Eragon with discon-

certing acuteness. “Arya? What is your interest in her?”

“I. .” Eragon faltered, suddenly unsure of his intentions. His attraction to

Arya was complicated by the fact that she was an elf, and that her age,

whatever it might be, was so much greater than his own. She must view

me as a child. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But she saved both my

life and Saphira’s, and I’m curious to know more about her.”

“I feel ashamed,” said Lifaen, pronouncing each word carefully, “for ask-

ing such a question. Among our kind, it is rude to pry into one’s affairs. .

Only, I must say, and I believe that Orik agrees with me, that you would

do well to guard your heart, Argetlam. Now is not the time to lose it, nor

would it be well placed in this instance.”

“Aye,” grunted Orik.

Heat suffused Eragon as blood rushed to his face, like hot tallow melt-

ing through him. Before he could utter a retort, Saphira entered his mind

and said, And now is the time to guard your tongue. They mean well. Don’t

insult them.

193

He took a deep breath and tried to let his embarrassment drain away.

Do you agree with them?

I believe, Eragon, that you are full of love and that you are looking for one

who will reciprocate your affection. No shame exists in that.

He struggled to digest her words, then finally said, Will you be back

soon?

I’m on my way now.

Returning his attention to his surroundings, Eragon found that both the

elf and the dwarf were watching him. “I understand your concern. . and

I’d still like my question answered.”

Lifaen hesitated briefly. “Arya is quite young. She was born a year be-

fore the destruction of the Riders.”

A hundred! Though he had expected such a figure, Eragon was still

shocked. He concealed it behind a blank face, thinking, She could have

great-grandchildren older than me! He brooded on the subject for several

minutes and then, to distract himself, said, “You mentioned that humans

discovered Alagaësia eight hundred years ago. Yet Brom said that we ar-

rived three centuries after the Riders were formed, which was thousands

of years ago.”

“Two thousand, seven hundred, and four years, by our reckoning,” de-

clared Orik. “Brom was right, if you consider a single ship with twenty

warriors the ‘arrival’ of humans in Alagaësia. They landed in the south,

where Surda is now. We met while they were exploring and exchanged

gifts, but then they departed and we didn’t see another human for almost

two millennia, or until King Palancar arrived with a fleet in tow. The

humans had completely forgotten us by then, except for vague stories

about hairy men-of-the-mountains that preyed on children in the night.

Bah!”

“Do you know where Palancar came from?” asked Eragon.

Orik frowned and gnawed the tip of his mustache, then shook his head.

“Our histories only say that his homeland was far to the south, beyond

the Beors, and that his exodus was the result of war and famine.”

Excited by an idea, Eragon blurted, “So there might be countries else-

194

where that could help us against Galbatorix.”

“Possibly,” said Orik. “But they would be difficult to find, even on

dragonback, and I doubt that you’d speak the same language. Who would

want to help us, though? The Varden have little to offer another country,

and it’s hard enough to get an army from Farthen Dûr to Urû’baen, much

less bring forces from hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away.”

“We could not spare you anyway,” said Lifaen to Eragon.

“I still—” Eragon broke off as Saphira soared over the river, followed by

a furious crowd of sparrows and blackbirds intent on driving her away

from their nests. At the same time, a chorus of squeaks and chatters burst

from the armies of squirrels hidden among the branches.

Lifaen beamed and cried, “Isn’t she glorious? See how her scales catch

the light! No treasure in the world can match this sight.” Similar exclama-

tions floated across the river from Narí.

“Bloody unbearable, that’s what it is,” muttered Orik into his beard. Er-

agon hid a smile, though he agreed with the dwarf. The elves never

seemed to tire of praising Saphira.

Nothing’s wrong with a few compliments, said Saphira. She landed with a

gigantic splash and submerged her head to escape a diving sparrow.