Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (33 page)

shoulder of a friend or lover. “These trees are among the oldest living

creatures in Alagaësia. Elves have loved them since first we saw Du Wel-

denvarden, and we have done everything within our power to help them

flourish.” A faint blade of light pierced the dusty emerald branches over-

head and limned her arm and face with liquid gold, dazzlingly bright

against the murky background. “We have traveled far together, Eragon,

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but now you are about to enter my world. Tread softly, for the earth and

air are heavy with memories and naught is as it seems. . Do not fly with

Saphira today, as we have already triggered certain wards that protect

Ellesméra. It would be unwise to stray from the path.”

Eragon bowed his head and retreated to Saphira, who lay curled on a

bed of moss, amusing herself by releasing plumes of smoke from her nos-

trils and watching them roil out of sight. Without preamble, she said,

There is plenty of room for me on the ground now. I will have no difficulty.

Good. He mounted Folkvír and followed Orik and the elves farther

into the empty, silent forest. Saphira crawled beside him. She and the

white horses gleamed in the somber half light.

Eragon paused, overcome by the solemn beauty of his surroundings.

Everything had a feeling of wintry age, as if nothing had changed under

the thatched needles for a thousand years and nothing ever would; time

itself seemed to have fallen into a slumber from which it would never

wake.

In late afternoon, the gloom lifted to reveal an elf standing before them,

sheathed in a brilliant ray of light that slanted down from the ceiling. He

was garbed in flowing robes, with a circlet of silver upon his brow. His

face was old, noble, and serene.

“Eragon,” murmured Arya. “Show him your palm and your ring.”

Baring his right hand, Eragon raised it so that first Brom’s ring and then

the gedwëy ignasia was visible. The elf smiled, closed his eyes, and spread

his arms in a gesture of welcome. He held the posture.

“The way is clear,” said Arya. At a soft command, her steed moved

forward. They rode around the elf—like water parting at the base of a

weathered boulder—and when they had all passed, he straightened,

clasped his hands, and vanished as the light that illuminated him ceased

to exist.

Who is he? asked Saphira.

Arya said, “He is Gilderien the Wise, Prince of House Miolandra,

wielder of the White Flame of Vándil, and guardian of Ellesméra since

the days of Du Fyrn Skulblaka, our war with the dragons. None may en-

ter the city unless he permits it.”

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A quarter of a mile beyond, the forest thinned and breaks appeared

within the canopy, allowing planks of mottled sunlight to bar the way.

Then they passed underneath two burled trees that leaned against each

other and stopped at the edge of an empty glade.

The ground was strewn with dense patches of flowers. From pink roses

to bluebells and lilies, spring’s fleeting treasure was heaped about like

piles of rubies, sapphires, and opals. Their intoxicating aromas attracted

hordes of bumblebees. To the right, a stream chuckled behind a row of

bushes, while a pair of squirrels chased each other around a rock.

At first it looked to Eragon like a place where deer might bed for the

night. But as he continued to stare, he began to pick out paths hidden

among the brush and trees; soft warm light where normally there would

be auburn shadows; an odd pattern in the shapes of the twigs and

branches and flowers, so subtle that it nearly escaped detection—clues

that what he saw was not entirely natural. He blinked, and his vision

suddenly shifted as if a lens had been placed over his eyes, resolving eve-

rything into recognizable shapes. Those were paths, aye. And those were

flowers, aye. But what he had taken to be clusters of lumpy, twisted trees

were in fact graceful buildings that grew directly out of the pines.

One tree bulged at the base to form a two-story house before sinking

its roots into the loam. Both stories were hexagonal, although the upper

level was half as small as the first, which gave the house a tiered appear-

ance. The roofs and walls were made of webbed sheets of wood draped

over six thick ridges. Moss and yellow lichen bearded the eaves and hung

over jeweled windows set into each side. The front door was a mysteri-

ous black silhouette recessed under an archway wrought with symbols.

Another house was nestled between three pines, which were joined to

it through a series of curved branches. Reinforced by those flying but-

tresses, the house rose five levels, light and airy. Beside it sat a bower

woven out of willow and dogwood and hung with flameless lanterns dis-

guised as galls.

Each unique building enhanced and complemented its surroundings,

blending seamlessly with the rest of the forest until it was impossible to

tell where artifice ended and nature resumed. The two were in perfect

balance. Instead of mastering their environment, the elves had chosen to

accept the world as it was and adapt themselves to it.

The inhabitants of Ellesméra eventually revealed themselves as a flicker

of movement at the fringe of Eragon’s sight, no more than needles stirring

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in the breeze. Then he caught glimpses of hands, a pale face, a sandaled

foot, an upraised arm. One by one, the wary elves stepped into view,

their almond eyes fixed upon Saphira, Arya, and Eragon.

The women wore their hair unbound. It rippled down their backs in

waves of silver and sable braided with fresh blossoms, like a garden wa-

terfall. They all possessed a delicate, ethereal beauty that belied their un-

breakable strength; to Eragon, they seemed flawless. The men were just

as striking, with high cheekbones, finely sculpted noses, and heavy eye-

lids. Both sexes were garbed in rustic tunics of green and brown, fringed

with dusky colors of orange, russet, and gold.

The Fair Folk indeed, thought Eragon. He touched his lips in greeting.

As one, the elves bowed from the waist. Then they smiled and laughed

with unrestrained happiness. From within their midst, a woman sang:

Gala O Wyrda brunhvitr,

Abr Berundal vandr-fódhr,

Burthro laufsblädar ekar undir,

Eom kona dauthleikr. .

Eragon clapped his hands over his ears, fearing that the melody was a

spell like the one he had heard at Sílthrim, but Arya shook her head and

lifted his hands. “It is not magic.” Then she spoke to her horse, saying,

“Gánga.” The stallion nickered and trotted away. “Release your steeds as

well. We have no further need of them and they deserve to rest in our

stables.”

The song waxed stronger as Arya proceeded along a cobblestone path

set with bits of green tourmaline, which looped among the hollyhocks

and the houses and the trees before finally crossing a stream. The elves

danced around their party as they walked, flitting here and there as the

fancy struck them, laughing, and occasionally leaping up onto a branch to

run over their heads. They praised Saphira with names like “Longclaws”

and “Daughter of Air and Fire” and “Strong One.”

Eragon smiled, delighted and enchanted. I could live here, he thought

with a sense of peace. Tucked away in Du Weldenvarden, as much out-

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doors as in, safe from the rest of the world. . Yes, he liked Ellesméra very

much indeed, more than any of the dwarf cities. He pointed to a dwelling

situated within a pine tree and asked Arya, “How is that done?

“We sing to the forest in the old tongue and give it our strength to

grow in the shape that we desire. All our buildings and tools are made in

that manner.”

The path ended at a net of roots that formed steps, like bare pools of

earth. They climbed to a door embedded within a wall of saplings. Er-

agon’s heart quickened as the door swung open, seemingly of its own ac-

cord, and revealed a hall of trees. Hundreds of branches melded together

to form the honeycombed ceiling. Below, twelve chairs were arrayed

along each wall.

In them reposed four-and-twenty elf lords and ladies.

Wise and handsome were they, with smooth faces unmarked by age

and keen eyes that gleamed with excitement. They leaned forward, grip-

ping the arms of their chairs, and stared at Eragon’s group with open

wonder and hope. Unlike the other elves, they had swords belted at their

waists—hilts studded with beryls and garnets—and circlets that adorned

their brows.

And at the head of the assembly stood a white pavilion that sheltered a

throne of knotted roots. Queen Islanzadí sat upon it. She was as beautiful

as an autumn sunset, proud and imperious, with two dark eyebrows

slanted like upraised wings, lips as bright and red as holly berries, and

midnight hair bound under a diamond diadem. Her tunic was crimson.

Round her hips hung a girdle of braided gold. And clasped at the hollow

of her neck was a velvet cloak that fell to the ground in languid folds. De-

spite her imposing countenance, the queen seemed fragile, as if she con-

cealed a great pain.

By her left hand was a curved rod with a chased crosspiece. A brilliant-

white raven perched on it, shuffling impatiently from foot to foot. He

cocked his head and surveyed Eragon with uncanny intelligence, then

gave a long, low croak and shrieked, “Wyrda!” Eragon shivered from the

force of that single cracked word.

The door closed behind the six of them as they entered the hall and

approached the queen. Arya knelt on the moss-covered ground and

bowed first, then Eragon, Orik, Lifaen, and Narí. Even Saphira, who had

never bowed to anyone, not even Ajihad or Hrothgar, lowered her head.

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Islanzadí stood and descended from the throne, her cloak trailing be-

hind her. She stopped before Arya, placed trembling hands on her shoul-

ders, and said in a rich vibrato, “Rise.” Arya did, and the queen scrutinized

her face with increasing intensity, until it seemed as if she were trying to

decipher an obscure text.

At last Islanzadí cried out and embraced Arya, saying, “O my daughter,

I have wronged you!”

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QUEEN ISLANZADÍ

Eragon knelt before the queen of the elves and her councilors in a fan-

tastic room made from the boles of living trees in a near-mythic land, and

the only thing that filled his mind was shock. Arya is a princess! It was

fitting in a way—she had always possessed an air of command—but he

bitterly regretted the fact, for it placed another barrier between them

when he would have torn them all away. The knowledge filled his mouth

with the taste of ashes. He remembered Angela’s prophecy that he would

love one of noble birth. . and her warning that she could not see if it

would end for good or for ill.

He could feel Saphira’s own surprise, then her amusement. She said, It

appears that we have been traveling in the presence of royalty without know-

ing it.

Why didn’t she tell us?

Perhaps it would have placed her in greater danger.

“Islanzadí Dröttning,” said Arya formally.

The queen withdrew as if she had been stung and then repeated in the

ancient language, “O my daughter, I have wronged you.” She covered her

face. “Ever since you disappeared, I’ve barely slept or eaten. I was haunted

by your fate, and feared that I would never see you again. Banning you

from my presence was the greatest mistake I have ever made. . Can you

forgive me?”

The gathered elves stirred with amazement.

Arya’s response was long in coming, but at last she said, “For seventy

years, I have lived and loved, fought and killed without ever speaking to

you, my mother. Our lives are long, but even so, that is no small span.”

Islanzadí drew herself upright, lifting her chin. A tremor ran her length.

“I cannot undo the past, Arya, no matter how much I might desire to.”

“And I cannot forget what I endured.”

“Nor should you.” Islanzadí clasped her daughter’s hands. “Arya, I love

you. You are my only family. Go if you must, but unless you wish to re-

nounce me, I would be reconciled with you.”

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For a terrible moment, it seemed as if Arya would not answer, or

worse, would reject the offer. Eragon saw her hesitate and quickly look at

her audience. Then she lowered her eyes and said, “No, Mother. I could

not leave.” Islanzadí smiled uncertainly and embraced her daughter again.

This time Arya returned the gesture, and smiles broke out among the as-

sembled elves.

The white raven hopped on his stand, cackling, “And on the door was

graven evermore, what now became the family lore, Let us never do but to

adore! ”

“Hush, Blagden,” said Islanzadí to the raven. “Keep your doggerel to

yourself.” Breaking free, the queen turned to Eragon and Saphira. “You

must excuse me for being discourteous and ignoring you, our most im-

portant guests.”

Eragon touched his lips and then twisted his right hand over his ster-

num, as Arya had taught him. “Islanzadí Dröttning. Atra esterní ono

thelduin.” He had no doubt that he was supposed to speak first.