Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (68 page)

and his long-fingered hands had rough pads on the palm.

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Later, two identical elf women presented themselves to Saphira. They

moved with languid grace and, when they touched their hands to their

lips in the traditional greeting, Eragon saw that their fingers were joined

by translucent webbing. “We have come far,” they whispered. As they

spoke, three rows of gills pulsed on each side of their slender necks, ex-

posing pink flesh underneath. Their skin glistened as if with oil. Their

lank hair hung past their narrow shoulders.

He met an elf armored in imbricated scales like a dragon, with a bony

crest upon his head, a line of spikes that ran down his back, and two pal-

lid flames that ever flickered in the pits of his flared nostrils.

And he met others who were not so recognizable: elves whose outlines

wavered as if seen through water; elves who, when motionless, were in-

distinguishable from trees; tall elves with eyes of black, even where the

whites should have been, who possessed an awful beauty that frightened

Eragon and, when they chanced to touch something, passed through it

like shadows.

The ultimate example of this phenomenon was the Menoa tree, which

was once the elf Linnëa. The tree seemed to quicken with life at the ac-

tivity in the clearing. Its branches stirred, though no breeze touched

them, at times the creaks of its trunk could be heard to match the flow

of music, and an air of gentle benevolence emanated from the tree and

lay upon those in the vicinity. .

And he remembered two attacks from his back, screaming and groan-

ing in the shadows while the mad elves continued their revels around

him and only Saphira came to guard over him. .

On the third day of the Agaetí Blödhren, or so Eragon later learned, he

delivered his verses to the elves. He stood and said, “I am no smith, nor

skilled at carving or weaving or pottery or painting or any of the arts. Nor

can I rival your accomplishments with spells. Thus, all that remains to

me are my own experiences, which I have attempted to interpret

through the lens of a story, though I am also no bard.” Then, in the man-

ner that Brom had performed lays in Carvahall, Eragon chanted:

In the kingdom by the sea,

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In the mountains mantled blue,

On frigid winter’s final day

Was born a man with but one task:

To kill the foe in Durza,

In the land of shadows.

Nurtured by the kind and wise

Under oaks as old as time,

He ran with deer and wrestled bears,

And from his elders learned the skills,

To kill the foe in Durza,

In the land of shadows.

Taught to spy the thief in black

When he grabs the weak and strong;

To block his blows and fight the fiend

With rag and rock and plant and bone;

And kill the foe in Durza,

In the land of shadows.

Quick as thought, the years did turn,

’Til the man had come of age,

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His body burned with fevered rage,

While youth’s impatience seared his veins.

Then he met a maiden fair,

Who was tall and strong and wise,

Her brow adorned with Gëda’s Light,

Which shone upon her trailing gown.

In her eyes of midnight blue,

In those enigmatic pools,

Appeared to him a future bright,

Together, where they would not have

To fear the foe in Durza,

In the land of shadows.

So Eragon told of how the man voyaged to the land of Durza, where he

found and fought the foe, despite the cold terror within his heart. Yet

though at last he triumphed, the man withheld the fatal blow, for now

that he had defeated his enemy, he did not fear the doom of mortals. He

did not need to kill the foe in Durza. Then the man sheathed his sword

and returned home and wed his love on summer’s eve. With her, he

spent his many days content until his beard was long and white. But:

In the dark before the dawn,

In the room where slept the man,

The foe, he crept and loomed above

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His mighty rival now so weak.

From his pillow did the man

Raise his head and gaze upon

The cold and empty face of Death,

The king of everlasting night.

Calm acceptance filled the man’s

Aged heart; for long ago,

He’d lost all fear of Death’s embrace,

The last embrace a man will know.

Gentle as a morning breeze,

Bent the foe and from the man

His glowing, pulsing spirit took,

And thence in peace they went to dwell,

Forevermore in Durza,

In the land of shadows.

Eragon fell quiet and, conscious of the eyes upon him, ducked his head

and quickly found his seat. He felt embarrassed that he had revealed so

much of himself.

The elf lord, Däthedr, said, “You underestimate yourself, Shadeslayer. It

seems that you have discovered a new talent.”

Islanzadí raised one pale hand. “Your work shall be added to the great

library in Tialdarí Hall, Eragon-finiarel, so that all who wish can appreci-

ate it. Though your poem is allegory, I believe that it has helped many of

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us to better understand the hardships you have faced since Saphira’s egg

appeared to you, for which we are, in no small way, responsible. You

must read it to us again so we may think upon this further.”

Pleased, Eragon bowed his head and did as she commanded. Afterward

was time for Saphira to present her work to the elves. She flew off into

the night and returned with a black stone thrice the size of a large man

clutched in her talons. Landing on her hind legs, she placed the stone up-

right in the middle of the bare greensward, in full view of everyone. The

glossy rock had been melted and somehow molded into intricate curves

that wound about each other, like frozen waves. The striated tongues of

rock twisted in such convoluted patterns that the eye had difficulty fol-

lowing a single piece from base to tip, but rather flitted from one coil to

the next.

As it was his first time seeing the sculpture, Eragon gazed at it with as

much interest as the elves. How did you make this?

Saphira’s eyes twinkled with amusement. By licking the molten rock.

Then she bent and breathed fire long upon the stone, bathing it in a

golden pillar that ascended toward the stars and clawed at them with lu-

cent fingers. When Saphira closed her jaws, the paper-thin edges of the

sculpture glowed cherry red, while small flames flickered in the dark hol-

lows and recesses throughout the rock. The flowing strands of rock

seemed to move under the hypnotic light.

The elves exclaimed with wonder, clapping their hands and dancing

about the piece. An elf cried, “Well wrought, Brightscales!”

It’s beautiful, said Eragon.

Saphira touched him on the arm with her nose. Thank you, little one.

Then Glaedr brought out his offering: a slab of red oak that he had

carved with the point of one talon into a likeness of Ellesméra as seen

from high above. And Oromis revealed his contribution: the completed

scroll that Eragon had often watched him illustrate during their lessons.

Along the top half of the scroll marched columns of glyphs—a copy of

“The Lay of Vestarí the Mariner”—while along the bottom half ran a

panorama of a fantastic landscape, rendered with breathtaking artistry,

detail, and skill.

Arya took Eragon’s hand then and drew him through the forest and

toward the Menoa tree, where she said, “Look how the werelight dims.

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We have but a few hours left to us before dawn arrives and we must re-

turn to the world of cold reason.”

Around the tree, the host of elves gathered, their faces bright with ea-

ger anticipation. With great dignity, Islanzadí emerged from within their

midst and walked along a root as wide as a pathway until it angled up-

ward and doubled back on itself. She stood upon the gnarled shelf over-

looking the slender, waiting elves. “As is our custom, and as was agreed

upon at the end of The Dragon War by Queen Tarmunora, the first Er-

agon, and the white dragon who represented his race—he whose name

cannot be uttered in this or any language—when they bound the fates of

elves and dragons together, we have met to honor our blood-oath with

song and dance and the fruits of our labor. Last this celebration occurred,

many long years ago, our situation was desperate indeed. It has improved

somewhat since, the result of our efforts, the dwarves’, and the Varden’s,

though Alagaësia still lies under the black shadow of the Wyrdfell and

we must still live with our shame of how we have failed the dragons.

“Of the Riders of eld, only Oromis and Glaedr remain. Brom and many

others entered the void this past century. However, new hope has been

granted to us in the form of Eragon and Saphira, and it is only right and

proper that they should be here now, as we reaffirm the oath between

our races three.”

At the queen’s signal, the elves cleared a wide expanse at the base of

the Menoa tree. Around the perimeter, they staked a ring of lanterns

mounted upon carved poles, while musicians with flutes, harps, and

drums assembled along the ridge of one long root. Guided by Arya to the

edge of the circle, Eragon found himself seated between her and Oromis,

while Saphira and Glaedr crouched on either side of them like gem-

studded bluffs.

To Eragon and Saphira, Oromis said, “Watch you carefully, for this is of

great importance to your heritage as Riders.”

When all the elves were settled, two elf-maids walked to the center of

the space in the host and stood with their backs to each other. They were

exceedingly beautiful and identical in every respect, except for their hair:

one had tresses as black as a forgotten pool, while the other’s hair

gleamed like burnished silver wire.

“The Caretakers, Iduna and Nëya,” whispered Oromis.

From Islanzadí’s shoulder, Blagden shrieked, “Wyrda!”

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Moving in unison, the two elves raised their hands to the brooches at

their throats, unclasped them, and allowed their white robes to fall away.

Though they wore no garments, the women were clad in an iridescent

tattoo of a dragon. The tattoo began with the dragon’s tail wrapped

around the left ankle of Iduna, continued up her leg and thigh, over her

torso, and then across Nëya’s back, ending with the dragon’s head on

Nëya’s chest. Every scale on the dragon was inked a different color; the

vibrant hues gave the tattoo the appearance of a rainbow.

The elf-maids twined their hands and arms together so that the dragon

appeared to be a continuous whole, rippling from one body to the next

without interruption. Then they each lifted a bare foot and brought it

down on the packed ground with a soft thump.

And again: thump.

On the third thump, the musicians struck their drums in rhythm. A

thump later, the harpists plucked the strings of their gilt instruments, and

a moment after that, those elves with flutes joined the throbbing melody.

Slowly at first, but with gathering speed, Iduna and Nëya began to

dance, marking time with the stamp of their feet on the dirt and undulat-

ing so that it was not they who seemed to move but the dragon upon

them. Round and round they went, and the dragon flew endless circles

across their skin.

Then the twins added their voices to the music, building upon the

pounding beat with their fierce cries, their lyrics verses of a spell so com-

plex that its meaning escaped Eragon. Like the rising wind that precedes

a storm, the elves accompanied the incantation, singing with one tongue

and one mind and one intent. Eragon did not know the words but found

himself mouthing them along with the elves, swept along by the inexo-

rable cadence. He heard Saphira and Glaedr hum in concordance, a deep

pulse so strong that it vibrated within his bones and made his skin tingle

and the air shimmer.

Faster and faster spun Iduna and Nëya until their feet were a dusty blur

and their hair fanned about them and they glistened with a film of sweat.

The elf-maids accelerated to an inhuman speed and the music climaxed

in a frenzy of chanted phrases. Then a flare of light ran the length of the

dragon tattoo, from head to tail, and the dragon stirred. At first Eragon

thought his eyes had deceived him, until the creature blinked, raised his

wings, and clenched his talons.

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A burst of flame erupted from the dragon’s maw and he lunged for-

ward and pulled himself free of the elves’ skin, climbing into the air,

where he hovered, flapping his wings. The tip of his tail remained con-

nected to the twins below, like a glowing umbilical cord. The giant beast

strained toward the black moon and loosed an untamed roar of ages past,

then turned and surveyed the assembled elves.

As the dragon’s baleful eye fell upon him, Eragon knew that the crea-

ture was no mere apparition but a conscious being bound and sustained

by magic. Saphira and Glaedr’s humming grew ever louder until it

blocked all other sound from Eragon’s ears. Above, the specter of their