“There is a proper way to greet the sentinels in Ceris, certain patterns and forms that you must observe when presented to Queen Islanzadí, and a hundred different manners in which to greet those around you, if it’s not better to just remain quiet.”
“With all your customs,” Eragon risked saying, “it seems as though you’ve only made it easier to offend people.”
A smile flickered across her lips. “Perhaps. You know as well as I that you will be judged by the highest standards. If you make a mistake, the elves will think you did it on purpose. And only harm will come if they discover that it was born of ignorance. Far better to be thought rude and capable than rude and incapable, else you risk being manipulated like The Serpent in a match of Runes. Our politics move in cycles that are both subtle and lengthy. What you see or hear of an elf one day may only be a slight move in a strategy that reaches back millennia, and may have no bearing on how that elf will behave tomorrow. It is a game that we all play but few control, a game that you are about to enter.
“Now perhaps you realize why I say elves are not like other races. The dwarves are also long-lived, yet they are more prolific than us and do not share our restraint or our taste for intrigue. And humans …” She let her voice fade into a tactful silence.
“Humans,” said Eragon, “do the best they can with what they are given.”
“Even so.”
“Why don’t you tell Orik all this as well? He’ll be staying in Ellesméra, same as me.”
An edge crept into Arya’s voice. “He is already somewhat familiar with our etiquette. However, as a Rider, you would do well to appear better educated than he.”
Eragon accepted her rebuke without protest. “What must I learn?”
So Arya began to tutor him and, through him, Saphira in the niceties of elven society. First she explained that when one elf meets another, they stop and touch their first two fingers to their lips to indicate that “we shall not distort the truth during our conversation.” This is followed by the phrase “Atra esterní ono thelduin” to which one replies “Atra du evarínya ono varda.”
“And,” said Arya, “if you are being especially formal, a third response is made: ‘Un atra mor’ranr lífa unin hjarta onr,’ which means, ‘And may peace live in your heart.’ These lines were adopted from a blessing that was made by a dragon when our pact with them was finalized. It goes:
Atra esterní ono thelduin,
Mor’ranr lífa unin hjarta onr,
Un du evarínya ono varda.
“Or: ‘May good fortune rule over you, peace live in your heart, and the stars watch over you.’ ”
“How do you know who is supposed to speak first?”
“If you greet someone with greater status than yourself or if you wish to honor a subordinate, then speak first. If you greet someone with less status than yourself, speak last. But if you are uncertain of your position, give your counterpart a chance to speak, and if they are silent, speak first. Such is the rule.”
Does it apply to me as well? asked Saphira.
Arya plucked a dry leaf from the ground and crumpled it between her fingers. Behind her, the camp faded into shadow as the dwarves banked the fire, dampening the flames with a layer of dirt so that the coals and embers would survive until morning. “As a dragon, none are higher than you in our culture. Not even the queen would claim authority over you. You may do and say as you wish. We do not expect dragons to be bound by our laws.”
Next she showed Eragon how to twist his right hand and place it over his sternum in a curious gesture. “This,” she said, “you will use when you meet Islanzadí. By it you indicate that you offer her your loyalty and obedience.”
“Is it binding, like my oath of fealty to Nasuada?”
“No, only a courtesy, and a small one at that.”
Eragon struggled to remember the sundry modes of address that Arya instructed them in. The salutations varied from man to woman, adults to children, boys to girls, as well as by rank and prestige. It was a daunting list, but one that Eragon knew he had to memorize perfectly.
When he had absorbed all he could, Arya stood and dusted her hands. “So long as you do not forget, you’ll do well enough.” She turned to leave.
“Wait,” said Eragon. He reached out to stop her, then snatched back his hand before she noticed his presumption. She looked over her shoulder 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, knowing 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.
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 arguing, 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 thistledown floating on the wind. “I am afraid.”
Dumbfounded, Eragon made no response, and she stepped past, leaving him alone in the night.
CERIS
n 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 forest, 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 forest. “Stop here,” said Arya in a low voice. She walked forward until she stood alone in the midst of the lush gras
s, then cried in the ancient language, “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.
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 yesterday, he touched his lips, adding, “Atra esterní ono thelduin.”
The elves lowered their weapons as their angled faces lit up with radiant 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 grumbling 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. Eragon could hear the elves whispering and laughing all around, though he could not see them. Occasionally, they would call directions when he or 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 preparing 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 Eragon 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 water.
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 intimate form of contact for casual exchanges. The elves had no such inhibitions, 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 tallest 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!
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 accompany 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 Ellesméra.”
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 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 possi
ble 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 approached 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 hesitated 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 Snowfire to Ellesméra. It was convenient to have a horse whenever Saphira was away, or in places too confined for her bulk. He fingered the sparse bristles along his jaw. “That is a kind offer. Will you make sure Snowfire is well cared for? I couldn’t bear it if anything were to happen to him.”
“On mine honor,” pledged Thorv, “you will return to find him fat and sleek.”
Eragon fetched Snowfire and transferred the stallion, his saddle, and his grooming supplies into Thorv’s care. He bade each of the warriors farewell, then he, Saphira, and Orik watched the dwarves ride back along the trail they had arrived on.
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