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 ancestors arrived in Alagaësia eight hundred years ago, they roamed far across it, seeking a suitable place to live. Eventually, they settled in Palancar 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 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 assassination, 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 predecessor 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 argument.”
“It was an unpopular decision,” admitted Lifaen. “Even now some question the wisdom of it. It caused such a disagreement between Anurin and Queen Dellanir that Anurin seceded from our government and established 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 supersede 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 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 vulnerable to injuries of the flesh.”
“You became immortal? How?” The elf refused to elaborate, though Eragon pressed him for details. Finally, Eragon asked, “How old is Arya?”
Lifaen turned his glittering eyes on him, probing Eragon with disconcerting 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 asking 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 melting 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.
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 before 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 arrived three centuries after the Riders were formed, which was thousands of years ago.”
“Two thousand, seven hundred, and four years, by our reckoning,” declared 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 elsewhere 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 exclamations floated across the river from Narí.
“Bloody unbearable, that’s what it is,” muttered
Orik into his beard. Eragon 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.
Of course not, said Eragon.
Saphira eyed him from underwater. Was that sarcasm?
He chuckled and let it pass. Glancing at the other boat, Eragon watched Arya paddle, her back perfectly straight, her face inscrutable as she floated through webs of mottled light beneath the mossy trees. She seemed so dark and somber, it made him want to comfort her. “Lifaen,” he asked softly so that Orik would not hear, “why is Arya so … unhappy? You and—”
Lifaen’s shoulders stiffened underneath his russet tunic and he whispered, so low that Eragon could barely hear, “We are honored to serve Arya Dröttningu. She has suffered more than you can imagine for our people. We celebrate out of joy for what she has achieved with Saphira, and we weep in our dreams for her sacrifice … and her loss. Her sorrows are her own, though, and I cannot reveal them without her permission.”
As Eragon sat by their nightly campfire, petting a swatch of moss that felt like rabbit fur, he heard a commotion deeper in the forest. Exchanging glances with Saphira and Orik, he crept toward the sound, drawing Zar’roc.
Eragon stopped at the lip of a small ravine and looked across to the other side, where a gyrfalcon with a broken wing thrashed in a bed of snowberries. The raptor froze when it saw him, then opened its beak and uttered a piercing screech.
What a terrible fate, to be unable to fly, said Saphira.
When Arya arrived, she eyed the gyrfalcon, then strung her bow and, with unerring aim, shot it through the breast. At first Eragon thought that she had done it for food, but she made no move to retrieve either the bird or her arrow.
“Why?” he asked.
With a hard expression, Arya unstrung her bow. “It was too injured for me to heal and would have died tonight or tomorrow. Such is the nature of things. I saved it hours of suffering.”
Saphira lowered her head and touched Arya on the shoulder with her snout, then returned to their camp, her tail scraping bark off the trees. As Eragon started to follow, he felt Orik tug his sleeve and bent down to hear the dwarf say in an undertone, “Never ask an elf for help; they might decide that you’re better off dead, eh?”
THE DAGSHELGR INVOCATION
hough he was tired from the previous day, Eragon forced himself to rise before dawn in an attempt to catch one of the elves asleep. It had become a game with him to discover when the elves got up—or if they slept at all—as he had yet to see any of them with their eyes closed. Today was no exception.
“Good morning,” said Narí and Lifaen from above him. Eragon craned back his head and saw that they each stood on the bough of a pine tree, over fifty feet in the air. Jumping from branch to branch with feline grace, the elves dropped to the ground alongside him.
“We have been keeping watch,” explained Lifaen.
“For what?”
Arya stepped around a tree and said, “For my fears. Du Weldenvarden has many mysteries and dangers, especially for a Rider. We have lived here for thousands of years, and old spells still linger in unexpected places; magic permeates the air, the water, and the earth. In places it has affected the animals. Sometimes strange creatures are found roaming the forest, and not all of them friendly.”
“Are they—” Eragon stopped as his gedwëy ignasia tingled. The silver hammer on the necklace Gannel had given him grew hot on his chest, and he felt the amulet’s spell draw upon his strength.
Someone was trying to scry him.
Is it Galbatorix? he wondered, frightened. He clutched the necklace and pulled it out of his tunic, ready to yank it off should he become too weak. From the other side of the camp, Saphira rushed to his side, bolstering him with her own reserves of energy.
A moment later, the heat leached out of the hammer, leaving it cold against Eragon’s skin. He bounced it on his palm, then tucked it back under his clothes, whereupon Saphira said, Our enemies are searching for us.
Enemies? Could not it be someone in Du Vrangr Gata?
I think Hrothgar would have told Nasuada that he ordered Gannel to enchant you this necklace.… She might have even come up with the idea in the first place.
Arya frowned when Eragon explained what had occurred. “This makes it all the more important we reach Ellesméra quickly so your training can resume. Events in Alagaësia move apace, and I fear you won’t have adequate time for your studies.”
Eragon wanted to discuss it further, but lost the opportunity in the rush to leave camp. Once the canoes were loaded and the fire tamped out, they continued to forge up the Gaena River.
They had only been on the water for an hour when Eragon noticed that the river was growing wider and deeper. A few minutes later, they came upon a waterfall that filled Du Weldenvarden with its throbbing rumble. The cataract was about a hundred feet tall, and streamed down a stone face with an overhang that made it impossible to climb. “How do we get past that?” He could already feel cool spray on his face.
Lifaen pointed at the left shore, some distance from the falls, where a trail had been worn up the steep ridge. “We have to portage our canoes and supplies for half a league before the river clears.”
The five of them untied the bundles wedged between the seats of the canoes and divided the supplies into piles that they stuffed into their packs. “Ugh,” said Eragon, hefting his load. It was twice as heavy as what he usually carried when traveling on foot.
I could fly it upstream for you … all of it, offered Saphira, crawling onto the muddy bank and shaking herself dry.
When Eragon repeated her suggestion, Lifaen looked horrified. “We would never dream of using a dragon as a beast of burden. It would dishonor you, Saphira—and Eragon as Shur’tugal—and it would shame our hospitality.”
Saphira snorted, and a plume of flame erupted from her nostrils, vaporizing the surface of the river and creating a cloud of steam. This is nonsense. Reaching past Eragon with one scaly leg, she hooked her talons through the packs’ shoulder straps, then took off over their heads. Catch me if you can!
A peal of clear laughter broke the silence, like the trill of a mockingbird. Amazed, Eragon turned and looked at Arya. It was the first time he had ever heard her laugh; he loved the sound. She smiled at Lifaen. “You have much to learn if you presume to tell a dragon what she may or may not do.”
“But the dishonor—”
“It is no dishonor if Saphira does it of her free will,” asserted Arya. “Now, let us go before we waste any more time.”
Hoping that the strain would not trigger the pain in his back, Eragon picked up his canoe with Lifaen and fit it over his shoulders. He was forced to rely on the elf to guide him along the trail, as he could only see the ground beneath his feet.
An hour later, they had topped the ridge and hiked beyond the dangerous white water to where the Gaena River was once again calm and glassy. Waiting for them was Saphira, who was busy catching fish in the shallows, jabbing her triangular head into the water like a heron.
Arya called her over and said to both her and Eragon, “Beyond the next curve lies Ardwen Lake and, upon its western shore, Sílthrim, one of our greatest cities. Past that, a vast expanse of forest still separates us from Ellesméra. We will encounter many elves close to Sílthrim. However, I don’t want either of you to be seen until we speak with Queen Islanzadí.”
Why? asked Saphira, echoing Eragon’s thoughts.
In her musical accent, Arya answered: “Your presence represents a great and terrible change for our kingdom, and such shifts are dangerous unless handled with care. The queen must be the first to meet with you. Only she has the authority and wisdom to oversee this transition.”
“You speak highly of her,” commented Eragon.
At his words, Narí and Lifaen stopped and watched Arya with guarded eyes. He
r face went blank, then she drew herself up proudly.
“She has led us well.… Eragon, I know you carry a hooded cape from Tronjheim. Until we are free of possible observers, will you wear it and keep your head covered so that none can see your rounded ears and know that you are human?” He nodded. “And, Saphira, you must hide during the day and catch up with us at night. Ajihad told me that is what you did in the Empire.”
And I hated every moment of it, she growled.
“It’s only for today and tomorrow. After that we will be far enough away from Sílthrim that we won’t have to worry about encountering anyone of consequence,” promised Arya.
Saphira turned her azure eyes on Eragon. When we escaped the Empire, I swore that I would always stay close enough to protect you. Every time I leave, bad things happen: Yazuac, Daret, Dras-Leona, the slavers.
Not in Teirm.
You know what I mean! I’m especially loath to leave since you can’t defend yourself with your crippled back.
I trust that Arya and the others will keep me safe. Don’t you?
Saphira hesitated. I trust Arya. She twisted away and padded up the riverbank, sat for a minute, then returned. Very well. She broadcast her acceptance to Arya, adding, But I won’t wait any longer than tomorrow night, even if you’re in the middle of Sílthrim at the time.
“I understand,” said Arya. “You will still have to be careful when flying after dark, as elves can see clearly on all but the blackest nights. If you are sighted by chance, you could be attacked by magic.”
Wonderful, commented Saphira.
While Orik and the elves repacked the boats, Eragon and Saphira explored the dim forest, searching for a suitable hiding place. They settled on a dry hollow rimmed by crumbling rocks and blanketed with a bed of pine needles that were pleasantly soft underfoot. Saphira curled up on the ground and nodded her head. Go now. I will be fine.
Eragon hugged her neck—careful to avoid her sharp spines—and then reluctantly departed, glancing backward. At the river, he donned his cape before they resumed their journey.
Inheritance Cycle Omnibus Page 70
