Eragon pushed aside the scrolls. “I’d be delighted to see them.”
He means we’d be delighted, added Saphira.
Arya looked surprised when both of them spoke in the ancient language, so Eragon explained Oromis’s command. “An excellent idea,” said Arya, joining them in the same language. “And it is more appropriate to speak thus while you stay here.”
When all three of them had descended from the tree, Arya directed them westward toward an unfamiliar quadrant of Ellesméra. They encountered many elves on the path, all of whom stopped to bow to Saphira.
Eragon noticed once again that no elf children were to be seen. He mentioned this to Arya, and she said, “Aye, we have few children. Only two are in Ellesméra at the present, Dusan and Alanna. We treasure children above all else because they are so rare. To have a child is the greatest honor and responsibility that can be bestowed upon any living being.”
At last they arrived at a ribbed lancet arch—grown between two trees—which served as the entrance for a wide compound. Still in the ancient language, Arya chanted, “Root of tree, fruit of vine, let me pass by this blood of mine.”
The two archway doors trembled, then swung outward, releasing five monarch butterflies that fluttered toward the dusky sky. Through the archway lay a vast flower garden arranged to look as pristine and natural as a wild meadow. The one element that betrayed artifice was the sheer variety of plants; many of the species were blooming out of season, or came from hotter or colder climates and would never have flourished without the elves’ magic. The scene was lit with the gemlike flameless lanterns, augmented by constellations of swirling fireflies.
To Saphira, Arya said, “Mind your tail, that it does not sweep across the beds.”
Advancing, they crossed the garden and pressed deep into a line of scattered trees. Before Eragon quite knew where he was, the trees became more numerous and then thickened into a wall. He found himself standing on the threshold of a burnished wood hall without ever being conscious of having gone inside.
The hall was warm and homey—a place of peace, reflection, and comfort. Its shape was determined by the tree trunks, which on the inside of the hall had been stripped of their bark, polished, and rubbed with oil until the wood gleamed like amber. Regular gaps between the trunks acted as windows. The scent of crushed pine needles perfumed the air. A number of elves occupied the hall, reading, writing, and, in one dark corner, playing a set of reed pipes. They all paused and inclined their heads to acknowledge Saphira’s presence.
“Here you would stay,” said Arya, “were you not Rider and dragon.”
“It’s magnificent,” replied Eragon.
Arya guided him and Saphira everywhere in the compound that was accessible to dragons. Each new room was a surprise; no two were alike, and each chamber found different ways to incorporate the forest in its construction. In one room, a silver brook trickled down the gnarled wall and flowed across the floor on a vein of pebbles and back out under the sky. In another, creepers blanketed the entire room, except for the floor, in a leafy green pelt adorned with trumpet-shaped flowers with the most delicate pink and white colors. Arya called it the Lianí Vine.
They saw many great works of art, from fairths and paintings to sculptures and radiant mosaics of stained glass—all based on the curved shapes of plants and animals.
Islanzadí met with them for a short time in an open pavilion joined to two other buildings by covered pathways. She inquired about the progress of Eragon’s training and the state of his back, both of which he described with brief, polite phrases. This seemed to satisfy the queen, who exchanged a few words with Saphira and then departed.
In the end, they returned to the garden. Eragon walked beside Arya—Saphira trailing behind—entranced by the sound of her voice as she told him about the different varieties of flowers, where they originated, how they were maintained, and, in many instances, how they had been altered with magic. She also pointed out the flowers that opened their petals only during the night, like a white datura.
“Which one is your favorite?” he asked.
Arya smiled and escorted him to a tree on the edge of the garden, by a pond lined with rushes. Around the tree’s lowest branch coiled a morning glory with three velvety black blossoms that were clenched shut.
Blowing on them, Arya whispered, “Open.”
The petals rustled as they unfurled, fanning their inky robes to expose the hoard of nectar in their centers. A starburst of royal blue filled the flowers’ throats, diffusing into the sable corolla like the vestiges of day into night.
“Is it not the most perfect and lovely flower?” asked Arya.
Eragon gazed at her, exquisitely aware of how close they were, and said, “Yes … it is.” Before his courage deserted him, he added, “As are you.”
Eragon! exclaimed Saphira.
Arya fixed her eyes upon him, studying him until he was forced to look away. When he dared face her again, he was mortified to see her wearing a faint smile, as if amused by his reaction. “You are too kind,” she murmured. Reaching up, she touched the rim of a blossom and glanced from it to him. “Fäolin created this especially for me one summer solstice, long ago.”
He shuffled his feet and responded with a few unintelligible words, hurt and offended that she did not take his compliment more seriously. He wished he could turn invisible, and even considered trying to cast a spell that would allow him to do just that.
In the end, he drew himself upright and said, “Please excuse us, Arya Svit-kona, but it is late, and we must return to our tree.”
Her smile deepened. “Of course, Eragon. I understand.” She accompanied them to the main archway, opened the doors for them, and said, “Good night, Saphira. Good night, Eragon.”
Good night, replied Saphira.
Despite his embarrassment, Eragon could not help asking, “Will we see you tomorrow?”
Arya tilted her head. “I think I shall be busy tomorrow.” Then the doors closed, cutting off his view of her as she returned to the main compound.
Crouching low on the path, Saphira nudged Eragon in the side. Stop daydreaming and get on my back. Climbing up her left foreleg, he took his usual place, then clutched the neck spike in front of him as Saphira rose to her full height. After a few steps: How can you criticize my behavior with Glaedr and then go and do something like that? What were you thinking?
You know how I feel about her, he grumbled.
Pah! If you are my conscience and I am yours, then it’s my duty to tell you when you’re acting like a deluded popinjay. You’re not using logic, like Oromis keeps telling us to. What do you really expect to happen between you and Arya? She’s a princess!
And I’m a Rider.
She’s an elf; you’re a human!
I look more like an elf every day.
Eragon, she’s over a hundred years old!
I’ll live as long as her or any elf.
Ah, but you haven’t yet, and that’s the problem. You can’t overcome such a vast difference. She’s a grown woman with a century of experience, while you’re—What?
What am I? he snarled. A child? Is that what you mean?
No, not a child. Not after what you have seen and done since we were joined. But you are young, even by the reckoning of your short-lived race—much less by that of the dwarves, dragons, and elves.
As are you.
His retort silenced her for a minute. Then: I’m just trying to protect you, Eragon. That’s all. I want you to be happy, and I’m afraid you won’t be if you insist on pursuing Arya.
The two of them were about to retire when they heard the trapdoor in the vestibule bang open and the jingle of mail as someone climbed inside. Zar’roc in hand, Eragon threw back the screen door, ready to confront the intruder.
His hand dropped as he saw Orik on the floor. The dwarf took a hearty draught from the bottle he wielded in his left hand, then squinted at Eragon. “Bricks and bones, where be you? Ah, there you shtand
. I wondered where you were. Couldn’t find you, so I thought that given this fine dolorous night, I might go find you … and here you are! What shall we talk about, you and I, now that we’re together in this delectable bird’s nest?”
Taking hold of the dwarf’s free arm, Eragon pulled him upright, surprised, as he always was, by how dense Orik was, like a miniature boulder. When Eragon removed his support, Orik swayed from one side to the other, achieving such precarious angles that he threatened to topple at the slightest provocation.
“Come on in,” said Eragon in his own language. He closed the trapdoor. “You’ll catch cold out here.”
Orik blinked his round, deep-set eyes at Eragon. “I’ve not sheen you round my leafy exile, no I haven’t. You’ve abandoned me to the company of elves … and misherable, dull company they are, yesh indeed.”
A touch of guilt made Eragon disguise himself with an awkward smile. He had forgotten the dwarf amid the goings-on. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited you, Orik, but my studies have kept me busy. Here, give me your cloak.” As he helped the dwarf out of his brown mantle, he asked, “What are you drinking?”
“Faelnirv,” declared Orik. “A mosht wonderful, ticklish potion. The besht and greatest of the elves’ tricksty inventions; it gives you the gift of loquacion. Words float from your tongue like shoals of flapping minnows, like flocks of breathlessh hummingbirds, like rivers of writhing shnakes.” He paused, apparently taken by the unique magnificence of his similes. As Eragon ushered him into the bedroom, Orik saluted Saphira with his bottle and said, “Greetings, O Irontooth. May your shcales shine as bright as the coals of Morgothal’s forge.”
Greetings, Orik, said Saphira, laying her head on the rim of her bed. What has put you in this state? It is not like you. Eragon repeated her question.
“What has put me in mine shtate?” repeated Orik. He dropped into the chair that Eragon provided—his feet dangling several inches above the ground—and began to shake his head. “Red cap, green cap, elves here and elves there. I drown in elvesh and their thrice-damned courtesy. Bloodless they be. Taciturn they are. Yesh sir, no shir, three bagsh full, sir, yet nary a pip more can I extract.” He looked at Eragon with a mournful expression. “What am I to do while you meander through your instruction? Am I to sit and twiddle mine thumbs while I turn to shtone and join the shpirits of mine anshestors? Tell me, O sagacious Rider.”
Have you no skills or hobbies that you might occupy yourself with? asked Saphira.
“Aye,” said Orik. “I’m a fair enough smith by any who’d care to judge. But why should I craft bright armsh and armor for those who treasure them not? I’m usheless here. As usheless as a three-legged Feldûnost.”
Eragon extended a hand toward the bottle. “May I?” Orik glanced between him and the bottle, then grimaced and gave it up. The faelnirv was cold as ice as it ran down Eragon’s throat, stinging and smarting. He blinked as his eyes watered. After he indulged in a second quaff, he passed the bottle back to Orik, who seemed disappointed by how little of the concoction remained.
“And what mischief,” asked Orik, “have you two managed to ferret out of Oromis and yon bucolic woods?”
The dwarf alternately chuckled and groaned as Eragon described his training, his misplaced blessing in Farthen Dûr, the Menoa tree, his back, and all else that had filled the past few days. Eragon ended with the topic that was dearest to him at the moment: Arya. Emboldened by the liqueur, he confessed his affection for her and described how she had dismissed his advance.
Wagging a finger, Orik said, “The rock beneath you is flawed, Eragon. Don’t tempt fate. Arya …” He stopped, then growled and took another gulp of faelnirv. “Ah, it’s too late for thish. Who am I to say what is wisdom and what isn’t?”
Saphira had closed her eyes a while ago. Without opening them, she asked, Are you married, Orik? The question surprised Eragon; he had never stopped to wonder about Orik’s personal life.
“Eta,” said Orik. “Although I’m promished to fair Hvedra, daughter of Thorgerd One-eye and Himinglada. We were to be wed thish spring, until the Urgals attacked and Hrothgar sent me on this accursed trip.”
“Is she of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum?” asked Eragon.
“Of coursh!” roared Orik, pounding his fist on the side of the chair. “Thinkest thou I would marry outside my clan? She’s the granddaughter of mine aunt Vardrûn, Hrothgar’s coushin twice removed, with white, round calves as smooth as satin, cheeks as red as apples, and the prettiesht dwarf maid who ever did exist.”
Undoubtedly, said Saphira.
“I’m sure it won’t be long before you see her again,” said Eragon.
“Hmph.” Orik squinted at Eragon. “Do you believe in giants? Tall giants, shtrong giants, thick and bearded giants with fingers like spadeses?”
“I’ve never seen nor heard of them,” said Eragon, “except in stories. If they do exist, it’s not in Alagaësia.”
“Ah, but they do! They do!” exclaimed Orik, waving the bottle about his head. “Tell me, O Rider, if a fearshome giant were to meet you on the garden path, what might he call you, if not dinner?”
“Eragon, I would presume.”
“No, no. He’d call you a dwarf, for dwarf you’d be to him.” Orik guffawed and nudged Eragon in the ribs with his hard elbow. “See you now? Humans and elvesh are the giants. The land’s full of them, here, there, and everywhere, stomping about with their big feet and casting us in endless shadowses.” He continued laughing, rocking back in his chair until it tipped over and he fell to the floor with a solid thump.
Helping him upright, Eragon said, “I think you’d better stay here for the night. You’re in no condition to go down those stairs in the dark.”
Orik agreed with cheery indifference. He allowed Eragon to remove his mail and bundle him onto one side of the bed. Afterward, Eragon sighed, covered the lights, and lay on his side of the mattress.
He fell asleep hearing the dwarf mutter, “… Hvedra … Hvedra … Hvedra …”
THE NATURE OF EVIL
right morning arrived all too soon.
Jolted to awareness by the buzz of the vibrating timepiece, Eragon grabbed his hunting knife and sprang out of bed, expecting an attack. He gasped as his body shrieked with protest from the abuse of the past two days.
Blinking away tears, Eragon rewound the timepiece. Orik was gone; the dwarf must have slipped away in the wee hours of the morning. With a groan, Eragon hobbled to the wash closet for his daily ablutions, like an old man afflicted by rheumatism.
He and Saphira waited by the tree for ten minutes before they were met by a solemn, black-haired elf. The elf bowed, touched two fingers to his lips—which Eragon mirrored—and then preempted Eragon by saying, “May good fortune rule over you.”
“And may the stars watch over you,” replied Eragon. “Did Oromis send you?”
The elf ignored him and said to Saphira, “Well met, dragon. I am Vanir of House Haldthin.” Eragon scowled with annoyance.
Well met, Vanir.
Only then did the elf address Eragon: “I will show you where you may practice with your blade.” He strode away, not waiting for Eragon to catch up.
The sparring yard was dotted with elves of both sexes fighting in pairs and groups. Their extraordinary physical gifts resulted in flurries of blows so quick and fast, they sounded like bursts of hail striking an iron bell. Under the trees that fringed the yard, individual elves performed the Rimgar with more grace and flexibility than Eragon thought he would ever achieve.
After everyone on the field stopped and bowed to Saphira, Vanir unsheathed his narrow blade. “If you will guard your sword, Silver Hand, we can begin.”
Eragon eyed the inhuman swordsmanship of the other elves with trepidation. Why do I have to do this? he asked. I’ll just be humiliated.
You’ll be fine, said Saphira, yet he could sense her concern for him.
Right.
As he prepared Zar’roc, Eragon’s hands trembled with dread. Inst
ead of throwing himself into the fray, he fought Vanir from a distance, dodging, sidestepping, and doing everything possible to avoid triggering another fit. Despite Eragon’s evasions, Vanir touched him four times in rapid succession—once each on his ribs, shin, and both shoulders.
Vanir’s initial expression of stoic impassivity soon devolved into open contempt. Dancing forward, he slid his blade up Zar’roc’s length while at the same time twirling Zar’roc in a circle, wrenching Eragon’s wrist. Eragon allowed Zar’roc to fly out of his hand rather than resist the elf’s superior strength.
Vanir dropped his sword onto Eragon’s neck and said, “Dead.” Shrugging off the sword, Eragon trudged over to retrieve Zar’roc. “Dead,” said Vanir. “How do you expect to defeat Galbatorix like this? I expected better, even from a weakling human.”
“Then why don’t you fight Galbatorix yourself instead of hiding in Du Weldenvarden?”
Vanir stiffened with outrage. “Because,” he said, cool and haughty, “I’m not a Rider. And if I were, I would not be such a coward as you.”
No one moved or spoke on the field.
His back to Vanir, Eragon leaned on Zar’roc and craned his neck toward the sky, snarling to himself. He knows nothing. This is just one more test to overcome.
“Coward, I say. Your blood is as thin as the rest of your race’s. I think that Saphira was confused by Galbatorix’s wiles and made the wrong choice of Rider.” The spectating elves gasped at Vanir’s words and muttered among themselves with open disapproval for his atrocious breach of etiquette.
Eragon ground his teeth. He could stand insults to himself, but not to Saphira. She was already moving when his pent-up frustration, fear, and pain burst within him and he whirled around, the tip of Zar’roc whistling through the air.
The blow would have killed Vanir had he not blocked it at the last second. He looked surprised by the ferocity of the attack. Holding nothing in reserve, Eragon drove Vanir to the center of the field, jabbing and slashing like a madman—determined to hurt the elf however he could. He nicked Vanir on the hip with enough force to draw blood, even with Zar’roc’s blunted edge.
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