Eldest

by Christopher Paolini

  “Yes, Master,” said Eragon, grateful for the question.

  “I think it best if, from now on, you endeavor to speak only in the ancient language. We have little time at our disposal, and this is the fastest way for you to learn.”

  “Even when I talk to Saphira?”

  “Even then.”

  Adopting the elven tongue, Eragon vowed, “Then I will work ceaselessly until I not only think, but dream, in your language.”

  “If you achieve that,” said Oromis, replying in kind, “our venture may yet succeed.” He paused. “Instead of flying directly here in the morning, you will accompany the elf I send to guide you. He will take you to where those of Ellesméra practice swordplay. Stay for an hour, then continue on as normal.”

  “Won’t you teach me yourself?” asked Eragon, feeling slighted.

  “I have naught to teach. You are as good a swordsman as ever I have met. I know no more of fighting than you, and that which I possess and you do not, I cannot give you. All that remains for you is to preserve your current level of skill.”

  “Why can’t I do that with you…Master?”

  “Because I do not appreciate beginning the day with alarum and conflict.” He looked at Eragon, then relented and added, “And because it will be good for you to become acquainted with others who live here. I am not representative of my race. But enough of that. Look, they approach.”

  The two dragons glided across the flat disk of the sun. First came Glaedr with a roar of wind, blotting out the sky with his massive bulk before he settled on the grass and folded his golden wings, then Saphira, as quick and agile as a sparrow beside an eagle.

  As they had that morning, Oromis and Glaedr asked a number of questions to ensure that Eragon and Saphira had paid attention to each other’s lessons. They had not always, but by cooperating and sharing information between themselves, they were able to answer all of the questions. Their only stumbling block was the foreign language they were required to communicate in.

  Better, rumbled Glaedr afterward. Much better. He bent his gaze toward Eragon. You and I will have to train together soon.

  “Of course, Skulblaka.”

  The old dragon snorted and crawled alongside Oromis, half hopping with his front leg to compensate for his missing limb. Darting forward, Saphira nipped at the end of Glaedr’s tail, tossing it into the air with a flip of her head, like she would to break the neck of a deer. She recoiled as Glaedr twisted round and snapped at her neck, exposing his enormous fangs.

  Eragon winced and, too late, covered his ears to protect them from Glaedr’s roar. The speed and intensity of Glaedr’s response suggested to Eragon that this was not the first time Saphira had annoyed him throughout the day. Instead of remorse, Eragon detected an excited playfulness in her—like a child with a new toy—and a near-blind devotion to the other dragon.

  “Contain yourself, Saphira!” said Oromis. Saphira pranced backward and settled on her haunches, though nothing in her demeanor expressed contrition. Eragon muttered a feeble excuse, and Oromis waved a hand and said, “Begone, both of you.”

  Without arguing, Eragon scrambled onto Saphira. He had to urge her to take flight, and once she did, she insisted on circling over the clearing three times before he got her to angle toward Ellesméra.

  What possessed you to bite him? he demanded. He thought he knew, but he wanted her to confirm it.

  I was only playing.

  It was the truth, since they spoke in the ancient language, yet he suspected that it was but a piece of a larger truth. Yes, and at what game? She tensed underneath him. You forget your duty. By… He searched for the right word. Unable to find it, he reverted to his native speech, By provoking Glaedr, you distract him, Oromis, and me—and hinder what we must accomplish. You’ve never been so thoughtless before.

  Do not presume to be my conscience.

  He laughed then, heedless for a moment of where he sat among the clouds, rolling to his side until he almost dropped from the peak of her shoulders. Oh, rich irony that, after the times you’ve told me what to do. I am your conscience, Saphira, as much as you are mine. You’ve had good reason to chastise and warn me in the past, and now I must do the same for you: stop pestering Glaedr with your attentions.

  She remained silent.

  Saphira?

  I hear you.

  I hope so.

  After a minute of peaceful flying, she said, Two seizures in one day. How are you now?

  Sore and ill. He grimaced. Some of it’s from the Rimgar and sparring, but mostly it’s the aftereffects of the pain. It’s like a poison, weakening my muscles and clouding my mind. I just hope that I can remain sane long enough to reach the end of this training. Afterward, though…I don’t know what I’ll do. I certainly can’t fight for the Varden like this.

  Don’t think about it, she counseled. You can do nothing about your condition, and you’ll only make yourself feel worse. Live in the present, remember the past, and fear not the future, for it doesn’t exist and never shall. There is only now.

  He patted her shoulder and smiled with resigned gratitude. To their right, a goshawk rode a warm air current while it patrolled the broken forest for signs of furred or feathered quarry. Eragon watched it, pondering the question that Oromis had given him: How could he justify fighting the Empire when it would cause so much grief and agony?

  I have an answer, said Saphira.

  What is it?

  That Galbatorix has… She hesitated, then said, No, I won’t tell you. You should figure this out for yourself.

  Saphira! Be reasonable.

  I am. If you don’t know why what we do is the right thing, you might as well surrender to Galbatorix for all the good you’ll do. No matter how eloquent his pleas, he could extract nothing more from her, for she blocked him from that part of her mind.

  Back in their eyrie, Eragon ate a light supper and was just about to open one of Oromis’s scrolls when a knock on the screen door disturbed his quiet.

  “Enter,” he said, hoping that Arya had returned to see him.

  She had.

  Arya greeted Eragon and Saphira, then said, “I thought that you might appreciate an opportunity to visit Tialdarí Hall and the adjacent gardens, since you expressed interest in them yesterday. That is, if you aren’t too tired.” She wore a flowing red kirtle trimmed and decorated with intricate designs wrought in black thread. The color scheme echoed the queen’s robes and emphasized the strong resemblance between mother and daughter.

  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 clim
ates 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 only opened their petals 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 b
edroom, 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.