Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (34 page)

Islanzadí’s dark eyes widened. “Atra du evarínya ono varda.”

“Un atra mor’ranr lífa unin hjarta onr,” replied Eragon, completing the

ritual. He could tell that the elves were caught off guard by his knowl-

edge of their customs. In his mind, he listened as Saphira repeated his

greeting to the queen.

When she finished, Islanzadí asked, “Dragon, what is your name?”

Saphira.

A flash of recognition appeared in the queen’s expression, but she made

no comment on it. “Welcome to Ellesméra, Saphira. And yours, Rider?”

“Eragon Shadeslayer, Your Majesty.” This time an audible stir rippled

among the elves seated behind them; even Islanzadí appeared startled.

“You carry a powerful name,” she said softly, “one that we rarely be-

stow upon our children. . Welcome to Ellesméra, Eragon Shadeslayer.

We have waited long for you.” She moved on to Orik, greeted him, then

returned to her throne and draped her velvet cloak over her arm. “I as-

sume by your presence here, Eragon, so soon after Saphira’s egg was cap-

tured, and by the ring on your hand and the sword on your hip, that

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Brom is dead and that your training with him was incomplete. I wish to

hear your full story, including how Brom fell and how you came to meet

my daughter, or how she met you, as it may be. Then I will hear of your

mission here, dwarf, and of your adventures, Arya, since your ambush in

Du Weldenvarden.”

Eragon had narrated his experiences before, so he had no trouble reiter-

ating them now for the queen. The few occasions where his memory fal-

tered, Saphira was able to provide an accurate description of events. In

several places, he simply left the telling to her. When they finished, Er-

agon retrieved Nasuada’s scroll from his pack and presented it to Islan-

zadí.

She took the roll of parchment, broke the red wax seal, and, upon

completing the missive, sighed and briefly closed her eyes. “I see now the

true depth of my folly. My grief would have ended so much sooner if I

had not withdrawn our warriors and ignored Ajihad’s messengers after

learning that Arya had been ambushed. I should have never blamed the

Varden for her death. For one so old, I am still far too foolish. . ”

A long silence followed, as no one dared to agree or disagree. Summon-

ing his courage, Eragon said, “Since Arya has returned alive, will you agree

to help the Varden, like before? Nasuada cannot succeed otherwise, and I

am pledged to her cause.”

“My quarrel with the Varden is as dust in the wind,” said Islanzadí.

“Fear not; we will assist them as we once did, and more, because of you

and their victory over the Urgals.” She leaned forward on one arm. “Will

you give me Brom’s ring, Eragon?” Without hesitation, he pulled it off his

finger and offered it to the queen, who plucked it from his palm with her

slim fingers. “You should not have worn this, Eragon, as it was not meant

for you. However, because of the aid you have rendered the Varden and

my family, I now name you Elf Friend and bestow this ring, Aren, upon

you, so that all elves, wherever you go, will know that you are to be

trusted and helped.”

Eragon thanked her and returned the ring to his finger, acutely aware of

the queen’s gaze, which remained upon him with disturbing perception,

studying and analyzing. He felt as if she knew everything that he might

say or do. She said, “Such tidings as yours, we have not heard the like of

in Du Weldenvarden for many a year. We are accustomed to a slower

way of life here than the rest of Alagaësia, and it troubles me that so

much could occur so swiftly without word of it reaching my ear.”

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“And what of my training?” Eragon snatched a furtive glance at the

seated elves, wondering if any of them could be Togira Ikonoka, the be-

ing who had reached into his mind and freed him of Durza’s foul influ-

ence after the battle in Farthen Dûr—and who had also encouraged Er-

agon to travel to Ellesméra.

“It will begin in the fullness of time. Yet I fear that instructing you is

futile so long as your infirmity persists. Unless you can overcome the

Shade’s magic, you will be reduced to no more than a figurehead. You

may still be useful, but only as a shadow of the hope that we have nur-

tured for over a century.” Islanzadí spoke without reproach, yet her

words struck Eragon like hammer blows. He knew that she was right.

“Your situation is not your fault, and it pains me to voice such things, but

you must understand the gravity of your disability. . I am sorry.”

Then Islanzadí addressed Orik: “It has been long since one of your race

entered our halls, dwarf. Eragon-finiarel has explained your presence, but

do you have aught to add?”

“Only royal greetings from my king, Hrothgar, and a plea, now un-

needed, for you to resume contact with the Varden. Beyond that, I am

here to see that the pact that Brom forged between you and the humans

is honored.”

“We keep our promises whether we utter them in this language or in

the ancient language. I accept Hrothgar’s greetings and return them in

kind.” Finally, as Eragon was sure she had longed to do since they first ar-

rived, Islanzadí looked at Arya and asked, “Now, daughter, what befell

you?”

Arya began to speak in a slow monotone, first of her capture and then

of her long imprisonment and torture in Gil’ead. Saphira and Eragon had

deliberately avoided the details of her abuse, but Arya herself seemed to

have no difficulty recounting what she had been subjected to. Her emo-

tionless descriptions roused the same rage within Eragon as when he first

saw her wounds. The elves remained completely silent throughout Arya’s

tale, although they gripped their swords and their faces hardened into ra-

zor lines of cold anger. A single tear rolled down Islanzadí’s cheek.

Afterward, a lithe elf lord paced along the mossy sward between the

chairs. “I know that I speak for us all, Arya Dröttningu, when I say that

my heart burns with sorrow for your ordeal. It is a crime beyond apology,

mitigation, or reparation, and Galbatorix must be punished for it. Also,

we are in your debt for keeping the locations of our cities hidden from

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the Shade. Few of us could have withstood him for so long.”

“Thank you, Däthedr-vor.”

Now Islanzadí spoke, and her voice rang like a bell among the trees.

“Enough. Our guests wait tired on their feet, and we have spoken of evil

things for far too long. I will not have this occasion marred by lingering

on past injuries.” A glorious smile brightened her expression. “My daugh-

ter has returned, a dragon and her Rider have appeared, and I will see us

celebrate in the proper fashion!” She stood, tall and magnificent in her

crimson tunic, and clapped her hands. At the sound, the chairs and pavil-

ion were showered with hundreds of lilies and roses that appeared

twenty feet above their heads and drifted down like colorful snowflakes,

suffusing the air with their heady fragrance.

She didn’t use the ancient language, observed Eragon.

He noticed that, while everyone was occupied by the flowers, Islanzadí

touched Arya gently on the shoulder and murmured, almost too softly to

hear, “You never would have suffered so if you had taken my counsel. I

was right to oppose your decision to accept the yawë.”

“It was my decision to make.”

The queen paused, then nodded and extended her arm. “Blagden.” With

a flutter of wings, the raven flew from his perch and landed on her left

shoulder. The entire assembly bowed as Islanzadí proceeded to the end of

the hall and threw open the door to the hundreds of elves outside,

whereupon she made a brief declaration in the ancient language that Er-

agon did not understand. The elves burst into cheers and began to rush

about.

“What did she say?” whispered Eragon to Narí.

Narí smiled. “To break open our finest casks and light the cook-fires,

for tonight shall be a night of feast and song. Come!” He grabbed Eragon’s

hand and pulled him after the queen as she threaded her way between

the shaggy pines and through banks of cool ferns. During their time in-

doors, the sun had dropped low in the sky, drenching the forest with an

amber light that clung to the trees and plants like a layer of glistering oil.

You do realize, don’t you, said Saphira, that the king Lifaen mentioned,

Evandar, must be Arya’s father?

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Eragon almost stumbled. You’re right.... And that means he was killed

by either Galbatorix or the Forsworn.

Circles within circles.

They stopped on the crest of a small hill, where a team of elves had set

out a long trestle table and chairs. All around them, the forest hummed

with activity. As evening approached, the cheery glow of fires appeared

scattered throughout Ellesméra, including a bonfire near the table.

Someone handed Eragon a goblet made of the same odd wood that he

had noticed in Ceris. He drank the cup’s clear liqueur and gasped as it

blazed down his throat. It tasted like mulled cider mixed with mead. The

potion made the tips of his fingers and ears tingle and gave him a marvel-

ous sense of clarity. “What is this?” he asked Narí.

Narí laughed. “Faelnirv? We distill it from crushed elderberries and

spun moonbeams. If he needs must, a strong man can travel for three

days on naught else.”

Saphira, you have to taste this. She sniffed the goblet, then opened her

mouth and allowed him to pour the rest of the faelnirv down her throat.

Her eyes widened and her tail twitched.

Now that’s a treat! Is there more?

Before Eragon could reply, Orik stomped over to them. “Daughter to

the queen,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I wish that I could tell

Hrothgar and Nasuada. They’d want to know.”

Islanzadí seated herself in a high-backed chair and clapped her hands

once again. From within the city came a quartet of elves bearing musical

instruments. Two had harps of cherrywood, the third a set of reed pipes,

and the fourth nothing but her voice, which she immediately put to use

with a playful song that danced about their ears.

Eragon caught only every third word or so, but what he did understand

made him grin. It was the story of a stag who could not drink at a pond

because a magpie kept harassing him.

As Eragon listened, his gaze wandered and alighted upon a small girl

prowling behind the queen. When he looked again, he saw that her

shaggy hair was not silver, like many of the elves, but bleached white

with age, and that her face was creased and lined like a dry, withered ap-

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ple. She was no elf, nor dwarf, nor—Eragon felt—even human. She

smiled at him, and he glimpsed rows of sharp teeth.

When the singer finished, and the pipes and lutes filled the silence, Er-

agon found himself approached by scores of elves who wished to meet

him and—more importantly, he sensed—Saphira.

The elves presented themselves by bowing softly and touching their

lips with their first and middle fingers, to which Eragon responded in

kind, along with endless repetitions of their greeting in the ancient lan-

guage. They plied Eragon with polite questions about his exploits, but

they reserved the bulk of their conversation for Saphira.

At first Eragon was content to let Saphira talk, since this was the first

place where anyone was interested in having a discussion just with her.

But he soon grew annoyed at being ignored; he had become used to hav-

ing people listen when he spoke. He grinned ruefully, dismayed that he

had come to rely on people’s attention so much since he had joined the

Varden, and forced himself to relax and enjoy the celebration.

Before long the scent of food permeated the glade and elves appeared

carrying platters piled with delicacies. Aside from loaves of warm bread

and stacks of small, round honeycakes, the dishes were made entirely of

fruit, vegetables, and berries. The berries predominated; they were in

everything from blueberry soup to raspberry sauce to thimbleberry jelly.

A bowl of sliced apples dripped with syrup and sprinkled with wild

strawberries sat beside a mushroom pie stuffed with spinach, thyme, and

currants.

No meat was to be found, not even fish or fowl, which still puzzled Er-

agon. In Carvahall and elsewhere in the Empire, meat was a symbol of

status and luxury. The more gold you had, the more often you could af-

ford steak and veal. Even the minor nobility ate meat with every meal.

To do otherwise would indicate a deficit in their coffers. And yet the

elves did not subscribe to this philosophy, despite their obvious wealth

and the ease with which they could hunt with magic.

The elves rushed to the table with an enthusiasm that surprised Eragon.

Soon all were seated: Islanzadí at the head of the table with Blagden, the

raven; Däthedr to her left; Arya and Eragon by her right hand; Orik across

from them; and then all the rest of the elves, including Narí and Lifaen.

No chair was at the far end of the table, only a huge carved plate for

Saphira.