Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (35 page)

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As the meal progressed, everything dissolved around Eragon into a blur

of talk and mirth. He was so caught up in the festivities, he lost track of

time, aware of only the laughter and the foreign words swirling over his

head and the warm glow left in his stomach by the faelnirv. The elusive

harp music sighed and whispered at the edges of his hearing and sent

shivers of excitement down his side. Occasionally, he found himself dis-

tracted by the lazy slit-eyed stare of the woman-child, which she kept

focused on him with single-minded intensity, even when eating.

During a lull in the conversation, Eragon turned toward Arya, who had

uttered no more than a dozen words. He said nothing, only looked and

wondered who she really was.

Arya stirred. “Not even Ajihad knew.”

“What?”

“Outside of Du Weldenvarden, I told no one of my identity. Brom was

aware of it—he first met me here—but he kept it a secret at my request.”

Eragon wondered if she was explaining to him out of a sense of duty or

because she felt guilty for deceiving him and Saphira. “Brom once said

that what elves didn’t say was often more important that what they did.”

“He understood us well.”

“Why, though? Did it matter if anyone knew?”

This time Arya hesitated. “When I left Ellesméra, I had no desire to be

reminded of my position. Nor did it seem relevant to my task with the

Varden and dwarves. It had nothing to do with who I became. . with

who I am.” She glanced at the queen.

“You could have told Saphira and me.”

Arya seemed to bridle at the reproach in his voice. “I had no reason to

suspect that my standing with Islanzadí had improved, and telling you

that would have changed nothing. My thoughts are my own, Eragon.” He

flushed at her implied meaning: Why should she— who was a diplomat,

a princess, an elf, and older than both his father and grandfather, whoever

they were—confide in him, a sixteen-year-old human?

“At least,” he muttered, “you made up with your mother.”

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She smiled oddly. “Did I have a choice?”

At that moment, Blagden jumped from Islanzadí’s shoulder and strut-

ted down the middle of the table, bobbing his head left and right in a

mocking bow. He stopped before Saphira, uttered a hoarse cough, and

then croaked:

Dragons, like wagons,

Have tongues.

Dragons, like flagons,

Have necks.

But while two hold beer,

The other eats deer!

The elves froze with mortified expressions while they waited for

Saphira’s reaction. After a long silence, Saphira looked up from her

quince pie and released a puff of smoke that enveloped Blagden. And lit-

tle birds too, she said, projecting her thoughts so that everyone could hear.

The elves finally laughed as Blagden staggered back, cawing indignantly

and flapping his wings to clear the air.

“I must apologize for Blagden’s wretched verses,” said Islanzadí. “He has

ever had a saucy tongue, despite our attempts to tame it.”

Apology accepted, said Saphira calmly, and returned to her pie.

“Where does he come from?” Eragon asked, eager to return to more

cordial footing with Arya but also genuinely curious.

“Blagden,” said Arya, “once saved my father’s life. Evandar was fighting

an Urgal when he stumbled and lost his sword. Before the Urgal could

strike, a raven flew at him and pecked out his eyes. No one knows why

the bird did it, but the distraction allowed Evandar to regain his balance

and so win the battle. My father was always generous, so he thanked the

raven by blessing him with spells for intelligence and long life. However,

the magic had two effects that he did not foresee: Blagden lost all color in

his feathers and he gained the ability to predict certain events.”

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“He can see into the future?” asked Eragon, startled.

“See? No. But perhaps he can sense what is to come. In any case, he al-

ways speaks in riddles, most of which are a fair bit of nonsense. Just re-

member that if Blagden ever comes to you and tells you something that is

not a joke or a pun, you would do well to heed his words.”

Once the meal had concluded, Islanzadí stood—causing a flurry of ac-

tivity as everyone hastened to do likewise—and said, “It is late, I am tired,

and I would return to my bower. Accompany me, Saphira and Eragon,

and I will show you where you may sleep tonight.” The queen motioned

with one hand to Arya, then left the table. Arya followed.

As Eragon stepped around the table with Saphira, he paused by the

woman-child, caught by her feral eyes. All the elements of her appear-

ance, from her eyes to her shaggy hair to her white fangs, triggered Er-

agon’s memory. “You’re a werecat, aren’t you?” She blinked once and

then bared her teeth in a dangerous smile. “I met one of your kin, Solem-

bum, in Teirm and in Farthen Dûr.”

Her grin widened. “Aye. A good one he is. Humans bore me, but he

finds it amusing to travel with the witch Angela.” Then her gaze switched

to Saphira and she uttered a throaty half-growl, half-purr of appreciation.

What is your name? asked Saphira.

“Names be powerful things in the heart of Du Weldenvarden, dragon,

yes they are. However. . among the elves, I am known as The Watcher

and as Quickpaw and as The Dream Dancer, but you may know me as

Maud.” She tossed her mane of stiff white bangs. “You’d better catch up

with the queen, younglings; she does not take lightly to fools or laggards.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Maud,” said Eragon. He bowed, and

Saphira inclined her head. Eragon glanced at Orik, wondering where the

dwarf would be taken, and then pursued Islanzadí.

They overtook the queen just as she reached the base of a tree. The

trunk was ridged by a delicate staircase that spiraled up to a series of

globular rooms cupped and suspended in the tree’s crown by a spray of

branches.

Islanzadí lifted an elegant hand and pointed at the eyrie. “You needs

must fly there, Saphira. Our stairs were not grown with dragons in mind.”

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Then she spoke to Eragon: “This is where the leader of the Dragon Riders

would dwell while in Ellesméra. I give it to you now, for you are the

rightful heir to that title. .. It is your inheritance.” Before Eragon could

thank her, the queen swept past and departed with Arya, who held his

gaze for a long moment before vanishing deeper into the city.

Shall we see what accommodations they’ve provided us with? asked

Saphira. She jumped into the air and sailed around the tree in a tight cir-

cle, balancing on one wing tip, perpendicular to the ground.

As Eragon took the first step, he saw that Islanzadí had spoken true;

the stairs were one with the tree. The bark beneath his feet was smooth

and flat from the many elves who had traversed it, but it was still part of

the trunk, as were the twisting cobweb banisters by his side and the

curved railing that slid under his right hand.

Because the stairs had been designed with the elves’ strength in mind,

they were steeper than Eragon was used to, and his calves and thighs soon

began to burn. He was breathing so hard when he reached the top—after

climbing through a trapdoor in the floor of one of the rooms—he had to

put his hands on his knees and bend over to pant. Once recovered, he

straightened and examined his surroundings.

He stood in a circular vestibule with a pedestal in the center, out of

which spiraled a sculpture of two pale hands and forearms that twined

around each other without touching. Three screen doors led from the

vestibule—one to an austere dining room that might hold ten people at

the most, one to a closet with an empty hollow in the floor that Eragon

could think of no discernible use for, and the last to a bedroom overlook-

ing, and open to, the wide expanse of Du Weldenvarden.

Taking a lantern from its hook in the ceiling, Eragon entered the bed-

room, creating a host of shadows that jumped and swirled like madcap

dancers. A teardrop gap large enough for a dragon pierced the outer wall.

Inside the room was a bed, situated so that he could watch the sky and

the moon while lying on his back; a fireplace made of gray wood that felt

as hard and cold as steel when he touched it, as if the timber had been

compressed to unsurpassed density; and a huge low-rimmed bowl set in

the floor and lined with soft blankets where Saphira could sleep.

Even as he watched, she swooped down and landed on the edge of the

opening, her scales twinkling like a constellation of blue stars. Behind her,

the last rays of the sun streaked across the forest, painting the various

ridges and hills with a hazy amber that made the needles glow like hot

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iron and chased the shadows back toward the violet horizon. From their

height, the city appeared as a series of gaps in the voluminous canopy, is-

lands of calm in a restless ocean. Ellesméra’s true scope was now revealed;

it extended for several miles to the west and to the north.

I respect the Riders even more if this is how Vrael normally lived, said Er-

agon. It’s much simpler than I expected. The entire structure rocked

slightly in response to a breath of wind.

Saphira sniffed her blankets. We have yet to see Vroengard, she cau-

tioned, although he sensed that she agreed with him.

As Eragon closed the screen to the bedroom, he saw something in the

corner that he had missed during his first inspection: a spiral staircase that

wound up a dark wood chimney. Thrusting the lantern before him, he

cautiously ascended, one step at a time. After about twenty feet, he

emerged in a study furnished with a writing desk—stocked with quills,

ink, and paper, but no parchment—and another padded roost for a

dragon to curl up on. The far wall also had an opening to fly through.

Saphira, come see this.

How? she asked.

Through the outside. Eragon winced as layers of bark splintered and

cracked under Saphira’s claws while she crawled out of the bedroom and

up the side of the compound to the study. Satisfied? he asked when she

arrived. Saphira raked him with her sapphire eyes, then proceeded to

scrutinize the walls and furniture.

I wonder, she said, how you are supposed to stay warm when the rooms

are open to the elements?

I don’t know. Eragon examined the walls on either side of the breach,

running his hands over abstract patterns that had been coaxed from the

tree by the elves’ songs. He stopped when he felt a vertical ridge embed-

ded in the bark. He tugged on it, and a diaphanous membrane unspooled

from within the wall. Pulling it across the portal, he found a second

groove to hold the hem of the cloth. As soon as it was fastened, the air

thickened and became noticeably hotter. There’s your answer, he said. He

released the cloth and it lashed back and forth as it rewound itself.

When they returned to the bedroom, Eragon unpacked while Saphira

coiled upon her dais. He carefully arranged his shield, bracers, greaves,

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coif, and helm, then stripped off his tunic and removed his shirt of

leather-backed mail. He sat bare-chested on the bed and studied the oiled

links, struck by their similarity to Saphira’s scales.

We made it, he said, bemused.

A long journey... but yes, we made it. We’re lucky that misfortune did not

strike upon the road.

He nodded. Now we’ll find out if it was worth it. Sometimes I wonder if

our time would have been better spent helping the Varden.

Eragon! You know that we need further instruction. Brom would have

wanted it. Besides, Ellesméra and Islanzadí were certainly worth coming all

this way to see.

Maybe. Finally, he asked, What do you make of all this?

Saphira parted her jaws slightly to show her teeth. I don’t know. The

elves keep more secrets than even Brom, and they can do things with magic

that I never thought possible. I have no idea what methods they use to grow

their trees into such shapes, nor how Islanzadí summoned those flowers. It is

beyond my ken.

Eragon was relieved that he was not the only one who felt over-

whelmed. And Arya?

What about her?

You know, who she really is.

She hasn’t changed, only your perception of her. Saphira chuckled deep

in her throat, where it sounded like stones grinding against each other,

and rested her head on her two front feet.

The stars were bright in the sky now, and the soft hoots of owls drifted

through Ellesméra. All the world was calm and silent as it slumbered

away the liquid night.

Eragon clambered underneath his downy sheets and reached to shutter

the lantern, then stopped, his hand an inch from the latch. Here he was

in the elves’ capital, over a hundred feet in the air, lying in what used to

be Vrael’s bed.

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The thought was too much for him.

Rolling upright, he grabbed the lantern with one hand, Zar’roc with the

other, and surprised Saphira by crawling onto her dais and snuggling

against her warm side. She hummed and dropped a velvet wing over him

as he extinguished the light and closed his eyes.