Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (66 page)

Fixing his gaze on the crest of the monolith, Eragon gathered his

strength, then said in the ancient language, “Up!”

He realized later that if he had not been accustomed to flying with

Saphira, the experience might have proved unsettling enough to cause

him to lose control of the spell and plunge to his death. The ground

dropped away beneath his feet at a swift clip, while the tree trunks nar-

rowed as he floated toward the underside of the canopy and the fading

evening sky beyond. Branches clung like grasping fingers to his face and

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shoulders as he pushed through into the open. Unlike during one of

Saphira’s dives, he retained his sense of weight, as if he still stood upon

the loam below.

Rising above the edge of the Stone of Broken Eggs, Eragon moved him-

self forward and released his grip on the magic, alighting upon a mossy

patch. He sagged with exhaustion and waited to see if the exertion would

pain his back, then sighed with relief when it did not.

The top of the monolith was composed of jagged towers divided by

deep and wide gullies where naught but a few scattered wildflowers

grew. Black caves dotted the towers, some natural, others clawed out of

the basalt by talons as thick as Eragon’s leg. Their floors were blanketed

with a deep layer of lichen-ridden bones, remnants of the dragons’ an-

cient kills. Birds now nested where dragons once had—hawks and falcons

and eagles, who watched him from their perches, ready to attack if he

should threaten their eggs.

Eragon picked his way across the forbidding landscape, careful not to

twist an ankle on the loose flakes of stone or to get too close to the occa-

sional rifts that split the column. If he fell down one, it would send him

tumbling out into empty space. Several times he had to climb over high

ridges, and twice more he had to lift himself with magic.

Evidence of the dragons’ habitation was visible everywhere, from deep

scratches in the basalt to puddles of melted rock to a number of dull,

colorless scales caught in nooks, along with other detritus. He even

stepped upon a sharp object that, when he bent to examine it, proved to

be a fragment of a green dragon egg.

On the eastern face of the monolith stood the tallest tower, in the cen-

ter of which, like a black pit turned on its side, was the largest cave. It

was there that Eragon finally beheld Saphira, curled in a hollow against

the far wall, her back to the opening. Tremors ran her length. The walls

of the cave bore fresh scorch marks, and the piles of brittle bones were

scattered about as if from a fight.

“Saphira,” said Eragon, speaking out loud since her mind was closed to

him.

Her head whipped up, and she stared at him as if he were a stranger,

her pupils contracting to thin black slits as her eyes adjusted to the light

from the setting sun behind him. She snarled once, like a feral dog, and

then twisted away. As she did, she lifted her left wing and exposed a

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long, ragged gash along her upper thigh. His heart caught at the sight.

Eragon knew that she would not let him approach, so he did as Oromis

had with Glaedr; he knelt among the crushed bones and waited. He

waited without word or motion until his legs were numb and his hands

were stiff with cold. Yet he did not resent the discomfort. He paid the

price gladly if it meant he could help Saphira.

After a time, she said, I have been a fool.

We are all fools sometimes.

That makes it no easier when it is your turn to play dunce.

I suppose not.

I have always known what to do. When Garrow died, I knew it was the

right thing to pursue the Ra’zac. When Brom died, I knew that we should go

to Gil’ead and thence to the Varden. And when Ajihad died, I knew that

you should pledge yourself to Nasuada. The path has always been clear to

me. Except now. In this issue alone, I am lost.

What is it, Saphira?

Instead of answering, she turned the subject and said, Do you know why

this is called the Stone of Broken Eggs?

No.

Because during the war between dragons and elves, the elves tracked us to

this location and killed us while we slept. They tore apart our nests, then

shattered our eggs with their magic. That day, it rained blood in the forest

below. No dragon has lived here since.

Eragon remained silent. That was not why he was here. He would wait

until she could bring herself to address the situation at hand.

Say something! demanded Saphira.

Will you let me heal your leg?

Leave well enough alone.

Then I shall remain as mute as a statue and sit here until I turn to dust,

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for I have the patience of a dragon from you.

When they came, her words were halting, bitter, and self-mocking: It

shames me to admit it. When we first came here and I saw Glaedr, I felt

such joy that another member of my race survived besides Shruikan. I had

never even seen another dragon before, except in Brom’s memories. And I

thought... I thought that Glaedr would be as pleased by my existence as I

was by his.

But he was.

You don’t understand. I thought that he would be the mate I never ex-

pected to have and that together we could rebuild our race. She snorted,

and a burst of flame escaped her nostrils. I was mistaken. He does not

want me.

Eragon chose his response with care to avoid offending her and to pro-

vide a modicum of comfort. That’s because he knows you are destined for

someone else: one of the two remaining eggs. Nor would it be proper for him

to mate with you when he is your mentor.

Or perhaps he does not find me comely enough.

Saphira, no dragon is ugly, and you are the fairest of dragons.

I am a fool, she said. But she raised her left wing and kept it in the air as

permission for him to tend to her injury.

Eragon limped to Saphira’s side, where he examined the crimson

wound, glad that Oromis had given him so many scrolls on anatomy to

read. The blow—by claw or tooth, he was not sure—had torn the quad-

riceps muscle beneath Saphira’s hide, but not so much as to bare the

bone. Merely closing the surface of the wound, as Eragon had done so

many times, would not be enough. The muscle had to be knitted back

together.

The spell Eragon used was long and complex, and even he did not un-

derstand all its parts, for he had memorized it from an ancient text that

offered little explanation beyond the statement that, given no bones were

broken and the internal organs were whole, “this charm will heal any ail-

ment of violent origins, excepting that of grim death.” Once he uttered it,

Eragon watched with fascination as Saphira’s muscle writhed beneath his

hand—veins, nerves, and fibers weaving together—and became whole

once more. The wound was big enough that, in his weakened state, he

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dared not heal it with just the energy from his body, so he drew upon

Saphira’s strength as well.

It itches, said Saphira when he finished.

Eragon sighed and leaned his back against the rough basalt, looking at

the sunset through his eyelashes. I fear that you will have to carry me off

this rock. I’m too tired to move.

With a dry rustle, she twisted in place and laid her head on the bones

beside him. I have treated you poorly ever since we came to Ellesméra. I ig-

nored your advice when I should have listened. You warned me about

Glaedr, but I was too proud to see the truth in your words.... I have failed to

be a good companion for you, betrayed what it means to be a dragon, and

tarnished the honor of the Riders.

No, never that, he said vehemently. Saphira, you haven’t failed your

duty. You may have made a mistake, but it was an honest one, and one

that anyone might have committed in your position.

That does not excuse my behavior toward you.

He tried to meet her eye, but she avoided his gaze until he touched her

upon the neck and said, Saphira, family members forgive one another, even

if they don’t always understand why someone acts in a certain way.... You

are as much my family as Roran—more. Nothing you can do will ever

change that. Nothing. When she did not respond, he reached behind her

jaw and tickled the patch of leathery skin below one of her ears. Do you

hear me, eh? Nothing!

She coughed low in her throat with reluctant amusement, then arched

her neck and lifted her head to escape his dancing fingers. How can I face

Glaedr again? He was in a terrible rage.... The entire stone shook with the

force of his anger.

At least you held your own when he attacked you.

It was the other way around.

Caught by surprise, Eragon raised his eyebrows. Well, in any case, the

only thing to do is to apologize.

Apologize!

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Aye. Go tell him that you are sorry, that this won’t happen again, and

that you want to continue your training with him. I’m sure he will be sym-

pathetic if you give him the chance.

Very well, she said in a low voice.

You’ll feel better once you do. He grinned. I know from experience.

She grunted and padded to the edge of the cave, where she crouched

and surveyed the rolling forest. We should go. Soon it will be dark. Grit-

ting his teeth, he forced himself upright—every movement costing him

effort—and climbed onto her back, taking twice the time he usually did.

Eragon?... Thank you for coming. I know what you risked with your back.

He patted her on the shoulder. Are we one again?

We are one.

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THE GIFT OF DRAGONS

The days leading up to the Agaetí Blödhren were the best and worst of

times for Eragon. His back troubled him more than ever, battering down

his health and endurance and destroying his calm of mind; he lived in

constant fear of triggering an episode. Yet, in contrast, he and Saphira had

never been so close. They lived as much in each other’s minds as in their

own. And every now and then Arya would visit the tree house and walk

through Ellesméra with Eragon and Saphira. She never came alone,

though, always bringing either Orik or Maud the werecat.

Over the course of their wanderings, Arya introduced Eragon and

Saphira to elves of distinction: great warriors, poets, and artists. She took

them to concerts held under the thatched pines. And she showed them

many hidden wonders of Ellesméra.

Eragon seized every opportunity to talk with her. He told her about his

upbringing in Palancar Valley, about Roran, Garrow, and his aunt Marian,

stories of Sloan, Ethlbert, and the other villagers, and his love of the

mountains surrounding Carvahall and the flaming sheets of light that

adorned the winter sky at night. He told her about the time a vixen fell

into Gedric’s tanning vats and had to be fished out with a net. He told

her about the joy he found in planting a crop, weeding and nurturing it,

and watching the tender green shoots grow under his care—a joy that he

knew she, of all people, could appreciate.

In turn, Eragon gleaned occasional insights into her own life. He heard

mentions of her childhood, her friends and family, and her experiences

among the Varden, which she spoke about most freely, describing raids

and battles she participated in, treaties she helped to negotiate, her dis-

putes with the dwarves, and the momentous events she witnessed during

her tenure as ambassador.

Between her and Saphira, a measure of peace entered Eragon’s heart,

but it was a precarious balance that the slightest influence might disrupt.

Time itself was an enemy, for Arya was destined to leave Du Welden-

varden after the Agaetí Blödhren. Thus, Eragon treasured his moments

with her and dreaded the arrival of the forthcoming celebration.

The entire city bustled with activity as the elves prepared for the

Agaetí Blödhren. Eragon had never seen them so excited before. They

decorated the forest with colored bunting and lanterns, especially around

the Menoa tree, while the tree itself was adorned with a lantern upon the

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tip of each branch, where they hung like glowing teardrops. Even the

plants, Eragon noticed, took on a festive appearance with a collection of

bright new flowers. He often heard the elves singing to them late at night.

Each day hundreds of elves arrived in Ellesméra from their cities scat-

tered throughout the woods, for no elf would willingly miss the centen-

nial observance of their treaty with the dragons. Eragon guessed that

many of them also came to meet Saphira. It seems as if I do nothing but

repeat their greeting, he thought. The elves who were absent because of

their responsibilities would hold their own festivities simultaneously and

would participate in the ceremonies at Ellesméra by scrying through en-

chanted mirrors that displayed the likeness of those watching, so that no

one felt as if they were being spied upon.

A week before the Agaetí Blödhren, when Eragon and Saphira were

about to return to their quarters from the Crags of Tel’naeír, Oromis said,

“You should both think about what you can bring to the Blood-oath