Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (67 page)

Celebration. Unless your creations require magic to make or to function,

I suggest that you avoid using gramarye. No one will respect your work if

it’s the product of a spell and not of your own hands. I also suggest you

each make a separate piece. That too is custom.”

In the air, Eragon asked Saphira, Do you have any ideas?

I might have one. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to see if it works before I

tell you. He caught part of an image from her of a bare knuckle of stone

protruding from the forest floor before she concealed it from him.

He grinned. Won’t you give me a hint?

Fire. Lots of fire.

Back in their tree house, Eragon cataloged his skills and thought, I know

more about farming than anything else, but I don’t see how I can turn that

to my advantage. Nor can I hope to compete with the elves with magic or

match their accomplishments with the crafts I am familiar with. Their tal-

ent exceeds that of the finest artisans in the Empire.

But you possess one quality that no one else does, said Saphira.

Oh?

Your identity. Your history, deeds, and situation. Use those to shape your

creation and you will produce something unique. Whatever you make, base

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it upon that which is most important to you. Only then will it have depth

and meaning, and only then will it resonate with others.

He looked at her with surprise. I never realized that you knew so much

about art.

I don’t, she said. You forget I spent an afternoon watching Oromis paint

his scrolls while you flew with Glaedr. Oromis discussed the topic quite a

bit.

Ah, yes. I had forgotten.

After Saphira left to pursue her project, Eragon paced along the edge of

the open portal in the bedroom, pondering what she had said. What’s im-

portant to me? he asked himself. Saphira and Arya, of course, and being a

good Rider, but what can I say about those subjects that isn’t blindingly ob-

vious? I appreciate beauty in nature, but, again, the elves have already ex-

pressed everything possible on that topic. Ellesméra itself is a monument to

their devotion. He turned his gaze inward and scrutinized himself to de-

termine what struck the deepest, darkest chords within him. What

stirred him with enough passion—of either love or hate—that he burned

to share it with others?

Three things presented themselves to him: his injury at the hands of

Durza, his fear of one day fighting Galbatorix, and the elves’ epics that so

engrossed him.

A rush of excitement flared within Eragon as a story combining those

elements took form in his mind. Light on his feet, he ran up the twisting

stairs—two at a time—to the study, where he sat before the writing

desk, dipped quill in ink, and held it trembling over a pale sheet of paper.

The nib rasped as he made the first stroke:

In the kingdom by the sea,

In the mountains mantled blue. .

The words flowed from his pen seemingly of their own accord. He felt

as if he were not inventing his tale, but merely acting as a conduit to

transport it fully formed into the world. Having never composed a work

of his own before, Eragon was gripped by the thrill of discovery that ac-

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companies new ventures—especially since, previously, he had not sus-

pected that he might enjoy being a bard.

He labored in a frenzy, not stopping for bread or drink, his tunic

sleeves rolled past his elbows to protect them from the ink flicked from

his quill by the wild force of his writing. So intense was his concentra-

tion, he heard nothing but the beat of his poem, saw nothing but the

empty paper, and thought of nothing but the phrases etched in lines of

fire behind his eyes.

An hour and a half later, he dropped the quill from his cramped hand,

pushed his chair away from the desk, and stood. Fourteen pages lay be-

fore him. It was the most he had ever written at one time. Eragon knew

that his poem could not match those of the elves’ and dwarves’ great au-

thors, but he hoped it was honest enough that the elves would not laugh

at his effort.

He recited the poem to Saphira when she returned. Afterward, she

said, Ah, Eragon, you have changed much since we left Palancar Valley.

You would not recognize the untested boy who first set out for vengeance, I

think. That Eragon could not have written a lay after the style of the elves. I

look forward to seeing who you become in the next fifty or a hundred years.

He smiled. If I live that long.

“Rough but true,” was what Oromis said when Eragon read him the

poem.

“Then you like it?”

“’Tis a good portrait of your mental state at the present and an engaging

read, but no masterpiece. Did you expect it to be?”

“I suppose not.”

“However, I am surprised that you can give voice to it in this tongue.

No barrier exists to writing fiction in the ancient language. The difficulty

arises when one attempts to speak it, for that would require you to tell

untruths, which the magic will not allow.”

“I can say it,” replied Eragon, “because I believe it’s true.”

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“And that gives your writing far more power. . I am impressed, Eragon-

finiarel. Your poem will be a worthy addition to the Blood-oath Celebra-

tion.” Raising a finger, Oromis reached within his robe and gave Eragon a

scroll tied shut with ribbon. “Inscribed on that paper are nine wards I

want you to place about yourself and the dwarf Orik. As you discovered

at Sílthrim, our festivities are potent and not for those with constitutions

weaker than ours. Unprotected, you risk losing yourself in the web of our

magic. I have seen it happen. Even with these precautions, you must take

care you are not swayed by fancies wafted on the breeze. Be on your

guard, for during this time, we elves are apt to go mad—wonderfully,

gloriously mad, but mad all the same.”

On the eve of the Agaetí Blödhren—which was to last three days—

Eragon, Saphira, and Orik accompanied Arya to the Menoa tree, where a

host of elves were assembled, their black and silver hair flickering in the

lamplight. Islanzadí stood upon a raised root at the base of the trunk, as

tall, pale, and fair as a birch tree. Blagden roosted on the queen’s left

shoulder, while Maud, the werecat, lurked behind her. Glaedr was there,

as well as Oromis garbed in red and black, and other elves Eragon recog-

nized, such as Lifaen and Narí and, to his distaste, Vanir. Overhead, the

stars glittered in the velvet sky.

“Wait here,” said Arya. She slipped through the crowd and returned

leading Rhunön. The smith blinked like an owl at her surroundings. Er-

agon greeted her, and she nodded to him and Saphira. “Well met, Bright

scales and Shadeslayer.” Then she spied Orik and addressed him in Dwar-

vish, to which Orik replied with enthusiasm, obviously delighted to con-

verse with someone in the rough speech of his native land.

“What did she say?” asked Eragon, bending down.

“She invited me to her home to view her work and discuss metal work-

ing.” Awe crossed Orik’s face. “Eragon, she first learned her craft from

Fûthark himself, one of the legendary grimstborithn of Dûrgrimst Ingei-

tum! What I would give to have met him.”

Together they waited until the stroke of midnight, when Islanzadí

raised her bare left arm so that it pointed toward the new moon like a

marble spear. A soft white orb gathered itself above her palm from the

light emitted by the lanterns that dotted the Menoa tree. Then Islanzadí

walked along the root to the massive trunk and placed the orb in a hol-

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low in the bark, where it remained, pulsing.

Eragon turned to Arya. “Is it begun?”

“It is begun!” She laughed. “And it will end when the werelight expends

itself.”

The elves divided themselves into informal camps throughout the for-

est and clearing that encircled the Menoa tree. Seemingly out of nowhere,

they produced tables laden high with fantastic dishes, which from their

unearthly appearance were as much the result of the spellweavers’

handiwork as the cooks’.

Then the elves began to sing in their clear, flutelike voices. They sang

many songs, yet each was but part of a larger melody that wove an en-

chantment over the dreamy night, heightening senses, removing inhibi-

tions, and burnishing the revels with fey magic. Their verses concerned

heroic deeds and quests by ship and horse to forgotten lands and the sor-

row of lost beauty. The throbbing music enveloped Eragon, and he felt a

wild abandon take hold of him, a desire to run free of his life and dance

through elven glades forever more. Beside him, Saphira hummed along

with the tune, her glazed eyes lidded halfway.

What transpired afterward, Eragon was never able to adequately recall.

It was as if he had a fever and faded in and out of consciousness. He

could remember certain incidents with vivid clarity—bright, pungent

flashes filled with merriment—but it was beyond him to reconstruct the

order in which they occurred. He lost track of whether it was day or

night, for no matter the time, dusk seemed to pervade the forest. Nor

could he ever say if he had slumbered, or needed sleep, during the cele-

bration. .

He remembered spinning in circles while holding the hands of an elf-

maid with cherry lips, the taste of honey on his tongue and the smell of

juniper in the air. .

He remembered elves perched on the outstretched branches of the

Menoa tree, like a flock of starlings. They strummed golden harps and

called riddles to Glaedr below and, now and then, pointed a finger at the

sky, whereupon a burst of colored embers would appear in various

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shapes before fading away. .

He remembered sitting in a dell, propped against Saphira, and watching

the same elf-maid sway before a rapt audience while she sang:

Away, away, you shall fly away,

O’er the peaks and vales

To the lands beyond.

Away, away, you shall fly away,

And never return to me.

Gone! Gone you shall be from me,

And I will never see you again.

Gone! Gone you shall be from me,

Though I wait for you evermore.

He remembered endless poems, some mournful, others joyful—most

both. He heard Arya’s poem in full and thought it fine indeed, and Islan-

zadí’s, which was longer but of equal merit. All the elves gathered to lis-

ten to those two works. .

He remembered the wonders the elves had made for the celebration,

many of which he would have deemed impossible beforehand, even with

the assistance of magic. Puzzles and toys, art and weapons, and items

whose function escaped him. One elf had charmed a glass ball so that

every few seconds a different flower bloomed within its heart. Another

elf had spent decades traveling Du Weldenvarden and memorizing the

sounds of the elements, the most beautiful of which he now played from

the throats of a hundred white lilies.

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Rhunön contributed a shield that would not break, a pair of gloves

woven from steel thread that allowed the wearer to handle molten lead

and other such items without harm, and a delicate sculpture of a wren in

flight chiseled from a solid block of metal and painted with such skill

that the bird seemed alive.

A tiered wood pyramid eight inches high and constructed of fifty-eight

interlocking pieces was Orik’s offering, much to the elves’ delight, who

insisted upon disassembling and reassembling the pyramid as often as he

would allow. “Master Longbeard,” they called him, and said, “Clever fin-

gers mean a clever mind.”. .

He remembered Oromis pulling him aside, away from the music, and

asking the elf, “What’s wrong?”

“You need to clear your mind.” Oromis guided him to a fallen log and

had him sit. “Stay here for a few minutes. You will feel better.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need to rest,” protested Eragon.

“You are in no position to judge yourself right now. Stay here until you

can list the spells of changing, great and minor, and then you may rejoin

us. Promise me this.”. .

He remembered creatures dark and strange, drifting in from the depths

of the forest. The majority were animals who had been altered by the ac-

cumulated spells in Du Weldenvarden and were now drawn to the

Agaetí Blödhren as a starving man is drawn to food. They seemed to find

nourishment in the presence of the elves’ magic. Most dared reveal them-

selves only as pairs of glowing eyes on the outskirts of the lantern light.

One animal that did expose itself was the she-wolf—in the form of a

white-robed woman—that Eragon had encountered before. She lurked

behind a dogwood bush, dagger teeth bared in an amused grin, her yellow

eyes darting from point to point.

But not all the creatures were animals. Some few were elves who had

altered their original forms for functionality or in pursuit of a different

ideal of beauty. An elf covered in brindled fur leaped over Eragon and

continued to gambol about, as often on all fours as on his feet. His head

was narrow and elongated with ears like a cat, his arms hung to his knees,