Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (45 page)

a mother would her firstborn. “As perfect as the day you were finished.”

Turning her back, she looked up at the knotted branches while she

traced the curves of the pommel. “My entire life I spent hammering these

swords out of ore. Then he came and destroyed them. Centuries of effort

obliterated in an instant. So far as I knew, only four examples of my art

still existed. His sword, Oromis’s, and two others guarded by families

who managed to rescue them from the Wyrdfell.”

Wyrdfell? Eragon dared ask Arya with his mind.

Another name for the Forsworn.

Rhunön turned on Eragon. “Now Zar’roc has returned to me. Of all my

creations, this I least expected to hold again, save for his. How came you

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to possess Morzan’s sword?”

“It was given to me by Brom.”

“Brom?” She hefted Zar’roc. “Brom. . I remember Brom. He begged me

to replace the sword he had lost. Truly, I wished to help him, but I had

already taken my oath. My refusal angered him beyond reason. Oromis

had to knock him unconscious before he would leave.”

Eragon seized on the information with interest. “Your handiwork has

served me well, Rhunön-elda. I would be long dead were it not for

Zar’roc. I killed the Shade Durza with it.”

“Did you now? Then some good has come of it.” Sheathing Zar’roc,

Rhunön returned it to him, though not without reluctance, then looked

past him to Saphira. “Ah. Well met, Skulblaka.”

Well met, Rhunön-elda.

Without bothering to ask permission, Rhunön went up to Saphira’s

shoulder and tapped a scale with one of her blunt fingernails, twisting her

head from side to side in an attempt to peer into the translucent pebble.

“Good color. Not like those brown dragons, all muddy and dark. Properly

speaking, a Rider’s sword should match the hue of his dragon, and this

blue would have made a gorgeous blade. . ” The thought seemed to drain

the energy from her. She returned to the anvil and stared at the wrecked

tongs, as if the will to replace them had deserted her.

Eragon felt that it would be wrong to end the conversation on such a

depressing note, but he could not think of a tactful way to change the

subject. The glimmering corselet caught his attention and, as he studied

it, he was astonished to see that every ring was welded shut. Because the

tiny links cooled so quickly, they usually had to be welded before being

attached to the main piece of mail, which meant that the finest mail—

such as Eragon’s hauberk—was composed of links that were alternately

welded and riveted closed. Unless, it seemed, the smith possessed an elf’s

speed and precision.

Eragon said, “I’ve never seen the equal of your mail, not even among

the dwarves. How do you have the patience to weld every link? Why

don’t you just use magic and save yourself the work?”

He hardly expected the burst of passion that animated Rhunön. She

tossed her short-cropped hair and said, “And rob myself of all pleasure in

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this task? Aye, every other elf and I could use magic to satisfy our de-

sires—and some do—but then what meaning is there in life? How would

you fill your time? Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” he confessed.

“By pursuing that which you love the most. When you can have any-

thing you want by uttering a few words, the goal matters not, only the

journey to it. A lesson for you. You’ll face the same dilemma one day, if

you live long enough. . Now begone! I am weary of this talk.” With that

Rhunön plucked the lid off the forge, retrieved a new pair of tongs, and

immersed a ring in the coals while she worked the bellows with single-

minded intensity.

“Rhunön-elda,” said Arya, “remember, I will return for you on the eve

of the Agaetí Blödhren.” A grunt was her only reply.

The rhythmic peal of steel on steel, as lonely as the cry of a death bird

in the night, accompanied them back through the dogwood tunnel and

onto the path. Behind them, Rhunön was no more than a black figure

bowed over the sullen glow of her forge.

“She made all the Riders’ swords?” asked Eragon. “Every last one?”

“That and more. She’s the greatest smith who has ever lived. I thought

that you should meet her, for her sake and yours.”

“Thank you.”

Is she always so brusque? asked Saphira.

Arya laughed. “Always. For her, nothing matters except her craft, and

she’s famously impatient with anything—or anyone—that interferes with

it. Her eccentricities are well tolerated, though, because of her incredible

skill and accomplishments.”

While she spoke, Eragon tried to work out the meaning of Agaetí

Blödhren. He was fairly sure that blödh stood for blood and, as a result,

that blödhren was blood-oath, but he had never heard of agaetí.

“Celebration,” explained Arya when he asked. “We hold the Blood-oath

Celebration once every century to honor our pact with the dragons. Both

of you are fortunate to be here now, for it is nigh upon us. . ” Her slanted

eyebrows met as she frowned. “Fate has indeed arranged a most auspi-

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cious coincidence.”

She surprised Eragon by leading them deeper into Du Weldenvarden,

down paths tangled with nettles and currant bushes, until the lights

around them vanished and they entered the restless wilderness. In the

darkness, Eragon had to rely on Saphira’s keen night vision so as to not

lose his way. The craggy trees increased in width, crowding closer and

closer together and threatening to form an impenetrable barrier. Just

when it appeared that they could go no farther, the forest ended and they

entered a clearing washed with moonlight from the bright sickle low in

the eastern sky.

A lone pine tree stood in the middle of the clearing. No taller than the

rest of its brethren, it was thicker than a hundred regular trees combined;

in comparison, they looked as puny as windblown saplings. A blanket of

roots radiated from the tree’s massive trunk, covering the ground with

bark-sheathed veins that made it seem as if the entire forest flowed out

from the tree, as if it were the heart of Du Weldenvarden itself. The tree

presided over the woods like a benevolent matriarch, protecting its in-

habitants under the shelter of her branches.

“Behold the Menoa tree,” whispered Arya. “We observe the Agaetí

Blödhren in her shade.”

A cold tingle crawled down Eragon’s side as he recognized the name.

After Angela told his fortune in Teirm, Solembum had come up to him

and said, When the time comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots

of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient,

go to the rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.

Eragon could not imagine what kind of weapon might be buried under

the tree, nor how he would go about finding it.

Do you see anything? he asked Saphira.

No, but then I doubt that Solembum’s words will make sense until our

need is clear.

Eragon told Arya about both parts of the werecat’s counsel, although—

as he had with Ajihad and Islanzadí—he kept Angela’s prophecy a secret

because of its personal nature, and because he feared that it might lead

Arya to guess his attraction to her.

When he finished, Arya said, “Werecats rarely offer help, and when

they do, it’s not to be ignored. So far as I know, no weapon is hidden

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here, not even in song or legend. As for the Rock of Kuthian. . the name

echoes in my head like a voice from a half-forgotten dream, familiar yet

strange. I’ve heard it before, though I cannot recall where.”

As they approached the Menoa tree, Eragon’s attention was caught by

the multitude of ants crawling over the roots. Faint black smudges were

all he could see of the insects, but Oromis’s assignment had sensitized

him to the currents of life around him, and he could feel the ants’ primi-

tive consciousness with his mind. He lowered his defenses and allowed

his awareness to flood outward, lightly touching Saphira and Arya and

then expanding beyond them to see what else lived in the clearing.

With unexpected suddenness, he encountered an immense entity, a

sentient being of such a colossal nature, he could not grasp the limits of

its psyche. Even Oromis’s vast intellect, which Eragon had been in con-

tact with in Farthen Dûr, was dwarfed in comparison to this presence.

The very air seemed to thrum with the energy and strength that ema-

nated from. .the tree?

The source was unmistakable.

Deliberate and inexorable, the tree’s thoughts moved at a measured

pace as slow as the creep of ice over granite. It took no notice of Eragon

nor, he was sure, of any single individual. It was entirely concerned with

the affairs of things that grow and flourish in the bright sunlight, with the

dogbane and the lily, the evening primrose and the silky foxglove and the

yellow mustard tall beside the crabapple with its purple blossoms.

“It’s awake!” exclaimed Eragon, shocked into speaking. “I mean. . it’s in-

telligent.” He knew that Saphira felt it too; she cocked her head toward

the Menoa tree, as if listening, then flew to one of its branches, which

were as thick as the road from Carvahall to Therinsford. There she

perched with her tail hanging free, waving the tip of it back and forth,

ever so gracefully. It was such an odd sight, a dragon in a tree, that Eragon

almost laughed.

“Of course she’s awake,” said Arya. Her voice was low and mellow in

the night air. “Shall I tell you the story of the Menoa tree?”

“I’d like that.”

A flash of white streaked across the sky, like a banished specter, and re-

solved itself beside Saphira in the form of Blagden. The raven’s narrow

shoulders and crooked neck gave him the appearance of a miser basking

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in the radiance of a pile of gold. The raven lifted his pallid head and ut-

tered his ominous cry,“ Wyrda!”

“This is what happened. Once there lived a woman, Linnëa, in the years

of spice and wine before our war with the dragons and before we became

as immortal as any beings still composed of vulnerable flesh can be. Lin-

nëa had grown old without the comfort of a mate or children, nor did she

feel the need to seek them out, preferring to occupy herself with the art

of singing to plants, of which she was a master. That is, she did until a

young man came to her door and beguiled her with words of love. His

affections woke a part of Linnëa that she had never suspected existed, a

craving to experience the things that she had unknowingly sacrificed. The

offer of a second chance was too great an opportunity for her to ignore.

She deserted her work and devoted herself to the young man and, for a

time, they were happy.

“But the young man was young, and he began to long for a mate closer

to his own age. His eye fell upon a young woman, and he wooed and won

her. And for a time, they too were happy.

“When Linnëa discovered that she had been spurned, scorned, and

abandoned, she went mad with grief. The young man had done the worst

possible thing; he had given her a taste of the fullness of life, then torn it

away with no more thought than a rooster flitting from one hen to the

next. She found him with the woman and, in her fury, she stabbed him

to death.

“Linnëa knew that what she had done was evil. She also knew that even

if she was exonerated of the murder, she could not return to her previous

existence. Life had lost all joy for her. So she went to the oldest tree in

Du Weldenvarden, pressed herself against it, and sang herself into the

tree, abandoning all allegiance to her own race. For three days and three

nights she sang, and when she finished, she had become one with her be-

loved plants. And through all the millennia since has she kept watch over

the forest. . Thus was the Menoa tree created.”

At the conclusion of her tale, Arya and Eragon sat side by side on the

crest of a huge root, twelve feet off the ground. Eragon bounced his heels

against the tree and wondered if Arya had intended the story as a warning

to him or if it was merely an innocent piece of history.

His doubt hardened into certainty when she asked, “Do you think that

the young man was to blame for the tragedy?”

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“I think,” he said, knowing that a clumsy reply could turn her against

him, “that what he did was cruel. . and that Linnëa overreacted. They

were both at fault.”

Arya stared at him until he was forced to avert his gaze. “They weren’t

suited for each other.”

Eragon began to deny it but then stopped himself. She was right. And

she had maneuvered him so that he had to say it out loud, so that he had

to say it to her. “Perhaps,” he admitted.

Silence accumulated between them like sand piling into a wall that nei-

ther of them was willing to breach. The high-pitched hum of cicadas

echoed from the edge of the clearing. At last he said, “Being home seems

to agree with you.”

“It does.” With unconscious ease, she leaned over and picked up a thin

branch that had fallen from the Menoa tree and began to weave the