Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (32 page)

“Eragon! Clear your mind!” He struggled in a futile attempt to break

her grip. “Eyddr eyreya onr!” Empty your ears! Everything fell silent then,

as if he had gone deaf. He stopped fighting and looked around, wondering

what had just occurred. On the other side of the fire, Lifaen and Narí

wrestled noiselessly with Orik.

Eragon watched Arya’s mouth move as she spoke, then sound returned

to the world with a pop, though he could no longer hear the music.

“What. . ?” he asked, dazed.

“Gerr’off me,” growled Orik. Lifaen and Narí lifted their hands and

backed away.

“Your pardon, Orik-vodhr,” said Lifaen.

Arya gazed toward Sílthrim. “I miscounted the days; I didn’t want to be

anywhere near a city during Dagshelgr. Our saturnalias, our celebrations,

are perilous for mortals. We sing in the ancient language, and the lyrics

weave spells of passion and longing that are difficult to resist, even for

us.”

Narí stirred restlessly. “We should be at a grove.”

“We should,” agreed Arya, “but we will do our duty and wait.”

Shaken, Eragon sat closer to the fire, wishing for Saphira; he was sure

she could have protected his mind from the music’s influence. “What is

the point of Dagshelgr?” he asked.

Arya joined him on the ground, crossing her long legs. “It is to keep the

forest healthy and fertile. Every spring we sing for the trees, we sing for

the plants, and we sing for the animals. Without us, Du Weldenvarden

would be half its size.” As if to emphasize her point, birds, deer, squir-

rels—red and gray—striped badgers, foxes, rabbits, wolves, frogs, toads,

tortoises, and every other nearby animal forsook their hiding and began to

rush madly about with a cacophony of yelps and cries. “They are search-

ing for mates,” explained Arya. “All across Du Weldenvarden, in each of

our cities, elves are singing this song. The more who participate, the

stronger the spell, and the greater Du Weldenvarden will be this year.”

Eragon snatched back his hand as a trio of hedgehogs trundled past his

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thigh. The entire forest yammered with noise. I’ve stepped into fairyland,

he thought, hugging himself.

Orik came around the fire and raised his voice above the clamor: “By

my beard and my ax, I’ll not be controlled against my will by magic. If it

happens again, Arya, I swear on Helzvog’s stone girdle that I’ll return to

Farthen Dûr and you will have the wrath of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum to deal

with.”

“It was not my intention for you to experience Dagshelgr,” said Arya. “I

apologize for my mistake. However, though I am shielding you from this

spell, you cannot escape magic in Du Weldenvarden; it permeates every-

thing.”

“So long as it doesn’t befoul my mind.” Orik shook his head and fin-

gered the haft of his ax while eyeing the shadowy beasts that lumbered in

the gloom beyond the pool of firelight.

No one slept that night. Eragon and Orik remained awake because of

the frightful din and the animals that kept crashing by their tents, the

elves because they still listened to the song. Lifaen and Narí took to pac-

ing in endless circles, while Arya stared toward Sílthrim with a hungry

expression, her tawny skin drawn thin and taut over her cheekbones.

Four hours into the riot of sound and motion, Saphira dove out of the

sky, her eyes sparkling with a queer aspect. She shivered and arched her

neck, panting between her open jaws. The forest, she said, is alive. And I

am alive. My blood burns like never before. It burns as yours burns when

you think of Arya. I... understand!

Eragon put his hand on her shoulder, feeling the tremors that racked

her frame; her sides vibrated as she hummed along with the music. She

gripped the ground with her ivory claws, her muscles coiled and clenched

in a supreme effort to remain motionless. The tip of her tail twitched like

she was about to pounce.

Arya stood and joined Eragon on the opposite side of Saphira. The elf

also put a hand on Saphira’s shoulder, and the three of them faced the

darkness, united into a living chain.

When dawn broke, the first thing Eragon noticed was that all the trees

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now had buds of bright green needles at the ends of their branches. He

bent and examined the snowberries at his feet and found that every

plant, large or small, had acquired new growth during the night. The for-

est vibrated with the ripeness of its colors; everything was lush and fresh

and clean. The air smelled like it had just rained.

Saphira shook herself beside Eragon and said, The fever has passed; I am

myself again. Such things I felt... It was as if the world were being born

anew and I was helping to create it with the fire in my limbs.

How are you? On the inside, I mean.

I will need some time to understand what I experienced.

Since the music had ceased, Arya removed her spell from Eragon and

Orik. She said, “Lifaen. Narí. Go to Sílthrim and get horses for the five of

us. We cannot walk all the way from here to Ellesméra. Also, alert Cap-

tain Damítha that Ceris requires reinforcements.”

Narí bowed. “And what shall we say when she asks why we have de-

serted our post?”

“Tell her that that which she once hoped for—and feared—has oc-

curred; the wyrm has bitten its own tail. She will understand.”

The two elves departed for Sílthrim after the boats were emptied of

supplies. Three hours later, Eragon heard a stick snap and looked up to

see them returning through the forest on proud white stallions, leading

four other identical horses. The magnificent beasts moved among the

trees with uncanny stealth, their coats shimmering in the emerald twi-

light. None of them wore saddles or harnesses.

“Blöthr, blöthr,” murmured Lifaen, and his steed halted, pawing the

ground with its dark hooves.

“Are all your horses as noble as these?” asked Eragon. He cautiously ap-

proached one, amazed by its beauty. The animals were only a few inches

taller than ponies, which made it easy for them to navigate among the

closely placed trunks. They did not seem frightened by Saphira.

“Not all,” laughed Narí, tossing his silver hair, “but most. We have bred

them for many centuries.”

“How am I supposed to ride?”

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Arya said, “An elf horse responds instantly to commands in the ancient

language; tell it where you wish to go and it will take you. However, do

not mistreat them with blows or harsh words, for they are not our slaves,

but our friends and partners. They bear you only so long as they consent

to; it is a great privilege to ride one. I was only able to save Saphira’s egg

from Durza because our horses sensed that something was amiss and

stopped us from riding into his ambush. . They won’t let you fall unless

you deliberately throw yourself off, and they are skilled in choosing the

safest, quickest path through treacherous ground. The dwarves’ Feldûnost

are like that.”

“Right you are,” grunted Orik. “A Feldûnost can run you up a cliff and

down without a single bruise. But how can we carry food and whatnot

without saddles? I won’t ride while wearing a full pack.”

Lifaen tossed a pile of leather bags at Orik’s feet and indicated the sixth

horse. “Nor will you have to.”

It took half an hour to arrange their supplies in the bags and heap them

into a lumpy mound on the horse’s back. Afterward, Narí told Eragon

and Orik the words they could use to direct the horses: “Gánga framto go

forward,blöthr to stop, hlaupa if needs you must run, and gánga aptr to

go back. You can give more precise instructions if you know more of the

ancient language.” He led Eragon to a horse and said, “This is Folkvír.

Hold out your hand.”

Eragon did, and the stallion snorted, flaring his nostrils. Folkvír sniffed

Eragon’s palm, then touched it with his muzzle and allowed Eragon to

stroke his thick neck. “Good,” said Narí, appearing satisfied. The elf had

Orik do the same with the next horse.

As Eragon mounted Folkvír, Saphira drew closer. He looked up at her,

noting how troubled she still seemed from the night. One more day, he

said.

Eragon...She paused. I thought of something while I was under the influ-

ence of the elves’ spell, something that I have always considered of little

consequence, but now looms within me like a mountain of black dread:

Every creature, no matter how pure or monstrous, has a mate of their own

kind. Yet I have none. She shuddered and closed her eyes. In this regard, I

am alone.

Her statements reminded Eragon that she was barely more than eight

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months old. On most occasions, her youth did not show—due to the in-

fluence of her hereditary instincts and memories—but, in this arena, she

was even more inexperienced than he was with his feeble stabs at ro-

mance in Carvahall and Tronjheim. Pity welled inside Eragon, but he

suppressed it before it could seep across their mental link. Saphira would

have only contempt for the emotion: it could neither solve her problem

nor make her feel better. Instead, he said, Galbatorix still has two dragon

eggs. During our first audience with Hrothgar, you mentioned that you

would like to rescue them. If we can—

Saphira snorted bitterly. It could take years, and even if we did retrieve

the eggs, I have no guarantee that they would hatch, nor that they would be

male, nor that we would be fit mates. Fate has abandoned my race to ex-

tinction. She lashed her tail with frustration, breaking a sapling in two.

She seemed perilously close to tears.

What can I say? he asked, disturbed by her distress. You can’t give up

hope. You still have a chance to find a mate, but you have to be patient.

Even if Galbatorix’s eggs don’t work, dragons must exist elsewhere in the

world, just like humans, elves, and Urgals do. The moment we are free of

our obligations, I’ll help you search for them. All right?

All right, she sniffed. She craned back her head and released a puff of

white smoke that dispersed among the branches overhead. I should know

better than to let my emotions get the best of me.

Nonsense. You would have to be made of stone not to feel this way. It’s

perfectly normal.... But promise you won’t dwell on it while you’re alone.

She fixed one giant sapphire eye on him. I won’t. He turned warm in-

side as he felt her gratitude for his reassurances and companionship. Lean-

ing out from Folkvír, he put a hand on her rough cheek and held it there

for a moment. Go on, little one, she murmured. I will see you later.

Eragon hated to leave her in such a state. He reluctantly entered the

forest with Orik and the elves, heading west toward the heart of Du

Weldenvarden. After an hour spent pondering Saphira’s plight, he men-

tioned it to Arya.

Faint lines creased Arya’s forehead as she frowned. “It is one of Galba-

torix’s greatest crimes. I do not know if a solution exists, but we can

hope. We must hope.”

206

THE PINEWOOD CITY

Eragon had been in Du Weldenvarden for so long that he had begun to

long for clearings, fields, or even a mountain, instead of the endless tree

trunks and meager underbrush. His flights with Saphira provided no res-

pite as they only revealed hills of prickly green that rolled unbroken into

the distance like a verdant sea.

Oftentimes, the branches were so thick overhead, it was impossible to

tell from what direction the sun rose and set. That, combined with the

repetitive scenery, made Eragon hopelessly lost, no matter how many

times Arya or Lifaen troubled to show him the points of the compass. If

not for the elves, he knew that he could wander in Du Weldenvarden for

the rest of his life without ever finding his way free.

When it rained, the clouds and the forest canopy plunged them into

profound darkness, as if they were entombed deep underground. The fal-

ling water would collect on the black pine needles above, then trickle

through and pour a hundred feet or more down onto their heads, like a

thousand little waterfalls. At such times, Arya would summon a glowing

orb of green magic that floated over her right hand and provided the only

light in the cavernous forest. They would stop and huddle underneath a

tree until the storm abated, but even then water cached in the myriad

branches would, at the slightest provocation, shower them with droplets

for hours afterward.

As they rode deeper into the heart of Du Weldenvarden, the trees

grew thicker and taller, as well as farther apart to accommodate the in-

creased span of their branches. The trunks—bare brown shafts that tow-

ered up into the overarching ribbed ceiling, which was smudged and ob-

scured by shadow—were over two hundred feet tall, higher than any tree

in the Spine or the Beors. Eragon paced out the girth of one tree and

measured it at seventy feet.

He mentioned this to Arya, and she nodded, saying, “It means that we

are near Ellesméra.” She reached out and rested her hand lightly on the

gnarled root beside her, as if touching, with consummate delicacy, the