Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (69 page)

race looped down over the elves, brushing them with an insubstantial

wing. It came to a stop before Eragon, engulfing him in an endless, whirl-

ing gaze. Bidden by some instinct, Eragon raised his right hand, his palm

tingling.

In his mind echoed a voice of fire: Our gift so you may do what you

must.

The dragon bent his neck and, with his snout, touched the heart of Er-

agon’s gedwëy ignasia. A spark jumped between them, and Eragon went

rigid as incandescent heat poured through his body, consuming his in-

sides. His vision flashed red and black, and the scar on his back burned as

if branded. Fleeing to safety, he fell deep within himself, where darkness

grasped him and he had not the strength to resist it.

Last, he again heard the voice of fire say, Our gift to you.

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IN A STARRY GLADE

Eragon was alone when he woke.

He opened his eyes to stare at the carved ceiling in the tree house he

and Saphira shared. Outside, night still reigned and the sounds of the

elves’ revels drifted from the glittering city below.

Before he noticed more than that, Saphira leaped into his mind, radiat-

ing concern and anxiety. An image passed to him of her standing beside

Islanzadí at the Menoa tree, then she asked, How are you?

I feel... good. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. How long have I—

Only an hour. I would have stayed with you, but they needed Oromis,

Glaedr, and me to complete the ceremony. You should have seen the elves’

reaction when you fainted. Nothing like this has occurred before.

Did you cause this, Saphira?

It was not my work alone, nor Glaedr’s. The memories of our race, which

were given form and substance by the elves’ magic, anointed you with what

skill we dragons possess, for you are our best hope to avoid extinction.

I don’t understand.

Look in a mirror, she suggested. Then rest and recover and I shall rejoin

you at dawn.

She left, and Eragon got to his feet and stretched, amazed by the sense

of well-being that pervaded him. Going to the wash closet, he retrieved

the mirror he used for shaving and brought it into the light of a nearby

lantern.

Eragon froze with surprise.

It was as if the numerous physical changes that, over time, alter the ap-

pearance of a human Rider—and which Eragon had already begun to ex-

perience since bonding with Saphira—had been completed while he was

unconscious. His face was now as smooth and angled as an elf’s, with ears

tapered like theirs and eyes slanted like theirs, and his skin was as pale as

alabaster and seemed to emit a faint glow, as if with the sheen of magic. I

look like a princeling. Eragon had never before applied the term to a man,

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least of all himself, but the only word that described him now was beau-

tiful. Yet he was not entirely an elf. His jaw was stronger, his brow

thicker, his face broader. He was fairer than any human and more rugged

than any elf.

With trembling fingers, Eragon reached around the nape of his neck in

search of his scar.

He felt nothing.

Eragon tore off his tunic and twisted in front of the mirror to examine

his back. It was as smooth as it had been before the battle of Farthen

Dûr. Tears sprang to Eragon’s eyes as he slid his hand over the place

where Durza had maimed him. He knew that his back would never

trouble him again.

Not only was the savage blight he had elected to keep gone, but every

other scar and blemish had vanished from his body, leaving him as un-

marked as a newborn babe. Eragon traced a line upon his wrist where he

had cut himself while sharpening Garrow’s scythe. No evidence of the

wound remained. The blotchy scars on the insides of his thighs, remnants

from his first flight with Saphira, had also disappeared. For a moment, he

missed them as a record of his life, but his regret was short-lived as he re-

alized that the damage from every injury he had ever suffered, no matter

how small, had been repaired.

I have become what I was meant to be, he thought, and took a deep

breath of the intoxicating air.

He dropped the mirror on the bed and garbed himself in his finest

clothes: a crimson tunic stitched with gold thread; a belt studded with

white jade; warm, felted leggings; a pair of the cloth boots favored by the

elves; and upon his forearms, leather vambraces the dwarves had given

him.

Descending from the tree, Eragon wandered the shadows of Ellesméra

and observed the elves carousing in the fever of the night. None of them

recognized him, though they greeted him as one of their own and invited

him to share in their saturnalias.

Eragon floated in a state of heightened awareness, his senses thrumming

with the multitude of new sights, sounds, smells, and feelings that as-

sailed him. He could see in darkness that would have blinded him before.

He could touch a leaf and, by touch alone, count the individual hairs that

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grew upon it. He could identify the odors wafting about him as well as a

wolf or a dragon. And he could hear the patter of mice in the underbrush

and the noise a flake of bark makes as it falls to earth; the beating of his

heart was as a drum to him.

His aimless path led him past the Menoa tree, where he paused to

watch Saphira among the festivities, though he did not reveal himself to

those in the glade.

Where go you, little one? she asked.

He saw Arya rise from her mother’s side, make her way through the

gathered elves, and then, like a forest sprite, glide underneath the trees

beyond. I walk between the candle and the dark, he replied, and followed

Arya.

Eragon tracked Arya by her delicate scent of crushed pine needles, by

the feathery touch of her foot upon the ground, and by the disturbance

of her wake in the air. He found her standing alone on the edge of a

clearing, poised like a wild creature as she watched the constellations

turn in the sky above.

As Eragon emerged in the open, Arya looked at him, and he felt as if

she saw him for the first time. Her eyes widened, and she whispered, “Is

that you, Eragon?”

“Aye.”

“What have they done to you?”

“I know not.”

He went to her, and together they wandered the dense woods, which

echoed with fragments of music and voices from the festivities. Changed

as he was, Eragon was acutely conscious of Arya’s presence, of the whis-

per of her clothes over her skin, of the soft, pale exposure of her neck,

and of her eyelashes, which were coated with a layer of oil that made

them glisten and curl like black petals wet with rain.

They stopped on the bank of a narrow stream so clear, it was invisible

in the faint light. The only thing that betrayed its presence was the

throaty gurgle of water pouring over rocks. Around them, the thick pines

formed a cave with their branches, hiding Eragon and Arya from the

world and muffling the cool, still air. The hollow seemed ageless, as if it

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were removed from the world and protected by some magic against the

withering breath of time.

In that secret place, Eragon felt suddenly close to Arya, and all his pas-

sion for her sprang to the fore of his mind. He was so intoxicated with

the strength and vitality coursing through his veins—as well as the un-

tamed magic that filled the forest—he ignored caution and said, “How

tall the trees, how bright the stars. . and how beautiful you are, O Arya

Svit-kona.” Under normal circumstances, he would have considered his

deed the height of folly, but in that fey, madcap night, it seemed per-

fectly sane.

She stiffened. “Eragon. .”

He ignored her warning. “Arya, I’ll do anything to win your hand. I

would follow you to the ends of the earth. I would build a palace for you

with nothing but my bare hands. I would—”

“Will you stop pursuing me? Can you promise me that?” When he

hesitated, she stepped closer and said, low and gentle, “Eragon, this can-

not be. You are young and I am old, and that shall never change.”

“Do you feel nothing for me?”

“My feelings for you,” she said, “are those of a friend and nothing more.

I am grateful to you for rescuing me from Gil’ead, and I find your com-

pany pleasant. That is all. . Relinquish this quest of yours—it will only

bring you heartache—and find someone your own age to spend the long

years with.”

His eyes brimmed with tears. “How can you be so cruel?”

“I am not cruel, but kind. You and I are not meant for each other.”

In desperation, he suggested, “You could give me your memories, and

then I would have the same amount of experience and knowledge as

you.”

“It would be an abomination.” Arya lifted her chin, her face grave and

solemn and brushed with silver from the glimmering stars. A hint of steel

entered her voice: “Hear me well, Eragon. This cannot, nor ever shall be.

And until you master yourself, our friendship must cease to exist, for

your emotions do nothing but distract us from our duty.” She bowed to

him. “Goodbye, Eragon Shadeslayer.” Then she strode past and vanished

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into Du Weldenvarden.

Now the tears spilled down Eragon’s cheeks and dropped to the moss

below, where they lay unabsorbed, like pearls strewn across a blanket of

emerald velvet. Numb, Eragon sat upon a rotting log and buried his face

in his hands, weeping that his affection for Arya was doomed to remain

unrequited, and weeping that he had driven her further away.

Within moments, Saphira joined him. Oh, little one. She nuzzled him.

Why did you have to inflict this upon yourself? You knew what would hap-

pen if you tried to woo Arya again.

I couldn’t stop myself. He wrapped his arms around his belly and rocked

back and forth on the log, reduced to hiccuping sobs by the strength of

his misery. Putting one warm wing over him, Saphira drew him close to

her side, like a mother falcon with her offspring. He curled up against her

and remained huddled there as night passed into day and the Agaetí

Blödhren came to an end.

445

LANDFALL

Roran stood upon the poop deck of the Red Boar, his arms crossed over

his chest and his feet planted wide apart to steady himself on the rolling

barge. The salty wind ruffled his hair and tugged at his thick beard and

tickled the hairs on his bare forearms.

Beside him, Clovis manned the tiller. The weathered sailor pointed to-

ward the coastline at a seagull-covered rock silhouetted on the crest of a

rolling hill that extended into the ocean. “Teirm be right on the far side

of that peak.”

Roran squinted into the afternoon sun, which reflected off the ocean in

a blindingly bright band. “We’ll stop here for now, then.”

“You don’t want to go on into the city yet?”

“Not all of us at once. Call over Torson and Flint and have them run

the barges up on that shore. It looks like a good place to camp.”

Clovis grimaced. “Arrgh. I was hoping t’ get a hot meal tonight.” Roran

understood; the fresh food from Narda had long since been eaten, leaving

them with naught but salt pork, salted herring, salted cabbage, sea bis-

cuits the villagers had made from their purchased flour, pickled vegeta-

bles, and the occasional fresh meat when the villagers slaughtered one of

their few remaining animals or managed to catch game when they landed.

Clovis’s rough voice echoed over the water as he shouted to the skip-

pers of the other two barges. When they drew near, he ordered them to

pull ashore, much to their vociferous displeasure. They and the other

sailors had counted on reaching Teirm that day and lavishing their pay on

the city’s delights.

After the barges were beached, Roran walked among the villagers and

helped them by pitching tents here and there, unloading equipment,

fetching water from a nearby stream, and otherwise lending his assistance

until everyone was settled. He paused to give Morn and Tara a word of

encouragement, for they appeared despondent, and received a guarded

response in turn. The tavern owner and his wife had been aloof to him

ever since they left Palancar Valley. On the whole, the villagers were in

better condition than when they arrived at Narda due to the rest they

had garnered on the barges, but constant worry and exposure to the harsh

elements had prevented them from recuperating as well as Roran hoped.

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“Stronghammer, will you sup at our tent tonight?” asked Thane, coming

up to Roran.

Roran declined with as much grace as he could and turned to find him-

self confronted by Felda, whose husband, Byrd, had been murdered by

Sloan. She bobbed a quick curtsy, then said, “May I speak with you, Ro-

ran Garrowsson?”

He smiled at her. “Always, Felda. You know that.”

“Thank you.” With a furtive expression, she fingered the tassels that

edged her shawl and glanced toward her tent. “I would ask a favor of you.

It’s about Mandel—” Roran nodded; he had chosen her eldest son to ac-

company him into Narda on that fateful trip when he killed the two