Through the trees, Eragon glimpsed an elf — man or woman, he could not tell — squatting on a rock in the middle of a stream, muttering a spell over the orb of glass clutched in its hands. He twisted his neck in an attempt to get an unobstructed view, but the spectacle had already vanished into the dark.
“What,” asked Eragon, keeping his voice low so as to not disturb anyone, “do most elves do for a living or profession?”
Arya answered just as quietly. “Our strength with magic grants us as much leisure as we desire. We neither hunt nor farm, and, as a result, we spend our days working to master our interests, whatever they might be. Very little exists that we must strive for.”
Through a tunnel of dogwood draped with creepers, they entered the enclosed atrium of a house grown out of a ring of trees. An open-walled hut occupied the center of the atrium, which sheltered a forge and an assortment of tools that Eragon knew even Horst would covet.
An elf woman held a pair of small tongs in a nest of molten coals, working bellows with her right hand. With uncanny speed, she pulled the tongs from the fire — revealing a ring of white-hot steel clamped in the pincers’ jaws — looped the ring through the edge of an incomplete mail corselet hung over the anvil, grasped a hammer, and welded shut the open ends of the ring with a blow and a burst of sparks.
Only then did Arya approach. “Atra esterní ono thelduin.”
The elf faced them, her neck and cheek lit from underneath by the coals’ bloody light. Like taut wires embedded in her skin, her face was scribed with a delicate pattern of lines — the greatest display of age Eragon had seen in an elf. She gave no response to Arya, which he knew was offensive and discourteous, especially since the queen’s daughter had honored her by speaking first.
“Rhunön-elda, I have brought you the newest Rider, Eragon Shadeslayer.”
“I heard you were dead,” said Rhunön to Arya. Rhunön’s voice guttered and rasped unlike any other elf’s. It reminded Eragon of the old men of Carvahall who sat on the porches outside their houses, smoking pipes and telling stories.
Arya smiled. “When did you last leave your house, Rhunön?”
“You should know. It was that Midsummer’s Feast you forced me to attend.”
“That was three years ago.”
“Was it?” Rhunön frowned as she banked the coals and covered them with a grated lid. “Well, what of it? I find company trying. A gaggle of meaningless chatter that...” She glared at Arya. “Why are we speaking this foul language? I suppose you want me to forge a sword for him? You know I swore to never create instruments of death again, not after that traitor of a Rider and the destruction he wreaked with my blade.”
“Eragon already has a sword,” said Arya. She raised her arm and presented Zar’roc to the smith.
Rhunön took Zar’roc with a look of wonder. She caressed the wine-red sheath, lingered on the black symbol etched into it, rubbed a bit of dirt from the hilt, then wrapped her fingers around the handle and drew the sword with all the authority of a warrior. She sighted down each of Zar’roc’s edges and flexed the blade between her hands until Eragon feared it might break. Then, in a single movement, Rhunön swung Zar’roc over her head and brought it down upon the tongs on her anvil, riving them in half with a resounding ring.
“Zar’roc,” said Rhunön. “I remember thee.” She cradled the weapon like 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 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 this task? Aye, every other elf and I could use magic to satisfy our desires — 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 anything 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,” explain
ed 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 auspicious 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 inhabitants 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 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’ primitive 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 contact with in Farthen Dûr, was dwarfed in comparison to this presence. The very air seemed to thrum with the energy and strength that emanated 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 intelligent.” 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 resolved itself beside Saphira in the form of Blagden. The raven’s narrow shoulders and crooked neck gave him the appearance of a miser basking in the radiance of a pile of gold. The raven lifted his pallid head and uttered 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. Linnëa 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 beloved 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?”
“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 neither 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 clumps of needles into a small basket.
Hot blood rushed to Eragon’s face as he watched her. He hoped that the moon was not bright enough to reveal that his cheeks had turned mottled red. “Where... where do you live? Do you and Islanzadí have a palace or castle
...?”
“We live in Tialdarí Hall, our family’s ancestral buildings, in the western part of Ellesméra. I would enjoy showing our home to you.”
“Ah.” A practical question suddenly intruded in Eragon’s muddled thoughts, driving away his embarrassment. “Arya, do you have any siblings?” She shook her head. “Then you are the sole heir to the elven throne?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?” She sounded bemused by his curiosity.
“I don’t understand why you were allowed to become an ambassador to the Varden and dwarves, as well as ferry Saphira’s egg from here to Tronjheim. It’s too dangerous an errand for a princess, much less the queen-in-waiting.”
“You mean it’s too dangerous for a human woman. I told you before that I am not one of your helpless females. What you fail to realize is that we view our monarchs differently than you or the dwarves. To us, a king or queen’s highest responsibility is to serve their people however and wherever possible. If that means forfeiting our lives in the process, we welcome the opportunity to prove our devotion to — as the dwarves say — hearth, hall, and honor. If I had died in the course of my duty, then a replacement successor would have been chosen from among our various Houses. Even now I would not be required to become queen if I found the prospect distasteful. We do not choose leaders who are unwilling to devote themselves wholeheartedly to their obligation.” She hesitated, then hugged her knees against her chest and propped her chin on them. “I had many years to perfect those arguments with my mother.” For a minute, the wheet-wheet of the cicadas went undisturbed in the clearing. Then she asked, “How go your studies with Oromis?”
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