Elva bit her lip, for once looking like a normal child.
Ah, there it was. The vastness of everything would not persuade her. But it did achieve the first step: reinforce her perception of my mastery. So, time for her real desire.
“I have made myself immune to your ability, so I can offer you a time of peace from all the suffering that constantly impinges on your mind. You can learn who you are and what you want to be. And when you return, you will have a new command over your life. Yes, there will be boundaries and restrictions while you are by my side. But I don’t need the power derived from your curse, Elva. I have no need to break or bend you.”
She gave me a look, such a look—hope when hope is not allowed, hope poisoned by profound bitterness. “Easy words,” she said.
“Am I lying?”
“You know I can’t see when people are lying!”
“Yes. You must choose with incomplete information, just like everyone else. Do you wish to come with me, Elva? Think carefully. I will not return again with this offer.” Then it was my turn to stare and wait for a response.
In any other child, Elva’s deep scowl would presage a tantrum, but her control did not weaken. “Do you really think the guards would let you take me? Ha! In just the last fortnight, they’ve stopped two attempts to steal me away.” Anger made her usually cool, contemptuous tone waver.
I made no attempt to hide my unease. “I hadn’t heard. Then your departure is all the more important; I suspect that dangerous groups are determined to have you as a weapon.”
“Ha!”
“I know. They have no understanding of your power, though they believe they do. And what people think they understand, they think they can control.”
“I’m not going to hide who and what I am.”
“There is great value in stealth; you have already attracted much attention.”
“Oh! I have guessed your plan. You will have me talk my way past the guards. But it won’t work; they are warded against me. They’re afraid of me.” And there was a deeply worrying touch of pride in Elva’s voice.
“Neither the guards stationed outside nor the heavy wards on the room mean a thing if I want to take you from within these walls,” I said.
Elva made a scornful noise.
“Just tell me, do you wish to go?”
“What I wish has never mattered, not from the moment that Eragon spoke his words.”
“Do you wish to go?”
“What is your plan? Invisibility? Addling the guards’ brains? Tunneling through the floor? None of those things will work.”
“No. I will simply open a door and we will walk away. Nothing more.”
“Ha!” Proper disgust this time.
I stood. “For the last time, do you wish to go?”
“Yes! A thousand curses on you, for making me want things. Yes.”
“Then come.” I held out my hand, but Elva did not accept it.
Without assistance, she climbed out of her nest of pillows. “Fine. But I still think you are lying. They’ve planned for every possible way out of here.”
But not, I thought, the impossible ways.
There was so much work to do with Elva, yet I found myself oddly looking forward to it. She had great potential to understand the incomprehensible. “Gather what you wish to bring, and we will go.”
Though she was clearly skeptical in the extreme, Elva put a small wooden cask and a miscellany of oddments on a blanket and tied it into a bundle.
“What of your caretaker, Greta?” I asked.
“I’ve seen to it she will live in comfort the rest of her years.”
“That is good of you, but events are often unpredictable. You might never get the chance to see her again. Forestall future regrets by saying a proper farewell now.”
Elva hesitated, but in the end, she did as I recommended. Not wanting to be seen, lest someone later rummage through Greta’s memories, I slipped behind a fold of drapery while the girl rang a bell.
Greta arrived quickly, ever attentive to the needs of her charge. She was understandably distressed by Elva’s farewells; the old woman was utterly devoted to the girl and had sacrificed much to protect her. I admired the tenacity and determination with which Greta had pursued her purpose. When she spoke of her fears—that Elva was far too young to go unprotected into the world—Elva assured her that she would be safe and thanked her for all she had done.
But Greta would not be dismissed. She talked in circles, returning to the same points again and again—how she loved, was proud of, and wanted to protect Elva—as she struggled to express the depth of her feelings.
Elva’s responses grew snappish as her caretaker continued. Then she became quiet, and I was concerned. I was about to intercede when Elva said something softly, and Greta shrieked a horrible strangled sound, like some dying animal.
Whatever fear Elva had given voice to, it struck her caretaker a near mortal blow. But then the girl murmured again, and Greta exclaimed again, but in a very different tone.
“You monstrous…thing! You can’t break something and mend it a moment later with pretty words. Broken things stay broken. Wounds heal into scars, not skin. I love you. I love you so much. Do you even know what that means? I will love you and worry for you with every breath in my body, so long as I live, but I will never again trust you.”
After brief shuffling sounds, the door moaned closed, and then the room was terribly quiet.
I stepped out from my hiding place. “Was that really necessary?”
Elva shrugged, trying to appear unaffected by the consequences of her actions, but she was pale and shaking. Then she looked me in the eye and, in just a few words, spoke my deepest fear.
Although I live every moment with the knowledge, hearing someone else say it—even without understanding the implication or meaning—felt like being stung by a thousand wasps, countless stabs of fear and surprise and pain.
I should have been safe from her power, but somehow the curse had circumvented my wards. Again and again, the deep magic of the dragons tried to fulfill its purpose, finding ways around even the strongest protections. I resolved to redouble my wards as soon as possible, to forestall Elva’s prying powers, at least for a time.
She looked up at me, defiant, and said, “Do you really want to travel with me, witch? Can you bear to be around me, knowing that I know?”
But she could not break my composure. I was not the inquisitive child I once had been, not the foolish apprentice or the sharp-edged postulant. During both the broken days of wandering and the times of pleasant stasis, this fear had controlled me. Those days were past; now I could confront it without flinching. I had pondered for years and learned to admit, if not accept, the truth of the straightness of right angles.
A strange series of emotions passed over Elva’s face, as my reaction was not what she had expected. Unlike Greta, I had long since mastered my feelings.
I said, “You cannot turn me from my purpose. I have braved far more dangerous things than you. As you should know…Now, time is pressing. Come.”
Elva hugged the bundle of possessions to her chest. “Can you really take us from here?” And she fixed me with a powerful glare that implied: Now disappoint me, adult….All the others have; why wouldn’t you?
I once more extended my hand. This time Elva took it. I led her to a wall and pushed aside the layers of fabric to expose the bare stone.
“What—”
I traced a line on the wall, reached out, and opened a door that wasn’t there. On the other side—nighttime, a beach by a black ocean lit only by stars, so many, many stars, more stars than there should be.
Of course, I would not take Elva to my home, not yet. But this was a waypoint, a place to build and learn and gro
w. A place where she could rest her weary mind, free from the painful distraction of other people’s needs.
She stared into the gap, the impossible portal. No cutting words this time.
Solembum sauntered into view and peered around the edge of the doorway, into Elva’s chamber. He twitched his tasseled ears and looked up at me.
I’m hungry. Did you bring food?
Of course. Rabbit this time. Does that meet with your approval?
A sniff. It’ll do. He meandered down the beach, out of view.
“Do you wish to go?” I asked a final time.
Elva squeezed my hand as tightly as she could. She walked through the door, and I followed a half step behind.
CHAPTER VI
Questions and Answers
Eragon lowered the sheaf of pages and stared for a long while into the whirling snow outside the eyrie.
Still holding the papers, he stood and descended the long curve of stairs that led to the common area at the base of the stone finger. The dwarves were there eating, and most of the humans as well, but only a few of the elves and none of the Urgals. In a corner, one of the dwarves was playing a bone flute carved with runes, and the deep, thoughtful melody provided a homely accompaniment to the murmur of conversation.
The herbalist was sitting by herself next to one of the fires, knitting the brim for a woolen cap made of red and green yarn. She looked up as Eragon approached, but the speed of her clicking needles never slowed or faltered.
“I have questions,” he said.
“Then you have more wisdom than most.”
He squatted next to her and tapped the pages. “How much of this is true?”
Angela laughed a little, and her breath frosted in the cold. “I believe I made that perfectly clear in my preface. It’s as true or not true as you want it to be.”
“So you made it all up.”
“No,” she said, giving him a serious look over her flashing needles. “I did not. Even if I had, there are often lessons worth learning in stories. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Eragon shook his head, bemused and somewhat exasperated. He pulled over a stump they were using for a chair, sat, and stretched his legs out toward the fire. He thought about how Brom would often smoke his pipe in the evenings, and for a moment, Eragon considered getting a pipe of his own. The dwarves would be sure to have one he could use….
In a quiet voice, he said, “Why did you have me read this?”
“Perhaps because I think there are certain doors you need to walk through.”
He frowned, frustrated as always with the herbalist’s answers. “The Keeper of the Tower, is he—”
“I have nothing to say about him.” Eragon opened his mouth again, and Angela interrupted: “No. Ask other questions if you must, but not about him.”
“As you wish.” But Eragon’s suspicions remained. He looked across the common area. Elva was there, sitting and chatting with a group of dwarves, all of whom were attending to her with uncharacteristic animation. “What you wrote about her…”
“Elva is a bright young woman with a bright future,” said Angela, and she gave him an overly bright smile.
“In that case, I should see to it that she has the sort of training that a young person of such great promise ought to have.”
“Exactly,” said Angela, seeming both satisfied and relieved. Then she surprised him by saying, “Understand me, Eragon; it’s not that the task is beyond me, but some tasks are best accomplished with more than one set of hands.”
He nodded. “Of course. Elva is my responsibility, after all.”
“That she is….Although you could blame her on Brom, if you wanted, for not teaching you the proper forms of the ancient language.”
Eragon chuckled, despite himself. “Perhaps, but blaming the dead for our mistakes never accomplishes much.”
The clacking of the herbalist’s needles continued at the same steady pace as she gave him a thoughtful look and said, “My, you have grown wise in your old age.”
“Not really. I’m just trying to avoid making the same mistakes as before.”
“One could argue that is the definition of wisdom.”
He half smiled. “One could, but just avoiding mistakes isn’t enough to make a person wise. Does a turtle that lives alone under a rock for a hundred years really learn anything?”
Angela shrugged. “Does a man who lives alone in a tower for a hundred years learn anything?”
Eragon eyed her for a moment. “Maybe. It depends.”
“Even so.”
He stood and held out the papers toward her. “Here.”
“Keep them. They will serve you better than me. And besides, I have the words in my head already. That’s all that really matters.”
“I’ll make sure they’re stored where no one will ever think to look,” he said. He tucked the pages into the front of his jerkin.
She smiled. “You do that.”
Then Eragon looked back at Elva, and a hint of trepidation stirred within him. He ignored it. Just because something was difficult or uncomfortable didn’t mean it wasn’t worth doing. “We’ll talk later,” he said, and Angela made a noncommittal sound.
As Eragon walked across the common area, he reached out with his mind to Saphira, who was outside with Blödhgarm and a number of the elves, clearing snow with the fire from her throat.
You’ve been listening? he said.
Of course, little one.
I could use your help, I think.
On my way.
And he felt her turn and head inward. Pleased, Eragon continued on. The witch-child might prove troublesome for him alone, but even she would hesitate to disregard a dragon. Moreover, Eragon did not believe that the girl would be able to manipulate Saphira with her powers the way she might him.
Either way, it would be an interesting experience.
As he stopped in front of Elva, she looked up at him with her violet eyes and smiled, wide and sharp-toothed, like a cat before a mouse. “Greetings, Eragon,” she said.
CHAPTER VII
Deadfall
At long last, spring had come to Mount Arngor.
Eragon was outside the main hall, grubbing up roots from several plots of dirt along the edge of the surrounding forest. Once cleared, the plots would be planted with herbs, vegetables, berries, and other useful crops, including cardus weed for the dwarves and humans to smoke and fireweed to help dragons better digest their food.
He’d taken his shirt off and was enjoying the noonday sun on his skin. It was a welcome pleasure amid weather that was still often cold and cloudy. Saphira lounged nearby, basking on a bed of trampled grass. Before he started, she’d raked the plots with her claws to break up the soil, which made the work far easier.
With Eragon were several dwarves: two male, three female, all from Orik’s clan, the Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. As they worked, they laughed and sang in their language, and Eragon sang along with them as best he could. He had been trying to learn something of Dwarvish in his limited spare time. Also the Urgals’ even harsher tongue. As the ancient language had taught him, words were power. Sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively, but either way, Eragon wanted to know and understand everything he could, both for his own benefit and the benefit of those he was now responsible for.
A memory came to him then: He was standing in a small meadow near the outskirts of Ellesméra, surrounded by the pine trees sung into graceful shapes by the elves. A treasure trove of flowers lay before him, growing in flowing patterns within that grassy oasis amid the shadowed forest. Bees hummed among the profusion of blossoms, and butterflies flitted about the clearing, like petals given flight. Beneath him, his shadow was that of a dragon, flecked with the refracted light from his ruddy scales.
And all was right. And all was good.<
br />
Eragon shook himself as he returned to the present. Drops of sweat flew from his face. Ever since the Eldunarí had opened their minds and shared their memories with him, he had been experiencing flashes of recollection not his own. The bursts were disorienting, both on account of their unexpectedness and because he had grasped only a small part of the great storehouse of knowledge now packed into his head. To fully master it would be the task of a lifetime.
That was okay. Learning was one of Eragon’s chief pleasures, and he still had so much to learn about history, Alagaësia, the dragons, and life in general.
That particular memory had come from a dragon named Ivarros, who—as Eragon thought back—had lost his body in an unseasonably strong thunderstorm before the fall of the Riders.
The images from outside Ellesméra caused Eragon to pause and remember his own time in the elven city. A slight twinge of heartsickness formed in his chest as he thought of Arya, now queen of her people in the ancient forest of Du Weldenvarden. They had spoken several times through the scrying mirrors he kept in the hold’s eyrie, but both he and she were busy with their duties, and their conversations had been few and far between.
Saphira eyed him from underneath hooded lids. Then she snorted, sending a small puff of smoke rolling across the ground.
Eragon smiled and hoisted his pick overhead again. Life was good. Winter had broken. The main hall was finished, with the roof now sealed. More chambers were nearing completion. Three of the formerly mad Eldunarí had been moved from the caves below into the Hall of Colors, as a direct result of Elva applying her particular talents.
The girl and the herbalist and the werecat had departed two weeks previously. While Eragon was not sorry to see them go—their presence was always somewhat disquieting—he was proud of the time he’d spent with Elva. He had worked with the girl every day since her arrival, training her as Brom and Oromis had trained him. She had also spent long hours with Saphira, Glaedr, and several of the other—sane—dragons. By the time she and Angela departed, Eragon could already see a change in her attitude. Elva had appeared calmer and more relaxed, and some of the sting had dissipated from her responses.
The Fork, the Witch, and the Worm Page 6