The Black Morass
Page 77
where the whites should have been, who possessed an awful beauty that frightened Eragon and, when they chanced to touch something, passed through it like shadows.
The ultimate example of this phenomenon was the Menoa tree, which was once the elf Linnëa. The tree seemed to quicken with life at the activity in the clearing. Its branches
stirred, though no breeze touched them, at times the creaks of its trunk could be heard to match the flow of music, and an air of gentle benevolence emanated from the tree and
lay upon those in the vicinity…
She had been unable to watch the transformation, and found herself shaking with rage at Odette's shrieks. Mariah cut off her mind to Andrar and headed for the throne room,
waiting for Galbatorix to return. The door busted open as he appeared.
"Your timing is impeccable, Dawnsinger, you know that? I had needed to speak with you."
"You killed him."
"An accident, easily corrected. Now, about yesterday…" He waved his hand, shouting and slammed her against the wall, barreling into her mind. "How are you still so disobedient?"
Mariah felt her head crack against the stone as she gritted her teeth. She could feel the blood dripping down her neck. She straightened and watched him, her chin tilting upward
slightly as he spoke again.
"After everything I've given you? All the effort I've put into training you… preparing you for this… you repay me with traitorous thoughts? Leaving me… escaping the Empire?"
"I never wanted to be one of your Riders."
"But you are – just like your parents."
"My mother only became a member of the Forsworn to protect those she loved."
He watched her expression and smiled. "Then you are here for the exact same reason that she was. Are you not?" She dug her fingers into her palm, staring him down. "I have…
tried… Dawnsinger. You were improving for a while, yes… but now, I see a heavy deterioration, and I can only blame myself. I trusted you with far too much with so little control. I
had hoped you would see events unfold the way I do." He traced a finger across her cheek. "You will lose everything. I will have you destroy everything you hold most dear to your
little heart. And I will feel your misery when I make you run a blade through your friends… your brother."
Her thoughts flashed to Eragon and Mark, her nerve wavering.
"If you do not submit now, and vow to me your life, your blade, your dragon… I will take it for myself."
And he remembered two attacks from his back, screaming and groaning in the shadows while the mad elves continued their revels around him and only Saphira came to guard over
him…
Mariah set her jaw. "I would rather die."
"So be it." Galbatorix raised his hand towards her, uttering Elvish words she didn't know the meaning of, feeling her control slipping away.
On the third day of the Agaetí Blödhren, or so Eragon later learned, he delivered his verses to the elves. He stood and said, "I am no smith, no skilled at carving or weaving or
pottery or painting or any of the arts. Nor can I rival your accomplishments with spells. Thus, all that remains to me are my own experiences, which I have attempted to interpret
through the lens of a story, though I am also no bard." Then, in the manner that Brom had performed lays in Carvahall, Eragon chanted:
In the kingdom by the sea,
In the mountains mantled blue,
On frigid winter's final day
Was born a man with but one task:
To kill the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.
Nurtured by the kind and wise
Under oaks as old as time,
He ran with deer and wrestled bears,
And from his elders learned the skills,
To kill the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.
Taught to spy the thief in black
When he grabs the weak and strong;
To block his blows and fight the fiend
With rag and rock and plant and bone;
And kill the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.
Quick as thought, the years did turn,
'Til the man had come of age,
His body burned with fevered rage,
While youth's impatience seared his veins.
Then he met a maiden fair,
Who was tall and strong and wise,
Her brow adorned with Gëda's Light,
Which shone upon her trailing gown.
In her eyes of midnight blue,
In those enigmatic pools,
Appeared to him a future bright,
Together, where they would not have
To fear the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.
So Eragon told of how the man voyaged to the land of Durza, where he found and fought the foe, despite the cold terror within his heart. Yet though at least he triumphed, the man
withheld the fatal blow, for now that he had defeated his enemy, he did not fear the doom of mortals. He did not need to kill the foe in Durza. Then the man sheathed his sword and
returned home and wed his love on summer's eve. With her, he spent his many days content until his beard was long and white. But:
In the dark before the dawn,
In the room where slept the man,
The foe, he crept and loomed above
His mighty rival now so weak.
From his pillow did the man
Raise his head and gaze upon
The cold and empty face of Death,
The king of everlasting night.
Calm acceptance filled the man's
Aged heart; for long ago,
He'd lost all fear of Death's embrace,
The last embrace a man will know.
Gentle as a morning breeze,
Bent the foe and from the man
His glowing, pulsing spirit took,
And then in peace they went to dwell,
Forever more in Durza,
In the land of shadows.
Eragon fell quiet and, conscious of the eyes upon him, ducked his head and quickly found his seat. He felt embarrassed that he had revealed so much of himself.
The elf lord, Däthedr, said, "You underestimate yourself, Shadeslayer. It seems that you have discovered a new talent."
Islanzadí raised one pale hand. "You work shall be added to the great library in Tialdarí Hall, Eragonfiniarel, so that all who wish can appreciate it. Though your poem is allegory, I
believe that it has helped many of us to better understand the hardships you have faced since Saphira's egg appeared to you, for which we are, in no small way, responsible. You must read it to us again so that we may think upon this further.
Pleased, Eragon bowed his head and did as she commanded. Afterward was time for Saphira to present her work to the elves. She flew off into the night and returned with a black
stone thrice the size of a large man clutched in her talons. Landing on her hind legs, she placed the stone upright in the middle of the bare greensward, in full view of everyone. The
glossy rock had been melted and somehow molded to intricate curves that wound about each other, like frozen waves. The striated tongues of rock twisted in such convoluted
patterns that the eye had difficulty following a single piece from base to tip, but rather flitted from one coil to the next.
As it was his first time seeing the sculpture, Eragon gazed at it with as much interest as the elves. How did you make this?
Saphira's eyes twinkled with amusement. By licking the molten rock. Then she bent and breathed fire long upon the stone, bathing it in a golden pillar that ascended toward the
stars and clawed at them with lucent fingers. When Saphira closed her jaws, the paper thin edges of the sculpture glowed cherry red, while small flames flickered in the dark
hollows and recesses throughout the r
ock. The flowing strands of rock seemed to move under the hypnotic light.
The elves exclaimed with wonder, clapping their hands and dancing about the piece. An elf cried, "Well wrought, Brightscales!"
It's beautiful, said Eragon.
Saphira touched him on the arm with her nose. Thank you, little one.
Then Glaedr brought out his offering: a slab of red oak that he had carved with the point of one talon into the likeness of Ellesméra as seen from high above. And Oromis revealed
his contribution: the completed scroll that Eragon had often watched him illustrate during their lessons. Along the top half of the scroll matched columns of glyphs – a copy of "The
Lay of Vestarí the Mariner" – while along the bottom half ran a panorama of a fantastic landscape, rendered with breathtaking artistry, detail, and skill.
Arya took Eragon's hand then and drew him through the forest and toward the Menoa tree, where she said, "Look how the werelight dims. We have but a few hours left to us before
dawn arrives and we must return to the world of cold reason."
Around the tree, the host of elves gathered, their faces bright with eager anticipation. With great dignity, Islanzadí emerged from within their midst and walked along a root as wide
as a pathway until it angled upward and doubled back on itself. She stood upon the gnarled shelf overlooking the slender, waiting elves. "As is our custom, and as was agreed upon
at the end of The Dragon War by Queen Tarmunora, the first Eragon, and the white dragon who represented his race – he whose name cannot be uttered in this or any language –
when they bound the fate of elves and dragons together, we have met to honor our bloodoath with song and dance and the fruits of our labor. Last this celebration occurred, many
long years ago, our situation was desperate indeed. It has improved somewhat since, the result of our efforts, the dwarves', and the Varden's, though Alagaësia still lies under the
black shadow of the Wyrdfell and we must still live with our shame of how we have failed the dragons.
"Of the Riders of old, only Oromis and Glaedr remain. Brom and many others entered the void this past century. However, new hope has been granted to us in the form of Eragon
and Saphira, and it is only right and proper that they should be here now, as we reaffirm the oath between our races three."
At the queen's signal, the elves cleared a wide expanse at the base of the Menoa tree. Around the perimeter, they staked a ring of lanterns mounted upon carved poles, while musicians with flutes, harps, and drums assembled along the ridge of one long root. Guided by Arya to the edge of the circle, Eragon found himself seated between her and Oromis,
while Saphira and Glaedr crouched on either side of them like gemstudded bluffs.
To Eragon and Saphira, Oromis said, "Watch you carefully, for this is of great importance to your heritage as Riders."
When all the elves were settled, two elfmaids walked to the center of the space in the host and stood with their backs to each other. They were exceedingly beautiful and identical
in every respect, except for their hair: one had tresses as black as a forgotten pool, while the other's hair gleamed like burnished silver wire.
"The Caretakers, Iduna and Nëya," whispered Oromis.
From Islanzadí's shoulder, Blagden shrieked, "Wydra!"
Moving in unison, the two elves raised their hands to the brooches at their throats, unclasped them, and allowed their white robes to fall away. Though they wore no garments, the
women were clad in an iridescent tattoo of a dragon. The tattoo began with the dragon's tail wrapped around the left ankle of Iduna, continued up her leg and thigh, over her torso,
and then across Nëya's back, ending with the dragon's head on Nëya's chest. Every scale on the dragon was inked a different color; the vibrant hues gave the tattoo the appearance
of a rainbow.
The elfmaids twined their hands and arms together so that the dragon appeared to be a continuous whole, rippling from one body to the next without interruption. Then they each
lifted a bare foot and brought it down on the packed ground with a soft thump.
And again: thump.
On the third thump, the musicians struck their drums in rhythm. A thump later, the harpists plucked the strings of their gilt instruments, and a moment after that, those elves with
flutes joined the throbbing melody.
Slowly at first, but with gathering speed, Iduna and Nëya began to dance, marking time with the stamp of their feet on the dirt and undulating to that it was not they who seemed to move but the dragon upon them. Round and round they went, and the dragon flew endless circles across their skin.
Then the twins added their voices to the music, building upon the pounding beat with their fierce cries, their lyrics verses of a spell so complex that its meaning escaped Eragon.
Like the rising wind that precedes a storm, the elves accompanied the incantation, singing with one tongue and one mind and one intent. Eragon did not know the words but found
himself mouthing them along with the elves, swept along by the by the inexorable cadence. He heard Saphira and Glaedr hum in concordance, a deep pulse so strong that it
vibrated within his bones and made his skin tingle and the air shimmer.
Faster and faster spun Iduna and Nëya until their feet were a dusty blur and their hair fanned about them and they glistened with a film of sweat. The elfmaids accelerated to an
inhuman speed and the music climaxed in a frenzy of chanted phrases. Then a flare of light ran the length of the dragon tattoo, from head to tail, and the dragon stirred. At first
Eragon thought his eyes had deceived him, until the creature blinked, raised his wings, and clenched his talons.
A burst of flame erupted from the dragon's maw and he lunged forward and pulled himself free of the elves' skin, climbing into the air, where he hovered, flapping his wings. The
tip of his tail remained connected to the twins below, like a glowing umbilical cord. The giant beast strained toward the black moon and loosed an untamed roar of ages past, then
turned and surveyed the assembled elves.
As the dragon's baleful eye fell upon him, Eragon knew that the creature was no mere apparition but a conscious being bound and sustained by magic. Saphira and Glaedr's
humming grew ever louder until it blocked all other sound from Eragon's ears. Above the specter of their race looped down over the elves, brushing them with an insubstantial wing.
It came to a stop before Eragon, engulfing him in an endless, whirling 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, touch the heart of Eragon's gedwëy ignasia. A spark jumped between them, and Eragon went rigid as incandescent heat poured
through his body, consuming his insides. 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.
When he finished speaking, she woke with Shruikan's massive talons caging her against the floor. Her vision flashed icy blue. Twisting her neck, she saw Kieran standing in the
doorway, her lips parted as Mariah heaved, spitting blood out of her mouth. Shruikan removed his paw, allowing her to turn as to not choke. Coughing heavily, she leaned on one
arm, looking up at Galbatorix looming over her.
"Stand," he demanded.
Mariah stood, far too close to him for her liking. He smiled maliciously and stepped back, summoning a knife from a table. It hung in the air, spinning slowly without gravity. As it
turned, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror of the blade, her eyes were dilated and edged with icy blue
instead of jade. She reached for the dagger and grasped it in her
fingers tightly. Holding both arms out in front of her, she watched the blade point touch her palm, pressing until a bead of ruby pooled to the surface. Meticulously, she pulled the
dagger against her hand again and again. While she wanted to scream, she heard herself laugh as the droplets of blood hit the floor.
"Now kneel." She wanted nothing more than to drive the dagger into his chest as she was pulled to the floor by some unseen force. Her neck bent forward, lowering her head,
kneeling on one leg in an act of fealty. While she stared at the pool of blood trailing from her hand, she realized Galbatorix finally seemed pleased.
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 flittering
city below.
Before he noticed more than that, Saphira leaped into his mind, radiating 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 wellbeing 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, altered the appearance of a human Rider – and which Eragon had already begun to experience since bonding with