The spell Eragon used was long and complex, and even he did not understand all its parts, for he had memorized it from an ancient text that offered little explanation beyond the statement that, given no bones were broken and the internal organs were whole, “this charm will heal any ailment of violent origins, excepting that of grim death.” Once he uttered it, Eragon watched with fascination as Saphira’s muscle writhed beneath his hand—veins, nerves, and fibers weaving together—and became whole once more. The wound was big enough that, in his weakened state, he dared not heal it with just the energy from his body, so he drew upon Saphira’s strength as well.
It itches, said Saphira when he finished.
Eragon sighed and leaned his back against the rough basalt, looking at the sunset through his eyelashes. I fear that you will have to carry me off this rock. I’m too tired to move.
With a dry rustle, she twisted in place and laid her head on the bones beside him. I have treated you poorly ever since we came to Ellesméra. I ignored your advice when I should have listened. You warned me about Glaedr, but I was too proud to see the truth in your words.… I have failed to be a good companion for you, betrayed what it means to be a dragon, and tarnished the honor of the Riders.
No, never that, he said vehemently. Saphira, you haven’t failed your duty. You may have made a mistake, but it was an honest one, and one that anyone might have committed in your position.
That does not excuse my behavior toward you.
He tried to meet her eye, but she avoided his gaze until he touched her upon the neck and said, Saphira, family members forgive one another, even if they don’t always understand why someone acts in a certain way.… You are as much my family as Roran—more. Nothing you can do will ever change that. Nothing. When she did not respond, he reached behind her jaw and tickled the patch of leathery skin below one of her ears. Do you hear me, eh? Nothing!
She coughed low in her throat with reluctant amusement, then arched her neck and lifted her head to escape his dancing fingers. How can I face Glaedr again? He was in a terrible rage.… The entire stone shook with the force of his anger.
At least you held your own when he attacked you.
It was the other way around.
Caught by surprise, Eragon raised his eyebrows. Well, in any case, the only thing to do is to apologize.
Apologize!
Aye. Go tell him that you are sorry, that this won’t happen again, and that you want to continue your training with him. I’m sure he will be sympathetic if you give him the chance.
Very well, she said in a low voice.
You’ll feel better once you do. He grinned. I know from experience.
She grunted and padded to the edge of the cave, where she crouched and surveyed the rolling forest. We should go. Soon it will be dark. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself upright—every movement costing him effort—and climbed onto her back, taking twice the time he usually did. Eragon? … Thank you for coming. I know what you risked with your back.
He patted her on the shoulder. Are we one again?
We are one.
THE GIFT OF DRAGONS
he days leading up to the Agaetí Blödhren were the best and worst of times for Eragon. His back troubled him more than ever, battering down his health and endurance and destroying his calm of mind; he lived in constant fear of triggering an episode. Yet, in contrast, he and Saphira had never been so close. They lived as much in each other’s minds as in their own. And every now and then Arya would visit the tree house and walk through Ellesméra with Eragon and Saphira. She never came alone, though, always bringing either Orik or Maud the werecat.
Over the course of their wanderings, Arya introduced Eragon and Saphira to elves of distinction: great warriors, poets, and artists. She took them to concerts held under the thatched pines. And she showed them many hidden wonders of Ellesméra.
Eragon seized every opportunity to talk with her. He told her about his upbringing in Palancar Valley, about Roran, Garrow, and his aunt Marian, stories of Sloan, Ethlbert, and the other villagers, and his love of the mountains surrounding Carvahall and the flaming sheets of light that adorned the winter sky at night. He told her about the time a vixen fell into Gedric’s tanning vats and had to be fished out with a net. He told her about the joy he found in planting a crop, weeding and nurturing it, and watching the tender green shoots grow under his care—a joy that he knew she, of all people, could appreciate.
In turn, Eragon gleaned occasional insights into her own life. He heard mentions of her childhood, her friends and family, and her experiences among the Varden, which she spoke about most freely, describing raids and battles she participated in, treaties she helped to negotiate, her disputes with the dwarves, and the momentous events she witnessed during her tenure as ambassador.
Between her and Saphira, a measure of peace entered Eragon’s heart, but it was a precarious balance that the slightest influence might disrupt. Time itself was an enemy, for Arya was destined to leave Du Weldenvarden after the Agaetí Blödhren. Thus, Eragon treasured his moments with her and dreaded the arrival of the forthcoming celebration.
The entire city bustled with activity as the elves prepared for the Agaetí Blödhren. Eragon had never seen them so excited before. They decorated the forest with colored bunting and lanterns, especially around the Menoa tree, while the tree itself was adorned with a lantern upon the tip of each branch, where they hung like glowing teardrops. Even the plants, Eragon noticed, took on a festive appearance with a collection of bright new flowers. He often heard the elves singing to them late at night.
Each day hundreds of elves arrived in Ellesméra from their cities scattered throughout the woods, for no elf would willingly miss the centennial observance of their treaty with the dragons. Eragon guessed that many of them also came to meet Saphira. It seems as if I do nothing but repeat their greeting, he thought. The elves who were absent because of their responsibilities would hold their own festivities simultaneously and would participate in the ceremonies at Ellesméra by scrying through enchanted mirrors that displayed the likeness of those watching, so that no one felt as if they were being spied upon.
A week before the Agaetí Blödhren, when Eragon and Saphira were about to return to their quarters from the Crags of Tel’naeír, Oromis said, “You should both think about what you can bring to the Blood-oath Celebration. Unless your creations require magic to make or to function, I suggest that you avoid using gramarye. No one will respect your work if it’s the product of a spell and not of your own hands. I also suggest you each make a separate piece. That too is custom.”
In the air, Eragon asked Saphira, Do you have any ideas?
I might have one. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to see if it works before I tell you. He caught part of an image from her of a bare knuckle of stone protruding from the forest floor before she concealed it from him.
He grinned. Won’t you give me a hint?
Fire. Lots of fire.
Back in their tree house, Eragon cataloged his skills and thought, I know more about farming than anything else, but I don’t see how I can turn that to my advantage. Nor can I hope to compete with the elves with magic or match their accomplishments with the crafts I am familiar with. Their talent exceeds that of the finest artisans in the Empire.
But you possess one quality that no one else does, said Saphira.
Oh?
Your identity. Your history, deeds, and situation. Use those to shape your creation and you will produce something unique. Whatever you make, base it upon that which is most important to you. Only then will it have depth and meaning, and only then will it resonate with others.
He looked at her with surprise. I never realized that you knew so much about art.
I don’t, she said. You forget I spent an afternoon watching Oromis paint his scrolls while you flew with Glaedr. Oromis discussed the topic quite a bit.
Ah, yes. I had forgotten.
After Saphira left to pursue her pr
oject, Eragon paced along the edge of the open portal in the bedroom, pondering what she had said. What’s important to me? he asked himself. Saphira and Arya, of course, and being a good Rider, but what can I say about those subjects that isn’t blindingly obvious? I appreciate beauty in nature, but, again, the elves have already expressed everything possible on that topic. Ellesméra itself is a monument to their devotion. He turned his gaze inward and scrutinized himself to determine what struck the deepest, darkest chords within him. What stirred him with enough passion—of either love or hate—that he burned to share it with others?
Three things presented themselves to him: his injury at the hands of Durza, his fear of one day fighting Galbatorix, and the elves’ epics that so engrossed him.
A rush of excitement flared within Eragon as a story combining those elements took form in his mind. Light on his feet, he ran up the twisting stairs—two at a time—to the study, where he sat before the writing desk, dipped quill in ink, and held it trembling over a pale sheet of paper.
The nib rasped as he made the first stroke:
In the kingdom by the sea,
In the mountains mantled blue …
The words flowed from his pen seemingly of their own accord. He felt as if he were not inventing his tale, but merely acting as a conduit to transport it fully formed into the world. Having never composed a work of his own before, Eragon was gripped by the thrill of discovery that accompanies new ventures—especially since, previously, he had not suspected that he might enjoy being a bard.
He labored in a frenzy, not stopping for bread or drink, his tunic sleeves rolled past his elbows to protect them from the ink flicked from his quill by the wild force of his writing. So intense was his concentration, he heard nothing but the beat of his poem, saw nothing but the empty paper, and thought of nothing but the phrases etched in lines of fire behind his eyes.
An hour and a half later, he dropped the quill from his cramped hand, pushed his chair away from the desk, and stood. Fourteen pages lay before him. It was the most he had ever written at one time. Eragon knew that his poem could not match those of the elves’ and dwarves’ great authors, but he hoped it was honest enough that the elves would not laugh at his effort.
He recited the poem to Saphira when she returned. Afterward, she said, Ah, Eragon, you have changed much since we left Palancar Valley. You would not recognize the untested boy who first set out for vengeance, I think. That Eragon could not have written a lay after the style of the elves. I look forward to seeing who you become in the next fifty or a hundred years.
He smiled. If I live that long.
“Rough but true,” was what Oromis said when Eragon read him the poem.
“Then you like it?”
“ ’Tis a good portrait of your mental state at the present and an engaging read, but no masterpiece. Did you expect it to be?”
“I suppose not.”
“However, I am surprised that you can give voice to it in this tongue. No barrier exists to writing fiction in the ancient language. The difficulty arises when one attempts to speak it, for that would require you to tell untruths, which the magic will not allow.”
“I can say it,” replied Eragon, “because I believe it’s true.”
“And that gives your writing far more power.… I am impressed, Eragon-finiarel. Your poem will be a worthy addition to the Blood-oath Celebration.” Raising a finger, Oromis reached within his robe and gave Eragon a scroll tied shut with ribbon. “Inscribed on that paper are nine wards I want you to place about yourself and the dwarf Orik. As you discovered at Sílthrim, our festivities are potent and not for those with constitutions weaker than ours. Unprotected, you risk losing yourself in the web of our magic. I have seen it happen. Even with these precautions, you must take care you are not swayed by fancies wafted on the breeze. Be on your guard, for during this time, we elves are apt to go mad—wonderfully, gloriously mad, but mad all the same.”
On the eve of the Agaetí Blödhren—which was to last three days—Eragon, Saphira, and Orik accompanied Arya to the Menoa tree, where a host of elves were assembled, their black and silver hair flickering in the lamplight. Islanzadí stood upon a raised root at the base of the trunk, as tall, pale, and fair as a birch tree. Blagden roosted on the queen’s left shoulder, while Maud, the werecat, lurked behind her. Glaedr was there, as well as Oromis garbed in red and black, and other elves Eragon recognized, such as Lifaen and Narí and, to his distaste, Vanir. Overhead, the stars glittered in the velvet sky.
“Wait here,” said Arya. She slipped through the crowd and returned leading Rhunön. The smith blinked like an owl at her surroundings. Eragon greeted her, and she nodded to him and Saphira. “Well met, Brightscales and Shadeslayer.” Then she spied Orik and addressed him in Dwarvish, to which Orik replied with enthusiasm, obviously delighted to converse with someone in the rough speech of his native land.
“What did she say?” asked Eragon, bending down.
“She invited me to her home to view her work and discuss metal working.” Awe crossed Orik’s face. “Eragon, she first learned her craft from Fûthark himself, one of the legendary grimstborithn of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum! What I would give to have met him.”
Together they waited until the stroke of midnight, when Islanzadí raised her bare left arm so that it pointed toward the new moon like a marble spear. A soft white orb gathered itself above her palm from the light emitted by the lanterns that dotted the Menoa tree. Then Islanzadí walked along the root to the massive trunk and placed the orb in a hollow in the bark, where it remained, pulsing.
Eragon turned to Arya. “Is it begun?”
“It is begun!” She laughed. “And it will end when the werelight expends itself.”
The elves divided themselves into informal camps throughout the forest and clearing that encircled the Menoa tree. Seemingly out of nowhere, they produced tables laden high with fantastic dishes, which from their unearthly appearance were as much the result of the spellweavers’ handiwork as the cooks’.
Then the elves began to sing in their clear, flutelike voices. They sang many songs, yet each was but part of a larger melody that wove an enchantment over the dreamy night, heightening senses, removing inhibitions, and burnishing the revels with fey magic. Their verses concerned heroic deeds and quests by ship and horse to forgotten lands and the sorrow of lost beauty. The throbbing music enveloped Eragon, and he felt a wild abandon take hold of him, a desire to run free of his life and dance through elven glades forever more. Beside him, Saphira hummed along with the tune, her glazed eyes lidded halfway.
What transpired afterward, Eragon was never able to adequately recall. It was as if he had a fever and faded in and out of consciousness. He could remember certain incidents with vivid clarity—bright, pungent flashes filled with merriment—but it was beyond him to reconstruct the order in which they occurred. He lost track of whether it was day or night, for no matter the time, dusk seemed to pervade the forest. Nor could he ever say if he had slumbered, or needed sleep, during the celebration.…
He remembered spinning in circles while holding the hands of an elf-maid with cherry lips, the taste of honey on his tongue and the smell of juniper in the air.…
He remembered elves perched on the outstretched branches of the Menoa tree, like a flock of starlings. They strummed golden harps and called riddles to Glaedr below and, now and then, pointed a finger at the sky, whereupon a burst of colored embers would appear in various shapes before fading away.…
He remembered sitting in a dell, propped against Saphira, and watching the same elf-maid sway before a rapt audience while she sang:
Away, away, you shall fly away,
O’er the peaks and vales
To the lands beyond.
Away, away, you shall fly away,
And never return to me.
Gone! Gone you shall be from me,
And I will never see you again.
Gone! Gone you shall be from me,
Though
I wait for you evermore.
He remembered endless poems, some mournful, others joyful—most both. He heard Arya’s poem in full and thought it fine indeed, and Islanzadí’s, which was longer but of equal merit. All the elves gathered to listen to those two works.…
He remembered the wonders the elves had made for the celebration, many of which he would have deemed impossible beforehand, even with the assistance of magic. Puzzles and toys, art and weapons, and items whose function escaped him. One elf had charmed a glass ball so that every few seconds a different flower bloomed within its heart. Another elf had spent decades traveling Du Weldenvarden and memorizing the sounds of the elements, the most beautiful of which he now played from the throats of a hundred white lilies.
Rhunön contributed a shield that would not break, a pair of gloves woven from steel thread that allowed the wearer to handle molten lead and other such items without harm, and a delicate sculpture of a wren in flight chiseled from a solid block of metal and painted with such skill that the bird seemed alive.
A tiered wood pyramid eight inches high and constructed of fifty-eight interlocking pieces was Orik’s offering, much to the elves’ delight, who insisted upon disassembling and reassembling the pyramid as often as he would allow. “Master Longbeard,” they called him, and said, “Clever fingers mean a clever mind.” …
He remembered Oromis pulling him aside, away from the music, and asking the elf, “What’s wrong?”
“You need to clear your mind.” Oromis guided him to a fallen log and had him sit. “Stay here for a few minutes. You will feel better.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need to rest,” protested Eragon.
“You are in no position to judge yourself right now. Stay here until you can list the spells of changing, great and minor, and then you may rejoin us. Promise me this.” …
He remembered creatures dark and strange, drifting in from the depths of the forest. The majority were animals who had been altered by the accumulated spells in Du Weldenvarden and were now drawn to the Agaetí Blödhren as a starving man is drawn to food. They seemed to find nourishment in the presence of the elves’ magic. Most dared reveal themselves only as pairs of glowing eyes on the outskirts of the lantern light. One animal that did expose itself was the she-wolf—in the form of a white-robed woman—that Eragon had encountered before. She lurked behind a dogwood bush, dagger teeth bared in an amused grin, her yellow eyes darting from point to point.
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