Then Oromis surprised Eragon by initiating the elves’ traditional greeting and thereby indicating his respect for Eragon: “May good fortune rule over you.”
“May the stars watch over you.”
“And may peace live in your heart,” finished the silver-haired elf. He repeated the exchange with Saphira. “Now go and fly as fast as the north wind, knowing that you—Saphira Brightscales and Eragon Shadeslayer—carry the blessing of Oromis, last scion of House Thrándurin, he who is both the Mourning Sage and the Cripple Who Is Whole.”
And mine as well, added Glaedr. Extending his neck, he touched the tip of his nose to Saphira’s, his gold eyes glittering like swirling pools of embers. Remember to keep your heart safe, Saphira. She hummed in response.
They parted with solemn farewells. Saphira soared over the tangled forest and Oromis and Glaedr dwindled behind them, lonely on the crags. Despite the hardships of his stay in Ellesméra, Eragon would miss being among the elves, for with them he had found the closest thing to a home since fleeing Palancar Valley.
I leave here a changed man, he thought, and closed his eyes, clinging to Saphira.
Before going to meet with Orik, they made one more stop: Tialdarí Hall. Saphira landed in the enclosed gardens, careful not to damage any of the plants with her tail or claws. Without waiting for her to crouch, Eragon leaped straight to the ground, a drop that would have injured him before.
A male elf came out, touched his lips with his first two fingers, and asked if he could help them. When Eragon replied that he sought an audience with Islanzadí, the elf said, “Please wait here, Silver Hand.”
Not five minutes later, the queen herself emerged from the wooded depths of Tialdarí Hall, her crimson tunic like a drop of blood among the white-robed elf lords and ladies who accompanied her. After the appropriate forms of address were observed, she said, “Oromis informed me of your intention to leave us. I am displeased by this, but one cannot resist the will of fate.”
“No, Your Majesty.… Your Majesty, we came to pay our respects before departing. You have been most considerate of us, and we thank you and your House for clothing, lodging, and feeding us. We are in your debt.”
“Never in our debt, Rider. We but repaid a little of what we owe you and the dragons for our miserable failure in the Fall. I am gratified, though, that you appreciate our hospitality.” She paused. “When you arrive in Surda, convey my royal salutations to Lady Nasuada and King Orrin and inform them that our warriors will soon attack the northern half of the Empire. If fortune smiles upon us, we shall catch Galbatorix off guard and, given time, divide his forces.”
“As you wish.”
“Also, know that I have dispatched twelve of our finest spellweavers to Surda. If you are still alive when they arrive, they will place themselves under your command and do their best to shield you from danger both night and day.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Islanzadí extended a hand and one of the elf lords handed her a shallow, unadorned wooden box. “Oromis had his gifts for you, and I have mine. Let them remind you of your time spent with us under the dusky pines.” She opened the box, revealing a long, dark bow with reflexed limbs and curled tips nestled on a bed of velvet. Silver fittings chased with dogwood leaves decorated the ears and grip of the bow. Beside it lay a quiver of new arrows fletched with white swan feathers. “Now that you share our strength, it seems only proper that you should have one of our bows. I sang it myself from a yew tree. The string will never break. And so long as you use these arrows, you will be hard-pressed to miss your target, even if the wind should gust during your shot.”
Once again, Eragon was overwhelmed by the elves’ generosity. He bowed. “What can I say, my Lady? You honor me that you saw fit to give me the labor of your own hands.”
Islanzadí nodded, as if agreeing with him, then stepped past him and said, “Saphira, I brought you no gifts because I could think of nothing you might need or want, but if there is aught of ours you desire, name it and it shall be yours.”
Dragons, said Saphira, do not require possessions to be happy. What use have we for riches when our hides are more glorious than any treasure hoard in existence? No, I am content with the kindness that you have shown Eragon.
Then Islanzadí bade them a safe journey. Sweeping around, her red cape billowing from her shoulders, she made to leave the gardens, only to stop at the edge of the pleasance and say, “And, Eragon?”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“When you meet with Arya, please express my affection to her and tell her that she is sorely missed in Ellesméra.” The words were stiff and formal. Without waiting for a reply, she strode away and disappeared among the shadowed boles that guarded the interior of Tialdarí Hall, followed by the elf lords and ladies.
It took Saphira less than a minute to fly to the sparring field, where Orik sat on his bulging pack, tossing his war ax from one hand to the other and scowling ferociously. “About time you got here,” he grumbled. He stood and slipped the ax back under his belt. Eragon apologized for the delay, then tied Orik’s pack onto the back of his saddle. The dwarf eyed Saphira’s shoulder, which loomed high above him. “And how, by Morgothal’s black beard, am I supposed to get up there? A cliff has more handholds than you, Saphira.”
Here, she said. She lay flat on her belly and pushed her right hind leg out as far as she could, forming a knobby ramp. Pulling himself onto her shin with a loud huff, Orik crawled up her leg on hands and knees. A small jet of flame burst from Saphira’s nostrils as she snorted. Hurry up—that tickles!
Orik paused on the ledge of her haunches, then placed one foot on either side of Saphira’s spine and carefully walked his way up her back toward the saddle. He tapped one of the ivory spikes between his legs and said, “There be as good a way to lose your manhood as ever I’ve seen.”
Eragon grinned. “Don’t slip.” When Orik lowered himself onto the front of the saddle, Eragon mounted Saphira and sat behind the dwarf. To hold Orik in place when Saphira turned or inverted, Eragon loosened the thongs that were meant to secure his arms and had Orik put his legs through them.
As Saphira rose to her full height, Orik swayed, then clutched the spike in front of him. “Garr! Eragon, don’t let me open my eyes until we’re in the air, else I fear I’ll be sick. This is unnatural, it is. Dwarves aren’t meant to ride dragons. It’s never been done before.”
“Never?”
Orik shook his head without answering.
Clusters of elves drifted out of Du Weldenvarden, gathered along the edge of the field, and with solemn expressions watched Saphira lift her translucent wings in preparation to take off.
Eragon tightened his grip as he felt her mighty thews bunch underneath his legs. With a rush of acceleration, Saphira launched herself into the azure sky, flapping swift and hard to rise above the giant trees. She wheeled over the vast forest—spiraling upward as she gained altitude—and then aimed herself south, toward the Hadarac Desert.
Though the wind was loud in Eragon’s ears, he heard an elf woman in Ellesméra raise her clear voice in song, as he had when they first arrived. 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.…
THE MAW OF THE OCEAN
he obsidian seas heaved underneath the Dragon Wing, propelling the ship high in the air. There it teetered on the precipitous crest of a foam-capped swell before pitching forward and racing down the face of the wave into the black trough below. Billows of stinging mist drove through the frigid air as the wind groaned and howled like a monstrous spirit.
Roran clung to the starboard rigging at the waist of the ship and retched over the gunwale; nothing came up but sour bile. He had prided himself that his stomach never bothered him while on Clovis’s barges, but the storm they raced before was so violent that even Uthar’s me
n—seasoned tars each and every one—had difficulty keeping their whisky down.
It felt like a boulder of ice clouted Roran between the shoulder blades as a wave struck the ship crossways, drenching the deck before draining through the scuppers and pouring back into the frothing, furrowed, furious ocean from whence it came. Roran wiped the salty water from his eyes with fingers as clumsy as frozen lumps of wood, and squinted toward the inky horizon to the aft.
Maybe this will shake them off our scent. Three black-sailed sloops had pursued them ever since they passed the Iron Cliffs and rounded what Jeod dubbed Edur Carthungavë and Uthar identified as Rathbar’s Spur. “The tailbone of the Spine, that’s what it be,” Uthar said, grinning. The sloops were faster than the Dragon Wing, weighed down with villagers as it was, and had quickly gained upon the merchant ship until they were close enough to exchange volleys of arrows. Worst of all, it seemed that the lead sloop carried a magician, for its arrows were uncannily accurate, splitting ropes, destroying ballistae, and clogging the blocks. From their attacks, Roran deduced that the Empire no longer cared about capturing him and only wanted to stop him from finding sanctuary with the Varden. He had just been preparing the villagers to repel boarding parties when the clouds above ripened to a bruised purple, heavy with rain, and a ravening tempest blew in from the northwest. At the present, Uthar had the Dragon Wing tacked crossways to the wind, heading toward the Southern Isles, where he hoped to elude the sloops among the shoals and coves of Beirland.
A sheet of horizontal lightning flickered between two bulbous thunderheads, and the world became a tableau of pale marble before darkness reigned once more. Every blinding flash imprinted a motionless scene upon Roran’s eyes that lingered, pulsing, long after the brazen bolts vanished.
Then came another round of forked lightning, and Roran saw—as if in a series of monochrome paintings—the mizzen topmast twist, crack, and topple into the thrashing sea, port amidships. Grabbing a lifeline, Roran pulled himself to the quarterdeck and, in unison with Bonden, hacked through the cables that still connected the topmast to the Dragon Wing and dragged the stern low in the water. The ropes writhed like snakes as they were cut.
Afterward, Roran sank to the deck, his right arm hooked through the gunwale to hold himself in place as the ship dropped twenty … thirty … feet between waves. A swell washed over him, leaching the warmth from his bones. Shivers racked his body.
Don’t let me die here, he pleaded, though whom he addressed, he knew not. Not in these cruel waves. My task is yet unfinished. During that long night, he clung to his memories of Katrina, drawing solace from them when he grew weary and hope threatened to desert him.
The storm lasted two full days and broke during the wee hours of the night. The following morning brought with it a pale green dawn, clear skies, and three black sails riding the northern horizon. To the southwest, the hazy outline of Beirland lay underneath a shelf of clouds gathered about the ridged mountain that dominated the island.
Roran, Jeod, and Uthar met in a small fore cabin—since the captain’s stateroom was given over to the infirm—where Uthar unrolled sea charts on the table and tapped a point above Beirland. “This’d be where we are now,” he said. He reached for a larger map of Alagaësia’s coastline and tapped the mouth of the Jiet River. “An’ this’d be our destination, since food won’t last us to Reavstone. How we get there, though, without being overtaken is beyond me. Without our mizzen topgallant, those accursed sloops will catch us by noon tomorrow, evening if we manage the sails well.”
“Can we replace the mast?” asked Jeod. “Vessels of this size carry spars to make just such repairs.”
Uthar shrugged. “We could, provided we had a proper ship’s carpenter among us. Seeing as we don’t, I’d rather not let inexperienced hands mount a spar, only to have it crash down on deck and perhaps injure somebody.”
Roran said, “If it weren’t for the magician or magicians, I’d say we should stand and fight, since we far outnumber the crews of the sloops. As it is, I’m chary of battle. It seems unlikely that we could prevail, considering how many ships sent to help the Varden have disappeared.”
Grunting, Uthar drew a circle around their current position. “This’d be how far we can sail by tomorrow evening, assuming the wind stays with us. We could make landfall somewhere on Beirland or Nía if we wanted, but I can’t see how that’d help us. We’d be trapped. The soldiers on those sloops or the Ra’zac or Galbatorix himself could hunt us at his leisure.”
Roran scowled as he considered their options; a fight with the sloops appeared inevitable.
For several minutes, the cabin was silent except for the slap of waves against the hull. Then Jeod placed his finger on the map between Beirland and Nía, looked at Uthar, and asked, “What about the Boar’s Eye?”
To Roran’s amazement, the scarred sailor actually blanched. “I’d not risk that, Master Jeod, not on my life. I’d rather face the sloops an’ die in the open sea than go to that doomed place. There has consumed twice as many ships as in Galbatorix’s fleet.”
“I seem to recall reading,” said Jeod, leaning back in his chair, “that the passage is perfectly safe at high tide and low tide. Is that not so?”
With great and evident reluctance, Uthar admitted, “Aye. But the Eye is so wide, it requires the most precise timing to cross without being destroyed. We’d be hard-pressed to accomplish that with the sloops near on our tail.”
“If we could, though,” pressed Jeod, “if we could time it right, the sloops would be wrecked or—if their nerve failed them—forced to circumvent Nía. It would give us time to find a place to hide along Beirland.”
“If, if … You’d send us to the crushing deep, you would.”
“Come now, Uthar, your fear is unreasoning. What I propose is dangerous, I admit, but no more than fleeing Teirm was. Or do you doubt your ability to sail the gap? Are you not man enough to do it?”
Uthar crossed his bare arms. “You’ve never seen the Eye, have you, sir?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“It’s not that I’m not man enough, but that the Eye far exceeds the strength of men; it puts to shame our biggest ships, our grandest buildings, an’ anything else you’d care to name. Tempting it would be like trying to outrun an avalanche; you might succeed, but then you just as well might be ground into dust.”
“What,” asked Roran, “is this Boar’s Eye?”
“The all-devouring maw of the ocean,” proclaimed Uthar.
In a milder tone, Jeod said, “It’s a whirlpool, Roran. The Eye forms as the result of tidal currents that collide between Beirland and Nía. When the tide waxes, the Eye rotates north to west. When the tide wanes, it rotates north to east.”
“That doesn’t sound so dangerous.”
Uthar shook his head, queue whipping the sides of his wind-burned neck, and laughed. “Not so dangerous, he says! Ha!”
“What you fail to comprehend,” continued Jeod, “is the size of the vortex. On average, the center of the Eye is a league in diameter, while the arms of the pool can be anywhere from ten to fifteen miles across. Ships unlucky enough to be snared by the Eye are borne down to the floor of the ocean and dashed against the jagged rocks therein. Remnants of the vessels are often found as flotsam on the beaches of the two islands.”
“Would anyone expect us to take this route?” Roran queried.
“No, an’ for good reason,” growled Uthar. Jeod shook his head at the same time.
“Is it even possible for us to cross the Eye?”
“It’d be a blasted fool thing to do.”
Roran nodded. “I know it’s not something you want to risk, Uthar, but our options are limited. I’m no seaman, so I must rely upon your judgment: Can we cross the Eye?”
The captain hesitated. “Maybe, maybe not. You’d have t’ be stark raving mad to go nearer’n five miles of that monster.”
Pulling out his hammer, Roran banged it on the table, leaving a dent a half-inch d
eep. “Then I’m stark raving mad!” He held Uthar’s gaze until the sailor shifted with discomfort. “Must I remind you, we’ve only gotten this far by doing what quibbling worrywarts said couldn’t, or shouldn’t, be done? We of Carvahall dared to abandon our homes and cross the Spine. Jeod dared to imagine we could steal the Dragon Wing. What will you dare, Uthar? If we can brave the Eye and live to tell the tale, you shall be hailed as one of the greatest mariners in history. Now answer me and answer me well and true: Can this be done?”
Uthar drew a hand over his face. When he spoke, it was in a low voice, as if Roran’s outburst had caused him to abandon all bluster. “I don’t know, Stronghammer.… If we wait for the Eye to subside, the sloops may be so close to us that if we escape, they’d escape. An’ if the wind should falter, we’d be caught in the current, unable to break free.”
“As captain, are you willing to attempt it? Neither Jeod nor I can command the Dragon Wing in your place.”
Long did Uthar stare down at the charts, one hand clasped over the other. He drew a line or two from their position and worked a table of figures that Roran could make nothing of. At last he said, “I fear we sail to our doom, but aye, I’ll do my best to see us through.”
Satisfied, Roran put away his hammer. “So be it.”
RUNNING THE BOAR’S EYE
he sloops continued to draw closer to the Dragon Wing over the course of the day. Roran watched their progress whenever he could, concerned that they would get near enough to attack before the Dragon Wing reached the Eye. Still, Uthar seemed able to outrun them, at least for a little while longer.
At Uthar’s orders, Roran and the other villagers worked to tidy up the ship after the storm and prepare for the ordeal that was to come. Their work ended at nightfall, when they extinguished every light on board in an attempt to confuse their pursuers as to the Dragon Wing’s heading. The ruse succeeded in part, for when the sun rose, Roran saw that the sloops had fallen back to the northwest another mile or so, though they soon made up the lost distance.
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