Eldest
Page 47
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.
But not all the creatures were animals. Some few were elves who had altered their original forms for functionality or in pursuit of a different ideal of beauty. An elf covered in brindled fur leaped over Eragon and continued to gambol about, as often on all fours as on his feet. His head was narrow and elongated with ears like a cat, his arms hung to his knees, and his long-fingered hands had rough pads on the palm.
Later, two identical elf women presented themselves to Saphira. They moved with languid grace and, when they touched their hands to their lips in the traditional greeting, Eragon saw that their fingers were joined by translucent webbing. “We have come far,” they whispered. As they spoke, three rows of gills pulsed on each side of their slender necks, exposing pink flesh underneath. Their skin glistened as if with oil. Their lank hair hung past their narrow shoulders.
He met an elf armored in imbricated scales like a dragon, with a bony crest upon his head, a line of spikes that ran down his back, and two pallid flames that ever flickered in the pits of his flared nostrils.
And he met others who were not so recognizable: elves whose outlines wavered as if seen through water; elves who, when motionless, were indistinguishable from trees; tall elves with eyes of black, even 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 quicke
n 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….
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….
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, nor 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 last 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 thence in peace they went to dwell,
Forevermore 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. “Your work shall be added to the great library in Tialdarí Hall, Eragon-finiarel, 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 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 into 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 rock. 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 a 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 marched 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 fates of elves and dragons together, we have met to honor our blood-oath 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 eld, 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 gem-studded bluffs.
When all the elves were settled, two elf-maids 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, “Wyrda!”
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 elf-maids 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.