A deep, calm voice sounded in Eragon’s mind.
Her claws brushed the crowns of the dark-needled trees, which rose over three hundred feet above the ground, as she glided across the pinewood city and headed toward the slope of inclined land on the other side of Ellesmera. Between the latticework of branches below, Eragon caught brief glimpses of the flowing shapes of buildings made of living wood, colorful beds of blooming flowers, rippling streams, the auburn glow of a flameless lantern, and, once or twice, the pale flash of an elf’s upturned face.
Tilting her wings, Saphira soared up the slope of land until she reached the Crags of Tel’naeir, which dropped over a thousand feet to the rolling forest at the base of the bare white cliff and extended for a league in either direction. Then she turned right and flew north along the ridge of stone, flapping twice to maintain her speed and altitude.
A grass-covered clearing appeared at the edge of the cliff. Set against the backdrop of the surrounding trees was a modest, single-story house grown out of four different pines. A chuckling, gurgling stream wandered out of the mossy forest and passed underneath the roots of one of the pines before disappearing into Du Weldenvarden once again. And curled up next to the house, there lay the golden dragon Glaedr, massive, glittering, his ivory teeth as thick around as Eragon’s chest, his claws like scythes, his folded wings soft as suede, his muscled tail nearly as long as all of Saphira, and the striations of his one visible eye sparkling like the rays within a star sapphire. The stump of his missing foreleg was concealed on the other side of his body. A small round table and two chairs had been placed in front of Glaedr. Oromis sat in the chair closest to him, the elf’s silver hair gleaming like metal in the sunlight.
Eragon leaned forward in his saddle as Saphira reared upright, slowing herself. She descended with a jolt upon the sward of green grass and ran forward several steps, raking her wings backward before she came to a halt.
His fingers clumsy from exhaustion, Eragon loosened the slipknots that bound the straps around his legs and then attempted to climb down Saphira’s right front leg. As he lowered himself, his knees buckled and he fell. He raised his hands to protect his face and landed upon all fours, scraping his shin on a rock hidden within the grass. He grunted with pain and, feeling as stiff as an old man, started to push himself onto his feet.
A hand entered his field of vision.
Eragon looked up and saw Oromis standing over him, a faint smile upon his timeless face. In the ancient language, Oromis said, “Welcome back to Ellesmera, Eragon-finiarel. And you as well, Saphira Brightscales, welcome. Welcome, both of you.”
Eragon took his hand, and Oromis pulled him upright without apparent effort. At first Eragon was unable to find his tongue, for he had barely spoken aloud since they had left Farthen Dur and because fatigue blurred his mind. He touched the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips and, also in the ancient language, said, “May good fortune rule over you, Oromis-elda,” and then he twisted his hand over his sternum in the gesture of courtesy and respect the elves used.
“May the stars watch over you, Eragon,” replied Oromis.
Then Eragon repeated the ceremony with Glaedr. As always, the touch of the dragon’s sanguine consciousness awed and humbled Eragon.
Saphira did not greet either Oromis or Glaedr; she remained where she was, her neck drooping until her nose brushed the ground and her shoulders and haunches trembling as if with cold. Dry yellow foam encrusted the corners of her open mouth. Her barbed tongue hung limp from between her fangs.
By way of explanation, Eragon said, “We ran into a headwind the day after we left Farthen Dur, and...” He fell silent as Glaedr lifted his giant head and swung it across the clearing until he was looking down upon Saphira, who made no attempt to acknowledge his presence. Then Glaedr breathed out upon her, fingers of flame burning within the pits of his nostrils. A sense of relief washed over Eragon as he felt energy pour into Saphira, stilling her tremors and strengthening her limbs.
The flames in Glaedr’s nostrils vanished with a wisp of smoke.
Silent gratitude emanated from Saphira. Dragging her limp tail across the grass, she crawled over to the tree Glaedr had indicated and then settled down and began to tear at the carcass of a deer.
“Come,” said Oromis, and gestured toward the table and chairs. On the table was a tray with bowls of fruit and nuts, half a round of cheese, a loaf of bread, a decanter of wine, and two crystal goblets. As Eragon sat, Oromis indicated the decanter and asked, “Would you care for a drink to wash the dust from your throat?”
“Yes, please,” said Eragon.
With an elegant motion, Oromis unstoppered the decanter and filled both goblets. He handed one to Eragon and then settled back into his chair, arranging his white tunic with long, smooth fingers.
Eragon sipped the wine. It was mellow and tasted of cherries and plums. “Master, I—”
An upraised finger from Oromis stopped him. “Unless it is unbearably urgent, I would wait until Saphira joins us before we discuss what has brought you here. Are you agreed?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Eragon nodded and concentrated upon eating, savoring the flavor of the fresh fruit. Oromis seemed content to sit beside him in silence, drinking his wine and gazing out over the edge of the Crags of Tel’naeir. Behind him, Glaedr watched over the proceedings like a living statue of gold.
The better part of an hour passed before Saphira rose from her meal, crawled over to the stream, and lapped the water for another ten minutes. Drops of water still clung to her jaws when she turned away from the stream and, with a sigh, sprawled next to Eragon, her eyes heavy-lidded. She yawned, her teeth flashing, then exchanged salutations with Oromis and Glaedr.
“More wine?” Oromis asked, and lifted the decanter an inch off the table. When Eragon shook his head, Oromis replaced the decanter, then pressed the tips of his fingers together, his round fingernails like polished opals. He said, “You do not need to tell me what has befallen you these past weeks, Eragon. Since Islanzadi left the forest, Arya has kept her informed of the news of the land, and every three days, Islanzadi sends a runner from our army back to Du Weldenvarden. Thus, I know of your duel with Murtagh and Thorn on the Burning Plains. I know of your trip to Helgrind and how you punished the butcher from your village. And I know you attended the dwarves’ clanmeet in Farthen Dur and the outcome thereof. Whatever you wish to say, then, you may say without fear of having to educate me about your recent doings.”
Eragon rolled a plump blueberry in the palm of his hand. “Do you know of Elva and what happened when I tried to free her of my curse?”
“Yes, even that. You may not have succeeded in removing the whole of the spell from her, but you paid your debt to the child, and that is what a Dragon Rider is supposed to do: fulfill his obligations, no matter how small or difficult they be.”
“She still feels the pain of those around her.”
“But now it is by her own choice,” said Oromis. “No longer does your magic force it upon her... You did not come here to seek my opinion concerning Elva. What is it that weighs upon your heart, Eragon? Ask what you will, and I promise I shall answer all of your questions to the best of my knowledge.”
“What,” said Eragon, “if I don’t know the right questions to ask?”
A twinkle appeared in Oromis’s gray eyes. “Ah, you begin to think like an elf. You must trust us as your mentors to teach you and Saphira those things of which you are ignorant. And you must also trust us to decide when it is appropriate to broach those subjects, for there are many elements of your training that should not be spoken of out of turn.”
Eragon placed the blueberry in the precise center of the tray, then in a quiet but firm voice said, “It seems as if there is much you have not spoken of.”
For a moment, the only sounds were the rustle of branches and the burble of the stream and the chatter of distant squirrels.
