Eldest [en]

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 project, 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. Ellesmera 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 Silthrim, 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 Agaeti Blodhren — 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. Islanzadi 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 Nari 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 Rhunon. 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 Futhark himself, one of the legendary grimstborithn of Durgrimst Ingeitum! What I would give to have met him.”

Together they waited until the stroke of midnight, when Islanzadi 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 Islanzadi 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