Eldest [en]

slumping against the wall to rest. When he came out on deck, he took a brief moment to appreciate the fresh air, then staggered aft to the helm, his legs threatening to cramp with every step.

“How goes it?” he gasped to Uthar, who manned the wheel.

Uthar shook his head.

Peering over the gunwale, Roran espied the three sloops perhaps a half mile away and slightly more to the west, closer to the center of the Eye. The sloops appeared motionless in relation to the Dragon Wing.

At first, as Roran watched, the positions of the four ships remained unchanged. Then he sensed a shift in the Dragon Wing’s speed, as if the ship had crossed some crucial point and the forces restraining her had diminished. It was a subtle difference and amounted to little more than a few additional feet per minute — but it was enough that the distance between the Dragon Wing and the sloops began to increase. With every stroke of the oars, the Dragon Wing gained momentum.

The sloops, however, could not overcome the whirlpool’s dreadful strength. Their oars gradually slowed until, one by one, the ships drifted backward and were drawn toward the veil of mist, beyond which waited the gyrating walls of ebony water and the gnashing rocks at the bottom of the ocean floor.

They can’t keep rowing, realized Roran. Their crews are too small and they’re too tired. He could not help but feel a pang of sympathy for the fate of the men on the sloops.

At that precise instant, an arrow sprang from the nearest sloop and burst into green flame as it raced toward the Dragon Wing. The dart must have been sustained by magic to have flown so far. It struck the mizzen sail and exploded into globules of liquid fire that stuck to whatever they touched. Within seconds, twenty small fires burned along the mizzenmast, the mizzen sail, and the deck below.

“We can’t put it out,” shouted one of the sailors with a panicked expression.

“Chop off whatever’s burning an’ throw it overboard!” roared Uthar in reply.

Unsheathing his belt knife, Roran set to work excising a dollop of green fire from the boards by his feet. Several tense minutes elapsed before the unnatural blazes were removed and it became clear that the conflagrations would not spread to the rest of the ship.

Once the cry of “All clear!” was sounded, Uthar relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. “If that was the best their magician can do, then I’d say we have nothing more to fear of him.”

“We’re going to get out of the Eye, aren’t we?” asked Roran, eager to confirm his hope.

Uthar squared his shoulders and flashed a quick grin, both proud and disbelieving. “Not quite this cycle, but we’ll be close. We won’t make real progress away from that gaping monster until the tide slacks off. Go tell Bonden to lower the tempo a bit; I don’t want them fainting at the oars if’n I can help it.”

And so it was. Roran took another shift rowing and, by the time he returned to the deck, the whirlpool was subsiding. The vortex’s ghastly howl faded into the usual noise of the wind; the water assumed a calm, flat quality that betrayed no hint of the habitual violence visited upon that location; and the contorted fog that had writhed above the abyss melted under the warm rays of the sun, leaving the air as clear as oiled glass. Of the Boar’s Eye itself — as Roran saw when he retrieved the spyglass from among the rowers — nothing remained but the selfsame disk of yellow foam rotating upon the water.

And in the center of the foam, he thought he could discern, just barely, three broken masts and a black sail floating round and round and round in an endless circle. But it might have been his imagination.

Leastways, that’s what he told himself.

Elain came up beside him, one hand resting on her swollen belly. In a small voice, she said, “We were lucky, Roran, more lucky than we had reason to expect.”

“Aye,” he agreed.

TO ABERON

Underneath Saphira, the pathless forest stretched wide to each white horizon, fading as it did from the deepest green to a hazy, washed-out purple. Martins, rooks, and other woodland birds flitted above the gnarled pines, uttering shrieks of alarm when they beheld Saphira. She flew low to the canopy in order to protect her two passengers from the arctic temperatures in the upper reaches of the sky.

Except for when Saphira fled the Ra’zac into the Spine, this was the first time she and Eragon had had the opportunity to fly together over a great stretch of distance without having to stop or hold back for companions on the ground. Saphira was especially pleased with the trip, and she delighted in showing Eragon how Glaedr’s tutelage had enhanced her strength and endurance.

After his initial discomfort abated, Orik said to Eragon, “I doubt I could ever be comfortable in the air, but I can understand why you and Saphira enjoy it so. Flying makes you feel free and unfettered, like a fierce-eyed hawk hunting his prey! It sets my heart a-pounding, it does.”

To reduce the tedium of the journey, Orik played a game of riddles with Saphira. Eragon excused himself from the contest as he had never been particularly adept at riddles; the twist of thought necessary to solve them always seemed to escape him. In this, Saphira far exceeded him. As most dragons are, she was fascinated by puzzles and found them quite easy to unravel.

Orik said, “The only riddles I know are in Dwarvish. I will do mine best to translate them, but the results may be rough and unwieldy.” Then he asked:

Tall I am young.
Short I am old.
While with life I do glow,
Urur’s breath is my foe.

Not fair, growled Saphira. I know little of your gods. Eragon had no need to repeat her words, for Orik had granted permission for her to project them directly into his mind.

Orik laughed. “Do you give up?”

Never. For a few minutes, the only sound was the sweep of her wings, until she asked, Is it a candle?

“Right you are.”

A puff of hot smoke floated back into Orik’s and Eragon’s faces as she snorted. I do poorly with such riddles. I’ve not been inside a house since the day I hatched, and I find enigmas difficult that deal with domestic subjects. Next she offered:

What herb cures all ailments?

This proved a terrible poser for Orik. He grumbled and groaned and gnashed his teeth in frustration. Behind him, Eragon could not help but grin, for he saw the answer plain in Saphira’s mind. Finally, Orik said, “Well, what is it? You have bested me with this.”

By the black raven’s crime, and by this rhyme,

the answer would be thyme.

Now it was Orik’s turn to cry, “Not fair! This is not mine native tongue. You cannot expect me to grasp such wordplay!”

Fair is fair. It was a proper riddle.

Eragon watched the muscles at the back of Orik’s neck bunch and knot as the dwarf jutted his head forward. “If that is your stance, O Irontooth, then I’d have you solve this riddle that every dwarf child knows.”

I am named Morgothal’s Forge and Helzvog’s Womb.