Eldest [en]

I veil Nordvig’s Daughter and bring gray death,

And make the world anew with Helzvog’s Blood.

What be I?

And so they went, exchanging riddles of increasing difficulty while Du Weldenvarden sped past below. Gaps in the thatched branches often revealed patches of silver, sections of the many rivers that threaded the forest. Around Saphira, the clouds billowed in a fantastic architecture: vaulting arches, domes, and columns; crenelated ramparts; towers the size of mountains; and ridges and valleys suffused with a glowing light that made Eragon feel as if they flew through a dream.

So fast was Saphira that, when dusk arrived, they had already left Du Weldenvarden behind and entered the auburn fields that separated the great forest from the Hadarac Desert. They made their camp among the grass and hunkered round their small fire, utterly alone upon the flat face of the earth. They were grim-faced and said little, for words only emphasized their insignificance in that bare and empty land.

Eragon took advantage of their stop to store some of his energy in the ruby that adorned Zar’roc’s pommel. The gem absorbed all the power he gave it, as well as Saphira’s when she lent her strength. It would, concluded Eragon, be a number of days before they could saturate both the ruby and the twelve diamonds concealed within the belt of Beloth the Wise.

Weary from the exercise, he wrapped himself in blankets, lay beside Saphira, and drifted into his waking sleep, where his night phantasms played out against the sea of stars above.

Soon after they resumed their journey the following morning, the rippling grass gave way to tan scrub, which grew ever more scarce until, in turn, it was replaced by sunbaked ground bare of all but the most hardy plants. Reddish gold dunes appeared. From his vantage on Saphira, they looked to Eragon like lines of waves forever sailing toward a distant shore.

As the sun began its descent, he noticed a cluster of mountains in the distant east and knew he beheld Du Fells Nangoroth, where the wild dragons had gone to mate, to raise their young, and eventually to die. We must visit there someday, said Saphira, following his gaze.

Aye.

That night, Eragon felt their solitude even more keenly than before, for they were camped in the emptiest region of the Hadarac Desert, where so little moisture existed in the air that his lips soon cracked, though he smeared them with nalgask every few minutes. He sensed little life in the ground, only a handful of miserable plants interspersed with a few insects and lizards.

As he had when they fled Gil’ead through the desert, Eragon drew water from the soil to replenish their waterskins, and before he allowed the water to drain away, he scryed Nasuada in the pool’s reflection to see if the Varden had been attacked yet. To his relief, they had not.

On the third day since leaving Ellesmera, the wind rose up behind them and wafted Saphira farther than she could have flown on her own, carrying them entirely out of the Hadarac Desert.

Near the edge of the waste, they passed over a number of horse-mounted nomads who were garbed in flowing robes to ward against the heat. The men shouted in their rough tongue and shook their swords and spears at Saphira, though none of them dared loose an arrow at her.

Eragon, Saphira, and Orik bivouacked for the night at the southernmost end of Silverwood Forest, which lay along Lake Tudosten and was named so because it was composed almost entirely of beeches, willows, and trembling poplars. In contrast to the endless twilight that lay beneath the brooding pines of Du Weldenvarden, Silverwood was filled with bright sunshine, larks, and the gentle rustling of green leaves. The trees seemed young and happy to Eragon, and he was glad to be there. And though all signs of the desert had vanished, the weather remained far warmer than he was accustomed to at that time of year. It felt more like summer than spring.

From there they flew straight to Aberon, the capital of Surda, guided by directions Eragon gleaned from the memories of birds they encountered. Saphira made no attempt to conceal herself along the way, and they often heard cries of amazement and alarm from the villages she swept over.

It was late afternoon when they arrived at Aberon, a low, walled city centered around a bluff in an otherwise flat landscape. Borromeo Castle occupied the top of the bluff. The rambling citadel was protected by three concentric layers of walls, numerous towers, and, Eragon noted, hundreds of ballistae made for shooting down a dragon. The rich amber light from the low sun cast Aberon’s buildings in sharp relief and illuminated a plume of dust rising from the city’s western gate, where a line of soldiers sought entrance.

As Saphira descended toward the inner ward of the castle, she brought Eragon into contact with the combined thoughts of the people in the capital. The noise overwhelmed him at first — how was he supposed to listen for foes and still function at the same time? — until he realized that, as usual, he was concentrating too much on specifics. All he had to do was sense people’s general intentions. He broadened his focus, and the individual voices clamoring for his attention subsided into a continuum of the emotions surrounding him. It was like a sheet of water that lay draped over the nearby landscape, undulating with the rise and fall of people’s feelings and spiking whenever someone was racked by extremes of passion.

Thus, Eragon was aware of the alarm that gripped the people below as word of Saphira spread. Careful, he told her. We don’t want them to attack us.

Dirt billowed into the air with each beat of Saphira’s powerful wings as she settled in the middle of the courtyard, sinking her claws into the bare ground to steady herself. The horses tethered in the yard neighed with fear, creating such an uproar that Eragon finally inserted himself in their minds and calmed them with words from the ancient language.

Eragon dismounted after Orik, eyeing the many soldiers that lined the parapets and the drawn ballistae they manned. He did not fear the weapons, but he had no desire to become engaged in a fight with his allies.

A group of twelve men, some soldiers, hurried out of the keep toward Saphira. They were led by a tall man with the same dark skin as Nasuada, only the third person Eragon had met with such a complexion. Halting ten paces away, the man bowed — as did his followers — then said, “Welcome, Rider. I am Dahwar, son of Kedar. I am King Orrin’s seneschal.”

Eragon inclined his head. “And I, Eragon Shadeslayer, son of none.”

“And I, Orik, Thrifk’s son.”

And I, Saphira, daughter of Vervada, said Saphira, using Eragon as her mouthpiece.

Dahwar bowed again. “I apologize that no one of higher rank than myself is present to greet guests as noble as you, but King Orrin, Lady Nasuada, and all the Varden have long since marched to confront Galbatorix’s army.” Eragon nodded. He had expected as much. “They left orders that if you came here seeking them, you should join them directly, for your prowess is needed if we are to prevail.”

“Can you show us on a map how to find them?” asked Eragon.

“Of course, sir. While I have that fetched, would you care to step out of the heat and partake of some refreshments?”

Eragon shook his head. “We have no time to waste. Besides, it is not I who needs to see the map but Saphira, and I doubt she would fit in your halls.”

That seemed to catch the seneschal off guard. He blinked and ran his eyes over Saphira, then said, “Quite right, sir. In either case, our hospitality is yours. If there is aught you and your companions desire, you have but to ask.”

For the first time, Eragon realized that he could issue commands and expect them to be followed. “We need a week’s worth of provisions. For me, only fruit, vegetables, flour, cheese, bread — things like that. We also need our waterskins refilled.” He was impressed that Dahwar did not question his avoidance of meat. Orik added his requests then for jerky, bacon, and other such products.

Snapping his fingers, Dahwar sent two servants running back into the keep to collect the supplies. While everyone in the ward waited for the men to return, he asked, “May I assume by your presence here, Shadeslayer, that you completed your training with the elves?”

“My training shall never end so long as I’m alive.”

“I see.” Then, after a moment, Dahwar said, “Please excuse my impertinence, sir, for I am ignorant of the ways of the Riders, but are you not human? I was told you were.”

“That he is,” growled Orik. “He was... changed. And you should be glad he was, or our predicament would be far worse than it is.” Dahwar was tactful enough not to pursue the subject, but from his thoughts Eragon concluded