Eldest [en]

Before long the scent of food permeated the glade and elves appeared carrying platters piled with delicacies. Aside from loaves of warm bread and stacks of small, round honeycakes, the dishes were made entirely of fruit, vegetables, and berries. The berries predominated; they were in everything from blueberry soup to raspberry sauce to thimbleberry jelly. A bowl of sliced apples dripped with syrup and sprinkled with wild strawberries sat beside a mushroom pie stuffed with spinach, thyme, and currants.

No meat was to be found, not even fish or fowl, which still puzzled Eragon. In Carvahall and elsewhere in the Empire, meat was a symbol of status and luxury. The more gold you had, the more often you could afford steak and veal. Even the minor nobility ate meat with every meal. To do otherwise would indicate a deficit in their coffers. And yet the elves did not subscribe to this philosophy, despite their obvious wealth and the ease with which they could hunt with magic.

The elves rushed to the table with an enthusiasm that surprised Eragon. Soon all were seated: Islanzadi at the head of the table with Blagden, the raven; Dathedr to her left; Arya and Eragon by her right hand; Orik across from them; and then all the rest of the elves, including Nari and Lifaen. No chair was at the far end of the table, only a huge carved plate for Saphira.

As the meal progressed, everything dissolved around Eragon into a blur of talk and mirth. He was so caught up in the festivities, he lost track of time, aware of only the laughter and the foreign words swirling over his head and the warm glow left in his stomach by the faelnirv. The elusive harp music sighed and whispered at the edges of his hearing and sent shivers of excitement down his side. Occasionally, he found himself distracted by the lazy slit- eyed stare of the woman-child, which she kept focused on him with single-minded intensity, even when eating.

During a lull in the conversation, Eragon turned toward Arya, who had uttered no more than a dozen words. He said nothing, only looked and wondered who she really was.

Arya stirred. “Not even Ajihad knew.”

“What?”

“Outside of Du Weldenvarden, I told no one of my identity. Brom was aware of it — he first met me here — but he kept it a secret at my request.”

Eragon wondered if she was explaining to him out of a sense of duty or because she felt guilty for deceiving him and Saphira. “Brom once said that what elves didn’t say was often more important that what they did.”

“He understood us well.”

“Why, though? Did it matter if anyone knew?”

This time Arya hesitated. “When I left Ellesmera, I had no desire to be reminded of my position. Nor did it seem relevant to my task with the Varden and dwarves. It had nothing to do with who I became... with who I am.” She glanced at the queen.

“You could have told Saphira and me.”

Arya seemed to bridle at the reproach in his voice. “I had no reason to suspect that my standing with Islanzadi had improved, and telling you that would have changed nothing. My thoughts are my own, Eragon.” He flushed at her implied meaning: Why should she — who was a diplomat, a princess, an elf, and older than both his father and grandfather, whoever they were — confide in him, a sixteen-year-old human?

“At least,” he muttered, “you made up with your mother.”

She smiled oddly. “Did I have a choice?”

At that moment, Blagden jumped from Islanzadi’s shoulder and strutted down the middle of the table, bobbing his head left and right in a mocking bow. He stopped before Saphira, uttered a hoarse cough, and then croaked:

Dragons, like wagons,
Have tongues.
Dragons, like flagons,
Have necks.
But while two hold beer,
The other eats deer!

The elves froze with mortified expressions while they waited for Saphira’s reaction. After a long silence, Saphira looked up from her quince pie and released a puff of smoke that enveloped Blagden. And little birds too, she said, projecting her thoughts so that everyone could hear. The elves finally laughed as Blagden staggered back, cawing indignantly and flapping his wings to clear the air.

“I must apologize for Blagden’s wretched verses,” said Islanzadi. “He has ever had a saucy tongue, despite our attempts to tame it.”

Apology accepted, said Saphira calmly, and returned to her pie.

“Where does he come from?” Eragon asked, eager to return to more cordial footing with Arya but also genuinely curious.

“Blagden,” said Arya, “once saved my father’s life. Evandar was fighting an Urgal when he stumbled and lost his sword. Before the Urgal could strike, a raven flew at him and pecked out his eyes. No one knows why the bird did it, but the distraction allowed Evandar to regain his balance and so win the battle. My father was always generous, so he thanked the raven by blessing him with spells for intelligence and long life. However, the magic had two effects that he did not foresee: Blagden lost all color in his feathers and he gained the ability to predict certain events.”

“He can see into the future?” asked Eragon, startled.

“See? No. But perhaps he can sense what is to come. In any case, he always speaks in riddles, most of which are a fair bit of nonsense. Just remember that if Blagden ever comes to you and tells you something that is not a joke or a pun, you would do well to heed his words.”

Once the meal had concluded, Islanzadi stood — causing a flurry of activity as everyone hastened to do likewise — and said, “It is late, I am tired, and I would return to my bower. Accompany me, Saphira and Eragon, and I will show you where you may sleep tonight.” The queen motioned with one hand to Arya, then left the table. Arya followed.

As Eragon stepped around the table with Saphira, he paused by the woman-child, caught by her feral eyes. All the elements of her appearance, from her eyes to her shaggy hair to her white fangs, triggered Eragon’s memory. “You’re a werecat, aren’t you?” She blinked once and then bared her teeth in a dangerous smile. “I met one of your kin, Solembum, in Teirm and in Farthen Dur.”

Her grin widened. “Aye. A good one he is. Humans bore me, but he finds it amusing to travel with the witch Angela.” Then her gaze switched to Saphira and she uttered a throaty half-growl, half-purr of appreciation.

What is your name? asked Saphira.

“Names be powerful things in the heart of Du Weldenvarden, dragon, yes they are. However... among the elves, I am known as The Watcher and as Quickpaw and as The Dream Dancer, but you may know me as Maud.” She tossed her mane of stiff white bangs. “You’d better catch up with the queen, younglings; she does not take lightly to fools or laggards.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Maud,” said Eragon. He bowed, and Saphira inclined her head. Eragon glanced at Orik, wondering where the dwarf would be taken, and then pursued Islanzadi.

They overtook the queen just as she reached the base of a tree. The trunk was ridged by a delicate staircase that spiraled up to a series of globular rooms cupped and suspended in the tree’s crown by a spray of branches.

Islanzadi lifted an elegant hand and pointed at the eyrie. “You needs must fly there, Saphira. Our stairs were not grown with dragons in mind.” Then she spoke to Eragon: “This is where the leader of the Dragon Riders would dwell while in Ellesmera. I give it to you now, for you are the rightful heir to that title... It is your inheritance.” Before Eragon could thank her, the queen swept past and departed with Arya, who held his gaze for a long moment before vanishing deeper into the city.