Eldest [en]

my fairth would put you in such a difficult situation. For that, I’m sorry, and I cry your pardon... I was just trying to make a fairth, not cause trouble. I understand the importance of my studies, Arya, and you needn’t fear I will neglect them in order to moon after you.” He swayed and leaned against the wall, too dizzy to remain on his feet without support. “That’s all.”

She regarded him for a long moment, then slowly reached out and took the bouquet, which she held beneath her nose. Her eyes never left his. “They are honest flowers,” she conceded. Her gaze flickered down to his feet and back up again. “Have you been ill?”

“No. My back.”

“I had heard, but I did not think...”

He pushed himself away from the wall. “I should go.”

“Wait.” Arya hesitated, then guided him to the bay window, where he sat on the padded bench that curved from the wall. Removing two goblets from a cupboard, Arya crumbled dried nettle leaves into them, then filled the goblets with water and — saying “Boil” — heated the water for tea.

She gave a goblet to Eragon, who held it with both hands so the warmth seeped into him. He glanced out the window to the ground twenty feet below, where elves walked among the royal gardens, talking and singing, and fireflies floated through the dusky air.

“I wish...,” said Eragon, “I wish it could always be like this. It’s so perfect and quiet.”

Arya stirred her tea. “How fares Saphira?”

“The same. And you?”

“I have been preparing to return to the Varden.”

Alarm shot through him. “When?”

“After the Blood-oath Celebration. I have tarried here far too long as it is, but I have been loath to leave and Islanzadi wished me to stay. Also... I have never attended a Blood-oath Celebration and it is the most important of our observances.” She considered him over the rim of her goblet. “Is there nothing Oromis can do for you?”

Eragon forced a weary shrug. “He tried everything he knows.”

They sipped their tea and watched the groups and couples meander along the garden paths. “Your studies go well, though?” she asked.

“They do.” In the lull that followed, Eragon picked up the scrap of paper from between the trees and examined her stanzas, as if reading them for the first time. “Do you often write poetry?”

Arya extended her hand for the paper and, when he gave it to her, rolled it into a tube so that the words were no longer visible. “It is custom that everyone who attends the Blood-oath Celebration should bring a poem, a song, or some other piece of art that they have made and share it with those assembled. I have but begun to work on mine.”

“I think it’s quite good.”

“If you had read much poetry—”

“I have.”

Arya paused, then dipped her head and said, “Forgive me. You are not the person I first met in Gil’ead.”

“No. I...” He stopped and twisted the goblet between his hands while he searched for the right words. “Arya... you’ll be leaving soon enough. I would count it a shame if this is the last I see of you between now and then. Could we not meet occasionally, as we did before, and you could show Saphira and me more of Ellesmera?”

“It would not be wise,” she said in a gentle but firm voice.

He looked up at her. “Must the price of my indiscretion be our friendship? I cannot help how I feel toward you, but I would rather suffer another wound from Durza than allow my foolishness to destroy the companionship that existed between us. I value it too highly.”

Lifting her goblet, Arya finished the last of her tea before responding. “Our friendship shall endure, Eragon. As for us spending time together...” Her lips curved with a hint of a smile. “Perhaps. However, we shall have to wait and see what the future brings, for I am busy and can promise nothing.”

He knew her words were the closest thing to a conciliation he was likely to receive, and he was grateful for them. “Of course, Arya Svit-kona,” he said, and bowed his head.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, but it was clear that Arya had gone as far as she was willing to go that day, so Eragon returned to Saphira, his hope restored by what he had accomplished. Now it’s up to fate to decide the outcome, he thought as he settled before Oromis’s latest scroll.

Reaching into the pouch at his belt, Eragon withdrew a soapstone container of nalgask — beeswax melted with hazelnut oil — and smeared it over his lips to protect them against the cold wind that scoured his face. He closed the pouch, then wrapped his arms around Saphira’s neck and buried his face in the crook of his elbow to reduce the glare from the wimpled clouds beneath them. The tireless beat of Saphira’s wings dominated his hearing, higher and faster than that of Glaedr’s, whom she followed.

They flew southwest from dawn until early afternoon, often pausing for enthusiastic sparring bouts between Saphira and Glaedr, during which Eragon had to strap his arms onto the saddle to prevent himself from being thrown off by the stomach-turning acrobatics. He then would free himself by pulling on slipknots with his teeth.

The trip ended at a cluster of four mountains that towered over the forest, the first mountains Eragon had seen in Du Weldenvarden. White-capped and windswept, they pierced the veil of clouds and bared their crevassed brows to the beating sun, which was heatless at such altitude.

They look so small compared to the Beors, said Saphira.

As had become his habit during weeks of meditation, Eragon extended his mind in every direction, touching upon the consciousnesses around him in search of any who might mean him harm. He felt a marmot warm in her burrow, ravens, nuthatches, and hawks, numerous squirrels running among the trees, and, farther down the mountain, rock snakes undulating through the brush in search of the mice that were their prey, as well as the hordes of ubiquitous insects.

When Glaedr descended to a bare ridge on the first mountain, Saphira had to wait until he folded his massive wings before there was enough room for her to land. The field of boulder-strewn talus they alighted upon was brilliant yellow from a coating of hard, crenulated lichen. Above them loomed a sheer black cliff. It acted as buttress and dam for a cornice of blue ice that groaned and split under the wind, loosing jagged slabs that shattered on the granite below.

This peak is known as Fionula, said Glaedr. And her brothers are Ethrundr, Merogoven, and Griminsmal. Each has its own tale, which I shall recount on the flight back. But for now, I shall address the purpose of this trip, namely the nature of the bond forged between dragons and elves and, later, humans. You both know something of it — and I have hinted at its full implications to Saphira — but the time has come to learn the solemn and profound meaning of your partnership so that you may uphold it when Oromis and I are no more.

“Master?” asked Eragon, wrapping his cloak around himself to stay warm.

Yes, Eragon.

“Why is Oromis not here with us?”

Because, rumbled Glaedr, it is my duty — as was always the duty of an elder dragon in centuries past — to ensure that the newest generation of Riders understands the true importance of the station they have assumed. And because Oromis is not as well as he appears.

The rocks cracked with muffled reports as Glaedr coiled up, nestling himself among the scree and placing his majestic head upon the ground lengthwise to Eragon and Saphira. He examined them with one gold eye as large as a polished roundshield and twice as brilliant. A gray smudge of smoke drifted from his nostrils and was blown to tatters by the wind. Parts of what I am about to reveal were common knowledge among the elves, Riders, and learned humans, but much of it was known only to the leader of the Riders, a mere handful of elves, the humans’ current potentate, and, of course, the dragons.

Listen now, my hatchlings. When peace was made between dragons and elves at the end of our war, the Riders were created to ensure that such conflict would never again arise between our two races. Queen Tarmunora of the elves and the dragon who had been selected to represent us, whose name — he paused and conveyed a series of impressions to Eragon: long tooth, white tooth, chipped tooth; fights won, fights lost; countless eaten Shrrg and Nagra; seven-and-twenty eggs sired and nineteen offspring grown to maturity —