“Eragon! Clear your mind!” He struggled in a futile attempt to break
her grip. “Eyddr eyreya onr!” Empty your ears! Everything fell silent then,
as if he had gone deaf. He stopped fighting and looked around, wondering
what had just occurred. On the other side of the fire, Lifaen and Narí
wrestled noiselessly with Orik.
Eragon watched Arya’s mouth move as she spoke, then sound returned
to the world with a pop, though he could no longer hear the music.
“What. . ?” he asked, dazed.
“Gerr’off me,” growled Orik. Lifaen and Narí lifted their hands and
backed away.
“Your pardon, Orik-vodhr,” said Lifaen.
Arya gazed toward Sílthrim. “I miscounted the days; I didn’t want to be
anywhere near a city during Dagshelgr. Our saturnalias, our celebrations,
are perilous for mortals. We sing in the ancient language, and the lyrics
weave spells of passion and longing that are difficult to resist, even for
us.”
Narí stirred restlessly. “We should be at a grove.”
“We should,” agreed Arya, “but we will do our duty and wait.”
Shaken, Eragon sat closer to the fire, wishing for Saphira; he was sure
she could have protected his mind from the music’s influence. “What is
the point of Dagshelgr?” he asked.
Arya joined him on the ground, crossing her long legs. “It is to keep the
forest healthy and fertile. Every spring we sing for the trees, we sing for
the plants, and we sing for the animals. Without us, Du Weldenvarden
would be half its size.” As if to emphasize her point, birds, deer, squir-
rels—red and gray—striped badgers, foxes, rabbits, wolves, frogs, toads,
tortoises, and every other nearby animal forsook their hiding and began to
rush madly about with a cacophony of yelps and cries. “They are search-
ing for mates,” explained Arya. “All across Du Weldenvarden, in each of
our cities, elves are singing this song. The more who participate, the
stronger the spell, and the greater Du Weldenvarden will be this year.”
Eragon snatched back his hand as a trio of hedgehogs trundled past his
202
thigh. The entire forest yammered with noise. I’ve stepped into fairyland,
he thought, hugging himself.
Orik came around the fire and raised his voice above the clamor: “By
my beard and my ax, I’ll not be controlled against my will by magic. If it
happens again, Arya, I swear on Helzvog’s stone girdle that I’ll return to
Farthen Dûr and you will have the wrath of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum to deal
with.”
“It was not my intention for you to experience Dagshelgr,” said Arya. “I
apologize for my mistake. However, though I am shielding you from this
spell, you cannot escape magic in Du Weldenvarden; it permeates every-
thing.”
“So long as it doesn’t befoul my mind.” Orik shook his head and fin-
gered the haft of his ax while eyeing the shadowy beasts that lumbered in
the gloom beyond the pool of firelight.
No one slept that night. Eragon and Orik remained awake because of
the frightful din and the animals that kept crashing by their tents, the
elves because they still listened to the song. Lifaen and Narí took to pac-
ing in endless circles, while Arya stared toward Sílthrim with a hungry
expression, her tawny skin drawn thin and taut over her cheekbones.
Four hours into the riot of sound and motion, Saphira dove out of the
sky, her eyes sparkling with a queer aspect. She shivered and arched her
neck, panting between her open jaws. The forest, she said, is alive. And I
am alive. My blood burns like never before. It burns as yours burns when
you think of Arya. I... understand!
Eragon put his hand on her shoulder, feeling the tremors that racked
her frame; her sides vibrated as she hummed along with the music. She
gripped the ground with her ivory claws, her muscles coiled and clenched
in a supreme effort to remain motionless. The tip of her tail twitched like
she was about to pounce.
Arya stood and joined Eragon on the opposite side of Saphira. The elf
also put a hand on Saphira’s shoulder, and the three of them faced the
darkness, united into a living chain.
When dawn broke, the first thing Eragon noticed was that all the trees
203
now had buds of bright green needles at the ends of their branches. He
bent and examined the snowberries at his feet and found that every
plant, large or small, had acquired new growth during the night. The for-
est vibrated with the ripeness of its colors; everything was lush and fresh
and clean. The air smelled like it had just rained.
Saphira shook herself beside Eragon and said, The fever has passed; I am
myself again. Such things I felt... It was as if the world were being born
anew and I was helping to create it with the fire in my limbs.
How are you? On the inside, I mean.
I will need some time to understand what I experienced.
Since the music had ceased, Arya removed her spell from Eragon and
Orik. She said, “Lifaen. Narí. Go to Sílthrim and get horses for the five of
us. We cannot walk all the way from here to Ellesméra. Also, alert Cap-
tain Damítha that Ceris requires reinforcements.”
Narí bowed. “And what shall we say when she asks why we have de-
serted our post?”
“Tell her that that which she once hoped for—and feared—has oc-
curred; the wyrm has bitten its own tail. She will understand.”
The two elves departed for Sílthrim after the boats were emptied of
supplies. Three hours later, Eragon heard a stick snap and looked up to
see them returning through the forest on proud white stallions, leading
four other identical horses. The magnificent beasts moved among the
trees with uncanny stealth, their coats shimmering in the emerald twi-
light. None of them wore saddles or harnesses.
“Blöthr, blöthr,” murmured Lifaen, and his steed halted, pawing the
ground with its dark hooves.
“Are all your horses as noble as these?” asked Eragon. He cautiously ap-
proached one, amazed by its beauty. The animals were only a few inches
taller than ponies, which made it easy for them to navigate among the
closely placed trunks. They did not seem frightened by Saphira.
“Not all,” laughed Narí, tossing his silver hair, “but most. We have bred
them for many centuries.”
“How am I supposed to ride?”
204
Arya said, “An elf horse responds instantly to commands in the ancient
language; tell it where you wish to go and it will take you. However, do
not mistreat them with blows or harsh words, for they are not our slaves,
but our friends and partners. They bear you only so long as they consent
to; it is a great privilege to ride one. I was only able to save Saphira’s egg
from Durza because our horses sensed that something was amiss and
stopped us from riding into his ambush. . They won’t let you fall unless
you deliberately throw yourself off, and they are skilled in choosing the
safest, quickest path through treacherous ground. The dwarves’ Feldûnost
are like that.”
“Right you are,” grunted Orik. “A Feldûnost can run you up a cliff and
down without a single bruise. But how can we carry food and whatnot
without saddles? I won’t ride while wearing a full pack.”
Lifaen tossed a pile of leather bags at Orik’s feet and indicated the sixth
horse. “Nor will you have to.”
It took half an hour to arrange their supplies in the bags and heap them
into a lumpy mound on the horse’s back. Afterward, Narí told Eragon
and Orik the words they could use to direct the horses: “Gánga framto go
forward,blöthr to stop, hlaupa if needs you must run, and gánga aptr to
go back. You can give more precise instructions if you know more of the
ancient language.” He led Eragon to a horse and said, “This is Folkvír.
Hold out your hand.”
Eragon did, and the stallion snorted, flaring his nostrils. Folkvír sniffed
Eragon’s palm, then touched it with his muzzle and allowed Eragon to
stroke his thick neck. “Good,” said Narí, appearing satisfied. The elf had
Orik do the same with the next horse.
As Eragon mounted Folkvír, Saphira drew closer. He looked up at her,
noting how troubled she still seemed from the night. One more day, he
said.
Eragon...She paused. I thought of something while I was under the influ-
ence of the elves’ spell, something that I have always considered of little
consequence, but now looms within me like a mountain of black dread:
Every creature, no matter how pure or monstrous, has a mate of their own
kind. Yet I have none. She shuddered and closed her eyes. In this regard, I
am alone.
Her statements reminded Eragon that she was barely more than eight
205
months old. On most occasions, her youth did not show—due to the in-
fluence of her hereditary instincts and memories—but, in this arena, she
was even more inexperienced than he was with his feeble stabs at ro-
mance in Carvahall and Tronjheim. Pity welled inside Eragon, but he
suppressed it before it could seep across their mental link. Saphira would
have only contempt for the emotion: it could neither solve her problem
nor make her feel better. Instead, he said, Galbatorix still has two dragon
eggs. During our first audience with Hrothgar, you mentioned that you
would like to rescue them. If we can—
Saphira snorted bitterly. It could take years, and even if we did retrieve
the eggs, I have no guarantee that they would hatch, nor that they would be
male, nor that we would be fit mates. Fate has abandoned my race to ex-
tinction. She lashed her tail with frustration, breaking a sapling in two.
She seemed perilously close to tears.
What can I say? he asked, disturbed by her distress. You can’t give up
hope. You still have a chance to find a mate, but you have to be patient.
Even if Galbatorix’s eggs don’t work, dragons must exist elsewhere in the
world, just like humans, elves, and Urgals do. The moment we are free of
our obligations, I’ll help you search for them. All right?
All right, she sniffed. She craned back her head and released a puff of
white smoke that dispersed among the branches overhead. I should know
better than to let my emotions get the best of me.
Nonsense. You would have to be made of stone not to feel this way. It’s
perfectly normal.... But promise you won’t dwell on it while you’re alone.
She fixed one giant sapphire eye on him. I won’t. He turned warm in-
side as he felt her gratitude for his reassurances and companionship. Lean-
ing out from Folkvír, he put a hand on her rough cheek and held it there
for a moment. Go on, little one, she murmured. I will see you later.
Eragon hated to leave her in such a state. He reluctantly entered the
forest with Orik and the elves, heading west toward the heart of Du
Weldenvarden. After an hour spent pondering Saphira’s plight, he men-
tioned it to Arya.
Faint lines creased Arya’s forehead as she frowned. “It is one of Galba-
torix’s greatest crimes. I do not know if a solution exists, but we can
hope. We must hope.”
206
THE PINEWOOD CITY
Eragon had been in Du Weldenvarden for so long that he had begun to
long for clearings, fields, or even a mountain, instead of the endless tree
trunks and meager underbrush. His flights with Saphira provided no res-
pite as they only revealed hills of prickly green that rolled unbroken into
the distance like a verdant sea.
Oftentimes, the branches were so thick overhead, it was impossible to
tell from what direction the sun rose and set. That, combined with the
repetitive scenery, made Eragon hopelessly lost, no matter how many
times Arya or Lifaen troubled to show him the points of the compass. If
not for the elves, he knew that he could wander in Du Weldenvarden for
the rest of his life without ever finding his way free.
When it rained, the clouds and the forest canopy plunged them into
profound darkness, as if they were entombed deep underground. The fal-
ling water would collect on the black pine needles above, then trickle
through and pour a hundred feet or more down onto their heads, like a
thousand little waterfalls. At such times, Arya would summon a glowing
orb of green magic that floated over her right hand and provided the only
light in the cavernous forest. They would stop and huddle underneath a
tree until the storm abated, but even then water cached in the myriad
branches would, at the slightest provocation, shower them with droplets
for hours afterward.
As they rode deeper into the heart of Du Weldenvarden, the trees
grew thicker and taller, as well as farther apart to accommodate the in-
creased span of their branches. The trunks—bare brown shafts that tow-
ered up into the overarching ribbed ceiling, which was smudged and ob-
scured by shadow—were over two hundred feet tall, higher than any tree
in the Spine or the Beors. Eragon paced out the girth of one tree and
measured it at seventy feet.
He mentioned this to Arya, and she nodded, saying, “It means that we
are near Ellesméra.” She reached out and rested her hand lightly on the
gnarled root beside her, as if touching, with consummate delicacy, the