shoulder of a friend or lover. “These trees are among the oldest living
creatures in Alagaësia. Elves have loved them since first we saw Du Wel-
denvarden, and we have done everything within our power to help them
flourish.” A faint blade of light pierced the dusty emerald branches over-
head and limned her arm and face with liquid gold, dazzlingly bright
against the murky background. “We have traveled far together, Eragon,
207
but now you are about to enter my world. Tread softly, for the earth and
air are heavy with memories and naught is as it seems. . Do not fly with
Saphira today, as we have already triggered certain wards that protect
Ellesméra. It would be unwise to stray from the path.”
Eragon bowed his head and retreated to Saphira, who lay curled on a
bed of moss, amusing herself by releasing plumes of smoke from her nos-
trils and watching them roil out of sight. Without preamble, she said,
There is plenty of room for me on the ground now. I will have no difficulty.
Good. He mounted Folkvír and followed Orik and the elves farther
into the empty, silent forest. Saphira crawled beside him. She and the
white horses gleamed in the somber half light.
Eragon paused, overcome by the solemn beauty of his surroundings.
Everything had a feeling of wintry age, as if nothing had changed under
the thatched needles for a thousand years and nothing ever would; time
itself seemed to have fallen into a slumber from which it would never
wake.
In late afternoon, the gloom lifted to reveal an elf standing before them,
sheathed in a brilliant ray of light that slanted down from the ceiling. He
was garbed in flowing robes, with a circlet of silver upon his brow. His
face was old, noble, and serene.
“Eragon,” murmured Arya. “Show him your palm and your ring.”
Baring his right hand, Eragon raised it so that first Brom’s ring and then
the gedwëy ignasia was visible. The elf smiled, closed his eyes, and spread
his arms in a gesture of welcome. He held the posture.
“The way is clear,” said Arya. At a soft command, her steed moved
forward. They rode around the elf—like water parting at the base of a
weathered boulder—and when they had all passed, he straightened,
clasped his hands, and vanished as the light that illuminated him ceased
to exist.
Who is he? asked Saphira.
Arya said, “He is Gilderien the Wise, Prince of House Miolandra,
wielder of the White Flame of Vándil, and guardian of Ellesméra since
the days of Du Fyrn Skulblaka, our war with the dragons. None may en-
ter the city unless he permits it.”
208
A quarter of a mile beyond, the forest thinned and breaks appeared
within the canopy, allowing planks of mottled sunlight to bar the way.
Then they passed underneath two burled trees that leaned against each
other and stopped at the edge of an empty glade.
The ground was strewn with dense patches of flowers. From pink roses
to bluebells and lilies, spring’s fleeting treasure was heaped about like
piles of rubies, sapphires, and opals. Their intoxicating aromas attracted
hordes of bumblebees. To the right, a stream chuckled behind a row of
bushes, while a pair of squirrels chased each other around a rock.
At first it looked to Eragon like a place where deer might bed for the
night. But as he continued to stare, he began to pick out paths hidden
among the brush and trees; soft warm light where normally there would
be auburn shadows; an odd pattern in the shapes of the twigs and
branches and flowers, so subtle that it nearly escaped detection—clues
that what he saw was not entirely natural. He blinked, and his vision
suddenly shifted as if a lens had been placed over his eyes, resolving eve-
rything into recognizable shapes. Those were paths, aye. And those were
flowers, aye. But what he had taken to be clusters of lumpy, twisted trees
were in fact graceful buildings that grew directly out of the pines.
One tree bulged at the base to form a two-story house before sinking
its roots into the loam. Both stories were hexagonal, although the upper
level was half as small as the first, which gave the house a tiered appear-
ance. The roofs and walls were made of webbed sheets of wood draped
over six thick ridges. Moss and yellow lichen bearded the eaves and hung
over jeweled windows set into each side. The front door was a mysteri-
ous black silhouette recessed under an archway wrought with symbols.
Another house was nestled between three pines, which were joined to
it through a series of curved branches. Reinforced by those flying but-
tresses, the house rose five levels, light and airy. Beside it sat a bower
woven out of willow and dogwood and hung with flameless lanterns dis-
guised as galls.
Each unique building enhanced and complemented its surroundings,
blending seamlessly with the rest of the forest until it was impossible to
tell where artifice ended and nature resumed. The two were in perfect
balance. Instead of mastering their environment, the elves had chosen to
accept the world as it was and adapt themselves to it.
The inhabitants of Ellesméra eventually revealed themselves as a flicker
of movement at the fringe of Eragon’s sight, no more than needles stirring
209
in the breeze. Then he caught glimpses of hands, a pale face, a sandaled
foot, an upraised arm. One by one, the wary elves stepped into view,
their almond eyes fixed upon Saphira, Arya, and Eragon.
The women wore their hair unbound. It rippled down their backs in
waves of silver and sable braided with fresh blossoms, like a garden wa-
terfall. They all possessed a delicate, ethereal beauty that belied their un-
breakable strength; to Eragon, they seemed flawless. The men were just
as striking, with high cheekbones, finely sculpted noses, and heavy eye-
lids. Both sexes were garbed in rustic tunics of green and brown, fringed
with dusky colors of orange, russet, and gold.
The Fair Folk indeed, thought Eragon. He touched his lips in greeting.
As one, the elves bowed from the waist. Then they smiled and laughed
with unrestrained happiness. From within their midst, a woman sang:
Gala O Wyrda brunhvitr,
Abr Berundal vandr-fódhr,
Burthro laufsblädar ekar undir,
Eom kona dauthleikr. .
Eragon clapped his hands over his ears, fearing that the melody was a
spell like the one he had heard at Sílthrim, but Arya shook her head and
lifted his hands. “It is not magic.” Then she spoke to her horse, saying,
“Gánga.” The stallion nickered and trotted away. “Release your steeds as
well. We have no further need of them and they deserve to rest in our
stables.”
The song waxed stronger as Arya proceeded along a cobblestone path
set with bits of green tourmaline, which looped among the hollyhocks
and the houses and the trees before finally crossing a stream. The elves
danced around their party as they walked, flitting here and there as the
fancy struck them, laughing, and occasionally leaping up onto a branch to
run over their heads. They praised Saphira with names like “Longclaws”
and “Daughter of Air and Fire” and “Strong One.”
Eragon smiled, delighted and enchanted. I could live here, he thought
with a sense of peace. Tucked away in Du Weldenvarden, as much out-
210
doors as in, safe from the rest of the world. . Yes, he liked Ellesméra very
much indeed, more than any of the dwarf cities. He pointed to a dwelling
situated within a pine tree and asked Arya, “How is that done?
“We sing to the forest in the old tongue and give it our strength to
grow in the shape that we desire. All our buildings and tools are made in
that manner.”
The path ended at a net of roots that formed steps, like bare pools of
earth. They climbed to a door embedded within a wall of saplings. Er-
agon’s heart quickened as the door swung open, seemingly of its own ac-
cord, and revealed a hall of trees. Hundreds of branches melded together
to form the honeycombed ceiling. Below, twelve chairs were arrayed
along each wall.
In them reposed four-and-twenty elf lords and ladies.
Wise and handsome were they, with smooth faces unmarked by age
and keen eyes that gleamed with excitement. They leaned forward, grip-
ping the arms of their chairs, and stared at Eragon’s group with open
wonder and hope. Unlike the other elves, they had swords belted at their
waists—hilts studded with beryls and garnets—and circlets that adorned
their brows.
And at the head of the assembly stood a white pavilion that sheltered a
throne of knotted roots. Queen Islanzadí sat upon it. She was as beautiful
as an autumn sunset, proud and imperious, with two dark eyebrows
slanted like upraised wings, lips as bright and red as holly berries, and
midnight hair bound under a diamond diadem. Her tunic was crimson.
Round her hips hung a girdle of braided gold. And clasped at the hollow
of her neck was a velvet cloak that fell to the ground in languid folds. De-
spite her imposing countenance, the queen seemed fragile, as if she con-
cealed a great pain.
By her left hand was a curved rod with a chased crosspiece. A brilliant-
white raven perched on it, shuffling impatiently from foot to foot. He
cocked his head and surveyed Eragon with uncanny intelligence, then
gave a long, low croak and shrieked, “Wyrda!” Eragon shivered from the
force of that single cracked word.
The door closed behind the six of them as they entered the hall and
approached the queen. Arya knelt on the moss-covered ground and
bowed first, then Eragon, Orik, Lifaen, and Narí. Even Saphira, who had
never bowed to anyone, not even Ajihad or Hrothgar, lowered her head.
211
Islanzadí stood and descended from the throne, her cloak trailing be-
hind her. She stopped before Arya, placed trembling hands on her shoul-
ders, and said in a rich vibrato, “Rise.” Arya did, and the queen scrutinized
her face with increasing intensity, until it seemed as if she were trying to
decipher an obscure text.
At last Islanzadí cried out and embraced Arya, saying, “O my daughter,
I have wronged you!”
212
QUEEN ISLANZADÍ
Eragon knelt before the queen of the elves and her councilors in a fan-
tastic room made from the boles of living trees in a near-mythic land, and
the only thing that filled his mind was shock. Arya is a princess! It was
fitting in a way—she had always possessed an air of command—but he
bitterly regretted the fact, for it placed another barrier between them
when he would have torn them all away. The knowledge filled his mouth
with the taste of ashes. He remembered Angela’s prophecy that he would
love one of noble birth. . and her warning that she could not see if it
would end for good or for ill.
He could feel Saphira’s own surprise, then her amusement. She said, It
appears that we have been traveling in the presence of royalty without know-
ing it.
Why didn’t she tell us?
Perhaps it would have placed her in greater danger.
“Islanzadí Dröttning,” said Arya formally.
The queen withdrew as if she had been stung and then repeated in the
ancient language, “O my daughter, I have wronged you.” She covered her
face. “Ever since you disappeared, I’ve barely slept or eaten. I was haunted
by your fate, and feared that I would never see you again. Banning you
from my presence was the greatest mistake I have ever made. . Can you
forgive me?”
The gathered elves stirred with amazement.
Arya’s response was long in coming, but at last she said, “For seventy
years, I have lived and loved, fought and killed without ever speaking to
you, my mother. Our lives are long, but even so, that is no small span.”
Islanzadí drew herself upright, lifting her chin. A tremor ran her length.
“I cannot undo the past, Arya, no matter how much I might desire to.”
“And I cannot forget what I endured.”
“Nor should you.” Islanzadí clasped her daughter’s hands. “Arya, I love
you. You are my only family. Go if you must, but unless you wish to re-
nounce me, I would be reconciled with you.”
213
For a terrible moment, it seemed as if Arya would not answer, or
worse, would reject the offer. Eragon saw her hesitate and quickly look at
her audience. Then she lowered her eyes and said, “No, Mother. I could
not leave.” Islanzadí smiled uncertainly and embraced her daughter again.
This time Arya returned the gesture, and smiles broke out among the as-
sembled elves.
The white raven hopped on his stand, cackling, “And on the door was
graven evermore, what now became the family lore, Let us never do but to
adore! ”
“Hush, Blagden,” said Islanzadí to the raven. “Keep your doggerel to
yourself.” Breaking free, the queen turned to Eragon and Saphira. “You
must excuse me for being discourteous and ignoring you, our most im-
portant guests.”
Eragon touched his lips and then twisted his right hand over his ster-
num, as Arya had taught him. “Islanzadí Dröttning. Atra esterní ono
thelduin.” He had no doubt that he was supposed to speak first.