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that agreeable to you?”
“Yes, Master,” said Eragon, grateful for the question.
“I think it best if, from now on, you endeavor to speak only in the an-
cient language. We have little time at our disposal, and this is the fastest
way for you to learn.”
“Even when I talk to Saphira?”
“Even then.”
Adopting the elven tongue, Eragon vowed, “Then I will work cease-
lessly until I not only think, but dream, in your language.”
“If you achieve that,” said Oromis, replying in kind, “our venture may
yet succeed.” He paused. “Instead of flying directly here in the morning,
you will accompany the elf I send to guide you. He will take you to
where those of Ellesméra practice swordplay. Stay for an hour, then con-
tinue on as normal.”
“Won’t you teach me yourself?” asked Eragon, feeling slighted.
“I have naught to teach. You are as good a swordsman as ever I have
met. I know no more of fighting than you, and that which I possess and
you do not, I cannot give you. All that remains for you is to preserve your
current level of skill.”
“Why can’t I do that with you. . Master?”
“Because I do not appreciate beginning the day with alarum and con-
flict.” He looked at Eragon, then relented and added, “And because it will
be good for you to become acquainted with others who live here. I am
not representative of my race. But enough of that. Look, they approach.”
The two dragons glided across the flat disk of the sun. First came
Glaedr with a roar of wind, blotting out the sky with his massive bulk
before he settled on the grass and folded his golden wings, then Saphira,
as quick and agile as a sparrow beside an eagle.
As they had that morning, Oromis and Glaedr asked a number of ques-
tions to ensure that Eragon and Saphira had paid attention to each other’s
lessons. They had not always, but by cooperating and sharing information
between themselves, they were able to answer all of the questions. Their
336
only stumbling block was the foreign language they were required to
communicate in.
Better, rumbled Glaedr afterward. Much better. He bent his gaze toward
Eragon. You and I will have to train together soon.
“Of course, Skulblaka.”
The old dragon snorted and crawled alongside Oromis, half hopping
with his front leg to compensate for his missing limb. Darting forward,
Saphira nipped at the end of Glaedr’s tail, tossing it into the air with a
flip of her head, like she would to break the neck of a deer. She recoiled
as Glaedr twisted round and snapped at her neck, exposing his enormous
fangs.
Eragon winced and, too late, covered his ears to protect them from
Glaedr’s roar. The speed and intensity of Glaedr’s response suggested to
Eragon that this was not the first time Saphira had annoyed him through-
out the day. Instead of remorse, Eragon detected an excited playfulness in
her—like a child with a new toy—and a near-blind devotion to the other
dragon.
“Contain yourself, Saphira!” said Oromis. Saphira pranced backward
and settled on her haunches, though nothing in her demeanor expressed
contrition. Eragon muttered a feeble excuse, and Oromis waved a hand
and said, “Begone, both of you.”
Without arguing, Eragon scrambled onto Saphira. He had to urge her to
take flight, and once she did, she insisted on circling over the clearing
three times before he got her to angle toward Ellesméra.
What possessed you to bite him? he demanded. He thought he knew, but
he wanted her to confirm it.
I was only playing.
It was the truth, since they spoke in the ancient language, yet he sus-
pected that it was but a piece of a larger truth. Yes, and at what game?
She tensed underneath him. You forget your duty. By... He searched for
the right word. Unable to find it, he reverted to his native speech, By pro-
voking Glaedr, you distract him, Oromis, and me—and hinder what we
must accomplish. You’ve never been so thoughtless before.
Do not presume to be my conscience.
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He laughed then, heedless for a moment of where he sat among the
clouds, rolling to his side until he almost dropped from the peak of her
shoulders. Oh, rich irony that, after the times you’ve told me what to do. I
am your conscience, Saphira, as much as you are mine. You’ve had good
reason to chastise and warn me in the past, and now I must do the same for
you: stop pestering Glaedr with your attentions.
She remained silent.
Saphira?
I hear you.
I hope so.
After a minute of peaceful flying, she said, Two seizures in one day.
How are you now?
Sore and ill. He grimaced. Some of it’s from the Rimgar and sparring, but
mostly it’s the aftereffects of the pain. It’s like a poison, weakening my mus-
cles and clouding my mind. I just hope that I can remain sane long enough
to reach the end of this training. Afterward, though... I don’t know what I’ll
do. I certainly can’t fight for the Varden like this.
Don’t think about it, she counseled. You can do nothing about your con-
dition, and you’ll only make yourself feel worse. Live in the present, remem-
ber the past, and fear not the future, for it doesn’t exist and never shall.
There is only now.
He patted her shoulder and smiled with resigned gratitude. To their
right, a goshawk rode a warm air current while it patrolled the broken
forest for signs of furred or feathered quarry. Eragon watched it, ponder-
ing the question that Oromis had given him: How could he justify fight-
ing the Empire when it would cause so much grief and agony?
I have an answer, said Saphira.
What is it?
That Galbatorix has...She hesitated, then said, No, I won’t tell you. You
should figure this out for yourself.
Saphira! Be reasonable.
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I am. If you don’t know why what we do is the right thing, you might as
well surrender to Galbatorix for all the good you’ll do. No matter how elo-
quent his pleas, he could extract nothing more from her, for she blocked
him from that part of her mind.
Back in their eyrie, Eragon ate a light supper and was just about to
open one of Oromis’s scrolls when a knock on the screen door disturbed
his quiet.
“Enter,” he said, hoping that Arya had returned to see him.
She had.
Arya greeted Eragon and Saphira, then said, “I thought that you might
appreciate an opportunity to visit Tialdarí Hall and the adjacent gardens,
since you expressed interest in them yesterday. That is, if you aren’t too
tired.” She wore a flowing red kirtle trimmed and decorated with intri-
cate designs wrought in black thread. The color scheme echoed the
queen’s robes and emphasized the strong resemblance between mother
and daughter.
Eragon pushed aside the scrolls. “I’d be delighted to see them.”
He means we’d be delighted, added Saphira.
Arya looked surprised when both of them spoke in the ancient lan-
guage, so Eragon explained Oromis’s command. “An excellent idea,” said
Arya, joining them in the same language. “And it is more appropriate to
speak thus while you stay here.”
When all three of them had descended from the tree, Arya directed
them westward toward an unfamiliar quadrant of Ellesméra. They en-
countered many elves on the path, all of whom stopped to bow to
Saphira.
Eragon noticed once again that no elf children were to be seen. He
mentioned this to Arya, and she said, “Aye, we have few children. Only
two are in Ellesméra at the present, Dusan and Alanna. We treasure chil-
dren above all else because they are so rare. To have a child is the greatest
honor and responsibility that can be bestowed upon any living being.”
339
At last they arrived at a ribbed lancet arch—grown between two
trees—which served as the entrance for a wide compound. Still in the
ancient language, Arya chanted, “Root of tree, fruit of vine, let me pass by
this blood of mine.”
The two archway doors trembled, then swung outward, releasing five
monarch butterflies that fluttered toward the dusky sky. Through the
archway lay a vast flower garden arranged to look as pristine and natural
as a wild meadow. The one element that betrayed artifice was the sheer
variety of plants; many of the species were blooming out of season, or
came from hotter or colder climates and would never have flourished
without the elves’ magic. The scene was lit with the gemlike flameless
lanterns, augmented by constellations of swirling fireflies.
To Saphira, Arya said, “Mind your tail, that it does not sweep across the
beds.”
Advancing, they crossed the garden and pressed deep into a line of scat-
tered trees. Before Eragon quite knew where he was, the trees became
more numerous and then thickened into a wall. He found himself stand-
ing on the threshold of a burnished wood hall without ever being con-
scious of having gone inside.
The hall was warm and homey—a place of peace, reflection, and com-
fort. Its shape was determined by the tree trunks, which on the inside of
the hall had been stripped of their bark, polished, and rubbed with oil
until the wood gleamed like amber. Regular gaps between the trunks
acted as windows. The scent of crushed pine needles perfumed the air. A
number of elves occupied the hall, reading, writing, and, in one dark cor-
ner, playing a set of reed pipes. They all paused and inclined their heads
to acknowledge Saphira’s presence.
“Here you would stay,” said Arya, “were you not Rider and dragon.”
“It’s magnificent,” replied Eragon.
Arya guided him and Saphira everywhere in the compound that was
accessible to dragons. Each new room was a surprise; no two were alike,
and each chamber found different ways to incorporate the forest in its
construction. In one room, a silver brook trickled down the gnarled wall
and flowed across the floor on a vein of pebbles and back out under the
sky. In another, creepers blanketed the entire room, except for the floor,
in a leafy green pelt adorned with trumpet-shaped flowers with the most
delicate pink and white colors. Arya called it the Lianí Vine.
340
They saw many great works of art, from fairths and paintings to sculp-
tures and radiant mosaics of stained glass—all based on the curved shapes
of plants and animals.
Islanzadí met with them for a short time in an open pavilion joined to
two other buildings by covered pathways. She inquired about the pro-
gress of Eragon’s training and the state of his back, both of which he de-
scribed with brief, polite phrases. This seemed to satisfy the queen, who
exchanged a few words with Saphira and then departed.
In the end, they returned to the garden. Eragon walked beside Arya—
Saphira trailing behind—entranced by the sound of her voice as she told
him about the different varieties of flowers, where they originated, how
they were maintained, and, in many instances, how they had been altered
with magic. She also pointed out the flowers that only opened their pet-
als during the night, like a white datura.
“Which one is your favorite?” he asked.
Arya smiled and escorted him to a tree on the edge of the garden, by a
pond lined with rushes. Around the tree’s lowest branch coiled a morning
glory with three velvety black blossoms that were clenched shut.
Blowing on them, Arya whispered, “Open.”
The petals rustled as they unfurled, fanning their inky robes to expose
the hoard of nectar in their centers. A starburst of royal blue filled the
flowers’ throats, diffusing into the sable corolla like the vestiges of day
into night.
“Is it not the most perfect and lovely flower?” asked Arya.
Eragon gazed at her, exquisitely aware of how close they were, and said,
“Yes. . it is.” Before his courage deserted him, he added, “As are you.”
Eragon! exclaimed Saphira.
Arya fixed her eyes upon him, studying him until he was forced to look
away. When he dared face her again, he was mortified to see her wearing
a faint smile, as if amused by his reaction. “You are too kind,” she mur-
mured. Reaching up, she touched the rim of a blossom and glanced from
it to him. “Fäolin created this especially for me one summer solstice, long
ago.”
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He shuffled his feet and responded with a few unintelligible words,
hurt and offended that she did not take his compliment more seriously.
He wished he could turn invisible, and even considered trying to cast a
spell that would allow him to do just that.
In the end, he drew himself upright and said, “Please excuse us, Arya
Svit-kona, but it is late, and we must return to our tree.”
Her smile deepened. “Of course, Eragon. I understand.” She accompa-
nied them to the main archway, opened the doors for them, and said,
“Good night, Saphira. Good night, Eragon.”
Good night, replied Saphira.
Despite his embarrassment, Eragon could not help asking, “Will we see
you tomorrow?”
Arya tilted her head. “I think I shall be busy tomorrow.” Then the doors
closed, cutting off his view of her as she returned to the main compound.