Celebration. Unless your creations require magic to make or to function,
I suggest that you avoid using gramarye. No one will respect your work if
it’s the product of a spell and not of your own hands. I also suggest you
each make a separate piece. That too is custom.”
In the air, Eragon asked Saphira, Do you have any ideas?
I might have one. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to see if it works before I
tell you. He caught part of an image from her of a bare knuckle of stone
protruding from the forest floor before she concealed it from him.
He grinned. Won’t you give me a hint?
Fire. Lots of fire.
Back in their tree house, Eragon cataloged his skills and thought, I know
more about farming than anything else, but I don’t see how I can turn that
to my advantage. Nor can I hope to compete with the elves with magic or
match their accomplishments with the crafts I am familiar with. Their tal-
ent exceeds that of the finest artisans in the Empire.
But you possess one quality that no one else does, said Saphira.
Oh?
Your identity. Your history, deeds, and situation. Use those to shape your
creation and you will produce something unique. Whatever you make, base
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it upon that which is most important to you. Only then will it have depth
and meaning, and only then will it resonate with others.
He looked at her with surprise. I never realized that you knew so much
about art.
I don’t, she said. You forget I spent an afternoon watching Oromis paint
his scrolls while you flew with Glaedr. Oromis discussed the topic quite a
bit.
Ah, yes. I had forgotten.
After Saphira left to pursue her project, Eragon paced along the edge of
the open portal in the bedroom, pondering what she had said. What’s im-
portant to me? he asked himself. Saphira and Arya, of course, and being a
good Rider, but what can I say about those subjects that isn’t blindingly ob-
vious? I appreciate beauty in nature, but, again, the elves have already ex-
pressed everything possible on that topic. Ellesméra itself is a monument to
their devotion. He turned his gaze inward and scrutinized himself to de-
termine what struck the deepest, darkest chords within him. What
stirred him with enough passion—of either love or hate—that he burned
to share it with others?
Three things presented themselves to him: his injury at the hands of
Durza, his fear of one day fighting Galbatorix, and the elves’ epics that so
engrossed him.
A rush of excitement flared within Eragon as a story combining those
elements took form in his mind. Light on his feet, he ran up the twisting
stairs—two at a time—to the study, where he sat before the writing
desk, dipped quill in ink, and held it trembling over a pale sheet of paper.
The nib rasped as he made the first stroke:
In the kingdom by the sea,
In the mountains mantled blue. .
The words flowed from his pen seemingly of their own accord. He felt
as if he were not inventing his tale, but merely acting as a conduit to
transport it fully formed into the world. Having never composed a work
of his own before, Eragon was gripped by the thrill of discovery that ac-
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companies new ventures—especially since, previously, he had not sus-
pected that he might enjoy being a bard.
He labored in a frenzy, not stopping for bread or drink, his tunic
sleeves rolled past his elbows to protect them from the ink flicked from
his quill by the wild force of his writing. So intense was his concentra-
tion, he heard nothing but the beat of his poem, saw nothing but the
empty paper, and thought of nothing but the phrases etched in lines of
fire behind his eyes.
An hour and a half later, he dropped the quill from his cramped hand,
pushed his chair away from the desk, and stood. Fourteen pages lay be-
fore him. It was the most he had ever written at one time. Eragon knew
that his poem could not match those of the elves’ and dwarves’ great au-
thors, but he hoped it was honest enough that the elves would not laugh
at his effort.
He recited the poem to Saphira when she returned. Afterward, she
said, Ah, Eragon, you have changed much since we left Palancar Valley.
You would not recognize the untested boy who first set out for vengeance, I
think. That Eragon could not have written a lay after the style of the elves. I
look forward to seeing who you become in the next fifty or a hundred years.
He smiled. If I live that long.
“Rough but true,” was what Oromis said when Eragon read him the
poem.
“Then you like it?”
“’Tis a good portrait of your mental state at the present and an engaging
read, but no masterpiece. Did you expect it to be?”
“I suppose not.”
“However, I am surprised that you can give voice to it in this tongue.
No barrier exists to writing fiction in the ancient language. The difficulty
arises when one attempts to speak it, for that would require you to tell
untruths, which the magic will not allow.”
“I can say it,” replied Eragon, “because I believe it’s true.”
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“And that gives your writing far more power. . I am impressed, Eragon-
finiarel. Your poem will be a worthy addition to the Blood-oath Celebra-
tion.” Raising a finger, Oromis reached within his robe and gave Eragon a
scroll tied shut with ribbon. “Inscribed on that paper are nine wards I
want you to place about yourself and the dwarf Orik. As you discovered
at Sílthrim, our festivities are potent and not for those with constitutions
weaker than ours. Unprotected, you risk losing yourself in the web of our
magic. I have seen it happen. Even with these precautions, you must take
care you are not swayed by fancies wafted on the breeze. Be on your
guard, for during this time, we elves are apt to go mad—wonderfully,
gloriously mad, but mad all the same.”
On the eve of the Agaetí Blödhren—which was to last three days—
Eragon, Saphira, and Orik accompanied Arya to the Menoa tree, where a
host of elves were assembled, their black and silver hair flickering in the
lamplight. Islanzadí stood upon a raised root at the base of the trunk, as
tall, pale, and fair as a birch tree. Blagden roosted on the queen’s left
shoulder, while Maud, the werecat, lurked behind her. Glaedr was there,
as well as Oromis garbed in red and black, and other elves Eragon recog-
nized, such as Lifaen and Narí and, to his distaste, Vanir. Overhead, the
stars glittered in the velvet sky.
“Wait here,” said Arya. She slipped through the crowd and returned
leading Rhunön. The smith blinked like an owl at her surroundings. Er-
agon greeted her, and she nodded to him and Saphira. “Well met, Bright
scales and Shadeslayer.” Then she spied Orik and addressed him in Dwar-
vish, to which Orik replied with enthusiasm, obviously delighted to con-
verse with someone in the rough speech of his native land.
“What did she say?” asked Eragon, bending down.
“She invited me to her home to view her work and discuss metal work-
ing.” Awe crossed Orik’s face. “Eragon, she first learned her craft from
Fûthark himself, one of the legendary grimstborithn of Dûrgrimst Ingei-
tum! What I would give to have met him.”
Together they waited until the stroke of midnight, when Islanzadí
raised her bare left arm so that it pointed toward the new moon like a
marble spear. A soft white orb gathered itself above her palm from the
light emitted by the lanterns that dotted the Menoa tree. Then Islanzadí
walked along the root to the massive trunk and placed the orb in a hol-
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low in the bark, where it remained, pulsing.
Eragon turned to Arya. “Is it begun?”
“It is begun!” She laughed. “And it will end when the werelight expends
itself.”
The elves divided themselves into informal camps throughout the for-
est and clearing that encircled the Menoa tree. Seemingly out of nowhere,
they produced tables laden high with fantastic dishes, which from their
unearthly appearance were as much the result of the spellweavers’
handiwork as the cooks’.
Then the elves began to sing in their clear, flutelike voices. They sang
many songs, yet each was but part of a larger melody that wove an en-
chantment over the dreamy night, heightening senses, removing inhibi-
tions, and burnishing the revels with fey magic. Their verses concerned
heroic deeds and quests by ship and horse to forgotten lands and the sor-
row of lost beauty. The throbbing music enveloped Eragon, and he felt a
wild abandon take hold of him, a desire to run free of his life and dance
through elven glades forever more. Beside him, Saphira hummed along
with the tune, her glazed eyes lidded halfway.
What transpired afterward, Eragon was never able to adequately recall.
It was as if he had a fever and faded in and out of consciousness. He
could remember certain incidents with vivid clarity—bright, pungent
flashes filled with merriment—but it was beyond him to reconstruct the
order in which they occurred. He lost track of whether it was day or
night, for no matter the time, dusk seemed to pervade the forest. Nor
could he ever say if he had slumbered, or needed sleep, during the cele-
bration. .
He remembered spinning in circles while holding the hands of an elf-
maid with cherry lips, the taste of honey on his tongue and the smell of
juniper in the air. .
He remembered elves perched on the outstretched branches of the
Menoa tree, like a flock of starlings. They strummed golden harps and
called riddles to Glaedr below and, now and then, pointed a finger at the
sky, whereupon a burst of colored embers would appear in various
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shapes before fading away. .
He remembered sitting in a dell, propped against Saphira, and watching
the same elf-maid sway before a rapt audience while she sang:
Away, away, you shall fly away,
O’er the peaks and vales
To the lands beyond.
Away, away, you shall fly away,
And never return to me.
Gone! Gone you shall be from me,
And I will never see you again.
Gone! Gone you shall be from me,
Though I wait for you evermore.
He remembered endless poems, some mournful, others joyful—most
both. He heard Arya’s poem in full and thought it fine indeed, and Islan-
zadí’s, which was longer but of equal merit. All the elves gathered to lis-
ten to those two works. .
He remembered the wonders the elves had made for the celebration,
many of which he would have deemed impossible beforehand, even with
the assistance of magic. Puzzles and toys, art and weapons, and items
whose function escaped him. One elf had charmed a glass ball so that
every few seconds a different flower bloomed within its heart. Another
elf had spent decades traveling Du Weldenvarden and memorizing the
sounds of the elements, the most beautiful of which he now played from
the throats of a hundred white lilies.
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Rhunön contributed a shield that would not break, a pair of gloves
woven from steel thread that allowed the wearer to handle molten lead
and other such items without harm, and a delicate sculpture of a wren in
flight chiseled from a solid block of metal and painted with such skill
that the bird seemed alive.
A tiered wood pyramid eight inches high and constructed of fifty-eight
interlocking pieces was Orik’s offering, much to the elves’ delight, who
insisted upon disassembling and reassembling the pyramid as often as he
would allow. “Master Longbeard,” they called him, and said, “Clever fin-
gers mean a clever mind.”. .
He remembered Oromis pulling him aside, away from the music, and
asking the elf, “What’s wrong?”
“You need to clear your mind.” Oromis guided him to a fallen log and
had him sit. “Stay here for a few minutes. You will feel better.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need to rest,” protested Eragon.
“You are in no position to judge yourself right now. Stay here until you
can list the spells of changing, great and minor, and then you may rejoin
us. Promise me this.”. .
He remembered creatures dark and strange, drifting in from the depths
of the forest. The majority were animals who had been altered by the ac-
cumulated spells in Du Weldenvarden and were now drawn to the
Agaetí Blödhren as a starving man is drawn to food. They seemed to find
nourishment in the presence of the elves’ magic. Most dared reveal them-
selves only as pairs of glowing eyes on the outskirts of the lantern light.
One animal that did expose itself was the she-wolf—in the form of a
white-robed woman—that Eragon had encountered before. She lurked
behind a dogwood bush, dagger teeth bared in an amused grin, her yellow
eyes darting from point to point.
But not all the creatures were animals. Some few were elves who had
altered their original forms for functionality or in pursuit of a different
ideal of beauty. An elf covered in brindled fur leaped over Eragon and
continued to gambol about, as often on all fours as on his feet. His head
was narrow and elongated with ears like a cat, his arms hung to his knees,