Eldest: Book Two (The Inheritance cycle 2)

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 respite 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 falling 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 increased span of their branches. The trunks—bare brown shafts that towered up into the overarching ribbed ceiling, which was smudged and obscured by shadow—were over three 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 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 Weldenvarden, and we have done everything within our power to help them flourish.” A faint blade of light pierced the dusty emerald branches overhead and limned her arm and face with liquid gold, dazzlingly bright against the murky background. “We have traveled far together, Eragon, 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 nostrils 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 enter the city unless he permits it.”

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 everything 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 appearance. 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 mysterious 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 buttresses, the house rose five levels, light and airy. Beside it sat a bower woven out of willow and dogwood and hung with flameless lanterns disguised 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 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 waterfall. They all possessed a delicate, ethereal beauty that belied their unbreakable strength; to Eragon, they seemed flawless. The men were just as striking, with high cheekbones, finely sculpted noses, and heavy eyelids. 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 outdoors 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. Eragon’s heart quickened as the door swung open, seemingly of its own accord, 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, gripping 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. Despite her imposing countenance, the queen seemed fragile, as if she concealed 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.

Islanzadí stood and descended from the throne, her cloak trailing behind her. She stopped before Arya, placed trembling hands on her shoulders, 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!”