Christopher Paolini 32 страница

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 accompanies new ventures — especially since, previously, he had not suspected 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 concentration, 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 before 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 authors, 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. ThatEragon 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 towriting 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. ”

“And that gives your writing far more power. . I am impressed, Eragon-finiarel. Your poem will be a worthy addition to the Blood-oath Celebration. ” 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 S& #237; lthrim, 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 Agaet& #237; Bl& #246; dhren — 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. Islanzad& #237; 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 recognized, such as Lifaen and Nar& #237; 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 Rhun& #246; n. The smith blinked like an owl at her surroundings. Eragon greeted her, and she nodded to him and Saphira. “Well met, Brightscales and Shadeslayer. ” Then she spied Orik and addressed him in Dwarvish, to which Orik replied with enthusiasm, obviously delighted to converse 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 working. ” Awe crossed Orik’s face. “Eragon, she first learned her craft from F& #251; thark himself, one of the legendary grimstborithn of D& #251; rgrimst Ingeitum! What I would give to have met him. ”

Together they waited until the stroke of midnight, when Islanzad& #237; 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 Islanzad& #237; walked along the root to the massive trunk and placed the orb in a hollow 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 forest 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 enchantment over the dreamy night, heightening senses, removing inhibitions, and burnishing the revels with fey magic. Their verses concerned heroic deeds and quests by ship and horse to forgotten lands and the sorrow 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 celebration. .

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 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 Islanzad& #237; ’s, which was longer but of equal merit. All the elves gathered to listen 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.

Rhun& #246; n 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 fingers 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 accumulated spells in Du Weldenvarden and were now drawn to the Agaet& #237; Bl& #246; dhren as a starving man is drawn to food. They seemed to find nourishment in the presence of the elves’ magic. Most dared reveal themselves 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, and his long-fingered hands had rough pads on the palm.

Later, two identical elf women presented themselves to Saphira. They moved with languid grace and, when they touched their hands to their lips in the traditional greeting, Eragon saw that their fingers were joined by translucent webbing. “We have come far, ” they whispered. As they spoke, three rows of gills pulsed on each side of their slender necks, exposing pink flesh underneath. Their skin glistened as if with oil. Their lank hair hung past their narrow shoulders.

He met an elf armored in imbricated scales like a dragon, with a bony crest upon his head, a line of spikes that ran down his back, and two pallid flames that ever flickered in the pits of his flared nostrils.

And he met others who were not so recognizable: elves whose outlines wavered as if seen through water; elves who, when motionless, were indistinguishable from trees; tall elves with eyes of black, even where the whites should have been, who possessed an awful beauty that frightened Eragon and, when they chanced to touch something, passed through it like shadows.

The ultimate example of this phenomenon was the Menoa tree, which was once the elf Linn& #235; a. The tree seemed to quicken with life at the activity in the clearing. Its branches stirred, though no breeze touched them, at times the creaks of its trunk could be heard to match the flow of music, and an air of gentle benevolence emanated from the tree and lay upon those in the vicinity. .

And he remembered two attacks from his back, screaming and groaning in the shadows while the mad elves continued their revels around him and only Saphira came to guard over him. .

On the third day of the Agaet& #237; Bl& #246; dhren, or so Eragon later learned, he delivered his verses to the elves. He stood and said, “I am no smith, nor skilled at carving or weaving or pottery or painting or any of the arts. Nor can I rival your accomplishments with spells. Thus, all that remains to me are my own experiences, which I have attempted to interpret through the lens of a story, though I am also no bard. ” Then, in the manner that Brom had performed lays in Carvahall, Eragon chanted:

In the kingdom by the sea,

In the mountains mantled blue,

On frigid winter’s final day

Was born a man with but one task:

To kill the foe in Durza,

In the land of shadows.

Nurtured by the kind and wise

Under oaks as old as time,

He ran with deer and wrestled bears,

And from his elders learned the skills,

To kill the foe in Durza,

In the land of shadows.

Taught to spy the thief in black

When he grabs the weak and strong;

To block his blows and fight the fiend

With rag and rock and plant and bone;

And kill the foe in Durza,

In the land of shadows.

Quick as thought, the years did turn,

’Til the man had come of age,

His body burned with fevered rage,

While youth’s impatience seared his veins.

Then he met a maiden fair,

Who was tall and strong and wise,

Her brow adorned with G& #235; da’s Light,

Which shone upon her trailing gown.

In her eyes of midnight blue,

In those enigmatic pools,

Appeared to him a future bright,

Together, where they would not have

To fear the foe in Durza,

In the land of shadows.

So Eragon told of how the man voyaged to the land of Durza, where he found and fought the foe, despite the cold terror within his heart. Yet though at last he triumphed, the man withheld the fatal blow, for now that he had defeated his enemy, he did not fear the doom of mortals. He did not need to kill the foe in Durza. Then the man sheathed his sword and returned home and wed his love on summer’s eve. With her, he spent his many days content until his beard was long and white. But:

In the dark before the dawn,

In the room where slept the man,

The foe, he crept and loomed above

His mighty rival now so weak.

From his pillow did the man

Raise his head and gaze upon

The cold and empty face of Death,

The king of everlasting night.

Calm acceptance filled the man’s

Aged heart; for long ago,

He’d lost all fear of Death’s embrace,

The last embrace a man will know.

Gentle as a morning breeze,

Bent the foe and from the man

His glowing, pulsing spirit took,

And thence in peace they went to dwell,

Forevermore in Durza,

In the land of shadows.

Eragon fell quiet and, conscious of the eyes upon him, ducked his head and quickly found his seat. He felt embarrassed that he had revealed so much of himself.

The elf lord, D& #228; thedr, said, “You underestimate yourself, Shadeslayer. It seems that you have discovered a new talent. ”

Islanzad& #237; raised one pale hand. “Your work shall be added to the great library in Tialdar& #237; Hall, Eragon-finiarel, so that all who wish can appreciate it. Though your poem is allegory, I believe that it has helped many of us to better understand the hardships you have faced since Saphira’s egg appeared to you, for which we are, in no small way, responsible. You must read it to us again so we may think upon this further. ”

Pleased, Eragon bowed his head and did as she commanded. Afterward was time for Saphira to present her work to the elves. She flew off into the night and returned with a black stone thrice the size of a large man clutched in her talons. Landing on her hind legs, she placed the stone upright in the middle of the bare greensward, in full view of everyone. The glossy rock had been melted and somehow molded into intricate curves that wound about each other, like frozen waves. The striated tongues of rock twisted in such convoluted patterns that the eye had difficulty following a single piece from base to tip, but rather flitted from one coil to the next.

As it was his first time seeing the sculpture, Eragon gazed at it with as much interest as the elves. How did you make this?

Saphira’s eyes twinkled with amusement. By licking the molten rock. Then she bent and breathed fire long upon the stone, bathing it in a golden pillar that ascended toward the stars and clawed at them with lucent fingers. When Saphira closed her jaws, the paper-thin edges of the sculpture glowed cherry red, while small flames flickered in the dark hollows and recesses throughout the rock. The flowing strands of rock seemed to move under the hypnotic light.

The elves exclaimed with wonder, clapping their hands and dancing about the piece. An elf cried, “Well wrought, Brightscales! ”

It’s beautiful, said Eragon.

Saphira touched him on the arm with her nose. Thank you, little one.

Then Glaedr brought out his offering: a slab of red oak that he had carved with the point of one talon into a likeness of Ellesm& #233; ra as seen from high above. And Oromis revealed his contribution: the completed scroll that Eragon had often watched him illustrate during their lessons. Along the top half of the scroll marched columns of glyphs — a copy of “The Lay of Vestar& #237; the Mariner”—while along the bottom half ran a panorama of a fantastic landscape, rendered with breathtaking artistry, detail, and skill.

Arya took Eragon’s hand then and drew him through the forest and toward the Menoa tree, where she said, “Look how the werelight dims. We have but a few hours left to us before dawn arrives and we must return to the world of cold reason. ”

Around the tree, the host of elves gathered, their faces bright with eager anticipation. With great dignity, Islanzad& #237; emerged from within their midst and walked along a root as wide as a pathway until it angled upward and doubled back on itself. She stood upon the gnarled shelf overlooking the slender, waiting elves. “As is our custom, and as was agreed upon at the end of The Dragon War by Queen Tarmunora, the first Eragon, and the white dragon who represented his race — he whose name cannot be uttered in this or any language — when they bound the fates of elves and dragons together, we have met to honor our blood-oath with song and dance and the fruits of our labor. Last this celebration occurred, many long years ago, our situation was desperate indeed. It has improved somewhat since, the result of our efforts, the dwarves’, and the Varden’s, though Alaga& #235; sia still lies under the black shadow of the Wyrdfell and we must still live with our shame of how we have failed the dragons.

“Of the Riders of eld, only Oromis and Glaedr remain. Brom and many others entered the void this past century. However, new hope has been granted to us in the form of Eragon and Saphira, and it is only right and proper that they should be here now, as we reaffirm the oath between our races three. ”

At the queen’s signal, the elves cleared a wide expanse at the base of the Menoa tree. Around the perimeter, they staked a ring of lanterns mounted upon carved poles, while musicians with flutes, harps, and drums assembled along the ridge of one long root. Guided by Arya to the edge of the circle, Eragon found himself seated between her and Oromis, while Saphira and Glaedr crouched on either side of them like gem-studded bluffs.

To Eragon and Saphira, Oromis said, “Watch you carefully, for this is of great importance to your heritage as Riders. ”

When all the elves were settled, two elf-maids walked to the center of the space in the host and stood with their backs to each other. They were exceedingly beautiful and identical in every respect, except for their hair: one had tresses as black as a forgotten pool, while the other’s hair gleamed like burnished silver wire.

“The Caretakers, Iduna and N& #235; ya, ” whispered Oromis.

From Islanzad& #237; ’s shoulder, Blagden shrieked, “Wyrda! ”

Moving in unison, the two elves raised their hands to the brooches at their throats, unclasped them, and allowed their white robes to fall away. Though they wore no garments, the women were clad in an iridescent tattoo of a dragon. The tattoo began with the dragon’s tail wrapped around the left ankle of Iduna, continued up her leg and thigh, over her torso, and then across N& #235; ya’s back, ending with the dragon’s head on N& #235; ya’s chest. Every scale on the dragon was inked a different color; the vibrant hues gave the tattoo the appearance of a rainbow.

The elf-maids twined their hands and arms together so that the dragon appeared to be a continuous whole, rippling from one body to the next without interruption. Then they each lifted a bare foot and brought it down on the packed ground with a softthump.

And again: thump.

On the thirdthump, the musicians struck their drums in rhythm. Athump later, the harpists plucked the strings of their gilt instruments, and a moment after that, those elves with flutes joined the throbbing melody.

Slowly at first, but with gathering speed, Iduna and N& #235; ya began to dance, marking time with the stamp of their feet on the dirt and undulating so that it was not they who seemed to move but the dragon upon them. Round and round they went, and the dragon flew endless circles across their skin.

Then the twins added their voices to the music, building upon the pounding beat with their fierce cries, their lyrics verses of a spell so complex that its meaning escaped Eragon. Like the rising wind that precedes a storm, the elves accompanied the incantation, singing with one tongue and one mind and one intent. Eragon did not know the words but found himself mouthing them along with the elves, swept along by the inexorable cadence. He heard Saphira and Glaedr hum in concordance, a deep pulse so strong that it vibrated within his bones and made his skin tingle and the air shimmer.

Faster and faster spun Iduna and N& #235; ya until their feet were a dusty blur and their hair fanned about them and they glistened with a film of sweat. The elf-maids accelerated to an inhuman speed and the music climaxed in a frenzy of chanted phrases. Then a flare of light ran the length of the dragon tattoo, from head to tail, and the dragon stirred. At first Eragon thought his eyes had deceived him, until the creature blinked, raised his wings, and clenched his talons.

A burst of flame erupted from the dragon’s maw and he lunged forward and pulled himself free of the elves’ skin, climbing into the air, where he hovered, flapping his wings. The tip of his tail remained connected to the twins below, like a glowing umbilical cord. The giant beast strained toward the black moon and loosed an untamed roar of ages past, then turned and surveyed the assembled elves.

As the dragon’s baleful eye fell upon him, Eragon knew that the creature was no mere apparition but a conscious being bound and sustained by magic. Saphira and Glaedr’s humming grew ever louder until it blocked all other sound from Eragon’s ears. Above, the specter of their race looped down over the elves, brushing them with an insubstantial wing. It came to a stop before Eragon, engulfing him in an endless, whirling gaze. Bidden by some instinct, Eragon raised his right hand, his palm tingling.

In his mind echoed a voice of fire: Our gift so you may do what you must.

The dragon bent his neck and, with his snout, touched the heart of Eragon’s gedw& #235; y ignasia. A spark jumped between them, and Eragon went rigid as incandescent heat poured through his body, consuming his insides. His vision flashed red and black, and the scar on his back burned as if branded. Fleeing to safety, he fell deep within himself, where darkness grasped him and he had not the strength to resist it.

Last, he again heard the voice of fire say, Our gift to you.

IN ASTARRYGLADE

Eragon was alone when he woke.

He opened his eyes to stare at the carved ceiling in the tree house he and Saphira shared. Outside, night still reigned and the sounds of the elves’ revels drifted from the glittering city below.

Before he noticed more than that, Saphira leaped into his mind, radiating concern and anxiety. An image passed to him of her standing beside Islanzad& #237; at the Menoa tree, then she asked, How are you?

I feel. . good. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. How long have I—

Only an hour. I would have stayed with you, but they needed Oromis, Glaedr, and me to complete the ceremony. You should have seen the elves’ reaction when you fainted. Nothing like this has occurred before.

Did you cause this, Saphira?

It was not my work alone, nor Glaedr’s. The memories of our race, which were given form and substance by the elves’ magic, anointed you with what skill we dragons possess, for you are our best hope to avoid extinction.

I don’t understand.

Look in a mirror, she suggested. Then rest and recover and I shall rejoin you at dawn.

She left, and Eragon got to his feet and stretched, amazed by the sense of well-being that pervaded him. Going to the wash closet, he retrieved the mirror he used for shaving and brought it into the light of a nearby lantern.

Eragon froze with surprise.

It was as if the numerous physical changes that, over time, alter the appearance of a human Rider — and which Eragon had already begun to experience since bonding with Saphira — had been completed while he was unconscious. His face was now as smooth and angled as an elf’s, with ears tapered like theirs and eyes slanted like theirs, and his skin was as pale as alabaster and seemed to emit a faint glow, as if with the sheen of magic. I look like a princeling. Eragon had never before applied the term to a man, least of all himself, but the only word that described him now wasbeautiful. Yet he was not entirely an elf. His jaw was stronger, his brow thicker, his face broader. He was fairer than any human and more rugged than any elf.

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