Eldest
Page 100
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His doubt hardened into certainty when she asked, “Do you think that the young man was to blame for the tragedy?”
“I think,” he said, knowing that a clumsy reply could turn her against him, “that what he did was cruel . . . and that Linnëa overreacted. They were both at fault.”
Arya stared at him until he was forced to avert his gaze. “They weren’t suited for each other.”
Eragon began to deny it but then stopped himself. She was right. And she had maneuvered him so that he had to say it out loud, so that he had to say it toher. “Perhaps,” he admitted.
Silence accumulated between them like sand piling into a wall that neither of them was willing to breach. The high-pitched hum of cicadas echoed from the edge of the clearing. At last he said, “Being home seems to agree with you.”
“It does.” With unconscious ease, she leaned over and picked up a thin branch that had fallen from the Menoa tree and began to weave the clumps of needles into a small basket.
Hot blood rushed to Eragon’s face as he watched her. He hoped that the moon was not bright enough to reveal that his cheeks had turned mottled red. “Where . . . where do you live? Do you and Islanzadí have a palace or castle . . . ?”
“We live in Tialdarí Hall, our family’s ancestral buildings, in the western part of Ellesméra. I would enjoy showing our home to you.”
“Ah.” A practical question suddenly intruded in Eragon’s muddled thoughts, driving away his embarrassment. “Arya, do you have any siblings?” She shook her head. “Then you are the sole heir to the elven throne?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?” She sounded bemused by his curiosity.
“I don’t understand why you were allowed to become an ambassador to the Varden and dwarves, as well as ferry Saphira’s egg from here to Tronjheim. It’s too dangerous an errand for a princess, much less the queen-in-waiting.”
“You mean it’s too dangerous for ahuman woman. I told you before that I am not one of your helpless females. What you fail to realize is that we view our monarchs differently than you or the dwarves. To us, a king or queen’s highest responsibility is to serve their people however and wherever possible. If that means forfeiting our lives in the process, we welcome the opportunity to prove our devotion to—as the dwarves say—hearth, hall, and honor. If I had died in the course of my duty, then a replacement successor would have been chosen from among our various Houses. Even now I would not be required to become queen if I found the prospect distasteful. We do not choose leaders who are unwilling to devote themselves wholeheartedly to their obligation.” She hesitated, then hugged her knees against her chest and propped her chin on them. “I had many years to perfect those arguments with my mother.” For a minute, thewheet-wheet of the cicadas went undisturbed in the clearing. Then she asked, “How go your studies with Oromis?”
Eragon grunted as his foul temper returned on a wave of unpleasant memories, souring his pleasure at being with Arya. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed, go to sleep, and forget the day. “Oromis-elda,” he said, working each word around his mouth before letting it escape, “is quite thorough.”
He winced as she gripped his upper arm with bruising strength. “What has gone amiss?”
He tried to shrug her hand off. “Nothing.”
“I’ve traveled with you long enough to know when you’re happy, angry . . . or in pain. Did something happen between you and Oromis? If so, you have to tell me so that it can be rectified as soon as possible. Or was it your back? We could—”
“It’s not my training!” Despite his pique, Eragon noticed that she seemed genuinely concerned, which pleased him. “Ask Saphira. She can tell you.”
“I want to hear it from you,” she said quietly.
The muscles in Eragon’s jaw spasmed as he clenched his teeth. In a low voice, no more than a whisper, he first described how he had failed at his meditation in the glade, then the incident that poisoned his heart like a viper coiled in his chest: his blessing.
Arya released his arm and clutched at the root of the Menoa tree, as if to steady herself. “Barzûl.” The dwarf curse alarmed him; he had never heard her use profanity before, and this one was particularly apt, for it meantill fate. “I knew of your act in Farthen Dûr, for sure, but I never thought . . . I neversuspected that such a thing could occur. I cry your pardon, Eragon, for forcing you to leave your rooms tonight. I did not comprehend your discomfort. You must want to be alone.”
“No,” he said. “No, I appreciate the company and the things you’ve shown me.” He smiled at her, and after a moment, she smiled back. Together they sat small and still at the base of the ancient tree and watched the moon arch high over the peaceful forest before it hid behind the gathering clouds. “I only wonder what will become of the child.”
High above their heads, Blagden ruffled his bone-white feathers and shrieked,“Wyrda!”
A MAZE OFOPPOSITION
Nasuada crossed her arms without bothering to conceal her impatience as she examined the two men before her.
The one on the right had a neck so thick, it forced his head to jut forward at nearly right angles to his shoulders, giving him a stubborn, dim-witted appearance. This was intensified by his heavy brow with its two cliffs of matted hair—almost long enough to pull over his eyes—and bulbous lips that remained puckered into a pink mushroom, even when he spoke. She knew better than to put stock in his repulsive looks, though. No matter its rough housing, his tongue was as clever as a jester’s.
“I think,” he said, knowing that a clumsy reply could turn her against him, “that what he did was cruel . . . and that Linnëa overreacted. They were both at fault.”
Arya stared at him until he was forced to avert his gaze. “They weren’t suited for each other.”
Eragon began to deny it but then stopped himself. She was right. And she had maneuvered him so that he had to say it out loud, so that he had to say it toher. “Perhaps,” he admitted.
Silence accumulated between them like sand piling into a wall that neither of them was willing to breach. The high-pitched hum of cicadas echoed from the edge of the clearing. At last he said, “Being home seems to agree with you.”
“It does.” With unconscious ease, she leaned over and picked up a thin branch that had fallen from the Menoa tree and began to weave the clumps of needles into a small basket.
Hot blood rushed to Eragon’s face as he watched her. He hoped that the moon was not bright enough to reveal that his cheeks had turned mottled red. “Where . . . where do you live? Do you and Islanzadí have a palace or castle . . . ?”
“We live in Tialdarí Hall, our family’s ancestral buildings, in the western part of Ellesméra. I would enjoy showing our home to you.”
“Ah.” A practical question suddenly intruded in Eragon’s muddled thoughts, driving away his embarrassment. “Arya, do you have any siblings?” She shook her head. “Then you are the sole heir to the elven throne?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?” She sounded bemused by his curiosity.
“I don’t understand why you were allowed to become an ambassador to the Varden and dwarves, as well as ferry Saphira’s egg from here to Tronjheim. It’s too dangerous an errand for a princess, much less the queen-in-waiting.”
“You mean it’s too dangerous for ahuman woman. I told you before that I am not one of your helpless females. What you fail to realize is that we view our monarchs differently than you or the dwarves. To us, a king or queen’s highest responsibility is to serve their people however and wherever possible. If that means forfeiting our lives in the process, we welcome the opportunity to prove our devotion to—as the dwarves say—hearth, hall, and honor. If I had died in the course of my duty, then a replacement successor would have been chosen from among our various Houses. Even now I would not be required to become queen if I found the prospect distasteful. We do not choose leaders who are unwilling to devote themselves wholeheartedly to their obligation.” She hesitated, then hugged her knees against her chest and propped her chin on them. “I had many years to perfect those arguments with my mother.” For a minute, thewheet-wheet of the cicadas went undisturbed in the clearing. Then she asked, “How go your studies with Oromis?”
Eragon grunted as his foul temper returned on a wave of unpleasant memories, souring his pleasure at being with Arya. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed, go to sleep, and forget the day. “Oromis-elda,” he said, working each word around his mouth before letting it escape, “is quite thorough.”
He winced as she gripped his upper arm with bruising strength. “What has gone amiss?”
He tried to shrug her hand off. “Nothing.”
“I’ve traveled with you long enough to know when you’re happy, angry . . . or in pain. Did something happen between you and Oromis? If so, you have to tell me so that it can be rectified as soon as possible. Or was it your back? We could—”
“It’s not my training!” Despite his pique, Eragon noticed that she seemed genuinely concerned, which pleased him. “Ask Saphira. She can tell you.”
“I want to hear it from you,” she said quietly.
The muscles in Eragon’s jaw spasmed as he clenched his teeth. In a low voice, no more than a whisper, he first described how he had failed at his meditation in the glade, then the incident that poisoned his heart like a viper coiled in his chest: his blessing.
Arya released his arm and clutched at the root of the Menoa tree, as if to steady herself. “Barzûl.” The dwarf curse alarmed him; he had never heard her use profanity before, and this one was particularly apt, for it meantill fate. “I knew of your act in Farthen Dûr, for sure, but I never thought . . . I neversuspected that such a thing could occur. I cry your pardon, Eragon, for forcing you to leave your rooms tonight. I did not comprehend your discomfort. You must want to be alone.”
“No,” he said. “No, I appreciate the company and the things you’ve shown me.” He smiled at her, and after a moment, she smiled back. Together they sat small and still at the base of the ancient tree and watched the moon arch high over the peaceful forest before it hid behind the gathering clouds. “I only wonder what will become of the child.”
High above their heads, Blagden ruffled his bone-white feathers and shrieked,“Wyrda!”
A MAZE OFOPPOSITION
Nasuada crossed her arms without bothering to conceal her impatience as she examined the two men before her.
The one on the right had a neck so thick, it forced his head to jut forward at nearly right angles to his shoulders, giving him a stubborn, dim-witted appearance. This was intensified by his heavy brow with its two cliffs of matted hair—almost long enough to pull over his eyes—and bulbous lips that remained puckered into a pink mushroom, even when he spoke. She knew better than to put stock in his repulsive looks, though. No matter its rough housing, his tongue was as clever as a jester’s.
