Eldest
Page 75

Saphira, you have to taste this.She sniffed the goblet, then opened her mouth and allowed him to pour the rest of the faelnirv down her throat. Her eyes widened and her tail twitched.
Now that’s a treat! Is there more?
Before Eragon could reply, Orik stomped over to them. “Daughter to the queen,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I wish that I could tell Hrothgar and Nasuada. They’d want to know.”
Islanzadí seated herself in a high-backed chair and clapped her hands once again. From within the city came a quartet of elves bearing musical instruments. Two had harps of cherrywood, the third a set of reed pipes, and the fourth nothing but her voice, which she immediately put to use with a playful song that danced about their ears.
Eragon caught only every third word or so, but what he did understand made him grin. It was the story of a stag who could not drink at a pond because a magpie kept harassing him.
As Eragon listened, his gaze wandered and alighted upon a small girl prowling behind the queen. When he looked again, he saw that her shaggy hair was not silver, like many of the elves, but bleached white with age, and that her face was creased and lined like a dry, withered apple. She was no elf, nor dwarf, nor—Eragon felt—even human. She smiled at him, and he glimpsed rows of sharp teeth.
When the singer finished, and the pipes and lutes filled the silence, Eragon found himself approached by scores of elves who wished to meet him and—more importantly, he sensed—Saphira.
The elves presented themselves by bowing softly and touching their lips with their first and middle fingers, to which Eragon responded in kind, along with endless repetitions of their greeting in the ancient language. They plied Eragon with polite questions about his exploits, but they reserved the bulk of their conversation for Saphira.
At first Eragon was content to let Saphira talk, since this was the first place where anyone was interested in having a discussion just with her. But he soon grew annoyed at being ignored; he had become used to having people listen when he spoke. He grinned ruefully, dismayed that he had come to rely on people’s attention so much since he had joined the Varden, and forced himself to relax and enjoy the celebration.
Before long the scent of food permeated the glade and elves appeared carrying platters piled with delicacies. Aside from loaves of warm bread and stacks of small, round honeycakes, the dishes were made entirely of fruit, vegetables, and berries. The berries predominated; they were in everything from blueberry soup to raspberry sauce to thimbleberry jelly. A bowl of sliced apples dripped with syrup and sprinkled with wild strawberries sat beside a mushroom pie stuffed with spinach, thyme, and currants.
No meat was to be found, not even fish or fowl, which still puzzled Eragon. In Carvahall and elsewhere in the Empire, meat was a symbol of status and luxury. The more gold you had, the more often you could afford steak and veal. Even the minor nobility ate meat with every meal. To do otherwise would indicate a deficit in their coffers. And yet the elves did not subscribe to this philosophy, despite their obvious wealth and the ease with which they could hunt with magic.
The elves rushed to the table with an enthusiasm that surprised Eragon. Soon all were seated: Islanzadí at the head of the table with Blagden, the raven; Däthedr to her left; Arya and Eragon by her right hand; Orik across from them; and then all the rest of the elves, including Narí and Lifaen. No chair was at the far end of the table, only a huge carved plate for Saphira.
As the meal progressed, everything dissolved around Eragon into a blur of talk and mirth. He was so caught up in the festivities, he lost track of time, aware of only the laughter and the foreign words swirling over his head and the warm glow left in his stomach by the faelnirv. The elusive harp music sighed and whispered at the edges of his hearing and sent shivers of excitement down his side. Occasionally, he found himself distracted by the lazy slit-eyed stare of the woman-child, which she kept focused on him with single-minded intensity, even when eating.
During a lull in the conversation, Eragon turned toward Arya, who had uttered no more than a dozen words. He said nothing, only looked and wondered who she really was.
Arya stirred. “Not even Ajihad knew.”
“What?”
“Outside of Du Weldenvarden, I told no one of my identity. Brom was aware of it—he first met me here—but he kept it a secret at my request.”
Eragon wondered if she was explaining to him out of a sense of duty or because she felt guilty for deceiving him and Saphira. “Brom once said that what elvesdidn’t say was often more important that what they did.”
“He understood us well.”
“Why, though? Did it matter if anyone knew?”
This time Arya hesitated. “When I left Ellesméra, I had no desire to be reminded of my position. Nor did it seem relevant to my task with the Varden and dwarves. It had nothing to do with who I became . . . with who I am.” She glanced at the queen.
“You could have told Saphira and me.”
Arya seemed to bridle at the reproach in his voice. “I had no reason to suspect that my standing with Islanzadí had improved, and telling you that would have changed nothing. My thoughts are my own, Eragon.” He flushed at her implied meaning: Why shouldshe— who was a diplomat, a princess, an elf, and older than both his father and grandfather, whoever they were—confide in him, a sixteen-year-old human?
“At least,” he muttered, “you made up with your mother.”
She smiled oddly. “Did I have a choice?”