Eldest
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Wyrdfell?Eragon dared ask Arya with his mind.
Another name for the Forsworn.
Rhunön turned on Eragon. “Now Zar’roc has returned to me. Of all my creations, this I least expected to hold again, save forhis. How came you to possess Morzan’s sword?”
“It was given to me by Brom.”
“Brom?” She hefted Zar’roc. “Brom . . . I remember Brom. He begged me to replace the sword he had lost. Truly, I wished to help him, but I had already taken my oath. My refusal angered him beyond reason. Oromis had to knock him unconscious before he would leave.”
Eragon seized on the information with interest. “Your handiwork has served me well, Rhunön-elda. I would be long dead were it not for Zar’roc. I killed the Shade Durza with it.”
“Did you now? Then some good has come of it.” Sheathing Zar’roc, Rhunön returned it to him, though not without reluctance, then looked past him to Saphira. “Ah. Well met, Skulblaka.”
Well met, Rhunön-elda.
Without bothering to ask permission, Rhunön went up to Saphira’s shoulder and tapped a scale with one of her blunt fingernails, twisting her head from side to side in an attempt to peer into the translucent pebble. “Good color. Not like those brown dragons, all muddy and dark. Properly speaking, a Rider’s sword should match the hue of his dragon, and this blue would have made a gorgeous blade. . . .” The thought seemed to drain the energy from her. She returned to the anvil and stared at the wrecked tongs, as if the will to replace them had deserted her.
Eragon felt that it would be wrong to end the conversation on such a depressing note, but he could not think of a tactful way to change the subject. The glimmering corselet caught his attention and, as he studied it, he was astonished to see that every ring was welded shut. Because the tiny links cooled so quickly, they usually had to be welded before being attached to the main piece of mail, which meant that the finest mail—such as Eragon’s hauberk—was composed of links that were alternately welded and riveted closed. Unless, it seemed, the smith possessed an elf’s speed and precision.
Eragon said, “I’ve never seen the equal of your mail, not even among the dwarves. How do you have the patience to weld every link? Why don’t you just use magic and save yourself the work?”
He hardly expected the burst of passion that animated Rhunön. She tossed her short-cropped hair and said, “And rob myself of all pleasure in this task? Aye, every other elf and I could use magic to satisfy our desires—and some do—but then what meaning is there in life? How would you fill your time? Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” he confessed.
“By pursuing that which you love the most. When you can have anything you want by uttering a few words, the goal matters not, only the journey to it. A lesson for you. You’ll face the same dilemma one day, if you live long enough. . . . Now begone! I am weary of this talk.” With that Rhunön plucked the lid off the forge, retrieved a new pair of tongs, and immersed a ring in the coals while she worked the bellows with single-minded intensity.
“Rhunön-elda,” said Arya, “remember, I will return for you on the eve of the Agaetí Blödhren.” A grunt was her only reply.
The rhythmic peal of steel on steel, as lonely as the cry of a death bird in the night, accompanied them back through the dogwood tunnel and onto the path. Behind them, Rhunön was no more than a black figure bowed over the sullen glow of her forge.
“She made all the Riders’ swords?” asked Eragon. “Every last one?”
“That and more. She’s the greatest smith who has ever lived. I thought that you should meet her, for her sake and yours.”
“Thank you.”
Is she always so brusque?asked Saphira.
Arya laughed. “Always. For her, nothing matters except her craft, and she’s famously impatient with anything—or anyone—that interferes with it. Her eccentricities are well tolerated, though, because of her incredible skill and accomplishments.”
While she spoke, Eragon tried to work out the meaning ofAgaetí Blödhren. He was fairly sure thatblödh stood forblood and, as a result, thatblödhren wasblood-oath, but he had never heard ofagaetí .
“Celebration,”explained Arya when he asked. “We hold the Blood-oath Celebration once every century to honor our pact with the dragons. Both of you are fortunate to be here now, for it is nigh upon us. . . .” Her slanted eyebrows met as she frowned. “Fate has indeed arranged a most auspicious coincidence.”
She surprised Eragon by leading them deeper into Du Weldenvarden, down paths tangled with nettles and currant bushes, until the lights around them vanished and they entered the restless wilderness. In the darkness, Eragon had to rely on Saphira’s keen night vision so as to not lose his way. The craggy trees increased in width, crowding closer and closer together and threatening to form an impenetrable barrier. Just when it appeared that they could go no farther, the forest ended and they entered a clearing washed with moonlight from the bright sickle low in the eastern sky.
A lone pine tree stood in the middle of the clearing. No taller than the rest of its brethren, it was thicker than a hundred regular trees combined; in comparison, they looked as puny as windblown saplings. A blanket of roots radiated from the tree’s massive trunk, covering the ground with bark-sheathed veins that made it seem as if the entire forest flowed out from the tree, as if it were the heart of Du Weldenvarden itself. The tree presided over the woods like a benevolent matriarch, protecting its inhabitants under the shelter of her branches.
Another name for the Forsworn.
Rhunön turned on Eragon. “Now Zar’roc has returned to me. Of all my creations, this I least expected to hold again, save forhis. How came you to possess Morzan’s sword?”
“It was given to me by Brom.”
“Brom?” She hefted Zar’roc. “Brom . . . I remember Brom. He begged me to replace the sword he had lost. Truly, I wished to help him, but I had already taken my oath. My refusal angered him beyond reason. Oromis had to knock him unconscious before he would leave.”
Eragon seized on the information with interest. “Your handiwork has served me well, Rhunön-elda. I would be long dead were it not for Zar’roc. I killed the Shade Durza with it.”
“Did you now? Then some good has come of it.” Sheathing Zar’roc, Rhunön returned it to him, though not without reluctance, then looked past him to Saphira. “Ah. Well met, Skulblaka.”
Well met, Rhunön-elda.
Without bothering to ask permission, Rhunön went up to Saphira’s shoulder and tapped a scale with one of her blunt fingernails, twisting her head from side to side in an attempt to peer into the translucent pebble. “Good color. Not like those brown dragons, all muddy and dark. Properly speaking, a Rider’s sword should match the hue of his dragon, and this blue would have made a gorgeous blade. . . .” The thought seemed to drain the energy from her. She returned to the anvil and stared at the wrecked tongs, as if the will to replace them had deserted her.
Eragon felt that it would be wrong to end the conversation on such a depressing note, but he could not think of a tactful way to change the subject. The glimmering corselet caught his attention and, as he studied it, he was astonished to see that every ring was welded shut. Because the tiny links cooled so quickly, they usually had to be welded before being attached to the main piece of mail, which meant that the finest mail—such as Eragon’s hauberk—was composed of links that were alternately welded and riveted closed. Unless, it seemed, the smith possessed an elf’s speed and precision.
Eragon said, “I’ve never seen the equal of your mail, not even among the dwarves. How do you have the patience to weld every link? Why don’t you just use magic and save yourself the work?”
He hardly expected the burst of passion that animated Rhunön. She tossed her short-cropped hair and said, “And rob myself of all pleasure in this task? Aye, every other elf and I could use magic to satisfy our desires—and some do—but then what meaning is there in life? How would you fill your time? Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” he confessed.
“By pursuing that which you love the most. When you can have anything you want by uttering a few words, the goal matters not, only the journey to it. A lesson for you. You’ll face the same dilemma one day, if you live long enough. . . . Now begone! I am weary of this talk.” With that Rhunön plucked the lid off the forge, retrieved a new pair of tongs, and immersed a ring in the coals while she worked the bellows with single-minded intensity.
“Rhunön-elda,” said Arya, “remember, I will return for you on the eve of the Agaetí Blödhren.” A grunt was her only reply.
The rhythmic peal of steel on steel, as lonely as the cry of a death bird in the night, accompanied them back through the dogwood tunnel and onto the path. Behind them, Rhunön was no more than a black figure bowed over the sullen glow of her forge.
“She made all the Riders’ swords?” asked Eragon. “Every last one?”
“That and more. She’s the greatest smith who has ever lived. I thought that you should meet her, for her sake and yours.”
“Thank you.”
Is she always so brusque?asked Saphira.
Arya laughed. “Always. For her, nothing matters except her craft, and she’s famously impatient with anything—or anyone—that interferes with it. Her eccentricities are well tolerated, though, because of her incredible skill and accomplishments.”
While she spoke, Eragon tried to work out the meaning ofAgaetí Blödhren. He was fairly sure thatblödh stood forblood and, as a result, thatblödhren wasblood-oath, but he had never heard ofagaetí .
“Celebration,”explained Arya when he asked. “We hold the Blood-oath Celebration once every century to honor our pact with the dragons. Both of you are fortunate to be here now, for it is nigh upon us. . . .” Her slanted eyebrows met as she frowned. “Fate has indeed arranged a most auspicious coincidence.”
She surprised Eragon by leading them deeper into Du Weldenvarden, down paths tangled with nettles and currant bushes, until the lights around them vanished and they entered the restless wilderness. In the darkness, Eragon had to rely on Saphira’s keen night vision so as to not lose his way. The craggy trees increased in width, crowding closer and closer together and threatening to form an impenetrable barrier. Just when it appeared that they could go no farther, the forest ended and they entered a clearing washed with moonlight from the bright sickle low in the eastern sky.
A lone pine tree stood in the middle of the clearing. No taller than the rest of its brethren, it was thicker than a hundred regular trees combined; in comparison, they looked as puny as windblown saplings. A blanket of roots radiated from the tree’s massive trunk, covering the ground with bark-sheathed veins that made it seem as if the entire forest flowed out from the tree, as if it were the heart of Du Weldenvarden itself. The tree presided over the woods like a benevolent matriarch, protecting its inhabitants under the shelter of her branches.
