Inheritance
Page 112
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“It is not that simple.”
Arya did not seem inclined to explain further, so Eragon said, “Would you like to go in?”
“I would,” she said.
Eragon pulled open the entrance to his tent, and Arya ducked inside. After a quick glance at Saphira—who lay curled up nearby, breathing heavily as she drifted off to sleep—Eragon followed.
He went to the lantern that hung from the pole in the center of the tent and murmured, “Istalrí,” not using brisingr, so as to avoid igniting his sword. The resulting flame filled the interior with a warm, steady light that made the sparsely furnished army tent seem almost cozy.
They sat, and Arya said, “I found this among Wyrden’s belongings, and I thought we might enjoy it together.” From the side pocket of her pants, she produced a carved wooden flask about the size of Eragon’s hand. She handed it to him.
Eragon unstoppered the flask and sniffed at the mouth. He raised his eyebrows as he smelled the strong, sweet scent of liqueur.
“Is it faelnirv?” he asked, naming the drink the elves made from elderberries and, Narí had claimed, moonbeams.
Arya laughed, and her voice rang like well-tempered steel. “It is, but Wyrden added something else to it.”
“Oh?”
“The leaves of a plant that grows in the eastern part of Du Weldenvarden, along the shores of Röna Lake.”
He frowned. “Do I know the name of this plant?”
“Probably, but it’s of no importance. Go on: drink. You’ll like it; I promise.”
And she laughed again, which gave him pause. He had never seen her like this before. She seemed fey and reckless, and with a jolt of surprise, he realized she was already rather tipsy.
Eragon hesitated, and he wondered if Glaedr was watching them. Then he lifted the flask to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of the faelnirv. The liqueur tasted different than he was accustomed to; it had a potent, musky flavor similar to the scent of a marten or a stoat.
Eragon grimaced and fought the urge to gag as the faelnirv burned a track down his throat. He took another, smaller sip and then passed the flask back to Arya, who drank as well.
The past day had been one of blood and horror. He had spent most of it fighting, killing, almost being killed himself, and he needed a release.… He needed to forget. The tension he felt was too deep-seated to ease with mental tricks alone. Something else was required. Something that came from outside of himself, even as the violence he had participated in had, for the most part, been external, not internal.
When Arya returned the flask to him, he downed a large quaff and then chuckled, unable to help himself.
Arya raised an eyebrow and regarded him with a thoughtful, if merry, expression. “What amuses you so?”
“This … Us … The fact that we’re still alive, and they”—he waved his hand in the direction of Dras-Leona—“aren’t. Life amuses me, life and death.” A warm glow had already begun to form in his belly, and the tips of his ears had started to tingle.
“It is nice to be alive,” said Arya.
They continued to pass the flask back and forth until it was empty, at which point Eragon fit the stopper back into the mouth of the container—a task that required several attempts, for his fingers felt thick and clumsy, and the cot seemed to tilt underneath him, like the deck of a ship at sea.
He gave the empty flask to Arya, and as she took it, he grasped her hand, her right hand, and turned it toward the light. The skin was once more smooth and unblemished. No sign of her injury remained. “Blödhgarm healed you?” said Eragon.
Arya nodded, and he released her. “Mostly. I have full use of my hand again.” She demonstrated by opening and closing it several times. “But there is still a patch of skin by the base of my thumb where I have no feeling.” She pointed with her left index finger.
Eragon reached out and lightly touched the area. “Here?”
“Here,” she said, and moved his hand a bit to the right.
“And Blödhgarm wasn’t able do anything about it?”
She shook her head. “He tried a half-dozen spells, but the nerves refuse to rejoin.” She made a dismissive motion. “It’s of no consequence. I can still wield a sword and I can still draw a bow. That is all that matters.”
Eragon hesitated, then said, “You know … how grateful I am for what you did—what you tried to do. I’m only sorry it left you with a permanent mark. If I could have prevented it somehow …”
“Do not feel bad because of it. It’s impossible to go through life unscathed. Nor should you want to. By the hurts we accumulate, we measure both our follies and our accomplishments.”
“Angela said something similar about enemies—that if you didn’t make them, you were a coward or worse.”
Arya nodded. “There is some truth to that.”
They continued to talk and laugh as the night wore on. Instead of weakening, the effects of the altered faelnirv continued to strengthen. A giddy haze settled over Eragon, and he noticed that the pockets of shadow in the tent looked as if they were swirling, and strange, flashing lights—like those he normally saw when he closed his eyes at night—floated across his field of vision. The tips of his ears were burning fever-hot, and the skin on his back itched and crawled, as if ants were marching over it. Also, certain sounds had acquired a peculiar intensity—the rhythmic chirping of the lakeside insects, for example, and the crackle of the torch outside his tent; they dominated his hearing to the point where he had difficulty singling out any other noise.
Arya did not seem inclined to explain further, so Eragon said, “Would you like to go in?”
“I would,” she said.
Eragon pulled open the entrance to his tent, and Arya ducked inside. After a quick glance at Saphira—who lay curled up nearby, breathing heavily as she drifted off to sleep—Eragon followed.
He went to the lantern that hung from the pole in the center of the tent and murmured, “Istalrí,” not using brisingr, so as to avoid igniting his sword. The resulting flame filled the interior with a warm, steady light that made the sparsely furnished army tent seem almost cozy.
They sat, and Arya said, “I found this among Wyrden’s belongings, and I thought we might enjoy it together.” From the side pocket of her pants, she produced a carved wooden flask about the size of Eragon’s hand. She handed it to him.
Eragon unstoppered the flask and sniffed at the mouth. He raised his eyebrows as he smelled the strong, sweet scent of liqueur.
“Is it faelnirv?” he asked, naming the drink the elves made from elderberries and, Narí had claimed, moonbeams.
Arya laughed, and her voice rang like well-tempered steel. “It is, but Wyrden added something else to it.”
“Oh?”
“The leaves of a plant that grows in the eastern part of Du Weldenvarden, along the shores of Röna Lake.”
He frowned. “Do I know the name of this plant?”
“Probably, but it’s of no importance. Go on: drink. You’ll like it; I promise.”
And she laughed again, which gave him pause. He had never seen her like this before. She seemed fey and reckless, and with a jolt of surprise, he realized she was already rather tipsy.
Eragon hesitated, and he wondered if Glaedr was watching them. Then he lifted the flask to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of the faelnirv. The liqueur tasted different than he was accustomed to; it had a potent, musky flavor similar to the scent of a marten or a stoat.
Eragon grimaced and fought the urge to gag as the faelnirv burned a track down his throat. He took another, smaller sip and then passed the flask back to Arya, who drank as well.
The past day had been one of blood and horror. He had spent most of it fighting, killing, almost being killed himself, and he needed a release.… He needed to forget. The tension he felt was too deep-seated to ease with mental tricks alone. Something else was required. Something that came from outside of himself, even as the violence he had participated in had, for the most part, been external, not internal.
When Arya returned the flask to him, he downed a large quaff and then chuckled, unable to help himself.
Arya raised an eyebrow and regarded him with a thoughtful, if merry, expression. “What amuses you so?”
“This … Us … The fact that we’re still alive, and they”—he waved his hand in the direction of Dras-Leona—“aren’t. Life amuses me, life and death.” A warm glow had already begun to form in his belly, and the tips of his ears had started to tingle.
“It is nice to be alive,” said Arya.
They continued to pass the flask back and forth until it was empty, at which point Eragon fit the stopper back into the mouth of the container—a task that required several attempts, for his fingers felt thick and clumsy, and the cot seemed to tilt underneath him, like the deck of a ship at sea.
He gave the empty flask to Arya, and as she took it, he grasped her hand, her right hand, and turned it toward the light. The skin was once more smooth and unblemished. No sign of her injury remained. “Blödhgarm healed you?” said Eragon.
Arya nodded, and he released her. “Mostly. I have full use of my hand again.” She demonstrated by opening and closing it several times. “But there is still a patch of skin by the base of my thumb where I have no feeling.” She pointed with her left index finger.
Eragon reached out and lightly touched the area. “Here?”
“Here,” she said, and moved his hand a bit to the right.
“And Blödhgarm wasn’t able do anything about it?”
She shook her head. “He tried a half-dozen spells, but the nerves refuse to rejoin.” She made a dismissive motion. “It’s of no consequence. I can still wield a sword and I can still draw a bow. That is all that matters.”
Eragon hesitated, then said, “You know … how grateful I am for what you did—what you tried to do. I’m only sorry it left you with a permanent mark. If I could have prevented it somehow …”
“Do not feel bad because of it. It’s impossible to go through life unscathed. Nor should you want to. By the hurts we accumulate, we measure both our follies and our accomplishments.”
“Angela said something similar about enemies—that if you didn’t make them, you were a coward or worse.”
Arya nodded. “There is some truth to that.”
They continued to talk and laugh as the night wore on. Instead of weakening, the effects of the altered faelnirv continued to strengthen. A giddy haze settled over Eragon, and he noticed that the pockets of shadow in the tent looked as if they were swirling, and strange, flashing lights—like those he normally saw when he closed his eyes at night—floated across his field of vision. The tips of his ears were burning fever-hot, and the skin on his back itched and crawled, as if ants were marching over it. Also, certain sounds had acquired a peculiar intensity—the rhythmic chirping of the lakeside insects, for example, and the crackle of the torch outside his tent; they dominated his hearing to the point where he had difficulty singling out any other noise.
