Paolini, Christopher - [Inheritance 02] - Eldest Page 32

  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.

  “Behold the Menoa tree,” whispered Arya. “We observe the Agaetí Blödhren in her shade.”

  A cold tingle crawled down Eragon’s side as he recognized the name. After Angela told his fortune in Teirm, Solembum had come up to him and said, When the time comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls . Eragon could not imagine what kind of weapon might be buried under the tree, nor how he would go about finding it.

  Do you see anything?he asked Saphira.

  No, but then I doubt that Solembum’s words will make sense until our need is clear.

  Eragon told Arya about both parts of the werecat’s counsel, although—as he had with Ajihad and Islanzadí—he kept Angela’s prophecy a secret because of its personal nature, and because he feared that it might lead Arya to guess his attraction to her.

  When he finished, Arya said, “Werecats rarely offer help, and when they do, it’s not to be ignored. So far as I know, no weapon is hidden here, not even in song or legend. As for the Rock of Kuthian… the name echoes in my head like a voice from a half-forgotten dream, familiar yet strange. I’ve heard it before, though I cannot recall where.”

  As they approached the Menoa tree, Eragon’s attention was caught by the multitude of ants crawling over the roots. Faint black smudges were all he could see of the insects, but Oromis’s assignment had sensitized him to the currents of life around him, and he could feel the ants’ primitive consciousness with his mind. He lowered his defenses and allowed his awareness to flood outward, lightly touching Saphira and Arya and then expanding beyond them to see what else lived in the clearing.

  With unexpected suddenness, he encountered an immense entity, a sentient being of such a colossal nature, he could not grasp the limits of its psyche. Even Oromis’s vast intellect, which Eragon had been in contact with in Farthen Dûr, was dwarfed in comparison to this presence. The very air seemed to thrum with the energy and strength that emanated from…the tree?

  The source was unmistakable.

  Deliberate and inexorable, the tree’s thoughts moved at a measured pace as slow as the creep of ice over granite. It took no notice of Eragon nor, he was sure, of any single individual. It was entirely concerned with the affairs of things that grow and flourish in the bright sunlight, with the dogbane and the lily, the evening primrose and the silky foxglove and the yellow mustard tall beside the crabapple with its purple blossoms.

  “It’s awake!” exclaimed Eragon, shocked into speaking. “I mean… it’s intelligent.” He knew that Saphira felt it too; she cocked her head toward the Menoa tree, as if listening, then flew to one of its branches, which were as thick as the road from Carvahall to Therinsford. There she perched with her tail hanging free, waving the tip of it back and forth, ever so gracefully. It was such an odd sight, a dragon in a tree, that Eragon almost laughed.

  “Of course she’s awake,” said Arya. Her voice was low and mellow in the night air. “Shall I tell you the story of the Menoa tree?”

  “I’d like that.”

  A flash of white streaked across the sky, like a banished specter, and resolved itself beside Saphira in the form of Blagden. The raven’s narrow shoulders and crooked neck gave him the appearance of a miser basking in the radiance of a pile of gold. The raven lifted his pallid head and uttered his ominous cry, “Wyrda!”

  “This is what happened. Once there lived a woman, Linnëa, in the years of spice and wine before our war with the dragons and before we became as immortal as any beings still composed of vulnerable flesh can be. Linnëa had grown old without the comfort of a mate or children, nor did she feel the need to seek them out, preferring to occupy herself with the art of singing to plants, of which she was a master. That is, she did until a young man came to her door and beguiled her with words of love. His affections woke a part of Linnëa that she had never suspected existed, a craving to experience the things that she had unknowingly sacrificed. The offer of a second chance was too great an opportunity for her to ignore. She deserted her work and devoted herself to the young man and, for a time, they were happy.

  “But the young man was young, and he began to long for a mate closer to his own age. His eye fell upon a young woman, and he wooed and won her. And for a time, they too were happy.

  “When Linnëa discovered that she had been spurned, scorned, and abandoned, she went mad with grief. The young man had done the worst possible thing; he had given her a taste of the fullness of life, then torn it away with no more thought than a rooster flitting from one hen to the next. She found him with the woman and, in her fury, she stabbed him to death.

  “Linnëa knew that what she had done was evil. She also knew that even if she was exonerated of the murder, she could not return to her previous existence. Life had lost all joy for her. So she went to the oldest tree in Du Weldenvarden, pressed herself against it, and sang herself into the tree, abandoning all allegiance to her own race. For three days and three nights she sang, and when she finished, she had become one with her beloved plants. And through all the millennia since has she kept watch over the forest… Thus was the Menoa tree created.”

  At the conclusion of her tale, Arya and Eragon sat side by side on the crest of a huge root, twelve feet off the ground. Eragon bounced his heels against the tree and wondered if Arya had intended the story as a warning to him or if it was merely an innocent piece of history.

  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 yo
u 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 OF OPPOSITION

  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.

  The only identifying feature of the second man was his pale skin, which refused to darken under Surda’s relentless sun, even though the Varden had been in Aberon, the capital, for some weeks now. From his coloring, Nasuada guessed he had been born in the northern reaches of the Empire. He held a knit wool cap that he wrung into a hard rope between his hands.

  “You,” she said, pointing at him. “How many of your chickens did he kill again?”

  “Thirteen, Ma’am.”

  Nasuada returned her attention to the ugly man. “An unlucky number, by all accounts, Master Gamble. And so it has proved for you. You are guilty of both theft and destroying someone else’s property without offering proper recompense.”

  “I never denied it.”

  “I only wonder how you ate thirteen chickens in four days. Are youever full, Master Gamble?”

  He gave her a jocular grin and scratched the side of his face. The rasp of his untrimmed fingernails over his stubble annoyed her, and it was only with an effort of will that she kept from asking him to stop. “Well, not to be disrespectful, Ma’am, but filling my stomach wouldn’t be a problem if you fed us properly, what with all the work we do. I’m a large man, an‘ I need a bit o’ meat in my belly after half a day breaking rocks with a mattock. I did my best to resist temptation, I did. But three weeks of short rations and watching these farmers drive around fat livestock they wouldn’t share even if a body were starving… Well, I’ll admit, it broke me. I’m not a strong man when it comes to food. I like it hot and I like plenty of it. An‘ I don’t fancy I’m the only one willing to help himself.”

  And that’s the heart of the problem,reflected Nasuada. The Varden could not afford to feed its members, not even with Surda’s king, Orrin, helping. Orrin had opened his treasury to them, but he had refused to behave as Galbatorix was wont to do when moving his army across the Empire, which was to appropriate supplies from his countrymen without paying for them. A noble sentiment, but one that only makes my task harder. Still, she knew that acts like those were what separated her, Orrin, Hrothgar, and Islanzadí from Galbatorix’s despotism. It would be so easy to cross that divide without noticing it.

  “I understand your reasons, Master Gamble. However, although the Varden aren’t a country and we answer to no one’s authority but our own, that doesnot give you or anyone else leave to ignore the rule of law as laid down by my predecessors or as it’s observed here in Surda. Therefore, I order you to pay a copper for each chicken you stole.”

  Gamble surprised her by acceding without protest. “As you wish, Ma’am,” he said.

  “That’s it?” exclaimed the pale man. He wrung his cap even tighter. “That’s no fair price. If I sold them in any market, they’d—”

  She could not contain herself any longer. “Yes! You’d get more. But I happen to know that Master Gamble cannot afford to give you the chickens’ full price, as I’m the one who provides his salary! As I do yours. You forget that if I decided to acquire your poultry for the good of the Varden, you’d get no more than a copper a chicken and be lucky at that. Am I understood?”

  “He can’t—”

  “Am I understood?”

  After a moment, the pale man subsided and muttered, “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Very well. You’re both dismissed.” With an expression of sardonic admiration, Gamble touched his brow and bowed to Nasuada before backing out of the stone room with his sullen opponent. “You too,” she said to the guards on either side of the door.

  As soon as they were gone, she slumped in her chair with an exhausted sigh and reached for her fan, batting it over her face in a futile attempt to dissipate the pinpricks of sweat that accumulated on her forehead. The constant heat drained her strength and made even the smallest task arduous.

  She suspected she would feel tired even if it were winter. Familiar as she was with the innermost secrets of the Varden, it still had taken more work than she expected to transport the entire organization from Farthen Dûr, through the Beor Mountains, and deliver them to Surda and Aberon. She shuddered, remembering long, uncomfortable days spent in the saddle. Planning and executing their departure had been exceedingly difficult, as was integrating the Varden into their new surroundings while simultaneously preparing for an attack on the Empire. I don’t have enough time each day to solve all these problems, she lamented.

  Finally, she dropped the fan and rang the bellpull, summoning her handmaid, Farica. The banner hanging to the right of the cherrywood desk rippled as the door
hidden behind it opened. Farica slipped out to stand with downcast eyes by Nasuada’s elbow.

  “Are there any more?” asked Nasuada.

  “No, Ma’am.”

  She tried not to let her relief show. Once a week, she held an open court to resolve the Varden’s various disputes. Anyone who felt that they had been wronged could seek an audience with her and ask for her judgment. She could not imagine a more difficult and thankless chore. As her father had often said after negotiating with Hrothgar, “A good compromise leaves everyone angry.” And so it seemed.

  Returning her attention to the matter at hand, she told Farica, “I want that Gamble reassigned. Give him a job where his talent with words will be of some use. Quartermaster, perhaps, just so long as it’s a job where he’ll get full rations. I don’t want to see him before me for stealing again.”

  Farica nodded and went to the desk, where she recorded Nasuada’s instructions on a parchment scroll. That skill alone made her invaluable. Farica asked, “Where can I find him?”

  “One of the work gangs in the quarry.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Oh, while you were occupied, King Orrin asked that you join him in his laboratory.”

  “What has he done in there now, blind himself?” Nasuada washed her wrists and neck with lavender water, then checked her hair in the mirror of polished silver that Orrin had given her and tugged on her overgown until the sleeves were straight.

  Satisfied with her appearance, she swept out of her chambers with Farica in tow. The sun was so bright today that no torches were needed to illuminate the inside of Borromeo Castle, nor could their added warmth have been tolerated. Shafts of light fell through the crossletted arrow slits and glowed upon the inner wall of the corridor, striping the air with bars of golden dust at regular intervals. Nasuada looked out one embrasure toward the barbican, where thirty or so of Orrin’s orange-clad cavalry soldiers were setting forth on another of their ceaseless rounds of patrols in the countryside surrounding Aberon.