His aimless path led him past the Menoa tree, where he paused to watch Saphira among the festivities, though he did not reveal himself to those in the glade.
Where go you, little one? she asked.
He saw Arya rise from her mother’s side, make her way through the gathered elves, and then, like a forest sprite, glide underneath the trees beyond. I walk between the candle and the dark, he replied, and followed Arya.
Eragon tracked Arya by her delicate scent of crushed pine needles, by the feathery touch of her foot upon the ground, and by the disturbance of her wake in the air. He found her standing alone on the edge of a clearing, poised like a wild creature as she watched the constellations turn in the sky above.
As Eragon emerged in the open, Arya looked at him, and he felt as if she saw him for the first time. Her eyes widened, and she whispered, “Is that you, Eragon?”
“Aye.”
“What have they done to you?”
“I know not.”
He went to her, and together they wandered the dense woods, which echoed with fragments of music and voices from the festivities. Changed as he was, Eragon was acutely conscious of Arya’s presence, of the whisper of her clothes over her skin, of the soft, pale exposure of her neck, and of her eyelashes, which were coated with a layer of oil that made them glisten and curl like black petals wet with rain.
They stopped on the bank of a narrow stream so clear, it was invisible in the faint light. The only thing that betrayed its presence was the throaty gurgle of water pouring over rocks. Around them, the thick pines formed a cave with their branches, hiding Eragon and Arya from the world and muffling the cool, still air. The hollow seemed ageless, as if it were removed from the world and protected by some magic against the withering breath of time.
In that secret place, Eragon felt suddenly close to Arya, and all his passion for her sprang to the fore of his mind. He was so intoxicated with the strength and vitality coursing through his veins — as well as the untamed magic that filled the forest — he ignored caution and said, “How tall the trees, how bright the stars... and how beautiful you are, O Arya Svit-kona.” Under normal circumstances, he would have considered his deed the height of folly, but in that fey, madcap night, it seemed perfectly sane.
She stiffened. “Eragon...”
He ignored her warning. “Arya, I’ll do anything to win your hand. I would follow you to the ends of the earth. I would build a palace for you with nothing but my bare hands. I would—”
“Will you stop pursuing me? Can you promise me that?” When he hesitated, she stepped closer and said, low and gentle, “Eragon, this cannot be. You are young and I am old, and that shall never change.”
“Do you feel nothing for me?”
“My feelings for you,” she said, “are those of a friend and nothing more. I am grateful to you for rescuing me from Gil’ead, and I find your company pleasant. That is all... Relinquish this quest of yours — it will only bring you heartache — and find someone your own age to spend the long years with.”
His eyes brimmed with tears. “How can you be so cruel?”
“I am not cruel, but kind. You and I are not meant for each other.”
In desperation, he suggested, “You could give me your memories, and then I would have the same amount of experience and knowledge as you.”
“It would be an abomination.” Arya lifted her chin, her face grave and solemn and brushed with silver from the glimmering stars. A hint of steel entered her voice: “Hear me well, Eragon. This cannot, nor ever shall be. And until you master yourself, our friendship must cease to exist, for your emotions do nothing but distract us from our duty.” She bowed to him. “Goodbye, Eragon Shadeslayer.” Then she strode past and vanished into Du Weldenvarden.
Now the tears spilled down Eragon’s cheeks and dropped to the moss below, where they lay unabsorbed, like pearls strewn across a blanket of emerald velvet. Numb, Eragon sat upon a rotting log and buried his face in his hands, weeping that his affection for Arya was doomed to remain unrequited, and weeping that he had driven her further away.
Within moments, Saphira joined him. Oh, little one. She nuzzled him. Why did you have to inflict this upon yourself? You knew what would happen if you tried to woo Arya again.
I couldn’t stop myself. He wrapped his arms around his belly and rocked back and forth on the log, reduced to hiccuping sobs by the strength of his misery. Putting one warm wing over him, Saphira drew him close to her side, like a mother falcon with her offspring. He curled up against her and remained huddled there as night passed into day and the Agaetí Blödhren came to an end.
LANDFALL
Roran stood upon the poop deck of the Red Boar, his arms crossed over his chest and his feet planted wide apart to steady himself on the rolling barge. The salty wind ruffled his hair and tugged at his thick beard and tickled the hairs on his bare forearms.
Beside him, Clovis manned the tiller. The weathered sailor pointed toward the coastline at a seagull-covered rock silhouetted on the crest of a rolling hill that extended into the ocean. “Teirm be right on the far side of that peak.”
Roran squinted into the afternoon sun, which reflected off the ocean in a blindingly bright band. “We’ll stop here for now, then.”
“You don’t want to go on into the city yet?”
“Not all of us at once. Call over Torson and Flint and have them run the barges up on that shore. It looks like a good place to camp.”
Clovis grimaced. “Arrgh. I was hoping t’ get a hot meal tonight.” Roran understood; the fresh food from Narda had long since been eaten, leaving them with naught but salt pork, salted herring, salted cabbage, sea biscuits the villagers had made from their purchased flour, pickled vegetables, and the occasional fresh meat when the villagers slaughtered one of their few remaining animals or managed to catch game when they landed.
Clovis’s rough voice echoed over the water as he shouted to the skippers of the other two barges. When they drew near, he ordered them to pull ashore, much to their vociferous displeasure. They and the other sailors had counted on reaching Teirm that day and lavishing their pay on the city’s delights.
After the barges were beached, Roran walked among the villagers and helped them by pitching tents here and there, unloading equipment, fetching water from a nearby stream, and otherwise lending his assistance until everyone was settled. He paused to give Morn and Tara a word of encouragement, for they appeared despondent, and received a guarded response in turn. The tavern owner and his wife had been aloof to him ever since they left Palancar Valley. On the whole, the villagers were in better condition than when they arrived at Narda due to the rest they had garnered on the barges, but constant worry and exposure to the harsh elements had prevented them from recuperating as well as Roran hoped.
“Stronghammer, will you sup at our tent tonight?” asked Thane, coming up to Roran.
Roran declined with as much grace as he could and turned to find himself confronted by Felda, whose husband, Byrd, had been murdered by Sloan. She bobbed a quick curtsy, then said, “May I speak with you, Roran Garrowsson?”
He smiled at her. “Always, Felda. You know that.”
“Thank you.” With a furtive expression, she fingered the tassels that edged her shawl and glanced toward her tent. “I would ask a favor of you. It’s about Mandel—” Roran nodded; he had chosen her eldest son to accompany him into Narda on that fateful trip when he killed the two guards. Mandel had performed admirably then, as well as in the weeks since while he crewed the Edeline and learned what he could about piloting the barges. “He’s become quite friendly with the sailors on our barge and he’s started playing dice with those lawless men. Not for money — we have none — but for small things. Things we need.”