Then Oromis surprised Eragon by initiating the elves’ traditional greeting and thereby indicating his respect for Eragon: “May good fortune rule over you.”
“May the stars watch over you.”
“And may peace live in your heart,” finished the silver-haired elf. He repeated the exchange with Saphira. “Now go and fly as fast as the north wind, knowing that you — Saphira Brightscales and Eragon Shadeslayer — carry the blessing of Oromis, last scion of House Thrándurin, he who is both the Mourning Sage and the Cripple Who Is Whole.”
And mine as well, added Glaedr. Extending his neck, he touched the tip of his nose to Saphira’s, his gold eyes glittering like swirling pools of embers. Remember to keep your heart safe, Saphira. She hummed in response.
They parted with solemn farewells. Saphira soared over the tangled forest and Oromis and Glaedr dwindled behind them, lonely on the crags. Despite the hardships of his stay in Ellesméra, Eragon would miss being among the elves, for with them he had found the closest thing to a home since fleeing Palancar Valley.
I leave here a changed man, he thought, and closed his eyes, clinging to Saphira.
Before going to meet with Orik, they made one more stop: Tialdarí Hall. Saphira landed in the enclosed gardens, careful not to damage any of the plants with her tail or claws. Without waiting for her to crouch, Eragon leaped straight to the ground, a drop that would have injured him before.
A male elf came out, touched his lips with his first two fingers, and asked if he could help them. When Eragon replied that he sought an audience with Islanzadí, the elf said, “Please wait here, Silver Hand.”
Not five minutes later, the queen herself emerged from the wooded depths of Tialdarí Hall, her crimson tunic like a drop of blood among the white-robed elf lords and ladies who accompanied her. After the appropriate forms of address were observed, she said, “Oromis informed me of your intention to leave us. I am displeased by this, but one cannot resist the will of fate.”
“No, Your Majesty... Your Majesty, we came to pay our respects before departing. You have been most considerate of us, and we thank you and your House for clothing, lodging, and feeding us. We are in your debt.”
“Never in our debt, Rider. We but repaid a little of what we owe you and the dragons for our miserable failure in the Fall. I am gratified, though, that you appreciate our hospitality.” She paused. “When you arrive in Surda, convey my royal salutations to Lady Nasuada and King Orrin and inform them that our warriors will soon attack the northern half of the Empire. If fortune smiles upon us, we shall catch Galbatorix off guard and, given time, divide his forces.”
“As you wish.”
“Also, know that I have dispatched twelve of our finest spellweavers to Surda. If you are still alive when they arrive, they will place themselves under your command and do their best to shield you from danger both night and day.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Islanzadí extended a hand and one of the elf lords handed her a shallow, unadorned wooden box. “Oromis had his gifts for you, and I have mine. Let them remind you of your time spent with us under the dusky pines.” She opened the box, revealing a long, dark bow with reflexed limbs and curled tips nestled on a bed of velvet. Silver fittings chased with dogwood leaves decorated the ears and grip of the bow. Beside it lay a quiver of new arrows fletched with white swan feathers. “Now that you share our strength, it seems only proper that you should have one of our bows. I sang it myself from a yew tree. The string will never break. And so long as you use these arrows, you will be hard-pressed to miss your target, even if the wind should gust during your shot.”
Once again, Eragon was overwhelmed by the elves’ generosity. He bowed. “What can I say, my Lady? You honor me that you saw fit to give me the labor of your own hands.”
Islanzadí nodded, as if agreeing with him, then stepped past him and said, “Saphira, I brought you no gifts because I could think of nothing you might need or want, but if there is aught of ours you desire, name it and it shall be yours.”
Dragons, said Saphira, do not require possessions to be happy. What use have we for riches when our hides are more glorious than any treasure hoard in existence? No, I am content with the kindness that you have shown Eragon.
Then Islanzadí bade them a safe journey. Sweeping around, her red cape billowing from her shoulders, she made to leave the gardens, only to stop at the edge of the pleasance and say, “And, Eragon?”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“When you meet with Arya, please express my affection to her and tell her that she is sorely missed in Ellesméra.” The words were stiff and formal. Without waiting for a reply, she strode away and disappeared among the shadowed boles that guarded the interior of Tialdarí Hall, followed by the elf lords and ladies.
It took Saphira less than a minute to fly to the sparring field, where Orik sat on his bulging pack, tossing his war ax from one hand to the other and scowling ferociously. “About time you got here,” he grumbled. He stood and slipped the ax back under his belt. Eragon apologized for the delay, then tied Orik’s pack onto the back of his saddle. The dwarf eyed Saphira’s shoulder, which loomed high above him. “And how, by Morgothal’s black beard, am I supposed to get up there? A cliff has more handholds than you, Saphira.”
Here, she said. She lay flat on her belly and pushed her right hind leg out as far as she could, forming a knobby ramp. Pulling himself onto her shin with a loud huff, Orik crawled up her leg on hands and knees. A small jet of flame burst from Saphira’s nostrils as she snorted. Hurry up — that tickles!
Orik paused on the ledge of her haunches, then placed one foot on either side of Saphira’s spine and carefully walked his way up her back toward the saddle. He tapped one of the ivory spikes between his legs and said, “There be as good a way to lose your manhood as ever I’ve seen.”
Eragon grinned. “Don’t slip.” When Orik lowered himself onto the front of the saddle, Eragon mounted Saphira and sat behind the dwarf. To hold Orik in place when Saphira turned or inverted, Eragon loosened the thongs that were meant to secure his arms and had Orik put his legs through them.
As Saphira rose to her full height, Orik swayed, then clutched the spike in front of him. “Garr! Eragon, don’t let me open my eyes until we’re in the air, else I fear I’ll be sick. This is unnatural, it is. Dwarves aren’t meant to ride dragons. It’s never been done before.”
“Never?”
Orik shook his head without answering.
Clusters of elves drifted out of Du Weldenvarden, gathered along the edge of the field, and with solemn expressions watched Saphira lift her translucent wings in preparation to take off.
Eragon tightened his grip as he felt her mighty thews bunch underneath his legs. With a rush of acceleration, Saphira launched herself into the azure sky, flapping swift and hard to rise above the giant trees. She wheeled over the vast forest — spiraling upward as she gained altitude — and then aimed herself south, toward the Hadarac Desert.
Though the wind was loud in Eragon’s ears, he heard an elf woman in Ellesméra raise her clear voice in song, as he had when they first arrived. She sang:
Away, away, you shall fly away,
O’er the peaks and vales
To the lands beyond.
Away, away, you shall fly away,
And never return to me...