Eragon reached for his own knife, but Orik grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
Ûndin chewed slowly, rolling his eyes and nodding in an exaggerated fashion, then swallowed and proclaimed, “Ilf gauhnith!”
“Now,” said Orik, turning to the meal as conversation erupted along the tables.
Eragon had never tasted anything like the boar. It was juicy, soft, and oddly spicy — as if the meat had been soaked in honey and cider — which was enhanced by the mint used to flavor the pork. I wonder how they managed to cook something so large.
Very slowly, commented Saphira, nibbling on her Nagra.
Between bites, Orik explained, “It is custom, from days when poisoning was rampant among clans, for the host to taste the food first and declare it safe for his guests.”
During the banquet, Eragon divided his time between sampling the multitude of dishes and conversing with Orik, Arya, and dwarves farther down the table. In that manner, the hours hastened by, for the feast was so large, it was late afternoon before the last course had been served, the last bite consumed, and the last chalice drained. As servants removed the tableware, Ûndin turned to Eragon and said, “The meal pleased you, yes?”
“It was delicious.”
Ûndin nodded. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I had the tables moved outside yesterday so the dragon might dine with us.” He remained intently focused on Eragon all the while he spoke.
Eragon went cold inside. Intentionally or not, Ûndin had treated Saphira as no more than a beast. Eragon had intended to ask about the veiled dwarves in private, but now — out of a desire to unsettle Ûndin — he said, “Saphira and I thank you.” Then, “Sir, why was the ring thrown at us?”
A painful silence crept over the courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye, Eragon saw Orik wince. Arya, however, smiled as if she understood what he was doing.
Ûndin put down his dagger, scowling thickly. “The knurlagn you met are of a tragic clan. Before the Riders’ fall, they were among the oldest, richest families of our kingdom. Their doom was sealed, though, by two mistakes: they lived on the western edge of the Beor Mountains, and they volunteered their greatest warriors in Vrael’s service.”
Anger broke through his voice with sharp cracks. “Galbatorix and his ever-cursed Forsworn slaughtered them in your city of Urû’baen. Then they flew on us, killing many. Of that clan, only Grimstcarvlorss Anhûin and her guards survived. Anhûin soon died of grief, and her men took the name Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, The Tears of Anhûin, covering their faces to remind themselves of their loss and their desire for revenge.”
Eragon’s cheeks stung with shame as he fought to keep his face expressionless. “So,” said Ûndin, glowering at a pastry, “they rebuilt the clan over the decades, waiting and hunting for recompense. And now you come, bearing Hrothgar’s mark. It is the ultimate insult to them, no matter your service in Farthen Dûr. Thus the ring, the ultimate challenge. It means Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will oppose you with all their resources, in every matter, big or small. They have set themselves against you utterly, declared themselves blood enemies.”
“Do they mean me bodily harm?” asked Eragon stiffly.
Ûndin’s gaze faltered for a moment as he cast a look at Gannel, then he shook his head and uttered a gruff laugh that was, perhaps, louder than the occasion warranted. “No, Shadeslayer! Not even they would dare hurt a guest. It is forbidden. They only want you gone, gone, gone.” Yet Eragon still wondered. Then Ûndin said, “Please, let us talk no more of these unpleasant matters. Gannel and I have offered our food and mead in friendship; is that not what matters?” The priest murmured in concordance.
“It is appreciated,” Eragon finally relented.
Saphira looked at him with solemn eyes and said, They are afraid, Eragon. Afraid and resentful because they have been forced to accept a Rider’s assistance.
Aye. They may fight with us, but they don’t fight for us.
CELBEDEIL
The dawnless morning found Eragon in Ûndin’s main hall, listening as the clan chief spoke to Orik in Dwarvish. Ûndin broke off as Eragon approached, then said, “Ah, Shadeslayer. You slept well?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He gestured at Orik. “We have been considering your departure. I had hoped you’d be able to spend some time with us. But under the circumstances, it seems best if you resume your journey early tomorrow morning, when few are in the streets who might trouble you. Supplies and transportation are being readied even as I speak. It was Hrothgar’s orders that guards should accompany you as far as Ceris. I have increased their numbers from three to seven.”
“And in the meantime?”
Ûndin shrugged his fur-bound shoulders. “I had intended to show you the wonders of Tarnag, but it would be foolish now for you to wander mine city. However, Grimstborith Gannel has invited you to Celbedeil for the day. Accept if you wish. You’ll be safe with him.” The clan chief seemed to have forgotten his earlier assertion that Az Sweldn rak Anhûin would not harm a guest.
“Thank you, I might at that.” As Eragon left the hall, he pulled Orik aside and asked, “How serious is this feud, really? I need to know the truth.”
Orik answered with obvious reluctance: “In the past, it was not uncommon for blood feuds to endure for generations. Entire families were driven extinct because of them. It was rash of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin to invoke the old ways; such a thing has not been done since the last of the clan wars... Until they rescind their oath, you must guard against their treachery, whether it be for a year or a century. I’m sorry that your friendship with Hrothgar has brought this upon you, Eragon. But you are not alone. Dûrgrimst Ingeitum stands with you in this.”
Once outside, Eragon hurried to Saphira, who had spent the night coiled in the courtyard. Do you mind if I visit Celbedeil?
Go if you must. But take Zar’roc. He followed her advice, also tucking Nasuada’s scroll into his tunic.
When Eragon approached the gates to the hall’s enclosure, five dwarves pushed the rough-hewn timbers aside, then closed in around him, hands on their axes and swords as they inspected the street. The guards remained as Eragon retraced yesterday’s path to the barred entrance of Tarnag’s foremost tier.
Eragon shivered. The city seemed unnaturally empty. Doors were closed, windows were shuttered, and the few pedestrians in evidence averted their faces and turned down alleys to avoid walking past him. They’re scared to be seen near me, he realized. Perhaps because they know Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will retaliate against anyone who helps me. Eager to escape the open street, Eragon raised his hand to knock, but before he could, one door grated outward, and a black-robed dwarf beckoned from within. Tightening his sword belt, Eragon entered, leaving his guards outside.
His first impression was of color. A burning-green sward splayed around the pillared mass of Celbedeil, like a mantle dropped over the symmetrical hill that upheld the temple. Ivy strangled the building’s ancient walls in foot after foot of hairy ropes, dew still glittering on the pointed leaves. And curving above all but the mountains was the great white cupola ribbed with chiseled gold.
His next impression was of smell. Flowers and incense mixed their perfumes into an aroma so ethereal, Eragon felt as if he could live on the scent alone.
Last was sound, for despite clumps of priests strolling along mosaic pathways and spacious grounds, the only noise Eragon could discern was the soft thump of a rook flying overhead.