He located Saphira with a flick of his mind, belted on Zar’roc, and headed toward her through the beech trees that lined the Az Ragni. Before long Eragon’s hands and face were slick with dew from a tangled wall of chokecherry bushes that obstructed his way. With an effort, he pushed through the net of branches and escaped onto the silent plains. A round hill rose before him. On its crest — like two ancient statues — stood Saphira and Arya. They faced east, where a molten glow crept into the sky and burnished the prairie amber.
As the clear light struck the two figures, Eragon was reminded of how Saphira had watched the sunrise from his bedpost only a few hours after she hatched. She was like a hawk or falcon with her hard, sparkling eyes under their bony ridges, the fierce arch of her neck, and the lean strength etched into every line of her body. She was a huntress, and endowed with all the savage beauty that the term implied. Arya’s angled features and panther grace perfectly matched the dragon beside her. No discrepancy existed between their demeanors as they stood bathed in dawn’s first rays.
A tingle of awe and joy shuddered along Eragon’s spine. This was where he belonged, as a Rider. Of all the things in Alagaësia, he had been lucky enough to be joined with this. The wonder of it brought tears to his eyes and a smile of wild exultation that dispelled all his doubts and fears in a surge of pure emotion.
Still smiling, he mounted the hill and took his place by Saphira as they surveyed the new day.
Arya looked at him. Eragon met her gaze, and something lurched within him. He flushed without knowing why, feeling a sudden connection with her, a sense that she understood him better than anyone other than Saphira. His reaction confused him, for no one had affected him in that manner before.
Throughout the rest of the day, all Eragon had to do was think back on that moment to make himself smile and set his insides churning with a mixture of odd sensations he could not identify. He spent most of his time seated against the raft’s cabin, working on Orik’s ring and watching the changing landscape.
Around midday they passed the mouth of a valley, and another river melded into the Az Ragni, doubling its size and speed until the shores were over a mile apart. It was all the dwarves could do to keep the rafts from being tossed like flotsam before the inexorable current and to avoid smashing into the trees that occasionally floated by.
A mile after the rivers joined, the Az Ragni turned north and flowed past a lonely cloud-wreathed peak that stood separate from the main body of the Beor range, like a gigantic watchtower built to keep vigil over the plains.
The dwarves bowed to the peak when they saw it, and Orik told Eragon, “There is Moldûn the Proud. He is the last true mountain we shall see on this journey.”
When the rafts were moored for the evening, Eragon saw Orik unwrap a long black box inlaid with mother-of-pearl, rubies, and curved lines of silver. Orik flicked a clasp, then raised the lid to reveal an unstrung bow nestled in red velvet. The bow’s reflexed limbs were ebony, which formed the background for intricate patterns of vines, flowers, animals, and runes, all executed in the finest gold. It was such a luxurious weapon, Eragon wondered how anyone dared use it.
Orik strung the bow — it was nearly as tall as he was, but still no bigger than a child’s bow by Eragon’s standards — put the box away, and said, “I’m going to find some fresh meat. I’ll be back in an hour.” With that he disappeared into the brush. Thorv grunted disapprovingly, but made no move to stop him.
True to his word, Orik returned with a brace of long-necked geese. “I found a flock of them perched in a tree,” he said, tossing the birds to Dûthmér.
As Orik retrieved the bejeweled case, Eragon asked, “What kind of wood is your bow made of?”
“Wood?” Orik laughed, shaking his head. “You can’t make a bow this short out of wood and cast an arrow more than twenty yards; it breaks, or follows the string after a few shots. No, this is an Urgal horn bow!”
Eragon eyed him suspiciously, sure that the dwarf was trying to fool him. “Horn isn’t flexible or springy enough to make a bow.”
“Ah,” chortled Orik, “that’s because you have to know how to treat it right. We first learned to do it with Feldûnost horns, but it works just as well with an Urgal’s. It’s done by cutting the horn in half lengthwise, then trimming the outside coil until it’s the right thickness. The strip is boiled flat and sanded into the final shape before being fixed to the belly of an ash stave with glue made from fish scales and the skin from the roof of trout’s mouths. Then the back of the stave is covered with multiple layers of sinew; they give the bow its snap. The last step is decoration. The entire process can take almost a decade.”
“I’ve never heard of a bow built like that before,” said Eragon. It made his own weapon seem no more than a crudely hacked branch. “How far does it shoot?”
“See for yourself,” said Orik. He let Eragon take the bow, which he held gingerly, for fear of scuffing its finish. Orik removed an arrow from his quiver and handed it to him. “You’ll owe me an arrow, though.”
Eragon fit shaft to string, aimed over the Az Ragni, and pulled back. The bow’s draw length was less than two feet, but he was surprised to find that its weight far exceeded that of his own bow; he was barely strong enough to hold the string. He released the arrow and it vanished with a twang, only to reappear far above the river. Eragon watched with amazement as the arrow landed in a spray of water halfway across the Az Ragni.
He immediately reached through the barrier in his mind so that the magic’s power suffused him and said, “Gath sem oro un lam iet.” After a few seconds, the arrow darted back through the air to land on his outstretched palm. “And there,” he said, “is the arrow I owe you.”
Orik clapped his fist to his chest and then embraced the arrow and bow with obvious delight. “Wonderful! Now I still have an even two dozen. Otherwise, I would have had to wait until Hedarth to replenish my stock.” He deftly unstrung the bow and stored it away, wrapping the case in soft rags to protect it.
Eragon saw Arya watching. He asked her, “Do elves use horn bows as well? You’re so strong, a wood bow would shatter if it was made heavy enough for you.”
“We sing our bows from trees that do not grow.” And then she walked away.
For days, they drifted through fields of spring grass while the Beor Mountains faded into a hazy white wall behind them. The banks were often covered with vast herds of gazelles and small red deer that watched them with liquid eyes.
Now that the Fanghur were no longer a threat, Eragon flew almost constantly with Saphira. It was their first opportunity since before Gil’ead to spend so much time together in the air, and they took full advantage of it. Also, Eragon welcomed the chance to escape the cramped deck of the raft, where he felt awkward and unsettled with Arya so near.
ARYA SVIT-KONA
Eragon and his company followed the Az Ragni until it joined the Edda River, which then drifted into the unknown east. At the juncture between the rivers, they visited the dwarves’ trading outpost, Hedarth, and exchanged their rafts for donkeys. Dwarves never used horses on account of their size.
Arya refused the steed offered to her, saying, “I will not return to the land of my ancestors on the back of a donkey.”
Thorv frowned. “How will you keep pace with us?”
“I will run.” And run she did, outstripping Snowfire and the donkeys, only to sit waiting for them at the next hill or copse. Despite her exertions, she displayed no sign of weariness when they stopped for the night, nor any inclination to utter more than a few words between breakfast and supper. With every step, she seemed to grow tenser.