Ahead, a fire glowed through the trees, sending shadows racing like sprites across the leafy ground. As Eragon entered the radius of light, he saw three small huts clustered together around the base of a large oak. High in the tree was a roofed platform where a watchman could observe the river and forest. A pole had been lashed between two of the huts: from it hung bundles of drying plants.
The four elves vanished into the huts, then returned with their arms piled high with fruits and vegetables — but no meat — and began preparing a meal for their guests. They hummed as they worked, flitting from one tune to another as the fancy took them. When Orik asked their names, the dark-haired elf pointed to himself and said, “I am Lifaen of House Rílvenar. And my companions are Edurna, Celdin, and Narí.”
Eragon sat beside Saphira, happy for an opportunity to rest and to watch the elves. Though all four were male, their faces resembled Arya’s, with delicate lips, thin noses, and large slanted eyes that shone under their brows. The rest of their bodies matched, with narrow shoulders and slender arms and legs. Each was more fair and noble than any human Eragon had seen, albeit in a rarefied, exotic manner.
Who ever thought I would get to visit the elves’ homeland? Eragon asked himself. He grinned and leaned against the corner of a hut, drowsy with the fire’s warmth. Above him, Saphira’s dancing blue eyes tracked the elves with unwavering precision.
More magic is in this race, she finally remarked, than either humans or dwarves. They do not feel as if they come from the earth or the stone, but rather from another realm, half in, half out, like reflections seen through water.
They certainly are graceful, he said. The elves moved like dancers, their every action smooth and lithe.
Brom had told Eragon that it was rude for someone to speak with their mind to a Rider’s dragon without permission, and the elves adhered to that custom, voicing aloud their comments to Saphira, who would then answer the elves directly. Saphira usually refrained from touching the thoughts of humans and dwarves and allowed Eragon to relay her words, since few members of those races had the training to guard their minds if they wished for privacy. It also seemed an imposition to use such an intimate form of contact for casual exchanges. The elves had no such inhibitions, though; they welcomed Saphira into their minds, reveling in her presence.
At last the food was ready and served on carved plates that felt like dense bone, although wood grain wandered through the flowers and vines decorating the rim. Eragon was also supplied with a flagon of gooseberry wine — made of the same unusual material — with a sculpted dragon wrapped around its stem.
As they ate, Lifaen produced a set of reed pipes and began to play a flowing melody, his fingers running along the various holes. Soon the tallest silver-haired elf, Narí, raised his voice and sang:
When Narí finished, Eragon released his pent-up breath. He had never heard such a voice before; it felt as if the elf had revealed his essence, his very soul. “That was beautiful, Narí-vodhr.”
“A rough composition, Argetlam,” demurred Narí. “But I thank you, nevertheless.”
Thorv grunted. “Very pretty, Master Elf. However, there are matters more serious than reciting verse that we must attend to. Are we to accompany Eragon farther?”
“No,” said Arya quickly, drawing looks from the other elves. “You may return home in the morning. We will assure that Eragon reaches Ellesméra.”
Thorv dipped his head. “Then our task is complete.”
As Eragon lay on the bedding the elves had arranged for him, he strained his ears to catch Arya’s speech, which drifted from one of the huts. Though she used many unfamiliar words in the ancient language, he deduced that she was explaining to their hosts how she had lost Saphira’s egg and the events since. A long silence followed after she stopped, then an elf said, “It is good that you have returned, Arya Dröttningu. Islanzadí was sorely wounded by grief when you were captured and the egg was stolen, and by Urgals no less! She was — and is — sick at heart.”
“Hush, Edurna... hush,” chided another. “Dvergar are small, but they have sharp ears, and I am sure these will report to Hrothgar.”
Then their voices dropped and Eragon could discern no more from the murmur of voices, which melded into the whisper of leaves as he drifted to sleep, the elf’s song repeating endlessly through his dreams.
The scent of flowers was heavy in the air when Eragon woke to behold a sun-drenched Du Weldenvarden. Above him arched a mottled panoply of drifting leaves, supported by the thick trunks that buried themselves in the dry, bare ground. Only moss, lichen, and a few low shrubs survived in the pervasive green shade. The scarcity of underbrush made it possible to see for great distances between the knotted pillars and to walk about freely beneath the dappled ceiling.
Rolling to his feet, Eragon found Thorv and his guards packed and ready to leave. Orik’s donkey was tied behind Ekksvar’s steed. Eragon approached Thorv and said, “Thank you, all of you, for protecting me and Saphira. Please convey our gratitude to Ûndin.”
Thorv pressed his fist to his chest. “I will carry your words.” He hesitated and looked back at the huts. “Elves are a queer race, full of light and dark. In the morning, they drink with you; in the evening, they stab you. Keep thine back to a wall, Shadeslayer. Capricious, they are.”
“I will remember that.”
“Mmm.” Thorv gestured toward the river. “They plan to travel up Eldor Lake in boats. What will you do with thine horse? We could return him to Tarnag with us, and from there, to Tronjheim.”
“Boats!” cried Eragon with dismay. He had always planned to bring Snowfire to Ellesméra. It was convenient to have a horse whenever Saphira was away, or in places too confined for her bulk. He fingered the sparse bristles along his jaw. “That is a kind offer. Will you make sure Snowfire is well cared for? I couldn’t bear it if anything were to happen to him.”
“On mine honor,” pledged Thorv, “you will return to find him fat and sleek.”
Eragon fetched Snowfire and transferred the stallion, his saddle, and his grooming supplies into Thorv’s care. He bade each of the warriors farewell, then he, Saphira, and Orik watched the dwarves ride back along the trail they had arrived on.
Returning to the huts, Eragon and the remainder of his party followed the elves to a thicket on the edge of the Edda River. There, docked on either side of a boulder, were two white canoes with vines carved along their sides.
Eragon boarded the nearest boat and stowed his pack beneath his feet. He was amazed by how light the craft was; he could have lifted it with a single hand. Even more astounding, the hulls appeared to be composed of birch-bark panels melded into a seamless whole. Curious, he touched the side. The bark was hard and taut, like stretched parchment, and cool from its contact with the water. He rapped it with a knuckle. The fibrous shell reverberated like a muted drum.