Another house was nestled between three pines, which were joined to it through a series of curved branches. Reinforced by those flying buttresses, the house rose five levels, light and airy. Beside it sat a bower woven out of willow and dogwood and hung with flameless lanterns disguised as galls.
Each unique building enhanced and complemented its surroundings, blending seamlessly with the rest of the forest until it was impossible to tell where artifice ended and nature resumed. The two were in perfect balance. Instead of mastering their environment, the elves had chosen to accept the world as it was and adapt themselves to it.
The inhabitants of Ellesméra eventually revealed themselves as a flicker of movement at the fringe of Eragon’s sight, no more than needles stirring in the breeze. Then he caught glimpses of hands, a pale face, a sandaled foot, an upraised arm. One by one, the wary elves stepped into view, their almond eyes fixed upon Saphira, Arya, and Eragon.
The women wore their hair unbound. It rippled down their backs in waves of silver and sable braided with fresh blossoms, like a garden waterfall. They all possessed a delicate, ethereal beauty that belied their unbreakable strength; to Eragon, they seemed flawless. The men were just as striking, with high cheekbones, finely sculpted noses, and heavy eyelids. Both sexes were garbed in rustic tunics of green and brown, fringed with dusky colors of orange, russet, and gold.
The Fair Folk indeed, thought Eragon. He touched his lips in greeting.
As one, the elves bowed from the waist. Then they smiled and laughed with unrestrained happiness. From within their midst, a woman sang:
Eragon clapped his hands over his ears, fearing that the melody was a spell like the one he had heard at Sílthrim, but Arya shook her head and lifted his hands. “It is not magic.” Then she spoke to her horse, saying, “Gánga.” The stallion nickered and trotted away. “Release your steeds as well. We have no further need of them and they deserve to rest in our stables.”
The song waxed stronger as Arya proceeded along a cobblestone path set with bits of green tourmaline, which looped among the hollyhocks and the houses and the trees before finally crossing a stream. The elves danced around their party as they walked, flitting here and there as the fancy struck them, laughing, and occasionally leaping up onto a branch to run over their heads. They praised Saphira with names like “Longclaws” and “Daughter of Air and Fire” and “Strong One.”
Eragon smiled, delighted and enchanted. I could live here, he thought with a sense of peace. Tucked away in Du Weldenvarden, as much outdoors as in, safe from the rest of the world... Yes, he liked Ellesméra very much indeed, more than any of the dwarf cities. He pointed to a dwelling situated within a pine tree and asked Arya, “How is that done?
“We sing to the forest in the old tongue and give it our strength to grow in the shape that we desire. All our buildings and tools are made in that manner.”
The path ended at a net of roots that formed steps, like bare pools of earth. They climbed to a door embedded within a wall of saplings. Eragon’s heart quickened as the door swung open, seemingly of its own accord, and revealed a hall of trees. Hundreds of branches melded together to form the honeycombed ceiling. Below, twelve chairs were arrayed along each wall.
In them reposed four-and-twenty elf lords and ladies.
Wise and handsome were they, with smooth faces unmarked by age and keen eyes that gleamed with excitement. They leaned forward, gripping the arms of their chairs, and stared at Eragon’s group with open wonder and hope. Unlike the other elves, they had swords belted at their waists — hilts studded with beryls and garnets — and circlets that adorned their brows.
And at the head of the assembly stood a white pavilion that sheltered a throne of knotted roots. Queen Islanzadí sat upon it. She was as beautiful as an autumn sunset, proud and imperious, with two dark eyebrows slanted like upraised wings, lips as bright and red as holly berries, and midnight hair bound under a diamond diadem. Her tunic was crimson. Round her hips hung a girdle of braided gold. And clasped at the hollow of her neck was a velvet cloak that fell to the ground in languid folds. Despite her imposing countenance, the queen seemed fragile, as if she concealed a great pain.
By her left hand was a curved rod with a chased crosspiece. A brilliant-white raven perched on it, shuffling impatiently from foot to foot. He cocked his head and surveyed Eragon with uncanny intelligence, then gave a long, low croak and shrieked, “Wyrda!” Eragon shivered from the force of that single cracked word.
The door closed behind the six of them as they entered the hall and approached the queen. Arya knelt on the moss-covered ground and bowed first, then Eragon, Orik, Lifaen, and Narí. Even Saphira, who had never bowed to anyone, not even Ajihad or Hrothgar, lowered her head.
Islanzadí stood and descended from the throne, her cloak trailing behind her. She stopped before Arya, placed trembling hands on her shoulders, and said in a rich vibrato, “Rise.” Arya did, and the queen scrutinized her face with increasing intensity, until it seemed as if she were trying to decipher an obscure text.
At last Islanzadí cried out and embraced Arya, saying, “O my daughter, I have wronged you!”
QUEEN ISLANZADÍ
Eragon knelt before the queen of the elves and her councilors in a fantastic room made from the boles of living trees in a near-mythic land, and the only thing that filled his mind was shock. Arya is a princess! It was fitting in a way — she had always possessed an air of command — but he bitterly regretted the fact, for it placed another barrier between them when he would have torn them all away. The knowledge filled his mouth with the taste of ashes. He remembered Angela’s prophecy that he would love one of noble birth... and her warning that she could not see if it would end for good or for ill.
He could feel Saphira’s own surprise, then her amusement. She said, It appears that we have been traveling in the presence of royalty without knowing it.
Why didn’t she tell us?
Perhaps it would have placed her in greater danger.
“Islanzadí Dröttning,” said Arya formally.
The queen withdrew as if she had been stung and then repeated in the ancient language, “O my daughter, I have wronged you.” She covered her face. “Ever since you disappeared, I’ve barely slept or eaten. I was haunted by your fate, and feared that I would never see you again. Banning you from my presence was the greatest mistake I have ever made... Can you forgive me?”
The gathered elves stirred with amazement.
Arya’s response was long in coming, but at last she said, “For seventy years, I have lived and loved, fought and killed without ever speaking to you, my mother. Our lives are long, but even so, that is no small span.”
Islanzadí drew herself upright, lifting her chin. A tremor ran her length. “I cannot undo the past, Arya, no matter how much I might desire to.”
“And I cannot forget what I endured.”
“Nor should you.” Islanzadí clasped her daughter’s hands. “Arya, I love you. You are my only family. Go if you must, but unless you wish to renounce me, I would be reconciled with you.”
For a terrible moment, it seemed as if Arya would not answer, or worse, would reject the offer. Eragon saw her hesitate and quickly look at her audience. Then she lowered her eyes and said, “No, Mother. I could not leave.” Islanzadí smiled uncertainly and embraced her daughter again. This time Arya returned the gesture, and smiles broke out among the assembled elves.