Eldest

ENJOY AN EXCLUSIVE LOOK AT A DELETED SCENE FROM ELDEST

Saphira looked at him with solemn eyes and said, They are afraid, Eragon. Afraid and resentful because once more they have been forced to accept a Rider’s assistance.

Aye. They may fight with us, but they don’t fight for us.

“Good.” Ûndin wiped his hands, stood, and clapped loudly. “Estver az grimstcardweirvn!” As he reseated himself, twenty-six costumed dwarves marched out of the hall into the courtyard and positioned themselves before the tables, where all could see. “Explain,” grunted Ûndin, waving his hand at Orik.

Eragon looked down at Orik, who said, “These are the clan bards. It is their job to remember all songs, sagas, poems, and other lore that describe the clan’s history.”

“They also,” added Arya, “perform plays.”

At Ûndin’s word, a roll of drums echoed from the side and a dwarf announced, “Az Sartosvrenht rak Balmung, Grimstnzborith rak Kvisagûr.”

Orik translated: “The Saga of King Balmung of Kvisagûr—Kvisagûr being a mountain south of Dalgon.”

Then a wizened bard stepped forward, clutching a staff. He cried:

Né dom alfrell wharn hert? Né rak az knurl menwanû, fild ganaht vrem oen nzdorrim volhort. Né oc strâddsigt hûttn rak garz menwarrev isû warrevn ienmîf dar fûthmérn.

“What be such as we?” whispered Orik, so Eragon could understand. “We of the immortal stone, who bestride sorrow and ecstasy every moment. We are flickering—specks? motes?—of time’s memory, which forgets even as it creates.”

Skilfz grimsthadn rak Kvisagûr ana carn alfrell hûtt, qmarrv vor menotho mensaghn fild …

“Mine country of Kvisagûr is one such mote, assailed by feckless enemies who …”

As Eragon listened, he found himself captured by the story of Balmung—saddened and wise with experience—and his mad, wild queen, Dragica, who, throughout the play, relentlessly pursued vengeance for the death of her youngest son, Hval, after he fell off a Feldûnost while in the care of Balmung’s closest allies.

Eragon did not understand all of the references—such as when it was gibed that Balmung’s nose was as long as his beard, and the dwarves roared with uncontrollable laughter—but the underlying themes were moving and tragic.

It ended with Balmung standing alone before them: sons murdered or exiled, his kingdom lost in war, and Dragica dead by her own hand. The wrinkled old player leaned on his staff, staring with eyes black, glazed, desolate.

He said, “No more shall the sun shake in its infirmity, nor gray lichen molder across granite, for mine sorrow steals the breath betwixt mine teeth. Hearth and hall have I lost, flesh of my flesh, and all the glittering aches of this life … leaving what? Oh, mere existence falters underneath this load without mitigation of heart’s affection.”