Inheritance

FIRNEN

It was early in the afternoon when they arrived at the location Arya had designated: a gentle curve in the Ramr River that marked its farthest excursion eastward.

Eragon strained to look over Saphira’s neck as he searched for a glimpse of anyone below. The land appeared empty, save for a herd of wild oxen. When the animals caught sight of Saphira, they fled, lowing and kicking up plumes of dust. They and a few other, smaller animals scattered about the countryside were the only living creatures Eragon could sense. Disappointed, he shifted his gaze to the horizon but saw no sign of Arya.

Saphira landed on a slight rise fifty yards from the banks of the river. She sat, and Eragon sat with her, resting his back against her side.

On the top of the rise was an outcropping of soft, slatelike rock. While they waited, Eragon amused himself by grinding a thumb-sized flake into the shape of an arrowhead. The stone was too soft for the arrowhead to be anything other than decorative, but he enjoyed the challenge. When he was satisfied with the simple, triangular point, he set it aside and began to grind a larger piece into a leaf-bladed dagger, similar to those the elves carried.

They did not have to wait as long as he first thought.

An hour after their arrival, Saphira lifted her head from the ground and peered across the plains in the direction of the not-so-distant Hadarac Desert.

Her body stiffened against his, and he felt a strange emotion within her: a sense of impending momentousness.

Look, she said.

Keeping hold of his half-finished dagger, he clambered to his feet and peered eastward.

He saw nothing but grass, dirt, and a few lone, windswept trees between them and the horizon. He broadened his area of scrutiny but still saw nothing of interest.

What-he started to ask, then cut himself off as he looked up.

High in the eastern sky, he saw a wink of green fire, like an emerald glimmering in the sun. The point of light arced through the blue mantle of the heavens, approaching at a rapid pace, bright as a star at night.

Eragon dropped the stone dagger and, without taking his eyes off the glittering spark, climbed onto Saphira’s back and strapped his legs into her saddle. He wanted to ask her what she thought the point of light was-to force her to put into words what he suspected-but he could not bring himself to speak any more than she could.

Saphira held her position, although she unfolded her wings and, keeping them bent nearly in half, lifted them in preparation to take off.

As it grew larger, the spark proliferated, dividing into a cluster of dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of tiny points of light. After a few minutes, the true shape of it became visible, and they saw that it was a dragon.

Saphira could wait no longer. She uttered a resonant trumpet, leaped off the rise, and flapped downward.

Eragon clutched the neck spike in front of him as she ascended at a nearly vertical angle, desperate to intercept the other dragon as quickly as possible. Both he and she alternated between elation and a wariness born of too many battles. In their caution, it pleased them that they had the sun to their backs.

Saphira continued to climb until she was slightly above the green dragon, whereupon she leveled off and concentrated upon speed.

Closer, Eragon saw that the dragon, while well built, still had some of the gangly look of youth-his limbs had yet to acquire the stocky weight of Glaedr’s or Thorn’s-and he was smaller than Saphira. The scales upon his sides and back were a dark forest green, while those upon his belly and the pads of his feet were lighter, with the smallest ones verging upon white. When against his body, his wings were the color of holly leaves, but when the light shone through them, they were the color of oak leaves in the spring.

At the juncture between the dragon’s neck and back was a saddle much like Saphira’s, and on the saddle sat a figure that looked to be Arya, her dark hair streaming from her head. The sight filled Eragon’s heart with joy, and the emptiness he had labored under for so long vanished like the darkness of night before the rising sun.

As the dragons swooped past each other, Saphira roared, and the other dragon roared in response. They turned and began to circle-as if chasing each other’s tails-Saphira still slightly above the green dragon, who made no attempt to climb above her. If he had, Eragon would have feared he was attempting to gain the advantage before attacking.

He grinned and shouted into the wind. Arya shouted back and raised an arm. Then Eragon touched her mind, just to be sure, and he knew in an instant that it really was Arya, and that she and the dragon meant them no harm. He withdrew a moment later, for it would have been rude to prolong the mental contact without her consent; she would answer his questions when they spoke on the ground.

Saphira and the green dragon roared again, and the green dragon lashed his whiplike tail; then they chased each other through the air until they reached the Ramr River. There Saphira took the lead and spiraled down until she landed upon the same rise where she and Eragon had been waiting.

The green dragon landed a hundred feet away, settling into a low crouch while Arya freed herself from her saddle.

Eragon tore the straps off his legs and jumped to the ground, banging the sheath of Brisingr against his leg. He ran over to Arya, and she to him, and they met in the middle between the two dragons, who followed at a more sedate pace, their steps weighing heavily on the ground.

As he drew near, Eragon saw that, in place of the leather strip that Arya usually wore to keep her hair back, a circlet of gold rested upon her brow. In the center of the circlet, a teardrop-shaped diamond flashed with light that came not from the sun but from within its own depths. At her waist hung a green-hilted sword in a green sheath, which he recognized as Tamerlein, the same sword the elf lord Fiolr had offered him as a replacement for Zar’roc and that had once belonged to the Rider Arva. However, the hilt looked different than he remembered, lighter and more graceful, and the sheath appeared narrower.

It took Eragon a moment to realize what the diadem meant. He looked at Arya with astonishment. “You!”

“Me,” she said, and inclined her head. “Atra esterni ono thelduin, Eragon.”

“Atra du evarinya ono varda, Arya … Drottning?” It did not escape him that she had chosen to greet him first.

“Drottning,” she confirmed. “My people chose to give me my mother’s title, and I chose to accept.”

Above them, Saphira and the green dragon brought their heads close together and sniffed one another. Saphira was taller; the green dragon had to stretch his neck to reach her.

As much as Eragon wanted to talk with Arya, he could not help staring at the green dragon. “And him?” he asked, motioning upward.

Arya smiled, and then she surprised him by taking his hand and leading him forward. The green dragon snorted and lowered his head until it hung just above them, smoke and steam rising from the depths of his crimson nostrils.

“Eragon,” she said, and she placed his hand on the dragon’s warm snout, “this is Firnen. Firnen, this is Eragon.”

Eragon looked up into one of Firnen’s brilliant eyes; the bands of muscle within the dragon’s iris were the pale green and yellow of new blades of grass.

I am glad to meet you, Eragon-friend-Shadeslayer, said Firnen. His mental voice was deeper than Eragon expected, deeper even than that of Thorn or Glaedr or any of the Eldunari from Vroengard. My Rider has told me much about you. And the dragon blinked once, with a small, sharp sound like a shell bouncing against a stone.

In Firnen’s wide, sunlit mind, planked as it was with transparent shadows, Eragon could feel the dragon’s excitement.

Wonder swept through Eragon, wonder that such a thing had come to pass. “I am glad to meet you as well, Firnen-finiarel. I never thought that I would live to see you hatched and free of Galbatorix’s spells.”

The emerald dragon snorted softly. He looked proud and full of energy, like a stag in fall. Then he returned his gaze to Saphira. Between the two of them, much passed; through Saphira, Eragon could feel the flow of thoughts, emotions, and sensations, slow at first, but then swelling into a torrent.

Arya smiled slightly. “They seem to have taken to each other.”

“That they have.”

A mutual understanding guiding them, he and Arya walked out from under Saphira and Firnen, leaving the dragons to themselves. Saphira did not sit as she normally did, but remained crouched, as if she were about to spring onto a deer. Firnen did the same. The tips of their tails twitched.

Arya looked well: better, Eragon thought, than she had since their time together in Ellesmera. For lack of a more suitable word, he would have said she looked happy.

Neither of them spoke for a while as they watched the dragons. Then Arya turned toward him and said, “I apologize for not contacting you sooner. You must think badly of me for ignoring you and Saphira for so long and for keeping such a secret as Firnen.”

“Did you receive my letter?”

“I did.” To his surprise, she reached inside the front of her tunic and removed a square of battered parchment that, after a few seconds, he recognized. “I would have answered, but Firnen had already hatched and I did not want to lie to you, even by omission.”

“Why keep him hidden?”

“With so many of Galbatorix’s servants still on the loose, and so few dragons remaining, I did not want to risk anyone finding out about Firnen until he was large enough to defend himself.”

“Did you really think a human could have snuck into Du Weldenvarden and killed him?”

“Stranger things have happened. With the dragons yet on the brink of extinction, it was not a risk worth taking. If I could, I would keep Firnen in Du Weldenvarden for the next ten years, until he is so large that none would dare attack him. But he wished to leave, and I could not deny him. Besides, the time has come for me to meet with Nasuada and Orik in my new role.”

Eragon could feel Firnen showing and telling Saphira about the first time he caught a deer in the elves’ forest. He knew that Arya was aware of the exchange as well, for he saw her lip twitch in response to an image of Firnen hopping in pursuit of a startled doe after he tripped over a branch.

“And how long have you been queen?”

“Since a month after my return. Vanir doesn’t know, however. I ordered the information kept from him and our ambassador to the dwarves so that I could concentrate on raising Firnen without having to worry about the affairs of state that otherwise would have fallen to me.… You might like to know: I raised him on the Crags of Tel’naeir, where Oromis lived with Glaedr. It seemed only right.”

Silence fell between them. Then Eragon gestured at Arya’s diadem and at Firnen and said, “How did all of this happen?”

She smiled. “On our return to Ellesmera, I noticed that Firnen was beginning to stir within his shell, but I thought nothing of it, as Saphira had often done the same. However, once we reached Du Weldenvarden and passed through its wards, he hatched. It was nearly evening, and I was carrying his egg in my lap, as I used to carry Saphira’s, and I was speaking to him, telling him of the world and reassuring him that he was safe, and then I felt the egg shake and …” She shivered and tossed her hair, a bright film of tears in her eyes. “The bond is everything I imagined it to be. When we touched … I always wanted to be a Dragon Rider, Eragon, so that I could protect my people and avenge my father’s death at the hands of Galbatorix and the Forsworn, but until I saw the first crack appear in Firnen’s egg, I never allowed myself to believe that it might actually come to pass.”

“When you touched, did-”

“Yes.” She lifted her left hand and showed him the silvery mark on the palm, the same as his own gedwey ignasia. “It felt like …” She paused, searching for the words.

“Like ice-cold water that tingled and snapped,” he suggested.

“Exactly like that.” Without seeming to notice, she crossed her arms, as if chilled.

“So you returned to Ellesmera,” said Eragon. Now Saphira was telling Firnen about when she and Eragon swam in Leona Lake while traveling to Dras-Leona with Brom.

“So we returned to Ellesmera.”

“And you went to live on the Crags of Tel’naeir. But why become queen when you were already a Rider?”

“It was not my idea. Dathedr and the other elders of our race came to the house on the crags, and they asked me to take up my mother’s mantle. I refused, but they returned the next day, and the day after that, and every day for a week, and each time with new arguments for why I should accept the crown. In the end, they convinced me that it would be best for our people.”

“Why you, though? Was it because you are Islanzadi’s daughter, or was it because you had become a Rider?”

“It was not just because Islanzadi was my mother, although that was part of it. Nor was it just because I was a Rider. Our politics are far more complicated than those of the humans or the dwarves, and choosing a new monarch is never easy. It involves obtaining consent from dozens of houses and families, as well as several of the older members of our race, and every choice they make is part of a subtle game that we have been playing amongst ourselves for thousands of years.… There were many reasons why they wanted me to become queen, not all of them obvious.”

Eragon shifted, glancing between Saphira and Arya, unable to reconcile himself to Arya’s decision. “How can you be a Rider as well as a queen?” he asked. “The Riders aren’t supposed to support any one race above the others. It would be impossible for the other peoples of Alagaesia to trust us if we did. And how can you help rebuild our order and raise the next generation of dragons if you’re busy with your responsibilities in Ellesmera?”

“The world is not as it used to be,” she said. “Nor can the Riders remain apart as they once did. There are too few of us to stand alone, and it will be a long while before there are again enough of us to resume our former place. In any event, you have already sworn yourself to Nasuada and to Orik and Durgrimst Ingeitum, but not to us, not to the alfakyn. It is only right that we should have a Rider and dragon as well.”

“You know that Saphira and I would fight for the elves as much as for the dwarves or the humans,” he protested.

“I know, but others do not. Appearances matter, Eragon. You cannot change the fact that you have given your word to Nasuada and that you owe your loyalty to Orik’s clan.… My people have suffered greatly over the past hundred years, and though it may not be apparent to you, we are not what we once were. As the fortunes of the dragons have declined, so too have our own. Fewer children have been born to us, and our strength has waned. Also, some have said that our minds are no longer as sharp as they used to be, although it is difficult to prove one way or another.”

“The same is true of humans, or so Glaedr told us,” said Eragon.

She nodded. “He is right. Both of our races will take time to recover, and much will depend upon the return of the dragons. Moreover, even as Nasuada is needed to help guide the recovery of your race, so too do my own people need a leader. With Islanzadi dead, I felt obliged to take the task upon myself.” She touched her left shoulder, where her tattoo of the yawe glyph lay hidden. “I pledged myself to the service of my people when I was not much older than you. I cannot abandon them now, when their need is so great.”

“They will always have need of you.”

“And I will always answer their call,” she replied. “Do not worry; Firnen and I shall not ignore our duties as a dragon and Rider. We will help you to patrol the land and settle what disputes we can, and wherever it seems best to raise the dragons, we shall visit and lend our assistance as often as we can, even if it be at the far southern end of the Spine.”

Her words troubled Eragon, but he did his best to hide it. What she promised would not be possible if he and Saphira did as they had decided during the flight there. Although everything Arya had said helped confirm that the path they had chosen was the right one, he worried that it was a path that Arya and Firnen would be unable to follow.

He bowed his head then, accepting Arya’s decision to become queen and her right to make it. “I know you won’t neglect your responsibilities,” he said. “You never do.” He did not mean the statement unkindly; it was merely a statement of fact, and one for which he respected her. “And I understand why you did not contact us for so long. I probably would have done the same in your place.”

She smiled again. “Thank you.”

He motioned toward her sword. “I take it Rhunon reworked Tamerlein to better fit you?”

“She did, and she grumbled about it the whole while. She said the blade was perfect the way it was, but I am well pleased with the changes she made; the sword balances as it should in my hand now, and it feels no heavier than a switch.”

As they stood watching the dragons, Eragon tried to think of a way to tell Arya of their plans. Before he could, she said, “You and Saphira have been well?”

“We have.”

“What else of interest has occurred since you wrote?”

Eragon thought for a minute, then told her in brief about the attempts on Nasuada’s life, the uprisings in the north and the south, the birth of Roran and Katrina’s daughter, Roran’s ennoblement, and the list of treasures they had recovered from within the citadel. Lastly, he told of their return to Carvahall and their visit to Brom’s final resting place.

While he spoke, Saphira and Firnen began to circle each other, the tips of their tails whipping back and forth faster than ever. They both had their jaws slightly open, baring their long white teeth, and they were breathing thickly through their mouths and uttering low, whining grunts, the likes of which Eragon had never heard before. It looked almost as if they were going to attack each other, which worried him, but the feeling from Saphira was not one of anger or fear. It was-

I want to test him, said Saphira. She slapped her tail against the ground, causing Firnen to pause.

Test him? How? For what?

To find out if he has the iron in his bones and the fire in his belly to match me.

Are you sure? he asked, understanding her intent.

She again slapped her tail against the ground, and he felt her certainty and the strength of her desire. I know everything about him-everything but this. Besides-she displayed a flash of amusement-it’s not as if dragons mate for life.

Very well.… But be careful.

He had barely finished speaking when Saphira lunged forward and bit Firnen on his left flank, drawing blood and causing Firnen to snarl and spring backward. The green dragon growled, appearing uncertain of himself, and retreated before Saphira as she prowled toward him.

Saphira! Chagrined, Eragon turned to Arya, intending to apologize.

Arya did not seem upset. To Firnen, and to Eragon as well, she said, If you want her to respect you, then you have to bite her in return.

She raised an eyebrow at Eragon, and he responded with a wry smile, understanding.

Firnen glanced at Arya and hesitated. He jumped back as Saphira snapped at him again. Then he roared and lifted his wings, as if to make himself appear larger, and he charged Saphira-and nipped her on a hind leg, sinking his teeth into her hide.

The pain Saphira felt was not pain.

Saphira and Firnen resumed circling, growling and yowling with increasing volume. Then Firnen jumped at her again. He landed on Saphira’s neck and bore her head to the ground, where he held her pinned and gave her a pair of playful bites at the base of her skull.

Saphira did not struggle as fiercely as Eragon would have expected, and he guessed that she had allowed Firnen to catch her, as it was not something even Thorn had managed to do.

“The courting of dragons is no gentle affair,” he said to Arya.

“Did you expect soft words and tender caresses?”

“I suppose not.”

With a heave of her neck, Saphira threw Firnen off and scrambled backward. She roared and clawed at the ground with her forefeet, and then Firnen lifted his head toward the sky and loosed a rippling pennant of green fire twice the length of his own body.

“Oh!” exclaimed Arya, sounding delighted.

“What?”

“That’s the first time he has breathed fire!”

Saphira released a blast of fire herself-Eragon could feel the heat from over fifty feet away-and then she crouched and jumped into the sky, climbing straight upward. Firnen followed an instant later.

Eragon stood with Arya as they watched the glittering dragons ascend into the heavens, spiraling around each other with flames streaming from their mouths. It was an awe-inspiring sight: savage and beautiful, and frightening. Eragon realized he was watching an ancient and elemental ritual, one that was part of the very fabric of nature itself and without which the land would wither and die.

His connection with Saphira grew tenuous as the distance between them increased, but he could still sense the heat of her passion, which darkened the edges of her vision and blotted out all thoughts save those driven by the instinctual need that all creatures, even the elves, are subject to.

The dragons shrank until at last they were no more than a pair of sparkling stars orbiting each other in the immensity of the sky. As far away as they were, Eragon still received a few flashes of thoughts and feelings from Saphira, and though he had experienced many such moments with the Eldunari when they had shared their memories with him, his cheeks grew hot, as did the tips of his ears, and he found himself unable to look directly at Arya.

She too seemed affected by the dragons’ emotions, although differently than he; she stared after Saphira and Firnen with a faint smile, and her eyes shone brighter than usual, as if the sight of the two dragons filled her with pride and happiness.

Eragon let out a sigh, and then squatted and began to draw in the dirt with a stalk of grass.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” he said.

“No,” said Arya.

They remained that way for a number of minutes: she standing, he squatting, and all silence around them, save for the sound of the lonely wind.

At last Eragon dared look up at Arya. She looked more beautiful than ever. But more than that, he saw his friend and ally; he saw the woman who had helped save him from Durza, who had fought alongside him against countless enemies, who had been imprisoned with him under Dras-Leona, and who, in the end, had killed Shruikan with the Dauthdaert. He remembered what she had told him about her life in Ellesmera when she was growing up, her difficult relationship with her mother, and the many reasons that had driven her to leave Du Weldenvarden and serve as an ambassador to the elves. He thought too of the hurts she had suffered: some from her mother, others from the isolation she had experienced among the humans and the dwarves, and still more when she had lost Faolin and then endured Durza’s tortures in Gil’ead.

All those things he thought of, and he felt a deep sense of connection with her, and a sadness too, and a sudden desire came upon him to capture what he saw.

While Arya meditated upon the sky, Eragon looked about until he found a piece of the slatelike rock projecting from the earth. Making as little noise as possible, he dug out a slab with his fingers and brushed off the dirt until the stone was clean.

It took him a moment to remember the spells he had once used, and then to modify them so as to extract the colors needed from the earth around him. Speaking the words silently, he incanted the spell.

A stir of motion, like a swirl of muddy water, disturbed the surface of the tablet. Then colors-red, blue, green, yellow-bloomed on the slate and began to form lines and shapes even as they intermingled to form other, subtler shades. After a few seconds, an image of Arya appeared.

Once it was complete, he released the spell and studied the fairth. He was pleased with what he saw. The image seemed to be a true and honest representation of Arya, unlike the fairth he had made of her in Ellesmera. The one he held now had a depth that the other one had lacked. It was not a perfect image with regard to its composition, but he was proud that he had been able to capture so much of her character. In that one image, he had managed to sum up everything he knew about her, both the dark and the light.

He allowed himself to enjoy his sense of accomplishment for a moment more, then he threw the tablet off to the side, to break it against the ground.

“Kausta,” said Arya, and the tablet curved through the air and landed in her hand.

Eragon opened his mouth, intending to explain or to apologize, but then he thought better of it and said nothing.

Holding up the fairth, Arya stared at it with an intent gaze. Eragon watched her closely, wondering how she would react.

A long, tense minute passed.

Then Arya lowered the fairth.

Eragon stood and held out his hand for the tablet, but she made no move to return it. She appeared troubled, and his heart sank; the fairth had upset her.

Looking him straight in the eye, she said in the ancient language, “Eragon, if you are willing, I would like to tell you my true name.”

Her offer left him dumbstruck. He nodded, overwhelmed, and, with great difficulty, managed to say, “I would be honored to hear it.”

Arya stepped forward and placed her lips close to his ear, and in a barely audible whisper she told him her name. As she spoke, the name rang within his mind, and with it came a rush of understanding. Some of the name he knew already, but there were many parts that surprised him, parts that he realized must have been difficult for Arya to share.

Then Arya stepped back and waited for his response, her expression studiously blank.

Her name raised numerous questions for Eragon, but he knew that it was not the time to ask them. Rather, he needed to reassure Arya that he did not think any less highly of her because of what he had learned. Nor did he. If anything, her name had increased his regard, for it had shown him the true extent of her selflessness and her devotion to duty. He knew that if he reacted badly to her name-or even said the wrong thing without intending to-he could destroy their friendship.

He met Arya’s gaze full-on and said, also in the ancient language, “Your name … your name is a good name. You should be proud of who you are. Thank you for sharing it with me. I am glad to call you my friend, and I promise that I will always keep your name safe.… Will you, now, hear mine?”

She nodded. “I will. And I promise to remember and protect it for so long as it remains yours.”

A sense of import came over Eragon. He knew there was no going back from what he was about to do, which he found both frightening and exhilarating. He moved forward and did as Arya had done, placing his lips by her ear and whispering his name as softly as he could. His whole being vibrated in recognition of the words.

He backed away, suddenly apprehensive. How would she judge him? Fair or foul? For judge him she would; she could not help it.

Arya released a long breath and looked at the sky for a while. When she turned to him again, her expression was softer than before. “You have a good name as well, Eragon,” she said in a low voice. “However, I do not think it is the name you had when you left Palancar Valley.”

“No.”

“Nor do I think it is the name you bore during your time in Ellesmera. You’ve grown much since we first met.”

“I’ve had to.”

She nodded. “You are still young, but you are no longer a child.”

“No. That I am not.”

More than ever, Eragon felt drawn to her. The exchange of names had formed a bond between them, but of what sort he was unsure, and his uncertainty left him with a sense of vulnerability. She had seen him with all his flaws and she had not recoiled, but had accepted him as he was, even as he accepted her. Moreover, she had seen in his name the depth of his feelings for her, and that too had not driven her away.

He debated whether to say anything on the subject, but he could not let it go. After gathering up his courage, he said, “Arya, what is to become of us?”

She hesitated, but he could see that his meaning was clear to her. Choosing her words with care, she said, “I don’t know.… Once, as you know, I would have said, ‘nothing,’ but … Again, you are still young, and humans often change their minds. In ten years, or even five, you may no longer feel as you now do.”

“My feelings won’t change,” he said with utter certainty.

She searched his face for a long, tense while. Then he saw a change in her eyes, and she said, “If they don’t, then … perhaps in time …” She put a hand on the side of his jaw. “You cannot ask more of me now. I do not want to make a mistake with you, Eragon. You are too important for that, both to me and to the whole of Alagaesia.”

He tried to smile, but it came out more as a grimace. “But … we don’t have time,” he said, his voice choked. He felt sick to his stomach.

Arya’s brow furrowed, and she lowered her hand. “What do you mean?”

He stared at the ground, trying to think how to tell her. In the end, he just said it as simply as he could. He explained the difficulty he and Saphira had had in finding a safe place for the eggs and the Eldunari, and then he explained Nasuada’s plan to form a group of magicians to keep watch over every human spellcaster.

He spent several minutes talking, and concluded by saying, “So Saphira and I have decided that the only thing we can do is leave Alagaesia and raise the dragons elsewhere, far away from other people. It’s what’s best for us, for the dragons, for the Riders, and all the other races of Alagaesia.”

“But the Eldunari-” said Arya, appearing shocked.

“The Eldunari can’t stay either. They would never be safe, not even in Ellesmera. As long as they remain in this land, there will be those who will try to steal them or use them to further their own designs. No, we need a place like Vroengard, a place where no one can find the dragons to hurt them and where the younglings and the wild dragons cannot hurt anyone themselves.” Eragon tried to smile again, but gave it up as hopeless. “That is why I said we have no time. Saphira and I intend to leave as soon as we can, and if you stay … I do not know if we will ever see each other again.”

Arya glanced down at the fairth she still held, troubled.

“Would you give up your crown to come with us?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

She lifted her gaze. “Would you give up charge of the eggs?”

He shook his head. “No.”

For a time, they were silent, listening to the wind.

“How would you find candidates for the Riders?” she asked.

“We’ll leave a few eggs behind-with you, I suppose-and once they hatch, they and their Riders will come join us, and we’ll send you more eggs.”

“There must be another solution besides you and Saphira and every Eldunari abandoning Alagaesia!”

“If there were, we would take it, but there isn’t.”

“What of the Eldunari? What of Glaedr and Umaroth? Have you spoken to them of this? Do they agree?”

“We haven’t spoken to them, but they will agree. That I know.”

“Are you sure about this, Eragon? Is it really the only way-to leave behind everything and everyone you have ever known?”

“It’s necessary, and our departure was always meant to be. Angela foretold it when she cast my fortune in Teirm, and I’ve had time to accustom myself to the idea.” He reached out and touched Arya on the cheek. “So, I ask again: will you come with us?”

A film of tears appeared on her eyes, and she hugged the fairth against her chest. “I cannot.”

He nodded and took his hand away. “Then … we will part ways.” Tears welled in his own eyes, and he struggled to retain his composure.

“But not yet,” she whispered. “We still have some time together. You will not leave immediately.”

“No, not immediately.”

And they stood next to each other, gazing into the sky and waiting for Saphira and Firnen to return. After a while, her hand touched his, and he grasped it, and though it was a small comfort, it helped dull the ache in his heart.