With a weary huff, she rose to her feet, then slowly turned around and trudged once more through the grove of apple trees. The heavy impact of her steps shook loose withered leaves from the canopy, one of which landed in Eragon’s lap. He picked it up and was about to throw it away when he noticed that the leaf was shaped differently than it ought to be: the teeth along the edge were longer and wider than those of any apple leaf he had seen before, and the veins formed seemingly random patterns, instead of the regular network of lines he would have expected.
He picked another leaf, this one still green. Like its desiccated cousin, the fresh leaf had larger serrations and a confused map of veins.
Ever since the battle, things here have not been as they once were, said Glaedr.
Eragon frowned and tossed away the leaves. Again he heard the chatter of the squirrels, and again he failed to see any among the trees, nor was he able to feel them with his mind, which concerned him.
If I had scales, this place would make them itch, he said to Saphira.
A small puff of smoke rose from her nostrils as she snorted with amusement.
From the grove, she walked south until she came to one of the many streams that flowed out of the mountains: a thin white brook that burbled softly as it tumbled over its bed of rocks. There Saphira turned and followed the water upstream to a sheltered meadow near the forefront of the evergreen forest.
Here, said Saphira, and she sank to the ground.
It looked a good place to make camp, and Saphira was in no condition to keep searching, so Eragon agreed and dismounted. He paused for a moment to appreciate the view over the valley; then he removed the saddle and the saddlebags from Saphira, whereupon she shook her head, rolled her shoulders, and then twisted her neck to nibble at a spot on the side of her chest where the straps had been chafing.
Without further ado, she curled up in the grass, tucked her head under her wing, and wrapped her tail around herself. Do not wake me unless something is trying to eat us, she said.
Eragon smiled and patted her on the tail, then turned to look at the valley again. He stood there for a long while, barely thinking, content to observe and exist without making any effort to coax meaning from the world around him.
At last he fetched his bedroll, which he laid out beside Saphira.
Will you keep watch for us? he asked Glaedr.
I shall keep watch. Rest, and do not worry.
Eragon nodded, even though Glaedr could not see him, and then he lowered himself onto the blankets and allowed himself to drift off into the embrace of his waking dreams.
SNALGLÍ FOR TWO
t was late afternoon when Eragon opened his eyes. The blanket of clouds had broken in several places, and beams of golden light planked the valley floor, illuminating the tops of the ruined buildings. Though the valley still looked cold and wet and unwelcoming, the light gave it a newfound majesty. For the first time, Eragon understood why the Riders had chosen to settle on the island.
He yawned, then glanced over at Saphira and lightly touched her mind. She was still asleep, lost in a dreamless slumber. Her consciousness was like a flame that had dimmed until it was little more than a smoldering coal, a coal that might just as easily go out as flare up again.
The feeling unsettled him—it reminded him too much of death—so he returned to his own mind and restricted their contact to a narrow thread of thought: just enough so that he could be sure of her safety.
In the forest behind him, a pair of squirrels began to swear at each other with a series of high-pitched shrieks. He frowned as he listened; their voices sounded a bit too sharp, a bit too fast, a bit too warbly. It was as if some other creature was imitating the cries of the squirrels.
The thought made his scalp prickle.
He lay where he was for over an hour, listening to the shrieks and chattering that emanated from the woods and watching the patterns of light as they played across the hills, fields, and mountains of the bowl-shaped valley. Then the gaps in the clouds closed, the sky darkened, and snow began to fall on the upper flanks of the mountains, painting them white.
Eragon rose and said to Glaedr, I’m going to gather some firewood. I’ll be back in a few minutes.
The dragon acknowledged him, and Eragon carefully made his way across the meadow to the forest, doing his best to be quiet so as not to disturb Saphira. Once he was at the trees, he quickened his pace. Although there were plenty of dead branches along the verge of the forest, he wanted to stretch his legs and, if he could, find the source of the chattering.
Shadows lay heavy under the trees. The air was cool and still, like that of a cave deep underground, and it smelled of fungus, rotting wood, and oozing sap. The moss and lichen that trailed from the branches were like lengths of tattered lace, stained and sodden but still possessed of a certain delicate beauty. They partitioned the interior of the woods into cells of varying size, which made it difficult to see more than fifty feet in any direction.
Eragon used the burbling of the brook to determine his bearings as he worked his way deeper into the forest. Now that he was close to them, he saw that the evergreens were unlike those from the Spine or even from Du Weldenvarden; they had clusters of seven needles instead of three, and though it might have been a trick of the fading light, it seemed to him as if darkness clung to the trees, like a cloak wrapped around their trunks and branches. Also, everything about the trees, from the cracks in the bark to their protruding roots to their scaled cones—everything about them had a peculiar angularity and a fierceness of line that made them appear as if they were about to pull themselves free of the earth and stride down to the city below.
Eragon shivered and loosened Brisingr in its scabbard. He had never before been in a forest that felt so menacing. It was as if the trees were angry and—as with the apple grove earlier—as if they wanted to reach out and rend his flesh from his bones.
With the back of his hand, he brushed aside a swath of yellow lichen as he cautiously made his way forward.
So far he had seen no sign of game, nor had he found any evidence of wolves or bears, which puzzled him. That close to the stream, there should have been trails leading to the water.
Maybe the animals avoid this part of the woods, he thought. But why?