“There must be another solution besides you and Saphira and every Eldunarí abandoning Alagaësia!”
“If there were, we would take it, but there isn’t.”
“What of the Eldunarí? 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 Fírnen 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.
A MAN OF CONSCIENCE
arm light streamed through the windows along the right of the hallway, illuminating patches of the far wall where banners, paintings, shields, swords, and the heads of various stags hung between the dark, carved doors that dotted the wall at regular intervals.
As Eragon strode toward Nasuada’s study, he gazed out the windows at the city. From the courtyard, he could still hear the bards and musicians performing by the banquet tables laid out in Arya’s honor. The celebrations had been ongoing since she and Fírnen had returned to Ilirea with him and Saphira the previous day. But now they were beginning to wind down and, as a result, he had finally been able to arrange a meeting with Nasuada.
He nodded to the guards outside the study, then let himself into the room.
Inside, he saw Nasuada reclined on a padded seat, listening to a musician strumming on a lute and singing a beautiful, if mournful, love song. On the end of the seat sat the witch-child, Elva, engrossed with a piece of embroidery, and in a nearby chair, Nasuada’s handmaid, Farica. And curled up on Farica’s lap lay the werecat Yelloweyes in his animal form. He looked sound asleep, but Eragon knew from experience that he was probably awake.
Eragon waited by the door until the musician finished.
“Thank you. You may go,” said Nasuada to the player. “Ah, Eragon. Welcome.”
He bowed slightly to her. Then, to the girl, he said, “Elva.”
She eyed him from under her brow. “Eragon.” The werecat’s tail twitched.
“What is it you wish to discuss?” asked Nasuada. She took a sip from a chalice resting on a side table.
“Perhaps we could speak in private,” said Eragon, and motioned with his head toward the glass-paneled doors behind her, which opened onto a balcony overlooking a quadrangle with a garden and fountain.
Nasuada considered for a moment, then rose from her seat and swept toward the balcony, the train of her purple dress trailing behind her.
Eragon followed, and they stood side by side, gazing at the spouting water of the fountain, cool and gray within the shadow cast by the side of the building.
“What a beautiful afternoon,” said Nasuada as she took a deep breath. She looked more at peace than when he had last seen her, only a few hours before.
“The music seems to have put you in a good mood,” he observed.
“No, not the music: Elva.”
He cocked his head. “How so?”
A strange half smile graced Nasuada’s face. “After my imprisonment in Urû’baen—after what I endured … and lost—and after the attempts on my life, the world seemed to lose all color for me. I did not feel myself, and nothing I did could stir me from my sadness.”
“I thought as much,” he said, “but I did not know what to do or say that might help.”