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 Támerlein, 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 esterní ono thelduin, Eragon.”
“Atra du evarínya ono varda, Arya … Dröttning?” It did not escape him that she had chosen to greet him first.
“Dröttning,” 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 Fírnen. Fírnen, this is Eragon.”
Eragon looked up into one of Fírnen’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 Fírnen. His mental voice was deeper than Eragon expected, deeper even than that of Thorn or Glaedr or any of the Eldunarí 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 Fírnen’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, Fírnen-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 Fírnen, 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. Fírnen did the same. The tips of their tails twitched.
Arya looked well: better, Eragon thought, than she had since their time together in Ellesméra. 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 Fírnen.”
“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 Fírnen 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 Fírnen 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 Fírnen 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 Fírnen 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 Fírnen 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 Fírnen 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’naeír, where Oromis lived with Glaedr. It seemed only right.”
Silence fell between them. Then Eragon gestured at Arya’s diadem and at Fírnen and said, “How did all of this happen?”
She smiled. “On our return to Ellesméra, I noticed that Fírnen 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 Fírnen’s egg, I never allowed myself to believe that it might actually come to pass.”