Satisfied, Eragon returned to Saphira, and they spent the night resting and talking with Glaedr and the other Eldunarí.
At dawn, they went to the Rock of Kuthian. They spoke their true names, and the graved doors within the mossy spire opened, and Eragon, Saphira, and the Eldunarí descended to the vault below. In that deep-set cavern, lit by the lake of molten stone that lay beneath the roots of Mount Erolas, the guardian of the eggs, Cuaroc, helped them place each egg into a separate casket. Then they piled the caskets near the center of the chamber, along with the five Eldunarí who had stayed within the cavern to help protect the eggs.
With Umaroth’s help, Eragon cast the same spell he had once before and placed the eggs and hearts into a pocket of space that hung behind Saphira, where neither she nor he could touch it.
Cuaroc accompanied them out of the vault. The metal feet of the dragon-headed man clanged loudly against the tunnel floor as he climbed to the surface alongside them.
Once they were outside, Saphira grasped Cuaroc between her talons—for he was too large and heavy to sit comfortably upon her back—and she took flight, rising above the circular valley that lay in the heart of Vroengard.
Across the sea, dark and shining, flew Saphira. Then over the Spine, the peaks like blades of ice and snow, and the rifts between them like rivers of shadow. She diverted north and crossed over Palancar Valley—so that she and Eragon might have one last look at their childhood home, if only from high above—and then over the Bay of Fundor, which was scalloped with lines of foam-crested waves, like so many rolling mountains. Ceunon, with its steep, many-layered roofs and sculptures of dragon heads, was their next landmark of note, and soon afterward, the leading edge of Du Weldenvarden appeared, the pines tall and strong.
Nights they spent camped by streams and ponds, the light of their fires reflecting off Cuaroc’s polished metal body, while frogs and insects chorused about them. In the distance, they ofttimes heard the howls of hunting wolves.
Once at Du Weldenvarden, Saphira flew for an hour toward the center of the great forest, whereupon the elves’ wards stopped her from proceeding any farther. Then she landed and walked through the invisible barrier of magic, Cuaroc striding alongside her, and again took flight.
League after league of trees sailed by underneath them, with little variation save for clusters of deciduous trees—oaks and elms and birch and aspen and languorous willows—which often lined the waterways below. Past a mountain, the name of which Eragon had forgotten, and the elven city of Osilon, and then trackless acres of pines, each unique and yet nearly identical to its countless brethren.
At last, in late evening, when both the moon and the sun hung low upon opposing horizons, Saphira arrived at Ellesméra and glided down to land amid the living buildings of the elves’ largest, and proudest, of cities.
Arya and Fírnen were waiting for them, along with Roran and Katrina. As Saphira drew near, Fírnen reared and spread his wings, uttering a joyful roar that frightened birds into the air for a league around. Saphira answered in kind as she settled onto her hind legs and gently placed Cuaroc on the ground.
Eragon unbuckled his legs and slid down off Saphira’s back.
Roran ran up, grasped him by the forearm, and clapped him on the shoulder while Katrina hugged him on the other side. Laughing, Eragon said, “Ah! Stop, let me breathe! So, how do you like Ellesméra?”
“It’s beautiful!” said Katrina, smiling.
“I thought you were exaggerating,” said Roran, “but it’s every bit as impressive as you said. The hall we’ve been staying in—”
“Tialdarí Hall,” said Katrina.
Roran nodded. “That. It’s given me some ideas as to how we should rebuild Carvahall. And then there’s Tronjheim and Farthen Dûr …” He shook his head and uttered a low whistle.
Eragon laughed again and started walking along the forest path toward the western edge of Ellesméra, they leading him. Arya joined them, looking every bit as much a queen as her mother once had. “Well met by moonlight, Eragon. Welcome back.”
He looked at her. “Well met indeed, Shadeslayer.”
She smiled at his use of the title, and the dusk beneath the swaying trees seemed to grow brighter.
Once Eragon had removed Saphira’s saddle, she and Fírnen took flight—although Eragon knew Saphira was exhausted from their journey—and together they disappeared in the direction of the Crags of Tel’naeír. As they departed, Eragon heard Fírnen say, I caught three deer for you this morning. They are waiting for you on the grass by Oromis’s hut.
Cuaroc set off in pursuit of Saphira, for the eggs were still with her, and it was his duty to protect them.
Through the great boles of the city, Roran and Katrina led Eragon until they arrived at a clearing edged with dogwood and hollyhocks, where tables sat laden with a vast assortment of food. Many elves, garbed in their finest tunics, greeted Eragon with soft cries, mellifluous laughter, and snatches of song and music.
Arya took her place at the head of the banquet, and the white raven, Blagden, rested upon a carved perch nearby, croaking and spouting occasional scraps of verse. Eragon sat by Arya’s side, and they ate and drank and made merry until late in the night.
When the feast began to draw to a close, Eragon snuck away for a few minutes and ran through the darkened forest to the Menoa tree, guided more by his senses of smell and hearing than by sight.
The stars appeared overhead as he emerged from beneath the angled boughs of the great pine trees. He paused, then, to slow his breathing and collect himself before picking his way across the bed of roots that surrounded the Menoa tree.
He stopped at the base of the immense trunk and placed his hand against the creviced bark. Reaching out with his mind toward the slow consciousness of the tree that had once been an elf woman, he said:
Linnëa … Linnëa … Awake! I must needs speak with you! He waited but detected no response from the tree; it was as if he were attempting to communicate with the sea or the air or the earth itself. Linnëa, I must speak to you!
A sigh of wind seemed to pass through his mind, and he felt a thought, faint and distant, a thought that said, What, O Rider …?
Linnëa, when last I was here, I said that I would give you whatever you wanted in exchange for the brightsteel under your roots. I am about to leave Alagaësia, so I have come to fulfill my obligation ere I go. What would you have of me, Linnëa?
The Menoa tree did not answer, but its branches stirred slightly, needles fell pattering onto the roots about the clearing, and a sense of amusement emanated from its consciousness.
Go …, whispered the voice, and then the tree withdrew from Eragon’s mind.
He stood where he was for another few minutes, calling her name, but the tree refused to respond. In the end, Eragon left, feeling as if the matter was still unsettled, although the Menoa tree obviously thought otherwise.
The next three days, Eragon spent reading books and scrolls—many of which had come from Galbatorix’s library and which Vanir had sent onward to Ellesméra at Eragon’s request. In the evenings, he dined with Roran, Katrina, and Arya, but otherwise he kept to himself and did not see even Saphira, for she remained with Fírnen on the Crags of Tel’naeír and showed little interest in anything else. At night, the roars and bellows of the dragons often echoed across the forest, distracting him from his studies and making him smile when he touched Saphira’s thoughts. He missed Saphira’s companionship, but he knew that she had only a short time to spend with Fírnen, and he begrudged her not her happiness.