On the fourth day, when he had learned all he could from his reading, he went to Arya and presented his plan to her and her advisers. It took him the better part of the day to convince them that what he had in mind was necessary and, moreover, that it would work.
Once he had, they broke to eat. As dusk began to creep across the land, they assembled in the clearing around the Menoa tree: he, Saphira and Fírnen, Arya, thirty of the elves’ oldest and most accomplished spellcasters, Glaedr and the other Eldunarí that Eragon and Saphira had brought with them, and the two Caretakers: the elf women Iduna and Nëya, who were the living embodiment of the pact between the dragons and the Riders.
The Caretakers disrobed, and—in accordance with the ancient rituals—Eragon and the others began to sing, and as they sang, Iduna and Nëya danced, moving together so that the dragon tattooed across them seemed to become a single, unified creature.
At the height of the song, the dragon shimmered, and then it opened its jaws and stretched its wings and leaped forward, pulling itself off the elves’ skin and rising above the clearing until only its tail remained touching the intertwined Caretakers.
Eragon called to the glowing creature, and when he had its attention, he explained to it what he wanted and asked if the dragons would agree.
Do as you will, Kingkiller, said the spectral creature. If it will help ensure peace throughout Alagaësia, we do not object.
Then Eragon read from one of the books of the Riders, and he spoke the name of the ancient language in his mind. The elves and the dragons who were present lent him the strength of their bodies, and the energy from them coursed through him like a great whirling tempest. With it, Eragon cast the spell he had spent days perfecting, a spell such as had not been cast for hundreds of years: an enchantment like unto the great old magics that ran deep within the veins of the earth and the bones of the mountains. With it, he dared to do what had been done only once before.
With it, he forged a new compact between the dragons and the Riders.
He bound not just the elves and the humans to the dragons, but also the dwarves and the Urgals, making it so that any one of them could become a Rider.
As he spoke the final words of the mighty enchantment, and thus sealed it into place, a tremor seemed to run through the air and the earth. He felt as if everything around them—and everything in the world perhaps—had shifted ever so slightly. The spell exhausted him, Saphira, and the other dragons, but upon its conclusion, a sense of elation filled him, and he knew that he had accomplished a great good, the greatest, perhaps, of his entire life.
Arya insisted on throwing another feast to mark the occasion. Tired though he was, Eragon participated with good cheer, happy to enjoy her company and that of Roran, Katrina, and Ismira.
In the midst of the feast, however, the food and music suddenly became too much for him, and he excused himself from the table where he sat with Arya.
Are you all right? asked Saphira, looking over from her place by Fírnen.
He smiled at her from across the clearing. I just need some quiet. I’ll be back soon. He slipped away and walked slowly among the pines, breathing deeply of the cool night air.
A hundred feet from where the tables lay, Eragon saw a thin, high-shouldered elf man sitting against a massive root, his back to the nearby celebration. Eragon altered his path to avoid disturbing him, but as he did so, he caught a glimpse of the elf’s face.
It was no elf at all, but the butcher Sloan.
Eragon stopped, caught by surprise. In all that had gone on, he had forgotten that Sloan—Katrina’s father—was in Ellesméra. He hesitated for a moment, debating, and then with quiet steps walked over to him.
As he had the last time Eragon had seen him, Sloan wore a thin black strip of cloth tied around his head, covering the empty sockets where his eyes had once been. Tears seeped out from under the cloth, and his brow was furrowed and his lean hands clenched.
The butcher heard Eragon approach, for he turned his head in Eragon’s direction and said, “Who goes there? Is that you, Adarë? I told you, I need no help!” His words were bitter and angry, but there was also grief in them such as Eragon had not heard from him before.
“It’s me, Eragon,” he said.
Sloan stiffened, as if touched with a red-hot brand. “You! Have you come to gloat at my misery, then?”
“No, of course not,” said Eragon, appalled by the thought. He dropped into a crouch several feet away.
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you. It’s often hard to tell if you’re trying to help or hurt a person.”
“That depends on your point of view.”
Sloan’s upper lip curled. “Now there’s a weaselly elf-answer, if ever I heard one.”
Behind him, the elves struck up a new song on lute and pipe, and a burst of laughter floated toward Eragon and Sloan from the party.
The butcher motioned over his shoulder with his chin. “I can hear her.” Fresh tears rolled out from under the strip of cloth. “I can hear her, but I can’t see her. And your blasted spell won’t let me talk to her.”
Eragon remained silent, unsure what to say.
Sloan leaned his head against the root, and the knob in his throat bobbed. “The elves tell me that the child, Ismira, is strong and healthy.”
“She is. She’s the strongest, loudest baby I know. She’ll make a fine woman.”
“That’s good.”
“How have you spent your days? Have you kept up with your carving?”
“The elves keep you informed of my activities, do they?” As Eragon tried to decide how to answer—he did not want Sloan to know he had visited him once before—the butcher said, “I guessed as much. How do you think I spend my days? I spend them in darkness, as I have ever since Helgrind, with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs while the elves pester me about this and that and never give me a moment’s peace!”
Again laughter sounded behind them. Within it, Eragon could make out the sound of Katrina’s voice.
A fierce scowl contorted Sloan’s face. “And then you had to go and bring her to Ellesméra. It wasn’t enough just to exile me, was it? No, you had to torture me with the knowledge that my only child and grandchild are here, and that I’ll never be able to see them, much less meet them.” Sloan bared his teeth, and he looked as if he might spring forward at Eragon. “You’re a right heartless bastard, you are.”
“I have too many hearts,” said Eragon, though he knew the butcher would not understand.
“Bah!”
Eragon hesitated. It seemed kinder to let Sloan believe that Eragon had meant to hurt him rather than to tell him that his pain was merely the result of Eragon’s forgetfulness.
The butcher turned his head away, and more tears rolled down his cheeks. “Go,” he said. “Leave me. And never trouble me again, Eragon, or I swear one of us will die.”
Eragon poked at the needles on the ground, then he stood and stared down at Sloan. He did not want to leave. What he had done to Sloan by bringing Katrina to Ellesméra felt wrong and cruel. Guilt gnawed at Eragon, growing stronger second by second, until at last he reached a decision, whereupon calm settled over him again.
Speaking no louder than a whisper, he used the name of the ancient language to alter the spells he had placed on Sloan. It took him over a minute, and as he neared the end of his incantations, Sloan growled between clenched teeth, “Stop your accursed muttering, Eragon, and begone. Leave me, blast you! Leave me!”