Eragon nodded, then croaked, “That he was.”
“It seems fitting, somehow.”
Eragon was not inclined to discuss the topic further, so he merely grunted and extinguished the werelight with a glance and a thought. Instantly, all went dark, save for the predawn glow. His eyes adjusted to the change faster than Gertrude’s; she blinked and frowned and swung her head from side to side, as if unsure of where he stood.
The girl was warm and heavy in Eragon’s arms as he picked her up. He was uncertain whether his weariness was due to the magic he had wrought or to the sheer length of time the task had taken him.
He gazed down at the girl and, feeling suddenly protective, murmured, “Sé ono waíse ilia.” May you be happy. It was not a spell, not properly, but he hoped that maybe it could help her avoid some of the misery that afflicted so many people. Failing that, he hoped it would make her smile.
It did. A wide smile spread across her diminutive face, and with great enthusiasm, she said, “Gahh!”
Eragon smiled as well, then turned and strode outside.
As the entrance flaps fell away, he saw a small crowd gathered in a semicircle around the tent, some standing, some sitting, others squatting. Most he recognized from Carvahall, but Arya and the other elves were also there—somewhat apart from the rest—as well as several warriors of the Varden whose names he did not know. He spotted Elva lurking behind a nearby tent, her black lace veil lowered, hiding her face.
The group, Eragon realized, must have been waiting for hours, and he had not sensed anything of their presence. He had been safe enough with Saphira and the elves keeping watch, but that was no excuse for allowing himself to become so complacent.
I have to do better, he told himself.
At the forefront of the crowd stood Horst and his sons, looking worried. Horst’s brow knotted as he gazed at the bundle in Eragon’s arms, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but no sound came forth.
Without pomp or ceremony, Eragon walked over to the smith and turned the girl so that he could see her face. For a moment, Horst did not move; then his eyes began to glisten and his expression changed to one of joy and relief so profound, it could have been mistaken for grief.
As he gave the girl to Horst, Eragon said, “My hands are too bloody for this kind of work, but I’m glad I was able to help.”
Horst touched the girl’s upper lip with the tip of his middle finger, then shook his head. “I can’t believe it.… I can’t believe it.” He looked at Eragon. “Elain and I are forevermore in your debt. If—”
“There is no debt,” Eragon said gently. “I only did what anyone would if they had the ability.”
“But you were the one who healed her, and it’s to you I’m grateful.”
Eragon hesitated, then bowed his head, accepting Horst’s gratitude. “What will you name her?”
The smith beamed at his daughter. “If it’s agreeable to Elain, I thought we might call her Hope.”
“Hope … A good name, that.” And don’t we need some hope in our lives? “And how is Elain?”
“Tired, but well.”
Then Albriech and Baldor clustered around their father, peering at their new sister, as did Gertrude—who had emerged from the tent soon after Eragon—and once their shyness faded, the rest of the villagers joined them. Even the group of curious warriors pressed close to Horst, craning their necks in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the girl.
After a while, the elves unfolded their long limbs and approached as well. Seeing them, people quickly stepped out of the way, clearing a path to Horst. The smith stiffened and pushed his jaw out like a bulldog’s as, one by one, the elves bent and examined the girl, sometimes whispering a word or two in the ancient language to her. They did not seem to notice or mind the suspicious stares that the villagers cast at them.
When only three elves were left in line, Elva darted out from behind the tent where she had been concealing herself and joined the end of the procession. She did not have to wait long before it was her turn to stand before Horst. Although he appeared reluctant, the smith lowered his arms and bent his knees, but he was so much taller than Elva, she had to rise up on the tips of her toes in order to see the infant. Eragon held his breath as she gazed at the formerly deformed child, unable to guess her reaction through her veil.
After a few seconds, Elva dropped back onto her heels. With a deliberate pace, she started down the path that ran past Eragon’s tent. Twenty yards away, she stopped and turned toward him.
He tilted his head and lifted an eyebrow.
She nodded, a short, abrupt movement, then continued on her way.
As Eragon watched her go, Arya sidled up to him. “You should be proud of what you have accomplished,” she murmured. “The child is sound and well formed. Not even our most skilled enchanters could improve on your gramarye. It is a great thing, what you have given this girl—a face and a future—and she will not forget it, I am sure.… None of us will.”
Eragon saw that she and all the elves were regarding him with a look of newfound respect—but it was Arya’s admiration and approval that meant the most to him. “I had the best of teachers,” he replied in an equally low voice. Arya did not dispute his assertion. Together they watched the villagers mill around Horst and his daughter, talking excitedly. Without taking his eyes off them, Eragon leaned toward Arya and said, “Thank you for helping Elain.”
“You’re welcome. I would have been remiss not to.”
Horst turned then and carried the child into the tent so that Elain might see her newborn daughter, but the knot of people showed no signs of dispersing. When Eragon was fed up with shaking hands and answering questions, he said farewell to Arya, then slipped off to his tent and tied the flaps closed behind him.
Unless we’re under attack, I don’t want to see anyone for the next ten hours, not even Nasuada, he said to Saphira as he threw himself onto his cot. Will you tell Blödhgarm, please?
Of course, she said. Rest, little one, as will I.
Eragon sighed and draped an arm over his face to block the morning light. His breathing slowed, his mind began to wander, and soon the strange sights and sounds of his waking dreams enveloped him—real, yet imaginary; vivid, yet transparent, as if the visions were made of colored glass—and, for a time, he was able to forget his responsibilities and the harrowing events of the past day. And all through his dreams, there wound the cradle song, like a whisper of wind, half heard, half forgotten, and it lulled him, with memories of his home, into a childlike peace.
NO REST FOR THE WEARY
wo dwarves, two men, and two Urgals—members of Nasuada’s personal guard, the Nighthawks—were stationed outside the room in the castle where Nasuada had set up her headquarters.
They stared at Roran with flat, empty eyes. He kept his face equally as blank as he stared back.
It was a game they had played before.
Despite the Nighthawks’ lack of expression, he knew they were busy figuring out the fastest and most efficient ways to kill him. He knew, because he was doing the same with regard to them, as he always did.
I’d have to backtrack as fast as I could … spread them out a bit, he decided. The men would get to me first; they’re faster than the dwarves, and they’d slow the Urgals behind them.… Have to get those halberds away from them. It’d be tricky, but I think I could—one of them, at least. Might have to throw my hammer. Once I had a halberd, I could keep the rest at a distance. The dwarves wouldn’t stand much of a chance, then, but the Urgals would be trouble. Ugly brutes, those.… If I used that pillar as cover, I could—