CHAPTER III
The Hall of Colors
It was night when Eragon returned to himself, and the only illumination in the Hall of Colors came from the flameless lanterns on the walls and the inner radiance of the Eldunarí themselves.
He sat staring at the floor while he regrouped and recovered. A smile spread across his face. Murtagh! Eragon hadn’t heard anything from his half brother since they’d parted outside of Urû’baen, now Ilirea, after the death of Galbatorix. Rumors of a red dragon seen flying here or there throughout Alagaësia had been the only clues that Murtagh was still alive. It was good to know he was doing well—or at least better than before.
He deserves to be happy, Eragon thought.
Then he paused to consider the subject of Murtagh’s search, as well as the witch-woman Bachel. Both concerned him, for they reminded Eragon of how much he still didn’t know about Alagaësia and its denizens. Ignorance wasn’t a flaw he could afford anymore; it could too easily prove fatal for those he and Saphira had sworn to protect.
He hoped Murtagh would be careful. Wherever he was going, Eragon felt sure it would be dangerous in the extreme. Murtagh was plenty capable, but he wasn’t invulnerable. No one was.
Again, Eragon heard Murtagh’s advice to Essie: “Sometimes you have to stand and fight. Sometimes running away isn’t an option.” And Eragon knew then why the dragons had shown him that particular vision.
His smile returned, and he let out his breath. If a girl like Essie could stand her ground and face the difficulties of her life, so too could he—and with good grace. He was a Dragon Rider, after all. It was what he was supposed to do.
Besides, none of the problems he was wrestling with were half so unpleasant or daunting as that nasty Hjordis. Eragon chuckled and shook his head, glad he wasn’t the one having to deal with the spoiled girl.
Did that help? Glaedr asked.
Eragon nodded, although the dragon couldn’t see, and stood, stretching his sore legs. Yes. It did. Thank you, Ebrithil….All of you, thank you.
A chorus of answering thoughts was his reply: You are welcome, youngling.
One day the dragons would no longer consider him an unseasoned whelp, but today was not that day. A wry expression on his face, Eragon took his leave and climbed back up the ramp of stairs to the eyrie.
Outside, cold stars shone down upon Mount Arngor and the lands below. The sight reminded Eragon of the grass ship Murtagh had seen—the same ship Arya had made one night by a fire, when she’d come to help him escape on foot from the Empire. That had also been the night when a group of wilding spirits had emerged from the dark and, during a visitation, transformed a lily into a flower of living gold.
Arya had imbued the ship with a spell to draw energy from the plants beneath so that it might always stay aloft and the grass would remain fresh and green forevermore. It gladdened Eragon to know the ship was still out there, sailing around Alagaësia upon waves of wind, and he wondered at everything it had seen in its wanderings. Just another mystery among so many others.
Saphira was waiting for him, curled in her nest. She opened an eye as Eragon undressed and crawled under her near wing. So? she said.
“You were right,” Eragon said, settling against the warmth of her belly. “I needed a break.”
A low humming formed in her chest. You’re much nicer when you’re not snapping like an angry fox.
He chuckled. “True.” Then he shared with her the vision from the Eldunarí.
Afterward, she said, I would like it if Murtagh and Thorn came to stay with us.
“So would I.”
Do you think we have another enemy hidden in Alagaësia?
“I don’t know. If we do, they’re just one more added to the lot. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
No….She took a deep breath and shuffled her wings as she readjusted her position. No more worries for tonight. Leave them for the morning.
“No more worries,” Eragon agreed with a smile. He closed his eyes and snuggled closer, and for the first time since they’d arrived at Mount Arngor, he put aside his concerns and slept without anxiety or interruption.