CHAPTER IV

Rhymes and Riddles

Eragon stared across his desk at Angela the herbalist, studying her.

She was sitting in the dark pinewood chair the elves had sung for him, still clad in her furs and travel cloak. Flakes of melted snow beaded the tips of the rabbit-hair trim, bright and shiny by the light of the lanterns.

On the floor next to the herbalist lay the werecat, Solembum, in his feline form, licking himself dry. His tongue rasped loudly against his shaggy coat.

Billows of snow swirled past the open windows of the eyrie, blocking the view. Some slipped in and dusted the sills, but for the most part, the wards Eragon had set kept out the snow and cold.

The storm had settled on Mount Arngor two days past, and it still showed no signs of letting up. Nor was it the first. Winter on the eastern plains had been far harsher than Eragon expected. Something to do with the effects of the Beor Mountains on the weather, he suspected.

Angela and Solembum had arrived with the latest batch of traders: a group of bedraggled humans, travel-worn and half frozen to death. Accompanying the herbalist had also been the dragon-marked child Elva—she who carried the curse of self-sacrifice Eragon had inadvertently laid upon her. A curse instead of a blessing, and every time he saw her, he still felt a sense of responsibility.

They’d left the girl on the lower levels, eating with the dwarves. She’d grown since Eragon had last seen her, and now she looked to be nearly ten, which was at least six years in advance of her actual age.

“Now then, where’s the clutch of bouncing baby dragons I was expecting?” said Angela. She pulled off her mittens and then folded her hands over her knee and matched his gaze. “Or have they still not hatched?”

Eragon resisted the urge to grimace. “No. The main part of the hold is far from finished—as you’ve seen—and stores are tight. To quote Glaedr, the eggs have already waited for a hundred years; they can wait one more winter.”

“Mmm, he might be right. Be careful of waiting too long, though, Argetlam. The future belongs to those who seize it. What about Saphira, then?”

“What about her?”

“Has she laid any eggs?”

Eragon shifted, uncomfortable. The truth was Saphira hadn’t, not yet, but he didn’t want to admit as much. The information felt too personal to share. “If you’re so interested, you should ask her yourself.”

The herbalist cocked her head. “Oh, touchy, are we? I suppose I will, then.”

“What brings you here, and in the middle of winter, no less?”

She produced a small copper flask from under her cloak and took a sip before offering it to Eragon. He shook his head. “Now, now, Kingslayer, you almost sound as if you’re not happy to see us.”

“You are always welcome at our hearth,” said Eragon, choosing his words with care. The last thing he wanted to do was offend this quicksilver-like woman. “But you can’t deny it’s odd, venturing out across the plains in the dead months of the year. I’m just curious. You of all people should understand that.”

“My, how far we’ve come from that day in Teirm,” Angela murmured. Then she raised her voice again: “Two reasons. First, because I’m currently on a take-around with Elva. I thought it would do both her and me some good to leave the human parts of Alagaësia for a time. Especially seeing as how Nasuada’s pet spellcasters in Du Vrangr Gata are making life difficult for harmless, innocent hedge witches such as myself.”

“Harmless? Innocent?” Eragon raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” said Angela, and her lips quirked with a smile, “perhaps not so harmless as all that. In any case, we’ve been to Du Weldenvarden. We’ve been to the dream well in Mani’s Caves, and we’ve stopped over in Tronjheim. Fell Thindarë seemed the next natural destination. Besides…” She fiddled with the trim of her cloak. “It occurred to me that Elva might be able to help you soothe the minds of some of the Eldunarí.”

Eragon nodded, reading the meaning between her lines. “That she might. And…were I to venture a guess, I would say she might learn something by it also.”

“Exactly,” said Angela with unexpected force. She wiped the water off the fur of her hood, not meeting his eyes. “Exactly.”

A deeper concern began to form in Eragon. Of all the people and creatures he had met since discovering Saphira’s egg in the Spine so long ago, Elva was perhaps the most dangerous. His badly worded blessing had forced her to become something more than human: a living shield against the misfortune of others. As a result, Elva had gained the ability to foresee and thus forestall impending hurts. Nor was that the end to her powers. She could perceive the most painful thoughts in those around her, which was an intimidating—even frightening—prospect. And for a young child to bear that burden: overwhelming.

It never ceased to amaze Eragon that, despite his spell, Elva had retained her sanity. She was still young, though, and risks remained.

“What are you not saying, Angela?” he said, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward. “Has something gone amiss with Elva?”

“Amiss?” The herbalist laughed, bright and merry. “No, nothing amiss. You have an overly suspicious mind, Shadeslayer.”

“Hmm.” He wasn’t convinced.

The rasping of Solembum’s tongue continued unabated.

Then the herbalist reached under her cloak and removed a thin, flat packet wrapped in oilskin. “Second: my other reason for coming.” She handed Eragon the packet. “In light of my impending dotage, I decided to put pen to paper and write an account of my life. An autobiography of sorts, if you will.”

“Your impending dotage, eh?” The curly-haired woman didn’t look any older than her early twenties. Eragon hefted the packet. “And what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Read it, of course!” said Angela. “Why else would I traipse across the whole of Alagaësia and beyond but to get the informed opinion of a man raised as an illiterate farmer?”

Eragon eyed her for a long moment. “Very funny.” He unwrapped the packet to find a small collection of rune-covered pages, each written with a different color of ink. Shuffling through them, he saw several chapter titles. The numbers appended to them varied wildly. “There are parts missing,” he said.

The herbalist fluttered her hand, as if the matter was of no consequence. “That’s because I’m writing them out of order. It’s how my brain works.”

“But how do you know that”—he squinted at a page—“this is supposed to be chapter one hundred twenty-five and not, say, one hundred twenty-three?”

“Because,” said Angela with a superior expression, “I have faith in the gods, and they reward my devotion.”

“No, you don’t,” said Eragon. He leaned forward, feeling as if he’d just gained the advantage in a sparring match. “You don’t have faith in anyone but yourself.”

She made an expression of mock outrage. “Here now! You dare question my conviction, Shur’tugal?!”

“Not at all. I just question where it’s directed. Even if I took your word at its face, what gods do you have faith in? Those of the dwarves? The Urgals? The wandering tribes?”

Angela’s smile broadened. “Why, all of them, of course. My faith is not so narrow as to be restricted to a single set of deities.”

“I imagine that would be quite…contradictory.”

“You’re far too literal-minded for your own good, Bromsson, as I’ve told you before. Expand your conception of what is or isn’t possible.” She eyed him with an aggravating amount of amusement.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, attempting to indulge her. “Still, the gods didn’t write these pages.”

“No, I did. But now we’re getting distracted by theology, and while it makes for delightful conversation, that’s not my intent….Are you familiar with the puzzle rings the dwarves make?”

Eragon nodded, remembering the one Orik had given him during their trip from Tronjheim to the elven city of Ellesméra.

“Then you know how, when they’re disassembled, they look like a patternless bunch of twisted bands. But arrange them in the right sequence, and hey ho! there you go—a beautiful, solid ring.” Angela gestured toward the papers in his hand. “Order or disorder: it depends on your perspective.”

“And what perspective is yours?” he asked softly.

“That of the ring maker,” she answered in an equally soft tone.

“I—”

“Stop asking so many questions and read the manuscript.” She picked up her mittens and stood. “We’ll talk after.”

As the herbalist left the eyrie, Solembum stopped his licking, stared at Eragon with his slitted eyes, and said, Beware of shadows that walk, human. There are strange forces at work in the world.

Then the werecat left as well, padding away on silent paws.

Annoyed and a little disquieted, Eragon settled back in his chair and started to read from Angela’s papers. The contrary part of him was tempted to read them out of sequence, just to spite her, but he behaved himself and started as he should, from the beginning….