Christopher Paolini - Eldest [en]

As he repeated the words, Hrothgar muttered something in his own language, then said, “The skill we have, but what of it? The task would take months or years, and the end result would be a ruined mockery of the beauty that once graced Tronjheim! It is an abomination I will not sanction.”

Saphira continued to stare unblinkingly at the king. Now tell him: If Isidar Mithrim were put together again, with not one piece missing, I believe I could make it whole once more.

Eragon gaped at her, forgetting Hrothgar in his astonishment. Saphira! The energy that would require! You told me yourself that you can’t use magic at will, so what makes you sure you can do this?

I can do it if the need is great enough. It will be my gift to the dwarves. Remember Brom’s tomb; let that wash your doubt away. And close your mouth — it’s unbecoming and the king is watching.

When Eragon conveyed Saphira’s offer, Hrothgar straightened with an exclamation. “Is it possible? Not even the elves might attempt such a feat.”

“She is confident in her abilities.”

“Then we will rebuild Isidar Mithrim, no matter if it takes a hundred years. We will assemble a frame for the gem and set each piece into its original place. Not a single chip will be forgotten. Even if we must break the larger pieces to move them, it will be done with all our skill in working stone, so that no dust or flecks are lost. You will come then, when we are finished, and heal the Star Rose.”

“We will come,” agreed Eragon, bowing.

Hrothgar smiled, and it was like the cracking of a granite wall. “Such joy you have given me, Saphira. I feel once more a reason to rule and live. If you do this, dwarves everywhere will honor your name for uncounted generations. Go now with my blessings while I spread the tidings among the clans. And do not feel bound to wait upon my announcement, for no dwarf should be denied this news; convey it to all whom you meet. May the halls echo with the jubilation of our race.”

With one more bow, Eragon and Saphira departed, leaving the dwarf king still smiling on his throne. Out of the hall, Eragon told Orik what had transpired. The dwarf immediately bent and kissed the floor before Saphira. He rose with a grin and clasped Eragon’s arm, saying, “A wonder indeed. You have given us exactly the hope we needed to combat recent events. There will be drinking tonight, I wager!”

“And tomorrow is the funeral.”

Orik sobered for a moment. “Tomorrow, yes. But until then we shall not let unhappy thoughts disturb us! Come!”

Taking Eragon’s hand, the dwarf pulled him through Tronjheim to a great feast hall where many dwarves sat at stone tables. Orik leaped onto one, scattering dishes across the floor, and in a booming voice proclaimed the news of Isidar Mithrim. Eragon was nearly deafened by the cheers and shouts that followed. Each of the dwarves insisted on coming to Saphira and kissing the floor as Orik had. When that was finished, they abandoned their food and filled their stone tankards with beer and mead.

Eragon joined the revelry with an abandon that surprised him. It helped to ease the melancholy gathered in his heart. However, he did try to resist complete debauchery, for he was conscious of the duties that awaited them the following day and he wanted to have a clear head.

Even Saphira took a sip of mead, and finding that she liked it, the dwarves rolled out a whole barrel for her. Delicately lowering her mighty jaws through the cask’s open end, she drained it with three long draughts, then tilted her head toward the ceiling and belched a giant tongue of flame. It took several minutes for Eragon to convince the dwarves that it was safe to approach her again, but once he did, they brought her another barrel — overriding the cook’s protests — and watched with amazement as she emptied it as well.

As Saphira became increasingly inebriated, her emotions and thoughts washed through Eragon with more and more force. It became difficult for him to rely upon the input of his own senses: her vision began to slip over his own, blurring movement and changing colors. Even the odors he smelled shifted at times, becoming sharper, more pungent.

The dwarves began to sing together. Weaving as she stood, Saphira hummed along, punctuating each line with a roar. Eragon opened his mouth to join in and was shocked when, instead of words, out came the snarling rasp of a dragon’s voice. That , he thought, shaking his head, is going too far... Or am I just drunk? He decided it did not matter and proceeded to sing boisterously, dragon’s voice or not.

Dwarves continued to stream into the hall as word of Isidar Mithrim spread. Hundreds soon packed the tables, with a thick ring around Eragon and Saphira. Orik called in musicians who arranged themselves in a corner, where they pulled slipcovers of green velvet off their instruments. Soon harps, lutes, and silver flutes floated their gilded melodies over the throng.

Many hours passed before the noise and excitement began to calm. When it did, Orik once more climbed onto the table. He stood there, legs spread wide for balance, tankard in hand, iron-bound cap awry, and cried, “Hear, hear! At last we have celebrated as is proper. The Urgals are gone, the Shade is dead, and we have won!” The dwarves all pounded their tables in approval. It was a good speech — short and to the point. But Orik was not finished. “To Eragon and Saphira!” he roared, lifting the tankard. This too was well received.

Eragon stood and bowed, which brought more cheers. Beside him, Saphira reared and swung a foreleg across her chest, attempting to duplicate his move. She tottered, and the dwarves, realizing their danger, scrambled away from her. They were barely in time. With a loud whoosh, Saphira fell backward, landing flat on a banquet table.

Pain shot through Eragon’s back and he collapsed insensate by her tail.

“Wake, Knurlhiem! You cannot sleep now. We are needed at the gate — they won’t start without us.”

Eragon forced his eyes open, conscious of an aching head and sore body. He was lying on a cold stone table. “What?” He grimaced at the sick taste on his tongue.

Orik tugged on his brown beard. “Ajihad’s procession. We must be present for it!”

“No, what did you call me?” They were still in the banquet hall, but it was empty except for him, Orik, and Saphira, who lay on her side between two tables. She stirred and lifted her head, looking around with bleary eyes.

“Stonehead! I called you Stonehead because I’ve been trying to wake you for almost an hour.”

Eragon pushed himself upright and slid off the table. Flashes of memory from the night before jumped through his mind. Saphira, how are you? he asked, stumbling to her.

She swiveled her head, running her crimson tongue in and out over her teeth, like a cat that ate something unpleasant. Whole... I think. My left wing feels a bit strange; I think it’s the one I landed on. And my head is filled with a thousand hot arrows.

“Was anyone hurt when she fell?” asked Eragon, concerned.

A hearty chuckle exploded from the dwarf’s thick chest. “Only those who dropped off their seats from laughing so hard. A dragon getting drunk and bowing at that! I’m sure lays will be sung about it for decades.” Saphira shuffled her wings and looked away primly. “We thought it best to leave you here, since we couldn’t move you, Saphira. It upset the head cook terribly — he feared you would drink more of his best stock than the four barrels you already did.”

And you chastised me once for drinking! If I consumed four barrels, it would kill me!

That’s why you’re not a dragon.