Christopher Paolini - Inheritance

With the dinner, as with the feast the previous day, the dwarves provided song and music, and listening to the performance of a particularly skilled dwarf bard delayed the departure of their party even further.

“Stay another night,” Orik urged. “It’s dark and no time for traveling.”

Eragon glanced up at the full moon and smiled. “You forget, it’s not so dark for me as it is for you. No, we must go. If we wait any longer, I fear we will never leave.”

“Then go with mine blessings, brother of mine heart.”

They embraced, and then Orik had horses brought for them-horses the dwarves kept stabled in Hedarth for the elves who came to trade.

Eragon raised his arm in farewell to Orik. Then he spurred his steed forward and galloped with Roran and Arya and the rest of the elves away from Hedarth and down the game trail that ran along the southern bank of the Edda, where the air was sweet with the aroma of willows and cottonwoods. Above, the dragons followed, twining around each other in a playful, spiraling dance.

Outside Hedarth, Eragon reined in his mount, as did the others, and they rode on at a slower, more comfortable pace, talking softly amongst themselves. Eragon discussed nothing of importance with Arya or Roran, nor they with him, for it was not the words that mattered but rather the sense of closeness they shared in the confines of the night. The mood between them felt precious and fragile, and when they spoke, it was with greater kindness than usual, for they knew their time together was drawing to an end, and none wished to mar it with a thoughtless phrase.

They soon arrived at the top of a small hill and gazed down from it upon the Talita , which sat waiting for them on the far side.

The ship appeared as Eragon knew it would. As it must.

By the light of the pale moon, the vessel looked like a swan ready to take flight from the wide, slow-moving river and carry him into the vast unknown. The elves had lowered its sails, and the sheets of fabric gleamed with a faint sheen. A single figure stood at the tiller, but otherwise the deck was empty.

Past the Talita , the flat, dark plain extended all the way to the distant horizon: a daunting expanse broken only by the river itself, which lay upon the land like a strip of hammered metal.

A tightness formed in Eragon’s throat, and he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, as if to hide himself from the sight.

They slowly rode down the hill and through the whispering grass to the pebble beach by the ship. The hooves of the horses sounded sharp and loud against the stones.

There Eragon dismounted, as did the others. Unbidden, the elves formed two lines leading to the ship, one facing the other, and they planted the ends of their spears in the ground by their feet and stood thus, statue-like.

Eragon looked them over, and the tightness in his throat increased, making it difficult to breathe properly.

Now is the moment , said Saphira, and he knew she was right.

Eragon untied the casket of gold and gems from the back of his horse’s saddle and carried it to Roran.

“This is where we part, then?” Roran asked.

Eragon nodded. “Here,” he said, giving the casket to Roran. “You should have this. You can make better use of it than I.… Use it to build your castle.”

“I’ll do that,” said Roran, his voice thick. He placed the casket under his left arm, and then he embraced Eragon with his right, and they held each other for a long moment. Afterward, Roran said, “Be safe, Brother.”

“You too, Brother.… Take care of Katrina and Ismira.”

“I will.”

Unable to think of anything else to say, Eragon touched Roran once more on the shoulder, then turned away and went to join Arya where she stood waiting for him by the two rows of elves.

They stared at each other for a handful of heartbeats, and then Arya said, “Eragon.” She had drawn her cowl as well, and in the moonlight, he could see little of her face.

“Arya.” He looked down the silvery river and then back at Arya, and he gripped the hilt of Brisingr. He was so full of emotion, he trembled. He did not want to leave, but he knew he must. “Stay with me-”

Her gaze darted up. “I cannot.”

“… stay with me until the first curve in the river.”

She hesitated, then nodded. He held out his arm, and she looped hers through his, and together they walked onto the ship and went to stand by the prow.

The elves behind them followed, and once they were all on board, they pulled up the gangplank. Without wind or oars, the ship moved away from the stony shore and began to drift down the long, flat river.

On the beach, Roran stood alone, watching them go. Then he threw back his head and uttered a long, aching cry, and the night echoed with the sound of his loss.

For several minutes, Eragon stood next to Arya, and neither spoke as they watched the first curve in the river approach. At last, Eragon turned to her, and he pushed the cowl away from her face, so that he could see her eyes.

“Arya,” he said. And he whispered her true name. A tremor of recognition ran through her.

She whispered his true name in response, and he too shivered at hearing the fullness of his being.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but Arya forestalled him by placing three of her fingers upon his lips. She stepped back from him then and raised one arm over her head.

“Farewell, Eragon Shadeslayer,” she said.

And then Firnen swept down from above and snatched her off the deck of the ship, buffeting Eragon with the gusts of air from his wings.

“Farewell,” Eragon whispered as he watched her and Firnen fly back toward where Roran still stood upon the distant shore.

Then Eragon finally allowed the tears to spill from his eyes, and he clutched the railing of the ship and wept as he left behind all that he had ever known. Above, Saphira keened, and her grief mingled with his as they mourned what could never be.

In time, however, Eragon’s heart slowed, and his tears dried, and a measure of peace stole over him as he gazed out at the empty plain. He wondered what strange things they might encounter within its wild reaches, and he pondered the life he and Saphira were to have-a life with the dragons and Riders.

We are not alone, little one , said Saphira.

A smile crept across his face.

And the ship sailed onward, gliding serenely down the moonlit river toward the dark lands beyond.

To the casual observer, the various names an intrepid traveler will encounter throughout Alagaesia might seem but a random collection of labels with no inherent integrity, culture, or history. However, as with any land that different cultures-and in this case, different species-have repeatedly colonized, Alagaesia acquired names from a wide array of unique sources, among them the languages of the dwarves, elves, humans, and even Urgals. Thus we can have Palancar Valley (a human name), the Anora River and Ristvak’baen (elven names), and Utgard Mountain (a dwarf name) all within a few square miles of each other.

While this is of great historical interest, practically it often leads to confusion as to the correct pronunciation. Unfortunately, there are no set rules for the neophyte. You must learn each name upon its own terms, unless you can immediately place its language of origin. The matter grows even more confusing when you realize that in many places the resident population altered the spelling and pronunciation of foreign words to conform to their own language. The Anora River is a prime example. Originally anora was spelled aenora , which means broad in the ancient language. In their writings, the humans simplified the word to anora , and this, combined with a vowel shift wherein ae (ay-eh) was said as the easier a (uh), created the name as it appears in Eragon’s time.