Luminescent (Inheritance Cycle and Beyond)

Chapter Twenty: Iridescent

"Your handiwork has served me well, Rhunön-elda. I would be long dead were it not for Zar'roc. I killed the Shade Durza with it."

"Did you now? Then some good has come of it." Sheathing Zar' roc, Rhunön returned it to him, though not without reluctance, then looked past us to Saphira and Alethea. "Ah. Well met, Skulblaka."

"Well met, Rhunön-elda." Both dragons murmured. Without bothering to ask permission, Rhunön went up to Saphira's and Alethea's shoulder and tapped a scale with one of her blunt fingernails, twisting her head from side to side in an attempt to peer into the translucent pebble.

"Good color. Not like those brown dragons, all muddy and dark. Properly speaking, a Rider's sword should match the hue of his dragon, and this blue would have made a gorgeous blade as well as that white...."

"I've never seen the equal of your mail, not even among the dwarves. How do you have the patience to weld every link? Why don't you just use magic and save yourself the work?" Eragon asked. I rolled my eyes at his outburst. He was still a little impulsive."

"And rob myself of all pleasure in this task? Aye, every other elf and I could use magic to satisfy our desires—and some do—but then what meaning is there in life? How would you fill your time? Tell me."

"I don't know," Eragon confessed.

"By pursuing that which you love the most. When you can have anything you want by uttering a few words, the goal matters not, only the journey to it — a lesson for you. You'll face the same dilemma one day if you live long enough... Now begone! I am weary of this talk."

"Rhunön-elda," Arya spoke. "Remember, I will return for you on the eve of the Agaetí Blödhren." A grunt was her only reply. We left the forge and started to wander Ellesméra again.

"She made all the Riders' swords?" Eragon asked in awe. "Every last one?"

"That and more. She's the greatest smith who has ever lived. I thought that you should meet her for her sake and yours."

"Thank you."

"Is she always so brusque?" Saphira asked

"Always. For her, nothing matters except her craft, and she's famously impatient with anything—or anyone—that interferes with it. Her eccentricities are well tolerated, though, because of her incredible skill and accomplishments."

"Celebration," Arya answered Eragon's question about the impending celebration. "We hold the Blood-oath Celebration once every century to honor our pact with the dragons. Both of you are fortunate to be here now, for it is nighupon us...Fate has indeed arranged a most auspicious coincidence."

We walked farther in Du Weldenvarden until we came across a huge tree.

"Behold the Menoa tree," Arya whispered. "We observe the Agaetí Blödhren in her shade. Shall I tell you the story of the Menoa tree?"

"I'd like that," Eragon responded as Blagden flew into the Menoa tree.

"Wyrda!"

"This is what happened. Once there lived a woman, Linnëa, in the years of spice and wine before our war with the dragons and before we became as immortal as any beings still composed of vulnerable flesh can be. Linnëa had grown old without the comfort of a mate or children, nor did she feel the need to seek them out, preferring to occupy herself with the art of singing to plants, of which she was a master. That is, she did until a young man came to her door and beguiled her with words of love. His affections woke a part of Linnëa that she had never