Prologue
"Grammatera?"
The old elf smiled at her great-great-great-granddaughter and held out her hand to take the large, leather bound book. The breath hitched in her throat as she shakily traced the dragon stamped into the dark leather.
"Dear heart, where did you get this?" she whispered, her voice oh so soft. The child, her dark brown eyes serious, pointed in the direction of the forest Du Weldenvarden.
"I found it in a cave in the forest," the young girl said, confused by her elder's reaction. The old elf closed her green eyes, eyes that saw the world as if it was covered in a fog. But that did not mean her memories were dim, no there were as bright as day. She remembered watching her father put this book together, remember him telling her the story behind each. She had been fascinated by the stories, she had been over fifty, but she had drunk in every word as if she was a child and still remembered them, well over eight centuries later.
"What is it, Gran?" the girl asked.
The old elf looked at the young one and for the first time in ten years, she was able to see clearly. She saw the young one, saw her unruly dark brown hair, her serious brown eyes, the human cast to her features. The human blood had thrown true in this one, she thought, brushing the child's hair out of her face. This one will do great things, like her ancestor.
Oh father, if only you could see this child, she thought.
"This is a very special book," she said, brushing her fingers over the cover. "My father made it, before he left Alagaesia."
The girl's eyes widened and sparkled with excitement. "You mean…Rider Eragon?"
Aiedail laughed. "Yes dear, Rider Eragon. He made this book, this picture book, and told me all about it. Its so we don't…we don't forget."
The girl, Isla, frowned at her elder, but settled down at her feet, sensing a story. Aiedail looked to the west, where she could just barely make out the shape of a white mountain in the distance. At a thought from her, the mountain moved and the head of a truly enormous dragon appeared, eyes as big as houses full of curiousity.
"Don't forget what, Gran?" Isla asked, eager to hear a tale from her oldest relation. Aiedail smiled at the child, the last of her line. This child was descended from her son Brom's daughter, from the line of Zaahira, the great-grandchild of Dauthleikr Rauthr, that abomination child that turned out to be the key to winning the war. She had strong blood in her veins, she would need it to face the trials that awaited her.
"Gran?" Isla tugged Aiedail's skirts, impatient with her stalling. Dail took a deep breath and rested her frail hand on the child's head.
"The past, child. We must never forget…the past."