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Another dawn rose and another dusk fell. The werelight faded into blackness, and as one body the elves sighed and seemed to slump down. They fled to their halls or the forest to sleep, and very quickly the center clearing was absolutely deserted.
Desiring anything but sleep, Eragon slipped through the eerie scene. Lanterns hung gaily around trees were dim. Objects lay discarded upon the ground, waiting for their owners to come retrieve them. The silence seemed to ring after the frantic pace of the last three days. All around, the natural vegetation was bright and full, renewed and refreshed. Even the trees stood taller.
The ghosts of the past seemed almost real in the stillness. He could almost see Islanzadi, disapproving; Oromis, smiling; Glaedr, teaching; Arya, proud. It was as if they might appear at any moment, needing only a breath of air to become flesh and blood.
Eragon wandered morosely, glad that Saphira was too far away to notice his pity party. As he walked aimlessly about, a fragment of distant song met his ears. He continued forward and the sound grew in volume.
It was a single woman, singing in a low, rich voice. The language was one he did not recognize, but the melody was compelling and intricate and the voice was irresistibly familiar. Padding silently amongst the faintly-trodden city paths, he found himself at the entrance of one of the grand halls.
The hall itself was constructed from enormous trees, the trunks of which had grown tightly together, entwining as they grew. Vines, flowers, and other vegetation climbed the trees, creating a living building.
Arya sat slightly to the left of him, only a few dozen feet inside the hall, surrounded by flowers of a hundred different colors. All had the same basic bell-shaped petals, but the similarities ended there. Some glittered like the sun's beams reflected on a river's surface; others shone like the moon. Some flowers seemed as deep red as blood or as pale blue as the wisp of a cloud.
As Eragon's head peered around one of the large tree boles that formed the framework of the hall, her eyes met his own. A moment later, she stopped singing.
"We do seem to encounter each other quite frequently," she noted coolly but without distaste.
He smiled faintly, ignoring his rapidly beating heart. "Yes," he acknowledged. Then, "Where did those come from?" he asked, motioning towards the flowers that suddenly curled themselves in a thousand different directions upon his words. He flinched.
She returned his faint smile upon noticing his discomfort. "They are… a pastime of mine." She stretched out a hand, and a vine wrapped itself loosely around her fingertips. A bud swelled rapidly on the edge of the vine and abruptly burst into bloom. This flower, in sharp contrast to its fellows, was colorless.
She smiled again, but this one was tinged with sadness. "A raven once saved my father's life. It was… years ago," she spoke while looking at the flower, and not at Eragon, "And my father granted him immortality. He lived with us for many years, even after my father's death. After my mother died though, it was as if…" she trailed off. "Immortality was something he no longer desired. He had a habit of seeing into the future—no more than in small fragments and limited visions, but the future nonetheless—and perhaps he saw nothing more of worth in his life. We sang him into a flowering plant, as he requested, but," she held up the flower entwined around her fingers, "he has never left us. Each blossom that you see here is a…" she frowned, searching for the words, "hint, if you will, of a person's fate."
Eragon, still standing just inside the hall, interpreted her story as an invitation to enter further. He stepped forward, touching the nearest flower with a gentle finger. The affectionate flower curled around his wrist and up to his elbow, its green-blue petals soft against his skin. He glanced a little wildly at Arya.
"They mean no harm," she reassured him, "However, they usually aren't quite this friendly," she frowned slightly, scrutinizing the flowers.
Eragon, remembering the raven Blagden all too well, had no doubts that they recognized him. Abruptly, he took another step forward, and a bright yellow flower joined the first. "There are so many," he observed, eying the myriads of flowers that covered the grounds and walls.
"Each flower represents a visitor. The plant blooms each time it meets a new person. The colors form a few minutes later," she said, motioning to the still-colorless flower upon her wrist.
A pink flower now twined its way up the vines of the first two flowers to rest in Eragon's palm. He grinned. Standing here listening to Arya speak, he felt the most at peace since he had left Alagaesia.
Arya watched him quizzically, "I'm surprised you haven't heard of these," she said finally, "I thought they were known throughout the land. Where is it that you are from?"
Eragon, with his back to Arya, froze. Swallowing quickly and racking his brain for acceptable phrases in the Ancient Language, he slowly turned around. Arya, however, was no longer paying attention to him. The flower that had so recently burst into life around her wrist upon Eragon's entrance had finally developed its coloring. It was now pure white in the center. Around its edges, it seemed almost to have been dipped in a dark blue ink, so dark as to be easily mistaken with black.
"Can you tell me what it means?" Eragon asked softly, after a moment, as she stared at the blossom intently.
She didn't respond for so long that he started to believe she was going to ignore him. "One of our spellcasters," she said finally, "devoted several decades to studying the colors and what they might signify." She looked up at him. "Yours… has no color. I can tell you nothing."
Arya eyed him searchingly. Eragon returned the gaze, heart in his throat. Perhaps he should tell her…? But no. A voice of reason spoke clearly in his mind. Nothing good could come from revealing his identity. Nothing. Nothing. He worked hard to convince himself.
"Who are you?" she asked almost accusingly, slowly standing up.
Her eyes burned into his own, and he swallowed reflexively. Almost panicking, he looked away from her flashing gaze. His eyes wandered through the flowers, settling on a single blossom near the ground. It was small, though perfectly formed. In contrast to all the other bright flowers that filled the side of the hall, it was quite nearly black.
"Is that one yours?" he asked abruptly, without thinking through the question. He took her astonished silence as a affirmation. Stepping forward, he stooped down and gently picked up the flower. On closer look, the inside base of the petals was a pale grey that radiated out and quickly faded into the blue-black shade that edged his own.
A vise-like grip upon his wrist startled him. Glancing up, he realized her face was only inches from his. Her eyes flicked from her flower to his eyes and back again. Abruptly, she flipped his hand over, exposing the palm of his left hand and the gedway ignasia that shone upon it, despite his best attempts to block its silvery sheen with magic.
He froze. Arya also became very still. For a single moment, she stared at the mark on his palm. Her gaze met his for the briefest of instances, and he was shocked at its coldness. Dropping his arm unceremoniously, she spun on her heel and strode calmly from the hall.
The flowers in Eragon's hands seemed to shrivel slightly in the frigid air of her departure. They retreated back towards the safety of the ground. He stood as if he himself were rooted to the ground. A sick feeling twisted in his stomach.