Heritage [4] Inheritance by Christopher Paolini Page B

knew that Gertrude would have trouble, so for her sake he said, “Naina hvitr un böllr,” and set a small, glowing werelight floating in the air by the peak of the tent. The soft white orb produced no discernible heat but as much illumination as a bright lantern. He refrained from using the word
brisingr
in the spell, so as to avoid setting the blade of his sword on fire.
    He heard Gertrude pause behind him, and he turned to see her staring at the werelight and clutching at the bag she had brought with her. Her familiar face reminded him of home and Carvahall, and he felt an unexpected lurch of homesickness.
    She slowly lowered her gaze to his. “How you have changed,” she said. “The boy I once sat watch over as he fought off a fever is long gone, I think.”
    “You know me still,” he replied.
    “No, I don’t believe I do.”
    Her statement troubled him, but he could not afford to dwell on it, so he pushed it out of his mind and went to his cot. Gently, ever so gently, he transferred the newborn from his arms onto the blankets, as carefully as if she were made of glass. The girl waved a clenched fist at him. He smiled and touched it with the tip of his right forefinger, and she burbled softly.
    “What do you intend to do?” asked Gertrude as she sat on the lone stool near the tent wall. “How will you heal her?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    Just then, Eragon noticed that Arya had not accompanied them into the tent. He called her name, and a moment later, she answered from outside, her voice muffled by the thick fabric that separated them. “I am here,” she said. “And here I shall wait. If you have need of me, you have but to cast your thoughts in my direction and I shall come.”
    Eragon frowned slightly. He had counted on having her close at hand during the procedure, to help him where he was ignorant and to correct him if he made any mistake.
Well, no matter. I can still ask her questions if I want to. Only this way, Gertrude will have no reason to suspect that Arya had anything to do with the girl
. He was struck by the precautions that Arya was taking in order to avoid arousing suspicion that the girl was a changeling, and he wondered if she had once been accused of stealing someone’s child.
    The frame of the cot creaked as he slowly lowered himself onto it, facing the infant. His frown deepened. Through him, he felt Saphira watching the girl as she lay on the blankets, now dozing, seemingly oblivious to the world. Her tongue glistened within the cleft that split her upper lip.
    What do you think?
he asked.
    Go slowly, so that you do not bite your tail by accident
.
    He agreed with her, then, feeling impish, asked,
And have you ever done that? Bitten your tail, I mean?
    She remained silently aloof, but he caught a brief flash of sensations: a medley of images—trees, grass, sunshine, the mountains of the Spine—as well as the cloying scent of red orchids and a sudden painful, pinching sensation, as if a door had slammed shut on her tail.
    Eragon chuckled quietly to himself, then concentrated on composing the spells he thought he would need to heal the girl. It took quite a while, almost a half hour. He and Saphira spent most of that time going over the arcane sentences again and again, examining and debating every word and phrase—and even hispronunciation—in an attempt to ensure that the spells would do what he intended and nothing more.
    In the midst of their silent conversation, Gertrude shifted in her seat and said, “She looks the same as ever. The work goes badly, doesn’t it? There is no need to hide the truth from me, Eragon; I have dealt with far worse in my day.”
    Eragon raised his eyebrows and, in a mild voice, said, “The work has not yet begun.”
    And Gertrude sank back, subdued. From within her bag, she removed a ball of yellow yarn, a half-finished sweater, and a pair of polished birch knitting needles. Her fingers moved with practiced speed, quick and deft, as she began to