“Brom once told us about the fall of the Riders,” said Eragon defensively. An image of a deer bounding over rotting logs flashed behind his eyes from Saphira, who was off hunting.

“Ah, a brave man.” For a minute, Lifaen paddled silently. “We too sing about the Fall . . . but rarely. Most of us were alive when Vrael entered the void, and we still grieve for our burned cities—the red lilies of Éwayëna, the crystals of Luthivíra—and for our slain families. Time cannot dull the pain of those wounds, not if a thousand thousand years pass and the sun itself dies, leaving the world to float in eternal night.”

Orik grunted in the back. “As it is with the dwarves. Remember, elf, we lost an entire clan to Galbatorix.”

“And we lost our king, Evandar.”

“I never heard that,” said Eragon, surprised.

Lifaen nodded as he guided them around a submerged rock. “Few have. Brom could have told you about it; he was there when the fatal blow was struck. Before Vrael’s death, the elves faced Galbatorix on the plains of Ilirea in our final attempt to defeat him. There Evandar—”

“Where is Ilirea?” asked Eragon.

“It’s Urû’baen, boy,” said Orik. “Used to be an elf city.”

Unperturbed by the interruption, Lifaen continued: “As you say, Ilirea was one of our cities. We abandoned it during our war with the dragons, and then, centuries later, humans adopted it as their capital after King Palancar was exiled.”

Eragon said, “King Palancar? Who was he? Is that how Palancar Valley got its name?”

This time the elf turned and looked at him with amusement. “You have as many questions as leaves on a tree, Argetlam.”

“Brom was of the same opinion.”

Lifaen smiled, then paused, as if to gather his thoughts. “When your ancestors arrived in Alagaësia eight hundred years ago, they roamed far across it, seeking a suitable place to live. Eventually, they settled in Palancar Valley—though it was not called such then—as it was one of the few defendable locations that we or the dwarves had not claimed. There your king, Palancar, began to build a mighty state.

“In an attempt to expand his borders, he declared war against us, though we had offered no provocation. Three times he attacked, and three times we prevailed. Our strength frightened Palancar’s nobles and they pled with their liege for peace. He ignored their counsel. Then the lords approached us with a treaty, which we signed without the king’s knowledge.

“With our help, Palancar was usurped and banished, but he, his family, and their vassals refused to leave the valley. Since we had no wish to murder them, we constructed the tower of Ristvak’baen so the Riders could watch over Palancar and ensure he would never again rise to power or attack anyone else in Alagaësia.

“Before long Palancar was killed by a son who did not wish to wait for nature to take its course. Thereafter, family politics consisted of assassination, betrayal, and other depravities, reducing Palancar’s house to a shadow of its former grandeur. However, his descendants never left, and the blood of kings still runs in Therinsford and Carvahall.”

“I see,” said Eragon.

Lifaen lifted one dark eyebrow. “Do you? It has more significance than you may think. It was this event that convinced Anurin—Vrael’s predecessor as head Rider—to allow humans to become Riders, in order to prevent similar disputes.”

Orik emitted a bark of laughter. “That must have caused some argument.”

“It was an unpopular decision,” admitted Lifaen. “Even now some question the wisdom of it. It caused such a disagreement between Anurin and Queen Dellanir that Anurin seceded from our government and established the Riders on Vroengard as an independent entity.”

“But if the Riders were separated from your government, then how could they keep the peace, as they were supposed to?” asked Eragon.

“They couldn’t,” said Lifaen. “Not until Queen Dellanir saw the wisdom of having the Riders free of any lord or king and restored their access to Du Weldenvarden. Still, it never pleased her that any authority could supersede her own.”

Eragon frowned. “Wasn’t that the whole point, though?”

“Yes . . . and no. The Riders were supposed to guard against the failings of the different governments and races, yet who watched the watchers? It was that very problem that caused the Fall. No one existed who could descry the flaws within the Riders’ own system, for they were above scrutiny, and thus, they perished.”

Eragon stroked the water—first on one side and then the other—while he considered Lifaen’s words. His paddle fluttered in his hands as it cut diagonally across the current. “Who succeeded Dellanir as king or queen?”

“Evandar did. He took the knotted throne five hundred years ago—when Dellanir abdicated in order to study the mysteries of magic—and held it until his death. Now his mate, Islanzadí, rules us.”

“That’s—” Eragon stopped with his mouth open. He was going to sayimpossible, but then realized how ridiculous the statement would sound. Instead, he asked, “Are elves immortal?”

In a soft voice, Lifaen said, “Once we were like you, bright, fleeting, and as ephemeral as the morning dew. Now our lives stretch endlessly through the dusty years. Aye, we are immortal, although we are still vulnerable to injuries of the flesh.”

“Youbecame immortal? How?” The elf refused to elaborate, though Eragon pressed him for details. Finally, Eragon asked, “How old is Arya?”