“Behold the Menoa tree,” whispered Arya. “We observe the Agaetí Blödhren in her shade.”

A cold tingle crawled down Eragon’s side as he recognized the name. After Angela told his fortune in Teirm, Solembum had come up to him and said,When the time comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls . Eragon could not imagine what kind of weapon might be buried under the tree, nor how he would go about finding it.

Do you see anything?he asked Saphira.

No, but then I doubt that Solembum’s words will make sense until our need is clear.

Eragon told Arya about both parts of the werecat’s counsel, although—as he had with Ajihad and Islanzadí—he kept Angela’s prophecy a secret because of its personal nature, and because he feared that it might lead Arya to guess his attraction to her.

When he finished, Arya said, “Werecats rarely offer help, and when they do, it’s not to be ignored. So far as I know, no weapon is hidden here, not even in song or legend. As for the Rock of Kuthian . . . the name echoes in my head like a voice from a half-forgotten dream, familiar yet strange. I’ve heard it before, though I cannot recall where.”

As they approached the Menoa tree, Eragon’s attention was caught by the multitude of ants crawling over the roots. Faint black smudges were all he could see of the insects, but Oromis’s assignment had sensitized him to the currents of life around him, and he could feel the ants’ primitive consciousness with his mind. He lowered his defenses and allowed his awareness to flood outward, lightly touching Saphira and Arya and then expanding beyond them to see what else lived in the clearing.

With unexpected suddenness, he encountered an immense entity, a sentient being of such a colossal nature, he could not grasp the limits of its psyche. Even Oromis’s vast intellect, which Eragon had been in contact with in Farthen Dûr, was dwarfed in comparison to this presence. The very air seemed to thrum with the energy and strength that emanated from . . .the tree?

The source was unmistakable.

Deliberate and inexorable, the tree’s thoughts moved at a measured pace as slow as the creep of ice over granite. It took no notice of Eragon nor, he was sure, of any single individual. It was entirely concerned with the affairs of things that grow and flourish in the bright sunlight, with the dogbane and the lily, the evening primrose and the silky foxglove and the yellow mustard tall beside the crabapple with its purple blossoms.

“It’s awake!” exclaimed Eragon, shocked into speaking. “I mean . . . it’s intelligent.” He knew that Saphira felt it too; she cocked her head toward the Menoa tree, as if listening, then flew to one of its branches, which were as thick as the road from Carvahall to Therinsford. There she perched with her tail hanging free, waving the tip of it back and forth, ever so gracefully. It was such an odd sight, a dragon in a tree, that Eragon almost laughed.

“Of course she’s awake,” said Arya. Her voice was low and mellow in the night air. “Shall I tell you the story of the Menoa tree?”

“I’d like that.”

A flash of white streaked across the sky, like a banished specter, and resolved itself beside Saphira in the form of Blagden. The raven’s narrow shoulders and crooked neck gave him the appearance of a miser basking in the radiance of a pile of gold. The raven lifted his pallid head and uttered his ominous cry,“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 suspected existed, a craving to experience the things that she had unknowingly sacrificed. The offer of a second chance was too great an opportunity for her to ignore. She deserted her work and devoted herself to the young man and, for a time, they were happy.

“But the young man was young, and he began to long for a mate closer to his own age. His eye fell upon a young woman, and he wooed and won her. And for a time, they too were happy.

“When Linnëa discovered that she had been spurned, scorned, and abandoned, she went mad with grief. The young man had done the worst possible thing; he had given her a taste of the fullness of life, then torn it away with no more thought than a rooster flitting from one hen to the next. She found him with the woman and, in her fury, she stabbed him to death.

“Linnëa knew that what she had done was evil. She also knew that even if she was exonerated of the murder, she could not return to her previous existence. Life had lost all joy for her. So she went to the oldest tree in Du Weldenvarden, pressed herself against it, and sang herself into the tree, abandoning all allegiance to her own race. For three days and three nights she sang, and when she finished, she had become one with her beloved plants. And through all the millennia since has she kept watch over the forest. . . . Thus was the Menoa tree created.”

At the conclusion of her tale, Arya and Eragon sat side by side on the crest of a huge root, twelve feet off the ground. Eragon bounced his heels against the tree and wondered if Arya had intended the story as a warning to him or if it was merely an innocent piece of history.