Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (39 page)

three-pound anvil.

As the five of them sat to dinner, Albriech and Baldor discussed the

various people they had seen making covert preparations. Roran listened

intently, trying to keep track of who had lent donkeys to whom, who

showed no signs of departing, and who might need help to leave.

“The biggest problem,” said Baldor, “is food. We can only carry so

much, and it’ll be difficult to hunt enough in the Spine to feed two or

three hundred people.”

“Mmm.” Horst shook his finger, his mouth full of beans, then swal-

lowed. “No, hunting won’t work. We have to bring our flocks with us.

Combined, we own enough sheep and goats to feed the lot of us for a

month or more.”

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Roran raised his knife. “Wolves.”

“I’m more worried about keeping the animals from wandering off into

the forest,” replied Horst. “Herding them will be a chore.”

Roran spent the following day assisting whomever he could, saying lit-

tle, and generally allowing people to see him working for the good of the

village. Late that night, he tumbled into bed exhausted but hopeful.

The advent of dawn pierced Roran’s dreams and woke him with a

sense of momentous expectation. He stood and tiptoed downstairs, then

went outside and stared at the misty mountains, absorbed by the morn-

ing’s silence. His breath formed a white plume in the air, but he felt

warm, for his heart throbbed with fear and eagerness.

After a subdued breakfast, Horst brought the horses to the front of the

house, where Roran helped Albriech and Baldor load them with saddle-

bags and other bundles of supplies. Next Roran took up his own pack,

hissing as the leather shoulder strap pressed down on his injury.

Horst closed the door to the house. He lingered for a moment with his

fingers on the steel doorknob, then took Elain’s hand and said, “Let’s go.”

As they walked through Carvahall, Roran saw somber families gather-

ing by their houses with their piles of possessions and yammering live-

stock. He saw sheep and dogs with bags tied on their backs, teary-eyed

children on donkeys, and makeshift sledges hitched to horses with crates

of fluttering chickens hung on each side. He saw the fruits of his success,

and he knew not whether to laugh or to cry.

They stopped at Carvahall’s north end and waited to see who would

join them. A minute passed, then Birgit approached from the side, ac-

companied by Nolfavrell and his younger siblings. Birgit greeted Horst

and Elain and stationed herself nearby.

Ridley and his family arrived outside the wall of trees, driving over a

hundred sheep from the east side of Palancar Valley. “I figured that it

would be better to keep them out of Carvahall,” shouted Ridley over the

animals.

“Good thinking!” replied Horst.

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Next came Delwin, Lenna, and their five children; Orval and his family;

Loring with his sons; Calitha and Thane—who gave Roran a large smile;

and then Kiselt’s clan. Those women who had been recently widowed,

like Nolla, clustered around Birgit. Before the sun had cleared the moun-

tain peaks, most of the village had assembled along the wall. But not all.

Morn, Tara, and several others had yet to show themselves, and when

Ivor arrived, it was without any supplies. “You’re staying,” observed Ro-

ran. He sidestepped a knot of testy goats that Gertrude was attempting to

restrain.

“Aye,” said Ivor, drawing out the word into a weary admission. He

shivered, crossed his bony arms for warmth, and faced the rising sun, lift-

ing his head so as to catch the transparent rays. “Svart refused to leave.

Heh! It was like carving against the grain to get him into the Spine in the

first place. Someone has to look after him, an’ I don’t have any children,

so. .” He shrugged. “Doubt I could give up the farm anyway.”

“What will you do when the soldiers arrive?”

“Give them a fight that they’ll remember.”

Roran laughed hoarsely and clapped Ivor on the arm, doing his best to

ignore the unspoken fate that they both knew awaited anyone who re-

mained.

A thin, middle-aged man, Ethlbert, marched to the edge of the congre-

gation and shouted, “You’re all fools!” With an ominous rustle, people

turned to look at their accuser. “I’ve held my peace through this madness,

but I’ll not follow a nattering lunatic! If you weren’t blinded by his

words, you’d see that he’s leading you to destruction! Well, I won’t go! I’ll

take my chances sneaking past the soldiers and finding refuge in Therins-

ford. They’re our own people at least, not the barbarians you’ll find in

Surda.” He spat on the ground, then spun on his heel and stomped away.

Afraid that Ethlbert might convince others to defect, Roran scanned

the crowd and was relieved to see nothing more than restless muttering.

Still, he did not want to dawdle and give people a chance to change their

minds. He asked Horst under his breath, “How long should we wait?”

“Albriech, you and Baldor run around as fast as you can and check if

anyone else is coming. Otherwise, we’ll leave.” The brothers dashed off in

opposite directions.

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Half an hour later, Baldor returned with Fisk, Isold, and their borrowed

horse. Leaving her husband, Isold hurried toward Horst, shooing her

hands at anyone who got in her way, oblivious to the fact that most of

her hair had escaped imprisonment in its bun and stuck out in odd tufts.

She stopped, wheezing for breath. “I am sorry we’re so late, but Fisk had

trouble closing up the shop. He couldn’t pick which planers or chisels to

bring.” She laughed in a shrill tone, almost hysterical. “It was like watch-

ing a cat surrounded by mice trying to decide which one to chase. First

this one, then that one.”

A wry smile tugged at Horst’s lips. “I understand perfectly.”

Roran strained for a glimpse of Albriech, but to no avail. He gritted his

teeth. “Where is he?”

Horst tapped his shoulder. “Right over there, I do believe.”

Albriech advanced between the houses with three beer casks tied to his

back and an aggrieved look that was comic enough to make Baldor and

several others laugh. On either side of Albriech walked Morn and Tara,

who staggered under the weight of their enormous packs, as did the don-

key and two goats that they towed behind them. To Roran’s astonish-

ment, the animals were burdened with even more casks.

“They won’t last a mile,” said Roran, growing angry at the couple’s fool-

ishness. “And they don’t have enough food. Do they expect us to feed

them or—”

With a chuckle, Horst cut him off. “I wouldn’t worry about the food.

Morn’s beer will be good for morale, and that’s worth more than a few

extra meals. You’ll see.”

As soon as Albriech had freed himself of the casks, Roran asked him

and his brother, “Is that everyone?” When they answered in the affirma-

tive, Roran swore and struck his thigh with a clenched fist. Excluding

Ivor, three families were determined to remain in Palancar Valley: Ethl-

bert’s, Parr’s, and Knute’s. I can’t force them to come. He sighed. “All right.

There’s no sense in waiting longer.”

Excitement rippled through the villagers; the moment had finally ar-

rived. Horst and five other men pulled open the wall of trees, then laid

planks across the trench so that the people and animals could walk over.

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Horst gestured. “I think that you should go first, Roran.”

“Wait!” Fisk ran up and, with evident pride, handed Roran a blackened

six-foot-long staff of hawthorn wood with a knot of polished roots at the

top, and a blued-steel ferrule that tapered into a blunt spike at the base.

“I made it last night,” said the carpenter. “I thought that you might have

need of it.”

Roran ran his left hand over the wood, marveling at its smoothness. “I

couldn’t have asked for anything better. Your skill is masterful. . Thank

you.” Fisk grinned and backed away.

Conscious of the fact that the entire crowd was watching, Roran faced

the mountains and the Igualda Falls. His shoulder throbbed beneath the

leather strap. Behind him lay his father’s bones and everything he had

known in life. Before him the jagged peaks piled high into the pale sky

and blocked his way and his will. But he would not be denied. And he

would not look back.

Katrina.

Lifting his chin, Roran strode forward. His staff knocked against the

hard planks as he crossed the trench and passed out of Carvahall, leading

the villagers into the wilderness.

250

ON THE CRAGS OF TEL’NAEÍR

Thud.

Bright as a flaming sun, the dragon hung before Eragon and everyone

clustered along the Crags of Tel’naeír, buffeting them with gusts from its

mighty wings. The dragon’s body appeared to be on fire as the brilliant

dawn illuminated its golden scales and sprayed the ground and trees with

dazzling chips of light. It was far larger than Saphira, large enough to be

several hundred years old, and proportionally thicker in its neck, limbs,

and tail. Upon its back sat the Rider, robes startling white against the bril-

liance of the scales.

Eragon fell to his knees, his face upturned. I’m not alone.... Awe and re-

lief coursed through him. No more would he have to bear the responsi-

bility of the Varden and of Galbatorix by himself. Here was one of the

guardians of old resurrected from the depths of time to guide him, a liv-

ing symbol, and a testament to the legends he had been raised with. Here

was his master. Here was a legend!

As the dragon turned to land, Eragon gasped; the creature’s left foreleg

had been severed by a terrible blow, leaving a helpless white stump in

place of the once mighty limb. Tears filled his eyes.

A whirlwind of dry twigs and leaves enveloped the hilltop as the

dragon settled on the sweet clover and folded its wings. The Rider care-

fully descended from his steed along the dragon’s intact front right leg,

then approached Eragon, his hands clasped before him. He was an elf

with silver hair, old beyond measure, though the only sign of age was the

expression of great compassion and sadness upon his face.

“Osthato Chetowä,” said Eragon. “The Mourning Sage. . As you asked, I

have come.” With a jolt, he remembered his manners and touched his

lips. “Atra esterní ono thelduin.”

The Rider smiled. He took Eragon by the shoulders and lifted him up-

right, staring at him with such kindness that Eragon could look at nothing

else; he was consumed by the endless depths within the elf’s eyes.

“Oromis is my proper name, Eragon Shadeslayer.”

“You knew,” whispered Islanzadí with a hurt expression that quickly

transformed into a storm of rage. “You knew of Eragon’s existence and

yet you did not tell me? Why have you betrayed me, Shur’tugal?”

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Oromis released Eragon from his gaze and transferred it onto the queen.

“I kept my peace because it was uncertain if Eragon or Arya would live

long enough to come here; I had no wish to give you a fragile hope that

might have been torn away at any moment.”

Islanzadí spun about, her cape of swan feathers billowing like wings.

“You had no right to withhold such information from me! I could have

sent warriors to protect Arya, Eragon, and Saphira in Farthen Dûr and to

escort them safely here.”

Oromis smiled sadly. “I hid nothing from you, Islanzadí, but what you

had already chosen not to see. If you had scryed the land, as is your duty,

you would have discerned the source of the chaos that has swept Ala-

gaësia and learned the truth of Arya and Eragon. That you might forget

the Varden and the dwarves in your grief is understandable, but Brom?

Vinr Älfakyn? The last of the Elf Friends? You have been blind to the

world, Islanzadí, and lax upon your throne. I could not risk driving you

further away by subjecting you to another loss.”

Islanzadí’s anger drained away, leaving her face pale and her shoulders

slumped. “I am diminished,” she whispered.

A cloud of hot, moist air pressed against Eragon as the gold dragon bent

to examine him with eyes that glittered and sparked. We are well met,

Eragon Shadeslayer. I am Glaedr. His voice—for it was unmistakably

male—rumbled and shook through Eragon’s mind, like the growl of a

mountain avalanche.

All Eragon could do was touch his lips and say, “I am honored.”

Then Glaedr brought his attention to bear on Saphira. She remained

perfectly still, her neck arched stiffly as Glaedr sniffed her cheek and

along the line of her wing. Eragon saw Saphira’s clenched leg muscles

flutter with an involuntary tremor. You smell of humans, said Glaedr, and

all you know of your own race is what your instincts have taught you, but

you have the heart of a true dragon.

During this silent exchange, Orik presented himself to Oromis. “Truly,

this is beyond anything that I dared hope or expect. You are a pleasant

surprise in these dark times, Rider.” He clapped his fist over his heart. “If

it is not too presumptuous, I would ask a boon on behalf of my king and

my clan, as was the custom between our people.”