Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (37 page)

with solemn amber eyes. He remembered the heat of her skin, the

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mulled scent of her hair, and what it felt like to be with her under the

cover of darkness. Then in a long line behind her appeared his family,

friends, and everyone he had known in Carvahall, both dead and alive. If

not for Eragon... and me... the Ra’zac would have never come here. I must

rescue the village from the Empire as surely as I must rescue Katrina from

those desecrators.

Drawing upon the strength of his vision, Roran rose from bed, causing

his maimed shoulder to burn and sting. He staggered and leaned against a

wall. Will I ever regain the use of my right arm ? He waited for the pain to

subside. When it did not, he bared his teeth, shoved himself upright, and

marched from the room.

Elain was folding towels in the hallway. She cried out with amazement.

“Roran! What are you—”

“Come,” he growled, lurching past.

With a worried expression, Baldor stepped out of a doorway. “Roran,

you shouldn’t be walking around. You lost too much blood. I’ll help—”

“Come.”

Roran heard them follow as he descended the curved stairs toward the

entrance of the house, where Horst and Albriech stood talking. They

looked up with astonishment.

“Come.”

He ignored the babble of questions, opened the front door, and stepped

into the evening’s faded light. Above, an imposing plume of clouds was

laced with gold and purple.

Leading the small group, Roran stomped to the edge of Carvahall—

repeating his monosyllabic message whenever he passed a man or

woman—pulled a torch mounted on a pole from the grasping mud,

wheeled about, and retraced his path to the center of town. There he

stabbed the pole between his feet, then raised his left arm and roared,

“COME!”

The village rang with his voice. He continued the summons as people

drifted from the houses and shadowed alleyways and began to gather

around him. Many were curious, others sympathetic, some awed, and

some angry. Again and again, Roran’s chant echoed in the valley. Loring

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arrived with his sons in tow. From the opposite direction came Birgit,

Delwin, and Fisk with his wife, Isold. Morn and Tara left the tavern to-

gether and joined the crush of spectators.

When most of Carvahall stood before him, Roran fell silent, tightening

his left fist until his fingernails cut into his palm. Katrina. Raising his

hand, he opened it and showed everyone the crimson tears that dripped

down his arm. “This,” he said, “is my pain. Look well, for it will be yours

unless we defeat the curse wanton fate has set upon us. Your friends and

family will be bound in chains, destined for slavery in foreign lands, or

slain before your eyes, hewn open by soldiers’ merciless blades. Galba-

torix will sow our land with salt so that it lies forever fallow. This I have

seen. This I know.” He paced like a caged wolf, glowering and swinging

his head. He had their attention. Now he had to stoke them into a frenzy

to match his own.

“My father was killed by the desecrators. My cousin has fled. My farm

was razed. And my bride-to-be was kidnapped by her own father, who

murdered Byrd and betrayed us all! Quimby eaten, the hay barn burned

along with Fisk’s and Delwin’s houses. Parr, Wyglif, Ged, Bardrick, Far-

old, Hale, Garner, Kelby, Melkolf, Albem, and Elmund: all slain. Many of

you have been injured, like me, so that you can no longer support your

family. Isn’t it enough that we toil every day of our lives to eke a living

from the earth, subjected to the whims of nature? Isn’t it enough that we

are forced to pay Galbatorix’s iron taxes, without also having to endure

these senseless torments?” Roran laughed maniacally, howling at the sky

and hearing the madness in his own voice. No one stirred in the crowd.

“I know now the true nature of the Empire and of Galbatorix; they are

evil. Galbatorix is an unnatural blight on the world. He destroyed the

Riders and the greatest peace and prosperity we ever had. His servants

are foul demons birthed in some ancient pit. But is Galbatorix content to

grind us beneath his heel? No! He seeks to poison all of Alagaësia, to suf-

focate us with his cloak of misery. Our children and their descendants

shall live in the shadow of his darkness until the end of time, reduced to

slaves, worms, vermin for him to torture at his pleasure. Unless. .”

Roran stared into the villagers’ wide eyes, conscious of his control over

them. No one had ever dared say what he was about to. He let his voice

rasp low in his throat: “Unless we have the courage to resist evil.

“We’ve fought the soldiers and the Ra’zac, but it means nothing if we

die alone and forgotten—or are carted away as chattel. We cannot stay

here, and I won’t allow Galbatorix to obliterate everything that’s worth

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living for. I would rather have my eyes plucked out and my hands

chopped off than see him triumph! I choose to fight! I choose to step

from my grave and let my enemies bury themselves in it!

“I choose to leave Carvahall.

“I will cross the Spine and take a ship from Narda down to Surda,

where I will join the Varden, who have struggled for decades to free us

of this oppression.” The villagers looked shocked at the idea. “But I do not

wish to go alone. Come with me. Come with me and seize this chance to

forge a better life for yourselves. Throw off the shackles that bind you

here.” Roran pointed at his listeners, moving his finger from one target to

the next. “A hundred years from now, what names shall drop from the

bards’ lips? Horst. . Birgit. . Kiselt. . Thane; they will recite our sagas. They

will sing “The Epic of Carvahall,” for we were the only village brave

enough to defy the Empire.”

Tears of pride flooded Roran’s eyes. “What could be more noble than

cleansing Galbatorix’s stain from Alagaësia? No more would we live in

fear of having our farms destroyed, or being killed and eaten. The grain

we harvest would be ours to keep, save for any extra that we might send

as a gift to the rightful king. The rivers and streams would run thick with

gold. We would be safe and happy and fat!

“It is our destiny.”

Roran held his hand before his face and slowly closed his fingers over

the bleeding wounds. He stood hunched over his injured arm—crucified

by the scores of gazes—and waited for a response to his speech. None

came. At last he realized that they wanted him to continue; they wanted

to hear more about the cause and the future he had portrayed.

Katrina.

Then as darkness gathered around the radius of his torch, Roran drew

himself upright and resumed speaking. He hid nothing, only labored to

make them understand his thoughts and feelings, so they too could share

the sense of purpose that drove him. “Our age is at an end. We must step

forward and cast our lot with the Varden if we and our children are to

live free.” He spoke with rage and honeyed tones in equal amount, but

always with a fervid conviction that kept his audience entranced.

When his store of images was exhausted, Roran looked into the faces of

his friends and neighbors and said, “I march in two days. Accompany me

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if you wish, but I go regardless.” He bowed his head and stepped out of

the light.

Overhead, the waning moon glowed behind a lens of clouds. A slight

breeze wafted through Carvahall. An iron weather vane creaked on a

roof as it swung in the direction of the current.

From within the crowd, Birgit picked her way into the light, clutching

the folds of her dress to avoid tripping. With a subdued expression, she

adjusted her shawl. “Today we saw an. .” She stopped, shook her head,

and laughed in an embarrassed way. “I find it hard to speak after Roran. I

don’t like his plan, but I believe that it’s necessary, although for a differ-

ent reason: I would hunt down the Ra’zac and avenge my husband’s

death. I will go with him. And I will take my children.” She too stepped

away from the torch.

A silent minute passed, then Delwin and his wife, Lenna, advanced

with their arms around each other. Lenna looked at Birgit and said, “I un-

derstand your need, Sister. We want our vengeance as well, but more

than that, we want the rest of our children to be safe. For that reason, we

too will go.” Several women whose husbands had been slain came for-

ward and agreed with her.

The villagers murmured among themselves, then fell silent and mo-

tionless. No one else seemed willing to address the subject; it was too

momentous. Roran understood. He was still trying to digest the implica-

tions himself.

Finally, Horst strode to the torch and stared with a drawn face into the

flame. “It’s no good talking any more. . We need time to think. Every

man must decide for himself. Tomorrow. . tomorrow will be another day.

Perhaps things will be clearer then.” He shook his head and lifted the

torch, then inverted it and extinguished it against the ground, leaving

everyone to find their way home in the moonlight.

Roran joined Albriech and Baldor, who walked behind their parents at

a discreet distance, giving them privacy to talk. Neither of the brothers

would look at Roran. Unsettled by their lack of expression, Roran asked,

“Do you think anyone else will go? Was I good enough?”

Albriech emitted a bark of laughter. “Good enough!”

“Roran,” said Baldor in an odd voice, “you could have convinced an Ur-

gal to become a farmer tonight.”

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“No!”

“When you finished, I was ready to grab my spear and dash into the

Spine after you. I wouldn’t have been alone either. The question isn’t

who will leave, it’s who won’t. What you said. . I’ve never heard anything

like it before.”

Roran frowned. His goal had been to persuade people to accept his

plan, not to get them to follow him personally. If that’s what it takes, he

thought with a shrug. Still, the prospect had caught him unawares. At an

earlier time, it would have disturbed him, but now he was just thankful

for anything that could help him to rescue Katrina and save the villagers.

Baldor leaned toward his brother. “Father would lose most of his tools.”

Albriech nodded solemnly.

Roran knew that smiths made whatever implement was required by

the task at hand, and that these custom tools formed a legacy that was

bequeathed from father to son, or from master to journeyman. One

measure of a smith’s wealth and skill was the number of tools he owned.

For Horst to surrender his would be. .Would be no harder than what any-

one else has to do, thought Roran. He only regretted that it would entail

depriving Albriech and Baldor of their rightful inheritance.

When they reached the house, Roran retreated to Baldor’s room and lay

in bed. Through the walls, he could still hear the faint sound of Horst and

Elain talking. He fell asleep imagining similar discussions taking place

throughout Carvahall, deciding his—and their—fate.

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REPERCUSSIONS

The morning after his speech, Roran looked out his window and saw

twelve men leaving Carvahall, heading toward Igualda Falls. He yawned

and limped downstairs to the kitchen.

Horst sat alone at the table, twisting a mug of ale in his hands. “Morn-

ing,” he said.

Roran grunted, tore a heel of bread off the loaf on the counter, then

seated himself at the opposite end of the table. As he ate, he noted

Horst’s bloodshot eyes and unkempt beard. Roran guessed that the smith

had been awake the entire night. “Do you know why a group is going

up—”

“Have to talk with their families,” said Horst abruptly. “They’ve been

running into the Spine since dawn.” He put the mug down with a crack.

“You have no idea what you did, Roran, by asking us to leave. The whole

village is in turmoil. You backed us into a corner with only one way out:

your way. Some people hate you for it. Of course a fair number of them

already hated you for bringing this upon us.”

The bread in Roran’s mouth tasted like sawdust as resentment flared

inside him. Eragon was the one who brought back the stone, not me. “And

the others?”

Horst sipped his ale and grimaced. “The others adore you. I never

thought I would see the day when Garrow’s son would stir my heart

with words, but you did it, boy, you did it.” He swung a gnarled hand

over his head. “All this? I built it for Elain and my sons. It took me seven

years to finish! See that beam over the door right there? I broke three

toes getting that into place. And you know what? I’m going to give it up

because of what you said last night.”

Roran remained silent; it was what he wanted. Leaving Carvahall was

the right thing to do, and since he had committed himself to that course,

he saw no reason to torment himself with guilt and regret. The decision is

made. I will accept the outcome without complaint, no matter how dire, for

this is our only escape from the Empire.

“But,” said Horst, and leaned forward on one elbow, his black eyes