Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (7 page)

you. Will you return to your farm now?”

“Aye. Farming is all I know.”

“And what shall become of me?”

He hesitated. From the moment he began to court her, an unspoken as-

sumption that they would marry had existed between them. There had

been no need to discuss his intentions; they were as plain as the day was

long, and so her question unsettled him. It also felt improper to address

the issue in such an open manner when he was not ready to tender an of-

fer. It was his place to make the overtures—first to Sloan and then to

Katrina—not hers. Still, he had to deal with her concern now that it had

been expressed. “Katrina. . I cannot approach your father as I had planned.

He would laugh at me, and rightly so. We have to wait. Once I have a

place for us to live and I’ve collected my first harvest, then he will listen

to me.”

She faced the sky once more and whispered something so faint, he

could not make it out. “What?”

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“I said, are you afraid of him?”

“Of course not! I—”

“Then you must get his permission, tomorrow, and set the engagement.

Make him understand that, though you have nothing now, you will give

me a good home and be a son-in-law he can be proud of. There’s no rea-

son we should waste our years living apart when we feel like this.”

“I can’t do that,” he said with a note of despair, willing her to under-

stand. “I can’t provide for you, I can’t—”

“Don’t you understand ?” She stepped away, her voice strained with ur-

gency. “I love you, Roran, and I want to be with you, but Father has other

plans for me. There are far more eligible men than you, and the longer

you delay, the more he presses me to consent to a match of which he ap-

proves. He fears I will become an old maid, and I fear that too. I have

only so much time or choice in Carvahall. . If I must take another, I will.”

Tears glistened in her eyes as she gave him a searching glance, waiting for

his response, then gathered up her dress and rushed back to the houses.

Roran stood there, motionless with shock. Her absence was as acute for

him as losing the farm—the world suddenly gone cold and unfriendly. It

was as if part of himself had been torn away.

It was hours before he could return to Horst’s and slip into bed.

39

THE HUNTED HUNTERS

Dirt crunched under Roran’s boots as he led the way down the valley,

which was cool and pale in the early hours of the overcast morning. Bal-

dor followed close behind, both of them carrying strung bows. Neither

spoke as they studied their surroundings for signs of the deer.

“There,” said Baldor in a low voice, pointing at a set of tracks leading

toward a bramble on the edge of the Anora.

Roran nodded and started after the spoor. It looked about a day old, so

he risked speaking. “Could I have your advice, Baldor? You seem to have

a good understanding of people.”

“Of course. What is it?”

For a long time, the pad of their feet was the only noise. “Sloan wants

to marry off Katrina, and not to me. Every day that passes increases the

chance he will arrange a union to his liking.”

“What does Katrina say of this?”

Roran shrugged. “He is her father. She cannot continue to defy his will

when no one she does want has stepped forward to claim her.”

“That is, you.”

“Aye.”

“And that’s why you were up so early.” It was no question.

In fact, Roran had been too worried to sleep at all. He had spent the

entire night thinking about Katrina, trying to find a solution to their pre-

dicament. “I can’t bear to lose her. But I don’t think Sloan will give us his

blessing, what with my position and all.”

“No, I don’t think he would,” agreed Baldor. He glanced at Roran out of

the corner of his eye. “What is it you want my advice on, though?”

A snort of laughter escaped Roran. “How can I convince Sloan other-

wise? How can I resolve this dilemma without starting a blood feud?” He

threw his hands up. “What should I do?”

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“Have you no ideas?”

“I do, but not of a sort I find pleasing. It occurred to me that Katrina

and I could simply announce we were engaged—not that we are yet—

and hang the consequences. That would force Sloan to accept our be-

trothal.”

A frown creased Baldor’s brow. He said carefully, “Maybe, but it would

also create a slew of bad feelings throughout Carvahall. Few would ap-

prove of your actions. Nor would it be wise to force Katrina to choose

between you or her family; she might resent you for it in years to come.”

“I know, but what alternative do I have?”

“Before you take such a drastic step, I recommend you try to win Sloan

over as an ally. There’s a chance you might succeed, after all, if it’s made

clear to him that no one else will want to marry an angry Katrina. Espe-

cially when you’re around to cuckold the husband.” Roran grimaced and

kept his gaze on the ground. Baldor laughed. “If you fail, well then, you

can proceed with confidence, knowing that you have indeed exhausted

all other routes. And people will be less likely to spit upon you for break-

ing tradition and more likely to say Sloan’s bullheaded ways brought it

upon himself.”

“Neither course is easy.”

“You knew that to begin with.” Baldor grew somber again. “No doubt

there’ll be harsh words if you challenge Sloan, but things will settle down

in the end—perhaps not comfortably, but at least bearably. Aside from

Sloan, the only people you’ll really offend are prudes like Quimby,

though how Quimby can brew such a hale drink yet be so starched and

bitter himself is beyond me.”

Roran nodded, understanding. Grudges could simmer for years in Car-

vahall. “I’m glad we could talk. It’s been.. ” He faltered, thinking of all the

discussions he and Eragon used to share. They had been, as Eragon once

said, brothers in all but blood. It had been deeply comforting to know

that someone existed who would listen to him, no matter the time or

circumstances. And to know that person would always help him, no mat-

ter the cost.

The absence of such a bond left Roran feeling empty.

Baldor did not press him to finish his sentence, but instead stopped to

41

drink from his waterskin. Roran continued for a few yards, then halted as

a scent intruded on his thoughts.

It was the heavy odor of seared meat and charred pine boughs. Who

would be here besides us? Breathing deeply, he turned in a circle, trying to

determine the source of the fire. A slight gust brushed past him from far-

ther down the road, carrying a hot, smoky wave. The aroma of food was

intense enough to make his mouth water.

He beckoned to Baldor, who hurried to his side. “Smell that?”

Baldor nodded. Together they returned to the road and followed it

south. About a hundred feet away, it bent around a copse of cotton-

woods and curved out of view. As they approached the turn, the rise and

fall of voices reached them, muffled by the thick layer of morning fog

over the valley.

At the copse’s fringe, Roran slowed to a stop. It was foolish to surprise

people when they too might be out hunting. Still, something bothered

him. Perhaps it was the number of voices; the group seemed bigger than

any family in the valley. Without thinking, he stepped off the road and

slipped behind the underbrush lining the copse.

“What are you doing?” whispered Baldor.

Roran put a finger to his lips, then crept along, parallel to the road,

keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible. As they rounded the bend, he

froze.

On the grass by the road was a camp of soldiers. Thirty helmets

gleamed in a shaft of morning light as their owners devoured fowl and

stew cooked over several fires. The men were mud splattered and travel

stained, but Galbatorix’s symbol was still visible on their red tunics, a

twisting flame outlined in gold thread. Underneath the tunics, they wore

leather brigandines—heavy with riveted squares of steel—mail shirts, and

then padded gambesons. Most of the soldiers bore broadswords, though

half a dozen were archers and another half-dozen carried wicked-looking

halberds.

And hunched in their midst were two twisted black forms that Roran

recognized from the numerous descriptions the villagers provided upon

his return from Therinsford: the strangers who had destroyed his farm.

His blood chilled. They’re servants of the Empire! He began to step for-

ward, fingers already reaching for an arrow, when Baldor grabbed his jer-

42

kin and dragged him to the ground.

“Don’t. You’ll get us both killed.”

Roran glared at him, then snarled. “That’s. . they’re the bastards. .” He

stopped, noticing that his hands were shaking. “They’ve returned!”

“Roran,” whispered Baldor intently, “you can’t do anything. Look, they

work for the king. Even if you managed to escape, you’d be an outlaw

everywhere, and you’d bring disaster on Carvahall.”

“What do they want? What can they want?” The king. Why did Galba-

torix countenance my father’s torture?

“If they didn’t get what they needed from Garrow, and Eragon fled

with Brom, then they must want you.” Baldor paused, letting the words

sink in. “We have to get back and warn everyone. Then you have to hide.

The strangers are the only ones with horses. We can get there first if we

run.”

Roran stared through the brush at the oblivious soldiers. His heart

pounded fiercely for revenge, clamoring to attack and fight, to see those

two agents of misfortune pierced with arrows and brought to their own

justice. It mattered not that he would die as long as he could wash clean

his pain and sorrow in one fell moment. All he had to do was break

cover. The rest would take care of itself.

Just one small step.

With a choked sob, he clenched his fist and dropped his head. I can’t

leave Katrina. He remained rigid—eyes squeezed shut—then with ago-

nizing slowness dragged himself back. “Home then.”

Without waiting for Baldor’s reaction, Roran slipped through the trees

as fast as he dared. Once the camp was out of sight, he broke out onto

the road and ran down the dirt track, channeling his frustration, anger,

and even fear into speed.

Baldor scrambled behind him, gaining on the open stretches. Roran

slowed to a comfortable trot and waited for him to draw level before

saying, “You spread the word. I’ll talk with Horst.” Baldor nodded, and

they pushed on.

After two miles, they stopped to drink and rest briefly. When their

43

panting subsided, they continued through the low hills preceding Carva-

hall. The rolling ground slowed them considerably, but even so, the vil-

lage soon burst into view.

Roran immediately broke for the forge, leaving Baldor to make his way

to the center of town. As he pounded past the houses, Roran wildly con-

sidered schemes to evade or kill the strangers without incurring the

wrath of the Empire.

He burst into the forge to catch Horst tapping a peg into the side of

Quimby’s wagon, singing:

. . hey O!

And a ringing and a dinging

Rang from old iron! Wily old iron.

With a beat and a bang on the bones of the land,

I conquered wily old iron!

Horst stopped his mallet in midblow when he saw Roran. “What’s the

matter, lad? Is Baldor hurt?”

Roran shook his head and leaned over, gasping for air. In short bursts,

he reiterated all they had seen and its possible implications, most impor-

tantly that it was now clear the strangers were agents of the Empire.

Horst fingered his beard. “You have to leave Carvahall. Fetch some

food from the house, then take my mare—Ivor’s pulling stumps with

her—and ride into the foothills. Once we know what the soldiers want,

I’ll send Albriech or Baldor with word.”

“What will you say if they ask for me?”

“That you’re out hunting and we don’t know when you’ll return. It’s

true enough, and I doubt they’ll chance blundering around in the trees for

fear of missing you. Assuming it’s you they’re really after.”

Roran nodded, then turned and ran to Horst’s house. Inside, he grabbed

the mare’s tack and bags from the wall, quickly tied turnips, beets, jerky,

44

and a loaf of bread in a knot of blankets, snatched up a tin pot, and

dashed out, pausing only long enough to explain the situation to Elain.

The supplies were an awkward bundle in his arms as he jogged east

from Carvahall to Ivor’s farm. Ivor himself stood behind the farmhouse,

flicking the mare with a willow wand as she strained to tear the hairy

roots of an elm tree from the ground.

“Come on now!” shouted the farmer. “Put your back into it!” The horse

shuddered with effort, her bit lathered, then with a final surge tilted the

stump on its side so the roots reached toward the sky like a cluster of

gnarled fingers. Ivor stopped her exertion with a twitch of the reins and

patted her good-naturedly. “All right. . There we go.”

Roran hailed him from a distance and, when they were close, pointed

to the horse. “I need to borrow her.” He gave his reasons.