Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (36 page)

Together they slept long and deep in Ellesméra.

226

OUT OF THE PAST

Eragon woke at dawn well rested. He tapped Saphira’s ribs, and she

lifted her wing. Running his hands through his hair, he walked to the

room’s precipice and leaned against one side, bark rough against his

shoulder. Below, the forest sparkled like a field of diamonds as each tree

reflected the morning light with a thousand thousand drops of dew.

He jumped with surprise as Saphira dove past him, twisting like an au-

ger toward the canopy before she pulled up and circled through the sky,

roaring with joy. Morning, little one. He smiled, happy that she was

happy.

He opened the screen to their bedroom, where he found two trays of

food—mostly fruit—that had been placed by the lintel during the night.

By the trays was a bundle of clothes with a paper note pinned to it. Er-

agon had difficulty deciphering the flowing script, since he had not read

for over a month and had forgotten some of the letters, but at last he un-

derstood that it said:

Greetings, Saphira Bjartskular and Eragon Shadeslayer.

I, Bellaen of House Miolandra, do humble myself and apologize to you,

Saphira, for this unsatisfactory meal. Elves do not hunt, and no meat is to

be had in Ellesméra, nor in any of our cities. If you wish, you can do as

the dragons of old were wont, and catch what you may in Du Welden-

varden. We only ask that you leave your kills in the forest so that our air

and water remain untainted by blood.

Eragon, these clothes are for you. They were woven by Niduen of Is-

lanzadí’s house and are her gift to you.

May good fortune rule over you,

Peace live in your heart,

And the stars watch over you.

Bellaen du Hljödhr

227

When Eragon told Saphira the message, she said, It does not matter; I

won’t need to eat for a while after yesterday’s meal. However, she did snap

up a few seed cakes. Just so that I don’t appear rude, she explained.

After Eragon finished breakfast, he hauled the bundle of clothes onto

his bed and carefully unfolded them, finding two full-length tunics of rus-

set trimmed with thimbleberry green, a set of creamy leggings to wrap

his calves in, and three pairs of socks so soft, they felt like liquid when he

pulled them through his hands. The quality of the fabric shamed the

weaving of the women of Carvahall as well as the dwarf clothes he wore

now.

Eragon was grateful for the new raiment. His own tunic and breeches

were sadly travel-worn from their weeks exposed to the rain and sun

since Farthen Dûr. Stripping, he donned one of the luxurious tunics, sa-

voring its downy texture.

He had just laced on his boots when someone knocked on the screen to

the bedroom. “Come in,” he said, reaching for Zar’roc.

Orik poked his head inside, then cautiously entered, testing the floor

with his feet. He eyed the ceiling. “Give me a cave any day instead of a

bird’s nest like this. How fared your night, Eragon? Saphira?”

“Well enough. And yours?” said Eragon.

“I slept like a rock.” The dwarf chuckled at his own jest, then his chin

sank into his beard and he fingered the head of his ax. “I see you’ve eaten,

so I’ll ask you to accompany me. Arya, the queen, and a host of other

elves await you at the base of the tree.” He fixed Eragon with a testy

gaze. “Something is going on that they haven’t told us about. I’m not sure

what they want from you, but it’s important. Islanzadí’s as tense as a cor-

nered wolf. . I thought I’d warn you beforehand.”

Eragon thanked him, then the two of them descended by way of the

stairs, while Saphira glided to earth. They were met on the ground by Is-

lanzadí arrayed in a mantle of ruffled swan feathers, which were like win-

ter snow heaped upon a cardinal’s breast. She greeted them and said, “Fol-

low me.”

Her wending course took the group to the edge of Ellesméra, where

the buildings were few and the paths were faint from disuse. At the base

of a wooded knoll, Islanzadí stopped and said in a terrible voice, “Before

228

we go any farther, the three of you must swear in the ancient language

that you will never speak to outsiders of what you are about to see, not

without permission from me, my daughter, or whoever may succeed us

to the throne.”

“Why should I gag myself?” demanded Orik.

Why indeed ?asked Saphira. Do you not trust us?

“It is not a matter of trust, but of safety. We must protect this knowl-

edge at all costs—it’s our greatest advantage over Galbatorix—and if you

are bound by the ancient language, you will never willingly reveal our se-

cret. You came to supervise Eragon’s training, Orik-vodhr. Unless you

give me your word, you may as well return to Farthen Dûr.”

At last Orik said, “I believe that you mean no harm to dwarves or to

the Varden, else I would never agree. And I hold you to the honor of

your hall and clan that this isn’t a ploy to deceive us. Tell me what to

say.”

While the queen tutored Orik in the correct pronunciation of the de-

sired phrase, Eragon asked Saphira, Should I do it?

Do we have a choice? Eragon remembered that Arya had asked the

same question yesterday, and he began to have an inkling of what she had

meant: the queen left no room to maneuver.

When Orik finished, Islanzadí looked expectantly at Eragon. He hesi-

tated, then delivered the oath, as did Saphira. “Thank you,” said Islanzadí.

“Now we may proceed.”

At the top of the knoll, the trees were replaced by a bed of red clover

that ran several yards to the edge of a stone cliff. The cliff extended a

league in either direction and dropped a thousand feet to the forest be-

low, which pooled outward until it merged with the sky. It felt as if they

stood on the edge of the world, staring across an endless expanse of for-

est.

I know this place, realized Eragon, remembering his vision of Togira Ik-

onoka.

Thud. The air shivered from the strength of the concussion. Thud. An-

other dull blow made Eragon’s teeth chatter. Thud. He jammed his fin-

gers in his ears, trying to protect them from the painful spikes in pres-

229

sure. The elves stood motionless. Thud. The clover bent under a sudden

gust of wind.

Thud. From below the edge of the cliff rose a huge gold dragon with a

Rider on its back.

230

CONVICTION

Roran glared at Horst.

They were in Baldor’s room. Roran was propped upright in bed, listen-

ing as the smith said, “What did you expect me to do? We couldn’t at-

tack once you fainted. Besides, the men were in no state to fight. Can’t

blame them either. I nearly bit off my tongue when I saw those mon-

sters.” Horst shook his wild mane of hair. “We’ve been dragged into one

of the old tales, Roran, and I don’t like it one bit.” Roran retained his

stony expression. “Look, you can kill the soldiers if you want, but you

have to get your strength back first. You’ll have plenty of volunteers;

people trust you in battle, especially after you defeated the soldiers here

last night.” When Roran remained silent, Horst sighed, patted him on his

good shoulder, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Roran did not even blink. So far in his life, he had only truly cared

about three things: his family, his home in Palancar Valley, and Katrina.

His family had been annihilated last year. His farm had been smashed and

burned, though the land remained, which was all that really mattered.

But now Katrina was gone.

A choked sob escaped past the iron lump in his throat. He was faced

with a quandary that tore at his very essence: the only way to rescue

Katrina would be to somehow pursue the Ra’zac and leave Palancar Val-

ley, yet he could not abandon Carvahall to the soldiers. Nor could he for-

get Katrina.

My heart or my home, he thought bitterly. They were worthless with-

out each other. If he killed the soldiers it would only prevent the

Ra’zac—and perhaps Katrina—from returning. Anyway, the slaughter

would be pointless if reinforcements were nearby, for their arrival would

surely signal Carvahall’s demise.

Roran clenched his teeth as a fresh burst of pain emanated from his

bound shoulder. He closed his eyes. I hope Sloan gets eaten like Quimby.

No fate could be too terrible for that traitor. Roran cursed him with the

blackest oaths he knew.

Even if I were free to leave Carvahall, how could I find the Ra’zac? Who

would know where they live? Who would dare inform on Galbatorix’s ser-

vants? Despair rolled over him as he wrestled with the problem. He

231

imagined himself in one of the great cities of the Empire, searching aim-

lessly among dirty buildings and hordes of strangers for a hint, a glimpse,

a taste of his love.

It was hopeless.

A river of tears followed as he doubled over, groaning from the

strength of his agony and fear. He rocked back and forth, blind to any-

thing but the desolation of the world.

An endless amount of time reduced Roran’s sobs to weak gasps of pro-

test. He wiped his eyes and forced himself to take a long, shuddering

breath. He winced. His lungs felt like they were filled with shards of

glass.

I have to think, he told himself.

He leaned against the wall and—through the sheer strength of his

will—began to gradually subdue each of his unruly emotions, wrestling

them into submission to the one thing that could save him from insanity:

reason. His neck and shoulders trembled from the violence of his efforts.

Once he regained control, Roran carefully arranged his thoughts, like a

master craftsman organizing his tools into precise rows. There must be a

solution hidden amid my knowledge, if only I’m creative enough.

He could not track the Ra’zac through the air. That much was clear.

Someone would have to tell him where to find them, and of all the peo-

ple he could ask, the Varden probably knew the most. However, they

would be just as hard to find as the desecrators, and he could not waste

time searching for them. Although... A small voice in his head reminded

him of the rumors he had heard from trappers and traders that Surda se-

cretly supported the Varden.

Surda. The country lay at the bottom of the Empire, or so Roran had

been told, as he had never seen a map of Alagaësia. Under ideal condi-

tions, it would take several weeks to reach on horse, longer if he had to

evade soldiers. Of course, the swiftest mode of transportation would be

to sail south along the coast, but that would mean having to travel all the

way to the Toark River and then to Teirm to find a ship. It would take

far too long. And he still might be apprehended by soldiers.

232

“If, could, would, might, ” he muttered, repeatedly clenching his left

hand. North of Teirm, the only port he knew of was Narda, but to reach

it, he would have to cross the entire width of the Spine—a feat unheard

of, even for the trappers.

Roran swore quietly. The conjecture was pointless. I should be trying to

save Carvahall, not desert it. The problem was, he had already deter-

mined that the village and all who remained in it were doomed. Tears

gathered at the corners of his eyes again. All who remain...

What... what if everyone in Carvahall accompanied me to Narda and

then to Surda? He would achieve both his desires simultaneously.

The audacity of the idea stunned him.

It was heresy, blasphemy, to think that he could convince the farmers

to abandon their fields and the merchants their shops. . and yet. . and yet

what was the alternative but slavery or death? The Varden were the only

group that would harbor fugitives of the Empire, and Roran was sure that

the rebels would be delighted to have a village’s worth of recruits, espe-

cially ones who had proved themselves in battle. Also, by bringing the

villagers to them, he would earn the Varden’s confidence, so that they

would trust him with the location of the Ra’zac. Maybe they can explain

why Galbatorix is so desperate to capture me.

If the plan were to succeed, though, it would have to be implemented

before the new troops reached Carvahall, which left only a few days—if

that—to arrange the departure of some three hundred people. The logis-

tics were frightening to consider.

Roran knew that mere reason could not persuade anyone to leave; it

would require messianic zeal to stir people’s emotions, to make them feel

in the depths of their hearts the need to relinquish the trappings of their

identities and lives. Nor would it be enough to simply instill fear—for he

knew that fear often made those in peril fight harder. Rather, he had to

instill a sense of purpose and destiny, to make the villagers believe, as he

did, that joining the Varden and resisting Galbatorix’s tyranny was the

noblest action in the world.

It required passion that could not be intimidated by hardship, deterred

by suffering, or quenched by death.

In his mind, Roran saw Katrina standing before him, pale and ghostly