Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (38 page)

burning beneath his brow, “just you remember that if reality falls short of

the airy dreams you conjured, there’ll be debts to pay. Give people a

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hope and then take it away, and they’ll destroy you.”

The prospect was of no concern to Roran. If we make it to Surda, we

will be greeted as heroes by the rebels. If we don’t, our deaths will fulfill all

debts. When it was clear that the smith had finished, Roran asked,

“Where is Elain?”

Horst scowled at the change of topic. “Out back.” He stood and

straightened his tunic over his heavy shoulders. “I have to go clear out the

smithy and decide what tools I’m going to take. I’ll hide or destroy the

rest. The Empire won’t benefit from my work.”

“I’ll help.” Roran pushed back his chair.

“No,” said Horst roughly. “This is a task I can only do with Albriech and

Baldor. That forge has been my entire life, and theirs. . You wouldn’t be

much help with that arm of yours anyway. Stay here. Elain can use you.”

After the smith left, Roran opened the side door and found Elain talk-

ing with Gertrude by the large pile of firewood Horst maintained year-

round. The healer went up to Roran and put a hand on his forehead. “Ah,

I was afraid that you might have a fever after yesterday’s excitement.

Your family heals at the most extraordinary rate. I could barely believe

my eyes when Eragon started walking about after having his legs skinned

and spending two days in bed.” Roran stiffened at the mention of his

cousin, but she did not seem to notice. “Let’s see how your shoulder is

doing, shall we?”

Roran bowed his neck so that Gertrude could reach behind him and

untie the knot to the wool sling. When it was undone, he carefully low-

ered his right forearm—which was immobilized in a splint—until his

arm was straight. Gertrude slid her fingers under the poultice packed on

his wound and peeled it off.

“Oh my,” she said.

A thick, rancid smell clogged the air. Roran clenched his teeth as his

gorge rose, then looked down. The skin under the poultice had turned

white and spongy, like a giant birthmark of maggot flesh. The bite itself

had been stitched up while he was unconscious, so all he saw was a jag-

ged pink line caked with blood on the front of his shoulder. Swelling and

inflammation had forced the twisted catgut threads to cut deep into his

flesh, while beads of clear liquid oozed from the wound.

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Gertrude clucked her tongue as she inspected him, then refastened the

bandages and looked Roran in the eye. “You’re doing well enough, but

the tissue may become diseased. I can’t tell yet. If it does, we’ll have to

cauterize your shoulder.”

Roran nodded. “Will my arm work once it heals?”

“As long as the muscle knits together properly. It also depends on how

you want to use it. You—”

“Will I be able to fight?”

“If you want to fight,” said Gertrude slowly, “I suggest that you learn to

use your left hand.” She patted his cheek, then hurried back toward her

hut.

My arm. Roran stared at his bound limb as if it no longer belonged to

him. Until that moment, he had not realized how closely his sense of

identity was linked to the condition of his body. Injuring his flesh caused

injury to his psyche, as well as the other way around. Roran was proud of

his body, and seeing it mutilated sent a jolt of panic through him, espe-

cially since the damage was permanent. Even if he regained the use of his

arm, he would always bear a thick scar as a memento of his injury.

Taking his hand, Elain led Roran back into the house, where she crum-

bled mint into a kettle, then set it on the stove to boil. “You really love

her, don’t you?”

“What?” He looked at her, startled.

Elain rested a hand on her belly. “Katrina.” She smiled. “I’m not blind. I

know what you’ve done for her, and I’m proud of you. Not every man

would go as far.”

“It won’t matter, if I can’t free her.”

The kettle began to whistle stridently. “You will, I’m sure of it—one

way or another.” Elain poured the tea. “We had better start preparing for

the trip. I’m going to sort through the kitchen first. While I do, can you

go upstairs and bring me all the clothes, bedding, and anything else you

think might be useful?”

“Where should I put it?” asked Roran.

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“The dining room will be fine.”

Since the mountains were too steep—and the forest too dense—for

wagons, Roran realized that their supplies were limited to however much

they could carry themselves, as well as what they could pile onto Horst’s

two horses, although one of those had to be left partially unburdened so

that Elain could ride whenever the trail proved too strenuous for her

pregnancy.

Compounding the issue was the fact that some families in Carvahall did

not have enough steeds for both provisions and the young, old, and infirm

who would be unable to keep pace on foot. Everyone would have to

share resources. The question, though, was with whom? They still did

not know who else was going, besides Birgit and Delwin.

Thus, when Elain finished packing the items she deemed essential—

mainly food and shelter—she sent Roran to find out if anyone needed ex-

tra storage space and, if not, if she could borrow some in turn, for there

were plenty of nonessential items she wanted to bring but would other-

wise abandon.

Despite the people hurrying through the streets, Carvahall was heavy

with a forced stillness, an unnatural calm that belied the feverish activity

hidden within the houses. Almost everyone was silent and walked with

downturned faces, engrossed in their own thoughts.

When Roran arrived at Orval’s house, he had to pound on the knocker

for almost a minute before the farmer answered the door. “Oh, it’s you,

Stronghammer.” Orval stepped out on the porch. “Sorry for the wait, but

I was busy. How can I help you?” He tapped a long black pipe against his

palm, then began to roll it nervously between his fingers. Inside the

house, Roran heard chairs being shoved across the floor and pots and pans

banging together.

Roran quickly explained Elain’s offer and request. Orval squinted up at

the sky. “I reckon I’ve got enough room for my own stuff. Ask around, an’

if you still need space, I have a pair of oxen that could hold a bit more.”

“So you are going?”

Orval shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. We’re just. .

getting ready in case of another attack.”

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“Ah.” Puzzled, Roran trudged on to Kiselt’s house. He soon discovered

that no one was willing to reveal whether they had decided to leave—

even when evidence of their preparations was in plain sight.

And they all treated Roran with a deference that he found unsettling. It

manifested itself in small gestures: offers of condolences for his misfor-

tune, respectful silence whenever he spoke, and murmurs of assent when

he made a statement. It was as if his deeds had inflated his stature and in-

timidated the people he had known since childhood, distancing him from

them.

I am branded, thought Roran, limping through the mud. He stopped at

the edge of a puddle and bent to examine his reflection, curious if he

could discern what made him so different.

He saw a man in ragged, blood-stained clothes, with a humped back

and a crooked arm tied across his chest. His neck and cheeks were scum-

bled with an impending beard, while his hair was matted into snarled

ropes that writhed in a halo around his head. Most frightening of all,

though, were his eyes, which had sunk deep into the sockets, giving him

a haunted appearance. From within those two morbid caverns, his gaze

boiled like molten steel, full of loss, rage, and an obsessive craving.

A lopsided smile crept across Roran’s face, rendering his visage even

more shocking. He liked how he looked. It matched his feelings. Now he

understood how he had managed to influence the villagers. He bared his

teeth. I can use this image. I can use it to destroy the Ra’zac.

Lifting his head, he slouched up the street, pleased with himself. Just

then, Thane approached him and grasped his left forearm in a hearty grip.

“Stronghammer! You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

“You are?” Roran wondered if the whole world had been turned inside

out during the night.

Thane nodded vigorously. “Ever since we attacked the soldiers, every-

thing has seemed hopeless to me. It pains me to admit it, but so it was.

My heart pounded all the time, like I was about to fall down a well; my

hands shook; and I felt dreadfully ill. I thought someone had poisoned

me! It was worse than death. But what you said yesterday healed me in-

stantly and let me see purpose and meaning in the world again! I. . I can’t

even explain the horror you saved me from. I am in your debt. If you

need or want anything, just ask and I’ll help.”

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Moved, Roran gripped the farmer’s forearm in return and said, “Thank

you, Thane. Thank you.” Thane bowed his head, tears in his eyes, then

released Roran and left him standing alone in the middle of the street.

What have I done?

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EXODUS

Awall of thick, smoky air engulfed Roran as he entered the Seven

Sheaves, Morn’s tavern. He stopped beneath the Urgal horns pegged over

the door and let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. “Hello?” he called.

The door to the back rooms banged open as Tara plowed forward,

trailed by Morn. They both glared sullenly at Roran. Tara planted her

meaty fists on her hips and demanded, “What do you want here?”

Roran stared at her for a moment, trying to determine the source of her

animosity. “Have you decided whether to accompany me into the Spine?”

“That’s none of your business,” snapped Tara.

Oh yes, it is. He restrained himself, though, and instead said, “Whatever

your intentions are, if you were to go, Elain would like to know if you

have room in your bags for a few more items, or if you need extra room

yourself. She has—”

“Extra room!” burst out Morn. He waved at the wall behind the bar,

which was lined with oak casks. “I have, packed in straw, twelve barrels

of the clearest winter ale, which have been kept at the perfect tempera-

ture for the past five months. They were Quimby’s last batch! What am I

supposed to do with them? Or my hogsheads of lager and stout? If I leave

them, the soldiers will dispose of it in a week, or they’ll spike the barrels

and pour the beer into the ground, where the only creatures who’ll enjoy

it will be grubs and worms. Oh!” Morn sat and wrung his hands, shaking

his head. “Twelve years of work! Ever since Father died I ran the tavern

the same way he did, day in and day out. And then you and Eragon had

to cause this trouble. It.. ” He stopped, breathing with difficulty, and

wiped his mashed face with the edge of his sleeve.

“There, there now,” said Tara. She put her arm around Morn and

jabbed a finger at Roran. “Who gave you leave to stir up Carvahall with

your fancy words? If we go, how will my poor husband make a living?

He can’t take his trade with him like Horst or Gedric. He can’t squat in

an empty field and farm it like you! Impossible! Everyone will go and we

will starve. Or we will go and we will still starve. You have ruined us!”

Roran looked from her flushed, angry face to Morn’s distraught one,

then turned and opened the door. He paused on the threshold and said in

a low voice, “I have always counted you among my friends. I would not

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have you killed by the Empire.” Stepping outside, he pulled his vest tight

around himself and paced away from the tavern, ruminating the whole

way.

At Fisk’s well, he stopped for a drink and found himself joined by

Birgit. She watched him struggle to turn the crank with only one hand,

then took it from him and brought up the water bucket, which she

passed to him without drinking. He sipped the cool liquid, then said, “I’m

glad that you are coming.” He handed the bucket back.

Birgit eyed him. “I recognize the force that drives you, Roran, for it

propels me as well; we both wish to find the Ra’zac. Once we do,

though, I will have my compensation from you for Quimby’s death.

Never forget that.” She pushed the full bucket back into the well and let

it fall unchecked, the crank spinning wildly. A second later, the well ech-

oed with a hollow splash.

Roran smiled as he watched her walk away. He was more pleased than

upset by her declaration; he knew that even if everyone else in Carvahall

were to forsake the cause or die, Birgit would still help him to hunt the

Ra’zac. Afterward, though—if an afterward existed—he would have to

pay her price or kill her. That was the only way to resolve such matters.

By evening Horst and his sons had returned to the house, bearing two

small bundles wrapped in oilcloth. “Is that all?” asked Elain. Horst nodded

curtly, lay the bundles on the kitchen table, and unwrapped them to ex-

pose four hammers, three tongs, a clamp, a medium-sized bellows, and a