Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (59 page)

can accomplish much with it that would be too complex or too danger-

ous otherwise. It means that if you are captured and gagged, you can still

call upon magic to free yourself, as Vanir did. It means that if you are

captured and drugged and cannot recall the ancient language, yes, even

then, you may cast a spell, though only in the gravest circumstances. And

it means that if you would cast a spell for that which has no name in the

ancient language, you can.” He paused. “But beware the temptation to use

these powers. Even the wisest among us hesitate to trifle with them for

fear of death or worse.”

The next morning, and every morning thereafter so long as he stayed in

Ellesméra, Eragon dueled with Vanir, but he never lost his temper again,

no matter what the elf did or said.

Nor did Eragon feel like devoting energy to their rivalry. His back

pained him more and more frequently, driving him to the limits of his

endurance. The debilitating attacks sensitized him; actions that previously

had caused him no trouble could now leave him writhing on the ground.

Even the Rimgar began to trigger the seizures as he advanced to more

strenuous poses. It was not uncommon for him to suffer three or four

such episodes in one day.

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Eragon’s face grew haggard. He walked with a shuffle, his movements

slow and careful as he tried to preserve his strength. It became hard for

him to think clearly or to pay attention to Oromis’s lessons, and gaps be-

gan to appear in his memory that he could not account for. In his spare

time, he took up Orik’s puzzle ring again, preferring to concentrate upon

the baffling interlocked rings rather than his condition. When she was

with him, Saphira insisted that he ride upon her back and did everything

that she could to make him comfortable and to save him effort.

One morning, as he clung to a spike on her neck, Eragon said, I have a

new name for pain.

What’s that?

The Obliterator. Because when you’re in pain, nothing else can exist. Not

thought. Not emotion. Only the drive to escape the pain. When it’s strong

enough, the Obliterator strips us of everything that makes us who we are,

until we’re reduced to creatures less than animals, creatures with a single

desire and goal: escape.

A good name, then.

I’m falling apart, Saphira, like an old horse that’s plowed too many fields.

Keep hold of me with your mind, or I may drift apart and forget who I am.

I will never let go of you.

Soon afterward, Eragon fell victim to three bouts of agony while fight-

ing Vanir and then two more during the Rimgar. As he uncurled from

the clenched ball he had rolled into, Oromis said, “Again, Eragon. You

must perfect your balance.”

Eragon shook his head and growled in an undertone, “No.” He crossed

his arms to hide his tremors.

“What?”

“No.”

“Get up, Eragon, and try again.”

“No! Do the pose yourself; I won’t.”

Oromis knelt beside Eragon and placed a cool hand on his cheek. Hold-

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ing it there, he gazed at Eragon with such kindness, Eragon understood

the depth of the elf’s compassion for him, and that, if it were possible,

Oromis would willingly assume Eragon’s pain to relieve his suffering.

“Don’t abandon hope,” said Oromis. “Never that.” A measure of strength

seemed to flow from him to Eragon. “We are the Riders. We stand be-

tween the light and the dark, and keep the balance between the two. Ig-

norance, fear, hate: these are our enemies. Deny them with all your

might, Eragon, or we will surely fail.” He stood and extended a hand to-

ward Eragon. “Now rise, Shadeslayer, and prove you can conquer the in-

stincts of your flesh!”

Eragon took a deep breath and pushed himself upright on one arm,

wincing from the effort. He got his feet underneath himself, paused for a

moment, then straightened to his full height and looked Oromis in the

eye.

The elf nodded with approval.

Eragon remained silent until they finished the Rimgar and went to

bathe in the stream, whereupon he said, “Master.”

“Yes, Eragon?”

“Why must I endure this torture? You could use magic to give me the

skills I need, to shape my body as you do the trees and plants.”

“I could, but if I did, you would not understand how you got the body

you had, your own abilities, nor how to maintain them. No shortcuts ex-

ist for the path you walk, Eragon.”

Cold water rushed over the length of Eragon’s body as he lowered him-

self into the stream. He ducked his head under the surface, holding a rock

so that he would not float away, and lay stretched out along the stream-

bed, feeling like an arrow flying through the water.

376

NARDA

Roran leaned on one knee and scratched his new beard as he looked

down at Narda.

The small town was dark and compact, like a crust of rye bread

tamped into a crevasse along the coast. Beyond it, the wine-red sea glim-

mered with the last rays of the dying sunset. The water fascinated him; it

was utterly different from the landscape he was accustomed to.

We made it.

Leaving the promontory, Roran walked back to his makeshift tent, en-

joying deep breaths of the salty air. They had camped high in the foothills

of the Spine in order to avoid detection by anyone who might alert the

Empire as to their whereabouts.

As he strode among the clumps of villagers huddled beneath the trees,

Roran surveyed their condition with sorrow and anger. The trek from

Palancar Valley had left people sick, battered, and exhausted; their faces

gaunt from lack of food; their clothes tattered. Most everyone wore rags

tied around their hands to ward off frostbite during the frigid mountain

nights. Weeks of carrying heavy packs had bowed once-proud shoulders.

The worst sight was the children: thin and unnaturally still.

They deserve better, thought Roran. I’d be in the clutches of the Ra’zac

right now if they hadn’t protected me.

Numerous people approached Roran, most of whom wanted nothing

more than a touch on the shoulder or a word of comfort. Some offered

him bits of food, which he refused or, when they insisted, gave to some-

one else. Those who remained at a distance watched with round, pale

eyes. He knew what they said about him, that he was mad, that spirits

possessed him, that not even the Ra’zac could defeat him in battle.

Crossing the Spine had been even harder than Roran expected. The

only paths in the forest were game trails, which were too narrow, steep,

and meandering for their group. As a result, the villagers were often

forced to chop their way through the trees and underbrush, a painstaking

task that everyone despised, not least because it made it easy for the Em-

pire to track them. The one advantage to the situation was that the exer-

cise restored Roran’s injured shoulder to its previous level of strength, al-

though he still had trouble lifting his arm at certain angles.

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Other hardships took their toll. A sudden storm trapped them on a

bare pass high above the timberline. Three people froze in the snow:

Hida, Brenna, and Nesbit, all of whom were quite old. That night was the

first time Roran was convinced that the entire village would die because

they had followed him. Soon after, a boy broke his arm in a fall, and then

Southwell drowned in a glacier stream. Wolves and bears preyed upon

their livestock on a regular basis, ignoring the watchfires that the villagers

lit once they were concealed from Palancar Valley and Galbatorix’s hated

soldiers. Hunger clung to them like a relentless parasite, gnawing at their

bellies, devouring their strength, and sapping their will to continue.

And yet they survived, displaying the same obstinacy and fortitude that

kept their ancestors in Palancar Valley despite famine, war, and pesti-

lence. The people of Carvahall might take an age and a half to reach a de-

cision, but once they did, nothing could deter them from their course.

Now that they had reached Narda, a sense of hope and accomplish-

ment permeated the camp. No one knew what would happen next, but

the fact that they had gotten so far gave them confidence.

We won’t be safe until we leave the Empire, thought Roran. And it’s up to

me to ensure that we aren’t caught. I’ve become responsible for everyone

here.... A responsibility that he had embraced wholeheartedly because it

allowed him to both protect the villagers from Galbatorix and pursue his

goal of rescuing Katrina. It’s been so long since she was captured. How can

she still be alive? He shuddered and pushed the thoughts away. True

madness awaited him if he allowed himself to brood over Katrina’s fate.

At dawn Roran, Horst, Baldor, Loring’s three sons, and Gertrude set out

for Narda. They descended from the foothills to the town’s main road,

careful to stay hidden until they emerged onto the lane. Here in the low-

lands, the air seemed thick to Roran; it felt as if he were trying to breathe

underwater.

Roran gripped the hammer at his belt as they approached Narda’s gate.

Two soldiers guarded the opening. They examined Roran’s group with

hard eyes, lingering on their ragged clothes, then lowered their poleaxes

and barred the entrance.

“Where’d you be from?” asked the man on the right. He could not have

been older than twenty-five, but his hair was already pure white.

378

Swelling his chest, Horst crossed his arms and said, “Roundabouts

Teirm, if it please you.”

“What brings you here?”

“Trade. We were sent by shopkeepers who want to buy goods directly

from Narda, instead of through the usual merchants.”

“That so, eh? What goods?”

When Horst faltered, Gertrude said, “Herbs and medicine on my part.

The plants I’ve received from here have either been too old or moldy and

spoiled. I have to procure a fresh supply.”

“And my brothers and I,” said Darmmen, “came to bargain with your

cobblers. Shoes made in the northern style are fashionable in Dras-Leona

and Urû’baen.” He grimaced. “At least they were when we set out.”

Horst nodded with renewed confidence. “Aye. And I’m here to collect

a shipment of ironwork for my master.”

“So you say. What about that one? What does he do?” asked the soldier,

motioning toward Roran with his ax.

“Pottery,” said Roran.

“Pottery?”

“Pottery.”

“Why the hammer, then?”

“How do you think the glaze on a bottle or jar gets cracked? It doesn’t

happen by itself, you know. You have to hit it.” Roran returned the

white-haired man’s stare of disbelief with a blank expression, daring him

to challenge the statement.

The soldier grunted and ran his gaze over them again. “Be as that may,

you don’t look like tradesmen to me. Starved alley cats is more like it.”

“We had difficulty on the road,” said Gertrude.

“That I’d believe. If you came from Teirm, where be your horses?”

379

“We left them at our camp,” supplied Hamund. He pointed south, op-

posite where the rest of the villagers were actually hidden.

“Don’t have the coin to stay in town, eh?” With a scornful chuckle, the

soldier raised his ax and gestured for his companion to do likewise. “All

right, you can pass, but don’t cause trouble or you’ll be off to the stocks

or worse.”

Once through the gate, Horst pulled Roran to the side of the street and

growled in his ear, “That was a fool thing to do, making up something as

ridiculous as that. Cracking the glaze! Do you want a fight? We can’t—”

He stopped as Gertrude plucked at his sleeve.

“Look,” murmured the healer.

To the left of the entrance stood a six-foot-wide message board with a

narrow shingle roof to protect the yellowing parchment underneath. Half

the board was devoted to official notices and proclamations. On the

other half hung a block of posters displaying sketches of various crimi-

nals. Foremost among them was a drawing of Roran without a beard.

Startled, Roran glanced around to make sure that no one in the street

was close enough to compare his face to the illustration, then devoted his

attention to the poster. He had expected the Empire to pursue them, but

it was still a shock to encounter proof of it. Galbatorix must be expending

an enormous amount of resources trying to catch us. When they were in

the Spine, it was easy to forget that the outside world existed. I bet post-

ers of me are nailed up throughout the Empire. He grinned, glad that he had

stopped shaving and that he and the others had agreed to use false names

while in Narda.

A reward was inked at the bottom of the poster. Garrow never taught

Roran and Eragon to read, but he did teach them their figures because, as

he said, “You have to know how much you own, what it’s worth, and

what you’re paid for it so you don’t get rooked by some two-faced

knave.” Thus, Roran could see that the Empire had offered ten thousand

crowns for him, enough to live in comfort for several decades. In a per-

verse way, the size of the reward pleased him, giving him a sense of im-