Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (6 page)

standby in songs and legends—had little hold in reality. At times these

thoughts filled his consciousness to the point where he could barely rise

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in the morning, feeling bloated with their heaviness.

Turning on the road, he headed north through Palancar Valley, back to

Carvahall. The notched mountains on either side were laden with snow,

despite the spring greenery that had crept over the valley floor in past

weeks. Overhead, a single gray cloud drifted toward the peaks.

Roran ran a hand across his chin, feeling the stubble. Eragon caused all

this—him and his blasted curiosity—by bringing that stone out of the Spine.

It had taken Roran weeks to reach that conclusion. He had listened to

everyone’s accounts. Several times he had Gertrude, the town healer,

read aloud the letter Brom had left him. And there was no other explana-

tion. Whatever that stone was, it must have attracted the strangers. For that

alone, he blamed Garrow’s death on Eragon, though not in anger; he

knew that Eragon had intended no harm. No, what roused his fury was

that Eragon had left Garrow unburied and fled Palancar Valley, abandon-

ing his responsibilities to gallop off with the old storyteller on some hare-

brained journey. How could Eragon have so little regard for those left be-

hind? Did he run because he felt guilty? Afraid? Did Brom mislead him

with wild tales of adventure? And why would Eragon listen to such things at

a time like that?... I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive right now.

Roran scowled and rolled his shoulders, trying to clear his mind. Brom’s

letter... Bah! He had never heard a more ridiculous collection of insinua-

tions and ominous hints. The only thing it made clear was to avoid the

strangers, which was common sense to begin with. The old man was

crazy, he decided.

A flicker of movement caused Roran to turn, and he saw twelve deer—

including a young buck with velvet horns—trotting back into the trees.

He made sure to note their location so he could find them tomorrow. He

was proud that he could hunt well enough to support himself in Horst’s

house, though he had never been as skilled as Eragon.

As he walked, he continued to order his thoughts. After Garrow’s

death, Roran had abandoned his job at Dempton’s mill in Therinsford and

returned to Carvahall. Horst had agreed to house him and, in the follow-

ing months, had provided him with work in the forge. Grief had delayed

Roran’s decisions about the future until two days ago, when he finally

settled upon a course of action.

He wanted to marry Katrina, the butcher’s daughter. The reason he

went to Therinsford in the first place was to earn money to ensure a

smooth beginning to their life together. But now, without a farm, a home,

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or means to support her, Roran could not in good conscience ask for

Katrina’s hand. His pride would not allow it. Nor did Roran think Sloan,

her father, would tolerate a suitor with such poor prospects. Even under

the best of circumstances, Roran had expected to have a hard time con-

vincing Sloan to give up Katrina; the two of them had never been

friendly. And it was impossible for Roran to wed Katrina without her fa-

ther’s consent, not unless they wished to divide her family, anger the vil-

lage by defying tradition, and, most likely, start a blood feud with Sloan.

Considering the situation, it seemed to Roran that the only option

available to him was to rebuild his farm, even if he had to raise the house

and barn himself. It would be hard, starting from nothing, but once his

position was secured, he could approach Sloan with his head held high.

Next spring is the soonest we might talk, thought Roran, grimacing.

He knew Katrina would wait—for a time, at least.

He continued at a steady pace until evening, when the village came

into view. Within the small huddle of buildings, wash hung on lines

strung from window to window. Men filed back toward the houses from

surrounding fields thick with winter wheat. Behind Carvahall, the half-

mile-high Igualda Falls gleamed in the sunset as it tumbled down the

Spine into the Anora. The sight warmed Roran because it was so ordi-

nary. Nothing was more comforting than having everything where it

should be.

Leaving the road, he made his way up the rise to where Horst’s house

sat with a view of the Spine. The door was already open. Roran tromped

inside, following the sounds of conversation into the kitchen.

Horst was there, leaning on the rough table pushed into one corner of

the room, his arms bare to the elbow. Next to him was his wife, Elain,

who was nearly five months pregnant and smiling with quiet content-

ment. Their sons, Albriech and Baldor, faced them.

As Roran entered, Albriech said, “. . and I still hadn’t left the forge yet!

Thane swears he saw me, but I was on the other side of town.”

“What’s going on?” asked Roran, slipping off his pack.

Elain exchanged a glance with Horst. “Here, let me get you something

to eat.” She set bread and a bowl of cold stew before him. Then she

looked him in the eye, as if searching for a particular expression. “How

was it?”

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Roran shrugged. “All of the wood is either burnt or rotting—nothing

worth using. The well is still intact, and that’s something to be grateful

for, I suppose. I’ll have to cut timber for the house as soon as possible if

I’m going to have a roof over my head by planting season. Now tell me,

what’s happened?”

“Ha!” exclaimed Horst. “There’s been quite a row, there has. Thane is

missing a scythe and he thinks Albriech took it.”

“He probably dropped it in the grass and forgot where he left it,”

snorted Albriech.

“Probably,” agreed Horst, smiling.

Roran bit into the bread. “It doesn’t make much sense, accusing you. If

you needed a scythe, you could just forge one.”

“I know,” said Albriech, dropping into a chair, “but instead of looking

for his, he starts grousing that he saw someone leaving his field and that it

looked a bit like me. . and since no one else looks like me, I must have

stolen the scythe.”

It was true that no one looked like him. Albriech had inherited both

his father’s size and Elain’s honey-blond hair, which made him an oddity

in Carvahall, where brown was the predominant hair color. In contrast,

Baldor was both thinner and dark-haired.

“I’m sure it’ll turn up,” said Baldor quietly. “Try not to get too angry

over it in the meantime.”

“Easy for you to say.”

As Roran finished the last of the bread and started on the stew, he

asked Horst, “Do you need me for anything tomorrow?”

“Not especially. I’ll just be working on Quimby’s wagon. The blasted

frame still won’t sit square.”

Roran nodded, pleased. “Good. Then I’ll take the day and go hunting.

There are a few deer farther down the valley that don’t look too scrawny.

Their ribs weren’t showing, at least.”

Baldor suddenly brightened. “Do you want some company?”

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“Sure. We can leave at dawn.”

When he finished eating, Roran scrubbed his face and hands clean, then

wandered outside to clear his head. Stretching leisurely, he strolled to-

ward the center of town.

Halfway there, the chatter of excited voices outside the Seven Sheaves

caught his attention. He turned, curious, and made his way to the tavern,

where an odd sight met him. Sitting on the porch was a middle-aged man

draped in a patchwork leather coat. Beside him was a pack festooned

with the steel jaws of the trappers’ trade. Several dozen villagers listened

as he gestured expansively and said, “So when I arrived at Therinsford, I

went to this man, Neil. Good, honest man; I help in his fields during the

spring and summer.”

Roran nodded. Trappers spent the winter squirreled away in the moun-

tains, returning in the spring to sell their skins to tanners like Gedric and

then to take up work, usually as farmhands. Since Carvahall was the

northernmost village in the Spine, many trappers passed through it,

which was one of the reasons Carvahall had its own tavern, blacksmith,

and tanner.

“After a few steins of ale—to lubricate my speaking, you understand,

after a ’alf year with nary a word uttered, except perhaps for blaspheming

the world and all beyond when losing a bear-biter—I come to Neil, the

froth still fresh on my beard, and start exchanging gossip. As our transac-

tion proceeds, I ask him all gregarious-like, what news of the Empire or

the king—may he rot with gangrene and trench mouth. Was anyone born

or died or banished that I should know of? And then guess what? Neil

leaned forward, going all serious ’bout the mouth, and said that word is

going around, there is, from Dras-Leona and Gil’ead of strange happen-

ings here, there, and everywhere in Alagaësia. The Urgals have fair disap-

peared from civilized lands, and good riddance, but not one man can tell

why or where. ’Alf the trade in the Empire has dried up as a result of

raids and attacks and, from what I heard, it isn’t the work of mere brig-

ands, for the attacks are too widespread, too calculated. No goods are sto-

len, only burned or soiled. But that’s not the end of it, oh no, not by the

tip of your blessed grandmother’s whiskers.”

The trapper shook his head and took a sip from his wineskin before

continuing: “There be mutterings of a Shade haunting the northern terri-

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tories. He’s been seen along the edge of Du Weldenvarden and near

Gil’ead. They say his teeth are filed to points, his eyes are as red as wine,

and his hair is as red as the blood he drinks. Worse, something seems to

have gotten our fine, mad monarch’s dander up, so it has. Five days past,

a juggler from the south stopped in Therinsford on his lonesome way to

Ceunon, and he said that troops have been moving and gathering, though

for what was beyond him.” He shrugged. “As my pap taught me when I

was a suckling babe, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Perhaps it’s the

Varden. They’ve caused old Iron Bones enough pain in the arse over the

years. Or perhaps Galbatorix finally decided he’s had enough of tolerating

Surda. At least he knows where to find it, unlike those rebels. He’ll crush

Surda like a bear crushes an ant, he will.”

Roran blinked as a babble of questions exploded around the trapper.

He was inclined to doubt the report of a Shade—it sounded too much

like a story a drunk woodsman might invent—but the rest of it all

sounded bad enough to be true. Surda... Little information reached Car-

vahall about that distant country, but Roran at least knew that, although

Surda and the Empire were ostensibly at peace, Surdans lived in constant

fear that their more powerful neighbor to the north would invade them.

For that reason, it was said that Orrin, their king, supported the Varden.

If the trapper was right about Galbatorix, then it could mean ugly war

crouched in the future, accompanied by the hardships of increased taxes

and forced conscription. I would rather live in an age devoid of momentous

events. Upheaval makes already difficult lives, such as ours, nigh impossi-

ble.

“What’s more, there have even been tales of. .” Here the trapper paused

and, with a knowing expression, tapped the side of his nose with his fore-

finger. “Tales of a new Rider in Alagaësia.” He laughed then, a big, hearty

laugh, slapping his belly as he rocked back on the porch.

Roran laughed as well. Stories of Riders appeared every few years. They

had excited his interest the first two or three times, but he soon learned

not to trust such accounts, for they all came to naught. The rumors were

nothing more than wishful thinking on the part of those who longed for a

brighter future.

He was about to head off when he noticed Katrina standing by the cor-

ner of the tavern, garbed in a long russet dress decorated with green rib-

bon. She gazed at him with the same intensity with which he gazed at

her. Going over, he touched her on the shoulder and, together, they

slipped away.

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They walked to the edge of Carvahall, where they stood looking at the

stars. The heavens were brilliant, shimmering with thousands of celestial

fires. And arching above them, from north to south, was the glorious

pearly band that streamed from horizon to horizon, like diamond dust

tossed from a pitcher.

Without looking at him, Katrina rested her head on Roran’s shoulder

and asked, “How was your day?”

“I returned home.” He felt her stiffen against him.

“What was it like?”

“Terrible.” His voice caught and he fell silent, holding her tightly. The

scent of her copper hair on his cheek was like an elixir of wine and spice

and perfume. It seeped deep inside him, warm and comforting. “The

house, the barn, the fields, they’re all being overrun. . I wouldn’t have

found them if I didn’t know where to look.”

She finally turned to face him, stars flashing in her eyes, sorrow on her

face. “Oh, Roran.” She kissed him, lips brushing his for a brief moment.

“You have endured so much loss, and yet your strength has never failed