How, how, how? If they don’t starve, they’ll freeze. If they don’t freeze,
they’ll be eaten. If they’re not eaten. . Who knows? They may fall!”
Roran spread his hands. “If we all help, they will have plenty of food.
Fire won’t be a problem if they move farther back into the forest, which
they must anyway, since there isn’t room to camp right by the falls.”
“Excuses! Justifications!”
“What would you have us do, Sloan?” asked Morn, eyeing him with cu-
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riosity.
Sloan laughed bitterly. “Not this.”
“Then what?”
“It doesn’t matter. Only this is the wrong choice.”
“You don’t have to participate,” pointed out Horst.
“Nor will I,” said the butcher. “Proceed if you want, but neither I nor
my blood shall enter the Spine while I still have marrow in my bones.”
He grabbed his cap and left with a venomous glare at Roran, who re-
turned the scowl in kind.
As Roran saw it, Sloan was endangering Katrina through his own pig-
headed stubbornness. If he can’t bring himself to accept the Spine as a
place of refuge, decided Roran, then he’s become my enemy and I have to
take matters into my own hands.
Horst leaned forward on his elbows and interlaced his thick fingers.
“So. . If we are going to use Roran’s plan, what preparations will be
needed?” The group exchanged wary glances, then gradually began to dis-
cuss the topic.
Roran waited until he was convinced that he had achieved his goal be-
fore slipping out of the dining room. Loping through the dusky village, he
searched for Sloan along the inner perimeter of the tree wall. Eventually,
he spotted the butcher hunched underneath a torch, his shield clasped
around his knees. Roran spun around on one foot and ran to Sloan’s shop,
where he hurried to the kitchen in the back.
Katrina paused in the middle of setting their table and stared at him
with amazement. “Roran! Why are you here? Did you tell Father?”
“No.” He came forward and took her arm, savoring the touch. Just be-
ing in the same room with her filled him with joy. “I have a great favor to
ask of you. It’s been decided to send the children and a few others into
the Spine above Igualda Falls.” Katrina gasped. “I want you to accompany
them.”
With a shocked expression, Katrina pulled free of his grasp and turned
to the open fireplace, where she hugged herself and stared at the bed of
throbbing embers. For a long time, she said nothing. Then: “Father for-
170
bade me to go near the falls after Mother died. Albem’s farm is the clos-
est I’ve been to the Spine in over ten years.” She shivered, and her voice
grew accusing. “How can you suggest that I abandon both you and my
father? This is my home as much as yours. And why should I leave when
Elain, Tara, and Birgit will remain?”
“Katrina, please.” He tentatively put his hands on her shoulders. “The
Ra’zac are here for me, and I would not have you harmed because of that.
As long as you’re in danger, I can’t concentrate on what has to be done:
defending Carvahall.”
“Who would respect me for fleeing like a coward?” She lifted her chin.
“I would be ashamed to stand before the women of Carvahall and call
myself your wife.”
“Coward? There is no cowardice in guarding and protecting the chil-
dren in the Spine. If anything, it requires greater courage to enter the
mountains than to stay.”
“What horror is this?” whispered Katrina. She twisted in his arms, eyes
shining and mouth set firmly. “The man who would be my husband no
longer wants me by his side.”
He shook his head. “That’s not true. I—”
“It is true! What if you are killed while I’m gone?”
“Don’t say—”
“No! Carvahall has little hope of survival, and if we must die, I would
rather die together than huddle in the Spine without life or heart. Let
those with children tend to their own. As will I.” A tear rolled down her
cheek.
Gratitude and wonder surged through Roran at the strength of her de-
votion. He looked deep into her eyes. “It is for that love that I would
have you go. I know how you feel. I know that this is the hardest sacri-
fice either of us could make, and I ask it of you now.”
Katrina shuddered, her entire body rigid, her white hands clenched
around her muslin sash. “If I do this,” she said with a shaking voice, “you
must promise me, here and now, that you will never make such a request
again. You must promise that even if we faced Galbatorix himself and
only one of us could escape, you would not ask me to leave.”
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Roran looked at her helplessly. “I can’t.”
“Then how can you expect me to do what you won’t!” she cried. “That
is my price, and neither gold nor jewels nor pretty words can replace
your oath. If you don’t care enough for me to make your own sacrifice,
Roran Stronghammer, then be gone and I never wish to see your face
again!”
I cannot lose her. Though it pained him almost beyond endurance, he
bowed his head and said, “You have my word.”
Katrina nodded and sank into a chair—her back stiff and upright—and
blotted her tears on the cuff of her sleeve. In a quiet voice, she said, “Fa-
ther will hate me for going.”
“How will you tell him?”
“I won’t,” she said defiantly. “He would never let me enter the Spine,
but he has to realize that this is my decision. Anyway, he won’t dare pur-
sue me into the mountains; he fears them more than death itself.”
“He may fear losing you even more.”
“We shall see. If—when—the time comes to return, I expect you to
have already spoken to him about our engagement. That should give him
enough time to reconcile himself to the fact.”
Roran found himself nodding in agreement, all the while thinking that
they would be lucky if events worked out so well.
172
WOUNDS OF THE PRESENT
When dawn arrived, Roran woke and lay staring at the whitewashed
ceiling while he listened to the slow rasp of his own breathing. After a
minute, he rolled off the bed, dressed, and proceeded to the kitchen,
where he procured a chunk of bread, smeared it with soft cheese, then
stepped out onto the front porch to eat and admire the sunrise.
His tranquility was soon disrupted when a herd of unruly children
dashed through the garden of a nearby house, shrieking with delight at
their game of Catch-the-Cat, followed by a number of adults intent on
snaring their respective charges. Roran watched the cacophonous parade
vanish around a corner, then placed the last of the bread in his mouth
and returned to the kitchen, which had filled with the rest of the house-
hold.
Elain greeted him. “Good morning, Roran.” She pushed open the win-
dow shutters and gazed up at the sky. “It looks like it may rain again.”
“The more the better,” asserted Horst. “It’ll help keep us hidden while
we climb Narnmor Mountain.”
“Us?” inquired Roran. He sat at the table beside Albriech, who was
rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Horst nodded. “Sloan was right about the food and supplies; we have to
help carry them up the falls, or else there won’t be enough.”
“Will there still be men to defend Carvahall?”
“Of course, of course.”
Once they all had breakfast, Roran helped Baldor and Albriech wrap
spare food, blankets, and supplies into three large bundles that they slung
across their shoulders and hauled to the north end of the village. Roran’s
calf pained him, but not unbearably. Along the way, they met the three
brothers Darmmen, Larne, and Hamund, who were similarly burdened.
Just inside the trench that circumnavigated the houses, Roran and his
companions found a large gathering of children, parents, and grandparents
173
all busy organizing for the expedition. Several families had volunteered
their donkeys to carry goods and the younger children; the animals were
picketed in an impatient, braying line that added to the overall confusion.
Roran set his bundle on the ground and scanned the group. He saw
Svart—Ivor’s uncle and, at nearly sixty, the oldest man in Carvahall—
seated on a bale of clothes, teasing a baby with the tip of his long white
beard; Nolfavrell, who was guarded over by Birgit; Felda, Nolla, Calitha,
and a number of other mothers with worried expressions; and a great
many reluctant people, both men and women. Roran also saw Katrina
among the crowd. She glanced up from a knot she was tying on a pack
and smiled at him, then returned to her task.
Since no one seemed to be in charge, Roran did his best to sort out the
chaos by overseeing the arranging and packaging of the various supplies.
He discovered a shortage of waterskins, but when he asked for more, he
ended up with thirteen too many. Delays such as those consumed the
early-morning hours.
In the middle of discussing with Loring the possible need for extra
shoes, Roran stopped as he noticed Sloan standing at the entrance to an
alleyway.
The butcher surveyed the mass of activity before him. Contempt cut
into the lines along his downturned mouth. His sneer hardened into en-
raged incredulity as he spotted Katrina, who had shouldered her pack,
removing any possibility that she was there only to help. A vein throbbed
down the middle of Sloan’s forehead.
Roran hurried toward Katrina, but Sloan reached her first. He grabbed
the top of the pack and shook it violently, shouting, “Who made you do
this?” Katrina said something about the children and tried to pull free,
but Sloan yanked at the pack—twisting her arms as the straps slid off her
shoulders—and threw it on the ground so that the contents scattered.
Still shouting, Sloan grabbed Katrina’s arm and began to drag her away.
She dug in her heels and fought, her copper hair swirling over her face
like a dust storm.
Furious, Roran threw himself at Sloan and tore him from Katrina, shov-
ing the butcher in the chest so that he stumbled backward several yards.
“Stop! I’m the one who wanted her to go.”
Sloan glared at Roran and snarled, “You have no right!”
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“I have every right.” Roran looked at the ring of spectators who had
gathered around and then declared so that all could hear: “Katrina and I
are engaged to be married, and I would not have my future wife treated
so!” For the first time that day, the villagers fell completely silent; even
the donkeys were quiet.
Surprise and a deep, inconsolable pain sprang onto Sloan’s vulnerable
face, along with the glimmer of tears. For a moment, Roran felt sympathy
for him, then a series of contortions distorted Sloan’s visage, each more
extreme than the last, until his skin turned beet red. He cursed and said,
“You two-faced coward! How could you look me in the eye and speak to
me like an honest man while, at the same time, courting my daughter
without permission? I dealt with you in good faith, and here I find you
plundering my house while my back is turned.”
“I had hoped to do this properly,” said Roran, “but events have con-
spired against me. It was never my intention to cause you grief. Even
though this hasn’t gone the way either of us wanted, I still want your
blessing, if you are willing.”
“I would rather have a maggot-riddled pig for a son than you! You have
no farm. You have no family. And you will have naught to do with my
daughter!” The butcher cursed again. “And she’ll have naught to do with
the Spine!”
Sloan reached for Katrina, but Roran blocked the way, his face as hard
as his clenched fists. Only a handsbreadth apart, they stared directly at
each other, trembling from the strength of their emotions. Sloan’s red-
rimmed eyes shone with manic intensity.
“Katrina, come here,” Sloan commanded.
Roran withdrew from Sloan—so that the three of them formed a trian-
gle—and looked at Katrina. Tears streamed down her face as she glanced
between him and her father. She stepped forward, hesitated, then with a
long, anguished cry, tore at her hair in a frenzy of indecision.
“Katrina!” exclaimed Sloan with a burr of fear.
“Katrina,” murmured Roran.
At the sound of his voice, Katrina’s tears ceased and she stood straight
and tall with a calm expression. She said, “I’m sorry, Father, but I have
decided to marry Roran,” and stepped to his side.
175
Sloan turned bone white. He bit his lip so hard that a bead of ruby
blood appeared. “You can’t leave me! You’re my daughter!” He lunged at
her with crooked hands. In that instant, Roran bellowed and struck the
butcher with all his strength, knocking him sprawling in the dirt before
the entire village.
Sloan rose slowly, his face and neck flushed with humiliation. When he
saw Katrina again, the butcher seemed to crumple inward, losing height
and stature until Roran felt as if he were looking at a specter of the origi-
nal man. In a low whisper, he said, “It is always so; those closest to the
heart cause the most pain. Thou will have no dowry from me, snake, nor
your mother’s inheritance.” Weeping bitterly, Sloan turned and fled to-
ward his shop.