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