with solemn amber eyes. He remembered the heat of her skin, the
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mulled scent of her hair, and what it felt like to be with her under the
cover of darkness. Then in a long line behind her appeared his family,
friends, and everyone he had known in Carvahall, both dead and alive. If
not for Eragon... and me... the Ra’zac would have never come here. I must
rescue the village from the Empire as surely as I must rescue Katrina from
those desecrators.
Drawing upon the strength of his vision, Roran rose from bed, causing
his maimed shoulder to burn and sting. He staggered and leaned against a
wall. Will I ever regain the use of my right arm ? He waited for the pain to
subside. When it did not, he bared his teeth, shoved himself upright, and
marched from the room.
Elain was folding towels in the hallway. She cried out with amazement.
“Roran! What are you—”
“Come,” he growled, lurching past.
With a worried expression, Baldor stepped out of a doorway. “Roran,
you shouldn’t be walking around. You lost too much blood. I’ll help—”
“Come.”
Roran heard them follow as he descended the curved stairs toward the
entrance of the house, where Horst and Albriech stood talking. They
looked up with astonishment.
“Come.”
He ignored the babble of questions, opened the front door, and stepped
into the evening’s faded light. Above, an imposing plume of clouds was
laced with gold and purple.
Leading the small group, Roran stomped to the edge of Carvahall—
repeating his monosyllabic message whenever he passed a man or
woman—pulled a torch mounted on a pole from the grasping mud,
wheeled about, and retraced his path to the center of town. There he
stabbed the pole between his feet, then raised his left arm and roared,
“COME!”
The village rang with his voice. He continued the summons as people
drifted from the houses and shadowed alleyways and began to gather
around him. Many were curious, others sympathetic, some awed, and
some angry. Again and again, Roran’s chant echoed in the valley. Loring
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arrived with his sons in tow. From the opposite direction came Birgit,
Delwin, and Fisk with his wife, Isold. Morn and Tara left the tavern to-
gether and joined the crush of spectators.
When most of Carvahall stood before him, Roran fell silent, tightening
his left fist until his fingernails cut into his palm. Katrina. Raising his
hand, he opened it and showed everyone the crimson tears that dripped
down his arm. “This,” he said, “is my pain. Look well, for it will be yours
unless we defeat the curse wanton fate has set upon us. Your friends and
family will be bound in chains, destined for slavery in foreign lands, or
slain before your eyes, hewn open by soldiers’ merciless blades. Galba-
torix will sow our land with salt so that it lies forever fallow. This I have
seen. This I know.” He paced like a caged wolf, glowering and swinging
his head. He had their attention. Now he had to stoke them into a frenzy
to match his own.
“My father was killed by the desecrators. My cousin has fled. My farm
was razed. And my bride-to-be was kidnapped by her own father, who
murdered Byrd and betrayed us all! Quimby eaten, the hay barn burned
along with Fisk’s and Delwin’s houses. Parr, Wyglif, Ged, Bardrick, Far-
old, Hale, Garner, Kelby, Melkolf, Albem, and Elmund: all slain. Many of
you have been injured, like me, so that you can no longer support your
family. Isn’t it enough that we toil every day of our lives to eke a living
from the earth, subjected to the whims of nature? Isn’t it enough that we
are forced to pay Galbatorix’s iron taxes, without also having to endure
these senseless torments?” Roran laughed maniacally, howling at the sky
and hearing the madness in his own voice. No one stirred in the crowd.
“I know now the true nature of the Empire and of Galbatorix; they are
evil. Galbatorix is an unnatural blight on the world. He destroyed the
Riders and the greatest peace and prosperity we ever had. His servants
are foul demons birthed in some ancient pit. But is Galbatorix content to
grind us beneath his heel? No! He seeks to poison all of Alagaësia, to suf-
focate us with his cloak of misery. Our children and their descendants
shall live in the shadow of his darkness until the end of time, reduced to
slaves, worms, vermin for him to torture at his pleasure. Unless. .”
Roran stared into the villagers’ wide eyes, conscious of his control over
them. No one had ever dared say what he was about to. He let his voice
rasp low in his throat: “Unless we have the courage to resist evil.
“We’ve fought the soldiers and the Ra’zac, but it means nothing if we
die alone and forgotten—or are carted away as chattel. We cannot stay
here, and I won’t allow Galbatorix to obliterate everything that’s worth
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living for. I would rather have my eyes plucked out and my hands
chopped off than see him triumph! I choose to fight! I choose to step
from my grave and let my enemies bury themselves in it!
“I choose to leave Carvahall.
“I will cross the Spine and take a ship from Narda down to Surda,
where I will join the Varden, who have struggled for decades to free us
of this oppression.” The villagers looked shocked at the idea. “But I do not
wish to go alone. Come with me. Come with me and seize this chance to
forge a better life for yourselves. Throw off the shackles that bind you
here.” Roran pointed at his listeners, moving his finger from one target to
the next. “A hundred years from now, what names shall drop from the
bards’ lips? Horst. . Birgit. . Kiselt. . Thane; they will recite our sagas. They
will sing “The Epic of Carvahall,” for we were the only village brave
enough to defy the Empire.”
Tears of pride flooded Roran’s eyes. “What could be more noble than
cleansing Galbatorix’s stain from Alagaësia? No more would we live in
fear of having our farms destroyed, or being killed and eaten. The grain
we harvest would be ours to keep, save for any extra that we might send
as a gift to the rightful king. The rivers and streams would run thick with
gold. We would be safe and happy and fat!
“It is our destiny.”
Roran held his hand before his face and slowly closed his fingers over
the bleeding wounds. He stood hunched over his injured arm—crucified
by the scores of gazes—and waited for a response to his speech. None
came. At last he realized that they wanted him to continue; they wanted
to hear more about the cause and the future he had portrayed.
Katrina.
Then as darkness gathered around the radius of his torch, Roran drew
himself upright and resumed speaking. He hid nothing, only labored to
make them understand his thoughts and feelings, so they too could share
the sense of purpose that drove him. “Our age is at an end. We must step
forward and cast our lot with the Varden if we and our children are to
live free.” He spoke with rage and honeyed tones in equal amount, but
always with a fervid conviction that kept his audience entranced.
When his store of images was exhausted, Roran looked into the faces of
his friends and neighbors and said, “I march in two days. Accompany me
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if you wish, but I go regardless.” He bowed his head and stepped out of
the light.
Overhead, the waning moon glowed behind a lens of clouds. A slight
breeze wafted through Carvahall. An iron weather vane creaked on a
roof as it swung in the direction of the current.
From within the crowd, Birgit picked her way into the light, clutching
the folds of her dress to avoid tripping. With a subdued expression, she
adjusted her shawl. “Today we saw an. .” She stopped, shook her head,
and laughed in an embarrassed way. “I find it hard to speak after Roran. I
don’t like his plan, but I believe that it’s necessary, although for a differ-
ent reason: I would hunt down the Ra’zac and avenge my husband’s
death. I will go with him. And I will take my children.” She too stepped
away from the torch.
A silent minute passed, then Delwin and his wife, Lenna, advanced
with their arms around each other. Lenna looked at Birgit and said, “I un-
derstand your need, Sister. We want our vengeance as well, but more
than that, we want the rest of our children to be safe. For that reason, we
too will go.” Several women whose husbands had been slain came for-
ward and agreed with her.
The villagers murmured among themselves, then fell silent and mo-
tionless. No one else seemed willing to address the subject; it was too
momentous. Roran understood. He was still trying to digest the implica-
tions himself.
Finally, Horst strode to the torch and stared with a drawn face into the
flame. “It’s no good talking any more. . We need time to think. Every
man must decide for himself. Tomorrow. . tomorrow will be another day.
Perhaps things will be clearer then.” He shook his head and lifted the
torch, then inverted it and extinguished it against the ground, leaving
everyone to find their way home in the moonlight.
Roran joined Albriech and Baldor, who walked behind their parents at
a discreet distance, giving them privacy to talk. Neither of the brothers
would look at Roran. Unsettled by their lack of expression, Roran asked,
“Do you think anyone else will go? Was I good enough?”
Albriech emitted a bark of laughter. “Good enough!”
“Roran,” said Baldor in an odd voice, “you could have convinced an Ur-
gal to become a farmer tonight.”
237
“No!”
“When you finished, I was ready to grab my spear and dash into the
Spine after you. I wouldn’t have been alone either. The question isn’t
who will leave, it’s who won’t. What you said. . I’ve never heard anything
like it before.”
Roran frowned. His goal had been to persuade people to accept his
plan, not to get them to follow him personally. If that’s what it takes, he
thought with a shrug. Still, the prospect had caught him unawares. At an
earlier time, it would have disturbed him, but now he was just thankful
for anything that could help him to rescue Katrina and save the villagers.
Baldor leaned toward his brother. “Father would lose most of his tools.”
Albriech nodded solemnly.
Roran knew that smiths made whatever implement was required by
the task at hand, and that these custom tools formed a legacy that was
bequeathed from father to son, or from master to journeyman. One
measure of a smith’s wealth and skill was the number of tools he owned.
For Horst to surrender his would be. .Would be no harder than what any-
one else has to do, thought Roran. He only regretted that it would entail
depriving Albriech and Baldor of their rightful inheritance.
When they reached the house, Roran retreated to Baldor’s room and lay
in bed. Through the walls, he could still hear the faint sound of Horst and
Elain talking. He fell asleep imagining similar discussions taking place
throughout Carvahall, deciding his—and their—fate.
238
REPERCUSSIONS
The morning after his speech, Roran looked out his window and saw
twelve men leaving Carvahall, heading toward Igualda Falls. He yawned
and limped downstairs to the kitchen.
Horst sat alone at the table, twisting a mug of ale in his hands. “Morn-
ing,” he said.
Roran grunted, tore a heel of bread off the loaf on the counter, then
seated himself at the opposite end of the table. As he ate, he noted
Horst’s bloodshot eyes and unkempt beard. Roran guessed that the smith
had been awake the entire night. “Do you know why a group is going
up—”
“Have to talk with their families,” said Horst abruptly. “They’ve been
running into the Spine since dawn.” He put the mug down with a crack.
“You have no idea what you did, Roran, by asking us to leave. The whole
village is in turmoil. You backed us into a corner with only one way out:
your way. Some people hate you for it. Of course a fair number of them
already hated you for bringing this upon us.”
The bread in Roran’s mouth tasted like sawdust as resentment flared
inside him. Eragon was the one who brought back the stone, not me. “And
the others?”
Horst sipped his ale and grimaced. “The others adore you. I never
thought I would see the day when Garrow’s son would stir my heart
with words, but you did it, boy, you did it.” He swung a gnarled hand
over his head. “All this? I built it for Elain and my sons. It took me seven
years to finish! See that beam over the door right there? I broke three
toes getting that into place. And you know what? I’m going to give it up
because of what you said last night.”
Roran remained silent; it was what he wanted. Leaving Carvahall was
the right thing to do, and since he had committed himself to that course,
he saw no reason to torment himself with guilt and regret. The decision is
made. I will accept the outcome without complaint, no matter how dire, for
this is our only escape from the Empire.
“But,” said Horst, and leaned forward on one elbow, his black eyes