Roran spent the following day assisting whomever he could, saying little, and generally allowing people to see him working for the good of the village. Late that night, he tumbled into bed exhausted but hopeful.
The advent of dawn pierced Roran’s dreams and woke him with a sense of momentous expectation. He stood and tiptoed downstairs, then went outside and stared at the misty mountains, absorbed by the morning’s silence. His breath formed a white plume in the air, but he felt warm, for his heart throbbed with fear and eagerness.
After a subdued breakfast, Horst brought the horses to the front of the house, where Roran helped Albriech and Baldor load them with saddlebags and other bundles of supplies. Next Roran took up his own pack, hissing as the leather shoulder strap pressed down on his injury.
Horst closed the door to the house. He lingered for a moment with his fingers on the steel doorknob, then took Elain’s hand and said, “Let’s go.”
As they walked through Carvahall, Roran saw somber families gathering by their houses with their piles of possessions and yammering livestock. He saw sheep and dogs with bags tied on their backs, teary-eyed children on donkeys, and makeshift sledges hitched to horses with crates of fluttering chickens hung on each side. He saw the fruits of his success, and he knew not whether to laugh or to cry.
They stopped at Carvahall’s north end and waited to see who would join them. A minute passed, then Birgit approached from the side, accompanied by Nolfavrell and his younger siblings. Birgit greeted Horst and Elain and stationed herself nearby.
Ridley and his family arrived outside the wall of trees, driving over a hundred sheep from the east side of Palancar Valley. “I figured that it would be better to keep them out of Carvahall,” shouted Ridley over the animals.
“Good thinking!” replied Horst.
Next came Delwin, Lenna, and their five children; Orval and his family; Loring with his sons; Calitha and Thane—who gave Roran a large smile; and then Kiselt’s clan. Those women who had been recently widowed, like Nolla, clustered around Birgit. Before the sun had cleared the mountain peaks, most of the village had assembled along the wall. But not all.
Morn, Tara, and several others had yet to show themselves, and when Ivor arrived, it was without any supplies. “You’re staying,” observed Roran. He sidestepped a knot of testy goats that Gertrude was attempting to restrain.
“Aye,” said Ivor, drawing out the word into a weary admission. He shivered, crossed his bony arms for warmth, and faced the rising sun, lifting his head so as to catch the transparent rays. “Svart refused to leave. Heh! It was like carving against the grain to get him into the Spine in the first place. Someone has to look after him, an’ I don’t have any children, so …” He shrugged. “Doubt I could give up the farm anyway.”
“What will you do when the soldiers arrive?”
“Give them a fight that they’ll remember.”
Roran laughed hoarsely and clapped Ivor on the arm, doing his best to ignore the unspoken fate that they both knew awaited anyone who remained.
A thin, middle-aged man, Ethlbert, marched to the edge of the congregation and shouted, “You’re all fools!” With an ominous rustle, people turned to look at their accuser. “I’ve held my peace through this madness, but I’ll not follow a nattering lunatic! If you weren’t blinded by his words, you’d see that he’s leading you to destruction! Well, I won’t go! I’ll take my chances sneaking past the soldiers and finding refuge in Therinsford. They’re our own people at least, not the barbarians you’ll find in Surda.” He spat on the ground, then spun on his heel and stomped away.
Afraid that Ethlbert might convince others to defect, Roran scanned the crowd and was relieved to see nothing more than restless muttering. Still, he did not want to dawdle and give people a chance to change their minds. He asked Horst under his breath, “How long should we wait?”
“Albriech, you and Baldor run around as fast as you can and check if anyone else is coming. Otherwise, we’ll leave.” The brothers dashed off in opposite directions.
Half an hour later, Baldor returned with Fisk, Isold, and their borrowed horse. Leaving her husband, Isold hurried toward Horst, shooing her hands at anyone who got in her way, oblivious to the fact that most of her hair had escaped imprisonment in its bun and stuck out in odd tufts. She stopped, wheezing for breath. “I am sorry we’re so late, but Fisk had trouble closing up the shop. He couldn’t pick which planers or chisels to bring.” She laughed in a shrill tone, almost hysterical. “It was like watching a cat surrounded by mice trying to decide which one to chase. First this one, then that one.”
A wry smile tugged at Horst’s lips. “I understand perfectly.”
Roran strained for a glimpse of Albriech, but to no avail. He gritted his teeth. “Where is he?”
Horst tapped his shoulder. “Right over there, I do believe.”
Albriech advanced between the houses with three beer casks tied to his back and an aggrieved look that was comic enough to make Baldor and several others laugh. On either side of Albriech walked Morn and Tara, who staggered under the weight of their enormous packs, as did the donkey and two goats that they towed behind them. To Roran’s astonishment, the animals were burdened with even more casks.
“They won’t last a mile,” said Roran, growing angry at the couple’s foolishness. “And they don’t have enough food. Do they expect us to feed them or—”
With a chuckle, Horst cut him off. “I wouldn’t worry about the food. Morn’s beer will be good for morale, and that’s worth more than a few extra meals. You’ll see.”
As soon as Albriech had freed himself of the casks, Roran asked him and his brother, “Is that everyone?” When they answered in the affirmative, Roran swore and struck his thigh with a clenched fist. Excluding Ivor, three families were determined to remain in Palancar Valley: Ethlbert’s, Parr’s, and Knute’s. I can’t force them to come. He sighed. “All right. There’s no sense in waiting longer.”
Excitement rippled through the villagers; the moment had finally arrived. Horst and five other men pulled open the wall of trees, then laid planks across the trench so that the people and animals could walk over.
Horst gestured. “I think that you should go first, Roran.”
“Wait!” Fisk ran up and, with evident pride, handed Roran a blackened six-foot-long staff of hawthorn wood with a knot of polished roots at the top, and a blued-steel ferrule that tapered into a blunt spike at the base. “I made it last night,” said the carpenter. “I thought that you might have need of it.”
Roran ran his left hand over the wood, marveling at its smoothness. “I couldn’t have asked for anything better. Your skill is masterful.… Thank you.” Fisk grinned and backed away.
Conscious of the fact that the entire crowd was watching, Roran faced the mountains and the Igualda Falls. His shoulder throbbed beneath the leather strap. Behind him lay his father’s bones and everything he had known in life. Before him the jagged peaks piled high into the pale sky and blocked his way and his will. But he would not be denied. And he would not look back.
Katrina.
Lifting his chin, Roran strode forward. His staff knocked against the hard planks as he crossed the trench and passed out of Carvahall, leading the villagers into the wilderness.
ON THE CRAGS OF TEL’NAEÍR
hud.
Bright as a flaming sun, the dragon hung before Eragon and everyone clustered along the Crags of Tel’naeír, buffeting them with gusts from its mighty wings. The dragon’s body appeared to be on fire as the brilliant dawn illuminated its golden scales and sprayed the ground and trees with dazzling chips of light. It was far larger than Saphira, large enough to be several hundred years old, and proportionally thicker in its neck, limbs, and tail. Upon its back sat the Rider, robes startling white against the brilliance of the scales.
Eragon fell to his knees, his face upturned. I’m not alone.… Awe and relief coursed through him. No more would he have to bear the responsibility of the Va
rden and of Galbatorix by himself. Here was one of the guardians of old resurrected from the depths of time to guide him, a living symbol, and a testament to the legends he had been raised with. Here was his master. Here was a legend!
As the dragon turned to land, Eragon gasped; the creature’s left foreleg had been severed by a terrible blow, leaving a helpless white stump in place of the once mighty limb. Tears filled his eyes.
A whirlwind of dry twigs and leaves enveloped the hilltop as the dragon settled on the sweet clover and folded its wings. The Rider carefully descended from his steed along the dragon’s intact front right leg, then approached Eragon, his hands clasped before him. He was an elf with silver hair, old beyond measure, though the only sign of age was the expression of great compassion and sadness upon his face.
“Osthato Chetowä,” said Eragon. “The Mourning Sage … As you asked, I have come.” With a jolt, he remembered his manners and touched his lips. “Atra esterní ono thelduin.”
The Rider smiled. He took Eragon by the shoulders and lifted him upright, staring at him with such kindness that Eragon could look at nothing else; he was consumed by the endless depths within the elf’s eyes. “Oromis is my proper name, Eragon Shadeslayer.”
“You knew,” whispered Islanzadí with a hurt expression that quickly transformed into a storm of rage. “You knew of Eragon’s existence and yet you did not tell me? Why have you betrayed me, Shur’tugal?”
Oromis released Eragon from his gaze and transferred it onto the queen. “I kept my peace because it was uncertain if Eragon or Arya would live long enough to come here; I had no wish to give you a fragile hope that might have been torn away at any moment.”
Islanzadí spun about, her cape of swan feathers billowing like wings. “You had no right to withhold such information from me! I could have sent warriors to protect Arya, Eragon, and Saphira in Farthen Dûr and to escort them safely here.”
Oromis smiled sadly. “I hid nothing from you, Islanzadí, but what you had already chosen not to see. If you had scryed the land, as is your duty, you would have discerned the source of the chaos that has swept Alagaësia and learned the truth of Arya and Eragon. That you might forget the Varden and the dwarves in your grief is understandable, but Brom? Vinr Älfakyn? The last of the Elf Friends? You have been blind to the world, Islanzadí, and lax upon your throne. I could not risk driving you further away by subjecting you to another loss.”
Islanzadí’s anger drained away, leaving her face pale and her shoulders slumped. “I am diminished,” she whispered.
A cloud of hot, moist air pressed against Eragon as the gold dragon bent to examine him with eyes that glittered and sparked. We are well met, Eragon Shadeslayer. I am Glaedr. His voice—for it was unmistakably male—rumbled and shook through Eragon’s mind, like the growl of a mountain avalanche.
All Eragon could do was touch his lips and say, “I am honored.”
Then Glaedr brought his attention to bear on Saphira. She remained perfectly still, her neck arched stiffly as Glaedr sniffed her cheek and along the line of her wing. Eragon saw Saphira’s clenched leg muscles flutter with an involuntary tremor. You smell of humans, said Glaedr, and all you know of your own race is what your instincts have taught you, but you have the heart of a true dragon.
During this silent exchange, Orik presented himself to Oromis. “Truly, this is beyond anything that I dared hope or expect. You are a pleasant surprise in these dark times, Rider.” He clapped his fist over his heart. “If it is not too presumptuous, I would ask a boon on behalf of my king and my clan, as was the custom between our people.”
Oromis nodded. “And I will grant it if it is within my power.”
“Then tell me: Why have you remained hidden for all these years? You were sorely needed, Argetlam.”
“Ah,” said Oromis. “Many sorrows exist in this world, and one of the greatest is being unable to help those in pain. I could not risk leaving this sanctuary, for if I had died before one of Galbatorix’s eggs had hatched, then there would have been no one to pass on our secrets to the new Rider, and it would have been even harder to defeat Galbatorix.”
“That was your reason?” spat Orik. “Those are the words of a coward! The eggs might have never hatched.”
Everyone went deathly quiet, except for a faint growl that emanated from between Glaedr’s teeth. “If you were not my guest here,” said Islanzadí, “I would strike you down myself for that insult.”
Oromis spread his hands. “Nay, I am not offended. It is an apt reaction. Understand, Orik, that Glaedr and I cannot fight. Glaedr has his disability, and I,” he touched the side of his head, “I am also maimed. The Forsworn broke something within me when I was their captive, and while I can still teach and learn, I can no longer control magic, except for the smallest of spells. The power escapes me, no matter how much I struggle. I would be worse than useless in battle, I would be a weakness and a liability, one who could easily be captured and used against you. So I removed myself from Galbatorix’s influence for the good of the many, even though I yearned to openly oppose him.”
“The Cripple Who Is Whole,” murmured Eragon.
“Forgive me,” said Orik. He appeared stricken.
“It is of no consequence.” Oromis placed a hand on Eragon’s shoulder. “Islanzadí Dröttning, by your leave?”
“Go,” she said wearily. “Go and be done with you.”
Glaedr crouched low to the ground, and Oromis nimbly climbed up his leg and into the saddle on his back. “Come, Eragon and Saphira. We have much to talk about.” The gold dragon leaped off the cliff and circled overhead, rising on an updraft.
Eragon and Orik solemnly clasped arms. “Bring honor to your clan,” said the dwarf.
As Eragon mounted Saphira, he felt as if he were about to embark on a long journey and that he should say farewell to those who remained behind. Instead, he just looked at Arya and smiled, letting his wonder and joy show. She half frowned, appearing troubled, but then he was gone, swept into the sky by the eagerness of Saphira’s flight.
Together the two dragons followed the white cliff northward for several miles, accompanied only by the sound of their wings. Saphira flew abreast of Glaedr. Her enthusiasm boiled over into Eragon’s mind, heightening his own emotions.
They landed in another clearing situated on the edge of the cliff, just before the wall of exposed stone crumbled back into the earth. A bare path led from the precipice to the doorstep of a low hut grown between the trunks of four trees, one of which straddled a stream that emerged from the moody depths of the forest. Glaedr would not fit inside; the hut could have easily sat between his ribs.
“Welcome to my home,” said Oromis as he alighted on the ground with uncommon ease. “I live here, on the brink of the Crags of Tel’naeír, because it provides me the opportunity to think and study in peace. My mind works better away from Ellesméra and the distractions of other people.”
He disappeared inside the hut, then returned with two stools and flagons of clear, cold water for both himself and Eragon. Eragon sipped his drink and admired the spacious view of Du Weldenvarden in an attempt to conceal his awe and nervousness while he waited for the elf to speak. I’m in the presence of another Rider! Beside him, Saphira crouched with her eyes fixed on Glaedr, slowly kneading the dirt between her claws.
The gap in their conversation stretched longer and longer. Ten minutes passed … half an hour … then an hour. It reached the point where Eragon began to measure the elapsed time by the sun’s progress. At first his mind buzzed with questions and thoughts, but those eventually subsided into calm acceptance. He enjoyed just observing the day.
Only then did Oromis say, “You have learned the value of patience well. That is good.”
It took Eragon a moment to find his voice. “You can’t stalk a deer if you are in a hurry.”
Oromis lowered his flagon. “True enough. Let me see your hands. I find that they tell me much about a person.” Eragon removed his gloves and al
lowed the elf to grip his wrists with thin, dry fingers. He examined Eragon’s calluses, then said, “Correct me if I am wrong. You have wielded a scythe and plow more often than a sword, though you are accustomed to a bow.”
“Aye.”
“And you have done little writing or drawing, maybe none at all.”
“Brom taught me my letters in Teirm.”
“Mmm. Beyond your choice of tools, it seems obvious that you tend to be reckless and disregard your own safety.”
“What makes you say that, Oromis-elda?” asked Eragon, using the most respectful and formal honorific that he could think of.
“Not elda,” corrected Oromis. “You may call me master in this tongue and ebrithil in the ancient language, nothing else. You will extend the same courtesy to Glaedr. We are your teachers; you are our students; and you will act with proper respect and deference.” Oromis spoke gently, but with the authority of one who expects absolute obedience.
“Yes, Master Oromis.”
“As will you, Saphira.”
Eragon could sense how hard it was for Saphira to unbend her pride enough to say, Yes, Master.
Oromis nodded. “Now. Anyone with such a collection of scars has either been hopelessly unfortunate, fights like a berserker, or deliberately pursues danger. Do you fight like a berserker?”
“No.”
“Nor do you seem unfortunate; quite the opposite. That leaves only one explanation. Unless you think differently?”
Eragon cast his mind over his experiences at home and on the road, in an attempt to categorize his behavior. “I would say, rather, that once I dedicate myself to a certain project or path, I see it through, no matter the cost … especially if someone I love is in danger.” His gaze flicked toward Saphira.
“And do you undertake challenging projects?”
“I like to be challenged.”
“So you feel the need to pit yourself against adversity in order to test your abilities.”
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