Eldest

by Christopher Paolini

  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 Carvahall 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 impossible.

  “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 forefinger. “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 corner of the tavern, garbed in a long russet dress decorated with green ribbon. 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.

  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 you. Will you return to your farm now?”

  “Aye. Farming is all I know.”

  “And what shall become of me?”

  He hesitated. From the moment he began to court her, an unspoken assumption that they would marry had existed between them. There had been no need to discuss his intentions; they were as plain as the day was long, and so her question unsettled him. It also felt improper to address the issue in such an open manner when he was not ready to tender an offer. It was his place to make the overtures—first to Sloan and then to Katrina—not hers. Still, he had to deal with her concern now that it had been expressed. “Katrina…I cannot approach your father as I had planned. He would laugh at me, and rightly so. We have to wait. Once I have a place for us to live and I’ve collected my first harvest, then he will listen to me.”

  She faced the sky once more and whispered something so faint, he could not make it out. “What?”

  “I said, are you afraid of him?”

  “Of course not! I—”

  “Then you must get his permission, tomorrow, and set the engagement. Make him understand that, though you have nothing now, you will give me a good home and be a son-in-law he can be proud of. There’s no reason we should waste our years living apart when we feel like this.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said with a note of despair, willing her to understand. “I can’t provide for you, I can’t—”

  “Don’t you understand?” She stepped away, her voice strained with urgency. “I love you, Roran, and I want to be with you, but Father has other plans for me. There are far more eligible men than you, and the longer you delay, the more he presses me to consent to a match of which he approves. He fears I will become an old maid, and I fear that too. I have only so much time or choice in Carvahall…. If I must take another, I will.” Tears glistened in her eyes as she gave him a searching glance, waiting for his response, then gathered up her dress and rushed back to the houses.

  Roran stood there, motionless with shock. Her absence was as acute for him as losing the farm—the world suddenly gone cold and unfriendly. It was as if part of himself had been torn away.

  It was hours before he could return to Horst’s and slip into bed.

  THE HUNTED HUNTERS

  Dirt crunched under Roran’s boots as he led the way down the valley, which was cool and pale in the early hours of the overcast morning. Baldor followed close behind, both of them carrying strung bows. Neither spoke as they studied their surroundings for signs of the deer.

  “There,” said Baldor in a low voice, pointing at a set of tracks leading toward a bramble on the edge of the Anora.

  Roran nodded and started after the spoor. It looked about a day old, so he risked speaking. “Could I have your advice, Baldor? You seem to have a good understanding of people.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  For a long time, the pad of their feet was the only noise. “Sloan wants to marry off Katrina, and not to me. Every day that passes increases the chance he will arrange a union to his liking.”

  “What does Katrina say of this?”

  Roran shrugged. “He is her father. She cannot continue to defy his will when no one she does want has stepped forward to claim her.”

  “That is, you.”

  “Aye.”

  “And that’s why you were up so early.” It was no question.

  In fact, Roran had been too worried to sleep at all. He had spent the entire night thinking about Katrina, trying to find a solution to their predicament. “I can’t bear to lose her. But I don’t think Sloan will give us his blessing, what with my position and all.”

  “No, I don’t think he would,” agreed Baldor. He glanced at Roran out of the corner of his eye. “What is it you want my advice on, though?”

  A snort of laughter escaped Roran. “How can I convince Sloan otherwise? How can I resolve this dilemma without starting a blood feud?” He threw his hands up. “What should I do?”

  “Have you no ideas?”

  “I do, but not of a sort I find pleasing. It occurred to me that Katrina and I could simply announce we were engaged—not that we are yet—and hang the consequences. That would force Sloan to accept our betrothal.”

  A frown creased Baldor’s brow. He said carefully, “Maybe, but it would also create a slew of bad feelings throughout Carvahall. Few would approve of your actions. Nor would it be wise to force Katrina to choose between you or her family; she might resent you for it in years to come.”

  “I know, but what alternative do I have?”

  “Before you take such a drastic step, I recommend you try to win Sloan over as an ally. There’s a chance you might succeed, after all, if it’s made clear to him that no one else will want to marry an angry Katrina. Especially when you’re around to cuckold the husband.” Roran grimaced and kept his gaze on the ground. Baldor laughed. “If you fail, well then, you can proceed with confidence, knowing that you have indeed exhausted all other routes. And people will be less likely to spit upon you for breaking tradition and more likely to say Sloan’s bullheaded ways brought it upon himself.”

  “Neither course is easy.”

  “You knew that to begin with.” Baldor grew somber again. “No doubt there’ll be harsh words if you challenge Sloan, but things will settle down in the end—perhaps
not comfortably, but at least bearably. Aside from Sloan, the only people you’ll really offend are prudes like Quimby, though how Quimby can brew such a hale drink yet be so starched and bitter himself is beyond me.”

  Roran nodded, understanding. Grudges could simmer for years in Carvahall. “I’m glad we could talk. It’s been…” He faltered, thinking of all the discussions he and Eragon used to share. They had been, as Eragon once said, brothers in all but blood. It had been deeply comforting to know that someone existed who would listen to him, no matter the time or circumstances. And to know that person would always help him, no matter the cost.

  The absence of such a bond left Roran feeling empty.

  Baldor did not press him to finish his sentence, but instead stopped to drink from his waterskin. Roran continued for a few yards, then halted as a scent intruded on his thoughts.

  It was the heavy odor of seared meat and charred pine boughs. Who would be here besides us? Breathing deeply, he turned in a circle, trying to determine the source of the fire. A slight gust brushed past him from farther down the road, carrying a hot, smoky wave. The aroma of food was intense enough to make his mouth water.

  He beckoned to Baldor, who hurried to his side. “Smell that?”

  Baldor nodded. Together they returned to the road and followed it south. About a hundred feet away, it bent around a copse of cottonwoods and curved out of view. As they approached the turn, the rise and fall of voices reached them, muffled by the thick layer of morning fog over the valley.

  At the copse’s fringe, Roran slowed to a stop. It was foolish to surprise people when they too might be out hunting. Still, something bothered him. Perhaps it was the number of voices; the group seemed bigger than any family in the valley. Without thinking, he stepped off the road and slipped behind the underbrush lining the copse.

  “What are you doing?” whispered Baldor.

  Roran put a finger to his lips, then crept along, parallel to the road, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible. As they rounded the bend, he froze.

  On the grass by the road was a camp of soldiers. Thirty helmets gleamed in a shaft of morning light as their owners devoured fowl and stew cooked over several fires. The men were mud splattered and travel stained, but Galbatorix’s symbol was still visible on their red tunics, a twisting flame outlined in gold thread. Underneath the tunics, they wore leather brigandines—heavy with riveted squares of steel—mail shirts, and then padded gambesons. Most of the soldiers bore broadswords, though half a dozen were archers and another half-dozen carried wicked-looking halberds.

  And hunched in their midst were two twisted black forms that Roran recognized from the numerous descriptions the villagers provided upon his return from Therinsford: the strangers who had destroyed his farm. His blood chilled. They’re servants of the Empire! He began to step forward, fingers already reaching for an arrow, when Baldor grabbed his jerkin and dragged him to the ground.

  “Don’t. You’ll get us both killed.”

  Roran glared at him, then snarled. “That’s…they’re the bastards…” He stopped, noticing that his hands were shaking. “They’ve returned!”

  “Roran,” whispered Baldor intently, “you can’t do anything. Look, they work for the king. Even if you managed to escape, you’d be an outlaw everywhere, and you’d bring disaster on Carvahall.”

  “What do they want? What can they want?” The king. Why did Galbatorix countenance my father’s torture?

  “If they didn’t get what they needed from Garrow, and Eragon fled with Brom, then they must want you.” Baldor paused, letting the words sink in. “We have to get back and warn everyone. Then you have to hide. The strangers are the only ones with horses. We can get there first if we run.”

  Roran stared through the brush at the oblivious soldiers. His heart pounded fiercely for revenge, clamoring to attack and fight, to see those two agents of misfortune pierced with arrows and brought to their own justice. It mattered not that he would die as long as he could wash clean his pain and sorrow in one fell moment. All he had to do was break cover. The rest would take care of itself.

  Just one small step.

  With a choked sob, he clenched his fist and dropped his head. I can’t leave Katrina. He remained rigid—eyes squeezed shut—then with agonizing slowness dragged himself back. “Home then.”

  Without waiting for Baldor’s reaction, Roran slipped through the trees as fast as he dared. Once the camp was out of sight, he broke out onto the road and ran down the dirt track, channeling his frustration, anger, and even fear into speed.

  Baldor scrambled behind him, gaining on the open stretches. Roran slowed to a comfortable trot and waited for him to draw level before saying, “You spread the word. I’ll talk with Horst.” Baldor nodded, and they pushed on.

  After two miles, they stopped to drink and rest briefly. When their panting subsided, they continued through the low hills preceding Carvahall. The rolling ground slowed them considerably, but even so, the village soon burst into view.

  Roran immediately broke for the forge, leaving Baldor to make his way to the center of town. As he pounded past the houses, Roran wildly considered schemes to evade or kill the strangers without incurring the wrath of the Empire.

  He burst into the forge to catch Horst tapping a peg into the side of Quimby’s wagon, singing:

  …hey O!

  And a ringing and a dinging

  Rang from old iron! Wily old iron.

  With a beat and a bang on the bones of the land,

  I conquered wily old iron!

  Horst stopped his mallet in midblow when he saw Roran. “What’s the matter, lad? Is Baldor hurt?”

  Roran shook his head and leaned over, gasping for air. In short bursts, he reiterated all they had seen and its possible implications, most importantly that it was now clear the strangers were agents of the Empire.

  Horst fingered his beard. “You have to leave Carvahall. Fetch some food from the house, then take my mare—Ivor’s pulling stumps with her—and ride into the foothills. Once we know what the soldiers want, I’ll send Albriech or Baldor with word.”

  “What will you say if they ask for me?”

  “That you’re out hunting and we don’t know when you’ll return. It’s true enough, and I doubt they’ll chance blundering around in the trees for fear of missing you. Assuming it’s you they’re really after.”

  Roran nodded, then turned and ran to Horst’s house. Inside, he grabbed the mare’s tack and bags from the wall, quickly tied turnips, beets, jerky, and a loaf of bread in a knot of blankets, snatched up a tin pot, and dashed out, pausing only long enough to explain the situation to Elain.

  The supplies were an awkward bundle in his arms as he jogged east from Carvahall to Ivor’s farm. Ivor himself stood behind the farmhouse, flicking the mare with a willow wand as she strained to tear the hairy roots of an elm tree from the ground.

  “Come on now!” shouted the farmer. “Put your back into it!” The horse shuddered with effort, her bit lathered, then with a final surge tilted the stump on its side so the roots reached toward the sky like a cluster of gnarled fingers. Ivor stopped her exertion with a twitch of the reins and patted her good-naturedly. “All right…. There we go.”

  Roran hailed him from a distance and, when they were close, pointed to the horse. “I need to borrow her.” He gave his reasons.

  Ivor swore and began unhitching the mare, grumbling, “Always the moment I get a bit of work done, that’s when the interruption comes. Never before.” He crossed his arms and frowned as Roran cinched the saddle, intent on his work.

  When he was ready, Roran swung onto the horse, bow in hand. “I am sorry for the trouble, but it can’t be helped.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. Just make sure you aren’t caught.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  As he set heels to the mare’s sides, Roran heard Ivor call, “And don’t be hiding up my creek!”

  Roran grinned and shook his head, bending
low over the horse’s neck. He soon reached the foothills of the Spine and worked his way up to the mountains that formed the north end of Palancar Valley. From there he climbed to a point on the mountainside where he could observe Carvahall without being seen. Then he picketed his steed and settled down to wait.

  Roran shivered, eyeing the dark pines. He disliked being this close to the Spine. Hardly anyone from Carvahall dared set foot in the mountain range, and those who did often failed to return.

  Before long Roran saw the soldiers march up the road in a double line, two ominous black figures at their head. They were stopped at the edge of Carvahall by a ragged group of men, some of them with picks in hand. The two sides spoke, then simply faced each other, like growling dogs waiting to see who would strike first. After a long moment, the men of Carvahall moved aside and let the intruders pass.

  What happens now? wondered Roran, rocking back on his heels.

  By evening the soldiers had set up camp in a field adjacent to the village. Their tents formed a low gray block that flickered with weird shadows as sentries patrolled the perimeter. In the center of the block, a large fire sent billows of smoke into the air.

  Roran had made his own camp, and now he simply watched and thought. He always assumed that when the strangers destroyed his home, they got what they wanted, which was the stone Eragon brought from the Spine. They must not have found it, he decided. Perhaps Eragon managed to escape with the stone…. Perhaps he felt that he had to leave in order to protect it. He frowned. That would go a long way toward explaining why Eragon fled, but it still seemed far-fetched to Roran. Whatever the reason, that stone must be a fantastic treasure for the king to send so many men to retrieve it. I can’t understand what would make it so valuable. Maybe it’s magic.