Paolini, Christopher - [Inheritance 02] - Eldest Page 26

  An endless amount of time reduced Roran’s sobs to weak gasps of protest. 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 people 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 secretly 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 conditions, 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.

  “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 determined 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, especially 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 logistics 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 themfeel 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 with solemn amber eyes. He remembered the heat of her skin, the 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 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 together 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. Galbatorix 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, Farold, 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 areevil. 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 suffocate 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 s
ay 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 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 theywanted 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 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 different 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 understand 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 forward and agreed with her.

  The villagers murmured among themselves, then fell silent and motionless. No one else seemed willing to address the subject; it was too momentous. Roran understood. He was still trying to digest the implications 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 Urgal to become a farmer tonight.”

  “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 whowill leave, it’s whowon’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 anyone 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.

  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. “Morning,” 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 acrack. “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 H
orst, and leaned forward on one elbow, his black eyes burning beneath his brow, “just you remember that if reality falls short of the airy dreams you conjured, there’ll be debts to pay. Give people a hope and then take it away, and they’ll destroy you.”

  The prospect was of no concern to Roran. If we make it to Surda, we will be greeted as heroes by the rebels. If we don’t, our deaths will fulfill all debts. When it was clear that the smith had finished, Roran asked, “Where is Elain?”

  Horst scowled at the change of topic. “Out back.” He stood and straightened his tunic over his heavy shoulders. “I have to go clear out the smithy and decide what tools I’m going to take. I’ll hide or destroy the rest. The Empire won’t benefit frommy work.”

  “I’ll help.” Roran pushed back his chair.

  “No,” said Horst roughly. “This is a task I can only do with Albriech and Baldor. That forge has been my entire life, and theirs… You wouldn’t be much help with that arm of yours anyway. Stay here. Elain can use you.”

  After the smith left, Roran opened the side door and found Elain talking with Gertrude by the large pile of firewood Horst maintained year-round. The healer went up to Roran and put a hand on his forehead. “Ah, I was afraid that you might have a fever after yesterday’s excitement. Your family heals at the most extraordinary rate. I could barely believe my eyes when Eragon started walking about after having his legs skinned and spending two days in bed.” Roran stiffened at the mention of his cousin, but she did not seem to notice. “Let’s see how your shoulder is doing, shall we?”

  Roran bowed his neck so that Gertrude could reach behind him and untie the knot to the wool sling. When it was undone, he carefully lowered his right forearm—which was immobilized in a splint—until his arm was straight. Gertrude slid her fingers under the poultice packed on his wound and peeled it off.

  “Oh my,” she said.

  A thick, rancid smell clogged the air. Roran clenched his teeth as his gorge rose, then looked down. The skin under the poultice had turned white and spongy, like a giant birthmark of maggot flesh. The bite itself had been stitched up while he was unconscious, so all he saw was a jagged pink line caked with blood on the front of his shoulder. Swelling and inflammation had forced the twisted catgut threads to cut deep into his flesh, while beads of clear liquid oozed from the wound.