Eldest

by Christopher Paolini

  I am branded, thought Roran, limping through the mud. He stopped at the edge of a puddle and bent to examine his reflection, curious if he could discern what made him so different.

  He saw a man in ragged, blood-stained clothes, with a humped back and a crooked arm tied across his chest. His neck and cheeks were scumbled with an impending beard, while his hair was matted into snarled ropes that writhed in a halo around his head. Most frightening of all, though, were his eyes, which had sunk deep into the sockets, giving him a haunted appearance. From within those two morbid caverns, his gaze boiled like molten steel, full of loss, rage, and an obsessive craving.

  A lopsided smile crept across Roran’s face, rendering his visage even more shocking. He liked how he looked. It matched his feelings. Now he understood how he had managed to influence the villagers. He bared his teeth. I can use this image. I can use it to destroy the Ra’zac.

  Lifting his head, he slouched up the street, pleased with himself. Just then, Thane approached him and grasped his left forearm in a hearty grip. “Stronghammer! You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

  “You are?” Roran wondered if the whole world had been turned inside out during the night.

  Thane nodded vigorously. “Ever since we attacked the soldiers, everything has seemed hopeless to me. It pains me to admit it, but so it was. My heart pounded all the time, like I was about to fall down a well; my hands shook; and I felt dreadfully ill. I thought someone had poisoned me! It was worse than death. But what you said yesterday healed me instantly and let me see purpose and meaning in the world again! I…I can’t even explain the horror you saved me from. I am in your debt. If you need or want anything, just ask and I’ll help.”

  Moved, Roran gripped the farmer’s forearm in return and said, “Thank you, Thane. Thank you.” Thane bowed his head, tears in his eyes, then released Roran and left him standing alone in the middle of the street.

  What have I done?

  EXODUS

  A wall of thick, smoky air engulfed Roran as he entered the Seven Sheaves, Morn’s tavern. He stopped beneath the Urgal horns pegged over the door and let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. “Hello?” he called.

  The door to the back rooms banged open as Tara plowed forward, trailed by Morn. They both glared sullenly at Roran. Tara planted her meaty fists on her hips and demanded, “What do you want here?”

  Roran stared at her for a moment, trying to determine the source of her animosity. “Have you decided whether to accompany me into the Spine?”

  “That’s none of your business,” snapped Tara.

  Oh yes, it is. He restrained himself, though, and instead said, “Whatever your intentions are, if you were to go, Elain would like to know if you have room in your bags for a few more items, or if you need extra room yourself. She has—”

  “Extra room!” burst out Morn. He waved at the wall behind the bar, which was lined with oak casks. “I have, packed in straw, twelve barrels of the clearest winter ale, which have been kept at the perfect temperature for the past five months. They were Quimby’s last batch! What am I supposed to do with them? Or my hogsheads of lager and stout? If I leave them, the soldiers will dispose of it in a week, or they’ll spike the barrels and pour the beer into the ground, where the only creatures who’ll enjoy it will be grubs and worms. Oh!” Morn sat and wrung his hands, shaking his head. “Twelve years of work! Ever since Father died I ran the tavern the same way he did, day in and day out. And then you and Eragon had to cause this trouble. It…” He stopped, breathing with difficulty, and wiped his mashed face with the edge of his sleeve.

  “There, there now,” said Tara. She put her arm around Morn and jabbed a finger at Roran. “Who gave you leave to stir up Carvahall with your fancy words? If we go, how will my poor husband make a living? He can’t take his trade with him like Horst or Gedric. He can’t squat in an empty field and farm it like you! Impossible! Everyone will go and we will starve. Or we will go and we will still starve. You have ruined us!”

  Roran looked from her flushed, angry face to Morn’s distraught one, then turned and opened the door. He paused on the threshold and said in a low voice, “I have always counted you among my friends. I would not have you killed by the Empire.” Stepping outside, he pulled his vest tight around himself and paced away from the tavern, ruminating the whole way.

  At Fisk’s well, he stopped for a drink and found himself joined by Birgit. She watched him struggle to turn the crank with only one hand, then took it from him and brought up the water bucket, which she passed to him without drinking. He sipped the cool liquid, then said, “I’m glad that you are coming.” He handed the bucket back.

  Birgit eyed him. “I recognize the force that drives you, Roran, for it propels me as well; we both wish to find the Ra’zac. Once we do, though, I will have my compensation from you for Quimby’s death. Never forget that.” She pushed the full bucket back into the well and let it fall unchecked, the crank spinning wildly. A second later, the well echoed with a hollow splash.

  Roran smiled as he watched her walk away. He was more pleased than upset by her declaration; he knew that even if everyone else in Carvahall were to forsake the cause or die, Birgit would still help him to hunt the Ra’zac. Afterward, though—if an afterward existed—he would have to pay her price or kill her. That was the only way to resolve such matters.

  By evening Horst and his sons had returned to the house, bearing two small bundles wrapped in oilcloth. “Is that all?” asked Elain. Horst nodded curtly, lay the bundles on the kitchen table, and unwrapped them to expose four hammers, three tongs, a clamp, a medium-sized bellows, and a three-pound anvil.

  As the five of them sat to dinner, Albriech and Baldor discussed the various people they had seen making covert preparations. Roran listened intently, trying to keep track of who had lent donkeys to whom, who showed no signs of departing, and who might need help to leave.

  “The biggest problem,” said Baldor, “is food. We can only carry so much, and it’ll be difficult to hunt enough in the Spine to feed two or three hundred people.”

  “Mmm.” Horst shook his finger, his mouth full of beans, then swallowed. “No, hunting won’t work. We have to bring our flocks with us. Combined, we own enough sheep and goats to feed the lot of us for a month or more.”

  Roran raised his knife. “Wolves.”

  “I’m more worried about keeping the animals from wandering off into the forest,” replied Horst. “Herding them will be a chore.”

  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

  Thud.

  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 Varden 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.