Brisingr [en]

His ragged clothes barely covered his pale, emaciated body; the corners of his bones stood out in sharp relief underneath his translucent skin. His blue veins were also prominent. Sores had formed on his wrists where the manacles chafed. The ulcers oozed a mixture of clear fluid and blood. What remained of his hair had turned gray or white and hung in lank, greasy ropes over his pockmarked face.

Roused by the clang of Roran’s hammer, Sloan lifted his chin toward the light and, in a quavering voice, asked, “Who is it? Who’s there?” His hair parted and slid back, exposing his eye sockets, which had sunk deep into his skull. Where his eyelids should have been, there were now only a few scraps of tattered skin draped over the raw cavities underneath. The area around them was bruised and scabbed.

With a shock, Eragon realized that the Ra’zac had pecked out Sloan’s eyes.

What he then should do, Eragon could not decide. The butcher had told the Ra’zac that Eragon had found Saphira’s egg. Further — more, Sloan had murdered the watchman, Byrd, and had betrayed Carvahall to the Empire. If he were brought before his fellow villagers, they would undoubtedly find Sloan guilty and condemn him to death by hanging.

It seemed only right, to Eragon, that the butcher should die for his crimes. That was not the source of his uncertainty. Rather, it arose from the fact that Roran loved Katrina, and Katrina, whatever Sloan had done, must still harbor a certain degree of affection for her father. Watching an arbitrator publicly denounce Sloan’s offenses and then hang him would be no easy thing for her or, by extension, Roran. Such hardship might even create enough ill will between them to end their engagement. Either way, Eragon was convinced that taking Sloan back with them would sow discord between him, Roran, Katrina, and the other villagers, and might engender enough anger to distract them from their struggle against the Empire.

The easiest solution, thought Eragon, would be to kill him and say that I found him dead in the cell... His lips trembled, one of the death-words heavy upon his tongue.

“What do you want?” asked Sloan. He turned his head from side to side in an attempt to hear better. “I already told you everything I know!”

Eragon cursed himself for hesitating. Sloan’s guilt was not in dispute; he was a murderer and a traitor. Any lawgiver would sentence him to execution.

Notwithstanding the merit of those arguments, it was Sloan who was curled in front of him, a man Eragon had known his entire life. The butcher might be a despicable person, but the wealth of memories and experiences Eragon shared with him bred a sense of intimacy that troubled Eragon’s conscience. To strike down Sloan would be like raising his hand against Horst or Loring or any of the elders of Carvahall.

Again Eragon prepared to utter the fatal word.

An image appeared in his mind’s eye: Torkenbrand, the slaver he and Murtagh had encountered during their flight to the Varden, kneeling on the dusty ground and Murtagh striding up to him and beheading him. Eragon remembered how he had objected to Murtagh’s deed and how it had troubled him for days afterward.

Have I changed so much, he asked himself, that I can do the same thing now? As Roran said, I have killed, but only in the heat of battle... never like this.

He glanced over his shoulder as Roran broke the last hinge to Katrina’s cell door. Dropping his hammer, Roran prepared to charge the door and knock it inward but then appeared to think better of it and tried to lift it free of its frame. The door rose a fraction of an inch, then halted and wobbled in his grip. “Give me a hand here!” he shouted. “I don’t want it to fall on her.”

Eragon looked back at the wretched butcher. He had no more time for mindless wanderings. He had to choose. One way or another, he had to choose...

“Eragon!”

I don’t know what’s right, realized Eragon. His own uncertainty told him that it would be wrong to kill Sloan or return him to the Varden. He had no idea what he should do instead, except to find a third path, one that was less obvious and less violent.

Lifting his hand, as if in benediction, Eragon whispered, “Slytha.” Sloan’s manacles rattled as he went limp, falling into a profound sleep. As soon as he was sure the spell had taken hold, Eragon closed and locked the cell door again and replaced his wards around it.

What are you up to, Eragon? asked Saphira.

Wait until we’re together again. I’ll explain then.

Explain what? You don’t have a plan.

Give me a minute and I will.

“What was in there?” asked Roran as Eragon took his place opposite him.

“Sloan.” Eragon adjusted his grip on the door between them. “He’s dead.”

Roran’s eyes widened. “How?”

“Looks like they broke his neck.”

For an instant, Eragon feared that Roran might not believe him. Then his cousin grunted and said, “It’s better that way, I suppose. Ready? One, two, three—”

Together, they heaved the massive door out of its casing and threw it across the hallway. The stone passageway returned the resulting boom to them again and again. Without pause, Roran rushed into the cell, which was lit by a single wax taper. Eragon followed a step behind.

Katrina cowered at the far end of an iron cot. “Let me alone, you toothless bastards! I—” She stopped, struck dumb as Roran stepped forward. Her face was white from lack of sun and streaked with filth, yet at that moment, a look of such wonder and tender love blossomed upon her features, Eragon thought he had rarely seen anyone so beautiful.

Never taking her eyes off Roran, Katrina stood and, with a shaking hand, touched his cheek.

“You came.”

“I came.”

A laughing sob broke out of Roran, and he folded her in his arms, pulling her against his chest. They remained lost in their embrace for a long moment.

Drawing back, Roran kissed her three times on the lips. Katrina wrinkled her nose and exclaimed, “You grew a beard!” Of all the things she could have said, that was so unexpected — and she sounded so shocked and surprised — that Eragon chuckled in response. For the first time, Katrina seemed to notice him. She glanced him over, then settled on his face, which she studied with evident puzzlement. “Eragon? Is that you?”

“Aye.”

“He’s a Dragon Rider now,” said Roran.

“A Rider? You mean...” She faltered; the revelation seemed to overwhelm her. Glancing at Roran, as if for protection, she held him even closer and sidled around him, away from Eragon. To Roran, she said, “How... how did you find us? Who else is with you?”

“All that later. We have to get out of Helgrind before the rest of the Empire comes running after us.”

“Wait! What about my father? Did you find him?”

Roran looked at Eragon, then returned his gaze to Katrina and gently said, “We were too late.”

A shiver ran through Katrina. She closed her eyes, and a solitary tear leaked down the side of her face. “So be it.”

While they spoke, Eragon frantically tried to figure out how to dispose of Sloan, although he concealed his deliberations from Saphira; he knew that she would disapprove of the direction his thoughts were taking. A scheme began to form in his mind. It was an outlandish concept, fraught with danger and uncertainty, but it was the only viable path, given the circumstances.

Abandoning further reflection, Eragon sprang into action. He had much to do in little time. “Jierda!” he cried, pointing. With a burst of blue sparks and flying fragments, the metal bands riveted around Katrina’s ankles broke apart. Katrina jumped in surprise.

“Magic...,” she whispered.

“A simple spell.” She shrank from his touch as he reached toward her. “Katrina, I have to make sure that Galbatorix or one of his magicians hasn’t enchanted you with any traps or forced you to swear things in the ancient language.”

“The ancient—”

Roran interrupted her: “Eragon! Do this when we make camp. We can’t stay here.”