Eldest [en]

of pale marble before darkness reigned once more. Every blinding flash imprinted a motionless scene upon Roran’s eyes that lingered, pulsing, long after the brazen bolts vanished.

Then came another round of forked lightning, and Roran saw — as if in a series of monochrome paintings — the mizzen topmast twist, crack, and topple into the thrashing sea, port amidships. Grabbing a lifeline, Roran pulled himself to the quarterdeck and, in unison with Bonden, hacked through the cables that still connected the topmast to the Dragon Wing and dragged the stern low in the water. The ropes writhed like snakes as they were cut.

Afterward, Roran sank to the deck, his right arm hooked through the gunwale to hold himself in place as the ship dropped twenty... thirty... feet between waves. A swell washed over him, leaching the warmth from his bones. Shivers racked his body.

Don’t let me die here, he pleaded, though whom he addressed, he knew not. Not in these cruel waves. My task is yet unfinished. During that long night, he clung to his memories of Katrina, drawing solace from them when he grew weary and hope threatened to desert him.

The storm lasted two full days and broke during the wee hours of the night. The following morning brought with it a pale green dawn, clear skies, and three black sails riding the northern horizon. To the southwest, the hazy outline of Beirland lay underneath a shelf of clouds gathered about the ridged mountain that dominated the island.

Roran, Jeod, and Uthar met in a small fore cabin — since the captain’s stateroom was given over to the infirm — where Uthar unrolled sea charts on the table and tapped a point above Beirland. “This’d be where we are now,” he said. He reached for a larger map of Alagaesia’s coastline and tapped the mouth of the Jiet River. “An’ this’d be our destination, since food won’t last us to Reavstone. How we get there, though, without being overtaken is beyond me. Without our mizzen topgallant, those accursed sloops will catch us by noon tomorrow, evening if we manage the sails well.”

“Can we replace the mast?” asked Jeod. “Vessels of this size carry spars to make just such repairs.”

Uthar shrugged. “We could, provided we had a proper ship’s carpenter among us. Seeing as we don’t, I’d rather not let inexperienced hands mount a spar, only to have it crash down on deck and perhaps injure somebody.”

Roran said, “If it weren’t for the magician or magicians, I’d say we should stand and fight, since we far outnumber the crews of the sloops. As it is, I’m chary of battle. It seems unlikely that we could prevail, considering how many ships sent to help the Varden have disappeared.”

Grunting, Uthar drew a circle around their current position. “This’d be how far we can sail by tomorrow evening, assuming the wind stays with us. We could make landfall somewhere on Beirland or Nia if we wanted, but I can’t see how that’d help us. We’d be trapped. The soldiers on those sloops or the Ra’zac or Galbatorix himself could hunt us at his leisure.”

Roran scowled as he considered their options; a fight with the sloops appeared inevitable.

For several minutes, the cabin was silent except for the slap of waves against the hull. Then Jeod placed his finger on the map between Beirland and Nia, looked at Uthar, and asked, “What about the Boar’s Eye?”

To Roran’s amazement, the scarred sailor actually blanched. “I’d not risk that, Master Jeod, not on my life. I’d rather face the sloops an’ die in the open sea than go to that doomed place. There has consumed twice as many ships as in Galbatorix’s fleet.”

“I seem to recall reading,” said Jeod, leaning back in his chair, “that the passage is perfectly safe at high tide and low tide. Is that not so?”

With great and evident reluctance, Uthar admitted, “Aye. But the Eye is so wide, it requires the most precise timing to cross without being destroyed. We’d be hard-pressed to accomplish that with the sloops near on our tail.”

“If we could, though,” pressed Jeod, “if we could time it right, the sloops would be wrecked or — if their nerve failed them — forced to circumvent Nia. It would give us time to find a place to hide along Beirland.”

“If, if... You’d send us to the crushing deep, you would.”

“Come now, Uthar, your fear is unreasoning. What I propose is dangerous, I admit, but no more than fleeing Teirm was. Or do you doubt your ability to sail the gap? Are you not man enough to do it?”

Uthar crossed his bare arms. “You’ve never seen the Eye, have you, sir?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“It’s not that I’m not man enough, but that the Eye far exceeds the strength of men; it puts to shame our biggest ships, our grandest buildings, an’ anything else you’d care to name. Tempting it would be like trying to outrun an avalanche; you might succeed, but then you just as well might be ground into dust.”

“What,” asked Roran, “is this Boar’s Eye?”

“The all-devouring maw of the ocean,” proclaimed Uthar.

In a milder tone, Jeod said, “It’s a whirlpool, Roran. The Eye forms as the result of tidal currents that collide between Beirland and Nia. When the tide waxes, the Eye rotates north to west. When the tide wanes, it rotates north to east.”

“That doesn’t sound so dangerous.”

Uthar shook his head, queue whipping the sides of his wind-burned neck, and laughed. “Not so dangerous, he says! Ha!”

“What you fail to comprehend,” continued Jeod, “is the size of the vortex. On average, the center of the Eye is a league in diameter, while the arms of the pool can be anywhere from ten to fifteen miles across. Ships unlucky enough to be snared by the Eye are borne down to the floor of the ocean and dashed against the jagged rocks therein. Remnants of the vessels are often found as flotsam on the beaches of the two islands.”

“Would anyone expect us to take this route?” Roran queried.

“No, an’ for good reason,” growled Uthar. Jeod shook his head at the same time.

“Is it even possible for us to cross the Eye?”

“It’d be a blasted fool thing to do.”

Roran nodded. “I know it’s not something you want to risk, Uthar, but our options are limited. I’m no seaman, so I must rely upon your judgment: Can we cross the Eye?”

The captain hesitated. “Maybe, maybe not. You’d have t’ be stark raving mad to go nearer’n five miles of that monster.”

Pulling out his hammer, Roran banged it on the table, leaving a dent a half-inch deep. “Then I’m stark raving mad!” He held Uthar’s gaze until the sailor shifted with discomfort. “Must I remind you, we’ve only gotten this far by doing what quibbling worrywarts said couldn’t, or shouldn’t, be done? We of Carvahall dared to abandon our homes and cross the Spine. Jeod dared to imagine we could steal the Dragon Wing. What will you dare, Uthar? If we can brave the Eye and live to tell the tale, you shall be hailed as one of the greatest mariners in history. Now answer me and answer me well and true: Can this be done?”

Uthar drew a hand over his face. When he spoke, it was in a low voice, as if Roran’s outburst had caused him to abandon all bluster. “I don’t know, Stronghammer... If we wait for the Eye to subside, the sloops may be so close to us that if we escape, they’d escape. An’ if the wind should falter, we’d be caught in the current, unable to break free.”

“As captain, are you willing to attempt it? Neither Jeod nor I can command the Dragon Wing in your place.”

Long did Uthar stare down at the charts, one hand clasped over the other. He drew a line or two from their position and worked a table of figures that Roran could make nothing of. At last he said, “I fear we sail to our doom, but aye, I’ll do my best to see us through.”

Satisfied, Roran put away his hammer. “So be it.”

RUNNING THE BOAR’S EYE

The sloops continued to draw closer to the Dragon Wing over the course of the day. Roran watched their progress whenever he could, concerned that they would get near enough to attack before the Dragon Wing reached the Eye. Still, Uthar seemed able to outrun them, at least for a