Eldest [en]

back and forth, blind to anything but the desolation of the world.

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 Alagaesia. 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 them feel 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 are evil. 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 Alagaesia, 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 say 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