Eldest [en]

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 Alagaesia? 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 they wanted 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 who will leave, it’s who won’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 a crack. “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 Garrowsson 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 Horst, 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