Eldest [en]

utterly different from the landscape he was accustomed to.

We made it.

Leaving the promontory, Roran walked back to his makeshift tent, enjoying deep breaths of the salty air. They had camped high in the foothills of the Spine in order to avoid detection by anyone who might alert the Empire as to their whereabouts.

As he strode among the clumps of villagers huddled beneath the trees, Roran surveyed their condition with sorrow and anger. The trek from Palancar Valley had left people sick, battered, and exhausted; their faces gaunt from lack of food; their clothes tattered. Most everyone wore rags tied around their hands to ward off frostbite during the frigid mountain nights. Weeks of carrying heavy packs had bowed once-proud shoulders. The worst sight was the children: thin and unnaturally still.

They deserve better, thought Roran. I’d be in the clutches of the Ra’zac right now if they hadn’t protected me.

Numerous people approached Roran, most of whom wanted nothing more than a touch on the shoulder or a word of comfort. Some offered him bits of food, which he refused or, when they insisted, gave to someone else. Those who remained at a distance watched with round, pale eyes. He knew what they said about him, that he was mad, that spirits possessed him, that not even the Ra’zac could defeat him in battle.

Crossing the Spine had been even harder than Roran expected. The only paths in the forest were game trails, which were too narrow, steep, and meandering for their group. As a result, the villagers were often forced to chop their way through the trees and underbrush, a painstaking task that everyone despised, not least because it made it easy for the Empire to track them. The one advantage to the situation was that the exercise restored Roran’s injured shoulder to its previous level of strength, although he still had trouble lifting his arm at certain angles.

Other hardships took their toll. A sudden storm trapped them on a bare pass high above the timberline. Three people froze in the snow: Hida, Brenna, and Nesbit, all of whom were quite old. That night was the first time Roran was convinced that the entire village would die because they had followed him. Soon after, a boy broke his arm in a fall, and then Southwell drowned in a glacier stream. Wolves and bears preyed upon their livestock on a regular basis, ignoring the watchfires that the villagers lit once they were concealed from Palancar Valley and Galbatorix’s hated soldiers. Hunger clung to them like a relentless parasite, gnawing at their bellies, devouring their strength, and sapping their will to continue.

And yet they survived, displaying the same obstinacy and fortitude that kept their ancestors in Palancar Valley despite famine, war, and pestilence. The people of Carvahall might take an age and a half to reach a decision, but once they did, nothing could deter them from their course.

Now that they had reached Narda, a sense of hope and accomplishment permeated the camp. No one knew what would happen next, but the fact that they had gotten so far gave them confidence.

We won’t be safe until we leave the Empire, thought Roran. And it’s up to me to ensure that we aren’t caught. I’ve become responsible for everyone here... A responsibility that he had embraced wholeheartedly because it allowed him to both protect the villagers from Galbatorix and pursue his goal of rescuing Katrina. It’s been so long since she was captured. How can she still be alive? He shuddered and pushed the thoughts away. True madness awaited him if he allowed himself to brood over Katrina’s fate.

At dawn Roran, Horst, Baldor, Loring’s three sons, and Gertrude set out for Narda. They descended from the foothills to the town’s main road, careful to stay hidden until they emerged onto the lane. Here in the lowlands, the air seemed thick to Roran; it felt as if he were trying to breathe underwater.

Roran gripped the hammer at his belt as they approached Narda’s gate. Two soldiers guarded the opening. They examined Roran’s group with hard eyes, lingering on their ragged clothes, then lowered their poleaxes and barred the entrance.

“Where’d you be from?” asked the man on the right. He could not have been older than twenty-five, but his hair was already pure white.

Swelling his chest, Horst crossed his arms and said, “Roundabouts Teirm, if it please you.”

“What brings you here?”

“Trade. We were sent by shopkeepers who want to buy goods directly from Narda, instead of through the usual merchants.”

“That so, eh? What goods?”

When Horst faltered, Gertrude said, “Herbs and medicine on my part. The plants I’ve received from here have either been too old or moldy and spoiled. I have to procure a fresh supply.”

“And my brothers and I,” said Darmmen, “came to bargain with your cobblers. Shoes made in the northern style are fashionable in Dras-Leona and Uru’baen.” He grimaced. “At least they were when we set out.”

Horst nodded with renewed confidence. “Aye. And I’m here to collect a shipment of ironwork for my master.”

“So you say. What about that one? What does he do?” asked the soldier, motioning toward Roran with his ax.

“Pottery,” said Roran.

“Pottery?”

“Pottery.”

“Why the hammer, then?”

“How do you think the glaze on a bottle or jar gets cracked? It doesn’t happen by itself, you know. You have to hit it.” Roran returned the white-haired man’s stare of disbelief with a blank expression, daring him to challenge the statement.

The soldier grunted and ran his gaze over them again. “Be as that may, you don’t look like tradesmen to me. Starved alley cats is more like it.”

“We had difficulty on the road,” said Gertrude.

“That I’d believe. If you came from Teirm, where be your horses?”

“We left them at our camp,” supplied Hamund. He pointed south, opposite where the rest of the villagers were actually hidden.

“Don’t have the coin to stay in town, eh?” With a scornful chuckle, the soldier raised his ax and gestured for his companion to do likewise. “All right, you can pass, but don’t cause trouble or you’ll be off to the stocks or worse.”

Once through the gate, Horst pulled Roran to the side of the street and growled in his ear, “That was a fool thing to do, making up something as ridiculous as that. Cracking the glaze! Do you want a fight? We can’t—” He stopped as Gertrude plucked at his sleeve.

“Look,” murmured the healer.

To the left of the entrance stood a six-foot-wide message board with a narrow shingle roof to protect the yellowing parchment underneath. Half the board was devoted to official notices and proclamations. On the other half hung a block of posters displaying sketches of various criminals. Foremost among them was a drawing of Roran without a beard.

Startled, Roran glanced around to make sure that no one in the street was close enough to compare his face to the illustration, then devoted his attention to the poster. He had expected the Empire to pursue them, but it was still a shock to encounter proof of it. Galbatorix must be expending an enormous amount of resources trying to catch us. When they were in the Spine, it was easy to forget that the outside world existed. I bet posters of me are nailed up throughout the Empire. He grinned, glad that he had stopped shaving and that he and the others had agreed to use false names while in Narda.

A reward was inked at the bottom of the poster. Garrow never taught Roran and Eragon to read, but he did teach them their figures because, as he said, “You have to know how much you own, what it’s worth, and what you’re paid for it so you don’t get rooked by some two-faced knave.” Thus, Roran could see that the Empire had offered ten thousand crowns for him, enough to live in comfort for several decades. In a perverse way, the size of the reward pleased him, giving him a sense of importance.

Then his gaze drifted to the next poster in line.

It was Eragon.

Roran’s gut clenched as if he had been struck, and for a few seconds he forgot to breathe.

He’s alive!