Eragon [en]

It was dark when Eragon jolted upright in bed, breathing hard. The room was chilly; goose bumps formed on his arms and shoulders. It was a few hours before dawn — the time when nothing moves and life waits for the first warm touches of sunlight.

His heart pounded as a terrible premonition gripped him. It felt like a shroud lay over the world, and its darkest corner was over his room. He quietly got out of bed and dressed. With apprehension he hurried down the hallway. Alarm shot through him when he saw the door to Garrow’s room open and people clustered inside.

Garrow lay peacefully on the bed. He was dressed in clean clothes, his hair had been combed back, and his face was calm. He might have been sleeping if not for the silver amulet clasped around his neck and the sprig of dried hemlock on his chest, the last gifts from the living to the dead.

Katrina stood next to the bed, face pale and eyes downcast. He heard her whisper, “I had hoped to call him Father one day... ”

Call him Father, he thought bitterly, a right even I don’t have. He felt like a ghost, drained of all vitality. Everything was insubstantial except for Garrow’s face. Tears flooded Eragon’s cheeks. He stood there, shoulders shaking, but did not cry out. Mother, aunt, uncle — he had lost them all. The weight of his grief was crushing, a monstrous force that left him tottering. Someone led him back to his room, uttering consolations.

He fell on the bed, wrapped his arms around his head, and sobbed convulsively. He felt Saphira contact him, but he pushed her aside and let himself be swept away by sorrow. He could not accept that Garrow was gone. If he did, what was left to believe in? Only a merciless, uncaring world that snuffed lives like candles before a wind. Frustrated and terrified, he turned his tear-dampened face toward the heavens and shouted, “What god would do this? Show yourself!” He heard people running to his room, but no answer came from above. “He didn’t deserve this!”

Comforting hands touched him, and he was aware of Elain sitting next to him. She held him as he cried, and eventually, exhausted, he slipped unwillingly into sleep.

A RIDER’S BLADE

Anguish enveloped Eragon as he awoke. Though he kept his eyes closed, they could not stop a fresh flow of tears. He searched for some idea or hope to help him keep his sanity. I can’t live with this, he moaned.

Then don’t. Saphira’s words reverberated in his head.

How? Garrow is gone forever! And in time, I must meet the same fate. Love, family, accomplishments — they are all torn away, leaving nothing. What is the worth of anything we do?

The worth is in the act. Your worth halts when you surrender the will to change and experience life. But options are before you; choose one and dedicate yourself to it. The deeds will give you new hope and purpose.

But what can I do?

The only true guide is your heart. Nothing less than its supreme desire can help you.

She left him to ponder her statements. Eragon examined his emotions. It surprised him that, more than grief, he found a searing anger. What do you want me to do... pursue the strangers?

Yes.

Her frank answer confused him. He took a deep, trembling breath. Why?

Remember what you said in the Spine? How you reminded me of my duty as dragon, and I returned with you despite the urging of my instinct? So, too, must you control yourself. I thought long and deep the past few days, and I realized what it means to be dragon and Rider: It is our destiny to attempt the impossible, to accomplish great deeds regardless of fear. It is our responsibility to the future.

I don’t care what you say; those aren’t reasons to leave! cried Eragon.

Then here are others. My tracks have been seen, and people are alert to my presence. Eventually I will be exposed. Besides, there is nothing here for you. No farm, no family, and—

Roran’s not dead! he said vehemently.

But if you stay, you’ll have to explain what really happened. He has a right to know how and why his father died. What might he do once he knows of me?

Saphira’s arguments whirled around in Eragon’s head, but he shrank from the idea of forsaking Palancar Valley; it was his home. Yet the thought of enacting vengeance on the strangers was fiercely comforting. Am I strong enough for this?

You have me.

Doubt besieged him. It would be such a wild, desperate thing to do. Contempt for his indecision rose, and a harsh smile danced on his lips. Saphira was right. Nothing mattered anymore except the act itself. The doing is the thing. And what would give him more satisfaction than hunting down the strangers? A terrible energy and strength began to grow in him. It grabbed his emotions and forged them into a solid bar of anger with one word stamped on it: revenge. His head pounded as he said with conviction, I will do it.

He severed the contact with Saphira and rolled out of bed, his body tense like a coiled spring. It was still early morning; he had only slept a few hours. Nothing is more dangerous than an enemy with nothing to lose, he thought. Which is what I have become.

Yesterday he had had difficulty walking upright, but now he moved confidently, held in place by his iron will. The pain his body sent him was defied and ignored.

As he crept out of the house, he heard the murmur of two people talking. Curious, he stopped and listened. Elain was saying in her gentle voice, “... place to stay. We have room.” Horst answered inaudibly in his bass rumble. “Yes, the poor boy,” replied Elain.

This time Eragon could hear Horst’s response. “Maybe...” There was a long pause. “I’ve been thinking about what Eragon said, and I’m not sure he told us everything.”

“What do you mean?” asked Elain. There was concern in her voice.

“When we started for their farm, the road was scraped smooth by the board he dragged Garrow on. Then we reached a place where the snow was all trampled and churned up. His footprints and signs of the board stopped there, but we also saw the same giant tracks from the farm. And what about his legs? I can’t believe he didn’t notice losing that much skin. I didn’t want to push him for answers earlier, but now I think I will.”

“Maybe what he saw scared him so much that he doesn’t want to talk about it,” suggested Elain. “You saw how distraught he was.”

“That still doesn’t explain how he managed to get Garrow nearly all the way here without leaving any tracks.”

Saphira was right, thought Eragon. It’s time to leave.Too many questions from too many people.Sooner or later they’ll find the answers. He continued through the house, tensing whenever the floor creaked.

The streets were clear; few people were up at this time of day. He stopped for a minute and forced himself to focus. I don’t need a horse. Saphira will be my steed, but she needs a saddle. She can hunt for both of us, so I don’t have to worry about food — though I should get some anyway. Whatever else I need I can find buried in our house.

He went to Gedric’s tanning vats on the outskirts of Carvahall. The vile smell made him cringe, but he kept moving, heading for a shack set into the side of a hill where the cured hides were stored. He cut down three large ox hides from the rows of skins hanging from the ceiling. The thievery made him feel guilty, but he reasoned, It’s not really stealing. I’ll pay Gedric back someday, along with Horst. He rolled up the thick leather and took it to a stand of trees away from the village. He wedged the hides between the branches of a