Christopher Paolini - Eldest [en]

As Eragon turned to leave, Arya approached and looked him straight in the eye. “Do not allow this to trouble you overmuch, Eragon-elda. You are not your father, nor your brother. Their shame is not yours.”

“Aye,” agreed Nasuada. “Nor imagine that it has lowered our opinion of you.” She reached out and cupped his face. “I know you, Eragon. You have a good heart. The name of your father cannot change that.”

Warmth blossomed inside Eragon. He looked from one woman to the next, then twisted his hand over his chest, overwhelmed by their friendship. “Thank you.”

Once they were back out in the open, Eragon put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath of the smoky air. It was late in the day, and the garish orange of noon had subsided into a dusky gold light that suffused the camp and battlefield, giving it a strange beauty. “So now you know,” he said.

Roran shrugged. “Blood always tells.”

“Don’t say that,” growled Eragon. “Don’t ever say that.”

Roran studied him for several seconds. “You’re right; it was an ugly thought. I didn’t mean it.” He scratched his beard and squinted at the bloated sun resting upon the horizon. “Nasuada wasn’t what I expected.”

That forced a tired chuckle out of Eragon. “The one you were expecting was her father, Ajihad. Still, she’s as good a leader as he was, if not better.”

“Her skin, is it dyed?”

“No, that’s the way she is.”

Just then, Eragon felt Jeod, Horst, and a score of other men from Carvahall hurrying toward them. The villagers slowed as they rounded a tent and glimpsed Saphira. “Horst!” exclaimed Eragon. Stepping forward, he grasped the smith in a bear hug. “It’s good to see you again!”

Horst gaped at Eragon, then a delighted grin spread across his face. “Blast if it isn’t good to see you as well, Eragon. You’ve filled out since you left.”

“You mean since I ran away.”

Meeting the villagers was a strange experience for Eragon. Hardship had altered some of the men so much, he barely recognized them. And they treated him differently than before, with a mixture of awe and reverence. It reminded him of a dream, where everything familiar is rendered alien. He was disconcerted by how out of place he felt among them.

When Eragon came to Jeod, he paused. “You know about Brom?”

“Ajihad sent me a message, but I’d like to hear what happened directly from you.”

Eragon nodded, grave. “As soon as I have the chance, we’ll sit down together and have a long talk.”

Then Jeod moved on to Saphira and bowed to her. “I waited my entire life to see a dragon, and now I have seen two in the same day. I am indeed lucky. However, you are the dragon I wanted to meet.”

Bending her neck, Saphira touched Jeod on the brow. He shivered at the contact. Give him my thanks for helping to rescue me from Galbatorix. Otherwise, I would still be languishing in the king’s treasury. He was Brom’s friend, and so he is our friend.

After Eragon repeated her words, Jeod said, “Atra esterní ono thelduin, Saphira Bjartskular,” surprising them with his knowledge of the ancient language.

“Where did you go?” Horst asked Roran. “We looked high and low for you after you took off in pursuit of those two magicians.”

“Never mind that now. Return to the ship and have everyone disembark; the Varden are sending us food and shelter. We can sleep on solid ground tonight!” The men cheered.

Eragon watched with interest as Roran issued his commands. When at last Jeod and the villagers departed, Eragon said, “They trust you. Even Horst obeys you without question. Do you speak for all of Carvahall now?”

“I do.”

Heavy darkness was advancing upon the Burning Plains by the time they found the small two-man tent the Varden had assigned Eragon. Since Saphira could not fit her head through the opening, she curled up on the ground beside and prepared to keep watch.

As soon as I get my strength back, I’ll see to your wounds , promised Eragon.

I know. Don’t stay up too late talking.

Inside the tent, Eragon found an oil lantern that he lit with steel and flint. He could see perfectly well without it, but Roran needed the light.

They sat opposite each other: Eragon on the bedding laid out along one side of the tent, Roran on a folding stool he found leaning in a corner. Eragon was uncertain how to begin, so he remained silent and stared at the lamp’s dancing flame.

Neither of them moved.

After uncounted minutes, Roran said, “Tell me how my father died.”

“Our father.” Eragon remained calm as Roran’s expression hardened. In a gentle voice, he said, “I have as much right to call him that as you. Look within yourself; you know it to be true.”

“Fine. Our father, how did he die?”

Eragon had recounted the story upon several occasions. But this time he hid nothing. Instead of just listing the events, he described what he had thought and felt ever since he had found Saphira’s egg, trying to make Roran understand why he did what he did. He had never been so anxious before.

“I was wrong to hide Saphira from the rest of the family,” Eragon concluded, “but I was afraid you might insist on killing her, and I didn’t realize how much danger she put us in. If I had... After Garrow died, I decided to leave in order to track down the Ra’zac, as well as to avoid putting Carvahall in any more danger.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “It didn’t work, but if I had remained, the soldiers would have come far sooner. And then who knows? Galbatorix might have even visited Palancar Valley himself. I may be the reason Garrow — Father — died, but that was never my intention, nor that you and everyone else in Carvahall should suffer because of my choices... ” He gestured helplessly. “I did the best I could, Roran.”

“And the rest of it — Brom being a Rider, rescuing Arya at Gil’ead, and killing a Shade at the dwarves’ capital — all that happened?”

“Aye.” As quickly as he could, Eragon summarized what had taken place since he and Saphira set forth with Brom, including their sojourn to Ellesméra and his own transformation during the Agaetí Blödhren.

Leaning forward, Roran rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and gazed at the dirt between them. It was impossible for Eragon to read his emotions without reaching into his consciousness, which he refused to do, knowing it would be a terrible mistake to invade Roran’s privacy.

Roran was silent for so long, Eragon began to wonder if he would ever respond. Then: “You have made mistakes, but they are no greater than my own. Garrow died because you kept Saphira secret. Many more have died because I refused to give myself up to the Empire... We are equally guilty.” He looked up, then slowly extended his right hand. “Brother?”

“Brother,” said Eragon.

He gripped Roran’s forearm, and they pulled each other into a rough embrace, wrestling to and fro as they used to do at home. When they separated, Eragon had to wipe his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Galbatorix should surrender now that we’re together again,” he joked. “Who can stand against the two of us?” He lowered himself back onto the bedding. “Now you tell me, how did the Ra’zac capture Katrina?”

All happiness vanished from Roran’s face. He began to speak in a low monotone, and Eragon listened with growing amazement as he wove an epic of attacks, sieges, and betrayal, of leaving Carvahall, crossing the Spine, and razing the docks of Teirm, of sailing through a monstrous whirlpool.

When at last he finished, Eragon said, “You are a greater man than I. I couldn’t have done half those things. Fight, yes, but not convince everyone to follow me.”