Eldest
Page 81
“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 Alagaësia? 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 theywanted 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 whowill leave, it’s whowon’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.
Tears of pride flooded Roran’s eyes. “What could be more noble than cleansing Galbatorix’s stain from Alagaësia? 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 theywanted 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 whowill leave, it’s whowon’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.
