“Albriech, you and Baldor run around as fast as you can and check if anyone else is coming. Otherwise, we’ll leave.” The brothers dashed off in opposite directions.
Half an hour later, Baldor returned with Fisk, Isold, and their borrowed horse. Leaving her husband, Isold hurried toward Horst, shooing her hands at anyone who got in her way, oblivious to the fact that most of her hair had escaped imprisonment in its bun and stuck out in odd tufts. She stopped, wheezing for breath. “I am sorry we’re so late, but Fisk had trouble closing up the shop. He couldn’t pick which planers or chisels to bring.” She laughed in a shrill tone, almost hysterical. “It was like watching a cat surrounded by mice trying to decide which one to chase. First this one, then that one.”
A wry smile tugged at Horst’s lips. “I understand perfectly.”
Roran strained for a glimpse of Albriech, but to no avail. He gritted his teeth. “Where is he?”
Horst tapped his shoulder. “Right over there, I do believe.”
Albriech advanced between the houses with three beer casks tied to his back and an aggrieved look that was comic enough to make Baldor and several others laugh. On either side of Albriech walked Morn and Tara, who staggered under the weight of their enormous packs, as did the donkey and two goats that they towed behind them. To Roran’s astonishment, the animals were burdened with even more casks.
“They won’t last a mile,” said Roran, growing angry at the couple’s foolishness. “And they don’t have enough food. Do they expect us to feed them or—”
With a chuckle, Horst cut him off. “I wouldn’t worry about the food. Morn’s beer will be good for morale, and that’s worth more than a few extra meals. You’ll see.”
As soon as Albriech had freed himself of the casks, Roran asked him and his brother, “Is that everyone?” When they answered in the affirmative, Roran swore and struck his thigh with a clenched fist. Excluding Ivor, three families were determined to remain in Palancar Valley: Ethlbert’s, Parr’s, and Knute’s. I can’t force them to come. He sighed. “All right. There’s no sense in waiting longer.”
Excitement rippled through the villagers; the moment had finally arrived. Horst and five other men pulled open the wall of trees, then laid planks across the trench so that the people and animals could walk over.
Horst gestured. “I think that you should go first, Roran.”
“Wait!” Fisk ran up and, with evident pride, handed Roran a blackened six-foot-long staff of hawthorn wood with a knot of polished roots at the top, and a blued-steel ferrule that tapered into a blunt spike at the base. “I made it last night,” said the carpenter. “I thought that you might have need of it.”
Roran ran his left hand over the wood, marveling at its smoothness. “I couldn’t have asked for anything better. Your skill is masterful... Thank you.” Fisk grinned and backed away.
Conscious of the fact that the entire crowd was watching, Roran faced the mountains and the Igualda Falls. His shoulder throbbed beneath the leather strap. Behind him lay his father’s bones and everything he had known in life. Before him the jagged peaks piled high into the pale sky and blocked his way and his will. But he would not be denied. And he would not look back.
Katrina.
Lifting his chin, Roran strode forward. His staff knocked against the hard planks as he crossed the trench and passed out of Carvahall, leading the villagers into the wilderness.
ON THE CRAGS OF TEL’NAEÍ
Thud.
Bright as a flaming sun, the dragon hung before Eragon and everyone clustered along the Crags of Tel’naeír, buffeting them with gusts from its mighty wings. The dragon’s body appeared to be on fire as the brilliant dawn illuminated its golden scales and sprayed the ground and trees with dazzling chips of light. It was far larger than Saphira, large enough to be several hundred years old, and proportionally thicker in its neck, limbs, and tail. Upon its back sat the Rider, robes startling white against the brilliance of the scales.
Eragon fell to his knees, his face upturned. I’m not alone... Awe and relief coursed through him. No more would he have to bear the responsibility of the Varden and of Galbatorix by himself. Here was one of the guardians of old resurrected from the depths of time to guide him, a living symbol, and a testament to the legends he had been raised with. Here was his master. Here was a legend!
As the dragon turned to land, Eragon gasped; the creature’s left foreleg had been severed by a terrible blow, leaving a helpless white stump in place of the once mighty limb. Tears filled his eyes.
A whirlwind of dry twigs and leaves enveloped the hilltop as the dragon settled on the sweet clover and folded its wings. The Rider carefully descended from his steed along the dragon’s intact front right leg, then approached Eragon, his hands clasped before him. He was an elf with silver hair, old beyond measure, though the only sign of age was the expression of great compassion and sadness upon his face.
“Osthato Chetowä,” said Eragon. “The Mourning Sage... As you asked, I have come.” With a jolt, he remembered his manners and touched his lips. “Atra esterní ono thelduin.”
The Rider smiled. He took Eragon by the shoulders and lifted him upright, staring at him with such kindness that Eragon could look at nothing else; he was consumed by the endless depths within the elf’s eyes. “Oromis is my proper name, Eragon Shadeslayer.”
“You knew,” whispered Islanzadí with a hurt expression that quickly transformed into a storm of rage. “You knew of Eragon’s existence and yet you did not tell me? Why have you betrayed me, Shur’tugal?”
Oromis released Eragon from his gaze and transferred it onto the queen. “I kept my peace because it was uncertain if Eragon or Arya would live long enough to come here; I had no wish to give you a fragile hope that might have been torn away at any moment.”
Islanzadí spun about, her cape of swan feathers billowing like wings. “You had no right to withhold such information from me! I could have sent warriors to protect Arya, Eragon, and Saphira in Farthen Dûr and to escort them safely here.”
Oromis smiled sadly. “I hid nothing from you, Islanzadí, but what you had already chosen not to see. If you had scryed the land, as is your duty, you would have discerned the source of the chaos that has swept Alagaësia and learned the truth of Arya and Eragon. That you might forget the Varden and the dwarves in your grief is understandable, but Brom? Vinr Älfakyn? The last of the Elf Friends? You have been blind to the world, Islanzadí, and lax upon your throne. I could not risk driving you further away by subjecting you to another loss.”
Islanzadí’s anger drained away, leaving her face pale and her shoulders slumped. “I am diminished,” she whispered.
A cloud of hot, moist air pressed against Eragon as the gold dragon bent to examine him with eyes that glittered and sparked. We are well met, Eragon Shadeslayer. I am Glaedr. His voice — for it was unmistakably male — rumbled and shook through Eragon’s mind, like the growl of a mountain avalanche.
All Eragon could do was touch his lips and say, “I am honored.”
Then Glaedr brought his attention to bear on Saphira. She remained perfectly still, her neck arched stiffly as Glaedr sniffed her cheek and along the line of her wing. Eragon saw Saphira’s clenched leg muscles flutter with an involuntary tremor. You smell of humans, said Glaedr, and all you know of your own race is what your instincts have taught you, but you have the heart of a true dragon.