Author's Note: Whoa...this got long. Really long. It was a long chapter in the book, so...okay, from now on I think I'll split really long chapters into multiple parts. These huge chapters are too hard to read...and I don't get as much time to annoy the characters. (laughs) Wow...so many reviews...! Ah, I'm getting all choked up. Thanks, everyone! My PC is broken again, so updates may be sporadic for a while. And I had a reviewer suggestion to have the characters talk during the chapters as well...does that sound like a good idea? It might be fun, but I wonder if it would make the story choppy...opinions? Well I'll stop making this chapter longer with my ranting and start! Enjoy the chapter (despite its ridiculous length).
Chapter 2: Dragon Tales
"Wait—what happened to 'Palancar Valley'? Dragon Tales is chapter 3!" Eragon said.
"It was boring, so I'm skipping it."
"But that's my big scene with Sloan! I get to be really brave and stuff! And it sets up the romance subplot with Roran. You know, the one in Eldest."
"Who needs that?" Subieko said. "He's not even a major character. The story can go on just fine without him. And Eragon, you live in a small, impoverished village. There is no way you'd have a butcher shop! It just doesn't make sense! So, no butcher shop for you. And then there's that stupid introduction to Garrow, where he's all harsh and cold. Who needs that? No, we're definitely skipping ahead."
"Say…where is Garrow? And Roran, too. They're in this chapter, so shouldn't they be helping us with it?"
"Nope," Subieko said.
"Why not?"
"Because they're minor characters. Only major characters get to do stuff like this. I know it hurts, but that's just how it goes. If you're in here right now…you're a major character."
Everyone in the room breathed a quick sigh of relief, and the chapter began…
Eragon took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air, a broad grin on his face. His smile widened as he looked down over Carvahall. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the little houses, and he could faintly hear the voices of the townspeople as they prepared to turn in for the evening. Eragon made his way down into the valley, weighed down by his heavy pack. The stone was the only prize he had to bring back, and a shadow of doubt crossed his face as he wondered what Garrow would say.
But as Eragon made his way through the little town to his adoptive father's farmhouse, his worries faded to the back of his mind. It was good to be home after three days out in the Spine, tracking the herd of deer.
Eragon reached the end of the village and continued on into the deepening night, guided only by the pale light of the moon. His pace quickened as he neared the end of his journey, and at last he turned off the road onto a small dirt path. Eragon pushed through the thick, waist-high grass and made his way up the small hill. The gently light of a lantern gave his face a ruddy glow as he knocked on the door of the farmhouse.
"It's me, Uncle," he said. Eragon always called Garrow uncle; somehow it felt strange to call him father.
The door creaked open and Garrow welcomed Eragon with a quick embrace. "Thank goodness—every time you go out into the Spine I wonder if we'll ever see you again. If only there was a better place for game…"
Eragon forced a smile, his heart sinking. "Uncle…I couldn't find anything. I was tracking a herd of deer, but…" Eragon was about to tell Garrow about the strange explosion and the stone, but he abruptly shut his mouth. For now, he would keep that to himself. "…but I never caught up to them. The tracks must have been older than I thought."
Garrow's face tightened, making the lines around his eyes even more prominent. He looked suddenly old to Eragon's eyes as he stood there, half in shadow. "There's less and less game now…winter's coming."
Eragon's chest felt suddenly tight. "I'll go out again tomorrow—this time I'll bring in something. We'll make it through the winter, Uncle."
Garrow waved his hand easily, managing a smile. "No, no, Eragon. You've been out there for three days, you need rest. Don't worry—we'll manage somehow. Go get some sleep, now."
Eragon nodded, swaying on his feet. He was more tired than he had realized. He went down the hall to his bedroom and gently pushed the door open. Their farm was spacious; it had been passed down through Garrow's family for generations. But now it was only Garrow and his two sons who were left, and it was getting harder and harder to keep the farm going. They could plant on only a fraction of their land simply because they didn't have enough hands to care for all the crops.
Right now, though, Eragon wasn't thinking about their small harvest that year, or the coming winter, or the many nights that his family went to sleep with empty bellies. He collapsed onto his bed and was asleep in seconds.
The next morning, Eragon was awoken by incessant pounding on his door. "Eragon, wake up! We've got work to do today, remember?"
The door swung open, and Eragon's brother Roran strode into the room, grinning. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead," he said, shoving Eragon out of bed. Eragon shoved him back, smiling ruefully. He had been exhausted the night before, but his sleep had refreshed him, and he was ready to help Roran and Garrow start bringing in the harvest.
"Whoa—what's that?" asked Roran, noticing the blue stone on one of the shelves Eragon had painstakingly made.
Eragon shrugged uneasily. "Just something I found out in the Spine. It looked interesting, so I brought it home."
"It's nice, but it would be even nicer if you could eat it!" Roran said. With that, he left Eragon to dress and went out to wait for him in the fields.
Eragon pulled on his breeches and tunic, then laced up his leather boots. He was heading out the door when he glanced back, feeling a strange touch of worry. But the stone was still there, safe and sound. Eragon shook himself, feeling silly, and went out to join Roran in the fields.
The day was filled with going through the fields, the earth already half-frozen under their feet, and harvesting what crops they had. The barley came in, along with the potatoes and the turnips, the beans and the beets. The ground grew barer and barer as the three made their way painstakingly across the farmland.
Eragon's shadow was thing and sharp across the frozen ground in the last rays of the sun when they finally stopped for the day. Every muscle in his body ached, and his nose, fingers, and ears felt like they might drop off, frozen. But as he stretched, wincing, his thoughts weren't on any of that. He, Roran, and Garrow made a meager supper out of some of the freshly harvested vegetable crop, then collapsed in their beds. The next day would be much the same, as would plenty of days after.
The first thing Eragon saw before he slept was the smooth surface of the stone, its clear blue color deepened by the shadows of the night.
"Wake up, you two—we've got to get ready for the traders!"
Eragon rolled out of bed, blinking owlishly. It was still dark out, but he knew Garrow was right; they had to pack up all the goods they were planning to sell to the traders. Every year at about this time, a caravan of traveling merchants and wandering gypsies came to Carvahall. It was the perfect opportunity to trade for supplies and catch up on the news in the rest of the Empire. Carvahall's isolation gave them all peace and quiet, but it also made the townspeople feel somewhat estranged from the world.
Eragon, Roran, and Garrow loaded up the rickety wagon with their spare produce and the few animals they could spare, then hitched up their old plow horse. Garrow had rather unimaginatively named her Blackie for her dark coat. She gave what Eragon supposed was the horse equivalent of a sigh when they settled the harness onto her, but Blackie obligingly trotted off toward Carvahall.
The town was abuzz when they arrived. Everyone had turned out, whether to buy or sell their goods, or simply to enjoy the fun. The traders were already parking their wagons and setting up their tents.
"I'm going to see what kind of prices I can get on this," Garrow said, waving a hand at the wagon. "The two of you can do what you like, but remember to meet me at Horst's for supper."
Horst was the leading man of the town. Although he held no elected position, he was liked and respected by them all, and they abided by his judgment. It was a town tradition for everyone to gather outside Horst's house for a celebration when the traders came, hailing the beginning of winter.
Garrow marched off, leading Blackie, and Eragon and Roran were left alone.
"Roran…why did you blush just now? Is there something going on I don't know about?" Eragon said, grinning. He knew perfectly well that Roran was quite infatuated with Horst's daughter Katrina.
"I—that is—it's none of your business, Eragon!" Roran said, his face now bright red.
"Come on…you can't even tell me, your favorite brother?"
"You're my only brother."
"That's even worse, then!" Eragon said, throwing his hands in the air. "Who else do you have to confide in?"
"…fine," Roran said, smiling ruefully. "But look, Eragon, this is a secret. Got it?"
Eragon nodded solemnly. "You know I'd never tell anyone, Roran."
"I do," Roran admitted. "The truth is…I'm going to ask Katrina for her hand."
"WHAT!?"
"Shhh!" Roran said, looking hastily around to make sure no one had heard. "Keep it down, will you? Why so surprised? You know we've been seeing each other for a few months now."
"Yeah…I know," Eragon said softly, more shaken than he cared to admit. He had always known Roran would leave and get married someday, but it had come awfully fast. "So…so what are your plans?"
Roran was smiling now, a trace of nervousness in his face. "You know that miller, Dempton? He comes up here from Therinsford every year for the traders. He's offered me an apprenticeship. Once I've saved up enough, I'll come back with Kat. Just think, Eragon—our farmhouse is plenty big enough to support a family, and with more hands, the farm will get better and better…!"
Roran's excitement was contagious; Eragon was soon smiling with him. "You two will be perfect together," he said. Then his face grew more serious. "Roran…I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you two," Roran said, resting a hand on Eragon's shoulder. "But let's go see the traders' booths. Think of it as sibling bonding time, Erry."
"You know I hate that stupid nickname!" Eragon said, shoving Roran lightly.
"That's exactly why I use it," Roran replied.
The two set off together, teasing each other all the way. Eragon put Roran's impending departure out of his mind for now. Tonight, he and Roran would enjoy themselves, just as they always had.
As they approached the rows of stalls, Roran saw a flash of copper hair. "I'll catch you later," he mumbled to Eragon as he dashed off in hot pursuit.
Eragon chuckled. Only Roran could have spotted Katrina in the large crowd. Eragon ambled on alone, looking here and there, buying nothing but admiring everything. As he walked, something began to trouble him. Somehow, the traders seemed more on edge this year. The children hid their faces in their mothers skirts when strangers approached, and the men wore swords in battered leather scabbards. Even the women had knives on their belts. All of them seemed the worse for wear, and far less prosperous than in other years.
Eragon longed to ask what had happened, but the traders were busy, and in any case he had a feeling they wouldn't be inclined to tell him. Instead, Eragon made his way to Morn's tavern. The familiar signpost soon came into view; over the door was a set of curling black Urgal horns, as wide as Eragon's outstretched arms. Eragon had never seen an Urgal, and neither had anyone else he knew, but people said they were monsters who came over the sea long ago.
The tavern was packed with faces both new and old. Eragon sat down by the long bar, keeping an ear and an eye on everyone else. In just a few minutes he heard some terrifying rumors—reports of Urgals gathering in large numbers, migrating toward the Hadarac desert. Some had been spotted near cities and on main roads, raiding caravans. Even worse, there were some whispered rumors that a Shade had been seen. A shiver ran up Eragon's spine. The only thing he knew about Shades was that it was rare to see one twice; most people didn't survive the encounter.
"Eragon!" It was Morn, the tavern's owner. He came to lean on the counter by Eragon. "It's been a while since I last saw you in here. Have you grown? You have, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir," Eragon said, hiding a smile. Morn said the same thing every time Eragon saw him. Eragon mused that if he kept coming in here long enough, he might turn into a giant.
"There's no need to 'sir' me," Morn said, giving Eragon a hearty clap on the shoulder that nearly knocked him off the bench. "We've known each other too long for that. Why, I remember when you were this high…"
"Oh—I think I just saw…" Eragon mumbled something indistinct that he hoped sounded like a name. "I'll go say hello to him."
Having escaped Morn's kindly patter, Eragon was forced to struggle through the crowded, noisy room and find a new seat. He settled down in a corner, close to a table of traders and one or two people Eragon vaguely recognized from Carvahall.
"Ah…a good brew this year," one said, downing a mug of ale. "Here's to the King!"
The man next to him clapped him on the shoulder with a raucous laugh. "Jared, I'll only thank ole' Galby when he takes his hands out of my pockets!"
The whole table joined in the laughter now. One man remained serious, however. "It's more than that," he said softly, glancing around. Eragon shrank back into the shadow of a support beam, listening hard.
"What do you mean, Evan?"
"Well," said the man (Evan, Eragon assumed), "I've heard that these Urgals are moving under the King's orders…that he's trying to conquer Surda. If we cross the border and declare war, what's going to happen to us? The Empire needs its trade with Surda, we need that trade."
The men all shook their heads, faces grim. "You're right about that, Evan," said another. "But did you hear about those Varden?"
Eragon leaned closer, straining to hear every word. The Varden were a rebel group that fought the King at every turn. They were popular in the Empire, although no one would say that too loudly. Even in isolated Palacar Valley, everyone knew that King Galbatorix was a greedy miser who had no thought for his people's needs. People said that the only reason he remained in power was because of the might of his army, and of course, the might of his dragon. The King's black dragon Shruiken was the last of its kind.
"Keep your voice down!" Jared said. "You know what'd happen in anyone reported us…"
"Not here in Carvahall," said Richard, a man Eragon knew from his infrequent trips to the town. "We're all against the King, same as any right-thinking person."
Jared subsided, and the other man continued his tale. "They say the Varden have been plaguing the King worse than ever—he's drawing off resources to keep up the fight. The Varden have been taking in refugees and rescuing people imprisoned unjustly by the King. They've got my sympathy, I'll tell you that!"
"Hear, hear!" said Evan, and they all raised their glasses again.
Eragon had heard enough. The crowded tavern was becoming stifling, and he slipped out the back door for a breath of the cool night air. So…the Varden. The most Eragon knew about such things were rumors. Of course, since the Varden had been formed a century ago when Galbatorix rose to power, whatever had once been known about them was lost to the mists of time. Who their leader was, who was in it, where their main base was…nothing was known. Eragon shrugged and headed for Horst's; it was almost time for supper. The King, the Varden, the Urgals…none of it had anything to do with the life of a farmer from Palancar Valley.
Dinner at Horst's meant a laden table and a lot of laughter. Eragon managed to find Roran and grab a seat next to him. They spoke quietly, their conversation masked by the flood of other sounds in the room.
"So?" Eragon said, looking at Roran expectantly. "How'd it go?"
"How'd what go?" Roran said, keeping his face perfectly straight.
"I know what you're doing, Roran—now just spit it out!"
"All right," Roran said, smiling. "…she said yes."
Eragon had to restrain himself; he had the urge to cheer at the top of his lungs. "Roran, that's—that's—" Eragon couldn't find the words to explain, so he just seized his brother in a tight hug.
"I know," Roran said, his eyes shining. "I could hardly believe it…I wonder whether Dad will be pleased or furious?"
Eragon shrugged. "Who knows? But I think he'll be happy. Who wouldn't be?"
"I hope so," Roran said. With that, they both turned their attention to their dinners.
"Hurry up, Roran—we've got to get good spots!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Roran said, jogging after Eragon. "Sheesh…I can't believe you still love watching the bards so much. You're almost a man now—these stories are for kids!"
Eragon flushed. "So what if I like them? You know you do too!"
"…what happened to being late?" Roran said, dashing ahead.
The two arrived, panting, just in time. Together they elbowed their way through the crowd to the edge of the ring surrounding Brom, the old storyteller who lived in Carvahall. Crouching before a smoldering fire, half cloaked in shadows, he seemed strange to Eragon; a mysterious creature of the night. His tangled white beard glimmered in the moonlight as he spread his hands and began his tale.
"To time, we are as pebbles tossed into a mighty river. A pebble cannot stop the rivers flow; no more can we hope to command time, which masters all things. Time flows on, and we with it; and so the past is lost to us. But we need not let the past be washed away. Our memories hold the taste of water from farther upstream, and now, I offer you a drink."
Brom looked around at the crowd, drawing himself up grandly and peering into their waiting eyes. He was a master storyteller, and knew how to draw in an audience, how to hold them, how to let the tension build. His gaze touched Eragon and lingered for a moment; Eragon shivered. But before he could wonder what had happened, Brom returned to his tale.
"Long, long ago, so long that it was before the world knew time and its unceasing decay, there were Dragons. They were masters of air and earth, the absolute lords of their domain. Here they dwelt in Alagaseia, long before our own race ever set foot in these lands. The sight of them when they soared through the air, like glittering jewels, their wings outstretched, their proud heads thrown back…we can only weep that it is lost to us.
Long the Dragons dwelt here, before the coming of man. But their long history was known only to them, and they are gone. Our memories do not stretch so far. Before your father's fathers, before your grandfather's grandfathers, the Dragon Riders were formed. They were a Dragon and its rider, bonded so deeply that they fought as one, unmatched guardians of the world for countless ages. The link between Dragon and rider was so strong that the riders partook of the dragons' immortal life, and became as strong as ten ordinary men, masters of magic and blade. The dragons were no less powerful; they called forth fire from within them, and their claws could rend even stone and steel.
It was a golden age of the world while they kept peace; all flourished, and the races were allied: human, elf, and dwarf lived in harmony. But it is in the nature of time that all things fade, like flowers that bloom at dawn only to whither at nightfall. This age could not last."
Brom paused and took a breath. It wasn't strange that he needed one; he had been speaking for some time. But somehow, Eragon felt that this breath had nothing to do with being winded. It was something in Brom's eyes…a sorrow that pierced Eragon like a knife.
Gathering himself, Brom spoke on. "That which is too strong to be bested bears the seeds of its own destruction. The Dragon Riders were unmatched by any…save themselves. It came to pass that a boy was born, a boy who would change the world. When he was old enough, the Riders tested him as was their custom and found great power in him. They began his training at once, and with his sharp mind and strong body, he quickly rose through the ranks. He and his dragon were peerless.
"But even they were not beyond defeat. One day, the boy and his dragon took a foolhardy trip with two friends. They flew north for many days and nights, into the Urgal's lands. They thought their powers would protect them; instead, they were ambushed as they slept on a sheet of ice that never melts. His friends and the three dragons were all slain, but the boy managed to fight off his attackers. The boy had no power to save his dragon, and she died before his eyes. Within him, the seed of madness had been sown. And time, that unfeeling monolith, tended it as he does all things.
"The boy wandered in that desolate land, seeking death and a release from his suffering. But though he threw himself against every living thing he found, he bested them all. Soon the Urgals and other dwellers in the north lands fled from him, and he was alone with his tormented thoughts. But it came to him that the Riders might grant him another dragon, and he began the journey back—on foot—through the Spine mountains. When he finally left the mountains he was near death from the grueling journey. A farmer found him collapsed in the dirt and called the Riders.
"The boy was taken to their stronghold and his body was healed; of his fevered mind he gave no sign. He made his demand for another dragon when he was brought before a council convened to judge him, his desperation revealing his madness. Seeing his true mind, the council banished him. The boy, his mind twisted, came to see his dragons death as the Rider's fault. In the dark watches of the night he turned that one thought over and over in his mind. The thirst for revenge was all that kept him clinging to life."
Eragon gazed at Brom, his mouth hanging open, as the storyteller's voice wrapped around them. He was swept up in the tale, not hearing it but living it, completely absorbed.
"It might have come to naught, if the boy hadn't found a sympathetic Rider…Morzan. With his honeyed tongue, the boy quickly turned Morzan to his cause. The boy convinced Morzan to leave unbolted a certain gate in the citadel of Ilirea, which is now called Uru'baen. The boy stole through this gate like a shadow and stole a dragon hatchling.
"He and Morzan then hid themselves in an evil place that the Riders dared not enter. It was then that Morzan learned dark and forbidden arts from the boy, arts that were meant to remain buried for eternity. When the instruction was finished and the dragon fully grown, the two revealed themselves to the world. The Riders rose to cast them down, but the boy and his loyal right hand, Morzan, slew one after another, and with each kill their strength grew. Soon enough the boy's words, which had proved so deadly to Morzan, entranced twelve other Riders, who with Morzan were called the Thirteen Forsworn. The Riders were joined by the elves in their battle against these traitorous riders, but the Riders were slain and the elves were overthrown. They fled to their secret havens, and they have come no more to our lands.
"Only one man dared to stand against the Forsworn. He was Vrael, the leader of the Riders, the mightiest and boldest of all. He and his mortal enemy, the leader of the Forsworn, battled before the gates of Doru Areaba. Vrael struck down the boy, but in his great heart there still remained pity and mercy for the lost child of the Riders. Vrael reached out to the boy, filled with sorrow, but the boy smote Vrael in the side. Vrael fled, grievously wounded, to Utgard Mountain, hoping to hide there and gather his remaining strength. But it was not to be…
"The boy found Vrael there, and in his weakened condition Vrael could not face him. The boy struck down the leader of the Riders, and placed his severed head before the gates of his newly conquered stronghold as a warning to all who would oppose him.
"With that kill, power rushed through his veins, and he anointed himself king over all Alagaesia. He ruled from that day forth…"
Brom paused here, as any master storyteller would. The audience leaned forward as one, waiting for the last words, hungering for them. Brom took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, letting the tension grow. Then, when it was at its breaking point, he spoke.
"The boy's name was Galbatorix."
Brom rose and shuffled off in dead silence as the audience stood there, still spellbound in the wake of Brom's words. Garrow pushed through the crowd to find Eragon and Roran.
"There you two are—we've got to be heading home." Seeing their dazed faces, he smiled. "You're lucky to have heard that one—I've heard it told only twice in my life. If the Empire knew that Brom had spoken it…" Garrow shook his head. "He would beg for death before the end."
Eragon shuddered. As they walked back to the wagon in the darkness, he glanced back over his shoulder. To his surprise, he saw that Brom had returned to the fireside. Illuminated by the flames, Eragon saw the old man slump down and put his head in his hands.
"Well? How did it go, everyone? Tell me the truth, now—don't try to spare my feelings."
"Believe me, we won't," Arya said.
"Oh shut up, you're not even in this chapter. Well, Eragon?"
Eragon fidgeted with the hilt of his sword, not meeting Subieko's eyes. "It's…well, it's nice, but…"
"But what, Eragon?" Subieko said, her eyes narrowing.
Eragon swallowed hard. "Well…it's just that you said I was adopted when Garrow really is my uncle. And you made me and Roran act so…so childish! And nobody hated Galbatorix as much!"
"Yeah," said Galbatorix. "What happened to my evil reign of terror? You short-changed me even worse than the original book!"
"Guys, just calm down—"
Suddenly, the door burst open. Roran and Garrow ran to the center of the room, scowling.
"What did you do that for!?" Roran said. "What happened to my subplot with Katrina?"
Subieko folded her arms tightly across her chest, frowning. "Frankly, Roran, I think I improved it a lot. You and Eragon actually got to act like brothers and have some bonding time. Eragon didn't sulk as much. Be thankful—I was considering not putting Katrina in at all!"
Roran gasped in horror and retreated, but Garrow stepped forward. "What about me? I'm supposed to a tight-fisted, bitter old man with overly high expectations of my sons and complete paranoia about outsiders, even people in my own town! You made me all…all…nice!"
"…I can't believe you're complaining about that," Subieko said. "Anyway, we've got a book to write, so would you mind leaving?"
The two looked like they were about to protest. Subieko sighed and gestured to Saphira. "Saphira, would you mind…?"
The dragon didn't move.
"Saphira, need I remind you that next chapter is your debut?"
Saphira leapt up and nosed Garrow and Roran out the door with surprising alacrity.
"Sell-out," Eragon muttered. But Saphira shushed him.
"Hey—you forgot me!" Brom said. "I was in this chapter and I didn't even get a say in what happened?"
Subieko rolled her eyes. "Brom, all you did was read a stupid story. Tell a stupid story. Whatever. And anyway I forgot you were in this chapter until the end. We'll talk next time, okay?"
Brom harrumphed, but he had no chance to reply; Durza shoved him out of the way. "Subieko, am I in the next chapter? Am I? Am I!? You said I could have more chapters, remember?"
"Yes, Durza, yes," Subieko said patiently. "But you see, we can't bring you back in yet. We have to build up more suspense, the egg has to hatch, you get the picture. Don't worry—your turn will come."
"But…"
"C'mon, Durza, work with me here," Subieko said, laying a consoling hand on his shoulder. "Will it make you feel better if I tell you what I'm planning to do?"
Durza nodded tearfully, and Subieko, after a quick glance around, whispered something in his ear.
"Wow—really!?"
"Uh-huh."
Durza grinned and skipped off, giggling merrily. The other characters shielded their eyes from the unholy sight.
"Now, if everyone's done complaining…"
"No, we're not!" cried several of the characters.
Subieko rubbed her temples. "Durza…"
"Yes?" the Shade said, still grinning blissfully.
"Some of our friends don't want to continue yet."
"…yes?"
"The longer it takes to write the next chapter, the longer you have to wait for your chapter."
Durza gasped in sudden, horrified realization. Then he stood up very, very slowly and stalked closer to the other characters. They inched backward, terrified, as the Shade's face took on a rather feral look.
"Who was it that didn't want to start the next chapter…?" he said, slavering slightly.
"…not me," was the communal mutter.
"Good," Durza said, abruptly becoming gleeful again. "So can we get started now!?"
Subieko nodded. "Of course we can! Okay, guys…get ready for the big moment!"
