Chapter 6: A Crisis of Health

For Eragon, the rest of the week did not progress as it began. He was awoken just before dawn; by Spring as she went outside to hunt. He could just hear sounds of movement from the cottage, low voices and clattering. Getting up, he put his shirt and breeches on, blinking sleep from his eyes as he stepped outside. He washed in the mill-pond, the cold water on his face finally waking him up, and went over to the cottage in search of food.

Galstaff was sat at the table. He greeted him as he entered. "Good morning lad. There's bread and cheese on the table. Help yourself to some drink too."

Eragon went over and took a piece of each. Sitting on the same stool that he had used the previous night, he poured some water from the earthenware jug that occupied the table. "Where's Mortin?" He said.

"He's just gone to feed the donkey. He'll be back soon."

"You have a donkey? I didn't know that."

"We do. He lives in a little stable round the back. Come on boy, you must have noticed him."

Eragon shook his head. "Of course. I'm sorry, I'm not at my best in the morning."

Galstaff laughed. "Don't worry lad. It happens to all of us. We'll just wait for him to come back and I'll tell you what I want to do."

At length, Mortin returned and Galstaff faced them both. He addressed Eragon. "You're here to pay back an offense, but what I want to do is make this more than just that. I could just have you down with the water-wheel for the next week..." he paused at Eragon's grimace "...or just fetching and carrying but I judge you to be capable of more than that.

"Instead, I want to make this week into something of an apprenticeship. My son and I will teach you how to mill. What do you say to that?"

Eragon was overwhelmed by his generosity. This was far and away above what he'd expected. His voice was choked, but he just about managed to respond. "Yes, thank you."

He didn't manage more, but Galstaff's expression showed that he understood. Being Galstaff, he didn't let the moment last. "There's still plenty of fetching and carrying to do though. I need a nice clean water-wheel for a start."

Eragon took it in good humour. "Of course. You'll have the cleanest waterwheel in the whole of Palancar Valley when I'm finished with it."

"I expect nothing less. Not for the whole day though. I've got something else for you this afternoon." He shooed Eragon away. "Off you go then."

Eragon took the last morsel of food out with him and headed out towards the water-wheel. He felt a lot better about it this time.


Harol had gotten up early and was already out working when the sun came up. He'd heard Roran move in the morning darkness and had expected him to follow. The first sign that something was wrong was when he didn't. He soon appeared, supported by Garrow. Harol laid down his tools and went to see what was up. Garrow spotted him and called out. "Harol, fetch the stool from inside will you?"

Changing course, Harol went inside, stealing a glance at Roran as he went. He got no clue there however, aside from a slight impression of paleness. Bringing the stool outside, he assisted Garrow in helping Roran sit in it. Garrow rolled up Roran's trouser leg and unwrapped the bandage that bound his leg.

It did not look healthy. The area around the wound was red and slightly swollen. The bandage removal had ripped the scab off and clear fluid was collecting where it had been. As they watched, a small droplet ran down Roran's leg.

Garrow didn't mess around. "Harol, go down to the stream and get some water please. I'll need to wash this. Once you've done that, go down to see Sloan and see if he's got any wine. Tell him I sent you. I vaguely remember him buying some a few years ago."

Harol went off. He had not managed to detect any hint of reproach in Garrow's voice, but worry was knawing at him. Roran was a good man; he did not deserve that to happen to him. Harol had behaved foolishly in the fight, he knew that and was already balancing it, but this was now going even further. He hoped that Roran would be alright.

He fetched the water from the stream and then headed off to see Sloan. Meanwhile, Garrow had grabbed a cloth from inside. "I'm sorry son," he said "but this may hurt quite a bit. I'm going to need to give it a good scrub."

"It's ok father. You do what you need to do and I'll take it."

Garrow nodded and immediately began work. Roran clenched his teeth at the pain. It felt as if Garrow had stuck a red-hot knife right into his leg and started twisting it around. Tears broke around the corners of his eyes, but he forced himself to allow nothing more. Garrow scrubbed away and blood started to flow. The pain began to recede, but whether that was because Garrow had actually done anything or not, Roran could not tell.

Presently, Garrow finished and sat back. "That's it now," he said. "I'll give it another go over with the wine when Harol brings it back. That should sort it out."

Harol returned, but his hands were empty. "He had none," he said. "I'm not sure whether I believe him though."

Garrow nodded his acknowledgement. "Did you tell him what it was for?"

"I did."

"Then he won't have been lying. Sloan is a tight one, but even he isn't that bad."

Harol still wasn't sure; he'd seen the expression on Sloan's face and felt that he knew a liar when he saw one, but did not feel in a position to argue. Garrow knew these people and he didn't.

The guilt at having caused this whole mess sapped at his confidence. He was not about to argue with the father of the man he had injured.


For Eragon, the next few days passed uneventfully. He learnt about the life of the miller, being shown all the ins and outs. Of course he still got the nasty jobs; the water wheel still needed to be kept clean, and the flour had a habit of getting in the gears of the milling system, requiring that to be cleaned down at least once.

Cleaning this down left them a backlog, so they were frantically milling for all they were worth for the rest of the day. From what Galstaff said, in a tone of voice that left Eragon in doubt as to whether he was truly serious or not, it got even worse in the summer, where the heat made the flour turn sticky and the mill had to be stripped down and cleaned every day. Apparently, they were in a comparatively easy time at the moment, at the start of Spring, where there was no harvest yet and the weather was cool enough to reduce the need for cleaning. Given how hard he was finding the mill work now, Eragon dreaded to think of what harvest time would be like.

During all this, Spring was never far away. He never saw her during the day; she knew to stay hidden. At night though, she used to come in and curl up beside him on his pallet and he got used to her presence. As the days went by, he began to get a sense of her, and found himself always able to guess roughly where she was. Sometimes during the midday break, he was able to wander off and they'd spend the time playing together.

She was inquisitive, and loved challenges. Something as simple as throwing a stone as hard as he could into the forest and sending her off to find it could keep her occupied for an entire afternoon while he worked and when she turned up at night, holding the stone in her jaws, he could almost see the pride flowing off her in waves. She was stronger, a far more confident being than the small, frightened creature that had mewled at him a week ago.


It was the morning of the sixth day of his week at the mill when Harol turned up unexpectedly. Eragon was just crossing the yard when he came bursting up the path and made straight for him.

"Eragon!" He called as he approached, gasping slightly as if he was a bit out of breath. "Your father sent me to fetch you. Roran is very ill. He's worried that he might be dying."

Eragon struggled to take it in. "What? What do you mean Roran's dying? When? How?"

"His wound got infected a few days ago. Garrow tried to treat it, but it did no good. The infection is spreading. He may not survive it."

As he was speaking, Galstaff came up. "Harol? What are you doing back early? You'd better have a good excuse."

"I got sent back to fetch Eragon, father. Roran is severly ill. Garrow requests that Eragon be allowed to come home."

Galstaff nodded. Turning to Eragon, he said: "Off you go then. Get your things."

"But what about my debt? I've only done six days," Eragon replied.

"Five, but don't worry about that lad. You've more or less done a week's worth of work anyway. We had a bad start, but you've been one of the best workers I've ever had."

Eragon smiled with pride, but Galstaff hurried him on.

"Now get going, your brother needs you."

He turned and ran to his pallet to collect his stuff. Within five minutes, he was ready to go, saying a rapid goodbye to Galstaff and Mortin. Mortin had been pretty quiet. He was a man of few words, but after almost a week of working together there was mutual respect where there had been contempt and dislike before. Much as being sent to work here had been a punishment, Eragon knew that he would miss it.

Leaving the village, he walked quickly up the path towards the farm. Presently, Spring came out of the woods and scurried along with him. There was no playfulness about her now; she seemed to have detected the seriousness of the situation. Eragon's heart thudded in his chest. He did not know what he would find.


Garrow spotted him as he crossed the stream and came out to meet him. Greeting each other, they headed back to the cottage. Eragon was shocked at the change in Roran. He was lying on Garrow's bed dowstairs, his face was pale and sweaty, his breathing laboured. He appeared to be asleep, but he must have detected Eragon's entry because his eyes flicked open.

"Eragon," he said in a faltering, raspy voice. "It's good to see you again. I'm afraid that I can't get up."

A lump in his throat, Eragon sat down on the bed next to him. "Is it bad?"

Roran gave a weak chuckle, some of his spirit returning. "No, I just decided to become ill to get out of working."

Silently, Garrow came up and twitched asie the blanket covering Roran's leg. Eragon stifled a gasp at the sight. What had a been a deep and bloody, but clean, gash six days ago was now swollen to half again the size that it had been. The entire area was inflamed and the edges of the wound had turned black. There was no blood. The wound was slowly leaking some kind of greenish-yellow fluid, which Garrow wiped off even as Eragon stared. Deep purple veins fanned out from the cut, travelling up Roran's leg and disappearing under the blanket.

Roran was watching him through half-lidded eyes. "See?" he said. "It's not that bad."

Eragon detected the forced nature of Roran's light-heartedness. Roran had always been one to laugh off any injury, but this one was straining him. He had to be in terrible pain. For the sake of his brother though, Eragon could not bring himself to disagree.

"Oh yeah, it looks fine. I'm sure you'll be up on your feet in no time."

Roran smiled and laid his head back, shutting his eyes. "I'm sure I will."

Garrow tapped Eragon on the shoulder and together they went outside. His father made sure that they were well out of earshot of the cottage before he turned to Eragon, despair written on his face.

"I can't stop it son. I can't! I tried every healing trick I know, cleaned the wound repeatedly. How can this have happened!

"There is nothing more I can do. My supplies are gone. None of the other families have anything left that they can lend me. Every remedy I know has failed."

Eragon tried to think. "Surely there's someone who can help. Are there no healers in the village?"

"There are, but none of them know any more than I do. We'd have to send down to the city to find anyone to help and it's far too late for that, even if someone would come and we could afford to pay them."

He leaned on the yard fence, his head bowed. Eragon could see his tears hitting the ground at the base. "He's dying, Eragon. Roran is dying. There is nothing we can do now. My firstborn son!"

Eragon put his arm round his father's shoulders and Garrow clasped him into a hug. Eragon was not given to emotional displays, but he could not hold back. His shirt front grew wet with their mingled tears.

At length they separated. Wiping his eyes, Garrow spoke. I need to stay with him Eragon. I'll do some stuff around the cottage but the field work still needs to be done. Will you handle it for me?

Silently, Eragon nodded.

"Thank you, my son." Garrow turned and headed back towards the cottage. Fetching a spade, Eragon began to work. Spring watched, hidden in the plant growth at the base of the fence. He hadn't noticed, but her eyes were wet.


The next few days passed the same way. Roran was in a fever, drifting in and out of consciousness. The blackness around the wound spread, as if his entire leg was rotting. Garrow continued to clean it, but it did no good. He became increasingly exhausted, the long days of work and the nights spent sitting at his eldest son's bedside taking their toll.

One evening, as Eragon came in, he saw his father sitting in his chair at Roran's bedside, nodding off to sleep. Eragon woke him. "Father, go and get some rest. You've been killing yourself. Let me watch him tonight."

"No! I need to be here. What if something happens and I'm away?"

"I promise that I'll wake you immediately if something happens. Sleep father. Get some rest. Let me share the burden."

"But..."

"Please father. It won't help Roran if you die from exhaustion. If you get a good night's sleep, you'll be better able to help him. Maybe you'll even dream of a remedy."

Finally persuaded, Garrow climbed the ladder to sleep on one of the pallets in the loft. Settling down in the chair, Eragon watched his brother. Roran was peacfully asleep, but his skin was pallid and he was feverish. Outside it grew dark. Eragon got up to light a fire in the hearth. He settled back and watched the flames, his left hand stroking Roran's brow. He'd left the door ajar, and presently Spring came in. He shut the door behind her and sat back down. Spring climbed on his lap and settled down. Absently, he stroked her ear-stubs with his other hand.

The night grew darker. Eragon found himself nodding off and to keep himself awake he concentrated on the flames, thinking about Roran and his illness. He remembered all the good times they'd had. The way his brother had joked and laughed. The way that he would smile in triumph whenever he made a particularly good shot at the archery tournaments on the village green, years ago. He wanted to remember Roran like that, as the brave big brother who'd always stood up for him, even against people half again his size, even when he didn't really deserve it. People had respected Roran for that; he'd become known as an honourable man. It was a terrible way for him to go, Eragon thought. To go through all that growing up, to be just on the verge of leaving to follow his dreams, only to be struck down by an infected wound from an idiotic fight that should never have happened.

He gazed at the fire. He was slowly falling asleep, and as his vision swam, he thought he saw the tongues of flame form strange shapes. Shapes of dragons, twisting and flying through the air. The fire seemed to grow hotter, heat upon heat, yet he felt no kind of pain. He closed his eyes. He floated, his right hand stroking Spring, anchored to reality, the other resting on Roran's forehead. He dreamed, and in his dream he saw the dragon flames fly from the hearth and land, dancing, onto Spring. Spring herself was glowing with a golden light and the dragon flames seemed to suck it into themselves, taking on its colour as they did so, growing fat on it. They danced more strongly, and in more complicated forms and in his dream he called out, trying to stop them. They were killing Spring! But they danced away from her, crossing his body and landing on his other hand. Before he could move, they burrowed into it and he felt a flash of heat on his palm Then they were gone. The flames faded to blackness, and he slept.