Traders in Carvahall
The next morning, Isabella was woken by the sun's rays shining through the window of her room, right onto her face. She stretched, yawned and then reluctantly sat up, perching on the edge of her bed. Her legs were sore but not as bad as they used to be as she was used to the long treks by now.
She recalled the first time she had gone hunting. It had been a year or so after her mother died. Garrow had been struggling to feed the three of them, Isabella knew he had often gone without in order to make sure they had enough. She had been determined to help the man who had raised her, the man she considered to be her father even without sharing his blood. At eleven years old, she had taken off in the middle of the night, heading to the Spine, determined to hunt some food as Garrow had forbidden her from doing so, thinking it too dangerous. It had been quite the disaster. She'd had to use Garrow's bow which had been far too big for her, and she had had no practice in tracking or hunting. Every bit of game she'd miraculously stumbled across had heard her long before she got close enough to make a shot. In the end she'd gotten lucky and found a rabbit being killed by a fox. She had somehow managed to scare the fox off, getting a nasty bite for her troubles, and taken the rabbit home to find the rest of her family in a terrified state wondering where she had been.
Despite the terrible scolding the adventure had gotten her, Isabella would never forget the look in her surrogate father's eyes when he saw the rabbit. The mixture of surprise, pride and overwhelming relief. It was a heady sight, one she still saw at the end of every hunt, although the surprise had long since faded.
He had tended to her bite with unusual tenderness to make sure it didn't get infected and then announced they would have a feast that evening. It had been the first time in weeks they'd had a hot meal. Isabella had sworn then that she would learn how to hunt properly. Garrow had taught her how to make her own bow of a more appropriate size and how to shoot. He still had a scar from when she had accidentally shot him in the left hand.
A few years later it had fallen to her to teach Eragon and Roran those skills. Roran had no interest in learning to hunt, and was a quite terrible shot, but Eragon had shown great promise. Despite that, it had infuriated her greatly the first time Eragon had come on a proper hunting trip with her, feeling that he slowed her down which would cost them valuable food. Now, she valued the time when it was just her and the young man, she considered her youngest brother. He even surpassed her in his skill with a bow, although she remained the superior tracker.
She knew today was the anniversary of the day his mother, Selena, had come to Carvahall heavily pregnant, asking Garrow to stay with him until the baby arrived. She had given birth to Eragon a few months later, asking Garrow and her mother to raise him before departing and never returning. Isabella had been only three at the time, but she had the vaguest memories of Selena. Nobody knew who Eragon's father was.
Isabella recalled when her mother had told Eragon she and Garrow weren't his true parents. At six years old, he had been inconsolable. She knew his parentage still haunted him, even now. She couldn't blame him. What kind of woman just abandoned her son? Part of her wondered if Eragon's father even knew he existed. Had he been the result of an illicit affair? Either way, he was her little brother and that was that.
Dragging herself from her thoughts, Isabella refreshed herself at her nightstand and got dressed quickly. Making her way to the main area of the house, she saw Roran and Garrow already awake and eating breakfast at the table.
"Good morning, father. Roran," she said, sitting beside her half-brother.
"I'm glad you're back," Roran told her. "How was the trip?"
"It was good. Cold and hard, but we were successful."
"As I knew you would be." He gave her a wide smile and clapped her on the arm. She grabbed herself some chicken and dug in hungrily just as Eragon emerged from his and Roran's room. He eagerly told the story of their hunt, including the strange stones. Garrow's eyes narrowed but Roran looked intrigued. At Roran's demand, Eragon brought them both out from his pack, keeping hold of the blue one and offering the black one to her. Isabella took it reluctantly, if only because he looked to be struggling to hold both of them at once without dropping one.
As she touched the stone, a slight tingle ran through her fingers. She immediately placed the stone on the table, worried it might be magic of some sort. Eragon gave her a strange look. Maybe he hadn't felt anything. And, clearly, he had touched the stones without any sort of damage. Visible damage at any rate. Isabella knew he had been looking at the stones when he thought she couldn't see him on their trip back. He must have touched them with his bare skin several times, despite her warning, and nothing appeared to have happened yet. Still, she was wary.
Roran whistled at the sight of them, immediately wondering what their value could be. After a few moments, he concluded they couldn't know without asking a merchant and moved on to another topic.
"Were you able to speak with Katrina at all?"
"Yes. We passed on your message, loverboy," she told him dryly. His ears turned pink, and she smirked.
After they had breakfast, Eragon picked up the blue stone to put it away before hesitating for a moment, clearly waiting to see if she would claim the black one. Isabella rolled her eyes. She didn't understand why he was so intrigued by them, and was still wary of the earlier sensation, but picked it up and took it to her room. There was a warmth and a lightness to it that surprised her. For all that it looked like marble, it almost felt like satin. Setting it on a shelf, she prepared herself for a long day or hard work.
Out in the fields, the sun shone, but it was weak and pale in the icy blue sky. Under its watchful eye, the last of the barley was stored in the barn. After that they gathered prickly vined squash, then the rutabagas, beets, peas, turnips, and beans, which they packed into the root cellar. After hours of labour, they stretched their cramped muscles, pleased that the harvest was finished.
The next few days were spent pickling, salting, shelling, and preparing the food for winter. It was simple, yet important work. Isabella had done this for so many years, her fingers continued to work while her mind drifted. She often found herself thinking on the stones. One evening she had moved the stone to reach something, and she had felt it shift and quiver in her hands. It had to be magic of some sort. It frightened her, making her wonder exactly what she and Eragon had brought into their home. Part of her was tempted to just take the things back to the Spine and leave them for whoever had sent them in the first place. But every time she managed to find the time to slip off, something held her back.
Nine days after Eragon and Isabella's return, a vicious blizzard blew out of the mountains and settled over the valley. The snow came down in great sheets, blanketing the countryside in white. They took turns daring to leave the house for firewood and to feed the animals. They did so in pairs, fearing that alone they may get lost in the howling wind and featureless landscape. The majority of their time was spent huddled over the stove as gusts rattled the heavy window shutters. They even took to all sleeping in the main room, near the stove and huddled together in their sleeping bags.
It was days before the storm finally passed, revealing an alien world of soft white drifts. Isabella loved the snow, but she feared what it might mean for their family.
"I'm afraid the traders may not come this year, with conditions this bad," said Garrow. "They're late as it is. We'll give them a chance and wait before going to Carvahall. But if they don't show soon, we'll have to buy any spare supplies from the townspeople." His countenance was resigned. If the merchants didn't come, then there would be fewer supplies to go around, driving the prices right up. They would not be able to afford all the things they would need for the coming year. Even with the good harvest and amount of meat they had stored.
They grew anxious as the days crept by without sign of the traders. Talk was sparse, and depression hung over the house. Isabella began looking through the jewellery she had received from her mother, wondering which pieces would fetch the most. It pained her to even contemplate selling her mother's things, but her living family came first and she would do what she had to.
On the eighth morning, Roran went to check the road and returned grim faced. He confirmed that the traders had not yet passed. The day was spent readying for the trip into Carvahall, scrounging with grim expressions for saleable items. That evening, out of desperation, Eragon checked the road again. None of them had the heart to stop him. To their surprise, he returned, whooping in delight informing them the traders had arrived. The atmosphere improved immediately, with them all feeling like a weight had been lifted. Still, Isabella secretly packed two necklaces away to sell the following day.
They packed their surplus produce into the wagon before sunrise. Garrow put the year's money in a leather pouch that he carefully fastened to his belt. Eragon wrapped the stones between bags of grain so they would not roll when the wagon hit bumps.
After a hasty breakfast, they harnessed the horses and began clearing a path to the road. The traders' wagons had already broken the drifts, which sped their progress. It was still hard work. By noon they could see Carvahall, Eragon and Roran were both red in the face from their efforts.
In daylight, Carvahall was a small earthy village filled with shouts and laughter. The traders had made camp in an empty field on the outskirts of town. Groups of wagons, tents, and fires were randomly spread across it, spots of colour against the snow. The troubadours' four tents were garishly decorated. A steady stream of people linked the camp to the village.
Crowds churned around a line of bright tents and booths clogging the main street. Horses whinnied at the noise. The snow had been pounded flat, giving it a glassy surface; elsewhere, bonfires had melted it. Roasted hazelnuts added a rich aroma to the smells wafting around them. Isabella smiled at the sight. She loved it when the traders visited. It broke up the monotony of village life. The merchants always had exciting stories to tell and brought news of life from across the rest of the world.
Garrow parked the wagon and picketed the horses, then drew coins from his pouch. "Get yourselves some treats. Roran, Isabella, do what you want, only be at Horst's in time for supper. Eragon, bring those stones and come with me." Eragon grinned at them and pocketed the money, no doubt already planning how to spend it. She suspected Garrow had dismissed the idea of talking to Brom about the stones before approaching the merchants. It would be a much better idea to go into negotiations with a possible idea of its value, but such behaviour was typical Garrow. He was too impatient for such things, and probably didn't think of highly of Brom's knowledge as she and Eragon did.
Roran departed immediately with a determined expression on his face. Isabella suspected he was off to meet a certain copper haired woman. Garrow led Eragon into the throng, shouldering his way through the bustle. Isabella followed them at a slower pace. Women were buying cloth, while nearby their husbands examined a new latch, hook, or tool. Children ran up and down the road, shrieking with excitement. Knives were displayed here, spices there, and pots were laid out in shiny rows next to leather harnesses.
As she gazed around, she noticed something was different. The merchants seemed less prosperous than last year. Their children had a frightened, wary look, and their clothes were patched. The gaunt men carried swords and daggers with a new familiarity, and even the women had poniards belted at their waists.
She wondered what could have happened to make them like this. And why were they so late? The two things were likely linked, and she wouldn't help but wonder if the strange stones might also have some part to play. Then she dismissed the idea.
She remembered the traders as being full of good cheer, but there was none of that now. As she wandered through the crowd, she overheard snippets of news. None of it was good. It appeared that Urgals had been attacking villages and seemingly migrating southeast. She suspected, if this was true, that Carvahall had been protected purely through its location, hidden by the Spine. More soldiers had been forcefully recruited by Galbatorix to match the Varden's increased attacks.
A terrible chill ran through her as she overheard two merchants discussing the rumours of a Shade being sighted. Her only knowledge of Shades was from Brom's stories, but she knew enough to know that they were terrible beings. Difficult to stop. If the king did indeed have a Shade, well, the Varden may not be fighting much longer. Isabella didn't really know how to feel about that. The king may be a terrible person by all accounts, but other than the Varden, the realm had had peace with him at its helm.
The Varden were a rebel group that constantly raided and attacked the Empire. It was a mystery who their leader was or who had formed them in the years following Galbatorix's rise to power over a century ago. The group had garnered much sympathy as they eluded Galbatorix's efforts to destroy them. Little was known about the Varden except that if you were a fugitive and had to hide, or if you hated the Empire, they would accept you. The only problem was finding them. They were supposedly a sign of hope but seemed to cause just as much destruction as the king.
Isabella pushed all of this out of her mind, determined to enjoy her day out. She spotted Horst's son Albriech, standing at one of the carts buying a slice of some sort of pie. His blond hair stood out amongst the sea of blacks and browns. Albriech was a handsome young man, only a few months older than her while his younger brother, Baldor, was of similar age to Roran. When he saw her, he shot her a smile, causing the skin around his bright blue eyes to crinkle slightly, and made his way over.
"Bella!" He cried cheerfully. Albriech was the only person who dared call her by that particular nickname.
"Al," she replied, rolling her eyes at him. He simply shot her a charming grin and offered a piece of his pie, which she took gratefully. It was cherry, which was her favourite. The warm sweetness nearly made her groan. He smirked.
"How was harvest this year?"
"It was good, thankfully. A reasonable haul with a good amount to sell. I'm just glad the merchants eventually made it."
"Yeah." His face turned grim. "Have you heard why they were so late." She nodded. "You don't believe whole villages have had to move because of the Urgals, do you?"
"It's certainly a possibility," she stated. "I do wonder what appears to have set them off though. Urgals might be a violent people, but I've never heard of them attacking so many towns and villages in such a short span of time."
"Yeah. I never thought I'd be so glad to be such an isolated village."
"I hear you will be leaving us in the spring." The idea made her sad. She would miss Albriech. He was her closest friend in the village. In fact, he was usually her co-conspirator when it came to chasing off potential suitors. Not that she was against marriage, not really, she just didn't want to settle down and become nothing but a housewife. She was used to having freedom and working hard out on the hunt or in the fields. Just thinking about the idea of settling down and losing said freedoms made her feel like she was suffocating. She wanted someone who would encourage her, help her see the world, not try to reign her in. In a different life, she could have seen herself with Albriech, but she knew he already has his eye on someone.
They chatted for a while longer, discussing his upcoming job in Therinsford. Then she spotted Eragon wandering around not far away. Figuring that meant Garrow would be finished with Merlock. She excused herself from Albriech, saying she would see him at dinner that evening, and made her way to the jewellery merchant.
She managed to haggle and receive a total of four gold crowns and a few silver pieces for both of her necklaces. It made her heart ache, watching Merlock take them off of her and place them on display. But four crowns would go a good way towards some supplies. With that chore done, she went to browse for something for Eragon's birthday. It was still around four months away, but the merchants would not be back before then.
After an hour of looking, she managed to find a small box of good quality wax for a bowstring. She knew he had nearly run out of the stuff they made themselves.
As she was deciding what to do with the remaining time before dinner, she spotted Eragon once more, this time ducking into Morn's tavern. She followed him inside. The inside of the tavern was hot and filled with greasy smoke from sputtering tallow candles. A pair of shiny-black Urgal horns, their twisted span as great as Roran's outstretched arms, were mounted over the door. The bar was long and low, with a stack of staves on one end for customers to carve. Morn tended the bar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was an odd looking fellow, the bottom half of his face was short and mashed, but his eyes were sharp and frequently darted around the tavern, watching for trouble. Two traders, who had clearly finished their business early, were drinking tankards of beer. A large crowd was gathered around the pair, sitting at the worn oak tables.
Morn looked up from a mug he was cleaning. "Eragon! Isabella! Good to see you. Where's old Garrow?" Eragon startled at the question, not having seen her come in behind him. She offered him a wink and a smirk.
"Buying, I would think," said Isabella as she walked up to the bar. Eragon nodded in agreement.
"He's going to be a while."
"And Roran, is he here?" asked Morn as he swiped the cloth through another mug.
"Yes, no sick animals to keep him back this year."
"Good, good."
"Indeed. I have no desire to play messenger any longer," Isabella muttered. Eragon snickered while Morn momentarily raised a questioning eyebrow.
Eragon gestured at the two traders. "Who are they?"
"Grain buyers. They bought everyone's seed at ridiculously low prices, and now they're telling wild stories, expecting us to believe them."
Isabella scowled, understanding why Morn was so upset. People needed that money. They couldn't get by without it. "What kind of stories?"
Morn snorted. "They say the Varden have formed a pact with the Urgals and are massing an army to attack us. Supposedly, it's only through the grace of our king that we've been protected for so long—as if Galbatorix would care if we burned to the ground. . . . Go listen to them. I have enough on my hands without explaining their lies."
Both men were rather ugly in Isabella's opinion, her nose wrinkling in distaste. The first trader filled a chair with his enormous girth; his every movement caused it to protest loudly. There was no hint of hair on his face, his pudgy hands were baby smooth, and he had pouting lips that curled petulantly as he sipped from a flagon. The second man had a florid face. The skin around his jaw was dry and corpulent, filled with lumps of hard fat, like cold butter gone rancid. Contrasted with his neck and jowls, the rest of his body was unnaturally thin.
The first trader vainly tried to pull back his expanding borders to fit within the chair. As she and Eragon moved closer, she heard him saying, "No, no, you don't understand. It is only through the king's unceasing efforts on your behalf that you are able to argue with us in safety. If he, in all his wisdom, were to withdraw that support, woe unto you!" She snorted loudly at that, drawing the gaze of a few villagers. Evidently the trader hadn't heard her over the sound of his own nonsense.
Someone hollered, "Right, why don't you also tell us the Riders have returned and you've each killed a hundred elves. Do you think we're children to believe in your tales? We can take care of ourselves." The group chuckled.
The trader started to reply when his thin companion intervened with a wave of his hand. Gaudy jewels flashed on his fingers. "You misunderstand. We know the Empire cannot care for each of us personally, as you may want, but it can keep Urgals and other abominations from overrunning this," he searched vaguely for the right term, "place."
"Apparently they can't, if the other trader's stories are anything to go by," Isabella interrupted. "They've been talking of whole villages having to be uprooted to avoid the Urgals, and those that can't move suffer vicious attacks. That's not happened before. Certainly not on this scale. It seems to be getting worse under your king. Not better."
"And what would a woman know of such matters?" The first trader wore an ugly sneer as he looked at her. The second had a hungry look that made her feel rather ill.
"Ah, you have no answer and are therefore forced to resort to calling my intelligence into question due to the fact I am a woman. That alone tells me your words are false." The crowd around them murmured, but she paid them no attention, continuing to glower at the two men.
The second trader looked away from her, addressing the crowd once more. "You're angry with the Empire for treating people unfairly, a legitimate concern, but a government cannot please everyone. There will inevitably be arguments and conflicts. However, the majority of us have nothing to complain about. Every country has some small group of malcontents who aren't satisfied with the balance of power."
"Yeah," called a woman, "if you're willing to call the Varden small!"
The fat man sighed. "We already explained that the Varden have no interest in helping you. That's only a falsehood perpetuated by the traitors in an attempt to disrupt the Empire and convince us that the real threat is inside—not outside—our borders. All they want to do is overthrow the king and take possession of our land. They have spies everywhere as they prepare to invade. You never know who might be working for them."
Isabella snorted once more but the traders' words were smooth, and people were nodding. Before she could call him an idiot again, Eragon stepped forward saying, "How do you know this? I can say that clouds are green, but that doesn't mean it's true. Prove you aren't lying." The two men glared at him while the villagers waited silently for the answer. Isabella smirked.
The thin trader spoke first. He avoided Eragon's eyes. "Aren't your children taught respect? Or do you let boys challenge men whenever they want to?"
"First you attack my gender, now you attack his age. Neither of which have anything to do with the questions posed to you," she pointed out. "You are spouting as many falsehoods as you accuse the Varden of."
The listeners fidgeted and stared at her and Eragon. Then a man turned to the traders once more. "Answer the question."
"It's only common sense," said the fat one, sweat beading on his upper lip. His reply riled the villagers. Several of them walked away, clearly having no faith in the trader's words anymore. Isabella felt a jolt of satisfaction as a dark scowl crossed the fat trader's face. She flashed him a smug grin and returned to the bar.
It was rare to find people who favoured the Empire in this area of the world. Or at least, to find those who voiced such thoughts so openly. There was a deep-seated hatred of the Empire in Carvahall, almost hereditary in nature. The Empire never helped them during harsh years when they nearly starved, and its tax collectors were heartless. They did have some points about the Varden though. There was no guarantee they would be any better than the king.
Morn leaned over the bar and said, "Incredible, isn't it? They're worse than vultures circling a dying animal. There's going to be trouble if they stay much longer."
"For us or for them?" Eragon wondered.
"Oh, for them," Isabella told him. Morn nodded in agreement as angry voices began fill the tavern. Eragon and Isabella left when the argument threatened to become violent. The door thudded shut behind them, cutting off the voices. It was early evening, and the sun was sinking rapidly; the houses cast long shadows on the ground. As they headed down the street, aiming for Horst's house, she caught sight of Roran and Katrina standing in an alley. She elbowed Eragon, putting a finger to her lips and gesturing to her brother. A grin lit Eragon's face.
Roran said something Isabella could not hear. Katrina looked down at her hands and answered in an undertone, then leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him before darting away. The pair approached Roran and Eragon teased, "Having a good time?" Roran grunted noncommittally as he paced away.
"Have you heard the traders' news?" asked Eragon as the two of them followed him. It was fairly quiet in the streets as most of the villagers were indoors, talking to traders or waiting until it was dark enough for the troubadours to perform.
"Yes." Roran seemed distracted. "What do you think of Sloan?"
"You need to ask?" Isabella asked, wrinkling her nose.
"There'll be blood between us when he finds out about Katrina and me," stated Roran. A snowflake landed on Eragon's nose, and they all glanced at the sky which had turned grey. Isabella could think of nothing appropriate to say; Roran was right. Eragon clasped his cousin on the shoulder as they continued down the byway.
"You will find a way. Both you and Katrina are too stubborn for any other outcome." Roran offered Eragon a slight smile at his words.
"Yes, I'm sure even Sloan will eventually fall to your charm, brother," Isabella said, trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice. Judging by the dirty look Roran threw her, she failed.
Dinner at Horst's was hearty. The room was full of conversation and laughter. Sweet cordials and heavy ales were consumed in copious amounts, adding to the boisterous atmosphere. Isabella was kept in stitches by tales from Baldor of Albriech's attempt to court Elia, a girl of seventeen who lived on one of the other farms. On Isabella's other side, Eragon and Roran grew steadily louder, while Garrow and Horst spoke quietly at the far end of the table.
When the plates were empty, they all left the house and strolled back to the field where the traders were camped. A ring of poles topped with candles had been stuck into the ground around a large clearing. Bonfires blazed in the background. The villagers slowly gathered around the circle and waited expectantly in the cold. Isabella stood between Baldor and Roran, grateful for their warmth. Albriech had spotted Elia and her father and had scurried off to watch the show with them.
The troubadours came tumbling out of their tents, dressed in tasselled clothing, followed by older and more stately minstrels. The minstrels provided music and narration as their younger counterparts acted out the stories. The first plays were pure entertainment: bawdy and full of jokes, pratfalls, and ridiculous characters. Isabella found it all rather boring, but the boys all roared with delighted laughter. Even Garrow had a small smile on his face as he watched.
Later, however, when the candles sputtered in their sockets and everyone was drawn together into a tight circle, the old storyteller Brom stepped forward. A knotted white beard rippled over his chest, and a long black cape was wrapped around his bent shoulders, obscuring his body. He spread his arms with hands that reached out like talons and began to speak of how he would give them a memory long forgotten.
His keen eyes inspected their interested faces. His gaze lingered on Eragon last of all, before he slowly told the story of the Dragon Riders and their fall at the hands of Galbatorix. It was terribly sad, and honestly, Isabella found it a little terrifying that fourteen people could destroy an entire race. That one person could be the cause of so much destruction.
Upon the completion of the story, Brom shuffled away with the troubadours. Isabella could have sworn she saw a tear shining on his cheek. People murmured quietly to each other as they departed. Garrow said to the three of them, "Consider yourselves fortunate. I have heard this tale only twice in my life. If the Empire knew that Brom had recited it, he would not live to see a new month."