3. Palancar Valley
The sun rose the next morning with a glorious conflagration of pink and yellow.
The air was fresh, sweet, and very cold. Ice edged the streams, and small pools were completely frozen over. After a breakfast of porridge, Eragon and Serafyna returned to the glen and examined the charred area underneath the light of the newly risen sun.
The morning light revealed no new details, so they started for home. The rough game trail was faintly worn and, in places, nonexistent. Because it had been forged by animals, it often backtracked and took long detours. Yet for all its flaws, it was still the fastest way out of the mountains.
The Spine was one of the only places that King Galbatorix could not call his own. Stories were still told about how half his army disappeared after marching into its ancient forests.
A cloud of misfortune and bad luck seemed to hang over it. Though the trees grew tall and the sky shone brightly, few people could stay in the Spine for long without suffering an accident. Serafyna was one of those few—not through any particular gift, it seemed to her, but because of persistent vigilance and sharp reflexes that came naturally to her.
She, along with her brother, had hiked in the mountains for years, yet she was still wary of them. Every time they thought the Spine had surrendered its secrets, something happened to upset her understanding of them—like the stones' appearance.
They kept up a brisk pace, and the leagues steadily disappeared.
In late evening the siblings arrived at the edge of a precipitous ravine. The Anora River rushed by far below, heading to Palancar Valley. Gorged with hundreds of tiny streams, the river was a brute force, battling against the rocks and boulders that barred its way.
A low rumble filled the air. They camped in a thicket near the ravine and watched the moonrise before going to bed. It grew colder over the next day and a half. Traveling quickly, they saw little of the wary wildlife.
A bit past noon, Serafyna heard the Igualda Falls blanketing everything with the dull sound of a thousand splashes. The trail led them onto a moist slate outcropping, which the river sped past, flinging itself into empty air and down mossy cliffs.
Before her lay Palancar Valley, exposed like an unrolled map. The base of the Igualda Falls, more than a half-mile below, was the northernmost point of the valley.
A little ways from the falls was Carvahall, a cluster of brown buildings. White smoke rose from the chimneys, defiant of the wilderness around it. At this height, farms were small square patches no bigger than the end of his finger. The land around them was tan or sandy, where dead grass swayed in the wind.
The Anora River wound from the falls toward Palancar's southern end, reflecting great strips of sunlight. Far in the distance, it flowed past the village Therinsford and the lonely mountain Utgard. Beyond that, she knew only that it turned north and ran to the sea.
After a pause, they left the outcropping and started down the trail, carefully picking through the path.
When they arrived at the bottom, soft dusk was creeping over everything, blurring colors and shapes into gray masses. Carvahall's lights shimmered nearby in the twilight; the houses cast long shadows.
Aside from Therinsford, Carvahall was the only village in Palancar Valley. The settlement was secluded and surrounded by harsh, beautiful land. Few traveled here except merchants and trappers.
The village was composed of stout log buildings with low roofs—some thatched, others shingled. Smoke billowed from the chimneys, giving the air a woody smell. The buildings had wide porches where people gathered to talk and conduct business.
Occasionally a window brightened as a candle or lamp was lit. Serafyna heard men talking loudly in the evening air while wives scurried to fetch their husbands, scolding them for being late.
Serafyna and Eragon wove their way between the houses to the butcher's shop, a broad, thick-beamed building. Overhead, the chimney belched black smoke.
She eyed the building with visible distaste.
Right outside the door, she stopped and glanced at Eragon. "You sure you want to deal with this?" She asked, knowing how uncomfortable her brother got around the butcher.
Eragon's expression was somber as he eyed the thick, worn door. "Let's just get this over with quickly," he muttered, meeting Serafyna's eyes, then forced a small smile.
"Someone has to make sure you don't end up picking a fight with him. Again."
Serafyna shrugged. "Fair enough."
Without wasting another moment, she pushed the door open.
The spacious room was warm and well-lit by a fire snapping in a stone fireplace. A bare counter stretched across the far side of the room. The floor was strewn with loose straw.
Everything was scrupulously clean as if the owner spent his leisure time digging in obscure crannies for minuscule pieces of filth.
Behind the counter stood the butcher Sloan. A small man, he wore a cotton shirt and a long, bloodstained smock. An impressive array of knives swung from his belt. He had a sallow, pockmarked face, and his black eyes were suspicious.
He polished the counter with a ragged cloth. Sloan's mouth twisted as Serafyna entered, followed by Eragon.
"Well, the mighty hunters join the rest of us mortals. How many did you bag this time?"
"None," was Serafyna's curt reply.
To say she had never liked Sloan was an understatement. The butcher always treated her and her brother with disdain, as if they were something unclean.
A widower, Sloan seemed to care for only one person—his daughter, Katrina, on whom he doted.
"I'm amazed," said Sloan with affected astonishment. He turned his back on them to scrape something off the wall. "And that's your reason for coming here?"
"Yes," admitted Eragon uncomfortably.
"If that's the case, let's see your money." Sloan tapped his fingers when Eragon shifted his feet and remained silent. "Come on—either you have it or you don't. Which is it?"
"We don't really have any money, but we—"
"What, no money?" The butcher cut Eragon off sharply. "And you expect to buy meat! Are the other merchants giving away their wares? Should I just hand you the goods without charge? Besides," he said abruptly, "it's late. Come back tomorrow with money. I'm closed for the day."
Serafyna's eyes narrowed. "The last thing we'd do is beg from the likes of you, Sloan."
The butcher paused to glare at her, to which she responded in kind. Before he could respond, she continued, "We can't wait until tomorrow. However; we found something to pay you with."
She pulled out the crimson stone with a flourish and set it gently on the scarred counter. It gleamed with light from the dancing flames.
"Stole it is more likely," muttered Sloan, leaning forward with an interested expression.
Ignoring the comment, Serafyna stepped forward, "Will this be enough?"
Sloan picked up the stone and gauged its weight speculatively. He ran his hands over its smoothness and inspected the black veins.
With a calculating look, he set it down. "Pretty, but how much is it worth?"
"We're not sure," admitted Eragon, "but no one would have gone to the trouble of shaping it unless it had some value."
"Obviously," said Sloan with exaggerated patience. "But how much value? Since you don't know, I suggest that you find a trader who does, or take my offer of three crowns–"
"That's a cheap bargain and you know it," Serafyna cut in sharply, "it's worth at least ten times that." Three crowns would not even buy enough meat to last a single week.
Sloan shrugged. "If you don't like my offer, wait until the traders arrive. Either way, I'm tired of this conversation."
The traders were a nomadic group of merchants and entertainers who visited Carvahall every spring and winter. They bought whatever excess the villagers and local farmers had managed to grow or make, and sold what they needed to live through another year: seeds, animals, fabric, and supplies like salt and sugar.
But Serafyna did not want to wait until they arrived; it could be a while, and her family needed the meat now. "Fine, I accept," she snapped.
He grunted. "Good, I'll get you the meat. Not that it matters, but where did you find this?"
"Two nights ago in the Spine—"
"Get out!" demanded Sloan, pushing the stone away. He stomped furiously to the end of the counter and started scrubbing old blood stains off a knife.
"Why?" asked Eragon as Serafyna instinctively drew the stone closer as if to protect it from Sloan's sudden outburst.
"I won't deal with anything you bring back from those damned mountains! Take your sorcerer's stone elsewhere." Sloan's hand suddenly slipped and he cut a finger on the knife, but he seemed not to notice. He continued to scrub, staining the blade with fresh blood.
"So you refuse to sell to us!" Eragon accused.
"Yes! Unless you pay with coins," Sloan growled, and hefted the knife, sidling away. "Go, before I make you!"
"Or you'll do what exactly, Sloan?" Serafyna shot back, stepping in front of Eragon, eyes narrowed and wary.
"Why you damned little–" Sloan took a step forward. Serafyna tensed and stood her ground, even as Eragon urgently pulled at her arm. "Sera, don't! It's not worth–"
The door behind them slammed open.
Serafyna whirled around, ready for more trouble.
In stomped Horst, a hulking man. Sloan's daughter, Katrina—a tall girl of sixteen—trailed behind him with a determined expression.
Serafyna was surprised to see her; she usually absented herself from any arguments involving her father.
Sloan glanced at them warily, then pointed an accusatory finger at Serafyna and Eragon. "They won't—"
"Quiet," announced Horst in a rumbling voice, cracking his knuckles at the same time.
He was Carvahall's smith, as his thick neck and scarred leather apron attested. His powerful arms were bare to the elbow; a great expanse of hairy muscular chest was visible through the top of his shirt. A black beard, carelessly trimmed, roiled, and knotted like his jaw muscles.
"Sloan, what have you done now?"
"Nothing." He gave Serafyna a murderous gaze, then spat, "This… lot came in here and started badgering me. I asked them to leave, but they won't budge. I even threatened them and the wretches still ignored me!" Sloan seemed to shrink as he looked at Horst.
"Is this true?" Demanded the smith.
"No!" Replied Eragon, quickly before Serafyna had a chance to open her mouth.
"We offered this stone as payment for some meat, and he accepted it. When told that we found them in the Spine, he refused to even touch them. What difference does it make where it came from?"
Horst looked at the stone curiously, then returned his attention to the butcher. "Why won't you trade with them, Sloan? I've no love for the Spine myself, but if it's a question of the stone's worth, I'll back it with my own money."
The question hung in the air for a moment.
Then Sloan licked his lips and said, "This is my own store. I can do whatever I want."
Katrina stepped out from behind Horst and tossed back her auburn hair like a spray of molten copper. "Father, they're willing to pay. Give them the meat, and then we can have supper."
Sloan's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Go back to the house; this is none of your business... I said go!" Katrina's face hardened, and then she marched out of the room with a stiff back.
Serafyna watched but didn't interfere with the exchange.
Horst tugged at his beard before saying reproachfully, "Fine, you can deal with me. What were you two going to get?" His voice reverberated through the room.
Serafyna paused for a moment, then said, "As much as we could."
Horst pulled out a purse and counted out a pile of coins. "Give me your best roasts and steaks. Make sure that it's enough to fill a pack."
The butcher hesitated, his gaze darting between Horst and the two siblings.
"Not selling to me would be a very bad idea," stated Horst.
Glowering venomously, Sloan slipped into the back room. A frenzy of chopping, wrapping, and low cursing reached them. After several uncomfortable minutes, he returned with an armful of wrapped meat.
His face was expressionless as he accepted Horst's money, then proceeded to clean his knife, pretending that they were not there.
Horst scooped up the meat and walked outside. Serafyna and Eragon hurried behind him, carrying their packs. Serafyna grabbed the stone from the counter, stuffing it inside her pack.
The crisp night air rolled over their faces, refreshing after the stuffy shop.
Serafyna growled as she slammed the door behind her, making the others jump.
Then without saying another word, stalked off down the muddy street, and headed out to the woods beyond the village.
"Sera!" Eragon called after her. "Where are you–"
"Away from here." Came the curt reply as she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
Eragon watched his sister leave in silence, alongside Horst.
"Well, that happened," he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"That it did." The blacksmith agreed.
Eragon sighed again. Then took a deep, steadying breath to collect himself before facing the large man, forcing a polite smile onto his face.
"Thank you, Horst. Uncle Garrow will be pleased."
Despite everything, Horst laughed quietly. "Don't thank me. I've wanted to do that for a long time. Sloan's a vicious troublemaker; it does him good to be humbled."
"Katrina heard what was happening and ran to fetch me. Good thing I came —Serafyna and Sloan were almost at blows. Unfortunately, I doubt he'll serve you or any of your family the next time you go in there, even if you do have coins."
"Yeah.." Eragon grimaced. "Sorry about Sera, though. Sloan just rubs her the wrong way."
"I know. Everyone in town knows. These two don't mix well, it's just asking for trouble."
"She's just frustrated. Six days out in the Spine with nothing to show for but two weird rocks."
Horst nodded. "I understand, but her– well, she can be a bit difficult. It will continue to cause problems. Each bigger than the last.
Eragon didn't respond immediately. He knew that Serafyna was a bit on the aggressive side, even confrontational. Although it had never caused any serious problems.
Instead, he changed the topic.
"Why did Sloan explode like that? We've never been friendly, but he's always taken our money. And I've never seen him treat Katrina that way," said Eragon, opening the top of the pack.
Horst shrugged. "Ask your uncle. He knows more about it than I do."
Eragon stuffed the meat into his pack. "Well, now I have one more reason to hurry home... to solve this mystery. I wish I had something to pay you with." He murmured regretfully.
Horst chuckled. "Do not fret; for payment, Albriech plans to leave for Feinster next spring. He wants to become a master smith, and I'm going to need an assistant. You can come and work off the debt on your spare days."
Eragon bowed slightly, delighted.
Horst had two sons, Albriech and Baldor, both of whom worked in his forge. Taking one's place was a generous offer.
"Again, thank you! I look forward to working with you." He was glad that there was a way for him to pay Horst. His uncle would never accept charity.
Then Eragon remembered what his cousin had told only him specifically before he had left on the hunt, over the fear that Serafyna would take the opportunity to tease him to no end.
"Roran wanted me to give Katrina a message, but since I can't, can you get it to her?"
"Of course."
"He wants her to know that he'll come into town as soon as the merchants arrive and that he will see her then."
"That all?"
Eragon was slightly embarrassed. "No, he also wants her to know that she is the most beautiful girl he has ever seen and that he thinks of nothing else."
Horst's face broke into a broad grin, and he winked at Eragon. "Getting serious, isn't he?"
"Yes, sir," Eragon answered with a quick smile. "Could you also give her my thanks? It was nice of her to stand up to her father for us. I hope that she isn't punished because of it. Roran would be furious if we got her into trouble."
"I wouldn't worry about it. Sloan doesn't know that she called me, so I doubt he'll be too hard on her." Horst paused, then said, "Before you go, will you have supper with us?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't. Garrow is expecting us," said Eragon, tying off the top of the pack. He hoisted it onto his back and started down the road, raising his hand in farewell. "Thank you for the offer, though!"
"Always." Horst raised his hand likewise, as Eragon walked away.
The meat weighed him down, as well as the concern for his sister, but he was eager to be home. Renewed vigor filled his steps.