Eldest

CONVERGENCE

Roran stood at the prow of the Dragon Wing and listened to the oars swish through the water. He had just finished a stint rowing and a cold, jagged ache permeated his right shoulder. Will I always have to deal with this reminder of the Ra’zac? He wiped the sweat from his face and ignored the discomfort, concentrating instead on the river ahead, which was obscured by a bank of sooty clouds.

Elain joined him at the railing. She rested a hand on her swollen belly. “The water looks evil,” she said. “Perhaps we should have stayed in Dauth, rather than drag ourselves in search of more trouble.”

He feared she spoke the truth. After the Boar’s Eye, they had sailed east from the Southern Isles back to the coast and then up the mouth of the Jiet River to Surda’s port city of Dauth. By the time they made landfall, their stores were exhausted and the villagers sickly.

Roran had every intention of staying in Dauth, especially after they received an enthusiastic welcome from its governor, Lady Alarice. But that was before he was told about Galbatorix’s army. If the Varden were defeated, he would never see Katrina again. So, with the help of Jeod, he convinced Horst and many of the other villagers that if they wanted to live in Surda, safe from the Empire, they had to row up the Jiet River and assist the Varden. It was a difficult task, but in the end Roran prevailed. And once they told Lady Alarice about their quest, she gave them all the supplies they wanted.

Since then, Roran often wondered if he made the right choice. By now everyone hated living on the Dragon Wing. People were tense and short-tempered, a situation only aggravated by the knowledge that they were sailing toward a battle. Was it all selfishness on my part? wondered Roran. Did I really do this for the benefit of the villagers, or only because it will bring me one step closer to finding Katrina?

“Perhaps we should have,” he said to Elain.

Together they watched as a thick layer of smoke gathered overhead, darkening the sky, obscuring the sun, and filtering the remaining light so that everything below was colored a nauseating hue of orange. It produced an eerie twilight the likes of which Roran had never imagined. The sailors on deck looked about fearfully and muttered charms of protection, pulling out stone amulets to ward off the evil eye.

“Listen,” said Elain. She tilted her head. “What is that?”

Roran strained his ears and caught the faint ring of metal striking metal. “That,” he said, “is the sound of our destiny.” Twisting, he shouted back over his shoulder, “Captain, there’s fighting just ahead!”

“Man the ballistae!” roared Uthar. “Double-time on those oars, Bonden. An’ every able-bodied man jack among you better be ready or you’ll be using your guts for pillows!”

Roran remained where he was as the Dragon Wing exploded with activity. Despite the increase in noise, he could still hear swords and shields clanging together in the distance. The screams of men were audible now, as were the roars of some giant beast.

He glanced over as Jeod joined them at the prow. The merchant’s face was pale. “Have you ever been in battle before?” asked Roran.

The knob in Jeod’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and shook his head. “I got into plenty of fights along with Brom, but never anything of this scale.”

“A first for both of us, then.”

The bank of smoke thinned on the right, providing them with a glimpse of a dark land that belched forth fire and putrid orange vapor and was covered with masses of struggling men. It was impossible to tell who was the Empire and who was the Varden, but it was apparent to Roran that the battle could tip in either direction given the right nudge. We can provide that nudge.

Then a voice echoed over the water as a man shouted, “A ship! A ship is coming up the Jiet River!”

“You should go belowdecks,” said Roran to Elain. “It won’t be safe for you here.” She nodded and hurried to the fore hatchway, where she climbed down the ladder, closing the opening behind her. A moment later, Horst bounded up to the prow and handed Roran one of Fisk’s shields.

“Thought you might need that,” said Horst.

“Thanks. I—”

Roran stopped as the air around them vibrated, as if from a mighty concussion. Thud. His teeth jarred together. Thud. His ears hurt from the pressure. Close upon the heels of the second impact came a third—thud—and with it a raw-throated yell that Roran recognized, for he had heard it many times in his childhood. He looked up and beheld a gigantic sapphire dragon diving out of the shifting clouds. And on the dragon’s back, at the juncture between its neck and shoulders, sat his cousin, Eragon.

It was not the Eragon he remembered, but rather as if an artist had taken his cousin’s base features and enhanced them, streamlined them, making them both more noble and more feline. This Eragon was garbed like a prince, in fine cloth and armor—though tarnished by the grime of war—and in his right hand he wielded a blade of iridescent red. This Eragon, Roran knew, could kill without hesitation. This Eragon was powerful and implacable.… This Eragon could slay the Ra’zac and their mounts and help him to rescue Katrina.

Flaring its translucent wings, the dragon pulled up sharply and hung before the ship. Then Eragon met Roran’s eyes.

Until that moment, Roran had not completely believed Jeod’s story about Eragon and Brom. Now, as he stared at his cousin, a wave of confused emotions washed over him. Eragon is a Rider! It seemed inconceivable that the slight, moody, overeager boy he grew up with had turned into this fearsome warrior. Seeing him alive again filled Roran with unexpected joy. Yet, at the same time, a terrible, familiar anger welled up inside him over Eragon’s role in Garrow’s death and the siege of Carvahall. In those few seconds, Roran knew not whether he loved or hated Eragon.

He stiffened with alarm as a vast and alien being touched his mind. From that consciousness emanated Eragon’s voice: Roran?

“Aye.”

Think your answers and I’ll hear them. Is everyone from Carvahall with you?

Just about.

How did you … No, we can’t go into it; there’s no time. Stay where you are until the battle is decided. Better yet, go back farther down the river, where the Empire can’t attack you.

We have to talk, Eragon. You have much to answer for.

Eragon hesitated with a troubled expression, then said, I know. But not now, later. With no visible prompting, the dragon veered away from the ship and flew off to the east, vanishing in the haze over the Burning Plains.

In an awed voice, Horst said, “A Rider! A real Rider! I never thought I’d see the day, much less that it would be Eragon.” He shook his head. “I guess you told us the truth, eh, Longshanks?” Jeod grinned in response, looking like a delighted child.

Their words sounded muted to Roran as he stared at the deck, feeling like he was about to explode with tension. A host of unanswerable questions assailed him. He forced himself to ignore them. I can’t think about Eragon now. We have to fight. The Varden must defeat the Empire.

A rising tide of fury consumed him. He had experienced this before, a berserk frenzy that allowed him to overcome nearly any obstacle, to move objects he could not shift ordinarily, to face an enemy in combat and feel no fear. It gripped him now, a fever in his veins, quickening his breath and setting his heart a-pounding.

He pushed himself off the railing, ran the length of the ship to the quarterdeck, where Uthar stood by the wheel, and said, “Ground the ship.”

“What?”

“Ground the ship, I say! Stay here with the rest of the soldiers and use the ballistae to wreak what havoc you can, keep the Dragon Wing from being boarded, and guard our families with your lives. Understand?”

Uthar stared at him with flat eyes, and Roran feared he would not accept the orders. Then the scarred sailor grunted and said, “Aye, aye, Stronghammer.”

Horst’s heavy tread preceded his arrival at the quarterdeck. “What do you intend to do, Roran?”

“Do?” Roran laughed and spun widdershins to stand toe to toe with the smith. “Do? Why, I intend to alter the fate of Alagaësia!”