REPERCUSSIONS

The morning after his speech, Roran looked out his window and saw twelve men leaving Carvahall, heading toward Igualda Falls. He yawned and limped downstairs to the kitchen.

Horst sat alone at the table, twisting a mug of ale in his hands. “Morning,” he said.

Roran grunted, tore a heel of bread off the loaf on the counter, then seated himself at the opposite end of the table. As he ate, he noted Horst’s bloodshot eyes and unkempt beard. Roran guessed that the smith had been awake the entire night. “Do you know why a group is going up—”

“Have to talk with their families,” said Horst abruptly. “They’ve been running into the Spine since dawn.” He put the mug down with acrack. “You have no idea what you did, Roran, by asking us to leave. The whole village is in turmoil. You backed us into a corner with only one way out: your way. Some people hate you for it. Of course a fair number of them already hated you for bringing this upon us.”

The bread in Roran’s mouth tasted like sawdust as resentment flared inside him.Eragon was the one who brought back the stone, not me. “And the others?”

Horst sipped his ale and grimaced. “The others adore you. I never thought I would see the day when Garrow’s son would stir my heart with words, but you did it, boy, you did it.” He swung a gnarled hand over his head. “All this? I built it for Elain and my sons. It took me seven years to finish! See that beam over the door right there? I broke three toes getting that into place. And you know what? I’m going to give it up because of what you said last night.”

Roran remained silent; it was what he wanted. Leaving Carvahall was the right thing to do, and since he had committed himself to that course, he saw no reason to torment himself with guilt and regret.The decision is made. I will accept the outcome without complaint, no matter how dire, for this is our only escape from the Empire.

“But,” said Horst, and leaned forward on one elbow, his black eyes burning beneath his brow, “just you remember that if reality falls short of the airy dreams you conjured, there’ll be debts to pay. Give people a hope and then take it away, and they’ll destroy you.”

The prospect was of no concern to Roran.If we make it to Surda, we will be greeted as heroes by the rebels. If we don’t, our deaths will fulfill all debts. When it was clear that the smith had finished, Roran asked, “Where is Elain?”

Horst scowled at the change of topic. “Out back.” He stood and straightened his tunic over his heavy shoulders. “I have to go clear out the smithy and decide what tools I’m going to take. I’ll hide or destroy the rest. The Empire won’t benefit frommy work.”

“I’ll help.” Roran pushed back his chair.

“No,” said Horst roughly. “This is a task I can only do with Albriech and Baldor. That forge has been my entire life, and theirs. . . . You wouldn’t be much help with that arm of yours anyway. Stay here. Elain can use you.”

After the smith left, Roran opened the side door and found Elain talking with Gertrude by the large pile of firewood Horst maintained year-round. The healer went up to Roran and put a hand on his forehead. “Ah, I was afraid that you might have a fever after yesterday’s excitement. Your family heals at the most extraordinary rate. I could barely believe my eyes when Eragon started walking about after having his legs skinned and spending two days in bed.” Roran stiffened at the mention of his cousin, but she did not seem to notice. “Let’s see how your shoulder is doing, shall we?”

Roran bowed his neck so that Gertrude could reach behind him and untie the knot to the wool sling. When it was undone, he carefully lowered his right forearm—which was immobilized in a splint—until his arm was straight. Gertrude slid her fingers under the poultice packed on his wound and peeled it off.

“Oh my,” she said.

A thick, rancid smell clogged the air. Roran clenched his teeth as his gorge rose, then looked down. The skin under the poultice had turned white and spongy, like a giant birthmark of maggot flesh. The bite itself had been stitched up while he was unconscious, so all he saw was a jagged pink line caked with blood on the front of his shoulder. Swelling and inflammation had forced the twisted catgut threads to cut deep into his flesh, while beads of clear liquid oozed from the wound.

Gertrude clucked her tongue as she inspected him, then refastened the bandages and looked Roran in the eye. “You’re doing well enough, but the tissue may become diseased. I can’t tell yet. If it does, we’ll have to cauterize your shoulder.”

Roran nodded. “Will my arm work once it heals?”

“As long as the muscle knits together properly. It also depends on how you want to use it. You—”

“Will I be able to fight?”

“If you want to fight,” said Gertrude slowly, “I suggest that you learn to use your left hand.” She patted his cheek, then hurried back toward her hut.

My arm.Roran stared at his bound limb as if it no longer belonged to him. Until that moment, he had not realized how closely his sense of identity was linked to the condition of his body. Injuring his flesh caused injury to his psyche, as well as the other way around. Roran was proud of his body, and seeing it mutilated sent a jolt of panic through him, especially since the damage was permanent. Even if he regained the use of his arm, he would always bear a thick scar as a memento of his injury.

Taking his hand, Elain led Roran back into the house, where she crumbled mint into a kettle, then set it on the stove to boil. “You really love her, don’t you?”