The door to the back rooms banged open as Tara plowed forward, trailed by Morn. They both glared sullenly at Roran. Tara planted her meaty fists on her hips and demanded, “What do you want here?”

Roran stared at her for a moment, trying to determine the source of her animosity. “Have you decided whether to accompany me into the Spine?”

“That’s none of your business,” snapped Tara.

Oh yes, it is.He restrained himself, though, and instead said, “Whatever your intentions are, if youwere to go, Elain would like to know if you have room in your bags for a few more items, or if you need extra room yourself. She has—”

“Extra room!” burst out Morn. He waved at the wall behind the bar, which was lined with oak casks. “I have, packed in straw, twelve barrels of the clearest winter ale, which have been kept at the perfect temperature for the past five months. They were Quimby’s last batch! What am I supposed to do with them? Or my hogsheads of lager and stout? If I leave them, the soldiers will dispose of it in a week, or they’ll spike the barrels and pour the beer into the ground, where the only creatures who’ll enjoy it will be grubs and worms. Oh!” Morn sat and wrung his hands, shaking his head. “Twelve years of work! Ever since Father died I ran the tavern the same way he did, day in and day out. And then you and Eragon had to cause this trouble. It . . .” He stopped, breathing with difficulty, and wiped his mashed face with the edge of his sleeve.

“There, there now,” said Tara. She put her arm around Morn and jabbed a finger at Roran. “Who gave you leave to stir up Carvahall with your fancy words? If we go, how will my poor husband make a living? He can’t take his trade with him like Horst or Gedric. He can’t squat in an empty field and farm it like you! Impossible! Everyone will go and we will starve. Or we will go and we willstill starve. You have ruined us!”

Roran looked from her flushed, angry face to Morn’s distraught one, then turned and opened the door. He paused on the threshold and said in a low voice, “I have always counted you among my friends. I would not have you killed by the Empire.” Stepping outside, he pulled his vest tight around himself and paced away from the tavern, ruminating the whole way.

At Fisk’s well, he stopped for a drink and found himself joined by Birgit. She watched him struggle to turn the crank with only one hand, then took it from him and brought up the water bucket, which she passed to him without drinking. He sipped the cool liquid, then said, “I’m glad that you are coming.” He handed the bucket back.

Birgit eyed him. “I recognize the force that drives you, Roran, for it propels me as well; we both wish to find the Ra’zac. Once we do, though, I will have my compensation from you for Quimby’s death. Never forget that.” She pushed the full bucket back into the well and let it fall unchecked, the crank spinning wildly. A second later, the well echoed with a hollow splash.

Roran smiled as he watched her walk away. He was more pleased than upset by her declaration; he knew that even if everyone else in Carvahall were to forsake the cause or die, Birgit would still help him to hunt the Ra’zac. Afterward, though—if an afterward existed—he would have to pay her price or kill her. That was the only way to resolve such matters.

By evening Horst and his sons had returned to the house, bearing two small bundles wrapped in oilcloth. “Is that all?” asked Elain. Horst nodded curtly, lay the bundles on the kitchen table, and unwrapped them to expose four hammers, three tongs, a clamp, a medium-sized bellows, and a three-pound anvil.

As the five of them sat to dinner, Albriech and Baldor discussed the various people they had seen making covert preparations. Roran listened intently, trying to keep track of who had lent donkeys to whom, who showed no signs of departing, and who might need help to leave.

“The biggest problem,” said Baldor, “is food. We can only carry so much, and it’ll be difficult to hunt enough in the Spine to feed two or three hundred people.”

“Mmm.” Horst shook his finger, his mouth full of beans, then swallowed. “No, hunting won’t work. We have to bring our flocks with us. Combined, we own enough sheep and goats to feed the lot of us for a month or more.”

Roran raised his knife. “Wolves.”

“I’m more worried about keeping the animals from wandering off into the forest,” replied Horst. “Herding them will be a chore.”

Roran spent the following day assisting whomever he could, saying little, and generally allowing people to see him working for the good of the village. Late that night, he tumbled into bed exhausted but hopeful.

The advent of dawn pierced Roran’s dreams and woke him with a sense of momentous expectation. He stood and tiptoed downstairs, then went outside and stared at the misty mountains, absorbed by the morning’s silence. His breath formed a white plume in the air, but he felt warm, for his heart throbbed with fear and eagerness.

After a subdued breakfast, Horst brought the horses to the front of the house, where Roran helped Albriech and Baldor load them with saddlebags and other bundles of supplies. Next Roran took up his own pack, hissing as the leather shoulder strap pressed down on his injury.

Horst closed the door to the house. He lingered for a moment with his fingers on the steel doorknob, then took Elain’s hand and said, “Let’s go.”

As they walked through Carvahall, Roran saw somber families gathering by their houses with their piles of possessions and yammering livestock. He saw sheep and dogs with bags tied on their backs, teary-eyed children on donkeys, and makeshift sledges hitched to horses with crates of fluttering chickens hung on each side. He saw the fruits of his success, and he knew not whether to laugh or to cry.