Birgit shook her head, her determination never wavering. “No.”
Roran paused then, the muscles in his neck rigid. “Is this what you really want, Birgit?”
“It is.”
“Then I will pay my debt.”
As Roran spoke, Katrina uttered a wail and thrust herself between him and Birgit, still holding their daughter in her arms. “I won’t let you! You can’t have him! Not now! Not after everything we’ve gone through!”
Birgit’s face remained as stone, and she made no move to retreat. Likewise, Roran showed no emotion as he grasped Katrina by the waist and, without apparent effort, lifted her off to the side. “Hold her, would you?” he said to Eragon in a cold voice.
“Roran …”
His cousin gave him a flat stare, then turned back to Birgit.
Eragon grabbed hold of Katrina’s shoulders to keep her from flinging herself after Roran, and he exchanged a helpless look with Arya. She glanced toward her sword, and he shook his head.
“Let go of me! Let go!” shouted Katrina. In her arms, the baby began to scream.
Never taking his eyes off the woman before him, Roran undid his belt and dropped it to the ground, along with his dagger and his hammer, which one of the Varden had found in the streets of Ilirea soon after Galbatorix’s death. Then Roran pulled open the front of his tunic and bared his hair-covered chest.
“Eragon, remove my wards,” he said.
“I—”
“Remove them!”
“Roran, no!” shouted Katrina. “Defend yourself.”
He’s mad, thought Eragon, but he dared not interfere. If he stopped Birgit, he would shame Roran, and the people of Palancar Valley would lose all respect for his cousin. And Roran, Eragon knew, would rather die than allow that to happen.
Nevertheless, Eragon had no intention of letting Birgit kill Roran. He would let her have her price, but no more. Speaking softly in the ancient language—so that none might hear the words he used—he did as Roran had asked, but he also placed three new wards upon his cousin: one to protect the spine within his neck from being severed; one to keep his skull from being broken; and one to safeguard his organs. All else Eragon felt confident he could heal if necessary, as long as Birgit did not start cutting off limbs.
“It is done,” he said.
Roran nodded and to Birgit said, “Take your price of me, then, and let this be an end to the quarrel between us.”
“You will not fight me?”
“No.”
Birgit eyed him for a moment; then she threw her shield onto the ground, crossed the few remaining feet that separated her from Roran, and placed the edge of her sword against Roran’s breast. In a voice loud enough for only Roran to hear—though Eragon and Arya did as well with their catlike acuity—she said, “I loved Quimby. He was my life, and he died because of you.”
“I’m sorry,” Roran whispered.
“Birgit,” pleaded Katrina. “Please …”
No one moved, not even the dragons. Eragon found himself holding his breath. The hiccupping crying of the baby was the loudest sound.
Then Birgit lifted the sword from Roran’s breast. She reached down to take his right hand and drew the edge of the sword across his palm. Roran winced as the blade cut into his hand, but he did not pull away.
A crimson line appeared upon his skin. Blood filled his palm and spilled dripping to the ground, where it soaked into the trampled earth, leaving a dark blotch upon the dirt.
Birgit ceased pulling on the sword and held it motionless against Roran’s palm for a moment more. Then she stepped back and lowered the scarlet-edged sword to her side. Roran closed his fingers around his palm, blood flowing between them, and pressed his hand against his hip.
“I have had my price,” said Birgit. “Our quarrel is at an end.”
Then she turned, picked up her shield, and strode back to the city, with Nolfavrell dogging her heels.
Eragon released Katrina, and she rushed to Roran’s side. “You fool,” she said, a bitter note in her voice. “You stubborn, pigheaded fool. Here, let me see.”
“It was the only way,” said Roran, as if from far away.
Katrina frowned, her face hard and strained as she examined the cut on his hand. “Eragon, you should heal this.”
“No,” said Roran with sudden sharpness. He closed his hand again. “No, this is one scar I’ll keep.” He looked around. “Is there a strip of fabric I can use as a bandage?”
After a moment of confusion, Nasuada pointed to one of her guards and said, “Cut off the bottom part of your tunic and give it to him.”
“Wait,” said Eragon as Roran started to wrap the strip around his hand. “I won’t heal it, but at least let me cast a spell to keep the cut from getting infected, all right?”
Roran hesitated. Then he nodded and held out his hand toward Eragon.
It took Eragon only a few seconds to mouth the spell. “There,” he said. “Now it won’t turn green and purple and swell up as large as a pig’s bladder.”
Roran grunted, and Katrina said, “Thank you, Eragon.”
“Now, shall we leave?” asked Arya.
The five of them climbed onto the dragons, Arya helping Roran and Katrina safely into the saddle on Fírnen’s back, which had been modified with loops and straps to hold additional passengers. Once they were properly seated atop the green dragon, Arya raised a hand. “Farewell, Nasuada! Farewell, Eragon and Saphira! We will expect you in Ellesméra!”
Farewell! said Fírnen in his deep voice. He spread his wings and jumped skyward, flapping quickly to lift the weight of the four people on his back, helped by the strength of the two Eldunarí Arya was taking with her.
Saphira roared after him, and Fírnen replied with a trumpeted bugle before arrowing his way toward the southeast and the distant Beor Mountains.
Eragon twisted around in his saddle and waved to Nasuada, Elva, Jörmundur, and Jeod. They waved in return, and Jörmundur shouted, “Best of luck to the both of you!”
“Goodbye,” cried Elva.
“Goodbye!” shouted Nasuada. “Be safe!”
Eragon replied in kind, and then he turned his back to them, unable to bear the sight any longer. Saphira crouched underneath him and sprang into the air as they began the first leg of their long, long journey.
Saphira circled as she gained altitude. Below, Eragon saw Nasuada and the others standing in a clump by the city walls, Elva holding up a small white kerchief, which fluttered in the gusts of wind from Saphira’s passage.
PROMISES, NEW AND OLD
rom Ilirea, Saphira flew to the nearby estate where Blödhgarm and the elves under his command were packing the Eldunarí for transport. The elves would ride north with the Eldunarí to Du Weldenvarden, and thence through the vast forest to the elven city of Sílthrim, which sat upon the shore of Ardwen Lake. There the elves and the Eldunarí would wait for Eragon and Saphira to return from Vroengard. Then together they would begin their journey out of Alagaësia, following the Gaena River as it flowed eastward through the forest and onto the plains beyond. All of them, that was, save Laufin and Uthinarë, who had elected to stay behind in Du Weldenvarden.