DISCOVERY
Eragon knelt in a bed of trampled reed grass and scanned the tracks
with a practiced eye. The prints told him that the deer had been in
the meadow only a half-hour before. Soon they would bed down. His
target, a small doe with a pronounced limp in her left forefoot,
was still with the herd. He was amazed she had made it so far
without a wolf or bear catching her.
The sky was clear and dark, and a slight breeze stirred the air. A
silvery cloud drifted over the mountains that surrounded him, its
edges glowing with ruddy light cast from the harvest moon cradled
between two peaks. Streams flowed down the mountains from stolid
glaciers and glistening snowpacks. A brooding mist crept along the
valley's floor, almost thick enough to obscure his feet.
Eragon was fifteen, less than a year from manhood. Dark eyebrows
rested above his intense brown eyes. His clothes were worn from
work. A hunting knife with a bone handle was sheathed at his belt,
and a buckskin tube protected his yew bow from the mist. He carried
a wood-frame pack.
The deer had led him deep into the Spine, a range of untamed
mountains that extended up and down the land of Alagaësia. Strange
tales and men often came from those mountains, usually boding ill.
Despite that, Eragon did not fear the Spine-he was the only hunter
near Carvahall who dared track game deep into its craggy recesses.
It was the third night of the hunt, and his food was half gone. If
he did not fell the doe, he would be forced to return home empty-
handed. His family needed the meat for the rapidly approaching
winter and could not afford to buy it in Carvahall.
Eragon stood with quiet assurance in the dusky moonlight, then
strode into the forest toward a glen where he was sure the deer
would rest. The trees blocked the sky from view and cast feathery
shadows on the ground. He looked at the tracks only occasionally;
he knew the way.
At the glen, he strung his bow with a sure touch, then drew three
arrows and nocked one, holding the others in his left hand. The
moonlight revealed twenty or so motionless lumps where the deer lay
in the grass. The doe he wanted was at the edge of the herd, her
left foreleg stretched out awkwardly.
Eragon slowly crept closer, keeping the bow ready. All his work of
the past three days had led to this moment. He took a last
steadying breath and-an explosion shattered the night.
The herd bolted. Eragon lunged forward, racing through the grass as
a fiery wind surged past his cheek. He slid to a stop and loosed an
arrow at the bounding doe. It missed by a finger's breadth and
hissed into darkness. He cursed and spun around, instinctively
nocking another arrow.
Behind him, where the deer had been, smoldered a large circle of
grass and trees. Many of the pines stood bare of their needles. The
grass outside the charring was flattened. A wisp of smoke curled in
the air, carrying a burnt smell. In the center of the blast radius
lay a polished blue stone. Mist snaked across the scorched area and
swirled insubstantial tendrils over the stone.
Eragon watched for danger for several long minutes, but the only
thing that moved was the mist. Cautiously, he released the tension
from his bow and moved forward. Moonlight cast him in pale
shadow as he stopped before the stone. He nudged it with an arrow,
then jumped back. Nothing happened, so he warily picked it up.
Nature had never polished a stone as smooth as this one. Its
flawless surface was dark blue, except for thin veins of white that
spiderwebbed across it. The stone was cool and frictionless under
his fingers, like hardened silk. Oval and about a foot long, it
weighed several pounds, though it felt lighter than it should
have.
Eragon found the stone both beautiful and frightening.
Where
did it come from? Does it have a purpose? Then a more
disturbing thought came to him:
Was it sent here by accident,
or am I meant to have it? If he had learned anything from the
old stories, it was to treat magic, and those who used it, with
great caution.
But what should I do with the stone? It would be tiresome
to carry, and there was a chance it was dangerous. It might be
better to leave it behind. A flicker of indecision ran through him,
and he almost dropped it, but something stayed his hand.
At the
very least, it might pay for some food, he decided with a
shrug, tucking the stone into his pack.
The glen was too exposed to make a safe camp, so he slipped back
into the forest and spread his bedroll beneath the upturned roots
of a fallen tree. After a cold dinner of bread and cheese, he
wrapped himself in blankets and fell asleep, pondering what had
occurred.
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 returned to the glen and examined the
charred area. The morning light revealed no new details, so he
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 forest. 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. Eragon was one of
those few-not through any particular gift, it seemed to him, but
because of persistent vigilance and sharp reflexes. He had hiked in
the mountains for years, yet he was still wary of them. Every time
he thought they had surrendered their secrets, something happened
to upset his understanding of them-like the stone's appearance.
He kept up a brisk pace, and the leagues steadily disappeared. In
late evening he 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.
He 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. Eragon traveled
quickly and saw little of the wary wildlife. A bit past noon, he
heard the Igualda Falls blanketing everything with the dull sound
of a thousand splashes. The trail led him onto a moist slate
outcropping, which the river sped past, flinging itself into empty
air and down mossy cliffs.
Before him 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, he knew only that it turned
north and ran to the sea.
After a pause, Eragon left the outcropping and started down the
trail, grimacing at the descent. When he 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 chim neys,
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. Eragon heard men talking
loudly in the evening air while wives scurried to fetch their
husbands, scolding them for being late.
Eragon wove his way between the houses to the butcher's shop, a
broad, thick-beamed building. Overhead, the chimney belched black
smoke.
He 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 Eragon entered. "Well, the mighty hunter
joins the rest of us mortals. How many did you bag this
time?"
"None," was Eragon's curt reply. He had never liked Sloan. The
butcher always treated him with disdain, as if he 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 Eragon 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?"
"I don't really have any money, but I do-"
"What, no money?" the butcher cut him 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."
Eragon glared at him. "I can't wait until tomorrow, Sloan. It'll be
worth your while, though; I found something to pay you with." He
pulled out the stone with a flourish and set it gently on the
scarred
counter, where it gleamed with light from the dancing flames.
"Stole it is more likely," muttered Sloan, leaning forward with an
interested expression.
Ignoring the comment, Eragon asked, "Will this be enough?"
Sloan picked up the stone and gauged its weight speculatively. He
ran his hands over its smoothness and inspected the white veins.
With a calculating look, he set it down. "It's pretty, but how much
is it worth?"
"I don't know," 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 miser's bargain! It must be worth at least ten times
that," protested Eragon. Three crowns would not even buy enough
meat to last a 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 Eragon did not want to wait until they arrived; it could be a
while, and his family needed the meat now. "Fine, I accept," he
snapped.
"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
bloodstains off a knife.
"Why?" asked Eragon. He drew the stone closer, as if to protect it
from Sloan's wrath.
"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.
"You refuse to sell to me!"
"Yes! Unless you pay with coins," Sloan growled, and hefted the
knife, sidling away. "Go, before I make you!"
The door behind them slammed open. Eragon 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. Eragon was surprised to see her; she usually absented
herself from any arguments involving her father. Sloan glanced at
them warily, then started to accuse Eragon. "He 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 Eragon a murderous gaze, then spat, "This . . .
boy came in here and started badgering me. I asked him to
leave, but he won't budge. I even threatened him and he still
ignored me!" Sloan seemed to shrink as he looked at Horst.
"Is this true?" demanded the smith.
"No!" replied Eragon. "I offered this stone as payment for some
meat, and he accepted it. When I told him that I'd found it in the
Spine, he refused to even touch it. 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 him, 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, Eragon
is
willing to pay. Give him 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, then she marched out of the room with a stiff back.
Eragon watched with disapproval but dared not interfere. Horst
tugged at his beard before saying reproachfully, "Fine, you can
deal with me. What were you going to get, Eragon?" His voice
reverberated through the room.
"As much as I 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
Eragon's pack." The butcher hesitated, his gaze darting
between
Horst and Eragon. "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. Eragon hurried behind
him, carrying his pack and the stone. The crisp night air rolled
over their faces, refreshing after the stuffy shop.
"Thank you, Horst. Uncle Garrow will be pleased."
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-the two of you 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."
"Why did he 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. Here, this is
rightfully yours." He proffered the stone.
Horst chuckled. "No, you keep your strange rock. As 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 him before he had left on the hunt. "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 me. I hope that she isn't punished because of it. Roran would
be
furious if I 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. Before you go, will you sup
with us?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't. Garrow is expecting me," 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.
The meat slowed him down, but he was eager to be home, and renewed
vigor filled his steps. The village ended abruptly, and he left its
warm lights behind. The pearlescent moon peeked over the
mountains, bathing the land in a ghostly reflection of daylight.
Everything looked bleached and flat.
Near the end of his journey, he turned off the road, which
continued south. A simple path led straight through waist-high
grass and up a knoll, almost hidden by the shadows of protective
elm trees. He crested the hill and saw a gentle light shining from
his home.
The house had a shingled roof and a brick chimney. Eaves hung over
the whitewashed walls, shadowing the ground below. One side of the
enclosed porch was filled with split wood, ready for the fire. A
jumble of farm tools cluttered the other side.
The house had been abandoned for half a century when they moved in
after Garrow's wife, Marian, died. It was ten miles from Carvahall,
farther than anyone else's. People considered the distance
dangerous because the family could not rely on help from the
village in times of trouble, but Eragon's uncle would not
listen.
A hundred feet from the house, in a dull-colored barn, lived two
horses-Birka and Brugh-with chickens and a cow. Sometimes there was
also a pig, but they had been unable to afford one this
year. A wagon sat wedged between the stalls. On the edge of their
fields, a thick line of trees traced along the Anora River.
He saw a light move behind a window as he wearily reached the
porch. "Uncle, it's Eragon. Let me in." A small shutter slid back
for a second, then the door swung inward.
Garrow stood with his hand on the door. His worn clothes hung on
him like rags on a stick frame. A lean, hungry face with intense
eyes gazed out from under graying hair. He looked like a man who
had been partly mummified before it was discovered that he was
still alive. "Roran's sleeping," was his answer to Eragon's
inquiring glance.
A lantern flickered on a wood table so old that the grain stood up
in tiny ridges like a giant fingerprint. Near a woodstove were rows
of cooking utensils tacked onto the wall with homemade nails. A
second door opened to the rest of the house. The floor was made of
boards polished smooth by years of tramping feet.
Eragon pulled off his pack and took out the meat. "What's this? Did
you buy meat? Where did you get the money?" asked his uncle harshly
as he saw the wrapped packages.
Eragon took a breath before answering. "No, Horst bought it for
us."
"You let him pay for it? I told you before, I won't beg for our
food. If we can't feed ourselves, we might as well move into town.
Before you can turn around twice, they'll be sending us used
clothes and asking if we'll be able to get through the winter."
Garrow's face paled with anger.
"I didn't accept charity," snapped Eragon. "Horst agreed to let me
work off the debt this spring. He needs someone to help him because
Albriech is going away."
"And where will you get the time to work for him? Are you going to
ignore all the things that need to be done here?" asked Garrow,
forcing his voice down.
Eragon hung his bow and quiver on hooks beside the front door. "I
don't know how I'll do it," he said irritably. "Besides, I found
something that could be worth some money." He set the stone on the
table.
Garrow bowed over it: the hungry look on his face became ravenous,
and his fingers moved with a strange twitch. "You found this in the
Spine?"
"Yes," said Eragon. He explained what had happened. "And to make
matters worse, I lost my best arrow. I'll have to make more before
long." They stared at the stone in the near darkness.
"How was the weather?" asked his uncle, lifting the stone. His
hands tightened around it like he was afraid it would suddenly
disappear.
"Cold," was Eragon's reply. "It didn't snow, but it froze each
night."
Garrow looked worried by the news. "Tomorrow you'll have to help
Roran finish harvesting the barley. If we can get the squash
picked, too, the frost won't bother us." He passed the stone
to
Eragon. "Here, keep it. When the traders come, we'll find out what
it's worth. Selling it is probably the best thing to do. The less
we're involved with magic, the better. . . . Why did Horst pay for
the meat?"
It took only a moment for Eragon to explain his argument with
Sloan. "I just don't understand what angered him so."
Garrow shrugged. "Sloan's wife, Ismira, went over the Igualda Falls
a year before you were brought here. He hasn't been near the Spine
since, nor had anything to do with it. But that's no reason to
refuse payment. I think he wanted to give you trouble."
Eragon swayed blearily and said, "It's good to be back." Garrow's
eyes softened, and he nodded. Eragon stumbled to his room, pushed
the stone under his bed, then fell onto the mattress.
Home. For the first time since before the hunt, he relaxed
completely as sleep overtook him.DRAGON TALES
At dawn the sun's rays streamed through the window, warming
Eragon's face. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up on the edge of the bed.
The pine floor was cold under his feet. He stretched his sore legs
and rubbed his back, yawning.
Beside the bed was a row of shelves covered with objects he had
collected. There were twisted pieces of wood, odd bits of shells,
rocks that had broken to reveal shiny interiors, and strips of
dry
grass tied into knots. His favorite item was a root so convoluted
he never tired of looking at it. The rest of the room was bare,
except for a small dresser and nightstand.
He pulled on his boots and stared at the floor, thinking. This was
a special day. It was near this very hour, sixteen years ago, that
his mother, Selena, had come home to Carvahall alone and pregnant.
She had been gone for six years, living in the cities. When she
returned, she wore expensive clothes, and her hair was bound by a
net of pearls. She had sought out her brother, Garrow, and asked to
stay with him until the baby arrived. Within five months her son
was born. Everyone was shocked when Selena tearfully begged Garrow
and Marian to raise him. When they asked why, she only wept and
said, "I must." Her pleas had grown increasingly desperate until
they finally agreed. She named him Eragon, then departed early the
next morning and never returned.
Eragon still remembered how he had felt when Marian told him the
story before she died. The realization that Garrow and Marian were
not his real parents had disturbed him greatly. Things that had
been permanent and unquestionable were suddenly thrown into doubt.
Eventually he had learned to live with it, but he always had a
nagging suspicion that he had not been good enough for his mother.
I'm sure there was a good reason for what she did; I only wish
I knew what it was.
One other thing bothered him: Who was his father? Selena had
told no one, and whoever it might be had never come looking for
Eragon. He wished that he knew who it was, if only to have a
name.
It would be nice to know his heritage.
He sighed and went to the nightstand, where he splashed his face,
shivering as the water ran down his neck. Refreshed, he retrieved
the stone from under the bed and set it on a shelf. The
morning light caressed it, throwing a warm shadow on the wall. He
touched it one more time, then hurried to the kitchen, eager to see
his family. Garrow and Roran were already there, eating chicken. As
Eragon greeted them, Roran stood with a grin.
Roran was two years older than Eragon, muscular, sturdy, and
careful with his movements. They could not have been closer even if
they had been real brothers.
Roran smiled. "I'm glad you're back. How was the trip?"
"Hard," replied Eragon. "Did Uncle tell you what happened?" He
helped himself to a piece of chicken, which he devoured
hungrily.
"No," said Roran, and the story was quickly told. At Roran's
insistence, Eragon left his food to show him the stone. This
elicited a satisfactory amount of awe, but Roran soon asked
nervously, "Were you able to talk with Katrina?"
"No, there wasn't an opportunity after the argument with Sloan. But
she'll expect you when the traders come. I gave the message to
Horst; he will get it to her."
"You told Horst?" said Roran incredulously. "That was private. If I
wanted everyone to know about it, I could have built a bonfire and
used smoke signals to communicate. If Sloan finds out, he won't let
me see her again."
"Horst will be discreet," assured Eragon. "He won't let anyone fall
prey to Sloan, least of all you." Roran seemed unconvinced, but
argued no more. They returned to their meals in the taciturn
presence of Garrow. When the last bites were finished, all three
went to work in the fields.
The sun was cold and pale, providing little comfort. Under its
watchful eye, the last of the barley was stored in the barn. Next,
they gathered prickly vined squash, then the rutabagas, beets,
peas,
turnips, and beans, which they packed into the root cellar. After
hours of labor, they stretched their cramped muscles, pleased that
the harvest was finished.
The following days were spent pickling, salting, shelling, and
preparing the food for winter.
Nine days after Eragon's return, a vicious blizzard blew out of the
mountains and settled over the valley. The snow came down in great
sheets, blanketing the countryside in white. They only dared
leave the house for firewood and to feed the animals, for they
feared getting lost in the howling wind and featureless landscape.
They spent their time huddled over the stove as gusts rattled the
heavy window shutters. Days later the storm finally passed,
revealing an alien world of soft white drifts.
"I'm afraid the traders may not come this year, with conditions
this bad," said Garrow. "They're late as it is. We'll give them a
chance and wait before going to Carvahall. But if they don't
show
soon, we'll have to buy any spare supplies from the townspeople."
His countenance was resigned.
They grew anxious as the days crept by without sign of the traders.
Talk was sparse, and depression hung over the house.
On the eighth morning, Roran walked to the road and confirmed that
the traders had not yet passed. The day was spent readying for the
trip into Carvahall, scrounging with grim expressions for saleable
items. That evening, out of desperation, Eragon checked the road
again. He found deep ruts cut into the snow, with numerous
hoofprints between them. Elated, he ran back to the house whooping,
bringing new life to their preparations.
✷ ✷ ✷
They packed their surplus produce into the wagon before sunrise.
Garrow put the year's money in a leather pouch that he carefully
fastened to his belt. Eragon set the wrapped stone between bags of
grain so it would not roll when the wagon hit bumps.
After a hasty breakfast, they harnessed the horses and cleared a
path to the road. The traders' wagons had already broken the
drifts, which sped their progress. By noon they could see
Carvahall.
In daylight, it was a small earthy village filled with shouts and
laughter. The traders had made camp in an empty field on the
outskirts of town. Groups of wagons, tents, and fires were randomly
spread across it, spots of color against the snow. The troubadours'
four tents were garishly decorated. A steady stream of people
linked the camp to the village.
Crowds churned around a line of bright tents and booths clogging
the main street. Horses whinnied at the noise. The snow had been
pounded flat, giving it a glassy surface; elsewhere, bonfires had
melted it. Roasted hazelnuts added a rich aroma to the smells
wafting around them.
Garrow parked the wagon and picketed the horses, then drew coins
from his pouch. "Get yourselves some treats. Roran, do what you
want, only be at Horst's in time for supper. Eragon, bring that
stone and come with me." Eragon grinned at Roran and pocketed the
money, already planning how to spend it.
Roran departed immediately with a determined expression on his
face. Garrow led Eragon into the throng, shouldering his way
through the bustle. Women were buying cloth, while nearby their
husbands examined a new latch, hook, or tool. Children ran up and
down the road, shrieking with excitement. Knives were displayed
here, spices there, and pots were laid out in shiny rows next to
leather harnesses.
Eragon stared at the traders curiously. They seemed less prosperous
than last year. Their children had a frightened, wary look, and
their clothes were patched. The gaunt men carried swords and
daggers with a new familiarity, and even the women had poniards
belted at their waists.
What could have happened to make them like this? And why are they
so late? wondered Eragon. He remembered the traders as being
full of good cheer, but there was none of that now. Garrow pushed
down the street, searching for Merlock, a trader who specialized in
odd trinkets and pieces of jewelry.
They found him behind a booth, displaying brooches to a group of
women. As each new piece was revealed, exclamations of admiration
followed. Eragon guessed that more than a few purses would soon be
depleted. Merlock seemed to flourish and grow every time his wares
were complimented. He wore a goatee, held himself with ease, and
seemed to regard the rest of the world with slight contempt.
The excited group prevented Garrow and Eragon from getting near the
trader, so they settled on a step and waited. As soon as Merlock
was unoccupied, they hurried over.
"And what might you sirs want to look at?" asked Merlock. "An
amulet or trinket for a lady?" With a twirl he pulled out a
delicately carved silver rose of excellent workmanship. The
polished metal
caught Eragon's attention, and he eyed it appreciatively. The
trader continued, "Not even three crowns, though it has come all
the way from the famed craftsmen of Belatona."
Garrow spoke in a quiet voice. "We aren't looking to buy, but to
sell." Merlock immediately covered the rose and looked at them with
new interest.
"I see. Maybe, if this item is of any value, you would like to
trade it for one or two of these exquisite pieces." He paused for a
moment while Eragon and his uncle stood uncomfortably, then
continued, "You did
bring the object of
consideration?"
"We have it, but we would rather show it to you elsewhere," said
Garrow in a firm voice.
Merlock raised an eyebrow, but spoke smoothly. "In that case, let
me invite you to my tent." He gathered up his wares and gently laid
them in an iron-bound chest, which he locked. Then he ushered them
up the street and into the temporary camp. They wound between the
wagons to a tent removed from the rest of the traders'.
It was crimson at the top and sable at the bottom, with thin
triangles of colors stabbing into each other. Merlock untied the
opening and swung the flap to one side.
Small trinkets and strange pieces of furniture, such as a round bed
and three seats carved from tree stumps, filled the tent. A gnarled
dagger with a ruby in the pommel rested on a white cushion.
Merlock closed the flap and turned to them. "Please, seat
yourselves." When they had, he said, "Now show me why we are
meeting in private." Eragon unwrapped the stone and set it between
the two men. Merlock reached for it with a gleam in his eye, then
stopped and asked, "May I?" When Garrow indicated his approval,
Merlock picked it up.
He put the stone in his lap and reached to one side for a thin box.
Opened, it revealed a large set of copper scales, which he set on
the ground. After weighing the stone, he scrutinized its
surface
under a jeweler's glass, tapped it gently with a wooden mallet, and
drew the point of a tiny clear stone over it. He measured its
length and diameter, then recorded the figures on a slate. He
considered the results for a while. "Do you know what this is
worth?"
"No," admitted Garrow. His cheek twitched, and he shifted
uncomfortably on the seat.
Merlock grimaced. "Unfortunately, neither do I. But I can tell you
this much: the white veins are the same material as the blue that
surrounds them, only a different color. What that material might
be, though, I haven't a clue. It's harder than any rock I have
seen, harder even than diamond. Whoever shaped it used tools I have
never seen-or magic. Also, it's hollow."
"What?" exclaimed Garrow.
An irritated edge crept into Merlock's voice. "Did you ever hear a
rock sound like this?" He grabbed the dagger from the cushion and
slapped the stone with the flat of the blade. A pure note filled
the air, then faded away smoothly. Eragon was alarmed, afraid that
the stone had been damaged. Merlock tilted the stone toward them.
"You will find no scratches or blemishes where the dagger struck. I
doubt I could do anything to harm this stone, even if I took a
hammer to it."
Garrow crossed his arms with a reserved expression. A wall of
silence surrounded him. Eragon was puzzled.
I knew that the
stone appeared in the Spine through magic, but made by magic? What
for and why? He blurted, "But what is it worth?"
"I can't tell you that," said Merlock in a pained voice. "I am sure
there are people who would pay dearly to have it, but none of them
are in Carvahall. You would have to go to the southern cities
to
find a buyer. This is a curiosity for most people-not an item to
spend money on when practical things are needed."
Garrow stared at the tent ceiling like a gambler calculating
the
odds. "Will you buy it?"
The trader answered instantly, "It's not worth the risk. I might be
able to find a wealthy buyer during my spring travels, but I can't
be certain. Even if I did, you wouldn't be paid until I returned
next year. No, you will have to find someone else to trade with. I
am curious, however . . . Why did you insist on talking to me in
private?"
Eragon put the stone away before answering. "Because," he glanced
at the man, wondering if he would explode like Sloan, "I found this
in the Spine, and folks around here don't like that."
Merlock gave him a startled look. "Do you know why my fellow
merchants and I were late this year?"
Eragon shook his head.
"Our wanderings have been dogged with misfortune. Chaos seems to
rule Alagaësia. We could not avoid illness, attacks, and the most
cursed black luck. Because the Varden's attacks have increased,
Galbatorix has forced cities to send more soldiers to the borders,
men who are needed to combat the Urgals. The brutes have been
migrating southeast, toward the Hadarac Desert. No one knows why
and it wouldn't concern us, except that they're passing through
populated areas. They've been spotted on roads and near cities.
Worst of all are reports of a Shade, though the stories are
unconfirmed. Not many people survive such an encounter."
"Why haven't we heard of this?" cried Eragon.
"Because," said Merlock grimly, "it only began a few months ago.
Whole villages have been forced to move because Urgals destroyed
their fields and starvation threatens."
"Nonsense," growled Garrow. "We haven't seen any Urgals; the only
one around here has his horns mounted in Morn's tavern."
Merlock arched an eyebrow. "Maybe so, but this is a small village
hidden by mountains. It's not surprising that you've escaped
notice. However, I wouldn't expect that to last. I only mentioned
this
because strange things are happening here as well if you found such
a stone in the Spine." With that sobering statement, he bid them
farewell with a bow and slight smile.
Garrow headed back to Carvahall with Eragon trailing behind. "What
do you think?" asked Eragon.
"I'm going to get more information before I make up my mind. Take
the stone back to the wagon, then do what you want. I'll meet you
for dinner at Horst's."
Eragon dodged through the crowd and happily dashed back to the
wagon. Trading would take his uncle hours, time that he planned to
enjoy fully. He hid the stone under the bags, then set out into
town with a cocky stride.
He walked from one booth to another, evaluating the goods with a
buyer's eye, despite his meager supply of coins. When he talked
with the merchants, they confirmed what Merlock had said about the
instability in Alagaësia. Over and over the message was repeated:
last year's security has deserted us; new dangers have appeared,
and nothing is safe.
Later in the day he bought three sticks of malt candy and a small
piping-hot cherry pie. The hot food felt good after hours of
standing in the snow. He licked the sticky syrup from his fingers
regretfully, wishing for more, then sat on the edge of a porch and
nibbled a piece of candy. Two boys from Carvahall wrestled nearby,
but he felt no inclination to join them.
As the day descended into late afternoon, the traders took their
business into people's homes. Eragon was impatient for evening,
when the troubadours would come out to tell stories and perform
tricks. He loved hearing about magic, gods, and, if they were
especially lucky, the Dragon Riders. Carvahall had its own
storyteller, Brom-a friend of Eragon's-but his tales grew old over
the years, whereas the troubadours always had new ones that he
listened to eagerly.
Eragon had just broken off an icicle from the underside of the
porch when he spotted Sloan nearby. The butcher had not seen him,
so Eragon ducked his head and bolted around a corner toward Morn's
tavern.
The inside was hot and filled with greasy smoke from sputtering
tallow candles. The shiny-black Urgal horns, their twisted span as
great as his outstretched arms, were mounted over the door. The bar
was long and low, with a stack of staves on one end for customers
to carve. Morn tended the bar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
The bottom half of his face was short and mashed, as if he had
rested his chin on a grinding wheel. People crowded solid oak
tables and listened to two traders who had finished their business
early and had come in for beer.
Morn looked up from a mug he was cleaning. "Eragon! Good to see
you. Where's your uncle?"
"Buying," said Eragon with a shrug. "He's going to be a
while."
"And Roran, is he here?" asked Morn as he swiped the cloth through
another mug.
"Yes, no sick animals to keep him back this year."
"Good, good." Eragon gestured at the two traders. "Who are
they?"
"Grain buyers. They bought everyone's seed at ridiculously low
prices, and now they're telling wild stories, expecting us to
believe them."
Eragon understood why Morn was so upset.
People need that
money. We can't get by without it. "What kind of stories?"
Morn snorted. "They say the Varden have formed a pact with the
Urgals and are massing an army to attack us.
Supposedly,
it's only through the grace of our king that we've been protected
for so long-as if Galbatorix would care if we burned to the ground.
. . .Go listen to them. I have enough on my hands without
explaining their lies."
The first trader filled a chair with his enormous girth; his every
movement caused it to protest loudly. There was no hint of hair on
his face, his pudgy hands were baby smooth, and he had pouting lips
that curled petulantly as he sipped from a flagon. The second man
had a florid face. The skin around his jaw was dry and corpulent,
filled with lumps of hard fat, like cold butter gone rancid.
Contrasted with his neck and jowls, the rest of his body was
unnaturally thin.
The first trader vainly tried to pull back his expanding borders to
fit within the chair. He said, "No, no, you don't understand. It is
only through the king's unceasing efforts on your behalf that you
are able to argue with us in safety. If he, in all his wisdom, were
to withdraw that support, woe unto you!"
Someone hollered, "Right, why don't you also tell us the Riders
have returned and you've each killed a hundred elves. Do you think
we're children to believe in your tales? We can take care of
ourselves." The group chuckled.
The trader started to reply when his thin companion intervened with
a wave of his hand. Gaudy jewels flashed on his fingers. "You
misunderstand. We know the Empire cannot care for each of us
personally, as you may want, but it can keep Urgals and other
abominations from overrunning this," he searched vaguely for the
right term, "place."
The trader continued, "You're angry with the Empire for treating
people unfairly, a legitimate concern, but a government cannot
please everyone. There will inevitably be arguments and conflicts.
However, the majority of us have nothing to complain about. Every
country has some small group of malcontents who aren't satisfied
with the balance of power."
"Yeah," called a woman, "if you're willing to call the Varden
small!"
The fat man sighed. "We already explained that the Varden have no
interest in helping you. That's only a falsehood perpetuated by the
traitors in an attempt to disrupt the Empire and convince us
that the real threat is inside-not outside-our borders. All they
want to do is overthrow the king and take possession of our land.
They have spies everywhere as they prepare to invade. You never
know who might be working for them."
Eragon did not agree, but the traders' words were smooth, and
people were nodding. He stepped forward and said, "How do you know
this? I can say that clouds are green, but that doesn't mean
it's true. Prove you aren't lying." The two men glared at him while
the villagers waited silently for the answer.
The thin trader spoke first. He avoided Eragon's eyes. "Aren't your
children taught respect? Or do you let boys challenge men whenever
they want to?"
The listeners fidgeted and stared at Eragon. Then a man said,
"Answer the question."
"It's only common sense," said the fat one, sweat beading on his
upper lip. His reply riled the villagers, and the dispute
resumed.
Eragon returned to the bar with a sour taste in his mouth. He had
never before met anyone who favored the Empire and tore down its
enemies. There was a deep-seated hatred of the Empire in Carvahall,
almost hereditary in nature. The Empire never helped them during
harsh years when they nearly starved, and its tax collectors were
heartless. He felt justified in disagreeing with the traders
regarding the king's mercy, but he did speculate about the
Varden.
The Varden were a rebel group that constantly raided and attacked
the Empire. It was a mystery who their leader was or who had formed
them in the years following Galbatorix's rise to power
over a century ago. The group had garnered much sympathy as they
eluded Galbatorix's efforts to destroy them. Little was known about
the Varden except that if you were a fugitive and had to hide, or
if you hated the Empire, they would accept you. The only problem
was finding them.
Morn leaned over the bar and said, "Incredible, isn't it? They're
worse than vultures circling a dying animal. There's going to be
trouble if they stay much longer."
"For us or for them?"
"Them," said Morn as angry voices filled the tavern. Eragon left
when the argument threatened to become violent. The door thudded
shut behind him, cutting off the voices. It was early evening, and
the sun was sinking rapidly; the houses cast long shadows on the
ground. As Eragon headed down the street, he noticed Roran and
Katrina standing in an alley.
Roran said something Eragon could not hear. Katrina looked down at
her hands and answered in an undertone, then leaned up on her
tiptoes and kissed him before darting away. Eragon trotted to Roran
and teased, "Having a good time?" Roran grunted noncommittally as
he paced away.
"Have you heard the traders' news?" asked Eragon, following.
Most of the villagers were indoors, talking to traders or waiting
until it was dark enough for the troubadours to perform.
"Yes." Roran seemed distracted. "What do you think of Sloan?"
"I thought it was obvious."
"There'll be blood between us when he finds out about Katrina and
me," stated Roran. A snowflake landed on Eragon's nose, and he
looked up. The sky had turned gray. He could think of nothing
appropriate to say; Roran was right. He clasped his cousin on the
shoulder as they continued down the byway.
Dinner at Horst's was hearty. The room was full of conversation and
laughter. Sweet cordials and heavy ales were consumed in copious
amounts, adding to the boisterous atmosphere. When the
plates were empty, Horst's guests left the house and strolled to
the field where the traders were camped. A ring of poles topped
with candles had been stuck into the ground around a large
clearing.
Bonfires blazed in the background, painting the ground with dancing
shadows. The villagers slowly gathered around the circle and waited
expectantly in the cold.
The troubadours came tumbling out of their tents, dressed in
tasseled clothing, followed by older and more stately minstrels.
The minstrels provided music and narration as their younger
counterparts acted out the stories. The first plays were pure
entertainment: bawdy and full of jokes, pratfalls, and ridiculous
characters. Later, however, when the candles sputtered in their
sockets and everyone was drawn together into a tight circle, the
old storyteller Brom stepped forward. A knotted white beard rippled
over his chest, and a long black cape was wrapped around his bent
shoulders, obscuring his body. He spread his arms with hands that
reached out like talons and recited thus:
"The sands of time cannot be stopped. Years pass whether we will
them or not . . . but we can remember. What has been lost may yet
live on in memories. That which you will hear is imperfect and
fragmented, yet treasure it, for without you it does not exist. I
give you now a memory that has been forgotten, hidden in the dreamy
haze that lies behind us."
His keen eyes inspected their interested faces. His gaze lingered
on Eragon last of all.
"Before your grandfathers' fathers were born, and yea, even before
their fathers, the Dragon Riders were formed. To protect and guard
was their mission, and for thousands of years they succeeded. Their
prowess in battle was unmatched, for each had the strength of ten
men. They were immortal unless blade or poison took them. For good
only were their powers used, and under their tutelage tall cities
and towers were built out of the living stone. While they kept
peace, the land flourished. It was a golden time. The elves were
our allies, the dwarves our friends. Wealth flowed into our cities,
and men prospered. But weep . . . for it could not last."
Brom looked down silently. Infinite sadness resonated in his
voice.
"Though no enemy could destroy them, they could not guard against
themselves. And it came to pass at the height of their power that a
boy, Galbatorix by name, was born in the province of
Inzilbêth, which is no more. At ten he was tested, as was the
custom, and it was found that great power resided in him. The
Riders accepted him as their own.
"Through their training he passed, exceeding all others in skill.
Gifted with a sharp mind and strong body, he quickly took his place
among the Riders' ranks. Some saw his abrupt rise as dangerous and
warned the others, but the Riders had grown arrogant in their power
and ignored caution. Alas, sorrow was conceived that day.
"So it was that soon after his training was finished, Galbatorix
took a reckless trip with two friends. Far north they flew, night
and day, and passed into the Urgals' remaining territory, foolishly
thinking
their new powers would protect them. There on a thick sheet of ice,
unmelted even in summer, they were ambushed in their sleep. Though
his friends and their dragons were butchered and he
suffered great wounds, Galbatorix slew his attackers. Tragically,
during the fight a stray arrow pierced his dragon's heart. Without
the arts to save her, she died in his arms. Then were the seeds of
madness planted."
The storyteller clasped his hands and looked around slowly, shadows
flickering across his worn face. The next words came like the
mournful toll of a requiem.
"Alone, bereft of much of his strength and half mad with loss,
Galbatorix wandered without hope in that desolate land, seeking
death. It did not come to him, though he threw himself without fear
against any living thing. Urgals and other monsters soon fled from
his haunted form. During this time he came to realize that the
Riders might grant him another dragon. Driven by this thought,
he
began the arduous journey, on foot, back through the Spine.
Territory he had soared over effortlessly on a dragon's back now
took him months to traverse. He could hunt with magic, but often-
times he walked in places where animals did not travel. Thus when
his feet finally left the mountains, he was close to death. A
farmer found him collapsed in the mud and summoned the
Riders.
"Unconscious, he was taken to their holdings, and his body healed.
He slept for four days. Upon awakening he gave no sign of his
fevered mind. When he was brought before a council convened
to judge him, Galbatorix demanded another dragon. The desperation
of the request revealed his dementia, and the council saw him for
what he truly was. Denied his hope, Galbatorix, through the
twisted mirror of his madness, came to believe it was the Riders'
fault his dragon had died. Night after night he brooded on that and
formulated a plan to exact revenge."
Brom's words dropped to a mesmerizing whisper.
"He found a sympathetic Rider, and there his insidious words took
root. By persistent reasoning and the use of dark secrets learned
from a Shade, he inflamed the Rider against their elders. Together
they treacherously lured and killed an elder. When the foul deed
was done, Galbatorix turned on his ally and slaughtered him without
warning. The Riders found him, then, with blood dripping from his
hands. A scream tore from his lips, and he fled into the night. As
he was cunning in his madness, they could not find him.
"For years he hid in wastelands like a hunted animal, always
watching for pursuers. His atrocity was not forgotten, but over
time searches ceased. Then through some ill fortune he met a young
Rider, Morzan-strong of body, but weak of mind. Galbatorix
convinced Morzan to leave a gate unbolted in the citadel Ilirea,
which is now called Urû'baen. Through this gate Galbatorix entered
and stole a dragon hatchling.
"He and his new disciple hid themselves in an evil place where the
Riders dared not venture. There Morzan entered into a dark
apprenticeship, learning secrets and forbidden magic that should
never have been revealed. When his instruction was finished and
Galbatorix's black dragon, Shruikan, was fully grown, Galbatorix
revealed himself to the world, with Morzan at his side. Together
they fought any Rider they met. With each kill their strength grew.
Twelve of the Riders joined Galbatorix out of desire for power and
revenge against perceived wrongs. Those twelve, with Morzan, became
the Thirteen Forsworn. The Riders were unprepared and fell beneath
the onslaught. The elves, too, fought bitterly against Galbatorix,
but they were overthrown and forced to flee to their secret places,
from whence they come no more.
"Only Vrael, leader of the Riders, could resist Galbatorix and the
Forsworn. Ancient and wise, he struggled to save what he could and
keep the remaining dragons from falling to his enemies. In
the
last battle, before the gates of Dorú Areaba, Vrael defeated
Galbatorix, but hesitated with the final blow. Galbatorix seized
the moment and smote him in the side. Grievously wounded, Vrael
fled
to Utgard Mountain, where he hoped to gather strength. But it was
not to be, for Galbatorix found him. As they fought, Galbatorix
kicked Vrael in the fork of his legs. With that underhanded
blow,
he gained dominance over Vrael and removed his head with a blazing
sword.
"Then as power rushed through his veins, Galbatorix anointed
himself king over all Alagaësia.
"And from that day, he has ruled us."
With the completion of the story, Brom shuffled away with the
troubadours. Eragon thought he saw a tear shining on his cheek.
People murmured quietly to each other as they departed.
Garrow
said to Eragon and Roran, "Consider yourselves fortunate. I have
heard this tale only twice in my life. If the Empire knew that Brom
had recited it, he would not live to see a new month."
1. Family and Home
Eragon's family is very important to him, although he never knew
his parents. Who do you think Eragon's parents were? Why is his
father's identity a mystery, and why did his mother bring him to
her brother to raise and then disappear? Could Eragon have
prevented his uncle's death?
What was Eragon's life like before he found the dragon's egg? How
did his discovery of the egg change his life? Do you think Eragon
found the egg or the egg was deliberately sent to him?
Why was Eragon comfortable exploring the Spine when everyone else
in his village was afraid of the place? What does the Spine
represent to the other inhabitants of Carvahall?
Does Brom know that Eragon is special from the beginning? Has he
been watching Eragon all along, knowing what his destiny will be?
Why do you think Brom settled in Carvahall as the village
storyteller?
Do you think Eragon will ever be able to return to the Palancar
Valley and Carvahall? He longs for his home in the midst of his
adventures, but will he return to the farm when his adventures are
over?
2. Destiny and Responsibility
The first line of the story reads: "Wind howled through the night,
carrying a scent that would change the world." What does this
opening tell you about the meaning of destiny in the tale? What
does the author mean by "a scent that would change the
world"?
Names are very important in this story. How does it affect Eragon
to learn that his name was also the name of the first Dragon Rider?
How does he choose Saphira's name?
What does Saphira mean when she says, "It is our destiny to attempt
the impossible, to accomplish great deeds regardless of fear. It is
our responsibility to the future"? Is this true for everyone? What
is the responsibility of each of us to the future?
Why does Eragon's magic diminish his own strength every time he
uses it?
Angela the fortuneteller says, "To know one's fate can be a
terrible thing." Would you want to know your future if someone
could tell you? Why does Eragon decide to hear her
predictions?
What does she mean when she says, "That freedom [to choose your
fate] is a gift, but it is also a responsibility more binding than
chains"?
How does Eragon feel about his fate as a Dragon Rider? What are the
benefits of his new life? What are the dangers? Would you choose to
take on the responsibilities Eragon has-caring for Saphira,
rescuing Arya, helping the Varden, fighting the Empire?
3. Trust and Fear
Why does Brom want to travel with Eragon when he is forced to leave
his home? How does Eragon know that he can trust Brom?
Who are the Ra'zac and what do they represent to Eragon?
When Eragon realizes that Arya is an elf, does it change his
feelings about her? Why does he rescue her from the prison even
though it puts his own rescue in jeopardy?
How does Eragon feel when he learns about Murtagh's parentage? Does
the fact that Murtagh's father was Morzan affect Eragon's trust of
him? Does it affect your feelings about his character?
When Eragon finds the stronghold of the Varden, he is confronted by
the Twins. Why does Ajihad trust the Twins? Why do they treat
Eragon with suspicion?
4. Good and Evil
Many fantasy novels deal with the struggle between forces of good
and evil. Discuss the ways in which Eragon explores this theme and
which characters represent good and evil.
The story begins with the Shade and his ruthless ambush of the elf
Arya. How did this Prologue affect your anticipation of the story
to come? Why is the Prologue titled "Shade of Fear"?
Are there characters who represent pure good and pure evil? Discuss
the ways in which an author shows us a character's true nature. How
does a character's life experience shape his or her actions?
How did Galbatorix establish his rule of Alagaësia? What
experiences turned him into a cruel and feared ruler? What do we
learn of the Shade's past when he is killed?
The Urgals seem to be completely ruthless, yet Eragon is hesitant
to kill them with his magic in Chapter 30. Why does he only use his
magic to stun them? Why is he so upset when Murtagh kills
Torkenbrand, the slave trader?
5. Connecting Fantasy to Real Life
What kinds of good and evil do you hear about in the news? Discuss
examples from news stories that report events representing the good
and evil in our society and around the world.
What circumstances can bring people together to become friends and
what can make those friendships grow and develop? What
circumstances can hurt a friendship?
Do you feel that some people have a destiny to fulfill or a special
reason for living? Name people in history who had a strong
responsibility to a cause for good or evil. (Possibilities would be
Abraham Lincoln, Gandhi, and Martin Luther King for good causes and
Adolf Hitler, Attila the Hun, and Josef Stalin for evil.)