“I wanted to see you.” Her eyes, large and mysterious against her pale face, pooled with the night’s shadows. She took his arm and led him to a deserted porch far out of earshot of Baldor and the other guards. There she placed her hands on his cheeks and softly kissed him, but he was too tired and troubled to respond to her affection. She drew away and studied him. “What is wrong, Roran?”

A bark of humorless laughter escaped him. “What’s wrong? The world is wrong; it’s as askew as a picture frame knocked on its side.” He jammed his fist against his gut. “And I am wrong. Every time I allow myself to relax, I see the soldiers bleeding under my hammer. Men Ikilled, Katrina. And their eyes . . . theireyes ! They knew they were about to die and that they could nothing do about it.” He trembled in the darkness. “They knew . . . I knew . . . and I still had to do it. It couldn’t—” Words failed him as he felt hot tears roll down his cheeks.

Katrina cradled his head as Roran cried from the shock of the past few days. He wept for Garrow and Eragon; he wept for Parr, Quimby, and the other dead; he wept for himself; and he wept for the fate of Carvahall. He sobbed until his emotions ebbed and left him as dry and hollow as an old barley husk.

Forcing himself to take a long breath, Roran looked at Katrina and noticed her own tears. He brushed them away with his thumb, like diamonds in the night. “Katrina . . . my love.” He said it again, tasting the words: “My love. I have naught to give you but my love. Still . . . I must ask. Will you marry me?”

In the dim lantern light, he saw pure joy and wonder leap across her face. Then she hesitated and troubled doubt appeared. It was wrong for him to ask, or for her to accept, without Sloan’s permission. But Roran no longer cared; he had to know now if he and Katrina would spend their lives together.

Then, softly: “Yes, Roran, I will.”

UNDER ADARKLINGSKY

That night it rained.

Layer upon layer of pregnant clouds blanketed Palancar Valley, clinging to the mountains with tenacious arms and filling the air with heavy, cold mist. From inside, Roran watched as cords of gray water pelted the trees with their frothing leaves, muddied the trench around Carvahall, and scrabbled with blunt fingers against the thatched roofs and eaves as the clouds disgorged their load. Everything was streaked, blurred, and hidden behind the torrent’s inexorable streamers.

By midmorning the storm had abated, although a continuous drizzle still percolated through the mist. It quickly soaked Roran’s hair and clothes when he took his watch at the barricade to the main road. He squatted by the upright logs, shook his cloak, then pulled the hood farther over his face and tried to ignore the cold.

Despite the weather, Roran soared and exulted with his joy at Katrina’s acceptance. They were engaged! In his mind, it was as if a missing piece of the world had dropped into place, as if he had been granted the confidence of an invulnerable warrior. What did the soldiers matter, or the Ra’zac, or the Empire itself, before love such as theirs? They were nothing but tinder to the blaze.

For all his new bliss, however, his mind was entirely focused on what had become the most important conundrum of his existence: how to assure that Katrina would survive Galbatorix’s wrath. He had thought of nothing else since waking.The best thing would be for Katrina to go to Cawley’s, he decided, staring down the hazy road,but she would never agree to leave . . . unless Sloan told her to. I might be able to convince him; I’m sure he wants her out of danger as much as I do.

As he considered ways to approach the butcher, the clouds thickened again and the rain renewed its assault on the village, arching down in stinging waves. Around Roran, the puddles jumped to life as pellets of water drummed their surfaces, bouncing back up like startled grasshoppers.

When Roran grew hungry, he passed his watch to Larne—Loring’s youngest son—and went to find lunch, darting from the shelter of one eave to another. As he rounded a corner, he was surprised to see Albriech on the house’s porch, arguing violently with a group of men.

Ridley shouted, “. . . you’re blind—follow the cottonwoods and they’ll never see! You took the addle-brain’s route.”

“Try it if you want,” retorted Albriech.

“I will!”

“Then you can tell me how you like the taste of arrows.”

“Maybe,” said Thane, “we aren’t as clubfooted as you are.”

Albriech turned on him with a snarl. “Your words are as thick as your wits. I’m not stupid enough to risk my family on the cover of a few leaves that I’ve never seen before.” Thane’s eyes bulged and his face turned a deep mottled crimson. “What?” taunted Albriech. “Have you no tongue?”

Thane roared and struck Albriech on the cheek with his fist. Albriech laughed. “Your arm is as weak as a woman’s.” Then he grabbed Thane’s shoulder and threw him off the porch and into the mud, where he lay on his side, stunned.

Holding his spear like a staff, Roran jumped beside Albriech, preventing Ridley and the others from laying hands on him. “No more,” growled Roran, furious. “We have other enemies. An assembly can be called and arbitrators will decide whether compensation is due to either Albriech or Thane. But until then, wecan’t fight ourselves.”

“Easy for you to say,” spat Ridley. “You have no wife or children.” Then he helped Thane to his feet and departed with the group of men.

Roran stared hard at Albriech and the purple bruise that was spreading beneath his right eye. “What started it?” he asked.