Section One

Eragon knelt on a patch of trampled reeds and expertly examined the tracks. The prints told him that a herd of deer had passed through this meadow barely half an hour ago. They would soon lie down to rest. His quarry was still among them: a young doe with a badly crippled left foreleg. That she had managed to travel so far without falling prey to wolves or bears made him click his tongue in wonder.

The night sky was deep and clear, and the faintest breeze brushed past him. Mountains surrounded him on every side, their peaks wreathed in silvery clouds. An autumn full moon lay in the hollow between two summits, its pale red glow tracing luminous edges around the clouds. Far away, glaciers stood frozen, snow gleaming brightly. Meltwater ran down from the mountains in several small streams. Mist drifted quietly along the valley floor, so thick he could barely see his own feet.

Eragon was already fifteen. In less than a year, he would be an adult. His eyebrows were jet-black, his brown eyes bright with life, and his clothes were torn in many places from the long journey. A bone-handled hunting knife in its sheath hung from his belt. His powerful yew crossbow was wrapped in a deerskin cover to keep out damp, and he carried a pack framed with wooden slats on his back.

Following the doe, Eragon had ventured ever deeper into the Spine. This primeval wilderness stretched across Alagaësia. Countless mysterious tales and uncanny figures had sprung from those vast mountains, every one of them concealing peril beneath the surface. Yet Eragon did not fear the Spine—he was the only hunter around Carvahall who dared brave its dangers and enter the wilds to track game.

This was the third night of his hunt, and half his food was already gone. If he still could not catch the doe, he would have no choice but to return home empty-handed. Winter was pressing close, and his family desperately needed to store meat, yet they had no money to buy any in Carvahall.

Eragon stood quietly in the hazy moonlight for a moment, calm and composed. Then he entered the thick forest and strode toward the gorge. He believed the herd would be bedding down there. Trees blotted out the sky, casting shadows as soft as feathers across the ground. He knew this path and only needed to check the deer's trail now and then.

When he reached the gorge, he steadily cocked his crossbow. Then he drew out three bolts, loaded one, and held the other two in his left hand. The deer lay scattered across the grass, about twenty silent black shapes in the moonlight. The young doe he wanted lay at the edge of the herd, her injured left foreleg stretched painfully outward.

Eragon crept closer, crossbow raised and ready. The hardship of the past three days had finally led to this moment. He steadied his breathing one last time, and then—a thunderous boom shattered the night.

The startled herd scattered in panic. Eragon lunged forward and raced across the grass. A wave of heat struck him, scorching his cheeks. He halted abruptly and fired at the fleeing doe. The bolt whipped past her by barely a finger's breadth and vanished into the darkness with a whistle. He cursed under his breath, spun around, and loaded another bolt without thinking.

Behind him, where the deer had rested, every blade of grass and every shrub had been destroyed, seared into a vast circle of blackened earth. Pines stood bare and stripped, every needle gone. Beyond the scorched ring, wild grass lay flattened across the ground. Smoke curled through the air, heavy with the smell of burning. At the center of the circle formed by the blast of heat lay a beautiful blue stone. A thin thread of smoke twisted and coiled above it, unraveling into faint wisps that lingered around the stone.

Guarding against possible danger, Eragon watched for several minutes. Apart from the drifting smoke, nothing around him stirred. He loosened his crossbow string and approached warily. His shadow stretched faintly across the ground beneath the moon. He poked the stone with a bolt, then sprang backward. Nothing happened, so he carefully picked it up.

No naturally formed stone could be so smooth. Its sapphire-blue surface was flawless, save for delicate white veins running through it. Cool and slick between his fingers, it felt like hardened silk. The oval stone was nearly a foot long. Though lighter than it looked, it still weighed several pounds.

To Eragon, the stone was both beautiful and frightening. Where had it come from? Why had it fallen here? More troubling questions crowded into his mind: Had it landed here by chance, or did it mean that I was meant to possess it? If he had learned anything from the old tales, it was to beware of magic and those who used it.

What should I do with this stone? Carrying it will be exhausting, and it could be dangerous too. It would be best to leave it where it is. He hesitated, almost setting it down, but something stopped him. At the very least, it could be traded for food. He shrugged, made his decision, and stuffed the stone into his pack.

The gorge was too open to make a safe campsite, so he returned to the forest. A great tree had fallen, its uprooted roots raised into the air, and he spread his bedroll beneath them. After eating cold bread and cheese, Eragon wrapped himself tightly in his blanket and fell asleep while replaying the night's events in his mind.

The next morning, the rising sun set the sky ablaze, as though great fires of brilliant yellow and scarlet had been kindled there. The air was fresh and sweet, cold enough to chill him to the bone. Thin ice rimmed the streams, and the small ponds had frozen solid. After a breakfast of porridge, Eragon returned to the gorge and carefully searched the burned earth. But the morning sun revealed nothing new, and so he set out for home.

The hunting trail was hard to make out and rough underfoot. In places it vanished altogether. Since animals had worn it into being, it often twisted and took long detours. Yet for all its faults, it remained the quickest way out of the mountains.

The Spine was one of the few lands still beyond King Galbatorix's rule. Old stories never ceased telling how, when his army marched into the ancient forests of the Spine, half the soldiers vanished without a trace. A cloud of doom and misfortune seemed to hang over those woods. Though towering trees grew there and sunlight flashed through their branches, few could remain within for long without harm. Eragon was one of those few—not because of any extraordinary gift, he believed, but because he was quick to react and always alert. He had hunted deep in these mountains for years, yet he still held them in awe. Whenever he thought he understood their secrets, something would happen that overturned all his ideas—just as this stone had fallen from the sky.

The journey home gradually shortened, and he moved lightly all the way until night brought him to the edge of a steep river valley. The Anora River rushed through the abyss beneath his feet, racing toward Palancar Valley. Formed from countless tiny streams, the great river was like a savage beast, smashing against the rocks on its banks and the reefs that blocked its path. Its deep roar echoed through the air.

He settled in a thicket at the edge of the ravine, watched the moon rise, then lay down to sleep.

Over the next day and a half, the weather grew colder still. Eragon walked swiftly and saw only a few wild animals, each one alert as if danger lurked everywhere. Shortly after noon, he heard the thunder of Igualda Falls, where spray and foam crashed together like shattered jade. The path beneath his feet led him onto exposed, damp rock. The river rushed past beside him, then plunged over a vast moss-covered cliff.

Palancar Valley spread before him like an unfolding map. Igualda Falls dropped more than half a mile, and its base marked the valley's northernmost end. Not far from the falls lay Carvahall, a small cluster of brown houses with white smoke curling from their chimneys, silently defying the desolation that hemmed them in. From above, the fields were mere little squares, no larger than his fingertips. Beyond them stretched the surrounding dun-colored wasteland, where dead grass waved in the wind. The Anora River wound southward from beneath the falls through Palancar Valley, glittering like a silver serpent in flight. Far in the distance, it passed Therinsford Village and the lone mountain Utgard. Beyond that, all Eragon knew was that it turned north and flowed into the sea.

After a brief pause, he left the rocks and clambered down the path, gritting his teeth the whole way. By the time he finally reached the foot of the falls, the soft curtain of evening had quietly covered everything, blending all colors and shapes into vague gray shadows. In the dimness, Carvahall's lights gleamed nearby, and long slanting shadows trailed from the houses. Apart from nearby Therinsford Village, Carvahall was the only village in Palancar Valley. The little settlement was cut off from the world, bleak yet beautiful, and almost no one came there except merchants and trappers.

The village consisted of sturdy log buildings with low roofs, some thatched and others covered in shingles. Thick smoke poured from chimneys, filling the air with the pleasant scent of burning wood. Every house had a wide porch where people liked to gather, talk, and work. As candles and oil lamps were lit one after another, windows glowed here and there. Men's loud conversation drifted through the hazy darkness, while women hurried out to meet them, scolding them again and again for coming home late.

Eragon passed through the village houses and headed for the butcher's shop. It was a broad building with thick beams and a chimney belching black smoke from its roof.

He pushed open the door. A stone fireplace crackled brightly, and the spacious room was warm and well lit. A row of empty counters stood against the far wall, and straw was scattered across the floor. The entire place was spotless, as if the owner dug into every hidden crevice whenever he had time, hunting for even the smallest speck of dirt. Behind the counter stood the butcher, Sloan, rubbing it with a rag. He was short, with a sallow, pockmarked face set with suspicious black eyes. He wore a cotton shirt beneath a bloodstained smock, and an impressive row of butcher knives hung lightly from his belt.

Seeing Eragon enter, Sloan curled his lip. "Oh, the great hunter has come to visit us humble mortals. What did you bring back this time?"

"Nothing," Eragon answered curtly. He had never liked Sloan. The butcher always treated him with contempt, as if he were something unclean. A widower, Sloan seemed to care for no one but his daughter Katrina, whom he spoiled shamelessly.

"I'm astonished," Sloan said, pretending to be greatly surprised. He turned his back on Eragon and scraped something from the wall. "So you came here because of that?"

"Yes," Eragon admitted uneasily.

"If that's the case, let's see where your money is." Sloan tapped the counter with a finger. Eragon shifted his feet but stayed silent. "Come now—you either have money or you don't. Which is it?"

"I really don't have any money, but I—"

"What? No money?" the butcher cut in sharply. "And you still came here to buy meat? Am I supposed to hand you my goods and be left empty-handed myself? Is that how other people sell things? Besides," he said stiffly, "it's too late now. Come back tomorrow with money. We're closed for the day."

Eragon looked at him. "I can't wait until tomorrow, Sloan. This is worth a little of your time. I found something that can serve as payment." With some pride, he took out the stone and set it gently on the scarred counter. It gleamed in the flickering firelight.

"Looks more like it was stolen," Sloan muttered, leaning closer with interest.

Ignoring the remark, Eragon asked, "Is it enough?"

Sloan picked up the stone and weighed it in his hand several times, calculating. He rubbed its smooth surface with his fingers and examined the fine white veins within. Then he set it down with the expression of a man driving a hard bargain. "It's pretty enough, but what's it worth?"

"I don't know," Eragon said honestly. "But if it weren't valuable, someone wouldn't have taken the trouble to carve it."

"Of course," Sloan said with feigned patience. "But what is it worth? Since you don't know, I suggest you find a merchant who does. Or accept my offer: three crowns."

"Only a miser would value it that way! It's worth at least ten times that." Eragon objected. Three crowns were not enough to buy a week's worth of meat.

Sloan shrugged. "If you don't agree to my price, wait for the merchants to come. Do as you please. I can't be bothered to say anything more."

The merchants they spoke of were wandering peddlers and entertainers. They came to Carvahall each spring and winter, buying surplus goods from villagers and farmers and selling them supplies needed for the coming year: seeds, poultry, livestock, cloth, and necessities such as salt and sugar.

But Eragon could not wait for them. It would take too long, and his family needed meat now. "Fine, I agree," he said loudly and helplessly.

"Good. I'll get your meat. By the way, where did you find this thing?"

"Two nights ago, in the Spine—"

"Get out!" Sloan roared, shoving the stone away. He stomped furiously to one end of the counter, pulled out a knife, and scrubbed hard at the blood on it.

"Why?" Eragon asked. He drew the stone closer, as though protecting it from Sloan's rage.

"I won't buy anything you brought back from that cursed mountain! Take that wizard's stone away!" Sloan accidentally sliced his finger. Yet he did not seem to notice, and kept wiping the blade savagely until fresh blood stained it.

"You're going back on your word!"

"That's right! Unless you bring money," Sloan bellowed, raising the knife as he came closer. "Get out, or I'll throw you out myself!"

The door suddenly flew open. Eragon spun around, preparing to face even worse trouble. Horst entered, broad and powerful. Sloan's daughter Katrina—a tall sixteen-year-old girl—followed behind him, determination written across her face. Eragon was startled to see her. She never appeared when her father quarreled with others. Sloan looked at them warily, then tried to strike first. "He refuses to—"

"Enough," Horst rumbled, cracking his knuckles. He was Carvahall's blacksmith, as anyone could see from his thick neck and scarred leather apron. His arms were powerful, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His open collar revealed a broad chest, heavy with muscle and dark hair. His untrimmed black beard was tangled, matching the knotted muscles of his strong jaw. "Sloan, what are you doing?"

"Nothing." He shot Eragon a vicious glare and spat on the floor. "This... boy is making trouble here. I told him to leave, but he wouldn't listen. I even tried to frighten him, but he doesn't care in the least!" Sloan looked at Horst, seeming to shrink into himself.

"Is that so?" the blacksmith asked.

"No!" Eragon answered. "I offered this stone for some meat, and he agreed. But when I told him I found it in the Spine, he refused to touch it again. What does it matter where it came from?"

Horst studied the stone curiously, then said to the butcher, "Why not make the trade with him, Sloan? I don't care for the Spine either, but I'd put down money to guarantee this stone's value."

His words hung in the air unanswered. After a while, Sloan licked his lips and said, "The shop is mine. I'll do what I want."

Katrina stepped out from behind Horst. With a toss of her head, her auburn hair flew up and fell behind her like a sheet of red-copper silk. "Father, Eragon is willing to pay. Give him the meat, and then we can have supper."

Sloan narrowed his eyes at his daughter and said threateningly, "Go back inside! This is none of your business... I told you to get out!" Katrina's expression froze. Her back stiff, she rushed from the room.

Eragon watched, dissatisfied, but did not dare say anything. Horst stroked his beard, then reproached Sloan. "Fine, then I'll buy it. What do you want, Eragon?" His voice echoed through the room.

"As much as you can give me."

Horst took out a purse and counted out a small pile of coins. "Bring out your best roast and steaks. Make sure they fill Eragon's pack." The butcher still did not move, his eyes shifting uncertainly between Horst and Eragon. "Refusing to sell to me would not be wise."

Sloan glared venomously before disappearing into the back room. A furious burst of chopping and tying immediately reached their ears, mixed with Sloan's low curses. After several uneasy minutes, he came out carrying an armful of bundled meat. Without expression, he accepted Horst's money and immediately began wiping his knives again, as if the two men before him no longer existed.

Horst picked up the meat and went outside. Eragon hurried after him with his pack and the stone. The dry, cold night wind swept across his face, clearing away the stifling air of the butcher's shop.

"Thank you, Horst. Uncle Garrow will be pleased."

Horst smiled silently. "Don't thank me. I've wanted to do something like that for a long time. Sloan is a troublemaking bastard, and learning a little humility would do him good. Katrina heard you arguing and ran to get me. I arrived at just the right time—you two nearly came to blows. Unfortunately, I doubt Sloan will sell anything to you or anyone else in your family from now on, even if you have money."

"Why did he suddenly change his attitude? We were never friendly, but he never refused our money before. And I've never seen him be so harsh with Katrina." As he spoke, Eragon opened his pack.

Horst shrugged. "Ask your uncle. He knows more than I do."

Eragon stuffed the meat into his pack. "Well, now I want to get home even sooner... and solve this mystery. This should be yours." He held out the blue stone.

Horst chuckled. "I don't want it. Keep that strange stone yourself. As for the money, Albriech plans to go to Feinster in spring and set himself up as a blacksmith. When that happens, I'll need help. If you have time, you can come work for me and repay the debt."

Eragon bowed slightly, overjoyed. Horst had two sons, Albriech and Baldor, both of whom worked in his smithy. Offering him one of their places was a generous gesture. "Thank you again! I'm looking forward to helping you soon." He was happy for the chance to repay Horst, for his uncle never accepted charity. Then Eragon remembered what his cousin had said before he set out hunting. "Roran asked me to pass a message to Katrina, but I can't do that now. Could you help?"

"Of course."

"He wants to tell her that once the merchants arrive, he'll come into the village to see her."

"Is that all?"

Eragon looked a little embarrassed. "Not quite. He also wants to tell her that she's the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, and there's no one else in his heart."

Horst grinned and winked at Eragon. "He's getting more and more smitten, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir." A smile flickered across Eragon's face. "Could you thank her for me? She was wonderful, standing up to her father for my sake. I hope she won't be punished for it. If I caused her trouble, Roran will go mad."

"I'm not worried about that. Sloan doesn't know she called me here, so he shouldn't do anything to her. Why not stay and eat supper before you go?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't. Uncle Garrow is waiting for me." Eragon tied up his pack, slung it over his shoulder, and started down the road, turning back to wave farewell to Horst.

The meat on his back slowed his steps, but his longing for home filled him with fresh energy. Before long, he was outside the village, its warm lights left far behind. The moon reflected the distant sunlight, sitting high above the mountain peaks and shining down upon the earth. Snow-white light bathed everything until sky and land became one.

He was almost home. The road beneath his feet continued south, while a side path branched away through waist-high grass. It climbed a small hill and nearly vanished beneath the shadows of elm trees standing like guards. At the crest of the hill, Eragon saw a single light glowing softly in his home.

It was a house with a shingled roof and a brick chimney. Its whitewashed walls stood beneath low eaves that cast a dark shadow across the ground. One side of the porch was piled with split firewood ready for heating, while the other was cluttered with farm tools.

After Garrow's wife Marian died, they had moved there. By then, the house had been abandoned for nearly half a century. It was a full ten miles from Carvahall, more isolated than any other home. Everyone thought such distance dangerous, for if trouble came, the family would have no one to help them. But Eragon's uncle had never cared.

A hundred feet from the house stood a dim livestock shed. It housed two horses—Brika and Brugh—as well as a flock of chickens and a dairy cow. They had once owned a pig, but this year they could no longer afford one. A wagon was squeezed between the pens. At the edge of their fields, a dense line of trees stretched away along the Anora River.

A light moved behind the window. Weary, he walked to the porch and called, "Uncle, open the door. It's Eragon." The bolt was drawn, and a moment later the door opened inward.

Garrow stood inside with one hand on the door, dressed in ragged clothes, like a wooden frame draped with scraps of cloth. His lean, hungry-looking face was framed by graying hair, and his eyes shone brightly through it. He looked as if someone had begun to mummify him, then discovered halfway through that he was still alive. Meeting Eragon's questioning gaze, he said, "Roran is asleep."

A lamp sat on the table. It was very old, its grain standing out in clear lines like enormous fingerprints. Homemade nails held rows of cooking utensils on the wall beside the charcoal stove. Another door led to the remaining rooms. The wooden floor had been worn smooth and glossy by years of boots.

Eragon set down his pack and took out the meat. "What's this? You bought meat? Where did you get the money?" his uncle demanded sternly when he saw the bundles.

Eragon drew a breath before answering. "No. Horst bought it for us."

"You let him pay? I told you I would never beg for food! If we cannot feed ourselves, we might as well move into the village. Before long, someone will bring us old clothes and ask whether we can survive the winter." Garrow's face went pale with anger.

"I didn't accept charity," Eragon argued loudly. "Horst agreed to let me work for him when spring comes to repay the debt. Albriech is leaving, and he needs help."

"When will you have time to work for him? Do the chores here no longer matter?" Garrow forced his voice lower.

Eragon hung his crossbow and quiver on hooks beside the door. "I don't know what I'll do when the time comes," he said irritably. "Also, I found something that might be worth money." He placed the stone on the table.

Garrow bent over it. The hunger in his face deepened, and his fingers twitched strangely. "You found it in the Spine?"

"Yes." Eragon told him what had happened. "Worse still, I lost my best bolt. I'll have to make more right away." Together, they stared at the gem in the near-darkness.

"How was the weather?" his uncle asked. He lifted the stone and gripped it tightly in both hands, as if afraid it would vanish before his eyes.

"Cold," Eragon said. "No snow, but it freezes every night."

The news made Garrow look troubled. "Tomorrow, help Roran finish harvesting the barley. If you can bring in the pumpkins in time, we won't have to fear frost." He handed the gem back to Eragon. "Take it and put it away. When the merchants arrive, we'll learn what it's worth. Selling it may be best. The farther we stay from magic, the better... Why did Horst have to pay for the meat?"

Eragon took some time to explain his quarrel with Sloan. "I just don't understand why he was so angry."

Garrow shrugged. "Sloan's wife, Ismira, jumped from Igualda Falls a year before you came here. Since then, he has never gone near the Spine or had anything to do with it. Still, that is no reason to refuse your business. I suppose he simply wanted to cause you trouble."

Eragon swayed, his eyes heavy with sleep. "It's good to be home." Garrow's gaze softened, and he nodded gently. Eragon staggered back to his room, put the stone beneath his bed, and collapsed onto the mattress. He was home. Since setting out on the hunt, he could finally relax completely and surrender to sleep without resistance.

Early the next morning, dawn poured through the window and spilled warmly over Eragon's face. He rubbed his eyes and sat up on the edge of the bed. The pine floor was icy beneath his feet. He stretched his aching legs, rubbed his back, and opened his mouth in a huge yawn.

A row of shelves stood beside his bed, filled with things he had collected. There were twisted pieces of wood, oddly shaped shells, stones with glittering broken faces, and knotted grass ropes. His favorite was a gnarled, curling tree root that he never tired of looking at. The rest of the room was bare, containing only a small wardrobe and a bedside table.

He put on his boots and stared at the floor, lost in thought. Today was a special day. Sixteen years ago, at nearly this very hour, his mother Selena had returned to Carvahall alone and pregnant after leaving home six years earlier to live in a city. She had returned in fine clothes, with a net of pearls woven into her hair. She found her brother Garrow and asked him and Marian to shelter her until the child was born. Five months later, her son came into the world. With tears in her eyes, Selena begged Garrow and Marian to raise him. They were utterly astonished and asked why. But she only wept and said, "I must." Her plea became ever more sorrowful and urgent until they finally agreed. She named her son Eragon, then left the next morning and never returned.

Marian had told Eragon the truth before she died. Even now, he clearly remembered how he had felt. Garrow and Marian were not his true parents, and that had thrown him into deep turmoil. Things he had always accepted as natural and beyond doubt had suddenly been shaken to their roots. In the end, he accepted it all, but one thought continued to haunt him: he suspected his mother had thought there was something not good enough about him. I believe she must have had a good reason, but I only wish I knew what it was.

Another matter troubled him endlessly: Who was his father? Selena had never told anyone. Whoever he was, he had never come looking for Eragon. Eragon wanted to know his name, if nothing else. Knowing where one came from was a good thing.

He sighed, walked to the bedside table, and splashed water from the basin onto his face. Drops ran down his neck, sending a shiver through him and sharpening his senses. He took the stone out from beneath his bed again and placed it on the shelf. Bathed in the morning light, the blue stone reflected a warm glow onto the wall. He reached out and touched it once more, then hurried toward the kitchen, eager to see his family. Garrow and Roran were already there, eating chicken. Eragon greeted them, and Roran grinned and stood.

Roran was two years older than Eragon, strong and solid, steady in all he did. They were as close as brothers could be.

Roran smiled. "I'm glad you're back. How was the journey?"

"Hard," Eragon said. "Did Uncle tell you what happened?" He took a piece of chicken and devoured it ravenously.

"No," Roran replied. The story was quickly told. At Roran's insistence, Eragon had to set aside the food at his mouth and take him to see the stone. It filled Roran with wonder, but then he anxiously asked, "Did you get to speak to Katrina?"

"No. After arguing with Sloan, I had no chance. But she'll be waiting for you when the merchants come. I gave the message to Horst, and he'll pass it along."

"You told Horst?" Roran said incredulously. "That was supposed to be secret! If I wanted everyone to know, I could have lit a fire and sent smoke signals. If Sloan finds out, I'll never see her again."

"Horst will be careful," Eragon assured him. "He won't let anyone become one of Sloan's unlucky victims, especially not you." Roran did not look entirely reassured, but he did not argue further. They returned to breakfast with silent Garrow. Once the last bite was gone, all three went out to work in the fields.

The sunlight was pale and bleak, bringing little warmth. Under its gaze, the last of the barley was brought into the barn. Then they harvested prickly pumpkins from the vines, followed by cabbage, beets, peas, radishes, and beans, all stored bag by bag in the cellar. After several hours of labor, they stretched their cramped muscles, comforted that the harvest was finished.

The next few days would be spent soaking, salting, shelling, and preparing food for the winter.

Nine days after Eragon returned, a fierce snowstorm swept over the mountains and lingered in the valley. Great flakes whirled through the air and buried the countryside deep beneath snow. They dared leave the house only to fetch firewood or feed the animals, afraid of losing their way in the howling wind and endless white wilderness. They spent all their time huddled by the stove, listening to the wind shake the heavy windows until they rattled. Several days later, the raging storm finally passed, leaving behind a new world stretching white for miles.

"With weather this bad, I'm afraid the merchants won't come this year," Garrow said. "They would normally have arrived by now. We'll wait a little longer and not go to Carvahall yet. But if they don't appear soon, we'll have to buy surplus necessities from the villagers." He spoke without much hope.

Days passed, and there was still no sign of the merchants. They grew more anxious by the day. Hardly anyone spoke, and a cloud of gloom hung over the house.

On the eighth day, Roran ran to the road early in the morning and found no signs that merchants had passed. That day, wearing grave expressions, they searched everywhere for anything worth selling and prepared to go to Carvahall. In desperation, Eragon went to check the road again that night. There, he saw deep wagon ruts in the snow, mixed with numerous footprints. Overjoyed, he ran home shouting, bringing fresh hope to their preparations.