Dawnbreaker [Inheritance Cycle]

7. The Empire

Garrow headed back to Carvahall with Serafyna trailing behind.

"Well, what do you think, uncle?" asked Serafyna.

"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."

Serafyna nodded, then dodged through the crowd and eagerly dashed back to the wagon.

Trading would take her uncle hours, time that she planned to enjoy fully, despite her disappointment regarding the stone. Though now she had even more questions regarding its nature.

Harder than a diamond... yet hollow? She shook her head. It made no sense.

She hid the stone under the bags, then set out into town with a cocky stride. She walked from one booth to another, evaluating the goods with a buyer's eye, despite her meager supply of coins.

When she 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, she 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. She licked the sticky syrup from her fingers absentmindedly, wishing for more, then sat on the edge of a porch and nibbled a piece of candy.

Two boys from Carvahall wrestled nearby, but she kept her distance from them.

As the day descended into late afternoon, the traders took their business into people's homes. Serafyna was impatient for the evening, when the troubadours would come out to tell stories and perform tricks.

She loved hearing about magic, gods, and, if they were especially fortunate, the Dragon Riders.

Carvahall had its own storyteller, Brom—a friend of Serafyna's—but his tales grew old over the years, whereas the troubadours always had new ones that she listened to eagerly.

Serafyna had just broken off an icicle from the underside of the porch when she spotted Sloan nearby. The butcher had not seen her, which was fine with Serafyna. She was in no mood for another confrontation with the man.

Wanting to put some distance between them, she ducked her head and walked 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," Serafyna replied 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.

"Yeah, no sick animals to keep him back this year."

"Good, good."

Serafyna 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."

Serafyna understood why Morn was so upset. People need that money. We can't get by without it. "What kind of stories?"