Dawnbreaker [Inheritance Cycle]

8. Dragontales

It was early evening, and the sun was sinking rapidly; the houses cast long shadows on the ground.

As Serafyna headed down the street, she noticed Roran and Katrina standing in an alley.

Roran said something Serafyna 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.

Serafyna trotted to Roran and teased, "Having a good time?"

Roran grunted noncommittally as he paced away.

"Have you heard the traders' news?" asked Serafyna, 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 Serafyna's nose, and she looked up. The sky had turned gray. She could think of nothing appropriate to say; Roran was right. Instead, she clasped her cousin on the shoulder as they continued down the byway.

They arrived at the blacksmith's house and were ushered inside.

The dinner at Horst's was hearty. Garrow and Eragon were already present. 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, and then Serafyna last of all.

"Before your grandfathers' fathers were born, and aye, 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."