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rubbed his temples. “There’s not much to tell.
    I’ve always been partial to her. It meant little before I was a man, but after my rites of passage, I began to wonder whom I would marry and whom I wanted to become the mother of my children. During one of our visits to Carvahall, I saw Katrina stop by the side of Loring’s house to pick a moss rose growing in the shade of the eaves. She smiled as she looked at the flower. . . . It was such a tender smile, and so happy, I decided right then that I wanted to make her smile like that again and again and that I wanted to look at that smile until the day I died.” Tears gleamed in Roran’s eyes, but they did not fall, and a second later, he blinked and they vanished. “I fear I have failed in that regard.”
    After a respectful pause, Eragon said, “You courted her, then?
    Aside from using me to ferry compliments to Katrina, how else did you proceed?”
    “You ask like one who seeks instruction.”
    “I did not. You’re imagining—”
    “Come now, yourself,” said Roran. “I know when you’re lying. You get that big foolish grin, and your ears turn red. The elves may have given you a new face, but that part of you hasn’t changed. What is it that exists between you and Arya?”
    The strength of Roran’s perception disturbed Eragon. “Nothing! The moon has addled your brain.”
    “Be honest. You dote upon her words as if each one were a diamond, and your gaze lingers upon her as if you were starving and she a grand feast arrayed an inch beyond your reach.”
    A plume of dark gray smoke erupted from Saphira’s nostrils as she made a choking-like noise.
    Eragon ignored her suppressed merriment and said, “Arya is an elf.”
    “And very beautiful. Pointed ears and slanted eyes are small flaws when compared with her charms.
    You look like a cat yourself now.”
    “Arya is over a hundred years old.”
    That particular piece of information caught Roran by surprise; his eyebrows went up, and he said, “I find that hard to believe! She’s in the prime of her youth.”
    “It’s true.”
    “Well, be that as it may, these are reasons you give me, Eragon, and the heart rarely listens to reason.
    Do you fancy her or not?”
    If he fancied her any more, Saphira said to both Eragon and Roran, I’d be trying to kiss Arya myself .
    Saphira! Mortified, Eragon swatted her on the leg.
    Roran was prudent enough not to rib Eragon further. “Then answer my original question and tell me how things stand between you and Arya. Have you spoken to her or her family about this? I have found it’s unwise to let such matters fester.”
    “Aye,” said Eragon, and stared at the length of polished hawthorn. “I spoke with her.”
    “To what end?” When Eragon did not immediately reply, Roran uttered a frustrated exclamation.
    “Getting answers out of you is harder than dragging Birka through the mud.” Eragon chuckled at the mention of Birka, one of their draft horses. “Saphira, will you solve this puzzle for me? Otherwise, I fear I’ll never get a full explanation.”
    “To no end. No end at all. She’ll not have me.” Eragon spoke dispassionately, as if commenting on a stranger’s misfortune, but within him raged a torrent of hurt so deep and wild, he felt Saphira withdraw somewhat from him.
    “I’m sorry,” said Roran.
    Eragon forced a swallow past the lump in his throat, past the bruise that was his heart, and down to the knotted skein of his stomach. “It happens.”
    “I know it may seem unlikely at the moment,” said Roran, “but I’m sure you will meet another woman who will make you forget this Arya. There are countless maids—and more than a few married women, I’d wager—who would be delighted to catch the eye of a Rider. You’ll have no trouble finding a wife among all the lovelies in Alagaësia.”
    “And what would you have done if Katrina rejected your suit?”
    The question struck Roran dumb; it was obvious he could not imagine how he might