clumps of needles into a small basket.
Hot blood rushed to Eragon’s face as he watched her. He hoped that
the moon was not bright enough to reveal that his cheeks had turned
mottled red. “Where. . where do you live? Do you and Islanzadí have a
palace or castle. . ?”
“We live in Tialdarí Hall, our family’s ancestral buildings, in the west-
ern part of Ellesméra. I would enjoy showing our home to you.”
“Ah.” A practical question suddenly intruded in Eragon’s muddled
thoughts, driving away his embarrassment. “Arya, do you have any sib-
lings?” She shook her head. “Then you are the sole heir to the elven
throne?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?” She sounded bemused by his curiosity.
“I don’t understand why you were allowed to become an ambassador to
the Varden and dwarves, as well as ferry Saphira’s egg from here to Tron-
jheim. It’s too dangerous an errand for a princess, much less the queen-in-
waiting.”
“You mean it’s too dangerous for a human woman. I told you before
that I am not one of your helpless females. What you fail to realize is that
we view our monarchs differently than you or the dwarves. To us, a king
or queen’s highest responsibility is to serve their people however and
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wherever possible. If that means forfeiting our lives in the process, we
welcome the opportunity to prove our devotion to—as the dwarves
say—hearth, hall, and honor. If I had died in the course of my duty, then
a replacement successor would have been chosen from among our vari-
ous Houses. Even now I would not be required to become queen if I
found the prospect distasteful. We do not choose leaders who are unwill-
ing to devote themselves wholeheartedly to their obligation.” She hesi-
tated, then hugged her knees against her chest and propped her chin on
them. “I had many years to perfect those arguments with my mother.”
For a minute, the wheet-wheet of the cicadas went undisturbed in the
clearing. Then she asked, “How go your studies with Oromis?”
Eragon grunted as his foul temper returned on a wave of unpleasant
memories, souring his pleasure at being with Arya. All he wanted to do
was crawl into bed, go to sleep, and forget the day. “Oromis-elda,” he
said, working each word around his mouth before letting it escape, “is
quite thorough.”
He winced as she gripped his upper arm with bruising strength. “What
has gone amiss?”
He tried to shrug her hand off. “Nothing.”
“I’ve traveled with you long enough to know when you’re happy, an-
gry. . or in pain. Did something happen between you and Oromis? If so,
you have to tell me so that it can be rectified as soon as possible. Or was
it your back? We could—”
“It’s not my training!” Despite his pique, Eragon noticed that she
seemed genuinely concerned, which pleased him. “Ask Saphira. She can
tell you.”
“I want to hear it from you,” she said quietly.
The muscles in Eragon’s jaw spasmed as he clenched his teeth. In a low
voice, no more than a whisper, he first described how he had failed at his
meditation in the glade, then the incident that poisoned his heart like a
viper coiled in his chest: his blessing.
Arya released his arm and clutched at the root of the Menoa tree, as if
to steady herself. “Barzûl.” The dwarf curse alarmed him; he had never
heard her use profanity before, and this one was particularly apt, for it
meant ill fate. “I knew of your act in Farthen Dûr, for sure, but I never
thought. . I never suspected that such a thing could occur. I cry your par-
290
don, Eragon, for forcing you to leave your rooms tonight. I did not com-
prehend your discomfort. You must want to be alone.”
“No,” he said. “No, I appreciate the company and the things you’ve
shown me.” He smiled at her, and after a moment, she smiled back. To-
gether they sat small and still at the base of the ancient tree and watched
the moon arch high over the peaceful forest before it hid behind the
gathering clouds. “I only wonder what will become of the child.”
High above their heads, Blagden ruffled his bone-white feathers and
shrieked, “Wyrda!”
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A MAZE OF OPPOSITION
Nasuada crossed her arms without bothering to conceal her impatience
as she examined the two men before her.
The one on the right had a neck so thick, it forced his head to jut for-
ward at nearly right angles to his shoulders, giving him a stubborn, dim-
witted appearance. This was intensified by his heavy brow with its two
cliffs of matted hair—almost long enough to pull over his eyes—and bul-
bous lips that remained puckered into a pink mushroom, even when he
spoke. She knew better than to put stock in his repulsive looks, though.
No matter its rough housing, his tongue was as clever as a jester’s.
The only identifying feature of the second man was his pale skin, which
refused to darken under Surda’s relentless sun, even though the Varden
had been in Aberon, the capital, for some weeks now. From his coloring,
Nasuada guessed he had been born in the northern reaches of the Empire.
He held a knit wool cap that he wrung into a hard rope between his
hands.
“You,” she said, pointing at him. “How many of your chickens did he
kill again?”
“Thirteen, Ma’am.”
Nasuada returned her attention to the ugly man. “An unlucky number,
by all accounts, Master Gamble. And so it has proved for you. You are
guilty of both theft and destroying someone else’s property without of-
fering proper recompense.”
“I never denied it.”
“I only wonder how you ate thirteen chickens in four days. Are you
ever full, Master Gamble?”
He gave her a jocular grin and scratched the side of his face. The rasp of
his untrimmed fingernails over his stubble annoyed her, and it was only
with an effort of will that she kept from asking him to stop. “Well, not to
be disrespectful, Ma’am, but filling my stomach wouldn’t be a problem if
you fed us properly, what with all the work we do. I’m a large man, an’ I
need a bit o’ meat in my belly after half a day breaking rocks with a mat-
tock. I did my best to resist temptation, I did. But three weeks of short
rations and watching these farmers drive around fat livestock they
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wouldn’t share even if a body were starving. . Well, I’ll admit, it broke
me. I’m not a strong man when it comes to food. I like it hot and I like
plenty of it. An’ I don’t fancy I’m the only one willing to help himself.”
And that’s the heart of the problem, reflected Nasuada. The Varden
could not afford to feed its members, not even with Surda’s king, Orrin,
helping. Orrin had opened his treasury to them, but he had refused to
behave as Galbatorix was wont to do when moving his army across the
Empire, which was to appropriate supplies from his countrymen without
paying for them. A noble sentiment, but one that only makes my task
harder. Still, she knew that acts like those were what separated her,
Orrin, Hrothgar, and Islanzadí from Galbatorix’s despotism. It would be so
easy to cross that divide without noticing it.
“I understand your reasons, Master Gamble. However, although the
Varden aren’t a country and we answer to no one’s authority but our
own, that does not give you or anyone else leave to ignore the rule of law
as laid down by my predecessors or as it’s observed here in Surda. There-
fore, I order you to pay a copper for each chicken you stole.”
Gamble surprised her by acceding without protest. “As you wish,
Ma’am,” he said.
“That’s it?” exclaimed the pale man. He wrung his cap even tighter.
“That’s no fair price. If I sold them in any market, they’d—”
She could not contain herself any longer. “Yes! You’d get more. But I
happen to know that Master Gamble cannot afford to give you the
chickens’ full price, as I’m the one who provides his salary! As I do yours.
You forget that if I decided to acquire your poultry for the good of the
Varden, you’d get no more than a copper a chicken and be lucky at that.
Am I understood?”
“He can’t—”
“Am I understood?”
After a moment, the pale man subsided and muttered, “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Very well. You’re both dismissed.” With an expression of sardonic
admiration, Gamble touched his brow and bowed to Nasuada before
backing out of the stone room with his sullen opponent. “You too,” she
said to the guards on either side of the door.
293
As soon as they were gone, she slumped in her chair with an exhausted
sigh and reached for her fan, batting it over her face in a futile attempt to
dissipate the pinpricks of sweat that accumulated on her forehead. The
constant heat drained her strength and made even the smallest task ardu-
ous.
She suspected she would feel tired even if it were winter. Familiar as
she was with the innermost secrets of the Varden, it still had taken more
work than she expected to transport the entire organization from Farthen
Dûr, through the Beor Mountains, and deliver them to Surda and
Aberon. She shuddered, remembering long, uncomfortable days spent in
the saddle. Planning and executing their departure had been exceedingly
difficult, as was integrating the Varden into their new surroundings while
simultaneously preparing for an attack on the Empire. I don’t have enough
time each day to solve all these problems, she lamented.
Finally, she dropped the fan and rang the bellpull, summoning her
handmaid, Farica. The banner hanging to the right of the cherrywood
desk rippled as the door hidden behind it opened. Farica slipped out to
stand with downcast eyes by Nasuada’s elbow.
“Are there any more?” asked Nasuada.
“No, Ma’am.”
She tried not to let her relief show. Once a week, she held an open
court to resolve the Varden’s various disputes. Anyone who felt that they
had been wronged could seek an audience with her and ask for her judg-
ment. She could not imagine a more difficult and thankless chore. As her
father had often said after negotiating with Hrothgar, “A good compro-
mise leaves everyone angry.” And so it seemed.
Returning her attention to the matter at hand, she told Farica, “I want
that Gamble reassigned. Give him a job where his talent with words will
be of some use. Quartermaster, perhaps, just so long as it’s a job where
he’ll get full rations. I don’t want to see him before me for stealing again.”
Farica nodded and went to the desk, where she recorded Nasuada’s in-
structions on a parchment scroll. That skill alone made her invaluable.
Farica asked, “Where can I find him?”
“One of the work gangs in the quarry.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Oh, while you were occupied, King Orrin asked that you
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join him in his laboratory.”
“What has he done in there now, blind himself?” Nasuada washed her
wrists and neck with lavender water, then checked her hair in the mirror
of polished silver that Orrin had given her and tugged on her overgown
until the sleeves were straight.
Satisfied with her appearance, she swept out of her chambers with
Farica in tow. The sun was so bright today that no torches were needed
to illuminate the inside of Borromeo Castle, nor could their added
warmth have been tolerated. Shafts of light fell through the crossletted
arrow slits and glowed upon the inner wall of the corridor, striping the
air with bars of golden dust at regular intervals. Nasuada looked out one
embrasure toward the barbican, where thirty or so of Orrin’s orange-clad
cavalry soldiers were setting forth on another of their ceaseless rounds of
patrols in the countryside surrounding Aberon.
Not that they could do much good if Galbatorix decided to attack us him-
self, she thought bitterly. Their only protection against that was Galba-
torix’s pride and, she hoped, his fear of Eragon. All leaders were aware of
the risk of usurpation, but usurpers themselves were doubly afraid of the
threat that a single determined individual could pose. Nasuada knew that
she was playing an exceedingly dangerous game with the most powerful
madman in Alagaësia. If she misjudged how far she could push him, she
and the rest of the Varden would be destroyed, along with any hope of
ending Galbatorix’s reign.
The clean smell of the castle reminded her of the times she had stayed
there as a child, back when Orrin’s father, King Larkin, still ruled. She
never saw much of Orrin then. He was five years older than her and al-
ready occupied with his duties as a prince. Nowadays, though, she often
felt as if she were the elder one.
At the door to Orrin’s laboratory, she had to stop and wait for his
bodyguards, who were always posted outside, to announce her presence
to the king. Soon Orrin’s voice boomed out into the stairwell: “Lady
Nasuada! I’m so glad you came. I have something to show you.”
Mentally bracing herself, she entered the laboratory with Farica. A
maze of tables laden with a fantastic array of alembics, beakers, and re-
torts confronted them, like a glass thicket waiting to snag their dresses on
any one of its myriad fragile branches. The heavy odor of metallic vapors