by Dajala
“It wouldn’t do to exhaust you when our survival may depend on your talents. I do not deceive myself; you are more important than me.” A sly grin crossed her face. “Besides, if you remove your spell now, I won’t be able to help any of the Varden if they are threatened. You wouldn’t want Nasuada to die because of that, would you?”
“No,” admitted Eragon. He paused for a long time, considering the issue, then said, “Very well, I will wait. But I swear to you: If we win this fight, I shall right this wrong.”
The girl tilted her head to one side. “I will hold you to your word, Rider.”
Rising from her chair, Nasuada said, “Elva was the one who saved me from an assassin in Aberon.”
“Did she? In that case, I am in your debt… Elva… for protecting my liegelord.”
“Come now,” said Nasuada. “I must introduce the three of you to Orrin and his nobles. Have you met the king before, Orik?”
The dwarf shook his head. “I’ve never been this far west.”
As they left the pavilion—Nasuada in the lead, with Elva by her side—Eragon tried to position himself so he could talk with Arya, but when he neared her, she quickened her pace until she was level with Nasuada. Arya never even looked at him while she walked, a slight that caused him more anguish than any physical wound he had endured. Elva glanced back at him, and he knew that she was aware of his distress.
They soon arrived at another large pavilion, this one white and yellow—although it was difficult to determine the exact hue of the colors, given the garish orange that glazed everything on the Burning Plains. Once they were granted entrance, Eragon was astonished to find the tent crammed with an eccentric collection of beakers, alembics, retorts, and other instruments of natural philosophy. Who would bother toting all this onto a battlefield? he wondered, bewildered.
“Eragon,” said Nasuada, “I would like you to meet Orrin, son of Larkin and monarch of the realm of Surda.”
From the depths of the tangled piles of glass emerged a rather tall, handsome man with shoulder-length hair held back by the gold coronet resting upon his head. His mind, like Nasuada’s, was protected behind walls of iron; it was obvious he had received extensive training in that skill. Orrin seemed pleasant enough to Eragon from their discussion, if a bit green and untried when it came to commanding men in war and more than a little odd in the head. On the whole, Eragon trusted Nasuada’s leadership more.
After fending off scores of questions from Orrin about his stay among the elves, Eragon found himself smiling and nodding politely as one earl after another paraded past, each of whom insisted on shaking his hand, telling him what an honor it was to meet a Rider, and inviting him to their respective estates. Eragon dutifully memorized their many names and titles—as he knew Oromis would expect—and did his best to maintain a calm demeanor, despite his growing frustration.
We’re about to engage one of the largest armies in history, and here we are, stuck exchanging pleasantries.
Patience,counseled Saphira. There aren’t that many more… Besides, look at it this way: if we win, they’ll owe us an entire year of free dinners, what with all their promises.
He stifled a chuckle. I think it would dismay them to know what it takes to feed you. Not to mention that you could empty their cellars of beer and wine in a single night.
I would never, she sniffed, then relented. Maybe in two nights.
When at last they won free of Orrin’s pavilion, Eragon asked Nasuada, “What shall I do now? How can I serve you?”
Nasuada eyed him with a curious expression. “How doyou think you can best serve me, Eragon? You know your own abilities far better than I do.” Even Arya watched him now, waiting to hear his response.
Eragon gazed up at the bloody sky while he pondered her question. “I shall take control of Du Vrangr Gata, as they once asked me to, and organize them underneath me so I can lead them into battle. Working together will give us the best chance of foiling Galbatorix’s magicians.”
“That seems an excellent idea.”
Is there a place,asked Saphira, where Eragon can leave his bags? I don’t want to carry them or this saddle any longer than I have to.
When Eragon repeated her question, Nasuada said, “Of course. You may leave them in my pavilion, and I will arrange to have a tent erected for you, Eragon, where you can keep them permanently. I suggest, though, that you don your armor before parting with your bags. You might need it at any moment… That reminds me: we have your armor with us, Saphira. I shall have it unpacked and brought to you.”
“And what of me, Lady?” asked Orik.
“We have several knurlan with us from Dûrgrimst Ingeitum who have lent their expertise to the construction of our earthen defenses. You may take command of them if you wish.”
Orik seemed heartened by the prospect of seeing fellow dwarves, especially ones from his own clan. He clapped his fist to his chest and said, “I think I will at that. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to it at once.” Without a backward glance, he trundled off through the camp, heading north toward the breastwork.
Returning to her pavilion with the four who remained, Nasuada said to Eragon, “Report to me once you have settled matters with Du Vrangr Gata.” Then she pushed aside the entrance flap to the pavilion and disappeared with Elva through the dark opening.
As Arya started to follow, Eragon reached toward her and, in the ancient language, said, “Wait.” The elf paused and looked at him, betraying nothing. He held her gaze without wavering, staring deep into her eyes, which reflected the strange light around them. “Arya, I won’t apologize for how I feel about you. However, I wanted you to know that Iam sorry for how I acted during the Blood-oath Celebration. I wasn’t myself that night; otherwise, I would have never been so forward with you.”
“And you won’t do it again?”
He suppressed a humorless laugh. “It wouldn’t get me anywhere if I did, now would it?” When she remained silent, he said, “No matter. I don’t want to trouble you, even if you—” He bit off the end of his sentence before he made a remark he knew he would regret.
Arya’s expression softened. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Eragon. You must understand that.”
“I understand,” he said, but without conviction.
An awkward pause stretched between them. “Your flight went well, I trust?”
“Well enough.”
“You encountered no difficulty in the desert?”
“Should we have?”
“No. I only wondered.” Then, in an even gentler voice, Arya asked, “What of you, Eragon? How have you been since the celebration? I heard what you said to Nasuada, but you mentioned nothing other than your back.”
“I…” He tried to lie—not wanting her to know how much he had missed her—but the ancient language stopped the words dead in his mouth and rendered him mute. Finally, he resorted to a technique of the elves: telling only part of the truth in order to create an impression opposite the whole truth. “I’m better than before,” he said, meaning, in his mind, the condition of his back.
Despite his subterfuge, Arya appeared unconvinced. She did not press him on the subject, though, but rather said, “I am glad.” Nasuada’s voice emanated from inside the pavilion, and Arya glanced toward it before facing him again. “I am needed elsewhere, Eragon… We are both needed elsewhere. A battle is about to take place.” Lifting the canvas flap, she stepped halfway into the gloomy tent, then hesitated and added, “Take care, Eragon Shadeslayer.”
Then she was gone.
Dismay rooted Eragon in place. He had accomplished what he wanted to, but it seemed to have changed nothing between him and Arya. He balled his hands into fists and hunched his shoulders and glared at the ground without seeing it, simmering with frustration.
He started when Saphira nosed him on the shoulder. Come on, little one, she said gently. You can’t stay here forever, and this saddle is beginning to itch .
Going to her side, Eragon pulled on he
r neck strap, muttering under his breath when it caught in the buckle. He almost hoped the leather would break. Undoing the rest of the straps, he let the saddle and everything tied to it fall to the ground in a jumbled heap. It feels good to have that off, said Saphira, rolling her massive shoulders.
Digging his armor out of the saddlebags, Eragon outfitted himself in the bright dress of war. First he pulled his hauberk over his elven tunic, then strapped his chased greaves to his legs and his inlaid bracers to his forearms. On his head went his padded leather cap, followed by his coif of tempered steel and then his gold and silver helm. Last of all, he replaced his regular gloves with his mail-backed gauntlets.
Zar’roc he hung on his left hip using the belt of Beloth the Wise. Across his back, he placed the quiver of white swan feathers Islanzadí had given him. The quiver, he was pleased to find, could also hold the bow the elf queen had sung for him, even when it was strung.
After depositing his and Orik’s belongings into the pavilion, Eragon and Saphira set out together to find Trianna, the current leader of Du Vrangr Gata. They had gone no more than a few paces when Eragon sensed a nearby mind that was shielded from his view. Assuming that it was one of the Varden’s magicians, they veered toward it.
Twelve yards from their starting point, they came upon a small green tent with a donkey picketed in front. To the left of the tent, a blackened iron cauldron hung from a metal tripod placed over one of the malodorous flames birthed deep within the earth. Cords were strung about the cauldron, over which were draped nightshade, hemlock, rhododendron, savin, bark of the yew tree, and numerous mushrooms, such as death cap and spotted cort, all of which Eragon recognized from Oromis’s lessons on poison. And standing next to the cauldron, wielding a long wood paddle with which she stirred the brew, was Angela the herbalist. At her feet sat Solembum.
The werecat uttered a mournful meow, and Angela looked up from her task, her corkscrew hair forming a billowing thundercloud around her glistening face. She frowned, and her expression became positively ghoulish, for it was lit from beneath by the flickering green flame. “So you’ve returned, eh!”
“We have,” said Eragon.
“Is that all you have to say for yourself? Have you seen Elva yet? Have you seen what you did to that poor girl?”
“Aye.”
“Aye!”cried Angela. “How inarticulate can a person be? All this time in Ellesméra being tutored by the elves, andaye is the best you can manage? Let me tell you something, blockhead: anyone who is stupid enough to do what you did deserves—”
Eragon clasped his hands behind his back and waited as Angela informed him, in many explicit, detailed, and highly inventive terms, exactly how great a blockhead he was; what kind of ancestors he must possess to be such a monumental blockhead—she even went so far as to insinuate that one of his grandparents had mated with an Urgal—and the quite hideous punishments he ought to receive for his idiocy. If anyone else had insulted him in that manner, Eragon would have challenged them to a duel, but he tolerated her spleen because he knew he could not judge her behavior by the same standards as he did others, and because he knew her outrage was justified; he had made a dreadful mistake.
When she finally paused for breath, he said, “You’re quite right, and I’m going to try to remove the spell once the battle is decided.”
Angela blinked three times, one right after the other, and her mouth remained open for a moment in a small “O” before she clamped it shut. With a glare of suspicion, she asked, “You’re not saying that just to placate me, are you?”
“I would never.”
“And you really intend to undo your curse? I thought such things were irrevocable.”
“The elves have discovered many uses of magic.”
“Ah… Well, then, that’s settled, isn’t it?” She flashed him a wide smile and then strode past him to pat Saphira on her jowls. “It’s good to see you again, Saphira. You’ve grown.”
Well met indeed, Angela.
As Angela returned to stirring her concoction, Eragon said, “That was an impressive tirade you gave.”
“Thank you. I worked on it for several weeks. It’s a pity you didn’t get to hear the ending; it’smemorable. I could finish it for you if you want.”
“No, that’s all right. I can imagine what it’s like.” Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, Eragon then said, “You don’t seem surprised by how I’ve changed.”
The herbalist shrugged. “I have my sources. It’s an improvement, in my opinion. You were a bit… oh, how shall I say it?…unfinished before.”
“That I was.” He gestured at the hanging plants. “What do you plan to do with these?”
“Oh, it’s just a little project of mine—an experiment, if you will.”
“Mmm.” Examining the pattern of colors on a dried mushroom that dangled before him, Eragon asked, “Did you ever figure out if toads exist or not?”
“As a matter of fact, I did! It seems that all toads are frogs, but not all frogs are toads. So in that sense, toads don’t really exist, which means that I was right all along.” She stopped her patter abruptly, leaned to the side, grabbed a mug from a bench next to her, and offered it to Eragon. “Here, have a cup of tea.”
Eragon glanced at the deadly plants surrounding them and then back at Angela’s open face before he accepted the mug. Under his breath—so the herbalist would not hear—he muttered three spells to detect poison. Only once he ascertained that the tea was free of contamination did he dare drink. The tea was delicious, though he could not identify the ingredients.
At that moment, Solembum padded over to Saphira and began to arch his back and rub himself up against her leg, just as any normal cat would. Twisting her neck, Saphira bent down and with the tip of her nose brushed the werecat the length of his spine. She said, I met someone in Ellesméra who knows you.
Solembum stopped rubbing and cocked his head. Is that so?
Yes. Her name was Quickpaw and The Dream Dancer and also Maud.
Solembum’s golden eyes widened. A deep, throaty purr rumbled in his chest, and he rubbed against Saphira with renewed vigor.
“So,” said Angela, “I assume you already spoke with Nasuada, Arya, and King Orrin.” He nodded. “And what did you think of dear old Orrin?”
Eragon chose his words with care, for he was aware that theywere talking about a king. “Well… he seems to have a great many interests.”
“Yes, he’s as balmy as a moonstruck fool on Midsummer Night Eve. But then everyone is, in one way or another.”
Amused by her forthrightness, Eragon said, “He must be crazy to have carted so much glass all the way from Aberon.”
Angela raised an eyebrow. “What’s this now?”
“Haven’t you seen the inside of his tent?”
“Unlike some people,” she sniffed, “I don’t ingratiate myself with every monarch I meet.” So he described for her the mass of instruments Orrin had brought to the Burning Plains. Angela abandoned her stirring as he spoke and listened with great interest. The instant he finished, she began bustling around the cauldron, gathering the plants off the lines—often using tongs to do so—and saying, “I think I had best pay Orrin a visit. The two of you will have to tell me about your trip to Ellesméra at a later time… Well, go on, both of you. Be gone!”
Eragon shook his head as the short little woman drove him and Saphira away from her tent, and he still holding the cup of tea. Talking with her is always…
Different?suggested Saphira.
Exactly.
THE CLOUDS OF WAR
From there it took them almost half an hour to locate Trianna’s tent, which apparently served as the unofficial headquarters of Du Vrangr Gata. They had difficulty finding the tent because few people knew of its existence, and even fewer could tell them where it lay because the tent was hidden behind a spur of rock that served to conceal it from the gaze of enemy magicians in Galbatorix’s army.
As Eragon and Saphira appr
oached the black tent, the entrance was thrust open and Trianna strode out, her arms bare to the elbow in preparation to use magic. Behind her clustered a group of determined if frightened-looking spellcasters, many of whom Eragon had seen during the battle in Farthen Dûr, either fighting or healing the wounded.
Eragon watched as Trianna and the others reacted with the now-expected surprise at his altered appearance. Lowering her arms, Trianna said, “Shadeslayer, Saphira. You should have told us sooner that you were here. We’ve been preparing to confront and battle what we thought was a mighty foe.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Eragon, “but we had to report to Nasuada and King Orrin immediately after we landed.”
“And why have you graced us with your presence now? You never deigned to visit us before, we who are more your brethren than any in the Varden.”
“I have come to take command of Du Vrangr Gata.” The assembled spellcasters muttered with surprise at his announcement, and Trianna stiffened. Eragon felt several magicians probe his consciousness in an attempt to divine his true intentions. Instead of guarding himself—which would blind him to impending attacks—Eragon retaliated by jabbing the minds of the would-be invaders hard enough that they retreated behind their own barriers. As he did, Eragon had the satisfaction of seeing two men and a woman flinch and avert their gazes.
“By whose order?” demanded Trianna.
“By Nasuada’s.”
“Ah,” said the sorceress with a triumphant smile, “but Nasuada has no direct authority over us. We help the Varden of our own free will.”
Her resistance puzzled Eragon. “I’m sure Nasuada would be surprised to hear that, after everything she, and her father, have done for Du Vrangr Gata. It might give her the impression that you no longer wanted the support and protection of the Varden.” He let the threat hang in the air for a moment. “Besides, I seem to remember you were willing to give me this post before. Why not now?”
Trianna lifted an eyebrow. “You refused my offer, Shadeslayer… or have you forgotten?” Composed as she was, a trace of defensiveness colored her response, and Eragon suspected she knew her position was untenable. She seemed more mature to him than when they last met, and he had to remind himself of the hardships she must have endured since: marching across Alagaësia to Surda, supervising the magicians of Du Vrangr Gata, and preparing for war.