Inheritance Cycle Omnibus

by Christopher Paolini

  “Weeks. Months. Years. I cannot predict his actions.”

  He nodded. “Have your agents continued to spread tidings of Eragon?”

  “It has become increasingly dangerous, but yes. My hope is that if we inundate cities like Dras-Leona with rumors of Eragon’s prowess, when we actually reach the city and they see him, they will join us of their own accord and we can avoid a siege.”

  “War is rarely so easy.”

  She let the comment pass uncontested. “And how fares the mobilization of your own army? The Varden, as always, are ready to fight.”

  Orrin spread his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s difficult to rouse a nation, Nasuada. There are nobles whom I must convince to back me, armor and weapons to be constructed, supplies to be gathered.…”

  “And in the meantime, how do I feed my people? We need more land than you allotted us—”

  “Well I know it,” he said.

  “—and we’ll only get it by invading the Empire, unless you fancy making the Varden a permanent addition to Surda. If so, you’ll have to find homes for the thousands of people I brought from Farthen Dûr, which won’t please your existing citizens. Whatever your choice, choose quickly, because I fear that if you continue to procrastinate, the Varden will disintegrate into an uncontrollable horde.” She tried not to make it sound like a threat.

  Nevertheless, Orrin obviously did not appreciate the insinuation. His upper lip curled and he said, “Your father never let his men get out of hand. I trust you won’t either, if you expect to remain leader of the Varden. As for our preparations, there’s a limit to what we can do in so short a time; you’ll just have to wait until we are ready.”

  She gripped the windowsill until veins stood out on her wrists and her fingernails sank into the crevices between the stones, yet she allowed none of her anger to color her voice: “In that case, will you lend the Varden more gold for food?”

  “No. I’ve given you all the money I can spare.”

  “How will we eat, then?”

  “I would suggest that you raise the funds yourself.”

  Furious, she gave him her widest, brightest smile—holding it long enough to make him shift with unease—and then curtsied as deeply as a servant, never letting her demented grimace waver. “Farewell then, Sire. I hope that the rest of your day is as enjoyable as our conversation was.”

  Orrin muttered an unintelligible response as she swept back to the laboratory’s entrance. In her anger, Nasuada caught her right sleeve on a jade bottle and knocked it over, cracking the stone and releasing a flood of yellow liquid that splattered her sleeve and soaked her skirt. She flicked her wrist in annoyance without stopping.

  Farica rejoined her in the stairwell, and together they traversed the warren of passageways to Nasuada’s chambers.

  HANGING BY A THREAD

  hrowing open the doors to her rooms, Nasuada strode to her desk, then dropped into a chair, blind to her surroundings. Her spine was so rigid that her shoulders did not touch the back. She felt frozen by the insoluble quandary the Varden faced. The rise and fall of her chest slowed until it was imperceptible. I have failed, was all she could think.

  “Ma’am, your sleeve!”

  Jolted from her reverie, Nasuada looked down to find Farica beating at her right arm with a cleaning rag. A wisp of smoke rose from the embroidered sleeve. Alarmed, Nasuada pushed herself out of the chair and twisted her arm, trying to find the cause of the smoke. Her sleeve and skirt were disintegrating into chalky cobwebs that emitted acrid fumes.

  “Get me out of this,” she said.

  She held her contaminated arm away from her body and forced herself to remain still as Farica unlaced her overgown. The handmaid’s fingers scrabbled against Nasuada’s back with frantic haste, fumbling with the knots, and then finally loosening the wool shell that encased Nasuada’s torso. As soon as the overgown sagged, Nasuada yanked her arms out of the sleeves and clawed her way free of the robe.

  Panting, she stood by the desk, clad only in her slippers and linen chemise. To her relief, the expensive chainsil had escaped harm, although it had acquired a foul reek.

  “Did it burn you?” asked Farica. Nasuada shook her head, not trusting her tongue to respond. Farica nudged the overgown with the tip of her shoe. “What evil is this?”

  “One of Orrin’s foul concoctions,” croaked Nasuada. “I spilled it in his laboratory.” Calming herself with long breaths, she examined the ruined gown with dismay. It had been woven by the dwarf women of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum as a gift for her last birthday and was one of the finest pieces in her wardrobe. She had nothing to replace it, nor could she justify commissioning a new dress, considering the Varden’s financial difficulties. Somehow I will have to make do without.

  Farica shook her head. “It’s a shame to lose such a pretty dress.” She went round the desk to a sewing basket and returned with a pair of etched scissors. “We might as well save as much of the cloth as we can. I’ll cut off the ruined parts and have them burned.”

  Nasuada scowled and paced the length of the room, seething with anger at her own clumsiness and at having another problem added to her already overwhelming list of worries. “What am I going to wear to court now?” she demanded.

  The scissors bit into the soft wool with brisk authority. “Mayhap your linen dress.”

  “It’s too casual to appear in before Orrin and his nobles.”

  “Give me a chance with it, Ma’am. I’m sure that I can alter it so it’s serviceable. By the time I’m done, it’ll look twice as grand as this one ever did.”

  “No, no. It won’t work. They’ll just laugh at me. It’s hard enough to command their respect when I’m dressed properly, much less if I’m wearing patched gowns that advertise our poverty.”

  The older woman fixed Nasuada with a stern gaze. “It will work, so long as you don’t apologize for your appearance. Not only that, I guarantee that the other ladies will be so taken with your new fashion that they’ll imitate you. Just you wait and see.” Going to the door, she cracked it open and handed the damaged fabric to one of the guards outside. “Your mistress wants this burned. Do it in secret and breathe not a word of this to another soul or you’ll have me to answer to.” The guard saluted.

  Nasuada could not help smiling. “How would I function without you, Farica?”

  “Quite well, I should think.”

  After donning her green hunting frock—which, with its light skirt, provided some respite from the day’s heat—Nasuada decided that even though she was ill disposed toward Orrin, she would take his advice and break with her regular schedule to do nothing more important than help Farica rip out stitches from the overgown. She found the repetitive task an excellent way to focus her thoughts. While she pulled on the threads, she discussed the Varden’s predicament with Farica, in the hope that she might perceive a solution that had escaped Nasuada.

  In the end, Farica’s only assistance was to observe, “Seems most matters in this world have their root in gold. If we had enough of it, we could buy Galbatorix right off his black throne … might not even have to fight his men.”

  Did I really expect that someone else would do my job for me? Nasuada asked herself. I led us into this blind and I have to lead us out.

  Intending to cut open a seam, she extended her arm and snagged the tip of her knife on a fringe of bobbin lace, slicing it in half. She stared at the ragged wound in the lace, at the frayed ends of the parchment-colored strands that wriggled across the overgown like so many contorted worms, stared and felt a hysterical laugh claw at her throat even as a tear formed in her eye. Could her luck be any worse?

  The bobbin lace was the most valuable part of the dress. Even though lace required skill to make, its rarity and expense were mainly due to its central ingredient: vast, copious, mind-numbing, and deadening amounts of time. It took so long to produce that if you attempted to create a lace veil by yourself, your progress would be measured not in weeks but in months. Ounce for oun
ce, lace was worth more than gold or silver.

  She ran her fingers over the band of threads, pausing on the rift that she had created. It’s not as if lace takes that much energy, just time. She hated making it herself. Energy … energy … At that moment, a series of images flashed through her mind: Orrin talking about using magic for research; Trianna, the woman who had helmed Du Vrangr Gata since the Twins’ deaths; looking up at one of the Varden’s healers while he explained the principles of magic to Nasuada when she was only five or six years old. The disparate experiences formed a chain of reasoning that was so outrageous and unlikely, it finally released the laugh imprisoned in her throat.

  Farica gave her an odd look and waited for an explanation. Standing, Nasuada tumbled half the overgown off her lap and onto the floor. “Fetch me Trianna this instant,” she said. “I don’t care what she’s doing; bring her here.”

  The skin around Farica’s eyes tightened, but she curtsied and said, “As you wish, Ma’am.” She departed through the hidden servants’ door.

  “Thank you,” Nasuada whispered in the empty room.

  She understood her maid’s reluctance; she too felt uncomfortable whenever she had to interact with magic users. Indeed, she only trusted Eragon because he was a Rider—although that was no proof of virtue, as Galbatorix had shown—and because of his oath of fealty, which Nasuada knew he would never break. It scared her to consider magicians’ and sorcerers’ powers. The thought that a seemingly ordinary person could kill with a word; invade your mind if he or she wished; cheat, lie, and steal without being caught; and otherwise defy society with near impunity …

  Her heart quickened.

  How did you enforce the law when a certain segment of the population possessed special powers? At its most basic level, the Varden’s war against the Empire was nothing more than an attempt to bring to justice a man who had abused his magical abilities and to prevent him from committing further crimes. All this pain and destruction because no one had the strength to defeat Galbatorix. He won’t even die after a normal span of years!

  Although she disliked magic, she knew that it would play a crucial role in removing Galbatorix and that she could not afford to alienate its practitioners until victory was assured. Once that occurred, she intended to resolve the problem that they presented.

  A brazen knock on her chamber door disturbed her thoughts. Fixing a pleasant smile on her face and guarding her mind as she had been trained, Nasuada said, “Enter!” It was important that she appear polite after summoning Trianna in such a rude manner.

  The door thrust open and the brunette sorceress strode into the room, her tousled locks piled high above her head with obvious haste. She looked as if she had just been roused from bed. Bowing in the dwarven fashion, she said, “You asked for me, Lady?”

  “I did.” Relaxing into a chair, Nasuada let her gaze slowly drift up and down Trianna. The sorceress lifted her chin under Nasuada’s examination. “I need to know: What is the most important rule of magic?”

  Trianna frowned. “That whatever you do with magic requires the same amount of energy as it would to do otherwise.”

  “And what you can do is only limited by your ingenuity and by your knowledge of the ancient language?”

  “Other strictures apply, but in general, yes. Lady, why do you ask? These are basic principles of magic that, while not commonly bandied about, I am sure you are familiar with.”

  “I am. I wished to ensure that I understood them properly.” Without moving from her chair, Nasuada reached down and lifted the overgown so that Trianna could see the mutilated lace. “So then, within those limits, you should be able to devise a spell that will allow you to manufacture lace with magic.”

  A condescending sneer distorted the sorceress’s dark lips. “Du Vrangr Gata has more important duties than repairing your clothes, Lady. Our art is not so common as to be employed for mere whims. I’m sure that you will find your seamstresses and tailors more than capable of fulfilling your request. Now, if you will excuse me, I—”

  “Be quiet, woman,” said Nasuada in a flat voice. Astonishment muted Trianna in midsentence. “I see that I must teach Du Vrangr Gata the same lesson that I taught the Council of Elders: I may be young, but I am no child to be patronized. I ask about lace because if you can manufacture it quickly and easily with magic, then we can support the Varden by selling inexpensive bobbin and needle lace throughout the Empire. Galbatorix’s own people will provide the funds we need to survive.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” protested Trianna. Even Farica looked skeptical. “You can’t pay for a war with lace.”

  Nasuada raised an eyebrow. “Why not? Women who otherwise could never afford to own lace will leap at the chance to buy ours. Every farmer’s wife who longs to appear richer than she is will want it. Even wealthy merchants and nobles will give us their gold because our lace will be finer than any thrown or stitched by human hands. We’ll garner a fortune to rival the dwarves’. That is, if you are skilled enough in magic to do what I want.”

  Trianna tossed her hair. “You doubt my abilities?”

  “Can it be done!”

  Trianna hesitated, then took the overgown from Nasuada and studied the lace strip for a long while. At last she said, “It should be possible, but I’ll have to conduct some tests before I know for certain.”

  “Do so immediately. From now on, this is your most important assignment. And find an experienced lace maker to advise you on the patterns.”

  “Yes, Lady Nasuada.”

  Nasuada allowed her voice to soften. “Good. I also want you to select the brightest members of Du Vrangr Gata and work with them to invent other magical techniques that will help the Varden. That’s your responsibility, not mine.”

  “Yes, Lady Nasuada.”

  “Now you are excused. Report back to me tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, Lady Nasuada.”

  Satisfied, Nasuada watched the sorceress depart, then closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy a moment of pride for what she had accomplished. She knew that no man, not even her father, would have thought of her solution. “This is my contribution to the Varden,” she told herself, wishing that Ajihad could witness it. Louder, she asked, “Did I surprise you, Farica?”

  “You always do, Ma’am.”

  ELVA

  a’am? … You’re needed, Ma’am.”

  “What?” Reluctant to move, Nasuada opened her eyes and saw Jörmundur enter the room. The wiry veteran pulled off his helm, tucked it in the crook of his right arm, and made his way to her with his left hand planted on the pommel of his sword.

  The links of his hauberk clinked as he bowed. “My Lady.”

  “Welcome, Jörmundur. How is your son today?” She was pleased that he had come. Of all the members of the Council of Elders, he had accepted her leadership the most easily, serving her with the same dogged loyalty and determination as he had Ajihad. If all my warriors were like him, no one could stop us.

  “His cough has subsided.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Now, what brings you?”

  Lines appeared on Jörmundur’s forehead. He ran his free hand over his hair, which was tied back in a ponytail, then caught himself and pushed his hand back down to his side. “Magic, of the strangest kind.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you remember the babe that Eragon blessed?”

  “Aye.” Nasuada had seen her only once, but she was well aware of the exaggerated tales about the child that circulated among the Varden, as well as the Varden’s hopes for what the girl might achieve once she grew up. Nasuada was more pragmatic about the subject. Whatever the infant became, it would not be for many years, by which time the battle with Galbatorix would already be won or lost.

  “I’ve been asked to take you to her.”

  “Asked? By whom? And why?”

  “A boy on the practice field told me that you should visit the child. Said that you would find it interesting. He refused to give me his name,
but he looked like what that witch’s werecat is supposed to turn into, so I thought … Well, I thought you should know.” Jörmundur looked embarrassed. “I asked my men questions about the girl, and I heard things … that she’s different.”

  “In what way?”

  He shrugged. “Enough to believe that you should do what the werecat says.”

  Nasuada frowned. She knew from the old stories that ignoring a werecat was the height of folly and often led to one’s doom. However, his companion—Angela the herbalist—was another magic user that Nasuada did not entirely trust; she was too independent and unpredictable. “Magic,” she said, making it a curse.

  “Magic,” agreed Jörmundur, though he used it as a word of awe and fear.

  “Very well, let us go visit this child. Is she within the castle?”

  “Orrin gave her and her caretaker rooms on the west side of the keep.”

  “Take me to her.”

  Gathering up her skirts, Nasuada ordered Farica to postpone the rest of the day’s appointments, then left the chambers. Behind her, she heard Jörmundur snap his fingers as he directed four guards to take up positions around her. A moment later, he joined her side, pointing out their course.

  The heat within Borromeo Castle had increased to the point where they felt as if they were trapped within a giant bread oven. The air shimmered like liquid glass along the windowsills.

  Though she was uncomfortable, Nasuada knew that she dealt with the heat better than most people because of her swarthy skin. The ones who had the hardest time enduring the high temperatures were men like Jörmundur and her guards, who had to wear their armor all day long, even if they were stationed out under the lidless gaze of the sun.

  Nasuada kept close watch on the five men as sweat gathered on their exposed skin and their breathing became ever more ragged. Since they had arrived in Aberon, a number of the Varden had fainted from heatstroke—two of whom died an hour or two later—and she had no intention of losing more of her subjects by driving them beyond their physical limits.