In the main room lay a rough-hewn table twelve feet long, upon which a map of Alagaësia was staked open with daggers at the four corners. As was custom, Orrin sat at the head of the table, while his various advisers—many of whom, Nasuada knew, vehemently opposed her—occupied the chairs farther down. The Council of Elders was also present. Nasuada noticed the concern on Jörmundur’s face as he looked at her and deduced that Trianna had indeed told him about Drail.
“Sire, you asked for me?”
Orrin rose. “That I did. We have now—” He stopped in midword as he noticed Elva. “Ah, yes, Shining Brow. I have not had the opportunity to grant you audience before, though accounts of your feats have reached my ear and, I must confess, I have been most curious to meet you. Have you found the quarters I arranged for you satisfactory?”
“They are quite nice, Sire. Thank you.” At the sound of her eerie voice, the voice of an adult, everyone at the table flinched.
Irwin, the prime minister, bolted upright and pointed a quivering finger at Elva. “Why have you brought this … this abomination here?”
“You forget your manners, sir,” replied Nasuada, though she understood his sentiment.
Orrin frowned. “Yes, do restrain yourself, Irwin. However, his point is valid, Nasuada; we cannot have this child present at our deliberations.”
“The Empire,” she said, “has just tried to assassinate me.” The room echoed with cries of surprise. “If it were not for Elva’s swift action, I would be dead. As a result, I have taken her into my confidence; where I go, she goes.” Let them wonder what it is exactly Elva can do.
“This is indeed distressing news!” exclaimed the king. “Have you caught the blackguard responsible?”
Seeing the eager expressions of his advisers, Nasuada hesitated. “It would be best to wait until I can give you an account in private, Sire.”
Orrin appeared put out by her response, but he did not pursue the issue. “Very well. But sit, sit! We have just received the most troubling report.” After Nasuada took her place opposite him—Elva lurking behind her—he continued: “It seems that our spies in Gil’ead have been deceived as to the status of Galbatorix’s army.”
“How so?”
“They believe the army to be in Gil’ead, whereas we have here a missive from one of our men in Urû’baen, who says that he witnessed a great host march south past the capital a week and a half ago. It was night, so he could not be sure of their numbers, but he was certain that the host was far larger than the sixteen thousand that form the core of Galbatorix’s troops. There may have been as many as a hundred thousand soldiers, or more.”
A hundred thousand! A cold pit of fear settled in Nasuada’s stomach. “Can we trust your source?”
“His intelligence has always been reliable.”
“I don’t understand,” said Nasuada. “How could Galbatorix move that many men without our knowing of it before? The supply trains alone would be miles long. It’s been obvious the army was mobilizing, but the Empire was nowhere near ready to deploy.”
Falberd spoke then, slapping a heavy hand on the table for emphasis: “We were outfoxed. Our spies must have been deceived with magic to think the army was still in their barracks in Gil’ead.”
Nasuada felt the blood drain from her face. “The only person strong enough to sustain an illusion of that size and duration—”
“Is Galbatorix himself,” completed Orrin. “That was our conclusion. It means that Galbatorix has finally abandoned his lair in favor of open combat. Even as we speak, the black foe approaches.”
Irwin leaned forward. “The question now is how we should respond. We must confront this threat, of course, but in what manner? Where, when, and how? Our own forces aren’t prepared for a campaign of this magnitude, while yours, Lady Nasuada—the Varden—are already accustomed to the fierce clamor of war.”
“What do you mean to imply?” That we should die for you?
“I but made an observation. Take it how you will.”
Then Orrin said, “Alone, we will be crushed against an army so large. We must have allies, and above all else we must have Eragon, especially if we are to confront Galbatorix. Nasuada, will you send for him?”
“I would if I could, but until Arya returns, I have no way to contact the elves or to summon Eragon.”
“In that case,” said Orrin in a heavy voice, “we must hope that she arrives before it is too late. I do not suppose we can expect the elves’ assistance in this affair. While a dragon may traverse the leagues between Aberon and Ellesméra with the speed of a falcon, it would be impossible for the elves to marshal themselves and cross that same distance before the Empire reaches us. That leaves only the dwarves. I know that you have been friends with Hrothgar for many years; will you send him a plea for help on our behalf? The dwarves have always promised they would fight when the time came.”
Nasuada nodded. “Du Vrangr Gata has an arrangement with certain dwarf magicians that allows us to transfer messages instantaneously. I will convey your—our—request. And I will ask Hrothgar to send an emissary to Ceris to inform the elves of the situation so that they are forewarned, if nothing else.”
“Good. We are quite a ways from Farthen Dûr, but if we can delay the Empire for even a week, the dwarves might be able to get here in time.”
The discussion that followed was an exceedingly grim one. Various tactics existed for defeating a larger—although not necessarily superior—force, but no one at the table could imagine how they might defeat Galbatorix, especially when Eragon was still so powerless compared to the ancient king. The only ploy that might succeed would be to surround Eragon with as many magicians, dwarf and human, as possible, and then attempt to force Galbatorix to confront them alone. The problem with that plan, thought Nasuada, is that Galbatorix overcame far more formidable enemies during his destruction of the Riders, and his strength has only grown since. She was certain that this had occurred to everyone else as well. If we but had the elves’ spellweavers to swell our ranks, then victory might be within our reach. Without them … If we cannot overthrow Galbatorix, the only avenue left may be to flee Alagaësia across the sundering sea and find a new land in which to build a life for ourselves. There we could wait until Galbatorix is no more. Even he cannot endure forever. The only certainty is that, eventually, all things shall pass.
They moved on then from tactics to logistics, and here the debate became far more acrimonious as the Council of Elders argued with Orrin’s advisers over the distribution of responsibilities between the Varden and Surda: who should pay for this or that, provide rations for laborers who worked for both groups, manage the provisions for their respective warriors, and how numerous other related subjects should be dealt with.
In the midst of the verbal fray, Orrin pulled a scroll from his belt and said to Nasuada, “On the matter of finances, would you be so kind as to explain a rather curious item that was brought to my attention?”
“I’ll do my best, Sire.”
“I hold in my hand a complaint from the weavers’ guild, which asserts that weavers throughout Surda have lost a good share of their profits because the textile market has been inundated with extraordinarily cheap lace—lace they swear originates with the Varden.” A pained look crossed his face. “It seems foolish to even ask, but does their claim have basis in fact, and if so, why would the Varden do such a thing?”
Nasuada made no attempt to hide her smile. “If you remember, Sire, when you refused to lend the Varden more gold, you advised me to find another way for us to support ourselves.”
“So I did. What of it?” asked Orrin, narrowing his eyes.
“Well, it struck me that while lace takes a long time to make by hand, which is why it’s so expensive, lace is quite easy to produce using magic due to the small amount of energy involved. You of all people, as a natural philosopher, should appreciate that. By selling our lace here and in the Empire, we have been able to fully fund our efforts. The Varden no longe
r want for food or shelter.”
Few things in her life pleased Nasuada so much as Orrin’s incredulous expression at that instant. The scroll frozen halfway between his chin and the table, his slightly parted mouth, and the quizzical frown upon his brow conspired to give him the stunned appearance of a man who had just seen something he did not understand. She savored the sight.
“Lace?” he sputtered.
“Yes, Sire.”
“You can’t fight Galbatorix with lace!”
“Why not, Sire?”
He struggled for a moment, then growled, “Because … because it’s not respectable, that’s why. What bard would compose an epic about our deeds and write about lace?”
“We do not fight in order to have epics written in our praise.”
“Then blast epics! How am I supposed to answer the weavers’ guild? By selling your lace so cheaply, you hurt people’s livelihoods and undermine our economy. It won’t do. It won’t do at all.”
Letting her smile become sweet and warm, Nasuada said in her friendliest tone, “Oh dear. If it’s too much of a burden for your treasury, the Varden would be more than willing to offer you a loan in return for the kindness you’ve shown us … at a suitable rate of interest, of course.”
The Council of Elders managed to maintain their decorum, but behind Nasuada, Elva uttered a quick laugh of amusement.
RED BLADE, WHITE BLADE
he moment the sun appeared over the tree-lined horizon, Eragon deepened his breathing, willed his heart to quicken, and opened his eyes as he returned to full awareness. He had not been asleep, for he had not slept since his transformation. When he felt weary and lay himself down to rest, he entered a state that was unto a waking dream. There he beheld many wondrous visions and walked among the gray shades of his memories, yet all the while remained aware of his surroundings.
He watched the sunrise and thoughts of Arya filled his mind, as they had every hour since the Agaetí Blödhren two days before. The morning after the celebration, he had gone looking for her in Tialdarí Hall—intending to try and make amends for his behavior—only to discover that she had already left for Surda. When will I see her again? he wondered. In the clear light of day, he had realized just how much the elves’ and dragons’ magic had dulled his wits during the Agaetí Blödhren. I may have acted a fool, but it wasn’t entirely my fault. I was no more responsible for my conduct than if I were drunk.
Still, he had meant every word he said to Arya—even if normally he would not have revealed so much of himself. Her rejection cut Eragon to the quick. Freed of the enchantments that had clouded his mind, he was forced to admit that she was probably right, that the difference between their ages was too great to overcome. It was a difficult thing for him to accept, and once he had, the knowledge only increased his anguish.
Eragon had heard the expression “heartbroken” before. Until then, he always considered it a fanciful description, not an actual physical symptom. But now he felt a deep ache in his chest—like that of a sore muscle—and each beat of his heart pained him.
His only comfort was Saphira. In those two days, she had never criticized what he had done, nor did she leave his side for more than a few minutes at a time, lending him the support of her companionship. She talked to him a great deal as well, doing her best to draw him out of his shell of silence.
To keep himself from brooding over Arya, Eragon took Orik’s puzzle ring from his nightstand and rolled it between his fingers, marveling at how keen his senses had become. He could feel every flaw in the twisted metal. As he studied the ring, he perceived a pattern in the arrangement of the gold bands, a pattern that had escaped him before. Trusting his instinct, he manipulated the bands in the sequence suggested by his observation. To his delight, the eight pieces fit together perfectly, forming a solid whole. He slid the ring onto the fourth finger of his right hand, admiring how the woven bands caught the light.
You could not do that before, observed Saphira from the bowl in the floor where she slept.
I can see many things that were once hidden to me.
Eragon went to the wash closet and performed his morning ablutions, including removing the stubble from his cheeks with a spell. Despite the fact that he now closely resembled an elf, he had retained the ability to grow a beard.
Orik was waiting for them when Eragon and Saphira arrived at the sparring field. His eyes brightened as Eragon lifted his hand and displayed the completed puzzle ring. “You solved it, then!”
“It took me longer than I expected,” said Eragon, “but yes. Are you here to practice as well?”
“Eh. I already got in a bit o’ ax work with an elf who took a rather fiendish delight in cracking me over the head. No … I came to watch you fight.”
“You’ve seen me fight before,” pointed out Eragon.
“Not for a while, I haven’t.”
“You mean you’re curious to see how I’ve changed.” Orik shrugged in response.
Vanir approached from across the field. He cried, “Are you ready, Shadeslayer?” The elf’s condescending demeanor had lessened since their last duel before the Agaetí Blödhren, but not by much.
“I’m ready.”
Eragon and Vanir squared off against each other in an open area of the field. Emptying his mind, Eragon grasped and drew Zar’roc as fast as he could. To his surprise, the sword felt as if it weighed no more than a willow wand. Without the expected resistance, Eragon’s arm snapped straight, tearing the sword from his hand and sending it whirling twenty yards to his right, where it buried itself in the trunk of a pine tree.
“Can you not even hold on to your blade, Rider?” demanded Vanir.
“I apologize, Vanir-vodhr,” gasped Eragon. He clutched his elbow, rubbing the bruised joint to lessen the pain. “I misjudged my strength.”
“See that it does not happen again.” Going to the tree, Vanir gripped Zar’roc’s hilt and tried to pull the sword free. The weapon remained motionless. Vanir’s eyebrows met as he frowned at the unyielding crimson blade, as if he suspected some form of trickery. Bracing himself, the elf heaved backward and, with the crack of wood, yanked Zar’roc out of the pine.
Eragon accepted the sword from Vanir and hefted Zar’roc, troubled by how light it was. Something’s wrong, he thought.
“Take your place!”
This time it was Vanir who initiated the fight. In a single bound, he crossed the distance between them and thrust his blade toward Eragon’s right shoulder. To Eragon, it seemed as if the elf moved slower than usual, as if Vanir’s reflexes had been reduced to the level of a human’s. It was easy for Eragon to deflect Vanir’s sword, blue sparks flying from the metal as their blades grated against one another.
Vanir landed with an astonished expression. He struck again, and Eragon evaded the sword by leaning back, like a tree swaying in the wind. In quick succession, Vanir rained a score of heavy blows upon Eragon, each of which Eragon dodged or blocked, using Zar’roc’s sheath as often as the sword to foil Vanir’s onslaught.
Eragon soon realized that the spectral dragon from the Agaetí Blödhren had done more than alter his appearance; it had also granted him the elves’ physical abilities. In strength and speed, Eragon now matched even the most athletic elf.
Fired by that knowledge and a desire to test his limits, Eragon jumped as high as he could. Zar’roc flashed crimson in the sunlight as he flew skyward, soaring more than ten feet above the ground before he flipped like an acrobat and came down behind Vanir, facing the direction from which he had started.
A fierce laugh erupted from Eragon. No more was he helpless before elves, Shades, and other creatures of magic. No more would he suffer the elves’ contempt. No more would he have to rely on Saphira or Arya to rescue him from enemies like Durza.
He charged Vanir, and the field rang with a furious din as they strove against each other, raging back and forth upon the trampled grass. The force of their blows created gusts of wind that whipped their hair into tangl
ed disarray. Overhead, the trees shook and dropped their needles. The duel lasted long into the morning, for even with Eragon’s newfound skill, Vanir was still a formidable opponent. But in the end, Eragon would not be denied. Playing Zar’roc in a circle, he darted past Vanir’s guard and struck him upon the upper arm, breaking the bone.
Vanir dropped his blade, his face turning white with shock. “How swift is your sword,” he said, and Eragon recognized the famous line from The Lay of Umhodan.
“By the gods!” exclaimed Orik. “That was the best swordsmanship I’ve ever seen, and I was there when you fought Arya in Farthen Dûr.”
Then Vanir did what Eragon had never expected: the elf twisted his uninjured hand in the gesture of fealty, placed it upon his sternum, and bowed. “I beg your pardon for my earlier behavior, Eragon-elda. I thought that you had consigned my race to the void, and out of my fear I acted most shamefully. However, it seems that your race no longer endangers our cause.” In a grudging voice, he added: “You are now worthy of the title Rider.”
Eragon bowed in return. “You honor me. I’m sorry that I injured you so badly. Will you allow me to heal your arm?”
“No, I shall let nature tend to it at her own pace, as a memento that I once crossed blades with Eragon Shadeslayer. You needn’t fear that it will disrupt our sparring tomorrow; I am equally good with my left hand.”
They both bowed again, and then Vanir departed.
Orik slapped a hand on his thigh and said, “Now we have a chance at victory, a real chance! I can feel it in my bones. Bones like stone, they say. Ah, this’ll please Hrothgar and Nasuada to no end.”
Eragon kept his peace and concentrated on removing the block from Zar’roc’s edges, but he said to Saphira, If brawn were all that was required to depose Galbatorix, the elves would have done it long ago. Still, he could not help being pleased by his heightened prowess, as well as by his long-awaited reprieve from the torment of his back. Without the constant bursts of pain, it was as if a haze had been lifted from his mind, allowing him to think clearly once again.
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