“It was you yourself who asked me to orchestrate this campaign,” said Nasuada. “I have not deposed you.”
“Aye, it was at my request you assumed command of our disparate forces. I am not ashamed to admit you have had more experience and success than I in waging war. Our prospects are too precarious for you, me, or any of us to indulge in false pride. However, since your investiture, you seem to have forgotten that I am still the king of Surda, and we of the Langfeld family can trace our line back to Thanebrand the Ring Giver himself, he who succeeded old, mad Palancar and who was the first of our race to sit on the throne in what is now Urû’baen.
“Considering our heritage and the assistance the House of Langfeld has rendered you in this cause, it is insulting of you to ignore the rights of my office. You act as if yours was the only verdict of moment and the opinions of others are of no account, to be trampled over in pursuit of whatever goal you have already determined is best for the portion of free humanity that is fortunate enough to have you as their leader. You negotiate treaties and alliances, such as that with the Urgals, of your own initiative and expect me, and others, to abide by your decisions, as if you speak for us all. You arrange preemptive visits of state, such as that with Blödhgarmvodhr, and do not trouble to alert me of his arrival, nor wait for me to join you so we might greet his embassy together as equals. And when I have the temerity to ask why Eragon—the man whose very existence is the reason I have staked my country in this venture—when I have the temerity to ask why this all-important person has elected to endanger the lives of Surdans and those of every creature who opposes Galbatorix by tarrying in the midst of our enemies, how is it you respond? By treating me as if I were no more than an overzealous, overinquisitive underling whose childish concerns distracted you from more pressing matters. Bah! I will not have it, I tell you. If you cannot bring yourself to respect my station and to accept a fair division of responsibility, as two allies ought to, then it is my opinion that you are unfit to command a coalition such as ours, and I shall set myself against you however I may.”
What a long-winded fellow, Saphira observed.
Alarmed by the direction the conversation had taken, Eragon said, What should I do? I had not intended to tell anyone else about Sloan, except for Nasuada. The fewer people who know he’s alive, the better.
A flickering sea-blue shimmer ran from the base of Saphira’s head to the crest of her shoulders as the tips of the sharp, diamond-shaped scales along the sides of her neck rose a fraction of an inch from the underlying skin. The jagged layers of projecting scales gave her a fierce, ruffled appearance. I cannot tell you what is best, Eragon. In this, you must rely upon your own judgment. Listen closely to what your heart says and perhaps it will become clear how to win free of these treacherous downdrafts.
In response to King Orrin’s sally, Nasuada clasped her hands in her lap, her bandages startling white against the green of her dress, and in a calm, even voice said, “If I have slighted you, Sire, then it was due to my own hasty carelessness and not to any desire on my part to diminish you or your house. Please forgive my lapses. They shall not happen again; that I promise you. As you have pointed out, I have but recently ascended to this post, and I have yet to master all of the accompanying niceties.”
Orrin inclined his head in a cool but gracious acceptance of her words.
“As for Eragon and his activities in the Empire, I could not have provided you with specific details, for I have had no further intelligence myself. It was not, as I am sure you can appreciate, a situation that I wished to advertise.”
“No, of course not.”
“Therefore, it seems to me that the swiftest cure for the dispute that afflicts us is to allow Eragon to lay bare the facts of his trip that we may apprehend the full scope of this event and render judgment upon it.”
“Of its own, that is not a cure,” said King Orrin. “But it is the beginning of a cure, and I will gladly listen.”
“Then let us tarry no longer,” said Nasuada. “Let us begin this beginning and have done with our suspense. Eragon, it is time for your tale.”
With Nasuada and the others gazing at him with wondering eyes, Eragon made his choice. Lifting his chin, he said, “What I tell you, I tell you in confidence. I know I cannot expect either you, King Orrin, or you, Lady Nasuada, to swear that you will keep this secret bound within your hearts from now until the day you die, but I beg you to act as if you had. It could cause a great deal of grief if this knowledge were to be whispered in the wrong ears.”
“A king does not remain king for long unless he appreciates the value of silence,” said Orrin.
Without further ado, Eragon described everything that had happened to him in Helgrind and in the days that had followed. Afterward, Arya explained how she had gone about locating Eragon and then corroborated his account of their travels by providing several facts and observations of her own. When they had both said their fill, the pavilion was quiet as Orrin and Nasuada sat motionless upon their chairs. Eragon felt as if he were a child again, waiting for Garrow to tell him what his punishment would be for doing something foolish on their farm.
Orrin and Nasuada remained lost deep in reflection for several minutes, then Nasuada smoothed the front of her dress and said, “King Orrin may be of a different opinion, and if so, I look forward to hearing his reasons, but for my part, I believe that you did the right thing, Eragon.”
“As do I,” said Orrin, surprising them all.
“You do!” exclaimed Eragon. He hesitated. “I don’t mean to sound impertinent, for I’m glad you approve, but I didn’t expect you to look kindly upon my decision to spare Sloan’s life. If I may ask, why—”
King Orrin interrupted. “Why do we approve? The rule of law must be upheld. If you had appointed yourself Sloan’s executioner, Eragon, you would have taken for yourself the power that Nasuada and I wield. For he who has the audacity to determine who should live and who should die no longer serves the law but dictates the law. And however benevolent you might be, that would be no good thing for our species. Nasuada and I, at least, answer to the one lord even kings must kneel before. We answer to Angvard, in his realm of eternal twilight. We answer to the Gray Man on his gray horse. Death. We could be the worst tyrants in the whole of history, and given enough time, Angvard would bring us to heel…. But not you. Humans are a short-lived race, and we should not be governed by one of the Undying. We do not need another Galbatorix.” A strange laugh escaped from Orrin then, and his mouth twisted in a humorless smile. “Do you understand, Eragon? You are so dangerous, we are forced to acknowledge the danger to your face and hope that you are one of the few people able to resist the lure of power.”
King Orrin laced his fingers together underneath his chin and gazed at a fold in his robes. “I have said more than I intended…. So, for all those reasons, and others besides, I agree with Nasuada. You were right to stay your hand when you discovered this Sloan in Helgrind. As inconvenient as this episode has been, it would have been far worse, and for you as well, if you had killed to please yourself and not in self-defense or in service to others.”
Nasuada nodded. “That was well spoken.”
Throughout, Arya listened with an inscrutable expression. Whatever her own thoughts on the matter were, she did not divulge them.
Orrin and Nasuada pressed Eragon with a number of questions about the oaths he had laid upon Sloan, as well as queries about the remainder of his trip. The interrogation continued for so long, Nasuada had a tray of cooled cider, fruit, and meat pies brought into the pavilion, along with the haunch of a steer for Saphira. Nasuada and Orrin had ample opportunity to eat between questions; however, they kept Eragon so busy talking, he managed to consume only two bites of fruit and a few sips of cider to wet his throat.
At long last King Orrin bade them farewell and departed to review the status of his cavalry. Arya left a minute later, explaining that she needed to report to Queen Islanzadí and to, as she said, “heat
a tub of water, wash the sand from my skin, and return my features to their usual shape. I do not feel myself, with the tips of my ears missing, my eyes round and level, and the bones of my face in the wrong places.”
When she was alone with Eragon and Saphira, Nasuada sighed and leaned her head against the back of the chair. Eragon was shocked by how tired she appeared. Gone were her previous vitality and strength of presence. Gone was the fire from her eyes. She had, he realized, been pretending to be stronger than she was in order to avoid tempting her enemies and demoralizing the Varden with the spectacle of her weakness.
“Are you ill?” he asked.
She nodded toward her arms. “Not exactly. It’s taking me longer to recuperate than I had anticipated…. Some days are worse than others.”
“If you want, I can—”
“No. Thank you, but no. Do not tempt me. One rule of the Trial of the Long Knives is that you must allow your wounds to heal at their own pace, without magic. Otherwise, the contestants will not have endured the full measure of pain from their cuts.”
“That’s barbaric!”
A slow smile touched her lips. “Maybe so, but it is what it is, and I would not fail so late in the trial merely because I could not withstand a bit of an ache.”
“What if your wounds fester?”
“Then they fester, and I shall pay the price for my mistake. But I doubt they will while Angela ministers to me. She has an amazing storehouse of knowledge where medicinal plants are concerned. I half believe she could tell you the true name of every species of grass on the plains east of here merely by feeling their leaves.”
Saphira, who had been so still she appeared asleep, now yawned—nearly touching the floor and the ceiling with the tips of her open jaws—and shook her head and neck, sending the flecks of light reflected by her scales spinning about the tent with dizzying speed.
Straightening in her seat, Nasuada said, “Ah, I am sorry. I know this has been tedious. You have both been very patient. Thank you.”
Eragon knelt and placed his right hand over hers. “You do not need to worry about me, Nasuada. I know my duty. I have never aspired to rule; that is not my destiny. And if ever I am offered the chance to sit upon a throne, I shall refuse and see that it goes to someone who is better suited than I to lead our race.”
“You are a good person, Eragon,” murmured Nasuada, and pressed his hand between hers. Then she chuckled. “What with you, Roran, and Murtagh, I seem to spend most of my time worrying about members of your family.”
Eragon bridled at the statement. “Murtagh is no family of mine.”
“Of course. Forgive me. But still, you must admit it’s startling how much bother the three of you have caused both the Empire and the Varden.”
“It’s a talent of ours,” joked Eragon.
It runs in their blood, said Saphira. Wherever they go, they get themselves entangled in the worst danger possible. She nudged Eragon in the arm. Especially this one. What else can you expect of people from Palancar Valley? Descendants all of a mad king.
“But not mad themselves,” said Nasuada. “At least I don’t think so. It’s hard to tell at times.” She laughed. “If you, Roran, and Murtagh were locked in the same cell, I’m not sure who would survive.”
Eragon laughed as well. “Roran. He’s not about to let a little thing like death stand between him and Katrina.”
Nasuada’s smile became slightly strained. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t at that.” For a score of heartbeats, she was silent, then: “Goodness me, how selfish I am. The day is almost done, and here I am detaining you merely so I can enjoy a minute or two of idle conversation.”
“The pleasure is mine.”
“Yes, but there are better places than this for talk among friends. After what you have been through, I expect you would like a wash, a change, and a hearty meal, no? You must be famished!” Eragon glanced at the apple he still held and regretfully concluded it would be impolite to continue eating it when his audience with Nasuada was drawing to a close. Nasuada caught his look and said, “Your face answers for you, Shadeslayer. You have the guise of a winter-starved wolf. Well, I shall not torment you any longer. Go and bathe and garb yourself in your finest tunic. When you are presentable, I would be most pleased if you would consent to join me for my evening meal. Understand, you would not be my only guest, for the affairs of the Varden demand my constant attention, but you would brighten the proceedings considerably for me if you chose to attend.”
Eragon fought back a grimace at the thought of having to spend hours more parrying verbal thrusts from those who sought to use him for their own advantage or to satisfy their curiosity about Riders and dragons. Still, Nasuada was not to be denied, so he bowed and agreed to her request.
A FEAST WITH FRIENDS
Eragon and Saphira left Nasuada’s crimson pavilion with the contingent of elves ranged about them and walked to the small tent that had been assigned to him when they had joined the Varden at the Burning Plains. There he found a hogshead of boiling water waiting for him, the coils of steam opalescent in the oblique light from the large evening sun. Ignoring it for the moment, he ducked inside the tent.
After checking to ensure that none of his few possessions had been disturbed during his absence, Eragon unburdened himself of his pack and carefully removed his armor, storing it beneath his cot. It needed to be wiped and oiled, but that was a task that would have to wait. Then he reached even farther underneath the cot, his fingers scraping the fabric wall beyond, and groped in the darkness until his hand came into contact with a long, hard object. Grasping it, he lay the heavy cloth-wrapped bundle across his knees. He picked apart the knots in the wrapping, and then, starting at the thickest end of the bundle, began to unwind the coarse strips of canvas.
Inch by inch, the scuffed leather hilt of Murtagh’s hand-and-a-half sword came into view. Eragon stopped when he had exposed the hilt, the crossguard, and a fair expanse of the gleaming blade, which was as jagged as a saw from where Murtagh had blocked Eragon’s blows with Zar’roc.
Eragon sat and stared at the weapon, conflicted. He did not know what had prompted him, but the day after the battle, he had returned to the plateau and retrieved the sword from the morass of trampled dirt where Murtagh had dropped it. Even after only a single night exposed to the elements, the steel had acquired a mottled veil of rust. With a word, he had dispelled the scrim of corrosion. Perhaps it was because Murtagh had stolen his own sword that Eragon felt compelled to take up Murtagh’s, as if the exchange, unequal and involuntary though it was, minimized his loss. Perhaps it was because he wished to claim a memento of that bloody conflict. And perhaps it was because he still harbored a sense of latent affection for Murtagh, despite the grim circumstances that had turned them against each other. No matter how much Eragon abhorred what Murtagh had become, and pitied him for it too, he could not deny the connection that existed between them. Theirs was a shared fate. If not for an accident of birth, he would have been raised in Urû’baen, and Murtagh in Palancar Valley, and then their current positions might well have been reversed. Their lives were inexorably intertwined.
As he gazed at the silver steel, Eragon composed a spell that would smooth the wrinkles from the blade, close the wedge-shaped gaps along the edges, and restore the strength of the temper. He wondered, however, if he ought to. The scar that Durza had given him he had kept as a reminder of their encounter, at least until the dragons erased it during the Agaetí Blödhren. Should he keep this scar as well, then? Would it be healthy for him to carry such a painful memory on his hip? And what sort of message would it send to the rest of the Varden if he chose to wield the blade of another betrayer? Zar’roc had been a gift from Brom; Eragon could not have refused to accept it, nor was he sorry he had. But he was under no such compulsion to claim as his own the nameless blade that rested upon his thighs.
I need a sword, he thought. But not this sword.
He wrapped the blade again in its shroud of canvas
and slid it back under the cot. Then, with a fresh shirt and tunic tucked under his elbow, he left the tent and went to bathe.
When he was clean and garbed in the fine lámarae shirt and tunic, he set out to meet with Nasuada near the tents of the healers, as she had requested. Saphira flew, for as she said, It is too cramped for me on the ground; I keep knocking over tents. Besides, if I walk with you, such a herd of people will gather around us, we will hardly be able to move.
Nasuada was waiting for him by a row of three flagpoles, upon which a half-dozen gaudy pennants hung limp in the cooling air. She had changed since they had parted and now wore a light summer frock, the color of pale straw. Her dense, mosslike hair she had piled high on her head in an intricate mass of knots and braids. A single white ribbon held the arrangement in place.
She smiled at Eragon. He smiled in return and quickened his pace. As he drew close, his guards mingled with her guards with a conspicuous display of suspicion on the part of the Nighthawks and studied indifference on the part of the elves.
Nasuada took his arm and, while they spoke in comfortable tones, guided his steps as they ambled through the sea of tents. Above, Saphira circled the camp, content to wait until they arrived at their destination before she went to the effort of landing. Eragon and Nasuada spoke of many things. Little of consequence passed between their lips, but her wit, her gaiety, and the thoughtfulness of her remarks charmed him. It was easy for him to talk to her and easier to listen, and that very ease caused him to realize how much he cared for her. Her hold on him far exceeded that of a liegelord over her vassal. It was a new feeling for him, their bond. Aside from his aunt Marian, of whom he had but faint memories, he had grown up in a world of men and boys, and he had never had the opportunity to be friends with a woman. His inexperience made him uncertain, and his uncertainty made him awkward, but Nasuada did not seem to notice.
She stopped him before a tent that glowed from within with the light of many candles and that hummed with a multitude of unintelligible voices. “Now we must dive into the swamp of politics again. Prepare yourself.”