Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (46 page)

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-

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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.

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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