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 be-
came 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 war-
riors, 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 be-
cause 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 natu-
ral 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
longer 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.
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“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 friend-
liest 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.
496
RED BLADE, WHITE BLADE
The 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 memo-
ries, 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 drag-
ons’ 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 symp-
tom. But now he felt a deep ache in his chest—like that of a sore mus-
cle—and each beat of his heart pained him.
His only comfort was Saphira. In those two days, she had never criti-
cized 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 in-
497
stinct, he manipulated the bands in the sequence suggested by his obser-
vation. 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, ad-
miring 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 wil-
low wand. Without the expected resistance, Eragon’s arm snapped
straight, tearing the sword from his hand and sending it whirling twenty
498
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, rub-
bing 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 mo-
tionless. 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 Er-
agon 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
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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
tangled 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 ti-
tle 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
500
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.
A few minutes remained before they were supposed to meet with
Oromis and Glaedr, so Eragon took his bow and quiver from where they
hung on Saphira’s back and walked to the range where elves practiced
archery. Since the elves’ bows were much more powerful than his, their
padded targets were both too small and too far away for him. He had to
shoot from halfway down the range.
Taking his place, Eragon nocked an arrow and slowly pulled back the
string, delighted by how easy it had become. He aimed, released the ar-
row, and held his position, waiting to see if he would hit his mark. Like a
maddened hornet, the dart buzzed toward the target and buried itself in