She observed five of them.
Five! she thought. So many. Her confidence wavered as she contemplated the evidence of Fadawar’s fortitude. The only thing that kept her from losing her nerve altogether was Elva’s prediction: the girl had said that, in this, Nasuada would prevail. Nasuada clung to the memory as if it were her only child. She said I can do this, so I must be able to outlast Fadawar.… I must be able to!
As he was the one who had issued the challenge, Fadawar went first. He held his left arm straight out from his shoulder, palm-upward; placed the blade of his knife against his forearm, just below the crease of his elbow; and drew the mirror-polished edge across his flesh. His skin split like an overripe berry, blood welling from within the crimson crevice.
He locked gazes with Nasuada.
She smiled and set her own knife against her arm. The metal was as cold as ice. Theirs was a test of wills to discover who could withstand the most cuts. The belief was that whoever aspired to become the chief of a tribe, or even a warlord, should be willing to endure more pain than anyone else for the sake of his or her people. Otherwise, how could the tribes trust their leaders to place the concerns of the community before their own selfish desires? It was Nasuada’s opinion that the practice encouraged extremism, but she also understood the ability of the gesture to earn people’s trust. Although the Trial of the Long Knives was specific to the dark-skinned tribes, besting Fadawar would solidify her standing among the Varden and, she hoped, King Orrin’s followers.
She offered a quick plea for strength to Gokukara, the praying mantis goddess, and then pulled on the knife. The sharpened steel slid through her skin so easily, she struggled to avoid cutting too deeply. She shuddered at the sensation. She wanted to fling the knife away and clutch her wound and scream.
She did none of those things. She kept her muscles slack; if she tensed, the process would hurt all the more. And she kept smiling as, slowly, the blade mutilated her body. The cut ended after only three seconds, but in those seconds, her outraged flesh delivered a thousand shrieking complaints, and each one nearly made her stop. As she lowered the knife, she noticed that while the tribesmen still beat upon their drums, she heard naught but the pounding of her pulse.
Then Fadawar slashed himself a second time. The cords in his neck stood in high relief, and his jugular vein bulged as if it would burst while the knife carved its bloody path.
Nasuada saw it was her turn again. Knowing what to expect only increased her fear. Her instinct for self-preservation—an instinct that had served her well on all other occasions—warred against the commands she sent to her arm and hand. Desperate, she concentrated upon her desire to preserve the Varden and overthrow Galbatorix: the two causes to which she had devoted her entire being. In her mind, she saw her father and Jörmundur and Eragon and the people of the Varden, and she thought, For them! I do this for them. I was born to serve, and this is my service.
She made the incision.
A moment later, Fadawar opened up a third gash on his forearm, as did Nasuada on her own.
The fourth cut followed soon thereafter.
And the fifth …
A strange lethargy overtook Nasuada. She was so very tired, and cold as well. It occurred to her then that tolerance of pain might not decide the trial, but rather who would faint first from loss of blood. Shifting streams of it ran across her wrist and down her fingers, splashing into the thick pool by her feet. A similar, if larger, puddle gathered around Fadawar’s boots.
The row of gaping red slits on the warlord’s arm reminded Nasuada of the gills of a fish, a thought that for some reason seemed incredibly funny to her; she had to bite her tongue to keep from giggling.
With a howl, Fadawar succeeded in completing his sixth cut. “Best that, you feckless witch!” he shouted over the noise of the drums, and dropped to one knee.
She did.
Fadawar trembled as he transferred his knife from his right hand to his left; tradition dictated a maximum of six cuts per arm, else you risked severing the veins and tendons close to the wrist. As Nasuada imitated his movement, King Orrin sprang between them and said, “Stop! I won’t allow this to continue. You’re going to kill yourselves.”
He reached toward Nasuada, then jumped back as she stabbed at him. “Don’t meddle,” she growled between her teeth.
Now Fadawar started on his right forearm, releasing a spray of blood from his rigid muscles. He’s clenching, she realized. She hoped the mistake would be enough to break him.
Nasuada could not help herself; she uttered a wordless cry when the knife parted her skin. The razor edge burned like a white-hot wire. Halfway through the cut, her traumatized left arm twitched. The knife swerved as a result, leaving her with a long, jagged laceration twice as deep as the others. Her breath stopped while she weathered the agony. I can’t go on, she thought. I can’t … I can’t! It’s too much to bear. I’d rather die.… Oh please, let it end! It gave her some relief to indulge in those and other desperate complaints, but in the depths of her heart, she knew she would never give up.
For the eighth time, Fadawar positioned his blade above one of his forearms, and there he held it, the pale metal suspended a quarter of an inch away from his sable skin. He remained thus as sweat dripped over his eyes and his wounds shed ruby tears. It appeared as though his courage might have failed him, but then he snarled and, with a quick yank, sliced his arm.
His hesitation bolstered Nasuada’s flagging strength. A fierce exhilaration overtook her, transmuting her pain into an almost pleasurable sensation. She matched Fadawar’s effort and then, spurred onward by her sudden, heedless disregard for her own well-being, brought the knife down again.
“Best that,” she whispered.
The prospect of having to make two cuts in a row—one to equal the number of Nasuada’s and one to advance the contest—seemed to intimidate Fadawar. He blinked, licked his lips, and adjusted his grip on his knife three times before he raised the weapon over his arm.
His tongue darted out and moistened his lips again.
A spasm distorted his left hand, and the knife dropped from his contorted fingers, burying itself upright in the ground.
He picked it up. Underneath his robe, his chest rose and fell with frantic speed. Lifting the knife, he touched it to his arm; it promptly drew a small trickle of blood. Fadawar’s jaw knotted and writhed, and then a shudder ran the length of his spine and he doubled over, pressing his injured arms against his belly. “I submit,” he said.
The drums stopped.
The ensuing silence lasted for only an instant before King Orrin, Jörmundur, and everyone else filled the pavilion with their overlapping exclamations.
Nasuada paid no attention to their remarks. Groping behind herself, she found her chair and sank into it, eager to take the weight off her legs before they gave way beneath her. She strove to remain conscious as her vision dimmed and flickered; the last thing she wanted to do was pass out in front of the tribesmen. A gentle pressure on her shoulder alerted her to the fact that Farica was standing next to her, holding a pile of bandages.
“My Lady, may I tend to you?” asked Farica, her expression both concerned and hesitant, as if she were uncertain how Nasuada would react.
Nasuada nodded her approval.
As Farica began to wind strips of linen around her arms, Naako and Ramusewa approached. They bowed, and Ramusewa said, “Never before has anyone endured so many cuts in the Trial of the Long Knives. Both you and Fadawar proved your mettle, but you are undoubtedly the victor. We shall tell our people of your achievement, and they shall give you their fealty.”
“Thank you,” said Nasuada. She closed her eyes as the throbbing in her arms increased.
“My Lady.”
Around her, Nasuada heard a confused medley of sounds, which she made no effort to decipher, preferring instead to retreat deep inside herself, where her pain was no longer so immediate and menacing. She floated in the womb of a boundless black space
, illuminated by formless blobs of ever-changing color.
Her respite was interrupted by the voice of Trianna as the sorceress said, “Leave off what you’re doing, handmaid, and remove those bandages so I can heal your mistress.”
Nasuada opened her eyes to see Jörmundur, King Orrin, and Trianna standing over her. Fadawar and his men had departed the pavilion. “No,” said Nasuada.
The group looked at her with surprise, and then Jörmundur said, “Nasuada, your thoughts are clouded. The trial is over. You don’t have to live with these cuts any longer. In any event, we have to stanch your bleeding.”
“Farica is doing that well enough as is. I shall have a healer stitch my wounds and make a poultice to reduce the swelling, and that is all.”
“But why!”
“The Trial of the Long Knives requires participants to allow their wounds to heal at their natural pace. Otherwise, we won’t have experienced the full measure of pain the trial entails. If I violate the rule, Fadawar will be declared the victor.”
“Will you at least allow me to alleviate your suffering?” asked Trianna. “I know several spells that can eliminate any amount of pain. If you had consulted me beforehand, I could have arranged it so that you could lop off an entire limb without the slightest discomfort.”
Nasuada laughed and allowed her head to loll to the side, feeling rather giddy. “My answer would have been the same then as it is now: trickery is dishonorable. I had to win the trial without deceit so no one can question my leadership in the future.”
In a deadly soft tone, King Orrin said, “But what if you had lost?”
“I could not lose. Even if it meant my death, I never would have allowed Fadawar to gain control of the Varden.”
Grave, Orrin studied her for a long while. “I believe you. Only, is the tribes’ loyalty worth such a great sacrifice? You are not so common that we can easily replace you.”
“The tribes’ loyalty? No. But this will have an effect far beyond the tribes, as you must know. It should help unify our forces. And that is a prize valuable enough for me to willingly brave a host of unpleasant deaths.”
“Pray tell, what would the Varden have gained if you had died today? No benefit would exist then. Your legacy would be discouragement, chaos, and likely ruin.”
Whenever Nasuada drank wine, mead, and especially strong spirits, she became most cautious with her speech and motions, for even if she did not notice it at once, she knew the alcohol degraded her judgment and coordination, and she had no desire to behave inappropriately or to give others an advantage in their dealings with her.
Pain-drunk as she was, she later realized she should have been as vigilant in her discussion with Orrin as if she had imbibed three tankards of the dwarves’ blackberry-honey mead. If she had, her well-developed sense of courtesy would have prevented her from replying so: “You worry like an old man, Orrin. I had to do this, and it is done. ’Tis bootless to fret about it now.… I took a risk, yes. But we cannot defeat Galbatorix unless we dance along the very cliff edge of disaster. You are a king. You ought to understand that danger is the mantle a person assumes when he—or she—has the arrogance to decide the fates of other men.”
“I understand well enough,” growled Orrin. “My family and I have defended Surda against the Empire’s encroachment every day of our lives for generations, while the Varden merely hid in Farthen Dûr and leeched off Hrothgar’s generosity.” His robes swirled about him as he turned and stalked out of the pavilion.
“That was badly handled, my Lady,” observed Jörmundur.
Nasuada winced as Farica tugged on her bandages. “I know,” she gasped. “I’ll mend his broken pride tomorrow.”
WINGED TIDINGS
A gap appeared then in Nasuada’s memories: an absence of sensory information so complete, she only became aware of the missing time when it dawned upon her that Jörmundur was shaking her shoulder and saying something loudly. It took her several moments to decipher the sounds coming out of his mouth, and then she heard: “… keep looking at me, blast it! That’s the thing! Don’t go to sleep again. You won’t wake up again if you do.”
“You can let go of me, Jörmundur,” she said, and mustered a weak smile. “I’m all right now.”
“And my uncle Undset was an elf.”
“Wasn’t he?”
“Bah! You are the same as your father: always ignoring caution when it comes to your own safety. The tribes can rot in their bloody old customs, for all I care. Let a healer at you. You’re in no condition to make decisions.”
“That’s why I waited until it was evening. See, the sun is almost down. I can rest tonight, and tomorrow I will be able to deal with the affairs that require my attention.”
Farica appeared from the side and hovered over Nasuada. “Oh, Ma’am, you gave us quite a fright there.”
“Still are, as a matter of fact,” muttered Jörmundur.
“Well, I’m better now.” Nasuada pushed herself upright in the chair, ignoring the heat from her forearms. “You can both go; I shall be fine. Jörmundur, send word to Fadawar that he may remain chief of his own tribe, so long as he swears loyalty to me as his warlord. He is too skilled a leader to waste. And, Farica, on your way back to your tent, please inform Angela the herbalist that I require her services. She agreed to mix some tonics and poultices for me.”
“I won’t leave you alone in this condition,” declared Jörmundur.
Farica nodded. “Begging your pardon, my Lady, but I agree with him. It’s not safe.”
Nasuada glanced toward the entrance to the pavilion, to ensure none of the Nighthawks were close enough to overhear, and then dropped her voice into a low whisper. “I shall not be alone.” Jörmundur’s eyebrows shot up, and an alarmed expression crossed Farica’s face. “I am never alone. Do you understand?”
“You have taken certain … precautions, my Lady?” asked Jörmundur.
“I have.”
Both her caretakers appeared uneasy with her assurance, and Jörmundur said, “Nasuada, your safety is my responsibility; I need to know what additional protection you may have and who exactly has access to your person.”
“No,” she said gently. Seeing the hurt and indignation that appeared in Jörmundur’s eyes, she continued. “It’s not that I doubt your loyalty—far from it. Only, this I must have for myself. For the sake of my own peace of mind, I need to have a dagger no one else can see: a hidden weapon tucked up my sleeve, if you will. Consider it a flaw in my character, but do not torment yourself by imagining my choice is in any way a criticism of how you perform your duties.”
“My Lady.” Jörmundur bowed, a formality he almost never used with her.
Nasuada lifted her hand, indicating her permission for them to leave, and Jörmundur and Farica hurried from the red pavilion.
For a long minute, perhaps two, the only sound Nasuada heard was the harsh cry of gore-crows circling above the Varden’s encampment. Then, from behind her, there came a slight rustling, like that of a mouse nosing about for food. Turning her head, she saw Elva slip out of her hiding place, emerging between two panels of fabric into the main chamber of the pavilion.
Nasuada studied her.
The girl’s unnatural growth had continued. When Nasuada first met her but a short while ago, Elva had appeared between three and four years old. Now she looked closer to six. Her plain dress was black, with a few folds of purple around the neck and shoulders. Her long, straight hair was even darker: a liquid void that flowed down to the small of her back. Her sharp-angled face was bone white, for she rarely ventured outside. The dragon mark on her brow was silver. And her eyes, her violet eyes, contained a jaded, cynical air—the result of Eragon’s blessing that was a curse, for it forced her to both endure other people’s pain and also try to prevent it. The recent battle had almost killed her, what with the combined agony of thousands beating upon her mind, even though one of Du Vrangr Gata had placed her in an artificial slumber for the duration of the fighting,
in an attempt to protect her. Only recently had the girl begun to speak and take interest in her surroundings again.
She wiped her rosebud mouth with the back of her hand, and Nasuada asked, “Were you ill?”
Elva shrugged. “The pain I’m used to, but it never gets any easier to resist Eragon’s spell.… I am hard to impress, Nasuada, but you are a strong woman to withstand so many cuts.”
Even though Nasuada had heard it many times, Elva’s voice still inspired a thrill of alarm in her, for it was the bitter, mocking voice of a world-weary adult, not that of a child. She struggled to ignore it as she responded: “You are stronger. I did not have to suffer through Fadawar’s pain as well. Thank you for staying with me. I know what it must have cost you, and I’m grateful.”
“Grateful? Ha! There’s an empty word for me, Lady Nightstalker.” Elva’s small lips twisted in a misshapen smile. “Have you anything to eat? I’m famished.”
“Farica left some bread and wine behind those scrolls,” said Nasuada, pointing across the pavilion. She watched the girl make her way to the food and begin wolfing down the bread, cramming large chunks into her mouth. “At least you won’t have to live like this for much longer. As soon as Eragon returns, he’ll remove the spell.”
“Perhaps.” After she had devoured half a loaf, Elva paused. “I lied about the Trial of the Long Knives.”
“What do you mean?”
“I foresaw that you would lose, not win.”
“What!”
“If I had allowed events to take their course, your nerve would have broken on the seventh cut and Fadawar would be sitting where you are now. So I told you what you needed to hear in order to prevail.”
A chill crept over Nasuada. If what Elva said was true, then she was in the witch-child’s debt more than ever. Still, she disliked being manipulated, even if it was for her own benefit. “I see. It seems I must thank you once again.”
Inheritance Cycle Omnibus Page 128
