Eldest

by Christopher Paolini

  “I am. I wished to ensure that I understood them properly.” Without moving from her chair, Nasuada reached down and lifted the overgown so that Trianna could see the mutilated lace. “So then, within those limits, you should be able to devise a spell that will allow you to manufacture lace with magic.”

  A condescending sneer distorted the sorceress’s dark lips. “Du Vrangr Gata has more important duties than repairing your clothes, Lady. Our art is not so common as to be employed for mere whims. I’m sure that you will find your seamstresses and tailors more than capable of fulfilling your request. Now, if you will excuse me, I—”

  “Be quiet, woman,” said Nasuada in a flat voice. Astonishment muted Trianna in midsentence. “I see that I must teach Du Vrangr Gata the same lesson that I taught the Council of Elders: I may be young, but I am no child to be patronized. I ask about lace because if you can manufacture it quickly and easily with magic, then we can support the Varden by selling inexpensive bobbin and needle lace throughout the Empire. Galbatorix’s own people will provide the funds we need to survive.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” protested Trianna. Even Farica looked skeptical. “You can’t pay for a war with lace.”

  Nasuada raised an eyebrow. “Why not? Women who otherwise could never afford to own lace will leap at the chance to buy ours. Every farmer’s wife who longs to appear richer than she is will want it. Even wealthy merchants and nobles will give us their gold because our lace will be finer than any thrown or stitched by human hands. We’ll garner a fortune to rival the dwarves’. That is, if you are skilled enough in magic to do what I want.”

  Trianna tossed her hair. “You doubt my abilities?”

  “Can it be done!”

  Trianna hesitated, then took the overgown from Nasuada and studied the lace strip for a long while. At last she said, “It should be possible, but I’ll have to conduct some tests before I know for certain.”

  “Do so immediately. From now on, this is your most important assignment. And find an experienced lace maker to advise you on the patterns.”

  “Yes, Lady Nasuada.”

  Nasuada allowed her voice to soften. “Good. I also want you to select the brightest members of Du Vrangr Gata and work with them to invent other magical techniques that will help the Varden. That’s your responsibility, not mine.”

  “Yes, Lady Nasuada.”

  “Now you are excused. Report back to me tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, Lady Nasuada.”

  Satisfied, Nasuada watched the sorceress depart, then closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy a moment of pride for what she had accomplished. She knew that no man, not even her father, would have thought of her solution. “This is my contribution to the Varden,” she told herself, wishing that Ajihad could witness it. Louder, she asked, “Did I surprise you, Farica?”

  “You always do, Ma’am.”

  ELVA

  “Ma’am?…You’re needed, Ma’am.”

  “What?” Reluctant to move, Nasuada opened her eyes and saw Jörmundur enter the room. The wiry veteran pulled off his helm, tucked it in the crook of his right arm, and made his way to her with his left hand planted on the pommel of his sword.

  The links of his hauberk clinked as he bowed. “My Lady.”

  “Welcome, Jörmundur. How is your son today?” She was pleased that he had come. Of all the members of the Council of Elders, he had accepted her leadership the most easily, serving her with the same dogged loyalty and determination as he had Ajihad. If all my warriors were like him, no one could stop us.

  “His cough has subsided.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Now, what brings you?”

  Lines appeared on Jörmundur’s forehead. He ran his free hand over his hair, which was tied back in a ponytail, then caught himself and pushed his hand back down to his side. “Magic, of the strangest kind.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you remember the babe that Eragon blessed?”

  “Aye.” Nasuada had seen her only once, but she was well aware of the exaggerated tales about the child that circulated among the Varden, as well as the Varden’s hopes for what the girl might achieve once she grew up. Nasuada was more pragmatic about the subject. Whatever the infant became, it would not be for many years, by which time the battle with Galbatorix would already be won or lost.

  “I’ve been asked to take you to her.”

  “Asked? By whom? And why?”

  “A boy on the practice field told me that you should visit the child. Said that you would find it interesting. He refused to give me his name, but he looked like what that witch’s werecat is supposed to turn into, so I thought…Well, I thought you should know.” Jörmundur looked embarrassed. “I asked my men questions about the girl, and I heard things…that she’s different.”

  “In what way?”

  He shrugged. “Enough to believe that you should do what the werecat says.”

  Nasuada frowned. She knew from the old stories that ignoring a werecat was the height of folly and often led to one’s doom. However, his companion—Angela the herbalist—was another magic user that Nasuada did not entirely trust; she was too independent and unpredictable. “Magic,” she said, making it a curse.

  “Magic,” agreed Jörmundur, though he used it as a word of awe and fear.

  “Very well, let us go visit this child. Is she within the castle?”

  “Orrin gave her and her caretaker rooms on the west side of the keep.”

  “Take me to her.”

  Gathering up her skirts, Nasuada ordered Farica to postpone the rest of the day’s appointments, then left the chambers. Behind her, she heard Jörmundur snap his fingers as he directed four guards to take up positions around her. A moment later, he joined her side, pointing out their course.

  The heat within Borromeo Castle had increased to the point where they felt as if they were trapped within a giant bread oven. The air shimmered like liquid glass along the windowsills.

  Though she was uncomfortable, Nasuada knew that she dealt with the heat better than most people because of her swarthy skin. The ones who had the hardest time enduring the high temperatures were men like Jörmundur and her guards, who had to wear their armor all day long, even if they were stationed out under the lidless gaze of the sun.

  Nasuada kept close watch on the five men as sweat gathered on their exposed skin and their breathing became ever more ragged. Since they had arrived in Aberon, a number of the Varden had fainted from heatstroke—two of whom died an hour or two later—and she had no intention of losing more of her subjects by driving them beyond their physical limits.

  When she deemed they needed to rest, she bade them to stop—overriding their objections—and get drinks of water from a servant. “I can’t have you toppling like ninepins.”

  They had to break twice more before they reached their destination, a nondescript door recessed in the inner wall of the corridor. The floor around it was littered with gifts.

  Jörmundur knocked, and a quavering voice from inside asked, “Who is it?”

  “Lady Nasuada, come to see the child,” he said.

  “Be you of true heart and steadfast resolve?”

  This time Nasuada answered, “My heart is pure and my resolve is as iron.”

  “Cross the threshold, then, and be welcome.”

  The door swung open to an entryway lit by a single red dwarf lantern. No one was at the door. Proceeding inward, Nasuada saw that the walls and ceiling were swathed with layers of dark fabric, giving the place the appearance of a cave or lair. To her surprise, the air was quite cold, almost chilly, like a brisk autumn night. Apprehension sank its poisonous claws into her belly. Magic.

  A black mesh curtain blocked her way. Brushing it aside, she found herself in what was once a sitting room. The furniture had been removed, except for a line of chairs pushed against the shrouded walls. A cluster of faint dwarf lanterns were hung in a dimple of the sagging fabric overhead, casting weird multicolored shadows in e
very direction.

  A bent crone watched her from the depths of one corner, bracketed by Angela the herbalist and the werecat, who stood with his hackles raised. In the center of the room knelt a pale girl that Nasuada took to be three or four years old. The girl picked at a platter of food on her lap. No one spoke.

  Confused, Nasuada asked, “Where is the baby?”

  The girl looked up.

  Nasuada gasped as she saw the dragon mark bright upon the child’s brow and as she peered deep into her violet eyes. The girl quirked her lips with a terrible, knowing smile. “I am Elva.”

  Nasuada recoiled without thinking, clutching at the dagger she kept strapped to her left forearm. It was an adult’s voice and filled with an adult’s experience and cynicism. It sounded profane coming from the mouth of a child.

  “Don’t run,” said Elva. “I’m your friend.” She put the platter aside; it was empty now. To the crone, she said, “More food.” The old woman hurried from the room. Then Elva patted the floor beside her. “Please, sit. I have been waiting for you ever since I learned to talk.”

  Keeping her grip on her dagger, Nasuada lowered herself to the stones. “When was that?”

  “Last week.” Elva folded her hands in her lap. She fixed her ghastly eyes on Nasuada, pinning her in place through the unnatural strength of her gaze. Nasuada felt as if a violet lance had pierced her skull and was twisting inside her mind, tearing apart her thoughts and memories. She fought the desire to scream.

  Leaning forward, Elva reached out and cupped Nasuada’s cheek with one soft hand. “You know, Ajihad could not have led the Varden better than you have. You chose the correct path. Your name will be praised for centuries for having the courage and foresight to move the Varden to Surda and attack the Empire when everyone else thought it was insane to do so.”

  Nasuada gaped at the girl, stunned. Like a key matched to a lock, Elva’s words perfectly addressed Nasuada’s primal fears, the doubts that kept her awake at night, sweating in the darkness. An involuntary surge of emotion rushed through her, bolstering her with a sense of confidence and peace that she had not possessed since before Ajihad’s death. Tears of relief burst from her eyes and rolled down her face. It was as if Elva had known exactly what to say in order to comfort her.

  Nasuada loathed her for it.

  Her euphoria warred against her distaste for how this moment of weakness had been induced and by whom. Nor did she trust the girl’s motivation.

  “What are you?” she demanded.

  “I am what Eragon made me.”

  “He blessed you.”

  The dreadful, ancient eyes were obscured for a moment as Elva blinked. “He did not understand his actions. Since Eragon ensorcelled me, whenever I see a person, I sense all the hurts that beset him and are about to beset him. When I was smaller, I could do nothing about it. So I grew bigger.”

  “Why would—”

  “The magic in my blood drives me to protect people from pain…no matter the injury to myself or whether I want to help or not.” Her smile acquired a bitter twist. “It costs me dearly if I resist the urge.”

  As Nasuada digested the implications, she realized that Elva’s unsettling aspect was a by-product of the suffering that she had been exposed to. Nasuada shivered at the thought of what the girl had endured. It must have torn her apart to have this compulsion and yet be unable to act on it. Against her better judgment, she began to feel a measure of sympathy for Elva.

  “Why have you told me this?”

  “I thought that you should know who and what I am.” Elva paused, and the fire in her gaze strengthened. “And that I will fight for you however I can. Use me as you would an assassin—in hiding, in the dark, and without mercy.” She laughed with a high, chilling voice. “You wonder why; I see you do. Because unless this war ends, and sooner rather than later, it will drive me insane. I find it hard enough to deal with the agonies of everyday life without also having to confront the atrocities of battle. Use me to end it and I’ll ensure that your life is as happy as any human has had the privilege to experience.”

  At that moment, the crone scurried back into the room, bowed to Elva, and handed her a new platter of food. It was a physical relief to Nasuada as Elva looked down and attacked a leg of mutton, cramming the meat into her mouth with both hands. She ate with the ravenous intensity of a gorging wolf, displaying a complete lack of decorum. With her violet eyes hidden and her dragon mark covered by black bangs, she once again appeared to be nothing more than an innocent child.

  Nasuada waited until it became apparent that Elva had said all she was going to. Then—at a gesture from Angela—she accompanied the herbalist through a side door, leaving the pale girl sitting alone in the center of the dark, cloth-bound room, like a dire fetus nestled in its womb, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

  Angela made sure that the door was closed and whispered, “All she does is eat and eat. We can’t sate her appetite with the current rations. Can you—”

  “She’ll be fed. You needn’t worry about it.” Nasuada rubbed her arms, trying to eradicate the memory of those awful, horrible eyes….

  “Thank you.”

  “Has this ever happened to anyone else?”

  Angela shook her head until her curly hair bounced on her shoulders. “Not in the entire history of magic. I tried to cast her future, but it’s a hopeless quagmire—lovely word, quagmire—because her life interacts with so many others.”

  “Is she dangerous?”

  “We’re all dangerous.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Angela shrugged. “She’s more dangerous than some and less than others. The one she’s most likely to kill, though, is herself. If she meets someone who’s about to be hurt and Eragon’s spell catches her unawares, then she’ll take the doomed person’s place. That’s why she stays inside most of the time.”

  “How far in advance can she foretell events?”

  “Two or three hours at the most.”

  Leaning against the wall, Nasuada considered the newest complication in her life. Elva could be a potent weapon if she were applied correctly. Through her, I can discern my opponents’ troubles and weaknesses, as well as what will please them and make them amenable to my wishes. In an emergency, the girl could also act as an infallible guard if one of the Varden, like Eragon or Saphira, had to be protected.

  She can’t be left unsupervised. I need someone to watch her. Someone who understands magic and is comfortable enough with their own identity to resist Elva’s influence…and who I can trust to be reliable and honest. She immediately discounted Trianna.

  Nasuada looked at Angela. Though she was wary of the herbalist, she knew that Angela had helped the Varden with matters of the utmost delicacy and importance—like healing Eragon—and had asked for nothing in return. Nasuada could think of no one else who had the time, inclination, and expertise to look after Elva.

  “I realize,” said Nasuada, “that this is presumptuous of me, as you aren’t under my command and I know little of your life or duties, but I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Proceed.” Angela waved a hand.

  Nasuada faltered, disconcerted, then forged ahead. “Would you be willing to keep an eye on Elva for me? I need—”

  “Of course! And I’ll keep two eyes on her, if I can spare them. I relish the opportunity to study her.”

  “You’ll have to report to me,” warned Nasuada.

  “The poison dart hidden in the raisin tart. Ah, well, I suppose I can manage.”

  “I have your word, then?”

  “You have my word.”

  Relieved, Nasuada groaned and sank into a nearby chair. “Oh, what a mess. What a quagmire. As Eragon’s liegelord, I’m responsible for his deeds, but I never imagined that he would do anything as dreadful as this. It’s a blight on my honor as much as his.”

  A ripple of sharp pops filled the room as Angela cracked her knuckles. “Yes. I intend to speak to him about it once he
returns from Ellesméra.”

  Her expression was so fierce, it alarmed Nasuada. “Well, don’t hurt him. We need him.”

  “I won’t…permanently.”

  RESURGENCE

  A blast of ravening wind tore Eragon from his sleep.

  Blankets flapped over him as a tempest clawed at his room, hurling his possessions into the air and knocking the lanterns against the walls. Outside, the sky was black with thunderheads.

  Saphira watched as Eragon staggered upright and fought to keep his balance as the tree swayed like a ship at sea. He lowered his head against the gale and made his way around the room, clutching at the wall until he reached the teardrop portal through which the storm howled.

  Eragon looked past the heaving floor to the ground below. It appeared to rock back and forth. He swallowed and tried to ignore the churning in his stomach.

  By touch he found the edge of the cloth membrane that could be pulled out of the wood to cover the opening. He prepared to launch himself from one side of the gap to the next. If he slipped, nothing would stop him from falling onto the roots of the tree.

  Wait, said Saphira.

  She backed off the low pedestal where she slept and laid her tail alongside him so that he could use it as a handrail.

  Holding the cloth with just his right hand, which took all his strength, Eragon used the line of spikes on Saphira’s tail to pull himself across the portal. As soon as he reached the far side, he grabbed the cloth with both hands and pressed its edge into the groove that locked it in place.

  The room went silent.

  The membrane bulged inward under the force of the angry elements but showed no sign of giving. Eragon poked it with his finger. The fabric was as taut as a drum.

  It’s amazing what the elves can do, he said.

  Saphira cocked her head, then lifted it so that her head was flat against the ceiling while she listened. You’d better close up the study; it’s being wrecked.

  As he headed toward the stairs, the tree jolted and his leg buckled, sending him down hard on one knee.