“I told my caretaker, Greta, what she wanted to hear.”
“That’s all?”
Elva blinked. “It made her very happy.”
“And what of Angela?”
“She left on an errand this morning.”
“Well, be as that may, you have my gratitude for saving my life. Ask me any boon you want and I shall grant it if it’s within my power.”
Elva glanced around the ornate bedroom, then said, “Do you have any food? I’m hungry.”
PREMONITION OF WAR
Two hours later, Trianna returned, leading a pair of warriors who carried a limp body between them. At Trianna’s word, the men dropped the corpse on the floor. Then the sorceress said, “We found the assassin where Elva said we would. Drail was his name.”
Motivated by a morbid curiosity, Nasuada examined the face of the man who had tried to kill her. The assassin was short, bearded, and plain-looking, no different from countless other men in the city. She felt a certain connection to him, as if his attempt on her life and the fact that she had arranged his death in return linked them in the most intimate manner possible. “How was he killed?” she asked. “I see no marks on his body.”
“He committed suicide with magic when we overwhelmed his defenses and entered his mind, but before we could take control of his actions.”
“Were you able to learn anything of use before he died?”
“We were. Drail was part of a network of agents based here in Surda who are loyal to Galbatorix. They are called the Black Hand. They spy on us, sabotage our war efforts, and—best we could determine in our brief glimpse into Drail’s memories—are responsible for dozens of murders throughout the Varden. Apparently, they’ve been waiting for a good chance to kill you ever since we arrived from Farthen Dûr.”
“Why hasn’t this Black Hand assassinated King Orrin yet?”
Trianna shrugged. “I can’t say. It may be that Galbatorix considers you to be more of a threat than Orrin. If that’s the case, then once the Black Hand realizes you are protected from their attacks”—here her gaze darted toward Elva—“Orrin won’t live another month unless he is guarded by magicians day and night. Or perhaps Galbatorix has abstained from such direct action because he wanted the Black Hand to remain unnoticed. Surda has always existed at his tolerance. Now that it’s become a threat…”
“Can you protect Orrin as well?” asked Nasuada, turning to Elva.
Her violet eyes seemed to glow. “Maybe if he asks nicely.”
Nasuada’s thoughts raced as she considered how to thwart this new menace. “Can all of Galbatorix’s agents use magic?”
“Drail’s mind was confused, so it’s hard to tell,” said Trianna, “but I’d guess a fair number of them can.”
Magic, cursed Nasuada to herself. The greatest danger the Varden faced from magicians—or any person trained in the use of their mind—was not assassination, but rather espionage. Magicians could spy on people’s thoughts and glean information that could be used to destroy the Varden. That was precisely why Nasuada and the entire command structure of the Varden had been taught to know when someone was touching their minds and how to shield themselves from such attentions. Nasuada suspected that Orrin and Hrothgar relied upon similar precautions within their own governments.
However, since it was impractical for everyone privy to potentially damaging information to master that skill, one of Du Vrangr Gata’s many responsibilities was to hunt for anyone who was siphoning off facts as they appeared in people’s minds. The cost of such vigilance was that Du Vrangr Gata ended up spying on the Varden as much as on their enemies, a fact that Nasuada made sure to conceal from the bulk of her followers, for it would only sow hatred, distrust, and dissent. She disliked the practice but saw no alternative.
What she had learned about the Black Hand hardened Nasuada’s conviction that, somehow, magicians had to be governed.
“Why,” she asked, “didn’t you discover this sooner? I can understand that you might miss a lone assassin, but an entire network of spellcasters dedicated to our destruction? Explain yourself, Trianna.”
The sorceress’s eyes flashed with anger at the accusation. “Because here, unlike in Farthen Dûr, we cannot examine everyone’s minds for duplicity. There are just too many people for us magicians to keep track of. That is why we didn’t know about the Black Hand until now, Lady Nasuada.”
Nasuada paused, then inclined her head. “Understood. Did you discover the identities of any other members of the Black Hand?”
“A few.”
“Good. Use them to ferret out the rest of the agents. I want you to destroy this organization for me, Trianna. Eradicate them as you would an infestation of vermin. I’ll give you however many men you need.”
The sorceress bowed. “As you wish, Lady Nasuada.”
At a knock on the door, the guards drew their swords and positioned themselves on either side of the entranceway, then their captain yanked open the door without warning. A young page stood outside, a fist raised to knock again. He stared with astonishment at the body on the floor, then snapped to attention as the captain asked, “What is it, boy?”
“I have a message for Lady Nasuada from King Orrin.”
“Then speak and be quick about it,” said Nasuada.
The page took a moment to compose himself. “King Orrin requests that you attend him directly in his council chambers, for he has received reports from the Empire that demand your immediate attention.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“I must attend to this. Trianna, you have your orders. Captain, will you leave one of your men to dispose of Drail?”
“Aye, Ma’am.”
“Also, please have him locate Farica, my handmaid. She will see to it that my study is cleaned.”
“And what of me?” asked Elva, tilting her head.
“You,” said Nasuada, “shall accompany me. That is, if you feel strong enough to do so.”
The girl threw back her head, and from her small, round mouth emanated a cold laugh. “I’m strong enough, Nasuada. Are you?”
Ignoring the question, Nasuada swept forth into the hallway with her guards clustered around her. The stones of the castle exuded an earthy smell in the heat. Behind her, she heard the patter of Elva’s footsteps and was perversely pleased that the ghastly child had to hurry to keep pace with the adults’ longer stride.
The guards remained behind in the vestibule to the council chambers while Nasuada and Elva proceeded inside. The chambers were bare to the point of severity, reflecting the militant nature of Surda’s existence. The country’s kings had devoted their resources to protecting their people and overthrowing Galbatorix, not to decorating Borromeo Castle with idle riches as the dwarves had done with Tronjheim.
In the main room lay a rough-hewn table twelve feet long, upon which a map of Alagaësia was staked open with daggers at the four corners. As was custom, Orrin sat at the head of the table, while his various advisers—many of whom, Nasuada knew, vehemently opposed her—occupied the chairs farther down. The Council of Elders was also present. Nasuada noticed the concern on Jörmundur’s face as he looked at her and deduced that Trianna had indeed told him about Drail.
“Sire, you asked for me?”
Orrin rose. “That I did. We have now—” He stopped in midword as he noticed Elva. “Ah, yes, Shining Brow. I have not had the opportunity to grant you audience before, though accounts of your feats have reached my ear and, I must confess, I have been most curious to meet you. Have you found the quarters I arranged for you satisfactory?”
“They are quite nice, Sire. Thank you.” At the sound of her eerie voice, the voice of an adult, everyone at the table flinched.
Irwin, the prime minister, bolted upright and pointed a quivering finger at Elva. “Why have you brought this…this abomination here?”
“You forget your manners, sir,” replied Nasuada, though she understood his sentiment.
Orrin frowned.
“Yes, do restrain yourself, Irwin. However, his point is valid, Nasuada; we cannot have this child present at our deliberations.”
“The Empire,” she said, “has just tried to assassinate me.” The room echoed with cries of surprise. “If it were not for Elva’s swift action, I would be dead. As a result, I have taken her into my confidence; where I go, she goes.” Let them wonder what it is exactly Elva can do.
“This is indeed distressing news!” exclaimed the king. “Have you caught the blackguard responsible?”
Seeing the eager expressions of his advisers, Nasuada hesitated. “It would be best to wait until I can give you an account in private, Sire.”
Orrin appeared put out by her response, but he did not pursue the issue. “Very well. But sit, sit! We have just received the most troubling report.” After Nasuada took her place opposite him—Elva lurking behind her—he continued: “It seems that our spies in Gil’ead have been deceived as to the status of Galbatorix’s army.”
“How so?”
“They believe the army to be in Gil’ead, whereas we have here a missive from one of our men in Urû’baen, who says that he witnessed a great host march south past the capital a week and a half ago. It was night, so he could not be sure of their numbers, but he was certain that the host was far larger than the sixteen thousand that form the core of Galbatorix’s troops. There may have been as many as a hundred thousand soldiers, or more.”
A hundred thousand! A cold pit of fear settled in Nasuada’s stomach. “Can we trust your source?”
“His intelligence has always been reliable.”
“I don’t understand,” said Nasuada. “How could Galbatorix move that many men without our knowing of it before? The supply trains alone would be miles long. It’s been obvious the army was mobilizing, but the Empire was nowhere near ready to deploy.”
Falberd spoke then, slapping a heavy hand on the table for emphasis: “We were outfoxed. Our spies must have been deceived with magic to think the army was still in their barracks in Gil’ead.”
Nasuada felt the blood drain from her face. “The only person strong enough to sustain an illusion of that size and duration—”
“Is Galbatorix himself,” completed Orrin. “That was our conclusion. It means that Galbatorix has finally abandoned his lair in favor of open combat. Even as we speak, the black foe approaches.”
Irwin leaned forward. “The question now is how we should respond. We must confront this threat, of course, but in what manner? Where, when, and how? Our own forces aren’t prepared for a campaign of this magnitude, while yours, Lady Nasuada—the Varden—are already accustomed to the fierce clamor of war.”
“What do you mean to imply?” That we should die for you?
“I but made an observation. Take it how you will.”
Then Orrin said, “Alone, we will be crushed against an army so large. We must have allies, and above all else we must have Eragon, especially if we are to confront Galbatorix. Nasuada, will you send for him?”
“I would if I could, but until Arya returns, I have no way to contact the elves or to summon Eragon.”
“In that case,” said Orrin in a heavy voice, “we must hope that she arrives before it is too late. I do not suppose we can expect the elves’ assistance in this affair. While a dragon may traverse the leagues between Aberon and Ellesméra with the speed of a falcon, it would be impossible for the elves to marshal themselves and cross that same distance before the Empire reaches us. That leaves only the dwarves. I know that you have been friends with Hrothgar for many years; will you send him a plea for help on our behalf? The dwarves have always promised they would fight when the time came.”
Nasuada nodded. “Du Vrangr Gata has an arrangement with certain dwarf magicians that allows us to transfer messages instantaneously. I will convey your—our—request. And I will ask Hrothgar to send an emissary to Ceris to inform the elves of the situation so that they are forewarned, if nothing else.”
“Good. We are quite a ways from Farthen Dûr, but if we can delay the Empire for even a week, the dwarves might be able to get here in time.”
The discussion that followed was an exceedingly grim one. Various tactics existed for defeating a larger—although not necessarily superior—force, but no one at the table could imagine how they might defeat Galbatorix, especially when Eragon was still so powerless compared to the ancient king. The only ploy that might succeed would be to surround Eragon with as many magicians, dwarf and human, as possible, and then attempt to force Galbatorix to confront them alone. The problem with that plan, thought Nasuada, is that Galbatorix overcame far more formidable enemies during his destruction of the Riders, and his strength has only grown since. She was certain that this had occurred to everyone else as well. If we but had the elves’ spellweavers to swell our ranks, then victory might be within our reach. Without them…If we cannot overthrow Galbatorix, the only avenue left may be to flee Alagaësia across the sundering sea 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 became 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 warriors, 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 because 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 natural 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.
“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 friendliest 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 suitabl
e rate of interest, of course.”
The Council of Elders managed to maintain their decorum, but behind Nasuada, Elva uttered a quick laugh of amusement.
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 memories, 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 dragons’ 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 symptom. But now he felt a deep ache in his chest—like that of a sore muscle—and each beat of his heart pained him.
His only comfort was Saphira. In those two days, she had never criticized 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.
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