Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (48 page)

then dropped into a chair, blind to her surroundings. Her spine was so

rigid that her shoulders did not touch the back. She felt frozen by the in-

soluble quandary the Varden faced. The rise and fall of her chest slowed

until it was imperceptible. I have failed, was all she could think.

“Ma’am, your sleeve!”

Jolted from her reverie, Nasuada looked down to find Farica beating at

her right arm with a cleaning rag. A wisp of smoke rose from the em-

broidered sleeve. Alarmed, Nasuada pushed herself out of the chair and

twisted her arm, trying to find the cause of the smoke. Her sleeve and

skirt were disintegrating into chalky cobwebs that emitted acrid fumes.

“Get me out of this,” she said.

She held her contaminated arm away from her body and forced herself

to remain still as Farica unlaced her overgown. The handmaid’s fingers

scrabbled against Nasuada’s back with frantic haste, fumbling with the

knots, and then finally loosening the wool shell that encased Nasuada’s

torso. As soon as the overgown sagged, Nasuada yanked her arms out of

the sleeves and clawed her way free of the robe.

Panting, she stood by the desk, clad only in her slippers and linen che-

mise. To her relief, the expensive chainsil had escaped harm, although it

had acquired a foul reek.

“Did it burn you?” asked Farica. Nasuada shook her head, not trusting

her tongue to respond. Farica nudged the overgown with the tip of her

shoe. “What evil is this?”

“One of Orrin’s foul concoctions,” croaked Nasuada. “I spilled it in his

laboratory.” Calming herself with long breaths, she examined the ruined

gown with dismay. It had been woven by the dwarf women of Dûrgrimst

Ingeitum as a gift for her last birthday and was one of the finest pieces in

her wardrobe. She had nothing to replace it, nor could she justify com-

missioning a new dress, considering the Varden’s financial difficulties.

Somehow I will have to make do without.

Farica shook her head. “It’s a shame to lose such a pretty dress.” She

went round the desk to a sewing basket and returned with a pair of

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etched scissors. “We might as well save as much of the cloth as we can.

I’ll cut off the ruined parts and have them burned.”

Nasuada scowled and paced the length of the room, seething with an-

ger at her own clumsiness and at having another problem added to her

already overwhelming list of worries. “What am I going to wear to court

now?” she demanded.

The scissors bit into the soft wool with brisk authority. “Mayhap your

linen dress.”

“It’s too casual to appear in before Orrin and his nobles.”

“Give me a chance with it, Ma’am. I’m sure that I can alter it so it’s ser-

viceable. By the time I’m done, it’ll look twice as grand as this one ever

did.”

“No, no. It won’t work. They’ll just laugh at me. It’s hard enough to

command their respect when I’m dressed properly, much less if I’m

wearing patched gowns that advertise our poverty.”

The older woman fixed Nasuada with a stern gaze. “It will work, so

long as you don’t apologize for your appearance. Not only that, I guaran-

tee that the other ladies will be so taken with your new fashion that

they’ll imitate you. Just you wait and see.” Going to the door, she cracked

it open and handed the damaged fabric to one of the guards outside.

“Your mistress wants this burned. Do it in secret and breathe not a word

of this to another soul or you’ll have me to answer to.” The guard saluted.

Nasuada could not help smiling. “How would I function without you,

Farica?”

“Quite well, I should think.”

After donning her green hunting frock—which, with its light skirt,

provided some respite from the day’s heat—Nasuada decided that even

though she was ill disposed toward Orrin, she would take his advice and

break with her regular schedule to do nothing more important than help

Farica rip out stitches from the overgown. She found the repetitive task

an excellent way to focus her thoughts. While she pulled on the threads,

she discussed the Varden’s predicament with Farica, in the hope that she

might perceive a solution that had escaped Nasuada.

In the end, Farica’s only assistance was to observe, “Seems most matters

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in this world have their root in gold. If we had enough of it, we could

buy Galbatorix right off his black throne. . might not even have to fight

his men.”

Did I really expect that someone else would do my job for me? Nasuada

asked herself. I led us into this blind and I have to lead us out.

Intending to cut open a seam, she extended her arm and snagged the tip

of her knife on a fringe of bobbin lace, slicing it in half. She stared at the

ragged wound in the lace, at the frayed ends of the parchment-colored

strands that wriggled across the overgown like so many contorted worms,

stared and felt a hysterical laugh claw at her throat even as a tear formed

in her eye. Could her luck be any worse?

The bobbin lace was the most valuable part of the dress. Even though

lace required skill to make, its rarity and expense were mainly due to its

central ingredient: vast, copious, mind-numbing, and deadening amounts

of time. It took so long to produce that if you attempted to create a lace

veil by yourself, your progress would be measured not in weeks but in

months. Ounce for ounce, lace was worth more than gold or silver.

She ran her fingers over the band of threads, pausing on the rift that she

had created. It’s not as if lace takes that much energy, just time. She hated

making it herself. Energy... energy... At that moment, a series of images

flashed through her mind: Orrin talking about using magic for research;

Trianna, the woman who had helmed Du Vrangr Gata since the Twins’

deaths; looking up at one of the Varden’s healers while he explained the

principles of magic to Nasuada when she was only five or six years old.

The disparate experiences formed a chain of reasoning that was so outra-

geous and unlikely, it finally released the laugh imprisoned in her throat.

Farica gave her an odd look and waited for an explanation. Standing,

Nasuada tumbled half the overgown off her lap and onto the floor.

“Fetch me Trianna this instant,” she said. “I don’t care what she’s doing;

bring her here.”

The skin around Farica’s eyes tightened, but she curtsied and said, “As

you wish, Ma’am.” She departed through the hidden servants’ door.

“Thank you,” Nasuada whispered in the empty room.

She understood her maid’s reluctance; she too felt uncomfortable

whenever she had to interact with magic users. Indeed, she only trusted

Eragon because he was a Rider—although that was no proof of virtue, as

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Galbatorix had shown—and because of his oath of fealty, which Nasuada

knew he would never break. It scared her to consider magicians’ and sor-

cerers’ powers. The thought that a seemingly ordinary person could kill

with a word; invade your mind if he or she wished; cheat, lie, and steal

without being caught; and otherwise defy society with near impunity. .

Her heart quickened.

How did you enforce the law when a certain segment of the popula-

tion possessed special powers? At its most basic level, the Varden’s war

against the Empire was nothing more than an attempt to bring to justice

a man who had abused his magical abilities and to prevent him from

committing further crimes. All this pain and destruction because no one

had the strength to defeat Galbatorix. He won’t even die after a normal

span of years!

Although she disliked magic, she knew that it would play a crucial role

in removing Galbatorix and that she could not afford to alienate its prac-

titioners until victory was assured. Once that occurred, she intended to

resolve the problem that they presented.

A brazen knock on her chamber door disturbed her thoughts. Fixing a

pleasant smile on her face and guarding her mind as she had been trained,

Nasuada said, “Enter!” It was important that she appear polite after sum-

moning Trianna in such a rude manner.

The door thrust open and the brunette sorceress strode into the room,

her tousled locks piled high above her head with obvious haste. She

looked as if she had just been roused from bed. Bowing in the dwarven

fashion, she said, “You asked for me, Lady?”

“I did.” Relaxing into a chair, Nasuada let her gaze slowly drift up and

down Trianna. The sorceress lifted her chin under Nasuada’s examina-

tion. “I need to know: What is the most important rule of magic?”

Trianna frowned. “That whatever you do with magic requires the same

amount of energy as it would to do otherwise.”

“And what you can do is only limited by your ingenuity and by your

knowledge of the ancient language?”

“Other strictures apply, but in general, yes. Lady, why do you ask?

These are basic principles of magic that, while not commonly bandied

about, I am sure you are familiar with.”

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“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 lim-

its, you should be able to devise a spell that will allow you to manufac-

ture 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 manufac-

ture it quickly and easily with magic, then we can support the Varden by

selling inexpensive bobbin and needle lace throughout the Empire. Gal-

batorix’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 assign-

ment. And find an experienced lace maker to advise you on the patterns.”

“Yes, Lady Nasuada.”

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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 responsi-

bility, 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 accom-

plished. 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.”

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ELVA

“Ma’am?. . You’re needed, Ma’am.”

“What?” Reluctant to move, Nasuada opened her eyes and saw Jör-

mundur 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 ac-

cepted 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