Chapter Eighty-Seven: Resolve

"But we are your people!"

Fadawar, a tall, high-nosed, black-skinned man, spoke with the same heavy emphasis and altered vowels that Nasuada remembered hearing during her childhood in Farthen Dûr, when emissaries from her father's tribe would arrive and she would sit on Ajihad's lap and dozed while they talked and smoked cardus weed.

Nasuada gazed up at Fadawar and wished she were six inches taller so that she could look the warlord and his four retainers straight in the eyes. Still, she was accustomed to men looming over her. She found it rather disconcerting to be among a group of her people who were as dark as she was. It was a novel experience not to be the object of people's curious stares and whispered comments.

She was standing in front of the carved chair where she held her audiences – one of the only solid chairs the Varden had brought with them on their campaign – inside her red command pavilion. The sun was close to setting, and its rays filtered through the right side of the pavilion as through stained glass and gave the contents a ruddy glow. A long, low table covered with scattered reports and maps occupied one-half of the pavilion.

Just outside the entrance to the large tent, she knew the six members of her personal guard – two humans, two dwarves, and two Urgals – were waiting with drawn weapons, ready to attack if they received the slightest indication she was in peril. Jormundur, her oldest and most trusted commander, had saddled her with guards since the day Ajihad died, but never so many for so long. However, the day after the battle on the Burning Plains, Jormundur expressed his deep and abiding concern for her safety, a concern, he said, that often kept him up at nights with a burning stomach. As an assassin had tried to kill her in Aberon, and Mariah had actually accomplished the deed in regard to King Hrothgar less than a week past, it was Jormundur's opinion that Nasuada ought to create a force dedicated to her own defense. As the members of her guard changed every six hours, the total number of warriors assigned to protect Nasuada was four-and-thirty, including the ten additional warriors who remained in readiness to replace their comrades in case of sickness, injury, or death.

It was Nasuada who had insisted upon recruiting the force from each of the three mortal races arrayed against Galbatorix. By doing so, she hoped to foster greater solidarity among them, as well as to convey that she represented the interests of all the races under her command, not just the humans. She would have included the elves as well, but at the moment, Arya was the only elf who fought alongside the Varden and their allies, and the twelve spellcasters Islanzadí had sent to protect Eragon had yet to arrive. To Nasuada's disappointment, her human and dwarf guards had been hostile to the Urgals they served with, a reaction she anticipated but had been unable to avert or mitigate. It would, she knew, take more than once shared battle to ease the tensions between races that had fought and hated each other for more generations than she cared to count. Still, she viewed it as encouraging that the warriors chose to name their corps the Nighthawks, for the title was a play upon both her coloring and the fact that the Urgals invariably referred to her as Lady Nightstalker.

Although she would never admit it to Jormundur, Nasuada had quickly come to appreciate the increased sense of security her guards provided. In addition to being masters of their chosen weapons – whether they were the humans' swords, the dwarves' axes, or the Urgals' eccentric collection of instruments – many of the warriors were skilled spellweavers. And they had all sworn their undying loyalty to her in the ancient language – a precaution Mark took upon himself to instill. Since the day the Nighthawks first assumed their duties, they had not left Nasuada alone with another person, save for Farica, her handmaid.

That was, until now.

Nasuada had sent them out of the pavilion because she knew her meeting with Fadawar might lead to the type of bloodshed the Nighthawks' sense of duty would require them to prevent. Even so, she was not entirely defenseless. She had a dagger hidden in the folds of her dress, and an even smaller knife in the bodice of her undergarments, and the prescient witch-child, Elva, was standing just behind the curtain that backed Nasuada's chair, ready to interceded if need be. Brushing against her mind, was Mark, close enough to be at her side in a moment's notice, and aware enough of the others' presence to cast spells to protect her.

Fadawar tapped his four-foot-long scepter against the ground. The chased rod was made of solid gold, as was his fantastic array of jewelry: gold bangles covered his forearms; a breastplate of hammered gold armored his chest; long, thick chains of gold hung around his beck; embossed disks of white gold stretched the lobes of his ears; and upon the top of his head rested a resplendent gold crown of such huge proportions, Nasuada wondered how Fadawar's neck could support the weight without buckling and how such a monumental piece of architecture remained fixed in place.

It seemed one would have to bolt the edifice, which was at least two and a half feet tall, to its bony bedrock in order to keep it from toppling over.

Fadawar's men were garbed in the same fashion, although less opulently. The gold they wore served to proclaim not only their wealth but also the status and deeds of each individual and the skill of their tribe's far-famed craftsmen. As either nomads or city dwellers, the dark-skinned peoples of Alagaësia had long been renowned for their quality of their jewelry, which at its best rivaled that of the dwarves.

Nasuada owned several pieces of her own, but she had chosen not to wear them. Her poor raiment could not compete with Fadawar's splendor. Also, she believed it would not be wise to affiliate herself with any one group, no matter how rich or influential, when she had to deal with and speak for all the differing factions of the Varden. If she displayed partiality toward one or another, her ability to control the whole lot of them would diminish.

Which was the basis of her argument with Fadawar.

Fadawar again jabbed his scepter in to the ground. "Blood is the most important thing! First come your responsibilities to your family, then to your tribe, then to your warlord, then to the gods above and below, and only then to your king and to your nation, if you have them. That is how Unulukuna intended men to live, and that is how we should live if we want to be happy. Are you brave enough to spit on the shoes of the Old One? If a man does not help his family, whom can he depend upon to help him? Friends are fickle, but family is forever."

"You ask me," said Nasuada, "to give positions of power to your fellow kinsmen because you are my mother's cousin and because my father was born among you. This I would be happy to do if your kinsmen could fulfill those positions better than anyone else in the Varden, but nothing you have said thus far has convinced me that is so. And before you squander more of your gilt-tongued eloquence, you should know that appeals based upon our shared blood are meaningless to me. I would give your request greater consideration if ever you had done more to support my father than send trinkets and empty promises to Farthen Dûr. Only now that victory and influence are mine have you made yourself known to me. Well, my parents are dead, and I say I have no family but myself. You are my people, yes, but nothing more."

Fadawar narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin and said, "A woman's pride is always without sense. You shall fail without our support."

He had switched to his native language, and Nasuada refused to respond in kind. He was not about to undermine her authority, or prove his superiority simply because his tongue was more fluid than her own. "I always welcome new allies," she said. "However, I cannot indulge in favoritism, nor should you have need of it. Your tribes are strong and well gifted. They should be able to rise quickly through the ranks of the Varden without having to rely upon the charity of others. Are you starving dogs to sit whining at my table, or are you men who can feed themselves? If you can, then I look forward to working with you to better the Varden's lot and to defeat Galbatorix."

"Bah!" exclaimed Fadawar, clearly displeased his ploy had not worked against her. "Your offer is as false as you are. We shall not do servants' work; we are the chosen ones. You insult us, you do. You stand there and you smile, but your heart is full of scorpion's poison."

Stifling her anger, Nasuada attempted to calm the warlord. "It was not my intent to cause offense. I was only trying to explain my position. I have no enmity for the wandering tribes, nor have I any special love for them. Is that such a bad thing?"

"It is worse than bad, it is bald-faced treachery! Your father made certain requests of us based upon our relation, and now you ignore our services and turn us away like empty-handed beggars!"

A sense of resignation overwhelmed Nasuada. So Elva was right – it is inevitable, she thought.

You can still win the day Nasuada, Mark assured her soothingly, kneeling beside Elva, watching the her grimace at him. The sight of the girl, no more than six years old, knowing their defeat was possible felt unnerving. Their proxy in this war is wanted more than they let on. They too want to be a part of Galbatorix's defeat. To be written in history as too proud to join our cause, or worse yet, cowards that refused to fight at our side is too rich for their blood. You must not let on that we need them, for we will find a way without them.

No, we do need them. We need everyone we can get if we're to have the slightest chance of toppling Galbatorix. Even with two more Riders, giving us a total of six, we are outmatched. A thrill of fear and excitement coursed through her. If it must be, then I have no reason to maintain this charade. They will join of their own accord or not at all.

Be cautious of your next action,Mark said, wrapping his fingers into a fist, grinding his knuckles against his leg.

"The requests my father made to you were not honored half the time."

"We did!"

"You did not. And even if you were telling the truth, the Varden's position is too precarious for me to give you something for nothing. You ask for favors, yet tell me, what do you offer in return? Will you help fund the Varden with your gold and jewels?"

"Not directly, but-"

"Will you give me the use of your craftsmen, free of charge?"

"We could not-"

"How, then, do you intend to earn these boons? You cannot pay with warriors; your men already fight for me, whether in the Varden or in King Orrin's army. Be content with what you have, Warlord, and do not seek more than is rightfully yours."

"You twist the truth to suit your own selfish goals. I seek what is rightfully ours! That is why I am here. You talk and you talk, yet your words are meaningless, for by your actions, you have betrayed us." The bangles on his arms clattered together as he gestured, as if before and audience of thousands. "You admit we are your people. Then do you still follow our customs and worship our gods?"

Here is the turning point, thought Nasuada.

Mark bit his lip, I don't know enough about your people to determine what the best course of action is m'lady.

If I tell them I do not, we lose every warrior in the Varden and in Orrin's Army.

A smirk touched his lips, Then I hope you remember at least one thing from me during our time together.

Nasuada nodded slightly in response to both her advisor and Fadawar. "I do," she said.

"Then I say you are unfit to lead the Varden, and as is my right, I challenge you to the Trial of the Long Knives. If you are triumphant, we shall bow to you and never again question your authority. But if you lose, then you shall step aside, and I shall take your place as head of the Varden."

That is quite a gamble, Mark said, his eyebrows shooting up.

Nasuada noted the spark of glee that lit Fadawar's eyes. This is what he wanted all along, she realized. He would have invoked the trial even if I had complied with his demands. She said, "Perhaps I am mistaken, but I thought it was tradition that whoever won assumed command of his rival's tribes, as well as his own. Is that not so?" She almost laughed at the expression of dismay that flashed across Fadawar's face. You didn't expect me to know that, did you?

"It is."

"I accept your challenge, then, with the understanding that should I win, your crown and scepter will be mine. Are we agreed?"

You are going to gamble the Varden on a game? The soldiers, the men, they are loyal to you, not their leader. You are no longer merely a figurehead Nasuada, we have made sure of that.

I am going to triumph against Fadawar with this game. Nasuada thought to him grimly, her mind flashing through what she knew of the trial.

Fadawar scowled and nodded. "We are." He stabbed his scepter deep enough into the ground that it stood upright by itself, then grasped the first bangle on his left arm and began to work it down over his hand.

Mark swallowed hard, Nasuada, this is very dangerous. You could very well bleed to death. Please, is there a way for me to take the blade myself? I would do that for you, and for the Varden.

Though touched by his offer, she thought, No. I could have bled to death on the battlefield, but you are at my back. I trust you will stop me from dying, but do not interfere with the trial. I cannot have you ruining this opportunity simply because you cannot bear to see me in agony.

As you wish, Nasuada. Mark agreed, biting his lip.

In turn Elva shook her head, looking at the magician beside her. She will lose this battle. Despair plummeted into his stomach as she spoke to him, blinking and tensing up as he listened to Nasuada.

"Wait," said Nasuada. Going to the table that filled the other side of the pavilion, she picked up a small brass bell and rang it twice, paused, and then rang it four times.

Only a moment or two passed before Farica entered the tent. She cast a frank gaze at Nasuada's guests, then curtsied to the lot of them and said, "Yes, Mistress?"

Nasuada gave Fadawar a nod. "We may proceed." Then she addressed her handmaid: "Help me out of my dress; I don't want to ruin it."

The older woman looked shocked by the request. "Here, Ma'am? In front of these… men?"

"Yes, here. And be quick about it too! I shouldn't have to argue with my own servant." Nasuada was harsher than she meant to be, but her heart was racing and her skin was incredibly, terribly sensitive; the soft linen of her undergarments seemed as abrasive as canvas. Patience and courtesy were beyond her now. All she could concentrate on was her upcoming ordeal.

Nasuada stood motionless as Farica picked and pulled at the laces to her dress, which extended from her shoulder blades to the base of her spine. When the cords were loose enough, Farica lifted Nasuada's arms out of the sleeves, and the shell of bunched fabric dropped in a pile around Nasuada's feet, leaving her standing almost naked in her white chemise. She fought back a shiver as the four warriors examined her, feeling vulnerable beneath their covetous looks. Ignoring them, she stepped forward, out of the dress, and Farica snatched the garment out of the dirt.

Across from Nasauda, Fadawar had been busy removing the bangles from his forearms, revealing the embroidered sleeves on his robes underneath. Finished, he lifted off his massive crown and handed it to one of his retainers. She felt Mark's consciousness abruptly alert and knew he had rushed off.

The sound of voices outside the pavilion delayed further progress. Marching through the entrance, a messenger boy – Jarsha was his name, Nasuada remembered – planted himself a foot or two inside and proclaimed: "King Orrin of Surda, Jörmundur and Marcus of the Varden, Trianna of Du Vrangr Gata, and Naako and Ramusewa of the Inapashunna tribe." Jarsha very pointedly kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling while he spoke.

Snapping about, Harsha departed and the congregation he had announced entered, with Orrin at the vanguard. The king saw Fadawar first and greeted him, saying, "Ah, Warlord, this is unexpected. I trust you and-" Astonishment suffused his youthful face as he beheld Nasuada. "Why, Nasuada, what is the meaning of this?"

"I should like to know that as well," rumbled Jörmundur. He gripped the hilt of his sword and glowered at anyone who dared stare at her too openly. Mark strode to Nasuada, stepping around and behind her with his back to the corner of the room nearest Elva, who was still hidden behind her curtain.

"I have summoned you here," she said, "to witness the Trial of the Long Knives between Fadawar and myself and to afterward speak the truth of the outcome to everyone who asks."

The two gray-haired tribesmen, Naako and Ramusewa, appeared alarmed by her revelation; they leaned close together and began to whisper. Trianna crossed her arms – baring the snake bracelet coiled about one slim wrist – but otherwise betrayed no reaction. Jörmundur swore and said, "Have you taken leave of your senses, my Lady? This is madness. You cannot-"

"I can, and I will."

"My Lady, if you do, I-"

"Your concern is noted, but my decision is final. And I forbid anyone from interfering." She could tell he longed to disobey her order, but as much as he wanted to shield her from harm, loyalty had ever been Jörmundur's predominant trait.

"But, Nasuada," said King Orrin. "This trial, is not it where-"

"It is."

"Blast it, then; why don't you give up this mad venture? You would have to be addled to carry it out."

"I have already given my word to Fadawar."

The mood in the pavilion became even more somber. That she had given her word meant she could not rescind her promise without revealing herself to be an honorless oath-breaker that fair-minded men would have no choice but to curse and shun. Orrin faltered for a moment, but he persisted with his questions: "To what end? That is, if you should lose-"

"If I should lose, the Varden shall no longer answer to me, but to Fadawar."

Nasuada had expected a storm of protest. Instead, there came a silence, wherein the hot anger that animated King Orrin's visage cooled and sharpened and acquired a brittle temper. "I do not appreciate your choice to endanger our entire cause." To Fadawar, he said, "Will you not be reasonable and release Nasuada from her obligation? I will reward you richly if you agree to abandon this ill-conceived ambition of yours."

"I am rich already," said Fadawar. "I have no need for your tainted gold. No, nothing but the Trial of the Long Knives can compensate me for the slander Nasuada aimed at my people and me."

"Bear witness now," said Nasuada.

Orrin clenched tight the folds of his robes, but he bowed and said, "Aye, I will bear witness."

From within their voluminous sleeves, Fadawar's four warriors produced small, hair goat-hide drums. Squatting, they placed the drums between their knees and struck up a furious beat, pounding so fast, their hands were sooty smudges in the air. The rough music obliterated all other sounds, as well as the host of frantic thoughts that had been bedeviling Nasuada. Her heart felt as if it were keeping pace with the manic tempo that assaulted her ears.

Without missing a single note, the oldest of Fadawar's men reached inside his vest and, from there, drew two long, curved knives that he tossed toward the peak of the tent. Nasuada watched the knives tumble half over blade, fascinated by the beauty of their motion.

When it was close enough, she lifted her arm and caught her knife. The opal-studded hilt stung her palm.

Fadawar successfully intercepted his weapon as well.

He then grasped the left cuff of his garment and pushed the sleeve past his elbow. Nasuada kept her eyes fixed upon Fadawar's forearm as he did. His limb was thick and muscled, but she deemed that of no importance; athletic gifts would not help him with their contest. What she looked for instead were the telltale ridges that, if they existed, would lie across the belly of his forearm.

She observed five of them

Five! she thought. So many. Behind her, Mark grimaced. Nasuada felt her confidence waver 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!

Nasuada, if this goes too far, I may not be able to prevent myself from interfering. For your own safety.

You will do no such thing Marcus, Nasuada snapped at him. You are my guard, and I am telling you not to interfere.

I am your guard by my choice and volition. I am not your servant Nasuada. If you are about to die, because of some scheme concocted by these people, then I will interfere. Destroying Galbatorix is more important than your word being broken by a game like this. Mark had his arms folded across his chest, his bicep tense as he gripped his arm. For it is a game, one where whoever bleeds slowest is triumphant. He can afford to lose more blood than you. He is larger, and his body is capable of losing more before he suffers from the effects. I trust your abilities Nasuada, and in Elva's prophecy, however I do not trust him. The quicker you are able to overtake him, the better. The longer this draws out the more likely you are to suffer.

As he was the one who had issued the challenge, Fadawar went first. He held his left arm straight out form 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 desire? 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 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 as her turn again. Knowing what to expect only increased her fear.

Mark brushed against her consciousness, his voice soothing. Your father would be very proud of you for this.

Her smile became genuine as 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. Nasuada. She could hear Mark, realizing he had been true in his deduction of the trial. Whoever fainted first from loss of blood lost, not who had the least amount of pain tolerance. Shifting streams of it ran across her wrist and down her fingers, splashing into the thick pool by her feet. Nasuada, hold on. He will not last much longer. You have carried the Varden from Farthen Dûr to Surda, convinced King Orrin to assist the Varden, survived an assassin, and led a victory against Galbatorix's army where there was no belief we could do so. Finish this!

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."

Mark stepped in front of the king as he reached toward Nasauda, blocking him from touching her. "Don't meddle," she growled between her teeth, glaring up at them. Setting his jaw, Mark escorted the king back toward the entrance of the pavilion.

Now Fadawar started on his right forearm, releasing a spray of blood from his rigid muscles. He's clenching, she realized. She hoped his mistake would be enough to break him.

Nasuada could not help herself; she uttered a wordless cry when the knife parted her skin.

Do you need me to help you, Nasuada? Mark asked, Before you drive the blade too far.

No, she insisted. 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!

You will persevere, Mark assured her, beside her again, watching the cuts with his sharp gaze, trying to judge how much more she would be able to take. Time was running out.

For the eighth time, Fadwar positioned his blade above one of his forearms, and there he held it, the pale metal suspended a quarter 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.

Should have done that sooner, Mark thought, watching Fadawar's face contort.

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.

As 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 the others filled the pavilion with their overlapping exclamations.

Nasuada paid no attention to their remarks. Mark. He wrapped an arm securely around her waist, pulling her up and into her chair behind her before twisting in front of her, kneeling. 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.

"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.

Mark waited for Fadawar and his men to leave before he took Nasuada's hands, pushing surge of energy into her. In turn, her eyes flicked open and she stared down at him. Can I heal these for you? Behind him, Trianna was insisting much the same.

"I shall have a healer stitch my wounds and make a poultice to reduce the swelling, and that is all."

"But why!" Trianna exclaimed.

"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 the pain the trial entails. If I violate the rule, Fadawar will be declared the victor. I had to win the trial without deceit so no one can question my leadership in the future." Nasuada glanced back down at Mark, still grasping her by the wrists, feeling some pain receding slowly from her wounds. The discretion with which he was performing the spell was acceptable to her, even if it was deceptive. She squeezed his hand lightly when she felt well enough again to think clearly. He rose then and stood at her side.

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 have 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. Mark set a hand on her shoulder before she spoke, forcing her to tense.

"Nasuada would not have died today, King Orrin, I assure you I was staying vigilant in avoiding such an incident."

"She said herself she would have accepted death."

Mark shook his head, "If Lady Nasuada fell unconscious then I would have felt obligated to heal her wounds to revive her. She would have fulfilled her promise to participate in the trial without assistance or interference. Though it likely would have ended with me on her bad side." His tone was good-humored, though the grip on Nasuada's shoulder was tense.

King Orrin looked between them and shook his head. "I still believe it was foolish to participate at all. Risking the Varden is not something that should be done."

"Then I ask you one question, your highness: Do you believe that the soldiers, the men and women who fight for the resistance, would so quickly bend their will to new leadership? If Nasuada were to have suffered defeat at the hands of the trial, do you believe that the Varden would follow Fadawar as dauntlessly as they follow her? A rhetorical question, of course, loyalties, and faith are earned, not bartered away. Yes, Fadawar would have gained the Varden by the rules of the trial, but winning over the hearts of men is not so simple a task."

"You are saying the trial was of no consequence then?"

"There was only to gain," Mark nodded. "The Varden would have disbanded itself under Fadawar's mantle and awaited a new leader – perhaps Eragon when he returns, or yourself. I do not believe they would trust the leadership of a man who arrived only to put out their light. Nasuada is irreplaceable, and I trust that you understand as such."

The young king looked from Mark's face to Nasuada, leaning back in her chair, bloodied bandages running up and down her dark arms. She was pensive as Mark spoke, and met King Orrin's gaze as he finished speaking. Seemingly satisfied, King Orrin finally nodded, turning and departing from the pavilion.

Thank you Marcus, I would not have been so kind to him today.

He squeezed her shoulder, "I shall take my leave now, for it seems I will be of no assistance to your wounds. I'll send for Angela, she will be able to devise a concoction to heal you better than I." Mark walked from the tent, past the others, closing his eyes. You did well today Nasuada, rest and I will seek you out this evening to discuss what we should do next.


"It's been days, and they still haven't returned," Murtagh said. Across the room, leaning against the table stood Kieran, watching him pace back and forth, as he did whenever he was unnerved about something. "I'm scrying her." He said yet again.

"You know it won't work," she repeated, folding her arms. After bloodying her dress, she had changed into a pair of breeches and tunic, plain and cotton of brown and tan. Leaning nearby was Eirian, still untouched since the battle of the Burning Plains. "She doesn't let anyone scry her. Enchantments and protective spells are her specialties."

"No, destructive ones are; lightning is her particular favorite." Murtagh groaned and looked over at the bed where the black dragon hatchling had twisted itself up into a ball and fallen asleep. The past few days he had enlisted Thorn, Nasreen, and Andrar to help watch the hatchling. No one else needed to know that it existed, not yet. And the entire Varden was more than excited about the new rumor that Arya had not only found a dragon egg, but that it had hatched for her as well. She had seldom been seen the past few days, and mutterings were that she had holed up in her tent.

Murtagh and Kieran alike had spent more time in the healer's tent than anywhere else, expending as much of their energy as possible into healing troops. Their deeds had not gone unnoticed, and no longer were they privy to furious glares and caustic words as they proceeded around the Varden's encampment.

"I'm scrying her." Murtagh said finitely, walking over to Kieran's washbasin and starting to mutter.

Behind him, Kieran sang out, "It won't work." He growled a bit, glaring back at her. "But I know what will..."

"What?"

She smirked and pushed him aside, repeating the spell aloud with slightly different phrasing. In an instant Trevin appeared on the glossy surface of the water.

"The archer?"

Kieran shrugged a bit, "I thought he was sort of sweet." She turned back to the scrying spell, listening to hushed voices. Trevin was dripping with water – it was raining. He had his bow strung and an arrow knocked against his cheek, peering around a tree.

"How many?" Kendra's voice asked quietly.

"Six I can see... but that girl with the red hair seems to be in charge. Is she one of the Riders?"

Murtagh tensed and immediately took over Kieran's spell, scrying Odette – or what used to be Odette. The girl's visage appeared in the pool of water instantly. Sigrúne was dripping with rain inside the ruins of an abandoned fort, speaking with a group of five soldiers.

"She's going to kill them," he gritted his teeth. "Kendra has no idea she's a Shade. And if Sigrúne's there, she either rode a horse all the way from the capital, or one of the others flew her there. I'm willing to bet anything Pearce is with her. They aren't prepared to take them both on, and the dragon. There's only a handful of them..."

Kieran turned her gaze up at him, eyes wide. "No, they're not."

Looking over at the dragon hatchling, Murtagh sighed as she woke, blinking at him. He waited for her to make her way to him and perch on his shoulder before walking out of Kieran's tent. "Nasuada won't let us leave willingly-"

Kieran lengthened her stride, hurrying towards the dragon clearing highlighted by starlight. "Then we go anyway, without her permission-"

"We'll be deemed traitors again-" He mentioned, looking up as Thorn rushed overhead.

"So be it, I'm not letting my sister get killed by that thing-" Pursing her lips, Kieran huffed.

Mark's cloak dropped over his shoulder as he crossed his arms in front of himself, tipping his chin up slightly. "What's going on?"

"Kendra has no idea what she's hunting," said Murtagh, roughly. He went to step around Mark, and growled when he shifted to stay in front of him.

"What do you mean?" He asked quietly, expertly ignoring glances from soldiers as they walked past after their evening meal, trying to avoid causing a commotion.

"The Shade and one of Galbatorix's Riders," Murtagh replied. "They're formidable against a Rider by now, but your friends are going to be murdered in an instant against them, especially in the state they're in."

"Let's go," Kieran said as Nasreen fell to the ground behind her, growling at the men. "Murtagh."

With a sigh, Mark shook his head at them. "You realize no one can stop you, right? Your will is your own, if you deem it necessary, then you may go. No one can hold a Rider against their will. I shall tell Nasuada what you're planning, and let anyone who asks know that she let you leave camp. She is in no condition to make any decisions at the moment, so I'll make it for her: find Kendra and bring her back safely."

Murtagh closed his eyes against the wind as Nasreen pushed off the ground, sending a furious gale about them, circling above camp with Kieran on her back. Thorn soon landed nearby, dropping Zar'roc from his claws. We should go.

"Thanks Mark," he said stiffly, rushing over and picking up his sword, climbing atop the ruby dragon in a few smooth bounds, strapping in for the ride. "Which way should we go?"

"East and then north, toward Furnost. There should be an abandoned fort the Empire was using to regroup some of their troops."

Murtagh nodded at Mark, holding tight as Thorn launched off the ground. Tucking herself against his arm, the dragon hatchling hummed with excitement. The Thorn and Nasreen circled over the encampment before heading east, planning to loop up from the south and avoid detection as long as possible. It wasn't but a few minutes before the campfires of the Varden's camp twinkled like fireflies in the distance. There was a steady thrum of wing beats, just out of time with one another. The dull gusts of wind beneath the membrane helped block out his thoughts. He tightened the straps around his legs before Thorn tipped, dropping his left wing toward the ground, banking a series of treetops along the border between Surda and the Empire. In the distance, gleaming in moonlight, he could see the faint ripple of Tüdosten lake.


With Love, As Always,

Mariah Dawnsinger