She came to her senses inside a big, mud colored tent. Several candles flickered on a round table as the cloth walls flapped violently.
"Du Vrangr Gata is in a similar state after removing the arrows from Eragon's snout," Nasuada said. She paced around Arya's cot, her hands clasped at her back. "They will need days to recover. Days that are paramount to our success."
Arya tried to push herself up, but her trembling elbows gave in under her weight. Pain flared in her head, making it difficult for her to make sense of Nasuada's words.
"Your vanguard—"
"The Vanguard is gone!" Nasuada increased her pace and lowered her voice. "The archers pierced them good, and the swordsmen butchered the inexperienced. It's regretful that you fell after the squad leaders converged on the last archer wagon. Reports say they had it under control."
Nasuada knelt in front of Arya, her thin eyebrows locked into a frown. "Until Eragon swooped on a wagon and crashed it upon the Varden who fought." Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, they stared at each other like two predators ready to pounce at each other's throats. "Until your spell sent our men rolling in that death trap of wood and metal."
She got up and resumed her pacing. "You fell, so you did not see it. How the splinters of wood jutted out of their mangled bodies."
Dizziness struck. Arya's breath became labored as multicolored dots swarmed her vision. Her stomach churned wildly, and she bend over to retch. She didn't. Her nausea subsided, and her eyes cleared after a while.
"Have your talk with Sabrae, and then attend to your duties."
Nasuada's steps muffled until Arya heard them no longer. She wanted to shift on one side. Perhaps escape the cot with its sweat-drenched sheets. But her body refused to obey.
Until Sabrae arrived, Arya focused on nothing else but the frantic beating of her heart and the cold that crept through the tent canvas. Despite Arya's efforts, the scholar found her shivering.
"Spell caster fever." She raised a finger and got up. "Wait for my return," she said. When she was out of Arya's sight, she relied on her keen ears. Her boots barely made a sound, but Arya discerned her position. The other side of the tent, somewhere near the edge, where a trunk rested besides a pile of furs.
A creak announced the opening of a chest. Cloth rustled. No bang. She did not close the chest.
"You need to keep yourself warm."
Sabrae appeared in front of Arya, and she covered her with a thick, double stitched linen blanket. "There is a dress in that chest. I'll use it as covering if you still shiver." Sabrae dragged a stool from the table and sat near Arya's head. "I had the fever. It strikes when the spell caster is at its weakest." She sighed. Arya followed the swift movements of her right hand. Since she sat down, Sabrae had been twisting a tuft of grain colored hair between three fingers.
"You're not a scholar though. I doubt you wish to know details about this particular condition."
Arya did not. Sabrae's fever was just another name for exhaustion. "Where is Eragon?" She asked. Her stomach tightened as Sabrae's gaze hovered above her.
"Hunting." She smiled. "You wanted to know this, but you were afraid to ask." When Arya did not even flinch, she shrugged and continued. "He's quite wild for a bonded dragon. He curled around you and lashed out at everyone who approached him," Sabrae said. "He—" she made a wry face made a gesture with her left hand, "clawed at the arrows in an attempt to remove them. That made healing more difficult." Her frame shivered with giggles. She did not stop until she cupped her face in her hands. Even then, her breath still came in short bursts.
"Two fools tried to heal him," she said as she brushed her moist eyes. "One fell due to caster fever. I believe he tried to teleport the arrow from Eragon's snout into his stretched out palm." Her head tilted to the side. "Foolish, right?"
"Yes," Arya said. As long as her shivering meat refused to obey her, Arya was forced to listen to the Sabrae's babble. She told her of the second caster's failure and how Eragon refused to budge.
"Nasuada's orders were to grab you and Eragon had no intention of doings so. That's why we searched the wagons. Aside from a few personal effects and piles of water skins, we found bowls of water in every wagon. Surdans use them for several rituals, but the Empire drinks as we drink." Sabrae frowned. "Don't talk."
Her fingers worked furiously on entwining a rebellious lock, then disentangling it. The process repeated several times before Sabrae got up.
"That's irrelevant." She went to the wall of the tent, grabbed the bottom and lifted the canvas. She ducked and peered outside.
"Evening," she said. "The people are grumbling by now. Those simpletons can't even light their own fires."
Arya knew what evening brought. Fire pit duty. She propped on her elbows as she pushed herself from her cot. The shivers still haunted her, but her limbs became steadier.
"Stop," Sabrae demanded. She came to her. She even groped for her hand. Arya swung her arm away from Sabrae and stepped back.
Sabrae frowned, then lunged at her. This time, Arya allowed her to do her thing. Sabrae wrapped the linen blanket around her torso, picked her hand and forced her to hold its edges together. Once Arya complied, she threw her curt glance and walked towards the tent's mouth.
"Keep the blanket around you," she said. "Every fever is cured by warmth."
As she exited into the still evening air, Arya was grateful for Sabrae's unwanted persistence. Remnants of sunlight still lingered into the twilit sky, but the cold already settled over the Varden camp.
Arya followed Sabrae. Several men huddled near the fire pits in front of their tent, waiting for the bringer of warmth to indulge them. They repaid Sabrae with curt nods and uncertain glances. None looked at Arya. They never did.
"Oy, lady." Sabrae jerked to a stop as a man gripped her ankle. "Build us a firepit."
Sabrae looked at the insolent wretch and whispered a few words under her breath. When she stopped, the man retched inside the fire pit. His mates immediately turned against him. One of them kicked him, while another spew foul words about a night spent in the cold because of him.
"Drunkards tend to do that sooner or later," she said as they continued to ignite fires until the moon rose and the stars twinkled in and out of existence. Sabrae tried to spark a discussion, but Arya only paid attention to the way she wove her ancient language. For each fire pit, she used different words that matched the type, shape and quantity of the wood. The fire pit duty depleted Arya's strength quickly, but Sabrae still managed to retain her coherence as they approached the camp's edge.
"These are called slums," Sabrae said as she moved her hand to encompass the forest of squat tents ahead. "Slum stands for disorganized, uncivilized, bad. Avoid them." She smiled. "I do the same."
Arya nodded. As expected, Sabrae proffered her hand. She had done that more times than Arya cared to count. When she finally stretched out her free hand, Sabrae gleamed. She led Arya to another section of the camp, the pens. Sheep, cattle and land birds were crowded in small enclosures surrounded by a crude fence. They kicked away at their own filth and bleated pitifully.
"Why don't they break free?" Arya's grip tightened around Sabrae's petite hand. Her yelp of pain matched none of the misery these animals felt. She stepped forward, her muscles tight with anticipation. One kick, two wooden boards tossed aside, and the…
Varden would starve, Arya thought. She mouthed a silent apology and released Sabrae.
"That's how acceptance feels," Sabrae said as she rubbed her sore hand. "Painful at first, irritating after."
Riddles. Sabrae fit the Varden as much as her. An outcast among her own people.
"Most of those animals can escape," Sabrae interrupted her musings. "They just don't want to. For them, safety is more important than freedom."
"They stand in the midst of the most dangerous and greedy of predators," Arya said.
"Unawareness, Arya," Sabrae said. She leaned on the fence to look at the animals. The moon's gaze was intense this night, even for humans. Sabrae only saw their shape, but Arya's elven eyes distinguished wan fur colors, lethargy and suffering.
"Knowledge is an unbearable burden for some. These creatures, simple as they are, understood that. Outside, a wolf's howl heralds their doom. Here, the man who slits their throat is the one who cares for them. He's a friend." She turned to face Arya. "Until the last moment. But that's enough." She picked Arya's hand and tugged hard.
"Follow."
They continued their trek through the forest of tents. Sabrae made sure to remind Arya the name of each section of the camp, its purpose, and the people she would find there.
Her perception of the Varden varied greatly. Sabrae explained to Arya what The Works are and how every crafter shares its servants, but Arya only saw miserable beings forced into submission. She emphasized the importance of guidance, no matter where it came from, but Arya mistook it for a lesser form of tyranny.
Sabrae's prattle seemed unending. She only stopped to chide the moaning Varden or to yell louder than a group of raucous soldiers. Her purpose puzzled Arya, but she stopped dwelling on it. Solitude called for her, luring her with chants and sword training under the moonlit sky.
The Main Tent loomed before them. It bore the shape of stone dwellings and had a similar size. Fur lined its thick canvas walls, and wooden pillars stood on its four corners. Servants fastened the tent to them during strong winds. To keep the tent from flying, they had said.
Arya thanked Sabrae curtly for taking over her duties and handed her the blanket. Sabrae smiled and returned it.
"No," she said. "Fevers often return to torment those who think they are well."
"I need only to rest."
"And keep yourself warm," Sabrae completed. "What did you learn tonight, Arya?"
Nothing, she thought, but to Sabrae, she said what humans always wanted to hear. "That I misjudged the Varden. They're not simpletons."
Sabrae's giggle unnerved Arya. She admitted her fault. She gave her a reason to feel in control.
"But they are." She wrapped her arms around her torso and straightened her back. "Knowledge is important, whether you need it or not. It surprises me that an ambassador secludes herself from the people she ought to serve." A frown darkened Sabrae's lively face as she chewed on her lower lip. "You are a conundrum, one that I will unravel in due time."
Arya walked away. Sabrae was no longer worth her attention. She sought answers instead of offering them. A pest, as Arya learned to call this particular breed of humans, and one of the worst. She could do little against a woman of rank such as Sabrae, except indulging her obsession. Nasuada made sure of that.
The number of tents thinned as Arya approached the fringes of the camp. Small wooden outposts rose from the makeshift palisade walls at a regular distance, and each was manned by a large torch. The soldiers wore bows here, and they maintained a steady pace. If somebody loosed an arrow on one of the torch-bearing outposts, they had to pinpoint the archer's location, least they all fell prey to him.
Some noticed Arya, others pretended not to, and all of them ignored her. Except for one. And he walked straight towards her.
"Arya," Jormundur called. He bowed his head awkwardly, like a man who forgot the proper way to greet an elf. "Nasuada sent you here?"
"I'm heading out on my own accord," Arya said. Walk changed into stride as she tried to avoid Jormundur, but he adjusted his pace to match hers.
"Linger for a moment. Spend some time in the company of men who you saved."
A plea. From a council member. It was an order in disguise, one that Arya could not turn away. She stopped to face Jormundur. A smile crept on the grizzled veteran's face.
"They owe you their lives. Eragon's timely attack allowed three men to take the last wagon by surprise, but they stood no chance." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. Arya shivered involuntarily. Only a man had done that before, and he was gone. "Better they died by your spell than killed by those archers," he whispered.
Jormundur led her inside a tent where several men dined on roasted animal. Her stomach lurched as she inhaled the reek of seared blood. She stormed outside, bended forward and heaved until tears drenched her face. Jormundur's blurry form outlined in front of her.
"I… Apologies Arya, but we—" he coughed, then shouted. "Outside! All of you!"
Arya blinked to clear her view. She cared none for those men. They insulted her with their presence. Mocked her with their smug, chewing expressions.
"Explain yourself, Jormundur," Arya demanded. Her temples throbbed with the lust for blood. Her fingers itched to draw her metal. Only her self control stopped her, and the years she spent as an ambassador.
Jormundur did not explain himself. Instead, he punched the meat out of the mouth of chewing soldiers. It came out bloody.
"We did not know," he said. He wiped his knuckles on his leather vest and looked at his soldiers. All of them nodded their apology, but the narrow eyes of the beaten bespoke of contempt for one who was different.
"Inside," he said. "Walk with me."
Arya refused to move.
Jormundur sighed and ran a hand through his greasy hair. "You may go if you wish, but I need your ambassador's insight. I will call on you at the earnest."
"Tell me," she said.
Jormundur stretched his arm to the side. Walk, the gesture said. But Arya was the one to establish the pace, and she broke into a dash that Jormundur's weak human legs could not hope to maintain.
"The vanguard's defeat upsets Nasuada," he said through a huff. "But she does not brood. Something is amiss." He paused for a moment to steady his breath. "The vanguard was ill prepared, yes, but that caravan knew of our lack of archers. They also took a great risk."
Arya's speed dropped to a stroll. Jormundur heavy pants contrasted with her relaxed breath, but he displayed no signs of enmity for her silly game.
"A dragon Rider had the power to destroy the caravan without breaking a sweat," he said as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. His choice of words brought a wry smile to Arya's face, despite her best efforts to keep it in check. This man insulted her! She ought to dislike him like she disliked everyone else. But she couldn't. Not after Stormonyx broke her.
"You can draw your own conclusions."
Arya nodded. "What else?"
"Lazlo voiced his suspicion through a messenger, but he had yet to join a council meeting. Nasuada wants to change that, so she charged me with the duty to bring our armies together."
"She chose poorly," Arya said.
Jormundur laughed. Hoarse sounds mingled with gentle ones in a pleasant disharmony. It caressed Arya's ears, and it reminded her of Stormonyx. His deep voice ended her ephemeral bliss.
"That's why I came to you. I lead armies, not unite them. Nasuada does that, and you know how effective she is."
"She sent a council member to them." Arya tried to remember his name and failed. "He is her ambassador."
"Falberd, yes." He took the lead and moved all of his fingers inward. It meant follow. "But he's not an ambassador, just an artificier. Or so Nasuada thinks. No rumors of his success travel, and he missed every council meeting." He interlaced his fingers in a thoughtful gesture. "Nobody glimpsed him after he joined the Surdans."
His eyes settled on her. "Become ambassador in my place. Your deeds created the Varden. Nasuada was just the proper binding material that kept the races of the Varden united."
He looked so hopeful, almost confident that she would remove his burden.
"I'm a dragon Rider," Arya said. "The affairs of mortal races concern me no longer."
His drooping gaze was supposed to bring her satisfaction. Instead, she felt the opposite. The shivers attacked her meat as she tried to fight past her exhaustion. There had to be an answer to her peculiar condition. Something that Stormonyx said, or done, or…
She stifled a yelp as Jormundur rested his arm upon her shoulders. "Let's return. Morning will reveal the answers."
Desperation strengthened Arya's shivers as she looked at the open plains. She did not realize the fence was gone, along with the soldiers and their tents. She could go there, chant, practice swordplay, and sleep with Eragon.
Instead, she left Jormundur drag her into the camp, a place she grew to despise, because she could listen to his voice.
"I won't summon you tomorrow," he said. Arya dropped into her cot as soon as she entered her tent. She no longer had the strength to move, or see. All she could do was listen.
"You dislike the Varden leadership, and I won't question your motives."
You're wrong, Arya thought. He aroused her interest, made her question herself. But she did not say it.
"All I require is advice."
"I have none," Arya lied.
"Peaceful sleep, lady Rider."
That was the last time she heard his pleasant voice before sleep claimed her senses.
"Look at them," Jormundur said. "Holed up in their tents like mice, their bottom stuck to the frozen earth while our men eat and drink."
"They do the same. Only that soft pillows caress their bottoms and portable ovens provide them with heat and food if they so wish."