“I understand well enough,” growled Orrin. “My family and I have defended Surda against the Empire’s encroachment every day of our lives for generations, while the Varden merely hid in Farthen Dûr and leeched off Hrothgar’s generosity.” His robes swirled about him as he turned and stalked out of the pavilion.

“That was badly handled, my Lady,” observed Jörmundur.

Nasuada winced as Farica tugged on her bandages. “I know,” she gasped. “I’ll mend his broken pride tomorrow.”

WINGED TIDINGS

A gap appeared then in Nasuada’s memories: an absence of sensory information so complete, she only became aware of the missing time when it dawned upon her that Jörmundur was shaking her shoulder and saying something loudly. It took her several moments to decipher the sounds coming out of his mouth, and then she heard: “. . . keep looking at me, blast it! That’s the thing! Don’t go to sleep again. You won’t wake up again if you do.”

“You can let go of me, Jörmundur,” she said, and mustered a weak smile. “I’m all right now.”

“And my uncle Undset was an elf.”

“Wasn’t he?”

“Bah! You are the same as your father: always ignoring caution when it comes to your own safety. The tribes can rot in their bloody old customs, for all I care. Let a healer at you. You’re in no condition to make decisions.”

“That’s why I waited until it was evening. See, the sun is almost down. I can rest tonight, and tomorrow I will be able to deal with the affairs that require my attention.”

Farica appeared from the side and hovered over Nasuada. “Oh, Ma’am, you gave us quite a fright there.”

“Still are, as a matter of fact,” muttered Jörmundur.

“Well, I’m better now.” Nasuada pushed herself upright in the chair, ignoring the heat from her forearms. “You can both go; I shall be fine. Jörmundur, send word to Fadawar that he may remain chief of his own tribe, so long as he swears loyalty to me as his warlord. He is too skilled a leader to waste. And, Farica, on your way back to your tent, please inform Angela the herbalist that I require her services. She agreed to mix some tonics and poultices for me.”

“I won’t leave you alone in this condition,” declared Jörmundur.

Farica nodded. “Begging your pardon, my Lady, but I agree with him. It’s not safe.”

Nasuada glanced toward the entrance to the pavilion, to ensure none of the Nighthawks were close enough to overhear, and then dropped her voice into a low whisper. “I shall not be alone.” Jörmundur’s eyebrows shot up, and an alarmed expression crossed Farica’s face. “I am never alone. Do you understand?”

“You have taken certain . . . precautions, my Lady?” asked Jörmundur.

“I have.”

Both her caretakers appeared uneasy with her assurance, and Jörmundur said, “Nasuada, your safety is my responsibility; I need to know what additional protection you may have and who exactly has access to your person.”

“No,” she said gently. Seeing the hurt and indignation that appeared in Jörmundur’s eyes, she continued. “It’s not that I doubt your loyalty—far from it. Only, this I must have for myself. For the sake of my own peace of mind, I need to have a dagger no one else can see: a hidden weapon tucked up my sleeve, if you will. Consider it a flaw in my character, but do not torment yourself by imagining my choice is in any way a criticism of how you perform your duties.”

“My Lady.” Jörmundur bowed, a formality he almost never used with her.

Nasuada lifted her hand, indicating her permission for them to leave, and Jörmundur and Farica hurried from the red pavilion.

For a long minute, perhaps two, the only sound Nasuada heard was the harsh cry of gore-crows circling above the Varden’s encampment. Then, from behind her, there came a slight rustling, like that of a mouse nosing about for food. Turning her head, she saw Elva slip out of her hiding place, emerging between two panels of fabric into the main chamber of the pavilion.

Nasuada studied her.

The girl’s unnatural growth had continued. When Nasuada first met her but a short while ago, Elva had appeared between three and four years old. Now she looked closer to six. Her plain dress was black, with a few folds of purple around the neck and shoulders. Her long, straight hair was even darker: a liquid void that flowed down to the small of her back. Her sharp-angled face was bone white, for she rarely ventured outside. The dragon mark on her brow was silver. And her eyes, her violet eyes, contained a jaded, cynical air—the result of Eragon’s blessing that was a curse, for it forced her to both endure other people’s pain and also try to prevent it. The recent battle had almost killed her, what with the combined agony of thousands beating upon her mind, even though one of Du Vrangr Gata had placed her in an artificial slumber for the duration of the fighting, in an attempt to protect her. Only recently had the girl begun to speak and take interest in her surroundings again.

She wiped her rosebud mouth with the back of her hand, and Nasuada asked, “Were you ill?”

Elva shrugged. “The pain I’m used to, but it never gets any easier to resist Eragon’s spell. . . . I am hard to impress, Nasuada, but you are a strong woman to withstand so many cuts.”

Even though Nasuada had heard it many times, Elva’s voice still inspired a thrill of alarm in her, for it was the bitter, mocking voice of a world-weary adult, not that of a child. She struggled to ignore it as she responded: “You are stronger. I did not have to suffer through Fadawar’s pain as well. Thank you for staying with me. I know what it must have cost you, and I’m grateful.”