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 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 anger 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 serviceable. 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. “Itwill work, so long as you don’t apologize for your appearance. Not only that, I guarantee 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 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 outrageous 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 Galbatorix had shown—and because of his oath of fealty, which Nasuada knew he would never break. It scared her to consider magicians’ and sorcerers’ 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 population 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 practitioners until victory was assured. Once that occurred, she intended to resolve the problem that they presented.