Eldest: Book Two (The Inheritance cycle 2)

Throwing open the doors to her rooms, Nasuada strode to her desk, 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 insoluble 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 embroidered 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 chemise. 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 commissioning 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 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. “It will 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.

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 summoning 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 examination. “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.”

“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 limits, you should be able to devise a spell that will allow you to manufacture 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 manufacture it quickly and easily with magic, then we can support the Varden by selling inexpensive bobbin and needle lace throughout the Empire. Galbatorix’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 assignment. And find an experienced lace maker to advise you on the patterns.”

“Yes, Lady Nasuada.”

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 responsibility, 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 accomplished. 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.”