three times before he raised the weapon over his arm.
His tongue darted out and moistened his lips again.
A 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, Jormundur, and everyone else filled the pavilion with their overlapping exclamations.
Nasuada paid no attention to their remarks. Groping behind herself, she found her chair and sank into it, eager to take the weight off her legs before they gave way beneath her. 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. A gentle pressure on her shoulder alerted her to the fact that Farica was standing next to her, holding a pile of bandages.
“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. She floated in the womb of a boundless black space, illuminated by formless blobs of ever-changing color.
Her respite was interrupted by the voice of Trianna as the sorceress said, “Leave off what you’re doing, handmaid, and remove those bandages so I can heal your mistress.”
Nasuada opened her eyes to see Jormundur, King Orrin, and Trianna standing over her. Fadawar and his men had departed the pavilion. “No,” said Nasuada.
The group looked at her with surprise, and then Jormundur said, “Nasuada, your thoughts are clouded. The trial is over. You don’t have to live with these cuts any longer. In any event, we have to stanch your bleeding.”
“Farica is doing that well enough as is. I shall have a healer stitch my wounds and make a poultice to reduce the swelling, and that is all.”
“But why!”
“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 pain the trial entails. If I violate the rule, Fadawar will be declared the victor.”
“Will you at least allow me to alleviate your suffering?” asked Trianna. “I know several spells that can eliminate any amount of pain. If you had consulted me beforehand, I could have arranged it so that you could lop off an entire limb without the slightest discomfort.”
Nasuada laughed and allowed her head to loll to the side, feeling rather giddy. “My answer would have been the same then as it is now: trickery is dishonorable. I had to win the trial without deceit so no one can question my leadership in the future.”
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 the Varden have gained if you
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.
Pain-drunk as she was, she later realized she should have been as vigilant in her discussion with Orrin as if she had imbibed three tankards of the dwarves’ blackberry-honey mead. If she had, her well-developed sense of courtesy would have prevented her from replying so: “You worry like an old man, Orrin. I had to do this, and it is done. ’Tis bootless to fret about it now... I took a risk, yes. But we cannot defeat Galbatorix unless we dance along the very cliff edge of disaster. You are a king. You ought to understand that danger is the mantle a person assumes when he — or she — has the arrogance to decide the fates of other men.”
“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 Dur 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 Jormundur.
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 Jormundur 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, Jormundur,” 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 Jormundur.
“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. Jormundur, 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 Jormundur.
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
