Free Inheritance by Christopher Paolini Page A
Authors: Christopher Paolini
brother, Albriech, but by any other comparison, he was large and well muscled, the result of having spent his childhood helping Horst in his forge. None of the three had fought that day—skilled smiths were normally too valuable to risk in battle—although Roran wished Nasuada had let them, for they were able warriors and Roran knew he could count on them even in the most dire circumstances.
Roran put down the washing and dried his hands, wondering what could be amiss. Rising from the stump, Katrina joined him by the tub.
When Baldor reached them, they had to wait several seconds for him to regain his breath. Then, in a rush, he said, “Come quickly. Mother just went into labor, and—”
“Where is she?” asked Katrina in a sharp tone.
“At our tent.”
She nodded. “We’ll be there as fast as we can.”
With a grateful expression, Baldor turned and sprinted away.
As Katrina ducked inside their tent, Roran poured the contents of the tub over the fire, extinguishing it. The burning wood hissed and cracked under the deluge, and a cloud of steam jetted upward in place of smoke, filling the air with an unpleasant smell.
Dread and excitement quickened Roran’s movements.
I hope she doesn’t die
, he thought, remembering the talk he had heard among the women concerning her age and overlong pregnancy. Elain had always been kind to him and to Eragon, and he was fond of her.
“Are you ready?” asked Katrina as she emerged from the tent, knotting a blue scarf around her head and neck.
He grabbed his belt and hammer from where they hung. “Ready. Let’s go.”
T HE P RICE OF P OWER
here now, Ma’am. You won’t be needing these anymore. And good riddance, I say.”
With a soft rustle, the last strip of linen slid off Nasuada’s forearms as her handmaid, Farica, removed the wrappings. Nasuada had worn bandages such as those since the day she and the warlord Fadawar had tested their courage against one another in the Trial of the Long Knives.
Nasuada stood staring at a long, ragged tapestry dotted with holes while Farica attended to her. Then she steeled herself and slowly lowered her gaze. Since winning the Trial of the Long Knives, she had refused to look at her wounds; they had appeared so horrendous when fresh, she could not bear to see them again until they were nearly healed.
The scars were asymmetrical: six lay across the belly of her left forearm, three on her right. Each of the scars was three to four inches long and straight as could be, save the bottom one on the right, where her self-control had faltered and the knife had swerved, carving a jagged line nearly twice the length of the others. The skin around the scars was pink and puckered, while the scars themselves were only a little bit lighter than the rest of her body, for which she was grateful. She had feared that they might end up white and silvery, which would have made them far more noticeable. The scars rose above the surface of her arm about a quarter of an inch, forming hard ridges of flesh that looked exactly as if smooth steel rods had been inserted underneath her skin.
Nasuada regarded the marks with ambivalence. Her father had taught her about the customs of their people as she was growingup, but she had spent her whole life among the Varden and the dwarves. The only rituals of the wandering tribes that she observed, and then only irregularly, were associated with their religion. She had never aspired to master the Drum Dance, nor participate in the arduous Calling of Names, nor—and this most particularly—best anyone in the Trial of the Long Knives. And yet now here she was, still young and still beautiful, and already bearing these nine large scars upon her forearms. She could order one of the magicians of the Varden to remove them, of course, but then she would forfeit her victory in the Trial of the Long Knives, and the wandering tribes would renounce her as their liegelord.
While she regretted that her arms were no longer
Roran put down the washing and dried his hands, wondering what could be amiss. Rising from the stump, Katrina joined him by the tub.
When Baldor reached them, they had to wait several seconds for him to regain his breath. Then, in a rush, he said, “Come quickly. Mother just went into labor, and—”
“Where is she?” asked Katrina in a sharp tone.
“At our tent.”
She nodded. “We’ll be there as fast as we can.”
With a grateful expression, Baldor turned and sprinted away.
As Katrina ducked inside their tent, Roran poured the contents of the tub over the fire, extinguishing it. The burning wood hissed and cracked under the deluge, and a cloud of steam jetted upward in place of smoke, filling the air with an unpleasant smell.
Dread and excitement quickened Roran’s movements.
I hope she doesn’t die
, he thought, remembering the talk he had heard among the women concerning her age and overlong pregnancy. Elain had always been kind to him and to Eragon, and he was fond of her.
“Are you ready?” asked Katrina as she emerged from the tent, knotting a blue scarf around her head and neck.
He grabbed his belt and hammer from where they hung. “Ready. Let’s go.”
T HE P RICE OF P OWER
here now, Ma’am. You won’t be needing these anymore. And good riddance, I say.”
With a soft rustle, the last strip of linen slid off Nasuada’s forearms as her handmaid, Farica, removed the wrappings. Nasuada had worn bandages such as those since the day she and the warlord Fadawar had tested their courage against one another in the Trial of the Long Knives.
Nasuada stood staring at a long, ragged tapestry dotted with holes while Farica attended to her. Then she steeled herself and slowly lowered her gaze. Since winning the Trial of the Long Knives, she had refused to look at her wounds; they had appeared so horrendous when fresh, she could not bear to see them again until they were nearly healed.
The scars were asymmetrical: six lay across the belly of her left forearm, three on her right. Each of the scars was three to four inches long and straight as could be, save the bottom one on the right, where her self-control had faltered and the knife had swerved, carving a jagged line nearly twice the length of the others. The skin around the scars was pink and puckered, while the scars themselves were only a little bit lighter than the rest of her body, for which she was grateful. She had feared that they might end up white and silvery, which would have made them far more noticeable. The scars rose above the surface of her arm about a quarter of an inch, forming hard ridges of flesh that looked exactly as if smooth steel rods had been inserted underneath her skin.
Nasuada regarded the marks with ambivalence. Her father had taught her about the customs of their people as she was growingup, but she had spent her whole life among the Varden and the dwarves. The only rituals of the wandering tribes that she observed, and then only irregularly, were associated with their religion. She had never aspired to master the Drum Dance, nor participate in the arduous Calling of Names, nor—and this most particularly—best anyone in the Trial of the Long Knives. And yet now here she was, still young and still beautiful, and already bearing these nine large scars upon her forearms. She could order one of the magicians of the Varden to remove them, of course, but then she would forfeit her victory in the Trial of the Long Knives, and the wandering tribes would renounce her as their liegelord.
While she regretted that her arms were no longer