“I think so,” Jörmundur replied in an equally hushed voice. “But it depends on the size of the bowl.”
Nasuada straightened in her seat. “Two sets of armor is one too many, King Halfpaw. Your warriors will have to decide whether they want to fight as cats or as humans and then abide by the decision. I cannot afford to outfit them for both.”
If Grimrr had had a tail, Eragon was sure it would have twitched back and forth. As it was, the werecat merely shifted his position. “Very well, Lady Nasuada.”
“There is one more thing. Galbatorix has spies and killers hidden everywhere. Therefore, as a condition of joining the Varden, you must consent to allow one of our spellcasters to examine your memories, so we may assure ourselves that Galbatorix has no claim on you.”
Grimrr sniffed. “You would be foolish not to. If anyone is brave enough to read our thoughts, let them. But not her”—and he twisted to point at Angela. “Never her.”
Nasuada hesitated, and Eragon could see that she wanted to ask why but restrained herself. “So be it. I will send for magicians at once, that we may settle this matter without delay. Depending on what they find—and it will be nothing untoward, I’m sure—I am honored to form an alliance between you and the Varden, King Halfpaw.”
At her words, all of the humans in the hall broke out cheering and began to clap, including Angela. Even the elves appeared pleased.
The werecats, however, did not react, except to tilt their ears backward in annoyance at the noise.
AFTERMATH
ragon groaned and leaned back against Saphira. Bracing his hands on his knees, he slid down over her bumpy scales until he was sitting on the ground, then stretched out his legs in front of him.
“I’m hungry!” he exclaimed.
He and Saphira were in the courtyard of the castle, away from the men who were laboring to clear it—piling stones and bodies alike into carts—and from the people streaming in and out of the damaged building, many of whom had been present at Nasuada’s audience with King Halfpaw and were now leaving to attend to other duties. Blödhgarm and four elves stood nearby, watching for danger.
“Oi!” someone shouted.
Eragon looked up to see Roran walking toward him from the keep. Angela trailed a few steps behind, yarn flapping in the air as she half ran to keep up with his longer stride.
“Where are you off to now?” Eragon asked as Roran stopped before him.
“To help secure the city and organize the prisoners.”
“Ah …” Eragon’s gaze wondered across the busy courtyard before returning to Roran’s bruised face. “You fought well.”
“You too.”
Eragon shifted his attention to Angela, who was once again knitting, her fingers moving so quickly, he could not follow what she was doing. “Cheep cheep?” he asked.
An impish expression overtook her face, and she shook her head, her voluminous curls bouncing. “A story for another time.”
Eragon accepted her evasion without complaint; he had not expected her to explain herself. She rarely did.
“And you,” said Roran, “where are you going?”
We’re going to get some food, said Saphira, and nudged Eragon with her snout, her breath warm on him as she exhaled.
Roran nodded. “That sounds best. I’ll see you at camp this evening, then.” As he turned to leave, he added, “Give my love to Katrina.”
Angela tucked her knitting into a quilted bag that hung at her waist. “I guess I’ll be off as well. I have a potion brewing in my tent that I must attend to, and there’s a certain werecat I want to track down.”
“Grimrr?”
“No, no—an old friend of mine: Solembum’s mother. If she’s still alive, that is. I hope she is.” She raised her hand to her brow, thumb and forefinger touching in a circle, and, in an overly cheerful voice, said, “Be seeing you!” And with that, she sailed off.
On my back, said Saphira, and rose to her feet, leaving Eragon without support.
He climbed into the saddle at the base of her neck, and Saphira unfolded her massive wings with the soft, dry sound of skin sliding over skin. The motion created a gust of near-silent wind that spread out like ripples in a pond. Throughout the courtyard, people paused to look at her.
As Saphira lifted her wings overhead, Eragon could see the web of purplish veins that pulsed therein, each one becoming a hollow worm track as the flow of blood subsided between the beats of her mighty heart.