Eragon grabbed hold of Katrina’s shoulders to keep her from flinging herself after Roran, and he exchanged a helpless look with Arya. She glanced toward her sword, and he shook his head.
“Let go of me! Let go!” shouted Katrina. In her arms, the baby began to scream.
Never taking his eyes off the woman before him, Roran undid his belt and dropped it to the ground, along with his dagger and his hammer, which one of the Varden had found in the streets of Ilirea soon after Galbatorix’s death. Then Roran pulled open the front of his tunic and bared his hair-covered chest.
“Eragon, remove my wards,” he said.
“I—”
“Remove them!”
“Roran, no!” shouted Katrina. “Defend yourself.”
He’s mad, thought Eragon, but he dared not interfere. If he stopped Birgit, he would shame Roran, and the people of Palancar Valley would lose all respect for his cousin. And Roran, Eragon knew, would rather die than allow that to happen.
Nevertheless, Eragon had no intention of letting Birgit kill Roran. He would let her have her price, but no more. Speaking softly in the ancient language—so that none might hear the words he used—he did as Roran had asked, but he also placed three new wards upon his cousin: one to protect the spine within his neck from being severed; one to keep his skull from being broken; and one to safeguard his organs. All else Eragon felt confident he could heal if necessary, as long as Birgit did not start cutting off limbs.
“It is done,” he said.
Roran nodded and to Birgit said, “Take your price of me, then, and let this be an end to the quarrel between us.”
“You will not fight me?”
“No.”
Birgit eyed him for a moment; then she threw her shield onto the ground, crossed the few remaining feet that separated her from Roran, and placed the edge of her sword against Roran’s breast. In a voice loud enough for only Roran to hear—though Eragon and Arya did as well with their catlike acuity—she said, “I loved Quimby. He was my life, and he died because of you.”
“I’m sorry,” Roran whispered.
“Birgit,” pleaded Katrina. “Please …”
No one moved, not even the dragons. Eragon found himself holding his breath. The hiccupping crying of the baby was the loudest sound.
Then Birgit lifted the sword from Roran’s breast. She reached down to take his right hand and drew the edge of the sword across his palm. Roran winced as the blade cut into his hand, but he did not pull away.
A crimson line appeared upon his skin. Blood filled his palm and spilled dripping to the ground, where it soaked into the trampled earth, leaving a dark blotch upon the dirt.
Birgit ceased pulling on the sword and held it motionless against Roran’s palm for a moment more. Then she stepped back and lowered the scarlet-edged sword to her side. Roran closed his fingers around his palm, blood flowing between them, and pressed his hand against his hip.
“I have had my price,” said Birgit. “Our quarrel is at an end.”
Then she turned, picked up her shield, and strode back to the city, with Nolfavrell dogging her heels.
Eragon released Katrina, and she rushed to Roran’s side. “You fool,” she said, a bitter note in her voice. “You stubborn, pigheaded fool. Here, let me see.”
“It was the only way,” said Roran, as if from far away.
Katrina frowned, her face hard and strained as she examined the cut on his hand. “Eragon, you should heal this.”
“No,” said Roran with sudden sharpness. He closed his hand again. “No, this is one scar I’ll keep.” He looked around. “Is there a strip of fabric I can use as a bandage?”
After a moment of confusion, Nasuada pointed to one of her guards and said, “Cut off the bottom part of your tunic and give it to him.”
“Wait,” said Eragon as Roran started to wrap the strip around his hand. “I won’t heal it, but at least let me cast a spell to keep the cut from getting infected, all right?”
Roran hesitated. Then he nodded and held out his hand toward Eragon.
It took Eragon only a few seconds to mouth the spell. “There,” he said. “Now it won’t turn green and purple and swell up as large as a pig’s bladder.”