Nasuada frowned, then said to the page, “On the market street, where those three houses were burned. Do you know the place I mean? Right, off you go, then.” She patted the boy on the back and stood upright as he ran out of the room. “It would be better if you didn’t.”
Her statement confused Roran, but he kept quiet, expecting that she would explain herself. She did, but in a roundabout way: “Did you notice how tired Eragon was during my audience with the werecats?”
“He could barely stay on his feet.”
“Exactly. He’s spread too thin, Roran. He can’t protect you, me, Saphira, Arya, and who knows who else and still do what he has to. He needs to husband his strength for when he will have to fight Murtagh and Galbatorix. And the closer we get to Urû’baen, the more important it is that he be ready to face them at any given moment, night or day. We can’t allow all of these other worries and distractions to weaken him. It was noble of him to heal the child’s cat lip, but his doing so could have cost us the war!
“You fought without the advantage of wards when the Ra’zac attacked your village in the Spine. If you care about your cousin, if you care about defeating Galbatorix, you must learn to fight without them again.”
When she finished, Roran bowed his head. She was right. “I’ll depart at once.”
“I appreciate that.”
“By your leave …”
Turning, Roran strode toward the door. Just as he crossed the threshold, Nasuada called out, “Oh, and Stronghammer?”
He looked back, curious.
“Try not to burn down Aroughs, would you? Cities are rather hard to replace.”
DANCING WITH SWORDS
ragon drummed his heels against the side of the boulder he was sitting on, bored and impatient to be gone.
He, Saphira, and Arya—as well as Blödhgarm and the other elves—were lounging on the bank next to the road that ran eastward from the city of Belatona: eastward through fields of ripe, verdant crops; over a wide stone bridge that arched across the Jiet River; and then around the southernmost point of Leona Lake. There the road branched, one fork turning to the right, toward the Burning Plains and Surda, the other turning north, toward Dras-Leona and eventually Urû’baen.
Thousands of men, dwarves, and Urgals milled about before Belatona’s eastern gate, as well as within the city itself, arguing and shouting as the Varden tried to organize itself into a cohesive unit. In addition to the ragtag blocks of warriors on foot, there was King Orrin’s cavalry—a mass of prancing, snorting horses. And strung out behind the fighting part of the army was the supply train: a mile-and-a-half-long line of carts, wagons, and wheeled pens, flanked by the vast herds of horned cattle the Varden had brought from Surda and supplemented by what animals they had been able to appropriate from farmers along their path. From the herds and the supply train came the lowing of oxen, the braying of mules and donkeys, the honking of geese, and the whinnies and neighs of draft horses.
It was enough to make Eragon want to plug his ears.
You would think we would be better at this, considering how many times we’ve done it before, he commented to Saphira as he hopped down off the boulder.
She sniffed. They ought to put me in charge; I could scare them into position in less than an hour, and then we wouldn’t have to waste so much time waiting.
The thought amused him. Yes, I’m sure you could.… Be careful what you say, though, or Nasuada might just make you do it.
Then Eragon’s mind turned to Roran, whom he had not seen since the night he had healed Horst and Elain’s child, and he wondered how his cousin was doing and worried about leaving him so far behind.
“Blasted fool thing to do,” Eragon muttered, remembering how Roran had left without letting him renew his wards.
He’s an experienced hunter, Saphira pointed out. He will not be so foolish as to allow his prey to claw him.
I know, but sometimes it can’t be helped.… He had best be careful, that’s all. I don’t want him to come back a cripple or, worse, wrapped in a shroud.
A grim mood descended upon Eragon, then he shook himself and bounced up and down on his feet, restless and eager to do something physical before spending the next few hours sitting on Saphira. He welcomed the opportunity to fly with her, but he disliked the prospect of being tethered to the same twelve or so miles for the whole day, circling vulture-like over the slow-moving troops. On their own, he and Saphira could have reached Dras-Leona by late that very afternoon.
He trotted away from the road to a relatively flat stretch of grass. There, ignoring the looks from Arya and the rest of the elves, he drew Brisingr and assumed the on-guard position Brom had first taught him so long ago. He inhaled slowly and settled into a low stance, feeling the texture of the ground through the soles of his boots.
With a short, hard exclamation, he swept the sword up around his head and brought it down in a slanting blow that would have halved any man, elf, or Urgal, regardless of their armor. He stopped the sword less than an inch above the ground and held it there, the blade trembling ever so slightly in his grip. Against the backdrop of the grass, the blue of the metal appeared vivid, almost unreal.
Eragon inhaled again and lunged forward, stabbing the air as if it were a deadly enemy. One by one, he practiced the basic moves of sword fighting, focusing not so much on speed or strength but on precision.
When he was pleasantly warm from his skill work, he glanced round at his guards, who stood in a semicircle some distance away. “Will one of you cross swords with me for a few minutes?” he asked, raising his voice.
The elves looked at one another, their expressions unreadable; then the elf Wyrden stepped forward. “I will, Shadeslayer, if it pleases you. However, I would ask that you wear your helm while we spar.”
“Agreed.”