Inheritance (9 page)

“Anyone might have.”

“Yes, but the thing is, I didn’t
mind
.” Anguished, he looked at her. “Don’t you understand?
I gave up
. When I realized I couldn’t escape, I accepted it as meekly as a lamb led to slaughter, and I—” Unable to continue, he dropped the mug and hid his face in his hands. The swelling in his throat made it hard to breathe. Then he felt Katrina’s fingers light upon his shoulders. “I gave up,” he growled, furious and disgusted with himself. “I just stopped fighting.… For you … For our child.” He choked on the words.

“Shh, shh,” she murmured.

“I’ve never given up before. Not once.… Not even when the Ra’zac took you.”

“I know you haven’t.”

“This fighting has to end. It can’t go on like this.… I can’t … I—” He raised his head and was horrified to see that she too was on the verge of tears. Standing, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.… It won’t happen again. Never again. I promise.”

“I don’t care about
that
,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

Her reply stung him. “I know I was weak, but my word still ought to be worth something to you.”

“That’s not what I meant!” she exclaimed, and drew back to look at him accusingly. “You’re a fool sometimes, Roran.”

He smiled slightly. “I know.”

She clasped her hands behind his neck. “I wouldn’t think any less of you, regardless of what you felt when the wall came down. All that matters is that you’re still alive.… There wasn’t anything you could do when the wall fell, was there?”

He shook his head.

“Then you have nothing to be ashamed of. If you could have stopped it, or if you could have escaped but you didn’t, then you would have lost my respect. But you did everything you could, and when you could do no more, you made peace with your fate, and you didn’t rail needlessly against it. That is wisdom, not weakness.”

He bowed and kissed her on the brow. “Thank you.”

“And as far as I am concerned, you are the bravest, strongest, kindest man in all of Alagaësia.”

This time he kissed her on the mouth. Afterward, she laughed, a short, quick release of pent-up tension, and they stood swaying together, as if dancing to a melody only they could hear.

Then Katrina gave him a playful push and went to finish the washing, and he settled back on the stump, content for the first time since the battle, despite his numerous aches and pains.

Roran watched the men, horses, and the occasional dwarf or Urgal slog past their tent, noting their wounds and the condition of their weapons and armor. He tried to gauge the general mood of the Varden; the only conclusion he reached was that everyone but the Urgals needed a good sleep and a decent meal, and that everyone, including the Urgals—especially the Urgals—needed to be scoured from head to foot with a hog’s-hair brush and buckets of soapy water.

He also watched Katrina, and he saw how, as she worked, her initial good cheer gradually faded and she became ever more irritable. She kept scrubbing and scrubbing at several stains, but with little success. A scowl darkened her face, and she began to make small noises of frustration.

At last, when she had slapped the wad of fabric against the washboard, splashing foamy water several feet into the air, and leaned on the tub, her lips pressed tightly together, Roran pushed himself off the stump and made his way to her side.

“Here, let me,” he said.

“It wouldn’t be fitting,” she muttered.

“Nonsense. Go sit down, and I’ll finish.… Go on.”

She shook her head. “No. You should be the one resting, not me. Besides, this isn’t man’s work.”

He snorted with derision. “By whose decree? A man’s work, or a woman’s, is whatever needs to be done. Now go sit down; you’ll feel better once you’re off your feet.”

“Roran, I’m fine.”

“Don’t be silly.” He gently tried to push her away from the tub, but she refused to budge.

“It’s not right,” she protested. “What would people think?” She gestured at the men hurrying along the muddy lane next to their tent.

“They can think whatever they want. I married you, not them. If they believe I’m any less of a man for helping you, then they’re fools.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Move. Shoo. Get out of here.”

“But—”

“I’m not going to argue. If you don’t go sit, I’m going to carry you over there and tie you to that stump.”

A bemused expression replaced her scowl. “Is that so?”

“Yes. Now go!” As she reluctantly ceded her position at the tub, he made a noise of exasperation. “Stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Speak for yourself. You could teach a mule a thing or two.”

“Not me. I’m not stubborn.” Undoing his belt, he removed his mail shirt and hung it on the front pole of the tent, then peeled off his gloves and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. The air was cool against his skin, and the bandages were colder still—they had grown chill while lying exposed on the washboard—but he did not mind, for the water was warm, and soon the cloth was as well. Frothy mounds of iridescent bubbles built up around his wrists as he pushed and pulled the material across the full length of the knobby board.

He glanced over and was pleased to see that Katrina was relaxing
on the stump, at least as much as anyone could relax on such a rough seat.

“Do you want some chamomile tea?” she asked. “Gertrude gave me a handful of fresh sprigs this morning. I can make a pot for both of us.”

“I’d like that.”

A companionable silence developed between them as Roran proceeded to wash the rest of the laundry. The task lulled him into a pleasant mood; he enjoyed doing something with his hands other than swinging his hammer, and being close to Katrina gave him a deep sense of satisfaction.

He was in the middle of wringing out the last item, and his freshly poured tea was waiting for him next to Katrina, when someone shouted their names from across the busy way. It took Roran a moment to realize it was Baldor running toward them through the mud, weaving between men and horses. He wore a pitted leather apron and heavy, elbow-length gloves that were smeared with soot and were so worn that the fingers were as hard, smooth, and shiny as polished tortoise shells. A scrap of torn leather held back his dark, shaggy hair, and a frown creased his forehead. Baldor was smaller than his father, Horst, and his older 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.”

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 growing
up, 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 smooth and round and would no longer attract the admiring glances of men, she was also proud of the scars. They were a testament to her courage and a visible sign of her devotion to the Varden. Anyone who looked at her would know the quality of her character, and she decided that meant more to her than appearance.

“What do you think?” she asked, and held out her arms toward King Orrin, who stood framed in the open window of the study, looking down at the city.

Orrin turned and frowned, his eyes dark beneath his furrowed brow. He had traded his armor of earlier for a thick red tunic and a robe trimmed with white ermine. “I find it unpleasant to look at,” he said, and returned his attention to the city. “Cover yourself; it is inappropriate for polite society.”

Nasuada studied her arms for a moment longer. “No, I don’t think I will.” She tugged on the lace cuffs of her half sleeves to straighten them, then dismissed Farica. She crossed the sumptuous dwarf-woven rug in the center of the room to join Orrin in inspecting the battle-torn city, where she was pleased to see that all but two of the fires along the western wall had been extinguished. Then she shifted her gaze to the king.

In the short while since the Varden and the Surdans had launched their attack against the Empire, Nasuada had watched
Orrin grow ever more serious, his original enthusiasm and eccentricities vanishing beneath a grim exterior. At first she had welcomed the change, for she had felt he was becoming more mature, but as the war dragged on, she began to miss his eager discussions of natural philosophy, as well as his other quirks. In retrospect, she realized these had often brightened her day, even if she had sometimes found them aggravating. Moreover, the change had made him more dangerous as a rival; in his current mood, she could quite easily imagine him attempting to displace her as leader of the Varden.