Nasuada dipped her head, taking to heart Arya’s advice. Then she smiled and said, “A tender age? I’m a grown woman, by our reckoning.”

Amusement gleamed in Arya’s green eyes. “True. But if we judge by years, and not wisdom, no human would be considered an adult among my kind. Except for Galbatorix, that is.”

“And me,” Angela chimed in.

“Come now,” said Nasuada, “you can’t be much older than I am.”

“Ha! You’re confusing appearances with age. You ought to have more sense than that after being around Arya so long.”

Before Nasuada could ask just how old Angela really was, she felt a hard tug on the back of her dress. Looking around, she saw that it was Elva who had taken such a liberty and that the girl was beckoning. Bending, Nasuada placed an ear close to Elva, who muttered, “Eragon’s not on Saphira.”

Nasuada’s chest tightened, restricting her breathing. She peered upward: Saphira circled directly over the camp, some thousands of feet high. Her huge, batlike wings were black against the sky. Nasuada could see Saphira’s underside, and her talons white against the lapped scales of her belly, but nothing of whoever might be riding her.

“How do you know?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“I cannot feel his discomfort, nor his fears. Roran is there, and a woman I guess is Katrina. No one else.”

Straightening, Nasuada clapped her hands and said, “Jörmundur!” allowing her voice to ring forth.

Jörmundur, who was almost a dozen yards away, came running, shoving aside those who got in his way; he was experienced enough to know when an emergency was at hand. “My Lady.”

“Clear the field! Get everyone away from here before Saphira lands.”

“Including Orrin and Narheim and Garzhvog?”

She grimaced. “No, but allow no one else to remain. Hurry!”

As Jörmundur began shouting orders, Arya and Angela converged upon Nasuada. They appeared as alarmed as she felt. Arya said, “Saphira would not be so calm if Eragon was hurt or dead.”

“Where is he, then?” demanded Nasuada. “What trouble has he gotten himself into now?”

A raucous commotion filled the clearing as Jörmundur and his men directed the onlookers back to their tents, laying about them with swagger sticks whenever the reluctant warriors lingered or protested. Several scuffles broke out, but the captains under Jörmundur quickly overwhelmed the culprits, so as to prevent the violence from taking root and spreading. Fortunately, the Urgals, at the word of their war chief, Garzhvog, left without incident, although Garzhvog himself advanced toward Nasuada, as did King Orrin and the dwarf Narheim.

Nasuada felt the ground tremble under her feet as the eight-and-a-half-foot-tall Urgal approached her. He lifted his bony chin, baring his throat as was the custom of his race, and said, “What means this, Lady Nightstalker?” The shape of his jaws and teeth, coupled with his accent, made it difficult for Nasuada to understand him.

“Yes, I’d bloody well like an explanation myself,” said Orrin. His face was red.

“And I,” said Narheim.

It occurred to Nasuada, as she regarded them, that this was probably the first time in thousands of years that members of so many of the races of Alagaësia had gathered together in peace. The only ones missing were the Ra’zac and their mounts, and Nasuada knew no sane being would ever invite those foul creatures into their secret councils. She pointed at Saphira and said, “She shall provide the answers you desire.”

Just as the last stragglers quit the clearing, a torrent of air rushed across Nasuada as Saphira swooped to the ground, raking her wings to slow herself before alighting upon her rear legs. She dropped to all fours, and a dull boom resounded across the camp. Un -buckling themselves from her saddle, Roran and Katrina quickly dismounted.

Striding forward, Nasuada examined Katrina. She was curious to see what kind of woman could inspire a man to undertake such extraordinary feats in order to rescue her. The young woman before her was strong-boned, with the pallid complexion of an invalid, a mane of copper hair, and a dress so torn and filthy, it was impossible to determine what it might have looked like originally. In spite of the toll her captivity had taken, it was apparent to Nasuada that Katrina was attractive enough, but not what the bards would call a great beauty. However, she possessed a certain force of gaze and bearing that made Nasuada think that if Roran had been the one captured, Katrina would have been just as capable of rousing the villagers of Carvahall, getting them south to Surda, fighting in the Battle of the Burning Plains, and then continuing on to Helgrind, all for the sake of her beloved. Even when she noticed Garzhvog, Katrina did not flinch or quail but remained standing where she was, next to Roran.

Roran bowed to Nasuada and, swiveling, also to King Orrin. “My Lady,” he said, his face grave. “Your Majesty. If I may, this is my betrothed, Katrina.” She curtsied to them both.

“Welcome to the Varden, Katrina,” said Nasuada. “We have all heard your name here, on account of Roran’s uncommon devotion. Songs of his love for you already spread across the land.”

“You are most welcome,” added Orrin. “Most welcome indeed.”

Nasuada noticed that the king had eyes only for Katrina, as did every man present, including the dwarves, and Nasuada was certain they would be recounting tales of Katrina’s charms to their comrades-in-arms before the night was out. What Roran had done on her behalf elevated her far above ordinary women; it made her an object of mystery, fascination, and allure to the warriors. That anyone should sacrifice so much for another person meant, by reason of the price paid, that person must be unusually precious.