Luminescent (Inheritance Cycle and Beyond)

Chapter Forty-Five: Brilliant

I drummed my fingers on the throne that I sat on. We had just taken Belatona, Lord Bradburn had been the least bit cooperative. Thus why Arya ended up knocking him out. Jörmundur stood to my left, holding his helmet in the crook of his arm. The hair at his temples was streaked with gray; the rest was brown, and all of it was pulled back into a long braid. He had aged since we started this war.

I was resisting the urge to run back to the changing room and replace the dress I was wearing with my leather pants and corset, but that was one thing I could not do. Let's just say being queen sucked. Tight whalebone corsets and miles of fabric, not my ideal choice in clothes but none the less, I had an image to uphold.

Currently, the Varden thought that their queen and their second dragon rider were separate people, and that is the way I want it to be. I let another hiss out through my nose, I hate politics. Nasuada shot me a small knowing smile from where she sat on my left. She knew just how much I despised being the queen.

Eragon was stationed on Nasuada's left, letting one hand rest on the pommel of Brisingr. Damn him.

""If we can but gain their support ..."" Nasuada said in a low voice so only those within close proximity could hear.

""What will they want in return, though?"" Jörmundur asked, not moving a sweaty and tired muscle. ""Our coffers are near empty, and our future uncertain.""

""Perhaps they wish nothing more of us than a chance to strike back at Galbatorix."" Nasuada paused. ""But if not, we shall have to find means other than gold to persuade them to join our ranks.""

""You could offer them barrels of cream,"" Eragon said, which incited a chortle from

Jörmundur, a soft laugh from Nasuada and a small smirk from me.

"Perhaps," I responded loftily as three trumpets sounded outside the main hall. A flaxen-haired page dressed in a tunic stitched with the 'Varden's standard—a white dragon holding a rose above a sword pointing downward on a purple field—marched through the open doorway at the far end of the hall, struck the floor with his ceremonial staff.

""His Most Exalted Royal Highness, Grimrr Halfpaw, King of the Werecats, Lord of the Lonely Places, Ruler of the Night Reaches, and He Who Walks Alone.""

"A strange title, that: He Who Walks Alone," Eragon observed to Saphira, Alethea and me.

"But well deserved, I would guess," Saphira replied with an amused tone. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as Alethea let out a soft dragon snicker from the pack that was sewn onto my clothes. All of my court clothing now had a unique bag sewn into the back so Alethea could stay with me, even during court sessions.

Jörmunder gave me a side glance with a half-smile, I guess he heard her too. I straightened my face into my icy look. The page stepped aside, and through the doorway strode Grimrr Halfpaw in the shape of a human, trailed by four other werecats, who padded close behind him on large, shaggy paws.

None of the werecats seemed to notice the people lined up on either side of their path watching them until Grimrr came level with the herbalist Angela, who stood next to Roran, knitting a striped tube sock with six needles. I sighed and closed my eyes for a brief second, I do hope she is going to be civil.

Grimrr's eyes narrowed as he beheld the herbalist, and his hair rippled and spiked, as did that of his four guards. His lips drew back to reveal a pair of curved white fangs before he let out a hiss. Angela looked up from the sock she had been knitting, her expression languid and insolent.