Murtagh

CHAPTER I Hostile Territory

Thorn’s wings knocked loose a flurry of leaves as he descended amid willows and poplars into the secluded hollow. The clearing was barely big enough for him, and Murtagh could already feel his discomfort.

As the leaves settled, Thorn glanced around at the confined space. He growled, and a brace of ravens sprang cawing from within the poplars.

“It’s all right,” said Murtagh in a soothing tone. “We have to hide, and this is a good place for it. If anything happens, you can take off.”

Thorn rolled his eyes but held his position.

After unstrapping his legs, Murtagh slid to the ground. It felt strange to be back in the hollow, as if it were a place from a half-remembered dream.

He shook himself and searched the area with his mind. To his relief, the only living creatures he felt were mice and rabbits, two weasels, and a small herd of deer grazing on a nearby hill.

Satisfied, he said, “It’s safe.”

The day was already near an end, so they made camp and soon enough were fast asleep.

Does Lord Relgin know you well enough to recognize you?

Murtagh looked up from his bowl. A fire was too risky so close to Gil’ead, which meant breakfast of cold porridge and jerky.

Thorn was watching from the center of the clearing. He refused to crawl under the edge of the canopy, where Murtagh had placed his bedroll.

“He knows of me, but I don’t think we’ve met. In any case, I shouldn’t cross paths with him.”

And if you do?

“I’ll lie, and if lies aren’t enough, I’ll run.”

Thorn blinked.

A sparrow darted past over the clearing, chasing morning insects.

Murtagh scooped the last of the porridge into his mouth. “Either way, I’ll be back by sundown. If not—” The soft soil squished between Thorn’s claws as he kneaded the ground. “If not,” Murtagh repeated with gentle emphasis, “I’ll let you know.”

Will you take Zar’roc with you this time?

Murtagh looked at the sword propped against the log he was sitting on. He wanted to. Entering Gil’ead unarmed wasn’t an appealing prospect. “It’ll attract too much attention. I’ll bring my dagger instead.”

Thorn uttered a hiss of disapproval. Always this problem. You should get another sword, one that you can carry wherever you go.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Murtagh, wiping his mouth. “I’d have to enchant it, though, so it didn’t break.”

Then do so, insisted Thorn.

Murtagh eyed him. “All right. Gil’ead has a large weapons market. Or it did. I’ll see what I can find there.”

Good. Thorn dug his claws deeper into the ground.

“But in the meantime…” Murtagh hopped to his feet and walked among the trees until he found a poplar sapling—as thick as his wrist—that had died from lack of light, shadowed by the branches of the full-grown trees. He pried the sapling loose from the loam and carried it back to camp.

There, he stripped it of bark and cut it so it was a head taller than himself. “Done,” he said, hefting the staff. “Not the best wood, but it’ll do for now.”

You can fight with this? Thorn asked.

“Better, I can walk with it,” said Murtagh, and he leaned on the staff as if he had a bad knee. “If anyone looks, they’ll see my leg, not my face.”

Thorn sniffed the staff. Dull stick-claw is improvement on no dull stick-claw, I suppose. Still, try not to kick up a hive of hornets as you did at Ceunon.

“That wasn’t on purpose.”

It never is. Perhaps Ilenna can keep you from getting into trouble, hmm?

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted her to catch me.”

Thorn’s mouth spread in an approximation of a smile. Maybe you should let her. It might ease the fire in your belly.

Murtagh snorted. “You know what that leads to. Children.”

Hatchlings are not a bad thing.

He eyed Thorn, serious. “They are if you can’t give them the care they need. I wouldn’t inflict that on any child of mine. I’d sooner die.”

From the hollow, Murtagh trotted east and north until he intercepted the main road leading up to Gil’ead. There were soldiers marching along the way, and farmers driving wagons and livestock, and shuttered carriages, and a merchant caravan laden with southern goods.

Murtagh slipped onto the road and fell in behind the caravan, making no attempt to avoid the cloud of dust kicked up by the line of mules. He pulled his hood over his face, lowered his head, and adopted a limping step.

As he walked, he practiced his lies. Yes, he was Tornac son of Tereth, come from Ilirea to purchase swords and spears and shields for his master’s men. His master? One Burdock Marrisson, who had served honorably as captain in Nasuada’s army and been awarded a minor title as reward. No, he didn’t have any letters of recommendation. Why should he? Yes, he had a letter of credit to make his purchases. His horse? Stabled at the Cattail Inn, south of Gil’ead.

And so forth and so on. The story wouldn’t stand close inspection, but Murtagh hoped it would be enough to avoid trouble if trouble came looking.

In the fields alongside the road, he saw traces of the battle for Gil’ead, ghosts of past bloodshed. There along a hedgerow was where the Empire’s cavalry had massed, and even now a circle of ground was bare where horses had trampled the dirt until it was hard as fired brick. Half a ruined wagon lay rotting along the lip of a nearby ditch, the wood burnt black by spellfire. Farther to the east was where the elves had broken through the army’s defensive lines and begun to drive them away from Gil’ead.

Murtagh forced himself to stop looking, but he couldn’t stop remembering. It must have been terrifying, he thought. To be stuck on foot, with dragons fighting overhead, and ranks of elves descending upon your position…He could hardly imagine a worse situation.

As he drew closer to Gil’ead, he noticed an odd thing. Half a mile ahead of him, there was a narrow side path that ran west some distance to a large oak tree on a hilly crest. At least a third of the travelers turned aside from the road and walked to the oak, which they looked at for a long time before doing an about-face and returning to the road.

Murtagh couldn’t make sense of it. There were no stands beside the oak. No merchants or tinkers plying their trade. It was just…a tree.

He stopped next to the road and waited until an oxen-pulled wagon came up alongside him. The man holding the reins was rawboned, sun-darkened, and had a stalk of green grass hanging from the corner of his mouth. Next to him sat a pair of boys who couldn’t have been older than ten or twelve.

“Pardon me, neighbor,” said Murtagh, putting on a northern accent. “What might be happening over at that there tree?”

The farmer glanced at him sideways and twitched the stalk between his lips. “Tha’s where the dragon’s buried.”

A knot formed in Murtagh’s stomach. “A dragon?”

“Ayuh. An’ an elf too, if’n you believe it.” The two boys peered curiously around the farmer at Murtagh, and the oxen lowed. “Th’ elves burned th’ dragon’s body, an’ grew that tree over th’ ashes.”

Then the wagon rolled past, leaving Murtagh standing alone.

With heavy steps, he resumed walking. He didn’t look at the tree again, and he tried not to think about it. But when he reached the intersection, where the path diverged from the road, he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

He could still see Glaedr’s battered body falling from on high, a burning meteor plummeting toward the bloody mire that footed the world, wings fluttering like wind-torn flags.

Thorn’s mind touched his, and the dragon said, Their fate was not our fault.

Murtagh tensed as he recalled the feeling of Galbatorix entering and seizing control of his mind. The king had used him to kill Oromis, and Thorn to kill Glaedr, although Glaedr still lived on in his Eldunarí. No, but Galbatorix wouldn’t have succeeded without us. Not then. Not there.

A sense of reluctant agreement came from Thorn. I would have liked to have known Glaedr as a friend, not a foe.

And I Oromis. It’s possible we might still have a chance with Glaedr, if ever he allows it.

The memories of dragons run as long and deep as the roots of the mountains. He will not forgive us for killing his Rider.

I suppose not. Murtagh sighed. He couldn’t help but resent Eragon and Saphira for having the chance to study under Oromis and Glaedr. If only we’d had the same opportunities, what could we have become? A useless line of thought, and he knew it, but the sentiment weighed on him all the same.

We have become strong, said Thorn. No one has survived what we have.

Which was true. But despite what Murtagh had told Essie, he believed that some wounds, some scars, were too great to overcome and did nothing to make a person stronger. Quite the opposite. A truly severe injury only left you weakened, imperfect, and there was no fixing most of it.

He kept the feeling to himself. He didn’t want Thorn to ever believe that he viewed the dragon as irrevocably damaged. If anything, Murtagh thought the dragon had a better chance of becoming whole than he did. By the standards of both humans and dragons, Thorn was hardly more than a hatchling, despite how Galbatorix had accelerated his physical growth. He was young, and like magic, youth meant potential. But it would take time for Thorn to heal. Years and years, if not the entire span of their existence.

The pattern of our lives is set so early, he thought. If ever he did have children—and the thought filled him with the deepest trepidation—he knew he would do everything within his power to ensure that their first few years were full of love and joy. If nothing else, then, the children would have those first bright memories to sustain them during the darkness. What better gift from a parent?

Soft as a shadow came words that he felt almost more than heard: “…beautiful boy. What a strong boy. You make me so proud.” His mother’s voice, half remembered, as she’d spoken to him in the hall of Morzan’s castle.

Murtagh’s steps faltered. He leaned on his staff for real then, and stared at the net of cracks in the bare dirt as he waited for the surge of emotion to pass. Was it grief, anger, longing for what he never had?…He couldn’t tell.

Setting aside his feelings, he continued forward. It was all he could do.

Gil’ead didn’t have a proper city wall, as did Ceunon and Dras-Leona—in the event of an attack, the commoners were expected to shelter inside the central fortress—but there was still a gatehouse along the main road.

The guards, Murtagh was relieved to see, were just keeping a general watch and made no effort to inspect those who entered.

He lowered his head and hurried past, trying to blend in with the caravan he’d followed.

The city proper was a loud, boisterous place, earthy and muscular. The smell of manure was strong in the air, and people shouted across the streets and from the balconies of their houses. There were minstrels by the squares and tinkers in the streets, and dozens of buildings were being raised across the city, which surprised Murtagh; they’d have to hurry to get the roofs on before winter descended in earnest.

He saw even more evidence of the war. The buildings along the main thoroughfare were scorched on their beams, and broken-off shafts of embedded arrows stuck out from the walls, like thorns on a rosebush. A rowdy band of dwarves was arguing with a stablemaster near the city entrance as they tried to agree on terms for housing the dwarves’ ponies. Close to the center of Gil’ead, Murtagh saw a pair of elves—one male, one female, both with ink-black hair—standing inside the gate of an ostentatious stone-walled house, talking in the front garden while purple-edged butterflies fluttered about their heads and shoulders.

Murtagh suppressed a snort. How like them. We’re all true to our own natures, I suppose.

He made sure to keep well away from the stone house.

After the quiet of the past four days, the smells and sounds of the city were overwhelming. Murtagh fought the urge to plug his ears—and nose—and he found himself flinching at unexpected noises.

You’re turning into a wild animal, he thought. Skittish and untamed. He wasn’t sure if it was a bad thing.

He made his way to the main market, which indeed had many weapons on display. He gave them a pass for the time being, as he felt that a sword would attract more attention than his staff, and wandered among the other stalls, inspecting the wares. A few discreet questions about the origins of a soft woolen scarf and a cask of southern wine and a set of carved necklaces were enough for him to learn that Ilenna’s family still plied their trade. Further inquiry with a seller of cloth revealed that, as he suspected, Ilenna was most often to be found at Lord Relgin’s court, advising the earl on her father’s behalf.

Satisfied with his findings, Murtagh stopped at a small tent decked with wicker cages containing doves, pigeons, and songbirds of various sorts. The owner was a gruff, mustachioed man who more resembled a military quartermaster than a merchant.

After some brief haggling, Murtagh bought the brightest, sweetest-sounding finch. With a cloth over the cage to keep the bird silent, he hurried through the busy streets to the fortress entrance.

The main gates were open, the cross-barred portcullis raised high, but Murtagh didn’t head toward them. The guards standing on either side of the gates would inspect anyone who tried to walk straight in.

That had never been his plan. Instead, he positioned himself behind the corner of a nearby house, where the guards couldn’t see him but he could watch everyone who entered and exited the fortress. Murtagh knew his time was limited. Someone was sure to notice if he kept loitering there, but he didn’t think he would need to wait very long.

He was right.

Not half an hour after he settled into place, a red-haired page with tasseled sleeves hurried out the front gate and rushed off in the direction of the market. Murtagh perked up. Perfect.

He slipped through an alleyway stinking of night soil and placed himself by the side of the street where he guessed the page would return.

A tug on his cloak caused him to start. He looked down to see a pair of dirty faces staring up at him, urchins barely half his height, dressed in rags that had seen more years than their owners.

“Please, master, sir,” they said in unison, and held out cupped hands.

Murtagh couldn’t tell if the children were male or female. He decided it didn’t matter. He also decided it didn’t matter if they were making a fool of him, if they had a house with family and food and a warm hearth.

“Here. Go buy something to eat,” he said, fishing two coppers out of his purse.

They laughed and bobbed their heads. “Thank you, sir! Red, red, red, an’ dragon get’cha!” Then, quick as rats, they scurried down the alley and disappeared among the buildings.

Murtagh checked his belt. His purse was still where it should be, which he counted a victory. He smiled. Whatever happened with Ilenna, he’d done some good that day.

His smile faded as he spotted the page heading back along the street. The youth was dawdling along, eating a hand pie, enjoying the sun, and watching the ladies on the street. Not so eager to return to your master or mistress, eh?

As the youth passed the alley mouth, Murtagh swept aside his cloak and, in a voice from the past, said, “Boy! Hold there. I would speak with you.”

The page froze, and Murtagh could see panic in his eyes as the youth tried to figure out whether he was in trouble and, if so, how much.

“Y-y-yes, sir?” The page bowed slightly, and then looked askance at Murtagh’s travel-stained clothes. A line of gravy ran from the page’s half-eaten pie and down his hand.

Hesitation would lose the day. Assuming a haughty air, Murtagh beckoned him closer. “Come here, boy. You are a page of Lord Relgin’s court, yes? I have need of a courier to deliver a message of mine.”

The youth glanced back at the fortress and shifted on his feet, as if to turn and run. “My master—”

“Speak not to me of your master! This is of the highest importance.” Murtagh tapped the side of his nose. “The highest importance.” The page’s expression sharpened into interest. Intrigue always had that effect. “You know the goodwoman Ilenna who attends Lord Relgin’s court?”

“I know of Ilenna, sir.”

Murtagh gestured as if that were of no matter. “And you no doubt might command her attention, by reason of your position, yes?”

The youth puffed out his chest slightly. “Why yes, sir. I suppose I might.”

“Excellent.” Murtagh held out a square of folded parchment sealed with a blob of melted tallow. “Then I charge you to convey this message to the estimable Ilenna, and with it my urgent desire to have words with her at the soonest convenience. Along with my request, I offer this gift to Ilenna, as a sign of my deep respect.” He motioned to the cage by his feet.

The page eyed the cage and parchment. “If I do find her, sir—”

“Then return with alacrity, boy, and let me know her response. This is a matter of urgency.” The page hesitantly accepted the parchment, and Murtagh said, as if he’d forgotten until that very moment, “Oh yes, and for your troubles.” He handed over a tarnished coin. “A silver now, and a crown when you return.”

The page’s face brightened. “Sir, yes sir!”

A crown was more than the youth likely saw in a year. An expensive bribe, but worth it, although the cost left Murtagh’s purse sadly depleted.

If this keeps up, I might have to seek gainful employment, he thought, sardonic. Perhaps as a mercenary or a chirurgeon.

As the youth scooped up the cage, the finch inside warbled with sleepy protest. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, sir.”

Murtagh nodded, again wrapping himself in his cloak. “I shall wait until such time as I hear Ilenna’s response. Now go! And swift fate guide you.”

The page turned and trotted toward the castle, holding the cage in one hand and his half-eaten pie in the other.

Murtagh shook his head as he watched the youth depart. Pages had formed an essential, if inefficient, means of communication in Galbatorix’s court. Not only that, they usually knew more of what was going on than even the spymaster himself. He just hoped that the promise of gold would keep the youth focused on his task.

While he waited, Murtagh passed the time by watching the people of Gil’ead. There were soldiers in shirts of rusted mail, with spears resting at a jaunty angle on their shoulders. Officers trotting past on well-groomed horses with braided manes. Merchants with plumed hats and clothes made of rich fabrics. Nobles—or would-be nobles drawn from the upper ranks of the Varden—attempting to avoid splattering mud on their finery, often with a line of trailing servants carrying bundles of purchases. Many of the more important personages made use of covered chairs carried by porters who trotted through the streets at a brisk pace, conveying the impression that whoever was inside had the most urgent business.

In reality, Murtagh knew the porters couldn’t maintain such a pace, and most of the trips were of the most mundane variety. But as always, appearances had to be upheld.

He glanced at the muddy hem of his cloak. As much as he liked order and cleanliness, he didn’t miss the never-ending drive to present a perfect image to the world. Now that he’d had time away from court, that pressure seemed a form of temporary insanity.

At the end of the street, opposite the fortress, he could see into the main square. Lively music sounded among the buildings, and through a crowd of shifting bodies, he caught glimpses of a harvest dance: men and women circling each other, arms interlinked, feet lifting high to the rapid beat.

Murtagh found himself tapping his own foot. Dancing had been the one thing he’d enjoyed at court, although everything surrounding the dances—the politics and machinations and general villainy—had been miserable. But the dances themselves, ah, those had been a special pleasure. He’d mastered even the most complicated sequence of steps, and it had served him in good stead in his swordplay. Footwork was everything in dance and war, whether on an individual level or on the level of armies and nations. The right move at the right moment was the difference between victory and defeat, and the right move wasn’t always the expected one.

A face across the street caught Murtagh’s attention. A flash of pale cheek, the line of a jaw, the distinctive silhouette of a nose…Murtagh stiffened as he eyed the profile of a youngish man walking amid a knot of five guards.

It can’t be. Lyreth? The oldest son of Lord Thaven, who had served as commander of Galbatorix’s navy? Lyreth was four years older than Murtagh. He’d always been larger and stronger while growing up and hadn’t been shy about using that to his advantage.

Now that Murtagh thought about it, he hadn’t seen Lyreth in Urû’baen during his last stay in the capital. Thaven’s son had been smart enough to avoid appearing at court while Murtagh was there as a Rider.

What’s he doing here now? Lyreth turned his head to look at something on the other side of the street, and Murtagh sank farther back into the alley. Lyreth, of all people, would have no difficulty recognizing him. I shouldn’t have shaved.

But no reaction altered Lyreth’s expression, and he continued on his way at the same brisk pace.

Murtagh let out his breath and retreated to the corner of the building. Lyreth probably had even more cause to avoid being recognized in public. All of the noble families who had served under Galbatorix—families who had accumulated enormous wealth and power during his century-long tenure on the throne—had lost their positions, and many of them had been executed or exiled. But loyalties ran deep, and wealth bought protection. As with Yarek, Murtagh knew that some not-inconsiderable number of Galbatorix’s followers were living in gilded secrecy.

He didn’t envy Nasuada having to deal with their undermining influence.

Murtagh wasn’t sure how long he stood on the street corner, watching. By the sun, he guessed it was near an hour. He felt a faint tingle in the center of his right palm—as if his hand had fallen partially asleep—and he scratched it without thinking.

He froze. His right palm was where his gedwëy ignasia lay: the silvery, scar-like blotch that marked where he’d first touched Thorn as a hatchling. And it often itched or tingled when there was danger nearby.

The feeling wasn’t infallible, but it had saved his skin more than once.

Again alert, he glanced around. There. Soldiers slipping out of the fortress entrance and gathering by the corner of a house. He’d been too distracted; he’d missed the first few.

And with the soldiers…a man in a black, purple-trimmed robe, hood thrown back to reveal a head of hair so pale it was nearly white. On the breast of his robe was embroidered a golden symbol, a heraldic standard: in the top half, a crown with rays spreading from the points. A fess, then, dividing the standard in half, and below it, a cockatrice statant, with an iron band around each scaled ankle.

Murtagh knew it well. The coat of arms of Du Vrangr Gata, the guild of magicians who served Nasuada, and who enforced her laws prohibiting unauthorized and unaffiliated magic throughout not just her realm but also the southern kingdom of Surda. Every human spellcaster was required to join the guild, or else submit to drugs and spells that would prevent them from using magic without permission.

Murtagh had yet to agree to either provision, and he never would.

Which meant the blond-haired man was a threat. Given the opportunity, he would seek to chain Murtagh in one manner or another, and even a weak magician could prove to be a formidable opponent in one-on-one combat, for fights between magicians were rarely resolved with spells alone. Mental prowess mattered, and if you could gain control of your foe’s mind, they would be at your mercy, no matter their skill, strength, or wards.

“Curse you,” he muttered, meaning the page. It wasn’t the betrayal itself that bothered him—Murtagh was well acquainted with betrayal—it was the inconsistency. Pages weren’t supposed to rat out those who came to them in confidence! How could a court function otherwise?

A feather-light touch brushed Murtagh’s mind.

He recoiled, retreating deep within himself and armoring his mind with a wall of iron determination. “You shall not have me,” he muttered again and again, using the words to focus his thoughts. The emptier his mind, the less there would be for the magician to find.

The robed man frowned and said something to the soldiers. He pointed down the street.

Murtagh moved. Time to leave before the soldiers cornered him.

He’d just reached the other end of the alley when a thickset man in a sleeveless jerkin stepped in front of him. The man’s bare arms were as heavily muscled as a smith’s, and he carried a cudgel in one hand.

Murtagh nearly struck the stranger, but the man backed off, arms spread wide, and in a low, gruff voice said, “Are you Tornac?”

“Who asks?” He had made no mention of Tornac to the page, although he had used the name on the note for Ilenna. Was the man her servant? If not…

A flicker of annoyance crossed the man’s face. “The werecat Carabel has sent me. She requests the company of this Tornac.”

A werecat! Alarm and curiosity coursed through Murtagh. He glanced back. The magician and soldiers were nearly to the mouth of the alleyway. He had to decide. “That’s me,” he said, curt.

“This way, then. Right quicklike, if you please.”

The bare-armed man hurried up the side street, and Murtagh followed close behind, carrying his staff sideways in his hand. There was no reason for subterfuge now.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were their breath and the soft pad of their boots on the ground.

Murtagh’s mind whirled with puzzlement. How had Carabel ended up with his note? Of all the creatures in Alagaësia, werecats were the most secretive. Always they kept apart from others, although in the final press of the war, they had joined forces with the Varden against Galbatorix. But on the whole, they weren’t partisan as the other races were.

Since the fall of the Empire, Murtagh had heard tell that a werecat sat on a velvet cushion next to Nasuada’s throne. And likewise in King Orrin’s court in Surda, and in the courts of all the great cities. Murtagh assumed Carabel served in a similar fashion at Gil’ead. But what did she want with him?

She can’t know who I really am, he thought. Unless, of course, she was a confederate of Ilenna’s. He supposed he would find out soon enough.

Murtagh felt another faint touch against his mind, but it was so soft as to be nearly imperceptible, and it slid past without stopping.

Not so skilled, are you? he thought. But he didn’t allow himself to relax. Not yet.

The man led him to a narrow house built close to the fortress, through the house’s gated yard, and down a flight of mossy stairs set against the fortress’s outer wall. At the bottom was a well situated within an alcove adorned with carved flowers. Murtagh was entirely unsurprised when the man pushed on a petal and a small stone door swung open.

A breath of cold air washed over them.

Most castles had bolt-holes or the like. Escape routes for the nobles who lived within. Such things compromised the fortifications, but when needed, nothing else would suffice.

“After you, sir,” said the man, holding the door open. A low, dark tunnel ran under the fortress, its far end hidden in shadow. “Carabel awaits.”

“And what does she wish with me?”

“Wouldn’t be my place t’ say. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

Murtagh hesitated. Once he entered the fortress, it would be far, far harder to leave, even with all of his magical prowess. It was a risk. A big one. How likely was it that he was walking into a trap?

The man shifted with impatience.

Murtagh wished he could tell Thorn what was happening, but he didn’t dare expose his consciousness for the equivalent of a mental shout.

He spared a glance for the open sky and wondered when he would see it again. Then he gathered his cloak close and ducked inside.

The door shut behind them with a soft thud, and the sound echoed the length of the tunnel.

CHAPTER II Questions for a Cat

The tunnel smelled of wet stone, mold, and the sweat of the man shuffling along behind him. It was pitch-black.

Murtagh felt an uncomfortable prickle along his spine: not a premonition, but a concern. It would be easy for the man to hit him in the head with the cudgel. Too easy. Murtagh had wards to fend off attacks, but there was no knowing what enchantments your opponent had, if any.

The mark on his palm no longer itched, which gave him some comfort. Nevertheless, he remained tense.

“Keep straight,” said the man, rough. “ ’Bout a hundred feet there’s a turn to the right. Be careful, there are stairs going up directly after.”

“Understood.”

Murtagh was tempted to summon a werelight, but there was no point in revealing that he could use magic.

As he felt his way through the dark, a profusion of possibilities bedeviled him. A thousand likely—and unlikely—fates, each worse than the last. It was fruitless speculation, so he wrenched his thoughts away and instead reviewed his answers to every question he could imagine.

He wasn’t about to allow Carabel to catch him out, even if she were the cleverest of werecats.

In the blackness beneath the ground, the hundred feet seemed more like a thousand. Murtagh would have sworn they had crossed the fortress yard and were under the houses on the other side.

Just when he was about to ask how much farther they had to go, the hand he had on the wall slipped around a corner. Finally! He breathed a sigh of relief as he turned. Another stride, and his left foot bumped into the bottom of a step.

Using his staff for balance, he climbed.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

Fi— He slipped on the fifth step; a patch of water caused his boot to lose its grip. He caught himself on his staff and then continued, heart pounding.

Five…

Six…

Seven. A dim thread of light appeared before him, tall and straight.

“Give it a good push,” said the man. “It’ll open right fine.”

Murtagh put his hand out and pushed. An arched door swung open, revealing a small storeroom. A lit candle sat in a sconce on the wall, and after the profound blackness of the tunnel, the flickering flame was almost blinding. Several barrels were stacked in one corner, and dried hams and chains of sausages hung from hooks in the ceiling.

“Nasty business that,” said the man. Murtagh turned to see him closing the door behind them; when shut, the outline of the door was practically invisible. The man brushed cobwebs from his shoulders and made a face. “Too many spiders down there. Right, she’ll be wanting to see you directly. This way.”

Murtagh followed as the man led him through several side passages in the fortress—retreating behind corners whenever they heard voices—until they arrived at a dark wood door somewhere on the eastern side of the complex.

The sleeveless man bowed in what Murtagh thought was a slightly mocking fashion and opened the door for him.

Murtagh stepped through it.

He found himself in a sumptuously appointed study. Rows of polished bookcases lined the walls; thick dwarven rugs, rich with reds, greens, and blues, covered the floor; and a beautiful map of Alagaësia, painstakingly annotated with thousands of names, was framed as a centerpiece above a stone fireplace, wherein a stack of logs merrily burned.

Facing the door was a great desk of carved wood. And sitting behind the desk, propped up on a green velvet cushion, was none other than the werecat Carabel.

She was in her human form, which meant she appeared to Murtagh as a slim, grey-haired woman no taller than four foot. A loose white shift left her lean arms uncovered. Murtagh guessed the shift made it easy for her to change shape if she wished. Although she had the same general contours as a human, there was no doubt that Carabel wasn’t. Her cheekbones were too wide, her emerald eyes too angled, her pupils too slitted, and there were small tufts of white hair on the tips of her ears. Murtagh wasn’t sure if the tufts were because Carabel hadn’t fully transformed or if they were a normal feature of her race.

Until then, he had never actually seen a werecat, and he found himself unexpectedly hesitant.

On the desk in front of Carabel were three things: the cage with the finch he’d bought, now empty save for a few yellow feathers; a plate with cuts of cold meat; and the parchment he’d given the page, unfolded to reveal the lines of runes written within.

The sight puzzled Murtagh. If the werecat had intercepted his message to Ilenna, was she acting as Lord Relgin’s spymaster? And did that mean she had used the magician and soldiers as a ploy to force him into her clutches? Or were things as they appeared, and she really had been trying to save him from Relgin’s forces?

Murtagh forced himself to remain relaxed even as he realized his understanding of the situation was woefully inadequate. I’m going to have to step carefully. Very, very carefully.

The door shut behind him, and he was conscious of his guide taking up a position in the back corner, cudgel still in hand.

Carabel cocked her head and watched Murtagh in exactly the same way he had seen yard cats watch a bird or mouse they were stalking. He had a sense that she would happily sit in silence for the rest of the day.

Or until she got bored, and Murtagh didn’t think he wanted to deal with a bored werecat.

He motioned toward the wicker cage. “You enjoyed the bird, I take it.”

Carabel lifted one perfectly sharp eyebrow. “It was acceptable, man of the road.” She had a plummy, purring voice that oozed self-satisfied confidence. And yet, Murtagh detected a note of underlying strain. Her gaze shifted to the sleeveless brute at the back of the room. “Was there trouble on the way?”

“Close, ma’am, but none worth mentioning.”

“Good.” She smiled, revealing sharp little fangs. “You have met Bertolf, yes? He is a most excellent help. He fetches me meats and morsels and tasty mysteries such as yourself.”

Murtagh wasn’t sure if he liked being referred to as tasty. He allowed himself an expression of cultured amusement, as he would have used at court, and made a sweeping bow. A bit of theatrics never hurt, especially with cats. “My apologies, Lady Carabel, but the finch was intended for another. Or perhaps you didn’t know?”

With one long, needle-tipped nail, she pricked the center of the parchment square. “Oh yes, I knew. You sought to speak with Ilenna Erithsdaughter, did you not?”

“That’s right.” Murtagh felt glad he’d couched his message to Ilenna in deliberately vague language that, he hoped, would mean little to others.

Carabel gestured at the chair in front of the desk. “Sit, human. We have much to speak of.”

“Do we, now?” But Murtagh pulled his cloak to one side and sat. He leaned his staff against his right knee, where he could grab it in an instant. “Might I ask why you seized my letter and gift? I have broken no law and caused no trouble.”

“That is the wrong question. You should instead ask how I knew to seize your letter and gift. The page’s master is Lord Relgin’s chamberlain, and the page told him of the strange man offering coin to speak with Ilenna Erithsdaughter. No doubt the chamberlain rewarded him far in excess of your bribe.”

Murtagh winced. He should have quizzed the page more closely. “And the chamberlain then came to you. I see, but—”

“Not quite,” said Carabel. “The chamberlain went to Lord Relgin, and Lord Relgin dispatched a number of his men to apprehend you, O Tornac. Most unusual. Such court intrigues are usually beneath Relgin.”

So the soldiers had been after him. A sour taste formed in Murtagh’s mouth. It seemed like he wouldn’t be getting near Ilenna anytime soon. He put the thought aside. That wasn’t his immediate problem. “I admit, I am confused, Lady Carabel. Did Lord Relgin tell you all this? If so, why bring me here in defiance of him? And why should any of you highborn folk care about my doings? I am no one of importance.”

Carabel licked the points of her teeth. Her tongue was small and pink. “That’s not exactly true, now is it…Murtagh son of Morzan?”

A coal popped in the fireplace, startlingly loud.

Murtagh felt his eyes narrow. He gripped the staff, ready to fight. “How did you find out?”

A cruel little smile curved Carabel’s dark lips. It unsettled him to think how often they touched raw meat and blood. “The name Tornac is not unknown to us werecats, human. Besides, you smell of dragon.”

Her explanation did nothing to ease his mind. “All right,” he said. “What do you want?”

A frown pinched Carabel’s delicate features, and a dark aspect settled upon her face. “A question for you first, human. What business had you with Ilenna Erithsdaughter?”

Had. Murtagh didn’t like her use of the past tense. He affected an abashed look. “In truth, no business. It is a private matter between us. I’m sure you understand.”

Again Carabel paused. She’s uncertain, he realized. Why? He decided to take the initiative. “Is there a problem with Ilenna? Has something happened to her?”

The tufts on Carabel’s ears swayed as she shook her head. “Ilenna is unharmed. The problem lies…elsewhere. I will ask you again, Murtagh son of Morzan. What business had you with her?”

“Am I speaking to you or to Lord Relgin?”

She inspected the nails on her left hand, holding them up to the light so the tips gleamed red-gold from the flames. “Werecats answer to no one but ourselves. You speak to me and me alone.”

“And him.” Murtagh jerked a thumb back over his shoulder.

A slight purr escaped Carabel. “Bertolf is trusted.”

“Maybe by you.” Murtagh adjusted his grip on the staff. “Why should I tell you, werecat? There’s nothing you can do to stop me from leaving.”

Carabel’s slitted pupils constricted. If her tail had been present, he thought it would have twitched. “No, but you want information, human. Why else would you wish to talk with Ilenna? Oh yes, I know of her family’s activities. Great clumsy oafs they are. Not like cats. But I can promise you this: there is no way you can speak to Ilenna or her father without Lord Relgin finding out. If you don’t mind revealing yourself, then go to them. Leave now. But I think you prefer to remain hidden, you and your dragon.”

Murtagh turned his staff in his hand. What was the werecat getting at? He felt as if he were fighting a duel and he was two steps behind his opponent.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “You still haven’t given me a reason why I should share anything with you.”

Carabel’s thin shoulders rose and fell. “If it is secrets you seek, then who better to ask than a cat? Ask of me, Murtagh son of Morzan, and if I do not know, I will speak to Ilenna on your behalf.”

“You’re offering to help me,” said Murtagh, wary.

Her eyelids lowered until they were half closed, and she nestled in on herself, as if to brace against inclement wind. “I am.”

“In exchange for what?”

She blinked. “The smallest of favors.”

In an instant, things became clear to Murtagh. A cynical laugh escaped him. “Of course. And what is this smallest of favors?”

The werecat lifted her pointed chin, defiant. “A task that needs doing, and none there are in Gil’ead who can do it, save you.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” He frowned at her; she was trying to manipulate him. “I’m not your errand boy, cat. No one gets to order me about. Not you, not Relgin, not even Nasuada.”

“I would not think to tell a Dragon Rider what to do. This is an offer, not a command.”

Murtagh growled and ran his fingers through his hair. “And what is it you need doing?”

“You will agree to it?”

“That depends on the nature of the task and whether or not you have the answers I seek.”

With a seemingly uninterested air, Carabel licked a fleck of blood off the middle finger of her left hand. “That is hardly fair, human. What if I must confer with Ilenna? Shall I hunt for you out of nothing but the goodness of my heart while I await your agreement?”

“Shall I help you out of nothing but the goodness of my own?”

Carabel flexed her fingers, as if to extend and retract claws. “Trust is a sword with a blade for a hilt. It cuts all equally.”

“That is far from a convincing, or comforting, argument.”

“For a human.”

“Human I am.”

She gave him a flat, humorless stare. “I have not told Lord Relgin of your presence here. Is that not enough reason to trust me?”

Despite the werecat’s seemingly relaxed pose, Murtagh saw hints of coiled tension throughout her body. Something’s seriously amiss, or she wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.

He lifted the staff a few inches and let it rap against the floor. Once. Twice. Three times. He decided. The cat was right; he wouldn’t be able to talk with Ilenna without attracting attention. Regardless of the favor Carabel had in mind, he might learn something by putting his questions to her. Even if she knew nothing helpful, that itself was a useful piece of information. And in any case, it could be prudent to forewarn Carabel and, by extension, Lord Relgin about the strange doings in the land.

“It’s not,” said Murtagh, “but let us both cut ourselves.” From inside his cloak, he removed the bird-skull amulet and the stone with the inner shine and placed them on the desk.

A sulfurous smell began to taint the air.

Carabel hissed and scooted backward on her velvet cushion, her spine arched as if she were about to spring into the air. Her grey hair nearly stood on end. “Where did you find those thingsss?”

Once again, Murtagh had the disconcerting realization that he wasn’t talking with another human, but something entirely different. “Ceunon. I took them off a rather disreputable trader by the name of Sarros.”

Carabel extended a clawed hand and touched the tip of her index nail to the amulet. She snatched her hand back as if burned, and then shivered and straightened, again assuming a dignified air. It was a false front; Murtagh could see that the werecat was shaken, and that likewise disturbed him. Werecats were many things, but cowards they were not.

“Tell the full tale, human, and leave nothing out.”

He didn’t do as she asked. Not entirely. There were some secrets he didn’t feel like sharing, such as his use of the Name of Names. (Even if the werecats were aware the Name existed, he saw no advantage in revealing that he knew the word.) But aside from that, he told the truth.

As he talked, Murtagh was conscious of Bertolf listening behind him. He hoped the man was more discreet than the page.

The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room when he finished.

Carabel stretched and shivered, and Murtagh noticed for the first time that her feet were bare. “Sssah. You ask questions you may not want answering, human.”

“Then you know where to find the witch-woman Bachel?”

“Yesss.”

“And the origin of the stone? And also the Dreamers that Sarros mentioned?”

Her lips retracted, showing more of her pointed teeth. “Yes and yesss.”

“And you will tell me?”

Carabel’s gaze went to the map over the fireplace before returning to the coal-like stone. “If you will complete the task I set before you…yes.”

“What guarantee have I that you actually possess the information I seek? Tell me first.”

Her tufted ears pressed flat against the sides of her head. “After, human. After. We must both grasp the sword.”

Murtagh still wasn’t convinced. “Maybe I should talk to Ilenna instead. I’m sure I could find a way to approach her unseen.”

An unpleasant scraping filled the study as Carabel drew her nails across the surface of the desk, leaving thin lines in the wood. “You would be disappointed, human. She has no knowledge of these things. I swear it.”

“But you do.”

“Yesss.”

He tapped the butt of the staff against the floor. “And how is that?”

“Because I am a cat, human. I hear many things, and I know more. I hunt in shadows, and I dance in moonbeams, and wherever I walk, I walk alone.”

Nonsense and riddles, but what else had he expected? “What is the task?”

A tense stillness settled upon Carabel, and her eyes flared with dark anger. She looked ready to fight or spring after her prey. “Over the past six moons, three of our younglings have been taken in Gil’ead. One of them was later found lost along the shore of the lake with no memory of how he got there. The others have never been seen again. Most recently, another youngling was seized, not three days past.”

A sympathetic anger formed in Murtagh. “Seized by whom?”

“Men. Humans. But I cannot say why.”

“And you want me to find the ones responsible?”

Carabel shook her head. “No. I want you to find the youngling who was taken. All of the younglings, if possible, but I fear only the one may yet be saved. Silna is her name. We tracked her through the city—a werecat’s nose is hard to fool—and we know where she might be.”

“But you can’t get to her.”

The werecat blinked. Her lashes were as long and fine as the silk atop summer grass. “There is a certain captain of the city guard. Captain Wren. In the barracks he has command over, there is a set of stairs that lead underground to a room where he and his officers meet once every sevenday. Past that room are certain other chambers, and at the end of them is a door that never opens. We suspect Silna might be found therein.”

Murtagh frowned. A captain of the city guard…The implications were unpleasant. “Do you think this Captain Wren is responsible for taking Silna?”

“We do not know.”

“And just how many werecats are in Gil’ead?”

The tips of her ears twitched. “More than you might think, human.”

He let that pass. “Who else has access to those chambers?”

“Again, we do not know. There may be an entrance from the other side, some secret tunnel we have yet to discover.”

His frown deepened. “Have you spoken to Lord Relgin about this? I assume not.”

Carabel let out a sharp breath. “We are werecats, but still, at heart, we are cats. We are the ones who walk through doors. Always and ever. But we cannot walk through the door beneath the barracks, which means there is magic at work, and none there are in Relgin’s service fit to deal with such things. It is a task for a Rider. Besides…there is always a chance that Wren or someone in his command was given orders from above.”

The more she spoke, the more troubled Murtagh felt. He turned the staff in his hand. “What about Du Vrangr Gata? Surely they could help.”

A low coughing, spitting sound issued from Carabel. “I would not trust them to catch a mouse with three broken legs. Pah!”

“And you need someone you can trust.”

She met his gaze and held it. “Yes.”

Murtagh wondered about the elves. That Carabel had not mentioned them was answer enough, but he was curious as to the reason. Elves and werecats did not seem entirely dissimilar, and if bad blood lay between them—or even just a basic dislike—he was interested in knowing why. A question for another time.

His thoughts returned to Silna. In his mind, he pictured a child huddled alone in a bare stone cell. He could imagine all too well the cold, the pain, the anger, and the despair she might be feeling. Had he not shared those same torments when the Twins had deposited him in the dungeon beneath the citadel at Urû’baen? Worst of all had been the uncertainty, not knowing what fresh outrages one moment or the next might bring.

Nor had that been his only experience in such a helpless, dire situation. He still remembered with painful vividness when, at fourteen, he’d snuck out of Urû’baen without permission or accompaniment. That evening, he’d tried to slip back in through the main gates, and the soldiers standing watch had caught him. Not recognizing him, they threw him into one of the cells buried beneath the guard tower. Galbatorix had been absent from the city at the time, along with his entire retinue. No one remained whom Murtagh could call upon to confirm his identity. So there he had languished for a week and three days, convinced he would die in sunless confinement and that no one would know or care.

In the end, Galbatorix returned, and word of Murtagh’s plight somehow reached the court, for the king’s then chamberlain had come to see to his release. After which the chamberlain promptly had Murtagh soundly beaten for the trouble he had caused.

Murtagh suppressed a shiver. He could still smell the dampness of the cell and feel the cold of the stones seeping into his bones. And yet, despite his familiarity with the distressing realities of Silna’s likely plight—and his compassion for her—he resented Carabel using the youngling to secure his help. Doubly so because he knew he would hate himself if he walked away.

“Fine,” he ground out from between his teeth. “I’ll do it. But not for you, nor even for myself. For Silna.”

Carabel nodded. “Whatever you find behind that door, the race of werecats will be grateful and count you as a friend, Murtagh son of Morzan.”

Stop calling me that! “Where are the barracks?”

Her hair bristled slightly. “It is not that simple.”

“Why shouldn’t it be? I’ll walk in and open the door, magic or no, and if anyone dares stop me, I’ll—”

“No!” She dug her claws into the arms of her chair, and for a moment, Murtagh thought she might leap across the desk. “If you rouse the alarm, Silna might be spirited away before you can reach her. Or worse, killed. The risk is too great. And you do not know what spells may have been deployed in that place.”

Murtagh inclined his head. “So how am I supposed to gain entrance without attracting unwanted attention?”

Carabel settled back on her cushion and smoothed the tassels on her ears. “You must become a member of the city guard and join Captain Wren’s company.”

He allowed his eyebrows to rise. “Oh, is that all?…Well, I suppose I can talk my way into their ranks, if need be.”

“Alas, that will not suffice.” Carabel was somber, but she seemed to take a subtle delight in confounding him. “Captain Wren no longer accepts general recruits into his company. At Lord Relgin’s indulgence, Wren selects his men from among the rest of the guard, and it is counted a high honor to be so chosen. But Wren only seeks out men whose service he trusts.”

“And that’s not suspicious at all.”

Carabel flicked her ears. “But not uncommon for officers of distinction.”

“True enough. So how do I earn Captain Wren’s trust?”

“It is not possible, not in the time we have. Instead, you will have to impress him.”

Murtagh nearly growled. “And how am I to accomplish that? A feat of arms?”

A sly smile curled Carabel’s sharp lips. “It is very simple, human. To impress him, you must kill a fish.”

“A fish? A fish? Do you take me for a fool?”

“Not at all. But, alas, to kill the fish, you will need a special lure.”

“Bah!” With an expression of disgust, Murtagh fell back in the chair. How deep of a hole had he fallen in? If he hadn’t already given his word, and if it weren’t for the vanished youngling, he would have gotten up and left. “Enough of these riddles, cat! Explain, and you’d best do a good job of it.”

“Of course, human. It goes as such. In Isenstar Lake lives a great cunning fish the men of this place have named Muckmaw. He is fierce, hungry, and cruel, and over the years, he has sunk many a boat and eaten many a fisherman. There is a reward in Gil’ead for whosoever can dispatch Muckmaw and present his head as proof of the deed. Four gold coins and a promise of a position in the guards, if so desired. I have no doubt that if you bring Muckmaw’s head to Captain Wren, he will welcome you into the ranks of his men.”

“Killing a fish is no great challenge,” said Murtagh.

“Were that was true. Muckmaw is no ordinary beast.” Carabel gestured at herself. “And a werecat should know. No common bait or cloth or colored thread will attract him, only something of special significance.”

“Or I could just find him with my mind.” Murtagh gave her a dangerous smile. “A quick spell, and that will be the end of Muckmaw.”

The werecat matched his smile. “And how will you pick out the thoughts of a single fish amongst all the fish in Isenstar Lake?…No, you will need a lure, one that he cannot resist.”

“What sort of lure is that?”

“A scale of the dragon Glaedr, whose body lies burned and buried outside this city.”

Murtagh’s immediate reaction was outrage. “You must be jesting!”

“I would not jest about such a thing,” said Carabel, deadly quiet. “Not when one of our younglings is in danger. Trust me, human, only the scale of a dragon will suffice for Muckmaw.”

Again, Murtagh saw Oromis and Glaedr falling limply through the air while ranks of men and elves clashed on the ground below. He rubbed his knuckles as he stared at the floor. “I’m not happy about this, cat.”

The slightest bit of sympathy entered Carabel’s voice: “It is a hard thing I ask you for, I know. But there is a rightness to it also.”

“I fail to see any rightness in grave robbery.”

“You slew Glaedr. Now, by fate’s design, you may use a part of him to help save an innocent. What could be more right than that?”

The question struck him to his core. He forced his hands apart. “The elves will have set wards around Glaedr’s tomb to prevent exactly this sort of desecration.”

A shrug from Carabel. “Yes. Probably. That is why we haven’t tried. That is why we must ask you, Rider.”

“And what if I hadn’t come to Gil’ead?”

When she answered, he heard no pretense in her voice, only honest emotion, raw and vulnerable and shot through with determination. “Then I and all the werecats in Gil’ead would have stormed the barracks and attempted to breach the door.” She met his gaze. “If that meant we had to fight an entire company of guards, then so be it. We will not abandon our young.”

“…No.” Murtagh frowned and looked at the wood-braced ceiling. I should have known better than to give my word. Another thought followed close behind: Thorn won’t like that I did. But he knew he couldn’t ignore Carabel’s request, even if, right then, he rather hated the werecat. “Get the scale, catch the fish, find out what’s behind the door. Is that it?”

Carabel nodded. “Exactly. But you must be quick about it, human. We have heard whispers of men moving in the night, wagons readied, horses freshly shod…. By tomorrow evening, Silna may no longer be in the city.”

Murtagh silently cursed. This isn’t going to be easy. Then his resolve hardened, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. If the werecat child was in Gil’ead, he’d find her, even if it meant pulling the city apart beam by beam.

“Then we’d best not waste any time.”

A savage, toothy smile spread across Carabel’s face.

CHAPTER III Barrow-Wights

It was late afternoon when Murtagh exited the secret tunnel underneath Gil’ead’s fortress. Shadows had filled the streets, and only the rooftops remained bathed in light warm and gold.

The stone door closed behind him with a grinding sound as Bertolf, the sleeveless servant, pulled it shut.

Cautious, Murtagh climbed the stairs from the hidden entrance, half expecting a band of soldiers to jump him at any moment. At the top, he paused long enough to make sure no one was watching, and then he slipped through the garden, through the front gate, and into the street.

He had to force himself to pay attention to his surroundings as he hurried back toward Gil’ead’s southern entrance, but his mind kept returning to his encounter with Carabel. A wry chuckle escaped him. Quests from a werecat. It was the sort of thing one heard about in stories, where the earnest young hero proved his doughtiness and won the hand of a princess.

Only Murtagh knew the world didn’t work like that. More often than not, the hero ended up dead in a ditch, or else forced to carry out orders from the king he hated….

His mood soured as he arrived at the edge of Gil’ead. With long strides, he hurried away from the buildings until he felt himself a safe distance. Then he moved off the road, to the top of a small hummock, and focused his mind in the direction of the hollow where Thorn lay hiding.

Can you hear me? he asked.

Thorn’s response was immediate: a rush of concern and aggravation. Of course. Are you safe?

Safe enough.

Where are you?

Murtagh impressed an image of his surroundings onto Thorn. The dragon huffed, and Murtagh heard the sound in his mind. Were you able to speak with Ilenna?

Not quite. Opening his memories, Murtagh shared his recollection of his conversation with Carabel. It was faster than using words to explain every little detail.

Afterward, Thorn snorted. The cat got the best of you, I think.

I know, he agreed mildly. There wasn’t much I could do about it.

Still, it will be good if you can help the hatchling.

I’ll do my best. You don’t mind about Glaedr’s scale, do you?

Why should I? His scale is not my scale. Besides, Glaedr’s body is dead. Why should a dragon care what happens to them when they are gone?

Many people do.

Thorn made the equivalent of a mental shrug. If I am not here to know or feel, what does it matter? It is fear that drives such care, and I do not fear the worms.

No. There are far worse things than death.

Murtagh could almost feel Thorn staring at him. You are part dragon, I sometimes think.

Of course. We are joined, you and I, aren’t we? He looked at the sky, gauged how much time until nightfall. I’m going to get the scale, and then I might need your help with the fish.

Rainbow flecks of excitement colored Thorn’s thoughts. We will hunt together?

Yes.

The flecks brightened, variegated lights sparking as Thorn imagined the successful conclusion of the chase, of teeth sinking into fishy flesh.

Soon, Murtagh promised.

With a purposeful stride, Murtagh headed west, toward the oak tree grown atop the mound where Oromis and Glaedr’s remains were buried. As it grew near, he saw numerous people gathered about the oak, some kneeling, others standing, and he heard distant singing.

Among the people, he saw what looked to be a white-robed elf next to the twisted tree trunk.

“Barzûl,” Murtagh swore, and turned aside. There was no sure way to conceal himself or what he was doing from elven eyes, which were the keenest and most perceptive of all the races’.

He hated to delay—every hour that passed lessened the chances that he could rescue Silna—but there was no help for it. He would have to wait.

Frustrated, Murtagh studied the fields around him. There. A small stand of willows near a bowl-like depression filled with lush grass, cattails, and a few crabapple trees heavy with their sour fruit.

He glanced at the road to make sure it was clear, and then trotted over to the stand of willows. There were midges and biting flies flitting about the grass, and his boots sank into marshy ground, but Murtagh was willing to put up with the annoyance in order to have some cover.

A fly bit his neck, and he slapped it away.

He wedged himself into the willows in an angled position that would keep him from falling onto the wet ground. Then, from the purse on his belt, he took some dried apple and a piece of cold bacon and chewed them slowly, savoring every bite. It was all the food he was going to get for a while.

He was thirsty too, but he didn’t want to drink whatever stagnant water he could find in the depression. That was a good way to end up bent over sick for the next few days.

There has to be a way to make water safe with a spell. He remembered something of the like from Yngmar’s memories, but the details had been vague.

Still thinking on it, he crossed his arms over the staff, pulled his hood over his face, and closed his eyes.

The hum of busy insects soon lulled him to sleep.

Soft flesh fumbling at his skin, teeth scraping, unwelcome wetness along his hand, then a flare of yellow pain bright enough to make him yelp.

Murtagh jolted awake, shouting, wild-eyed. He thrashed with the staff, hoping to knock back whatever was hurting him.

A bony, dolorous face hung before him. Sideways pupils rimmed with dirty gold, cruel, inhuman; a profusion of black and white bristles; grasping lips searching like blind worms for food; splayed, flat-topped teeth yellowed around the bases, grinding, gnashing, snapping only inches from his cheek; breath like a putrid pond.

Murtagh recoiled. The face was a terrifying, uncaring hunger set to devour the world.

The yellowed teeth closed on his hand again, hard and painful. Repulsed, Murtagh reacted without thinking and shouted, “Thrysta!” while funneling his strength into the spell.

A full-body blow knocked him against a willow trunk as the creature in front of him went tumbling through the air with an outraged bray.

The animal landed several paces away and scrambled to its feet.

A goat. It was nothing more than a goat.

Murtagh blinked, still disoriented. He worked his mouth, tongue thick and dry, and looked around. No one else was in sight. He and the goat were alone in the shadowed depression.

The goat shook itself and gave Murtagh an angry, disapproving look. It lowered its head and scraped the marshy ground with a front hoof, as if preparing to charge.

“Letta,” Murtagh said with a note of finality. The word wasn’t a spell as such, but it contained the authority of the ancient language, and the goat—like all animals—understood the intent behind the command and stopped.

The goat pulled back its neck and shook its head as if a wasp had stung its nose, upper lip curled with unmistakable anger. Then it went “Maaah” in a disgusted tone and trotted away, flicking its tail.

Murtagh slumped against the willow. The image of the goat’s open-mouthed face still filled him with revulsion. If he hadn’t woken, he felt sure the beast would have kept eating and eating and eating until it consumed him alive.

Fresh alarm flooded his mind; his fear had woken Thorn from the dragon’s own nap. For a few seconds, confusion reigned as their emotions overlapped and Murtagh attempted to calm Thorn.

It was just a goat, Murtagh said, extricating himself from the willow. Just a goat.

You scared me, said Thorn. Not an accusation, more of a plaintive statement.

I scared myself. I’m sorry. Everything is all right.

Do you want me to eat the goat?

For a moment, Murtagh seriously considered accepting. No, but I appreciate the offer.

Be careful. Even four-legs-no-fangs can be dangerous.

I know. I will.

Making a face, Murtagh brushed off his clothes. His back was sore from where the spell had slammed him into the willow tree. He berated himself for not setting a ward to wake him if someone or something came near…and for overreacting so strongly. Too many dangerous encounters had left him more twitchy than was good.

And yet his reactions had kept him alive.

He rubbed his hand where the goat had bitten him. The skin was red and bruised but unbroken.

The wards he had placed around himself only went so far. Too much protection and he wouldn’t be able to interact with the world in a normal fashion—touching a sharpened edge or an overly hot pot, for example—and powering wards all the time would exhaust him, as they fed off the strength of his body. Which meant he’d never set a ward to specifically prevent an animal from biting him. Nor had the goat’s teeth met any of the conditions he’d built into his wards.

I’ll have to fix that, he thought. It would be a tricky bit of spellcraft, but he wasn’t about to let some thrice-cursed goat eat him either.

The horizon was a hazy line bisecting the gold half dome of the setting sun. Purple shadows streaked the land, and nightjars darted overhead, chasing insects as the first stars appeared in the sky beyond.

At Glaedr’s burial mound, orange lights bobbed and flickered around the base of the rise. Murtagh cursed. Have you nothing better to do? he wondered, eyeing the distant mourners. They showed no signs of leaving; if anything, their numbers had grown. He had a horrible suspicion that some of them intended to hold vigil at the tomb throughout the whole night.

Hopefully the elf had departed. Either way, Murtagh dared not wait any longer. Time was tight, and he feared that catching Muckmaw might be a more involved process than Carabel had made it seem. If the fish slept, as most animals did, he would not show himself until the following day.

“Let’s get this over with,” Murtagh muttered, and set out for the barrow. He wished he’d brought a waterskin. He was even more thirsty now.

The walk allowed him to plan. The elves were sure to have placed spells on the location to prevent anyone from desecrating Oromis and Glaedr’s remains. That was the first difficulty. The second was finding a scale. If the farmer he’d spoken to was right and the elves had burned Glaedr’s body, there wouldn’t be many scales left—and the barrow made for a decently sized hill, so actually locating a scale amid all the dirt would be tricky even with magic. Third was the need to do so without attracting attention.

At least the dusk would help hide his actions.

The fourth and final difficulty was Murtagh’s own reluctance. He didn’t want to visit the barrow, and he didn’t want to dig up anything of Glaedr’s body, and he worried about why a dragon scale was needed to lure in Muckmaw. Why not something else equally large and shiny? Was there some quality to dragon scales that he was ignorant of? Or was Muckmaw drawn to arcane objects specifically? Either possibility was concerning.

He slowed as he came onto the path leading to the barrow. From there, he moved at a measured pace, another travel-weary pilgrim at the end of a long day of walking.

It wasn’t so far from the truth.

Around the barrow, he counted twelve people: all humans, five women, seven men. They were commoners, dressed in rough smocks, caps, and loosely gathered trousers. Most appeared to be farmers from the countryside or laborers from the city. Two of the women smelled of Gil’ead’s dock, and one of the men, a thin, bristle-haired fellow, wore a blacksmith’s leather apron.

Some knelt, some stood—lanterns in hand—and a low murmur of sad voices floated through the evening air. They were praying for the dead, Murtagh realized. Praying, pleading, or simply remembering.

The path continued up the side of the grass-draped barrow to the oak tree at its crest. Flagstones had been set into the soil to make the climb easier. By the tree, two more people knelt: women in shawls of black lace. From them came a soft keening.

Murtagh felt deeply uncomfortable. Merely being there seemed like an intrusion and an insult to their grief.

As he edged around the barrow to the shadow side, he came upon a standing stone planted by the base of the mound. It was as high as his waist, and two more of similar height stood in line. Rows of chiseled runes covered all three stones, along with patterns of decorative knots.

Curious, he paused and read.

His blood chilled. The first stone told the whole sorry story of the Dragon Riders, starting with their formation as a means to keep the peace between the different races of Alagaësia—which they had succeeded at for centuries—and following through to their destruction at the hands of Galbatorix, then a young, untested Rider who had turned against his order after losing his dragon and going mad with grief.

Murtagh’s stomach cramped as he scanned the lines. The Forsworn were mentioned, of course, and Morzan specifically.

The second stone recounted how Galbatorix had established the Empire following the defeat of the Riders and, with the Forsworn by his side, ruled as sovereign absolute over the greater part of humanity. Galbatorix the Deathless, the runes called him, as the king indeed had aged but little over the hundred years since, a remnant of his bond as Rider.

Murtagh wondered who had carved and placed the stones. Not the elves, for it was not their writing, but someone who knew of the true history of the land. That which Galbatorix had forbidden the common folks to share.

The third and final stone told of Oromis and Glaedr. How they had taught among the Riders. How they had been last surviving of all their order, hidden for the past century among the elves in Du Weldenvarden. And how they had died during the Varden’s rebellious war against the Empire, cut down at Gil’ead by the son of Morzan. Cut down by the betrayer, Murtagh.

He stood for a time, feeling as if he’d taken a blow to the chest. Then a nightjar swooped past with a soft brush of wings and a trill, and he started, as if waking from a reverie.

With slow steps, Murtagh moved past the stones and leaned on his staff. He stared at the ground, hood over his face, and did his best to look like the other mourners. In a way, it was the truth.

Forgive me, he thought. At the back of his mind, he could feel Thorn watching, and the dragon’s regret added to his own.

The ground beneath his boots was soft with scythed clover. He closed his eyes and let himself sway back and forth to match the keening from above.

If he tried to use magic to pull a scale straight out of the barrow, he’d be sure to trigger whatever protective magic lay within. The key, as ever, would be to accomplish what he wanted in an indirect, sideways manner. Such was the way to defeat wards. As Eragon had with Galbatorix…

He thought about it for some minutes. In the end, it was his thirst that gave him the answer. He looked for flaws in his logic and, finding no obvious ones, assembled the words he needed and murmured, “Reisa adurna fra undir, un ílf fïthren skul skulblaka flutningr skul eom edtha.”

And he fed a thin thread of energy into the ground beneath the barrow, searching for whatever water there was to find.

The idea was relatively simple. Instead of casting a spell directly on the barrow, he would use magic to push water up through the soil, and if the water touched a scale, it would carry the scale through the dirt to his hand. However, he would confine the motive energy for the water to an area deep underground so that no part of the strength he spent would directly affect the scale or anything else within the mound.

Whether that would be enough to circumvent whatever wards the elves had placed upon the tomb, he didn’t know.

We might have to make a hasty retreat, he thought.

As he stood there, concentrating on the trickle of his own strength draining into the depths of the earth, a shuffling footstep sounded nearby.

He glanced over. The bristle-haired blacksmith had for some forsaken reason moved over to join him.

Worse yet, the man began to talk. “I haven’t seen you here before, stranger. You’re not from thesewise parts, I take it?”

Murtagh struggled to split his attention between his spell and the blacksmith. For a moment, he nearly ended the magic, but he didn’t. Every attempt would increase the risk of discovery.

“No,” he said, keeping his face down.

“Ayuh. I thought as much,” said the man, satisfied. He rubbed his corded arms against the evening chill. “Iverston is m’ name. Iverston Varisson. Although everyone round th’ lake calls me Mallet, on account of, well, that’s a story that’d take a jug of cider to tell, if y’ follow. Were I to start, I’d be talking from now to sunup.”

Murtagh knew what was expected of him. “Tornac son of Tereth.”

Mallet peered at him with a somewhat concerned look. “You’re not an elf, are you? No…I see not. There’s someth’n elfish ’bout your face, though, if’n you don’t mind me saying.”

Murtagh did mind, but he held his tongue. The barrow was too large for him to bring up water underneath the whole thing; he had to start in one quarter and slowly work his way across.

Another pause, and Mallet rubbed his arms again while looking at the women at the crest of the mound. He gestured at them. “They’re always up there, y’ know? Sisters, come from the city. Lost their father during th’ battle. Their brother too, I think. Everyone here lost someone. Most of ’em, leastwise. Couple folks are just enamored with th’ idea of dragons.” He tapped his temple. “Something a bit crooked in their heads, I reckon. No offense intended, if’n that applies.”

“It doesn’t,” said Murtagh, keeping his voice low.

Mallet nodded wisely. “That’s good. Ain’t right t’ be worshipping a dragon, if’n you ask me…. I don’t come most nights, y’ know. Only when work at th’ forge is low. It’s been a few weeks since m’ last visit. Harvest time’s full up w’ pitchforks an’ shoeing an’ scythes an’ chains needin’ mending, an’ then there’s always nails t’ be making. Never enough nails in th’ world, you know?”

Murtagh nodded and made a noise as if he did. Still nothing from his spell, but he could feel the cold water oozing through the dark soil.

“Why…,” he said, and then stopped. Mallet stooped slightly, as if to look under the edge of Murtagh’s hood. “Why do they grieve here, if…if…” He wasn’t sure how to phrase the question in a diplomatic way.

He was relieved when Mallet picked up the thread. “If it were th’ dragon and th’ elves that killed those as they cared f’r?” His knobby shoulders lifted under his shift. “I couldn’t rightwise tell you f’r most. Might be they hated th’ Empire, and th’ death of th’ dragon and his Rider makes ’em feel right bad. ’Course might also be th’ Rider helped ’em during the battle. I know it to be th’ case with Neldrick over there. Buncha soldiers set fire to his farmhouse on their way t’ flank the elves. Th’ dragon came down and put out th’ fire with his wings, something like a storm or a force of nature is what I heard.”

The blacksmith crossed his arms and buried his chin in his chest. “Me? I ain’t got no story as epic as that. Nothing th’ bards would sing about, nothing like that. My son, y’ see, Ervos—we named him after his mother’s father—my eldest, my only son, he got it in his head a few summers back t’ join the Varden. Always was a headstrong boy, that one. Thought he’d do well ’cause of it, but…he ran off without telling us, and we didn’t hear nothing of him till the war was over. Couple of the Varden came by t’ tell us they’d fought with him on th’ Burning Plains. Th’ Burning Plains! Can you imagine?” Mallet shook his head. “Ain’t never seen anything like that, I can tell you. Whole wide swath of land that burns and burns forever. Crazy t’ think of…. Anyways, the men who came by were footsore and battle-weary. They’d been at Feinster and Ilirea after. Saw Roran Stronghammer fight, they said. And anyways, they said, well, they said Ervos had been with ’em when th’ Empire charged ’em, and, well…”

Mallet’s chest rose and fell several times. Then he stared up at the stars, and though Murtagh didn’t want to see, he looked over, and he caught the silvered glimmer of tears in the man’s eyes.

“It’s funny, y’ know,” said the blacksmith. “Y’ take all that time t’ feed and clothe a child. Take care of ’em. Keep ’em from killing themselves on every such thing. But y’ can’t protect ’em from themselves. Ervos…he wanted to belong t’ something bigger than himself, I think. He wanted a cause t’ believe in, t’ fight for, and there was no giving him that in a forge, y’ see…. He always was a headstrong boy.”

He shook his head. “Never even got t’ see his body. That’s the hardest part, would y’ believe. Can’t say goodbye proper without a body.” He gestured at the barrow. “So this’ll have to serve till a body shows, if ever it does.”

Murtagh’s mouth and throat were so dry, it was difficult to talk. He thought he knew the charge Mallet spoke of; he’d been the one to lead it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s the way of the world, and no sorrow will fix it, but thank y’ all the same, stranger.” Keeping his eyes fixed on the stars, the bristle-haired man said, “If’n you want, it can help t’ talk about such things. And if’n you’re not so inclined, that’s fine too, y’see.”

The shadowed privacy of the gloaming loosened Murtagh’s tongue, made him feel as if he could speak of subjects that normally were too painful to give voice. But he knew it was a false sense of anonymity, so he chose his words with care.

“I lost…I lost a friend. More like a father. Killed by Galbatorix’s men.”

“Ah now, that’s hard, and there’s no denying it.”

“Not as hard as others have it.”

Mallet looked down from the sky. “Well, far as I see it, there’s no putting a price on pain, if’n you follow. Everyone’s entitled to their own. Would be a strange thing t’ say that some pain is easier ’an others without knowin’ what it’s like in another’s shoes, if’n that makes sense.”

“It does.”

Mallet harrumphed and nodded, and then surprised Murtagh by patting him on the shoulder. “Y’ seem like a man who wants his space, so I’ll leave y’ to it, but if y’ change your mind, I’ll be over thatwise.”

And the blacksmith moved off around the base of the mound until he was a dark outline at the far side, leaving Murtagh standing alone in the shadow of the barrow.

Murtagh let out a small, choked laugh that was nearly a cry. Faint from distance, Thorn said in a carefully neutral tone, What a strange man.

Not really, said Murtagh.

He concentrated on his spell then, working the water through the ground with greater speed. So far, it didn’t seem to have triggered any protective spells.

Foot by careful foot, he pressed the water past stone and pebble, worked it into interstitial spaces, penetrated mud and clay and packed layers of ash—the mortal remains of the great dragon Glaedr. The dragon had been enormous by most standards. Smaller than Shruikan but still several times the size of Thorn or Saphira. And his pyre had left a thick stratum of incinerated muscle, organs, bones, and scales.

Murtagh wasn’t sure if any scales had survived. The fires elves made with their magic burned hotter than those of a forge.

But he kept searching. Every inch of progress felt like a transgression. He was not by nature weak of stomach—blood did not sicken him, nor did the gore and viscera of battle—but knowing that the tendrils of water were passing through what had once been the innards of a creature such as Thorn made Murtagh increasingly queasy.

He fervently wished to be quit of the task, and he cursed the werecat with what energy he could afford.

Then, just as he began to despair…there! A shift in the flow of water as it touched an object near the center of the barrow. A scale, he hoped. The water caressed the object, formed a pocket around it, and, gentle as a mother’s touch, drew it forth from the womb of the earth.

It was hardly an unlabored process. Rocks and bones blocked the way, and every few inches, an obstacle forced the water to divert. Each time, he struggled to return the scale to its intended course, and each time, he succeeded. That was, until the scale met an enormous stone that defied his every effort to bypass.

“Barzûl,” he swore. He couldn’t seem to find the edges of the stone; the scale kept getting caught on unseen ridges.

With no other option, he increased the flow of water, pushed more and more into the barrow until it softened the soil beneath the stone, turned it into a pool of mud.

Thin rivulets of water seeped out by his feet, and the belly of the barrow sagged slightly, as if to collapse.

“Hold,” he muttered, willing the mound to stand.

Within the ground, he felt the stone sink into the morass he’d created. The scale slid forward in a rush of pressure released, and he quickly reduced the amount of water to the bare minimum needed to keep the scale moving.

Like a mountain spring burst to life, a patch of dew welled from the surface of the grassy barrow, and then the soil parted. From within the dark interior a gleaming, golden scale emerged, bright as a faceted gem of topaz. In the dusk, the scale was a shield-shaped piece of evening sunlight, a condensed pool of illumination, still possessed of a sense of life and motion.

Wonderstruck, he ended his spell and took the palm-sized scale from the ground.

The instant his hand touched the scale, a foreign mind touched his, and a mental attack struck him with such strength, he staggered and clung to the staff in order to remain standing.

Murtagh reacted without thinking, old reflexes taking charge. He recoiled deep within himself, armoring his mind and focusing on the phrase he used to block out any other thoughts. “You shall not have me. You shall not have me. You shall not have me,” he muttered, over and over.

Despite his speed, he wasn’t fast enough. The other mind bore down upon him with implacable force. Whoever it was possessed incredible mental discipline and, it seemed, complete mastery of their emotions, for Murtagh felt nothing but fiercely controlled intent.

He tried to move, tried to drop the scale, but the invading consciousness held him in place through sheer overwhelming strength.

Murtagh assumed his assailant was an elf, one from Gil’ead set to guard the barrow. Normally a mental projection of such intensity required the magician to be relatively close. At least within half a mile. However, Murtagh guessed that the scale was somehow enchanted to act as a scrying mirror or a magnifier—a conduit between whoever touched it and the ones protecting the barrow.

Even so, time was short. It wouldn’t take an elf long to ride from Gil’ead to the barrow. Minutes, if that.

If Thorn were trying to help, Murtagh couldn’t tell. He hoped the dragon wouldn’t leave the hollow.

Between the words of his defensive chant, he again tried to move the hand touching the scale. Nothing.

“You shall not have me. You shall not have me.”

As determined and disciplined as the other mind was, Murtagh knew he was stronger. When it came to resolve, he could hold his own with the largest, oldest, and wisest creatures in Alagaësia. Galbatorix may have been able to break Murtagh’s defenses, but he had never broken his will—and that gave Murtagh courage that, no matter how dire the situation, his self would prevail.

Then from the intruding mind came a questing thought, in both the human tongue and in the ancient language: Who are you?

Alarm threatened to disrupt Murtagh’s focus. He couldn’t wait any longer. If his attacker learned his name…He had to find a way to disrupt the elf’s attention and slip away.

With his off hand, he fumbled at his belt until he found the hilt of his dagger. He drew it, and then—with grim-minded determination—stabbed his right forearm.

Not deeply. Not enough to cause major damage but enough to cause pain, and it was pain he wanted.

His face contorted with agony, and the dagger fell from his fingers. The unexpected spike of pain passed through his mind into the elf’s, and as Murtagh had hoped, it broke his attacker’s focus.

Freed from the immobilizing influence, Murtagh dropped the scale. As it left his hand, the mental contact vanished, and with it a sense of oppressive weight.

The reprieve would be short-lived.

Using the corner of his cloak as a protective mitten, he again picked up the scale. The layer of cloth was enough to avoid triggering whatever spell had been placed on it. He dropped the scale into the purse on his belt and then went to retrieve the dagger.

A few paces away, Mallet was watching, a look of horror on his face. The smith sputtered and pointed and said, “That’s…you’re…You’re no friend. Graverobber! Desecrator!” His voice rang out in the evening air, cutting through the lamentations of those around the barrow. The men and women turned, their expressions alarmed and hostile. Mallet was still shouting. “He took a scale of th’ dragon! I saw it! Thief! Graverobber!”

The smith swiped at him, trying to grab Murtagh with his long, hooked arms.

Murtagh spun and ran. He ran like a common thief, and he hated himself for it with every step.

I shouldn’t have told him my name was Tornac, he thought. The elves might know enough to realize who he was. And if not they, then perhaps the magician from Du Vrangr Gata.

A pulse of pain from his forearm caused him to look down as he sprinted across the landscape. A blot of blood had soaked through his sleeve, and his whole forearm was hard, knotted, as if cramped.

He pressed his left hand over the wound. “Waíse heill,” he growled. Be healed. It was a risky spell to cast without knowing the exact nature of the damage he was attempting to repair, but he trusted it wasn’t too much, and his guess proved correct. His arm burned and stung, and he felt lightheaded for a moment, enough to make him stumble a few steps. But the pain vanished and his muscles relaxed, and he was able to open and close his hand as before.

Losing the dagger hurt nearly as much as stabbing himself. He’d had the weapon since Galbatorix had armed him in Urû’baen, and it had served him well in the years after. Moreover, Murtagh had set spells on it—spells to strengthen it, to protect the sharpness of the edge, and to help it pierce the wards of other magicians.

I’ll have to get another one and start all over. It was a matter of practicality, if nothing else. He needed a knife for many of the tasks around camp.

He threw back his hood, slung his cloak over the crook of his left arm, and concentrated on running. Behind him, the angry shouts of the mourners faded into the night.

A bad start, Murtagh thought. But he couldn’t stop. Silna was still in danger, and there were answers to be had from Carabel.

Grim, he quickened his pace.

CHAPTER IV Fish Tales

Murtagh ran until the burning in his lungs forced him to slow to a quick walk. Then he ran again, then walked, then ran. In like fashion, he hurried back to the hollow where Thorn was waiting.

Always you stir people up, like a hill of ants. Thorn was crouched, tense and ready to take off from within the ring of willows and poplars.

“I know,” said Murtagh, leaning over with his hands on his knees. “It seems to be a bad habit.”

Will the elves find us here?

“I don’t know,” he said, straightening. “But I don’t think it’s safe to stay.” He went to the waterskin he’d left hanging on a branch by his bedding, unstoppered it, and drank his fill. The water was warm and somewhat stale, but it was a welcome treat after a day of thirst.

Thorn watched, unblinking. Let me see the scale.

Murtagh wiped his mouth. He tossed the empty skin onto his blankets, fetched his gloves, and then carefully removed the gleaming scale from his purse.

With an excited hum, Thorn crept forward until his nose nearly touched the topaz plate. The dragon’s hot breath created droplets of moisture on the scale, and they reflected its inner light in a dazzling display.

The stubbed end of Thorn’s tail slapped the ground. A crow rose cawing from the top of a poplar.

Murtagh studied the puckered white scar that marked where Glaedr had bitten off the last three feet of Thorn’s tail. His tail was a normal length now—Galbatorix had seen to that—but the healing had been a forced, imperfect thing. What had been lost could not be replaced, so instead the king had set spells on Thorn to stretch the bones and muscles left to him. It had taken Thorn weeks to relearn how to balance himself in flight.

Thorn let out a long breath. Glaedr was a worthy foe.

“Yes, he was,” said Murtagh.

He died as every dragon should: fighting on wing, in the sky.

“He’s not entirely dead.”

Thorn blinked. But he can no longer fly. He cannot move. He can only think. I would sooner crash myself into the side of a mountain than live like that.

“I know,” said Murtagh, soft. They had been fortunate Galbatorix hadn’t forced Thorn to disgorge his Eldunarí. Young as he was, Thorn would have ended up with a severe mismatch between the size of his mind and the size of his body.

After Murtagh wrapped the scale in cloth and carefully stowed it in a saddlebag, Thorn said, What now?

Murtagh checked the sky. The stars were fully out, and the horns of a crescent moon were peeking over the horizon. Perfect. Just dark enough to help conceal them from watching eyes, but not so dark they couldn’t see their work.

“Now,” he said, rolling up his blankets, “we go fishing.”

Murtagh let out a sound of frustration and slumped back in Thorn’s saddle.

An hour of flying around and across Isenstar Lake had proved fruitless. The lake was huge, and they had no idea where to look for Muckmaw. Moreover, it was impossible to see anything useful in the dark water, even with the help of the crescent moon, and Thorn didn’t dare fly too close to the surface, lest night fishermen spot them. Murtagh had used his mind to search for creatures in the water, but from high above and at speed, it was easy to overlook the cold thoughts of a fish. Especially if it were sleeping. In any case, he didn’t know what Muckmaw’s consciousness felt like.

They landed upon several sections of isolated shore and he dangled Glaedr’s scale in the still waters, hoping it would attract the fish’s attention, as Carabel had claimed. But the waters remained smooth and untroubled, and the hoots of sleepy loons echoing across Isenstar were the only sign of animal life.

Frustrated, they took to the air again.

This isn’t going to work, said Murtagh, using his mind so the sound of his voice wouldn’t carry over the moonlit water. We could spend days patrolling Isenstar and have nothing to show for it but flies in our teeth and elves on our tail.

Thorn gave an irritated shake of his head. It is a good night for hunting, but only if we know where to hunt.

Exactly…. Murtagh glanced back toward Gil’ead. A scattered constellation of lanterns and torches lit the city, forming a warm welcome in the darkness. If he were a fisherman, he thought the sight would have been comforting indeed. He tapped Thorn on the shoulder. Turn around. I have an idea.

Why do I have a feeling in my belly that your idea will be dangerous?

Because you can read my mind, that’s why. And it won’t be that dangerous. Not if I’m clever.

Try not to be too clever. Clever fails more often than simple.

Mmh.

At Murtagh’s direction, Thorn landed behind a small hill half a mile from the northeastern side of Gil’ead. Hopefully the elves wouldn’t be looking there. Surrounding the hill was a dense patchwork of cultivated fields: clover, wheat, and close-planted rows of various root vegetables.

Murtagh slid to the ground and took a moment to study the land. There was a farmhouse to the north, closer than he would have liked. “You’ll have to be careful. There could be dogs.”

I know how to hide, said Thorn, sounding vaguely offended.

He smiled. “Yes, you do. But listen, if I’m not back in a few hours, leave. Don’t wait for dawn. Farmers rise early, and if they see you—”

They’ll cause no more trouble than we’ve faced before. Thorn huffed, and white smoke billowed up from his muzzle.

“Let’s avoid it all the same.”

Squatting, Murtagh dug a handful of moist dirt out from under the grass and rubbed it into his hands and onto his face. He hated the feel of the grime, but it would help age him and make him look more like a commoner.

He had a sudden, intense sense of familiarity, as if he’d already lived this moment. In a way he had, he supposed. Before entering Gil’ead to help rescue Eragon, he’d done exactly the same.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

Thorn cocked his head. And what help is it knowing that?

“Not sure. Maybe we’ll learn to recognize the patterns, and we can avoid making the same mistakes twice.” He stood. “I’ll be back soon.”

And he set out at a steady trot, again heading toward Gil’ead.

Behind him, Thorn let out a concerned growl.

This time, Murtagh didn’t enter the city through a main road. Instead, he made his way to the lake and continued along the water until he arrived at Gil’ead’s outer docks. From there it was a simple matter to walk out on the strand, climb a muck-encrusted dock, and slip past a watchman preoccupied with his pipe.

The docks had a very different smell from those at Ceunon. Isenstar was a freshwater lake, and the absence of salt resulted in a cleaner, fresher scent. Even the odor of fish was more mild, inoffensive.

Murtagh skulked along the lakeside buildings—past sorting houses and storage barns and dry goods stores—searching for what he knew had to exist. But all of the taverns and common houses he found were already shuttered for the night, and dogs, not drunks, ambled across the packed dirt of the street, sniffing and snapping at one another in a desultory manner.

The patter of light footsteps passed behind him.

He turned fast, only to see the same two ragged urchins who had accosted him outside Gil’ead’s fortress. They held up their dirty hands, their faces pale and wide-eyed beneath their poorly cropped hair. “Please, master, sir,” they said in a pleading tone.

Murtagh frowned, his senses alert for an ambush. “What are you doing about at this time of night?”

The two glanced at each other with bright, impish expressions. They were brothers, he thought, only a year or two apart. The taller one said, “Oh, nothing much, sir. Just trying to find food.”

The shorter one piped up: “That’s right, sir. Food for our poor mum, that is.”

The brothers exchanged delighted glances again. Then, from both of them: “Please, master, sir.”

Trouble, that’s what you are, Murtagh thought. He eyed the length of dark street. A watchman appeared between a pair of buildings some distance away; the man’s lantern cast a key of yellow light across the street before he walked on and a corner cut off the glow.

Murtagh looked back at the two incorrigibles. He fished out a pair of coppers. The boys reached for them, and he lifted the coppers over their heads. “Ah-ah. Not so fast. Tell me first, are there any taverns still open at this ghastly hour?”

The boys bobbed their heads. “Oh yes! Several.”

“And where might I find the nearest?”

“Right down thataways, sir!” said the shorter one without the slightest hesitation, and he pointed along the lakeside buildings. “Right past th’ stables and to the left. The Rusty Anchor. You can’t miss it.”

Murtagh dropped the coins, and the boys caught them out of the air, fast as birds. “My thanks. Now off to bed with the both of you, and don’t let me catch you out here again.”

“Yessir! Thank you, sir!” they said, bowing and laughing. And then they ran off into the dark city, the shorter leading the taller.

Murtagh shook his head and continued in the direction they’d indicated.

The way was farther than he expected. He had nearly lost faith in the boys’ instructions when he spotted a battered old tavern with light in the windows at the western end of Gil’ead, where the buildings were low and shabby. True to its name, the Rusty Anchor had a ship’s anchor hung over the front door, along with a sign featuring a pair of beer mugs clinking together.

“The more things change…” Out of habit, Murtagh touched his belt to check on the position of his dagger. But, of course, it wasn’t there, only the empty sheath.

He scowled. He was running a risk going to a place like this unarmed. It was the sort of disreputable establishment where strangers often woke up the next day with a lump on their head and a purse empty of coin. If they were lucky enough to wake up at all. More than once, he’d heard about the sons of nobles who had gone out drinking in such establishments and ended up robbed, bruised, or worse.

Of course, now he was the sort of person that others needed to be afraid of. He couldn’t lie to himself: the thought wasn’t entirely unpleasant. After the past few years, Murtagh would settle for inspiring fear if it would keep him and Thorn safe.

He took a moment to set his mind and assume the needed persona. Then he moved forward with a rough stride and entered the tavern.

Unlike the Fulsome Feast in Ceunon, the Rusty Anchor was a dark, grim place that smelled of smoke, sweat, stale urine, and despair. The floor was a mess of muddy boards, and there were only a few bottles and cups on the shelf behind the bar. The barkeep himself sat in a corner, next to a cask of tapped beer, head against the wall, snoring loud enough to wake a dragon (and Murtagh knew exactly how loud that was).

The patrons of the establishment were a mix of fishermen, laborers, and several men who Murtagh guessed were either swords for hire or—if they didn’t get hired—footpads looking for their next object of prey.

He could feel them watching him as he made his way across the room. The barkeep woke the instant he placed coppers on the scarred wood counter.

“Beer,” said Murtagh. “Cheapest you’ve got.”

“Cheap is all we ’ave got,” said the barkeep, slowly getting to his feet. He had a pregnant paunch that stretched his apron as tight as a drum. He made the coppers disappear in his pudgy hands and gave Murtagh half a copper in return. Then he grabbed a mug that looked none too clean and filled it from the cask.

Murtagh eyed the beer. It was totally flat. He decided not to press the point and carried the mug to a table by the small stone hearth. The fire was almost dead, barely more than a bed of despondent coals.

As Murtagh settled into a chair, one of the hired swords—a short, bird-chested man with a nervous tic in his left eye—cleared his throat and said, “Yuh come in w’ one of th’ caravans?”

Murtagh nodded. “Straight from Ilirea. We got in two hours before dark, but it took this long to shift everything out of the wagons.”

A man with a dwarflike beard and a scar through his left eyebrow spoke up: “What news of the road?”

The beer had all the flavor of thinned barley water. Murtagh grimaced and put it back down. “The road is fine. Dusty, that’s for sure. We made do without anyone waylaying us, so I reckon the queen’s men are doing a good job of keeping order.”

The bird-chested man and his bearded companion exchanged a glance that seemed somewhat conspiratorial. Bird-chest said, “Were yuh working as protection for this said caravan?”

Murtagh nodded. “Didn’t even have to draw my sword none. Can’t complain with that.”

“Always a good day’s work when you don’t have to work,” said the bearded man.

“There’s a truth worth drinking to.” Murtagh raised his mug and took a quaff. Then he looked over at the fishermen in their cabled sweaters and woolen caps, which they kept on even indoors. “I heard tell there’s good fishing in Isenstar Lake.”

“Passable good,” said the near fisherman, keeping his gaze on his mug.

“One of the men I stood watch with wouldn’t shut his gob about it. Kept going on and on about the summer pike. That and the eels. Always the eels.”

“The eels is fine enough eating,” the fisherman allowed. “Long as you ain’t overcook ’em.”

Murtagh nodded, as if this confirmed what he’d heard. “Seeing as that’s the case, I might try my luck with a hook and line while I’m here. I used to be a dab hand at fishing.” He lifted his mug again and then shook his head and put it down. “Only…It’s a silly thing, and I’m dead sure this watchmate of mine was tozing me, but, well, he kept talking about how it was right dangerous to drop a line hereabouts. On account of some fish called Muckmaw. Said it was the biggest, meanest fish in the whole lake. I figured he was talking out his ear an’ it were all stuff and nonsense. Right has to be, no?”

The fishermen tensed, and one of them made a motion to ward off the evil eye and leaned over and spat on the floor. The spittle was dark green from a plug of cardus weed tucked in his cheek. “Blasted thing.”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. “So there’s something to it, then?”

“Maybe,” said the near man, surly.

“That sounds like a story worth telling.”

No one volunteered. The fishermen stared with sullen gazes at the fireplace, while bird-chest and dwarf-beard smirked at each other at the lack of response. The man who had spat pushed back his chair. “Horvath. Merrik. I’ll be off. Anra will be a-waiting.”

Murtagh raised a hand. “Barkeep. A round for everyone. My coin.”

The barkeep forced his eyes open and blinked, bleary. He nodded and shuffled off toward the cask.

After a moment’s hesitation, the fisherman settled back in his chair. “Suppose she can wait a mug longer,” he muttered.

They sat in silence while the barkeep filled the mugs and made his rounds to the tables. As Murtagh handed over the last of his coppers, bird-chest raised his mug in an appreciative gesture.

“Thanks, stranger,” said one of the fishermen. He had a scar on his forearm that reminded Murtagh of Essie. “Mighty kind of you.”

“Oreth son of Brock,” said Murtagh. He figured it wise to start using a name other than Tornac around Gil’ead.

The cardus chewer scratched the red stubble on his chin. “Muckmaw, eh? If you really want to know the truth of th’ matter, you’d best be talk’n to old Haugin, but he’s long since asleep if’n I know aught about him.”

“He’ll sleep th’ whole winter through,” said the scarred fisherman.

“Ain’t that right,” said cardus-chewer, nodding. “Can’t rightly blame him, though. He’s got three and seventy winters. A man’s due some sleep after that long working.”

Murtagh took another sip of the flat beer. “And what would he tell me about Muckmaw?” he asked, trying to hurry them along.

Cardus-chewer and his companions exchanged significant looks. “Well now, it’s a curious thing. Might be you think I’m whistling in the wind if I say the truth, but y’ asked, and since you paid the beer, you’ll get the tale, if’n you pardon the expression.”

Murtagh smiled. “Of course.”

“So. You have t’ understand what Muckmaw is afore I start.”

“Do tell.”

The scarred fisherman burst out: “He’s a right mean old bastard, is what he is. You see this mark on my arm? There is where he bit me four summers ago. Bastard. I’d like as to gut him and smoke him up for dinner one of these days.”

“We all would,” said cardus-chewer. The hired swords were listening intently now, eyes gleaming in the dull red light of the coals. “You see, Oreth, th’ blasted fish is near as long as one of our sailboats. A good ten paces from tip to butt, I’d reckon, and ’bout three paces ’cross the beam.”

Murtagh felt a frown forming between his brows as he listened. What didn’t Carabel tell me? “That’s…a big fish.” Even if they were exaggerating, Muckmaw was clearly enormous.

Cardus-chewer snorted. “You could say that. The blasted thing is nearabouts a small whale. It’s a sturgeon, see, or someth’n like a sturgeon. Armored plates th’ size of a buckler on its sides, razor spines along its back, big old barbels coming off its mouth. The mouth is what gave ’im his name. Muckmaw. He trawls th’ bottom of th’ lake, scooping up everything, feeding off it. Whenever he comes up, he has silt an’ mud streaming from his mouth, like smoke from a charcoal burner. He’s been lurking about Isenstar for the past sixty years. And it’s true, he’s mean. He fouls our lines and cuts our nets whenever he has th’ chance. We’ve seen him scoop up herons, cave in the sides of boats…. Not last year he knocked poor old Brennock right out of his skiff an’ thrashed him near to death with his tail.”

“Muckmaw’s tail, not Brennock’s,” the scarred fisherman clarified.

A bark of laughter escaped cardus-chewer. “Yah. Brennock wouldn’t know what to do with a tail even if he had one.”

Murtagh’s frown deepened. “Come now. You’re yanking my cap, aren’t you? You can’t expect me to believe—”

“Every word of it’s honest truth, swear on me ma’s grave,” said cardus-chewer.

As he spoke, Murtagh saw a pair of boys slip into the Rusty Anchor from the scullery: the two urchins from earlier. The brothers took up on the hearth and sat together, bent in close conversation. Here in the tavern, Murtagh noticed an undeniable resemblance to the bird-chested man. He snorted. I should have figured as much. He wondered what sort of arrangement the brothers and father had with the barkeep.

Putting it from his mind, he said, “Well…if that’s really how things stand, why hasn’t anyone caught or killed Muckmaw by now?”

Cardus-chewer leaned forward with his elbows on the table, eyes strangely bright. “The tale’s in the answering, so listen closelike, and don’t be doubting a word of it. Those sixty years ago, Haugin was ’bout ten summers old. As he tells it, he an’ two other boys were out fishing from th’ shore, couple miles north a’ here. It were him, Sharg Troutnose, and Nolf the Short. Both Sharg and Nolf are buried now, but they told th’ same story while they were ’round and kicking.”

He adjusted the plug of cardus in his cheek and downed a mouthful of beer. “Anyways—”

The third fisherman—a thin, gaunt-faced man who had been silent until then—said, “Tell him about the—”

“Aight. I’m getting to it!” said cardus-chewer, visibly annoyed. He rolled his shoulders, taking an extra moment before resuming. The gaunt-faced man glared. “Anyways, th’ boys were fishing, and they’d caught a couple of trout, couple of sturgeon, and they’d put ’em out on th’ shore. Only, instead of giving ’em a rap on the head to stop ’em from thrashing, they decided they’d sit and watch and see how long it took ’em to stop wiggling about and which one lasted longest. It weren’t right, but, well, you know how boys can be.”

Murtagh did. He stared into the depths of his beer.

“So there they are, sitting and watching th’ fish gasp on th’ rocks, and a man walks up from behind ’em. No horse, no ox, just walks on out of the wilds. Haugin says he were a strange-looking man. His hair were red, not red like my whiskers but proper red, like a cut ruby. An’ his teeth were sharp and pointed like cat teeth.”

A cold prickle crawled up the back of Murtagh’s neck as he listened. Durza. What had the spirit-possessed mage been doing in Gil’ead all those years ago? Carrying out some miserable, blood-soaked mission for Galbatorix, no doubt—or at least, so Murtagh assumed. Much of Durza’s history remained a mystery to him. Galbatorix had kept the existence of the Shade a secret from his court, and Murtagh had only learned of Durza during his travels with Eragon. Later, after the Twins had dragged him back to the capital and Thorn had hatched, Galbatorix had told Murtagh a few details about Durza’s service, but only a few.

In retrospect, Murtagh was astounded by his own ignorance. And by the stupidity of his overconfidence. He had truly believed he could defeat Durza in Gil’ead, without magic and without the enhanced strength and speed that came with being a Dragon Rider. Idiocy. Durza would have killed me before he realized who I was…. At least I managed to put an arrow between his eyes. Although even that hadn’t been enough to kill the Shade. Only a blade through the heart could do that, as Eragon had later proved in Tronjheim.

Cardus-chewer was still talking: “Soon as they see him, th’ kids jumped up, tried to go after th’ fish. They knew what they were doing weren’t right, you see. But the man tells them t’ hold, an’ he asks ’em what they’re about. So they lay it out, all shamefaced like. And Haugin says the man smiled then, and he sat down by ’em with his hand on th’ hilt of his sword and asks ’em to watch and wait, ’cause he’s curious too. Only it weren’t a real ask, if’n you follow, but more of an order. Leastways, that’s how Haugin tells it. So they sit, an’ they wait, and th’ fish go on gasping an’ flopping until they’ve had their last mortal breath. All but one of ’em.”

“Let me guess,” said Murtagh. “A sturgeon.”

By the hearth, the brothers laughed as they played a game of jacks with colored pebbles.

“Or something as like a sturgeon,” said cardus-chewer. He nodded sagely. “An’ here’s where it goes strange. The man, he picks up th’ fish, and he says words over it, only not in any tongue as makes sense. Old Haugin, he swears on his mam’s grave, swears, that he could feel the words in his bones, an’ Sharg and Nolf always accounted the same.”

“Magic,” said the scarred fisherman.

“Aye, magic. So the red-haired devil says his piece, and then he tosses the fish back in th’ lake, and he tells Haugin an’ Sharg an’ Nolf, he tells ’em that since they were wanting to know which fish was the strongest, it were only fair to reward th’ survivor. An’ he tells ’em that since they were such naughty, naughty boys, they’d have the fish afflicting ’em and tormenting ’em for th’ rest of their days. Then he walked off into th’ brush, an’ from that day since, th’ fish has been a terror to us all.”

The scarred fisherman poked cardus-chewer in the shoulder. “Tell him the rest.”

“I’m a-gettin’ to it! A tale has to be done proper…. Anyways, Muckmaw grows into his fearsome self, and once folks round here took notice, we tried t’ kill him, Oreth. Oh, we tried. But ’tweren’t no good. Hooks won’t set in his mouth, y’see, an’ spears just a-skate off th’ side of his armored plates, an’ arrows—”

“Arrows bounce right off him,” said the scarred fisherman.

Cardus-chewer scowled at him for a second. “Aye. An’ the blasted fish is too smart t’ catch in nets or weirs. Before th’ war, Lord Ulreth set a bounty on Muckmaw. Two whole gold coins. An’ our current lord, Lord Relgin, increased th’ bounty to four gold coins, if’n you can believe it. Four! That an’ you get a chance to join the guards if’n you’re so inclined.” Cardus-chewer shook his head. “Won’t do no good, though. Muckmaw is a curse on our lake, a punishment for mistreating th’ fish, and that’s th’ truth of it.”

Murtagh silently swore at Carabel for not telling him the full story. Catching and killing Muckmaw was going to be far more involved than he’d first thought.

“Why haven’t you found a spellcaster to kill the fish for you?” he asked.

The scarred fisherman snorted. “What? Them of th’ Du Vrangr Gata? They’ve no time for our concerns. An’ Frithva, th’ hedge-witch down th’ way, wouldn’t be much help. Y’ need a wart taken off or a compress for a boil, she’ll fix you up just fine. But an enchanted fish set on murdering you? No, sir. For that y’ need an elf or a Rider.”

“An’ they’re all busy elsewhere,” said cardus-chewer sadly.

“Be glad of it,” replied his friend. “Their kind only cause rack and ruin.”

Cardus-chewer shrugged and drained the last of his beer. “An’ now y’ know th’ truth about Muckmaw. Believe what y’ want, Oreth, but we’ll swear to every word.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Now I’d best be off. Anra’s waiting for me, and she’ll not be pleased I tarried so late.”

Murtagh raised a hand in a casual, careless gesture. “My thanks for the story. I’ll admit, it seems unlikely, but I’ve heard stranger things on the road. If a man wanted to avoid getting eaten by Muckmaw, where ought he not go fishing?”

The scarred fisherman snorted. “As if. Th’ whole lake is his hunting ground. Wher’er you go, y’ have to watch, lest he chomp you.”

Cardus-chewer said, “That’s not quite th’ whole of it, and you know it, Horvath. There’s a marshy area just west of here, along th’ shore, nearwise where th’ elves cleared out th’ last of Galbatorix’s soldiers. It goes from cattails to water weeds, an’ there are rocks large enough for Muckmaw t’ lurk beneath. Most times he’s somewhere in the vicinity during mornings an’ evenings.”

“Much obliged,” said Murtagh.

The fisherman nodded. “You’re still a young man. Wouldn’t want t’ see ol’ Rove measuring for your coffin ’cause you tangled with Muckmaw, if’n you take my meaning.”

And with that, he left.

Murtagh stayed to finish his mug of beer. It would have been odd if he hadn’t. While he sat and drank and thought about what he’d heard, bird-chest and his bearded friend bent together in close conversation. Then the hired swords slipped out of their chairs and quietly departed the tavern, keeping behind him the whole time.

He pretended not to notice. And he hoped his suspicions were misplaced.

By the fire, the two boys were beginning to appear sleepy, though they were still laughing and playing. The taller had won the last three games of jacks, and the shorter was arguing the fairness of his pebble snatching.

Murtagh put down his mug and went to the fireplace. The boys gave him a furtive look and then pretended to ignore him. He held out his hands, as if to warm them, and then checked to see if the barkeep had fallen back asleep.

The man slumped limp against the cask, his head lolled to one side on a boneless neck.

Good. As Murtagh turned to leave, he used his cloak as cover to pilfer a length of split pine from the woodbox next to the fireplace. With the pine hidden against his side, he left the tavern.

The night air was a fresh respite after the stuffy interior. He stood a moment and enjoyed a view of the stars while he cleared his lungs.

He kept a firm grip on the hidden piece of wood as he started down the dark docks. Carefully, ever so carefully, he allowed his mind to open and spread out, feeling for the touch of other people’s thoughts.

He noticed the two men just as they charged: one coming at him from the front, and the other out of an alley to his right. Bird-chest and his bearded friend, clubs in hand.

Murtagh hitched his step, throwing off the timing of his stride, ducked sideways, and drove his shoulder into the chest and stomach of the bearded man. The footpad’s breath left him with a whoof as Murtagh knocked him against the wall of the near building, a dry goods store with shuttered display windows.

Without waiting to see what happened to the man, Murtagh spun around and, with the length of pine, knocked aside bird-chest’s club and struck him on the collarbone.

The thin man collapsed with a gurgle and a clatter of jarred teeth.

The bearded man was still moving; he’d gotten onto his hands and knees and was struggling to stand.

A quick forward step, and Murtagh rapped him near the back of his skull. A rabbit blow, but not hard enough to kill.

“Ahh!” cried the bearded man, and he curled up, covering the back of his neck and head with his hands.

Murtagh paused for a moment to check for more enemies. Finding none, he looked back at the two unfortunate would-be thieves.

His teeth drew back in a snarl, his blood molten in his veins. He strode back to bird-chest and kicked him in the side. And again. And again. A shout of rage and frustration burst forth from him as he swung his leg.

One or more ribs cracked against his shin.

He knelt and grabbed the man by the hair. Bird-chest’s eyes rolled, and red bubbles popped at the corners of his mouth. His lips moved in a mute attempt to plead for mercy.

“Be a better father,” Murtagh growled. “Or next time, I’ll beat you worse than this, you worthless sack of filth.”

The man groaned as Murtagh dropped his head.

A purse on bird-chest’s belt caught his eye. He grabbed it, as well as the man’s dagger. It wasn’t a particularly nice dagger, but the blade appeared sound enough, so Murtagh transferred the weapon into his empty sheath.

“Da!”

The cry sent a chill through Murtagh. He looked up to see the two urchins standing by the door of the tavern, anger and fright on their dirty faces.

“Get away from him!” the smaller one shouted, and threw a handful of pebbles. Several bounced off Murtagh’s shoulders.

He stood. “Your father needs your help. See to him.” Then he hurried away.

Halfway up the docks, with the tavern well out of sight, Murtagh’s gut clenched and his heart seemed to flutter. He half stumbled before his stomach relaxed and his pulse resumed its usual pace. He swore.

He almost wished he’d killed the man. The children might have been better off because of it. Or maybe not. It was impossible to know. All he could be certain of was that he hated the man and his brutish stupidity.

He quickly made his way out of the city and hurried back across the dark land toward where Thorn was waiting. Once he was no longer concerned about any watching minds, he reached out to Thorn and told him what he’d learned.

Thorn’s first comment was, Can you go anywhere without getting into a fight?

Doesn’t seem like it. It wasn’t my fault, though.

Is it ever?

Sometimes. Anyway, we’d best find Muckmaw, and then I can go open the door that’s always closed. If anyone of note is listening to the rumors and gossip around the city, they might realize something is amiss and start looking for us.

What about the fish?

Murtagh hopped a slat fence as he continued across a field toward Thorn’s hiding place. I can break the wards Durza placed on Muckmaw. That won’t be a problem. For that matter, I’m sure you could bite right through its protective spells. The idea seemed to please Thorn. We just have to find the fish.

Then let’s go find it!

As soon as I get there. I’m not— Before he could finish, Murtagh felt a surge of motion and excitement from Thorn as the dragon took flight. No, wait!

CHAPTER V Muckmaw

Murtagh’s cry was too late. Ahead of him, he saw the dim sparkle of Thorn’s shape rise above the hill where they’d landed, and he heard the dull thud of the dragon’s wings.

“Blast it,” he muttered between clenched teeth. He quickly read the lay of the land and then sprinted toward a flat patch of wheat stubble a few hundred feet away.

He arrived just as Thorn drifted down from above. The gust of wind from the dragon’s velvet wings staggered Murtagh, forced him to spread his feet and brace himself against the press of air.

“Did you have to?” he said.

An amused sparkle lit Thorn’s eyes. No, but I wanted to.

“Gah. Let’s get out of here before someone notices.” He scrambled up Thorn’s side, the dragon’s scales sharp against his palms.

He grabbed the neck spike in front of the saddle and held on tight—not bothering to strap down his legs—as Thorn took off.

The crescent moon was near the top of the sky as Thorn sailed over the southern edge of Isenstar Lake, looking for the marshy area the fisherman had mentioned. Murtagh considered casting the spell he normally used to hide Thorn from people on the ground but decided against it. No boats lay on the dark water below, and he wanted to save his strength.

He thought as they flew, and the more he thought, the more uneasy he felt.

What’s wrong? Thorn asked.

I’m worried that Durza might have done something unreasonably clever with Muckmaw.

How so?

Spells take energy, yes? And that energy has to come from somewhere. Durza couldn’t sustain the wards he set on the fish when he wasn’t here. So the energy has to come from Muckmaw.

Where is the problem in that?

Murtagh shrugged, feeling an itch between his shoulder blades. Maybe there isn’t one. Only, when Muckmaw was small, how could it have maintained wards strong enough to deflect spears and swords and the like?

For a moment, the only sound was the sweep of Thorn’s wings. Perhaps no one tried to kill the fish until it was bigger.

Maybe.

…Do you think Durza used the same spell to grow Muckmaw that Galbatorix used on me?

A sudden tiredness came over Murtagh. Remembering the past always left him feeling old and sad. There’s no way to know, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

Mmh.

They flew in silence until a patch of bright-tipped reeds appeared along the shore: the tops of the cattails catching the moon and starlight.

Thorn descended on silent wings and landed on a wide slab of slate that hung over the edge of the lake. Murtagh slid to the stone and looked across the silvered water. In other circumstances, he would have found the sight beautiful, but knowing that a creature such as Muckmaw lurked beneath the surface gave it a dread feeling—the water a great, dark unknown.

Murtagh shivered and rubbed his hands. His breath showed in a pale plume.

From the saddlebags, he fetched the bow Galbatorix had given him. Murtagh hooked the nocked end of one limb behind his right ankle and, with effort, bent the bow until he could slide the string’s loop over the tip of the other end.

He checked the alignment of the string and, satisfied, slung his quiver over his shoulder.

The bow was made of dark yew bound with magic. Most men, and perhaps even some Urgals, would have found it too strong to draw. The white-fletched arrows were appropriately heavy and crafted of solid oak, for any lighter, weaker material would have shattered when the string was released. And as with his lost dagger, Murtagh had set spells on the arrows: spells to make them easier to find should he miss his mark, spells to help them buck the wind, and spells to help them drive deep into their target, no matter what protection, arcane or otherwise, guarded it.

Also from the saddlebags, he dug out Glaedr’s golden scale—still in its protective wrapping of cloth—as well as a skein of cord. With deft fingers, he tied a foursquare knot, the strands of which he kept loose and open and laid out on the ground like an iron bear trap. Then he donned his gloves and removed the scale from the cloth.

Even by the marble light of the moon, the scale glowed with an inner flame, as if part of Glaedr’s fire yet flickered within its faceted depths.

Murtagh placed it in the center of the foursquare knot and pulled tight the strands until they locked the scale into place.

Satisfied that it was secure, he removed his gloves. “Right, let’s find this fish,” he muttered, and walked to the end of the slate. He spun the scale about his head and let the cord play out of his hand a fair extent. Then he loosed the scale out over the water. It landed with a splash that echoed along the shore and sent up a fountain of droplets before sinking from sight like a dying ember extinguished in the depths of the abyss.

“Maybe I should have tied a log as a float.”

I can get one, said Thorn, settling on his haunches.

“Let’s wait a bit first. Here, hold this.”

Thorn obliged by lifting his left forefoot, and Murtagh looped the loose end of the cord around the dragon’s middle toe. Then Thorn made a fist of his foot and secured what remained of the skein.

“Give it a tug on occasion.” Murtagh fit an arrow to bowstring. All of the fishing he’d done during their travels had been with the aid of magic, and never for anything larger than a trout, so he wondered about how best to attract the beast.

He stared into the inky mass of the lake and pushed out with his thoughts. This far from Gil’ead, he didn’t worry about being noticed by another spellcaster and so used the full force of his mind.

He closed his eyes to better concentrate on what he felt.

Behind his eyes, darkness reigned. But then he looked to the side, and Thorn appeared as a burning blaze of heat and life, a radiant star amid the void.

In the lake, he beheld many lesser stars, tiny spots of warmth that marked the location of a myriad of different creatures. Fish floating in safe crevices and by the base of swaying water weeds, resting the night away. Eels burrowed into the lakebed mud—their minds faint and indistinct, dominated by the baser instincts: cold, hunger, fatigue. Fainter still were the hundreds, if not thousands, of insects that swarmed the water, darting about, or else resting beneath rocks and sticks or cocooned in shells. And Murtagh felt sure that if his inner eye were sharper still, he would continue to see the life force of smaller and smaller creatures until he came to the smallest iota of matter.

But among the many animals he sensed, and even among the barely perceptible warmth of the water weeds and other lake-born plants, there was no creature big enough to be Muckmaw. Not even close.

He let out his breath in frustration and exchanged mental sight for physical. The tips of the low waves were like chips of metal across the lake.

“Nothing,” he said to Thorn. “There isn’t even a hint of something…. Pull in the scale. We’ll have to try another spot.” He turned back to the dragon, discouraged. “Blast it. This is going to take days, and we don’t have—”

Look! Thorn nudged him with his nose, pointing toward the lake.

Murtagh spun about, lifting his bow.

Fifty-some feet from shore, the water swelled, thinning and smoothing as it went, like a wave passing over a capsized boat. A huge, bulbous mass pressed the water upward, and in the shadow beneath, Murtagh caught a hint of white-rimmed eyes as large as his fist rolling in their sockets.

Then the swell subsided, leaving only a trail of ripples behind.

“I swear, I didn’t feel anything,” said Murtagh, tracking the ripples. It’s huge! Cardus-chewer’s description had failed to adequately convey the true size of the fish. Muckmaw was bigger than a cave bear, bigger even than a three-month-old dragon (if one ignored the wings).

Murtagh marshaled his mental resources and then stabbed outward with his thoughts, aiming to locate and immobilize the gigantic animal, even as the elf had immobilized him at the barrow.

“I still don’t feel anything,” he whispered. “Thorn, can you—”

A faint growl escaped the dragon. It’s like claws on ice. I can’t catch hold.

Murtagh swore under his breath. “I’m going to have words with that werecat,” he said, scanning the now-seamless lake.

Durza must have hidden Muckmaw’s mind, said Thorn.

“A pretty trick too. I’m not even sure how I’d go about doing that…. Try drawing in the scale. Let’s see if that gets his attention.”

Thorn obliged with some difficulty. The toes on his forefoot were too large for nimble work, and yet he managed to twist and tangle the cord about his limb enough to shorten the line yard by yard.

A new ripple, proud and wide, appeared, moving crosswise to the prevailing current, heading toward where Murtagh guessed Glaedr’s scale was. There. It was a long shot, especially when firing into water, but Murtagh decided to chance it. In a single smooth motion, he pressed the bow away while pulling the string to the corner of his jaw and—without hesitation—released.

The arrow whirred as it flew, and he sent with it a killing word spoken with fatal intent.

Droplets shot up as the arrow hit the lake just ahead of the ripples.

And then…

…the ripples smoothed and subsided, and from the spell he’d cast, Murtagh felt no drain of energy.

He’d missed.

He bit back a curse and nocked another arrow, fast as he could.

“Here, fishy, fishy,” he muttered, sweeping his gaze across the lake. He squinted. Was that movement to the right? The water was too dark to be sure.

“Brisingr,” he whispered, and released the energy in a carefully measured trickle, so as to create a dim orb of red fire in front of him. It hung over the water like a minor sun, just bright enough to allow him to clearly see the heaving hide of the lake.

He hoped the light might help tempt the fish closer.

Thorn continued to pull in the cord. Glaedr’s scale was nearly to them. Murtagh could make out a golden shimmer beneath the waves, rising toward the surface.

He opened his mouth to suggest that Thorn try jiggling the line.

A great mass raced upward from beneath the scale, and blackness yawned around Glaedr’s jeweled remnant, and hideously wide jaws clamped shut, disappearing it from view.

Thorn yanked on the cord. The line snapped with a wirelike twang.

Murtagh drew and loosed in a single motion, and with it, he cried the killing word.

A line of white bubbles traced the arrow’s downward path. It was a good shot. The shaft hit somewhere on Muckmaw’s yard-wide head. Murtagh saw, felt, and heard the impact.

The arrow glanced to the side and disappeared into the waves of Isenstar. Again, Murtagh felt no decrease in strength from his spell.

Then Muckmaw’s bulk sank from sight, as a hulled derelict descending to its final resting place, and no hint of his pale-rimmed eyes remained. Nor of Glaedr’s scale.

Murtagh lowered his bow. Nocking another arrow would be pointless. He cursed.

Beside him, Thorn shook the slack remnants of the cord off his forefoot. The fish is formidable.

“If we lose him, I swear, I’ll drain the whole blasted—”

A V-shape of ripples formed off to the right, maybe seventy feet from shore. The ripples traced a curve about the tongue of slate he and Thorn stood on.

Thorn shifted slightly, gaze intent on the disturbance. He has not fled.

“No.”

He is playing with us.

“How intelligent can he be?”

The ripples faded.

Thorn’s glittering eyes turned on him for a moment. Cunning enough to hunt a man.

Cold concern congealed at the back of Murtagh’s skull. Thorn was right. Most animals—most fish—would have fled after being attacked. But then, Muckmaw wasn’t like most fish. That was the entire problem.

Murtagh set his jaw, determined. No fish was going to best him, regardless of its enchantments. He slipped his bow into his quiver, along with the arrows. The time for physical weapons had passed.

“All wards have a limit,” he said. “Let’s find the limits of this one. I’ll need some of your strength, though.”

Thorn’s maw split to show his curved teeth. What’s mine is yours.

Murtagh matched his grin. Then he returned his focus to the water. The scarred fisherman had spoken the truth: killing Muckmaw was a task for an elf or a Rider. Few others would be equal to the challenge. And by disposing of the fish, they could do some good for the common folk of Gil’ead, while also furthering their own interests. It was a gratifying combination.

Crouching, Murtagh felt around until he found a piece of loose slate. He cocked his arm and tossed the slate a few yards out into the near waters. Far enough that Muckmaw might feel safe, but close enough that Murtagh would have a clear line of sight.

A string of pearlescent bubbles appeared, rising toward the surface. He tensed, keeping firm the connection between his mind and Thorn’s.

Another swell of water formed, not thirty feet away.

Murtagh focused on an area just beneath the surface, pointed, and spoke the Word, the Name of Names.

Along with the Word, he added a phrase intended to strip away the magics bound to Muckmaw, to break and end the enchantments Durza had placed on the fish more than half a century ago. Although the Word granted him complete control over the ancient language, he still found it helpful—and often necessary—to explicitly state the desired outcome.

He released the spell and, as with most uses of the Word, felt only the slightest decrease of energy. But it was enough to know the spell had taken effect. Altering existing magic by reason of the Name of Names required little in the way of brute strength. It was a subtle art more akin to adjusting the weave of a tapestry than shattering a piece of pottery.

“Got you,” he muttered. Then: “Kverst!”

The word parted the swell of water as neatly as cloth cut by a razor. Underneath, Murtagh glimpsed a ridge of bladed spines and, spread to either side, a broad, humped back covered with a layer of blue-black scales glistening in the silvery light. But the spell did nothing more, and Muckmaw again dove from view.

“What?!” Murtagh’s astonishment shaded into outrage. He drove a spear of thought toward the fish…only to strike emptiness and absence. “How?” The spell had worked. He’d felt it! And yet somehow Muckmaw remained unharmed.

Again he spoke the Word, and again he sought to break the magic bound to Muckmaw, and again it felt as if he’d succeeded. But when he sent another killing spell into the water, it passed ineffectively around the overgrown sturgeon.

He tried twice more—growing increasingly frustrated—and met with the same results.

How was it done? Thorn asked. Wordless magic?

Murtagh shook his head. “It can’t be. The spell did what it was supposed to. I’m sure of it. It’s just…” Counting Sarros, this made two times now that the Name of Names had failed him. It was not, he was coming to realize, the all-powerful weapon he had originally thought. That, and he had far less of an understanding of magic than he’d hoped.

He squatted on his hams and chewed on the inside of his cheek while he studied the lake. Then he laughed, quick and soft. “You clever bastard.” He looked at Thorn. “I don’t know if this is the answer, but one way it could be done would be to word a spell so that if anything changes or removes it, the spell replaces itself. If this, then that.” Not so dissimilar from the spells he’d experimented with during their trip to Gil’ead.

Can you use the Name of Names to stop the spell from returning?

“Maybe. Probably. But I’d have to think on it.”

Then think on it.

An itch formed on his right palm. He scratched. “I don’t know. It might be faster to just—” His scalp prickled, and his nostrils flared as fear jolted through him. My hand! He spun toward Thorn, saying, “We have to go. Get us into the—”

A splash sounded to his right and—

—he turned to see a huge, glistening mass hurtling toward him from the water. He barely had time to register a sense of disbelief before the giant fish slammed into him and he, and it, fell into the lake.

CHAPTER VI Heave and Toil

The cold water closed around Murtagh in a deadly embrace. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, didn’t know which direction was up.

The impact had knocked the quiver off his back. His cloak tangled his arms and legs, making it impossible to swim.

Even through the tumult of water, he heard Thorn roaring, and a wash of red dragonfire lit the depths of the lake from above, wherever above was.

He ripped off the brooch that held his cloak clasped around his neck and kicked and punched heavy fabric away. Ribbons of white bubbles flowed sideways past his face. Up!

With a swing of his arms, he righted himself and swam toward the surface. His werelight had vanished, but floating on the choppy laketop, he saw the shape of his bow, a bright-burning crescent.

A warning instinct caused him to glance around.

From the murky depths of the lake rose Muckmaw, silt streaming from the corners of his enormous, shovel-shaped mouth: an ancient monster made of stone scales, sharpened ridges, and hateful malice.

Murtagh raised his right hand, the one with his gedwëy ignasia, and prepared to cast a spell by thinking the word. Even if he couldn’t directly affect the fish with magic, he could still shield himself or else attack the beast with water or flame or other means.

Before he could, the monster wriggled forward with shocking speed, moving faster than any creature Murtagh had seen before, even Thorn.

The fish’s mouth closed about his right arm, and he felt the bony plates within its maw grinding against his skin. Then the creature began to thrash and roll, dragging him through the water.

Murtagh’s head snapped from side to side. Yellow stars flashed before his eyes, and he had to fight not to let out all his air.

His wards kept the fish from ripping off his arm. But they didn’t do much more. They couldn’t. He’d never thought to restrict his own movement.

He glimpsed Thorn’s head and neck sticking under the water, like an enormous serpent. And he saw one of Thorn’s forelegs reaching toward him, claws extended.

Then Muckmaw dove deeper, spiraling as he went. Murtagh felt himself slam into the bottom, and a cloud of impenetrable mud billowed up around them. He tried to focus well enough to cast a spell, but the fish wasn’t giving him the chance.

Muckmaw dragged him across the freezing lakebed. His back, left arm, and legs banged into rocks, and the impacts left his skin numb.

Murtagh’s lungs burned, and he felt his wards sapping his energy at an alarming rate.

He groped for the dagger he’d taken off bird-chest. His fingers brushed the hilt of the weapon, and then it tumbled away, knocked loose by Muckmaw’s violent thrashing.

Desperate, Murtagh flailed, trying to catch hold of something—anything—he could use as a weapon.

A few seemingly endless moments of fumbling and then…

…his hand closed around a long, hard object that felt more like a rod of iron than a piece of wood.

He grabbed it and yanked it free from the sucking mud and stabbed it toward Muckmaw’s broad head. Kverst! he cried in his mind.

A bolt of static seemed to run up his arm along with the shock of impact, and he felt himself grow faint as the spell consumed what little remained of his energy. Then new strength filled him as Thorn joined his effort, sustaining him as the spell’s demands increased beyond reason.

A brief flash of light emanated from the point where the rod pressed against Muckmaw’s brow, and then Murtagh felt the object sink through flesh and bone, deep into the fish’s armored braincase.

The fish convulsed and released Murtagh’s arm. Before Murtagh could swim out of range, Muckmaw’s enormous tail slapped him broadside and all went black.

Murtagh regained awareness with a panicked start. How long had he been unconscious? It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Muckmaw was still twisting and thrashing perhaps twenty feet away.

Fire filled Murtagh’s lungs and veins. He was going to burst or pass out if he didn’t get air, but he refused to open his mouth. If he inhaled water, he’d have no chance of reaching the surface.

He kicked and clawed upward.

Another wash of red dragonfire illuminated the interior of the lake, and for a moment, Murtagh lost all sense of time or place. Thick ropes of water weed rose like great floating vines around him, swaying softly through the teal water. Billows of mud drifted from the track Muckmaw had gouged across the lakebed, and a mesh of shadows flickered and wavered throughout. And rising from the morass of mud and slime, like sun-bleached branches stripped of bark, was a forest of bones: arms and legs and hands hooked in claws of anguish. Bracers and cuffs and tattered garments hung from some, and scraps of tendons and withered muscle. Hundreds of dead, consigned to the deep, consumed by the fishes and insects and lesions of green mosslike growths. A battalion’s worth of shields, swords, and spears lay scattered among them, the wood soft and decayed, the steel plated black with rust.

Murtagh stared with horror. Then instinct jolted him back to reality, and he tore at the water with his hands and scissored his legs until—

His face breached the surface. Air struck his skin, and he gasped, unable to empty and fill his lungs fast enough. His vision went red and dark around the edges, and he again sank under the water.

Then a rough, pointed object slid under his back and arms, lifting him. He rolled over and clung to Thorn’s head with all his strength.

I have you, Thorn said.

Murtagh hacked and coughed, unable to answer, but he held Thorn even tighter.

They were over a hundred feet from the shore; the dragon lay in the water, most of his bulk hidden beneath the surface, only the spikes along his spine and the tips of his folded wings showing.

I could not reach you any faster, said Thorn.

“I know,” said Murtagh, still coughing. “It’s all right.”

I would have rescued you and killed Muckmaw no matter what.

He hugged Thorn again and then turned to look over the lake. “You don’t have to convince me…. I didn’t think I could hate Durza any more.”

What other evils has he left in Alagaësia?

The question gave Murtagh pause. “I wish I knew.”

A roiling disturbance in the water twenty feet away caused both of them to tense, and Murtagh started to climb onto Thorn’s back.

Then Muckmaw bobbed to the surface and rolled belly-up, his entire length limp.

Murtagh swore and brushed his wet hair out of his eyes. His heart was still pounding, and he felt ready to leap back into battle.

“Hold on. There’s something I have to check.” He pushed off from Thorn, set out paddling, and swam to Muckmaw’s enormous corpse. Thorn followed at a slower pace, slithering through the water with sinuous ease.

Murtagh pulled himself around Muckmaw to the creature’s head. Sticking out of the overgrown sturgeon’s skull was—as he’d thought—a length of broken bone. A human thigh bone, by the look of it.

Murtagh’s mind returned to the butchery that lay submerged beneath them, and a disturbing suspicion formed within him. The sheer number of corpses made absurd the idea that they could be Muckmaw’s victims and his alone. No one would have endured the presence of such a monster. The amount of slaughter—even spread across the past sixty years—would have driven the common folk from the lake and sent word of Muckmaw throughout the land until others more fearsome still came hunting the murderous fish.

He glanced at Thorn. “I’ll be right back. Brisingr!” Again he set a werelight burning in front of himself, only this one was blue white and brighter than before.

Then he took a deep breath and again dove under. The water bubbled and steamed around the ball of fire, but the glowing ball of gas still provided enough light for him to see.

Down he swam into the freezing depths, down and down until the field of crusted skeletons came into view. In the seething illumination of his werelight, the bones seemed to shift and stir with unnatural life, as marionettes badly puppeted and desperate to escape their casement of decay.

He kicked himself to the nearest skeleton and dug through the mud and silt covering the torso. The muck was cold as despair. His fingers found a tattered scrap of leather, and he pulled it free, held it up. Suspicion solidified into certainty. As he had feared, there was embossed on the leather the standard of Galbatorix’s infantry.

Murtagh took one last look over the watery boneyard where so many of the Empire’s soldiers lay. The weird and grotesque desolation made his heart hurt to see.

Then he pushed off and again ascended.

With a burst of spray, he broke free of the water. He gasped and clung gratefully to Thorn when the dragon swam over to him.

What is it?

Murtagh swore and banged his forehead several times against Thorn’s hard scales. The water was a frigid blanket around him, heavy and constraining.

“They’re down there,” he mumbled. He kept his brow pressed against Thorn’s neck. “Blast it. They’re all down there.”

Thorn’s alarm increased. Who?

When Murtagh shared what he’d seen, Thorn’s sorrow joined his own. “The elves must have driven them into the water. They never stood a chance.” The last he’d seen of Galbatorix’s battalions, the squares of men had been huddled together upon the smoke-shrouded plains outside Gil’ead while the ranks of tall elves marched upon them with inexorable force.

In a gentle tone, the dragon said, It is unfortunate, but their deaths are not our responsibility.

“They are. If Galbatorix had let us stay, we could have—”

The elves would have killed us. Even with Yngmar’s strength at our disposal, we could not have withstood their combined might.

“We should have at least tried!”

Would you have seen the elves defeated and Galbatorix triumphant?

“No! But there must have been a way to save the men. Somehow.”

Thorn’s neck vibrated as the dragon growled. You cannot force the world to be as you will.

“Can’t I?” Murtagh lifted his head to look at Thorn. “If you want something badly enough—”

Want is not always enough. Thorn nuzzled the top of his head. The means must be there also. You know this.

Murtagh took a shuddery breath. His vision blurred. Tears or lakewater dripping from his hair, he wasn’t sure which. While Galbatorix himself had been evil, Murtagh couldn’t help but pity the ordinary men who had marched under the Empire’s banner, many of whom had been pressed into service. He had campaigned with them. Broken bread with them. And he knew them to be good and true. They’d had no choice whether to fight, and at Gil’ead and Ceunon, they had faced an attack from outside their lands and outside their race.

It was not so hard to understand why they spent their lives in defense of the Empire. Under different circumstances, Murtagh would have done the same.

They trusted us to be their champions, and we couldn’t help them, he thought. The conclusion was profoundly depressing.

Thorn responded with firm force: No. We did what we could, and none can claim otherwise. Do not torment yourself over this.

A small wave struck Murtagh in the mouth. He spat out a thimbleful of water and shook his head. It wasn’t a fair fight. He had seen how human might failed before the speed and strength of the elves. Even were they fairly matched, the elven spellcasters alone would have devastated Galbatorix’s army.

Magic unbalances all things, said Thorn.

He thought about that as he extinguished the werelight and swam back to Muckmaw’s floating body. You’re right. And it always has. Galbatorix had his solution. Nasuada is trying her own, by means of Du Vrangr Gata. Even the ancient language itself was an attempt at control.

You could no more seek to control the wind or the rain than to control magic.

Then what hope has the ordinary man in a world of magicians?

The same hope any creature has when battered by the storms of fate.

Murtagh hooked a hand through Muckmaw’s exposed gills and tried to pull the fish toward the shore. It barely moved. He turned to Thorn as the dragon slithered closer.

“Help.”

With Thorn’s assistance, moving Muckmaw to the shore was—while not easy—a fairly quick process. Once there, Thorn crawled out of the water, and then extended a paw and dragged the fish onto the bank.

Murtagh collapsed next to the fish and stared at the ceaseless stars in their slow rotation. Images of the submerged skeletons continued to pass through his mind.

Thorn kicked Muckmaw’s corpse out of the way with one of his hind legs before curling around Murtagh and draping a wing over him to form a warm, safe pocket.

Murtagh closed his eyes. His wards had exhausted him even more than the strain of the fight, and his body ached from the battering he’d taken. Especially his left forearm, where the bone beneath the old cut throbbed as if bruised. He needed food, and a warm fire, and a long sleep.

Not yet, he thought. Silna still needed rescuing, and he was worried that he didn’t have enough time to install himself in Captain Wren’s company before the guards departed with the youngling. Assuming that Carabel’s suspicions were correct. He comforted himself with the thought that Silna’s captors likely wouldn’t leave until morning.

A tremor passed through Thorn; the dragon was shaking, as if cold. “What’s wrong?” Murtagh murmured, and stroked Thorn’s belly.

The dragon growled slightly. You’re hurt.

Not too badly. I’ll be fine in a day or two.

Thorn shivered again and growled slightly. I was too slow. I could not catch you in time.

That’s not—

The fish could have killed you.

“It takes a lot to kill me,” Murtagh said out loud. The sound of his voice usually had a calming influence on Thorn. “And you too.”

At first Thorn didn’t respond. Then Murtagh heard rather than saw the dragon’s teeth snap together. Yes. A lot.

“And nothing has succeeded so far.”

I would rather keep it that way.

He patted Thorn and, with a groan, rolled onto his feet. Thorn’s wing lifted as he stood, again revealing the night sky and Muckmaw’s slumped corpse.

Murtagh rubbed his arms and wrung water from his sleeves. “This is the day that never ends.”

It’s already past midnight. A new day, said Thorn.

“Doesn’t feel like it.” Murtagh eyed the lake. Drifting some distance from the slate overhang was his bow. Or what was left of it. The string was broken, and the wood charred to a twisted cinder. The spells bound to the weapon protected it from many things, but the full heat of dragonfire wasn’t one of them.

He sighed. In one night he’d lost two of his three weapons. All he had left was Zar’roc, which was formidable, but not exactly helpful if he wanted to shoot from a distance or carve a piece of bacon.

Speaking of carving…He went to Thorn and unbuckled the lowest saddlebag. Its contents, he was pleased to see, were still dry, a consequence of the spell he’d cast after the torrent he and Thorn had gotten caught in early last year.

Murtagh pulled out Zar’roc and walked over to Muckmaw’s corpse. He stood looking at the glistening mass of flesh for a minute, judging the best place to cut. Just how much of the fish did the guards want? There wasn’t a clear distinction between head and neck on the animal.

“We’ll need something to wrap the head in,” he said. “I don’t want to use my blanket, but—”

Thorn stalked past and dipped his snout into the lake. With water streaming from his chops, he deposited Murtagh’s soggy cloak at his feet.

Murtagh picked it up with one hand. Holes and long tears let moonlight shine through the felted wool. He sighed again. “I hope it’s big enough.”

Zar’roc wasn’t a two-handed sword—at times Murtagh missed the proportions of his old bastard sword—but he wrapped his off hand around the pommel and raised the weapon above his head, like an executioner about to deliver the final, fatal blow. He inhaled, and then swung the sword down with a loud “Huh!”

The crimson blade sliced through Muckmaw’s bony hide and the dark meat underneath with hardly any resistance. The fish was so large, though, that Murtagh was only able to cut through a third of its neck on the first blow.

He lifted Zar’roc again, and again slashed downward.

It took four cuts to decapitate the fish. Separated from the body, Muckmaw’s head was nearly as wide as Murtagh was tall; he could barely wrap his arms around it if he tried.

The fish’s giant saucer-dish eyes stared at him, pale and blank, devoid of motive force, but with what he felt was a certain accusatory expression.

“To all things an end,” Murtagh murmured, and put a hand on the beast’s cold forehead.

The scale, said Thorn.

“Ah.” Murtagh took up Zar’roc again and pressed the tip against Muckmaw’s belly, just below the fish’s ribs. With a whisper of a sound, he sliced open the giant sturgeon, and a length of grey, wormlike intestine fell slopping around his boots in great slippery coils.

He grimaced and held his breath as he felt along the intestine until he found the stomach. Another quick cut, and the stomach opened to reveal a ghastly collection of smaller fish, frogs, half-digested eels, and even some branches. And buried amid the reeking refuse, Glaedr’s golden scale, bright as a polished plate.

Murtagh leaned Zar’roc against the curved side of Muckmaw’s corpse and fetched a piece of cloth from Thorn’s saddlebags. With it, he removed the scale from the pile of filth before quickly retreating. Sickened, he leaned over and retched, though nothing came up but bile and regret.

He poured a handful of dry dirt over the scale, shook it off, and then stowed it in the saddlebags before returning to Muckmaw’s head and body.

He’d just started to wrap the head in his ruined cloak when a pair of voices echoed across the shifting water. He looked up. A small coracle was approaching, and in it, two men working the paddles. Night fishers, drawn by the noise and light.

A wave of exhaustion passed through Murtagh. He was out of energy to deal with more problems. Nevertheless, he squared his shoulders and, with his left hand, reached behind the bulk of Muckmaw’s body and grabbed Zar’roc, careful to keep the sword hidden.

“Don’t make any sudden movem—” he said, glancing at Thorn.

The dragon had vanished. Murtagh stiffened, but then he searched with his mind and realized that Thorn had simply dropped back into the shadows behind the lake and was lying flat among the brambles that grew along the top of the banks.

For a creature so large, he could be remarkably quiet.

Murtagh looked back at the boat.

“Ho there!” called one of the men when they were about fifty feet from shore. Grey streaked his beard, and his shoulders were heavy from years of rowing. His companion put up his oars, lifted an oil lantern, and unshuttered it, releasing a key of yellow light that illuminated Murtagh, and Muckmaw’s corpse beside him.

Murtagh shaded his eyes with his free hand. He could see the men gaping at him. He could only imagine what he looked like, covered in mud, blood, and fish slime.

“Wh-who goes?” said the greybeard, stuttering slightly.

The other man said, “We heard a commotion fit t’ raise th’ dead, but…”

In a soft voice to himself, Murtagh said, “But you kept away until it was over.” Then, louder: “Ho there! Muckmaw is dead.” He gestured at the corpse. “His head is mine, but do with the rest as you will.”

The fishermen neither moved nor spoke as Murtagh leaned Zar’roc against Muckmaw’s open belly—where they couldn’t see—and finished wrapping his tattered cloak around the sturgeon’s severed head. The length of shattered thigh bone buried in the fish’s brow stuck out through a hole in the cloth.

He straightened and slung the corner of the cloak over his shoulder.

“Who…who are y’, stranger?” said greybeard, his voice faint in the night air.

“Just a traveler,” said Murtagh. He turned his back on them, picked up Zar’roc while being careful to keep his body between the fishermen and the jeweled sword, and then dug his heels into the damp ground.

Step by step, he dragged the giant fish head into the brambles atop the bank. He heard the fishermen muttering to each other behind him, followed by splashing as they started for the shore.

Atop the bank, Murtagh cast a quick spell: the same one he used to hide Thorn when they flew. It wasn’t perfect—anyone who looked closely would see the air rippling like liquid glass where they stood—but it would be enough to hide them in the dark of night.

As soon as he reached Thorn, he dropped the corner of the cloak and scrambled up Thorn’s side into the saddle. “Go, go, go,” he whispered.

Thorn picked up Muckmaw’s head in his enormous talons and, silent as a hunting owl, jumped across the moonlit field and glided on half-extended wings. He landed with a soft jolt and leaped again, this time with wings at their full spread. Two more leaps, and they were far enough from the lake that it was doubtful anyone would hear.

Whoosh! Thorn flapped once, and then again, and they were away, spiraling up into the starry sky.

CHAPTER VII In Defense of Lies

I wanted to eat the fish, Thorn complained as they circled over Gil’ead.

I know, but there would have been no easy way to keep those men from wagging their jaws about you all across Gil’ead.

Who would believe them?

Murtagh chuckled, despite himself. Fair point. Still, do you really want to eat a fish that Durza meddled with?

Thorn huffed. No magic can survive the belly of a dragon.

Maybe you’re right, but better not to test it.

Should you warn those men?

If they’re so foolish as to eat Muckmaw, and they start growing antlers on their heads or somesuch, they have only themselves to blame. None of which seemed very likely to Murtagh.

Mmh. Well, I will need to hunt soon. My hunger grows.

After we leave Gil’ead, you can eat all the deer you want.

They landed several miles from the city, by the edge of a small stream. There, Murtagh scrubbed the dirt and slime from his hands and face. Every inch of his body felt disgustingly filthy.

Unhappy with the result, he stripped and washed again, this time sparing no skin.

He stood on the bank of the stream, bare as the day he was born, and looked to Gil’ead. Whipcords of smoke rose from the lights and lanterns and chimneys within the city, and they spread as they rose until they merged into a diffuse lens of ashen haze that hung over the assembled buildings. The lights below painted the bottom of the haze a sullen orange, as if the sky itself were a banked fire smoldering through the night.

Murtagh wanted to return with Muckmaw’s head then and there, but he knew if he went banging on the doors of Captain Wren’s garrison in the middle of the night, they were as like to throw him out as let him in. It was a risk he didn’t want to take when losing might mean Silna’s life.

“I hate to wait,” he said. “Maybe I could—”

No. Thorn slapped the ground with his tail, and somewhere a sleepy crow uttered an outraged squawk. Murtagh blinked, surprised, and turned to look Thorn in the face. You sleep. You need sleep. Sleep now.

“What if they move Silna, though? We might never—”

The day’s hunting is done. If you go, you’ll step wrong, get hurt—more hurt. Rest will help you hunt better.

Murtagh sighed and let his head fall back. “I know. I just hate to waste any time.”

His head vibrated as Thorn hummed. It is not waste if it helps.

A wry smile formed on Murtagh’s face. “You’re wiser than you look, for a big lizard.”

Thorn nudged him with his snout. And you’re as stubborn as you look.

“You’re right. But not tonight. Tonight I’ll bend my knee to your learned advice.”

Thorn snorted.

The night cold returned Murtagh’s attention to the task at hand. He submerged his clothes in the creek and left them soaking there, weighted down with stones. Then he wrapped himself in his blanket and sat huddled against Thorn’s warm belly while he ate one of his few remaining dried apples. His teeth chattered between bites.

When he finished, he and Thorn went to speak their true names, as was their nightly ritual. Thorn named himself first and without difficulty, but when Murtagh tried to do likewise, he found himself unable. Something felt amiss with his name as it had been, and thus he could not speak it, for to speak it would have been a falsehood in the ancient language.

Thorn waited patiently. It was not the first time this had happened. On occasion, one or the other of them—or both—had changed, and that change was reflected in their names. Were it a small difference, new understanding was often quick to come. But when a fundamental part of their selves shifted—as it had in Urû’baen, when they broke free of Galbatorix—then understanding could be elusive and hard-fought.

Tired as he was, Murtagh had little stomach for introspection. All the same, he persisted. It was important to the two of them that they maintained a full sense of their selves.

So he thought. He had a suspicion as to the cause of his difficulty, and when he noticed he was reluctant to pursue a certain line of inquiry, he knew then he was on the right path. The change had to do with Glaedr’s death, and the battle for Gil’ead, and all the lives that had been lost therein. For them, he felt a greater sense of remorse, and for himself, a greater sense of grief and shame. The realization left him diminished and far less certain about his past choices. Even though he and Thorn hadn’t been in control of their own actions at the time—even though they’d been Galbatorix’s oath-bound thralls—Murtagh realized he still felt responsible for what they’d done. At a certain point, the reasons didn’t matter. The deeds remained, and the consequences thereof, and their reality was a pain greater than any wound.

The emotions were enough to alter the fabric of his character, if however slightly, and as a result, his true name. He gave voice to his newfound knowledge, and the sound of it was even more stark and discomfiting than before.

Yet as always, Thorn listened and accepted without judgment, and for that, Murtagh was deeply grateful. Then he lay beside Thorn, and they rested close together as the cold of the night pressed in about them.

Fleshless fingers reached toward him through flickering water. They closed around his ankles with an icy touch. He struggled to break free, but his strength had deserted him and the bones that bound him were as hard as iron.

He couldn’t breathe…couldn’t escape….

The skeletons of the fallen soldiers rose from the torn lakebed, an army of accusers, pointing at him, reaching for him, desperate to take his warmth, his breath, his life—to tear him apart and seize what they had lost and he still possessed.

Murtagh woke with a start, heart pounding. It was pitch-black beneath Thorn’s wing. His skin was coated with sweat, and he felt both chilled and hot, and the back of his throat was raw and swollen. No, not now, he thought. Of all the times to get sick…And, of course, it happened as soon as he’d entered cities and spent time around other people.

Thorn was watching him through a slitted eye. If we stayed away from others, you would not have to worry about such things.

“I had the same thought,” said Murtagh. “But what kind of life would that be?”

A peaceful one.

“Mmh.” He lay still for a moment and tried to decide whether it was worth closing his eyes again. It felt as if he had only gotten three or four hours of sleep. Maybe less.

He sat up and rubbed his face, conscious of every bump and bruise he’d taken the day before.

The sun will not show for some time, said Thorn.

“I know.” Murtagh crawled out from under the dragon’s wing and looked to the east. The faintest hint of grey lightened the horizon, the first presage of far-off dawn.

He did some figuring on how long it would take to get Muckmaw’s head to Gil’ead.

Holding the blanket tight around himself, he climbed over Thorn’s spiked tail and—walking gingerly on bare feet—went to the creek. It ran along a gravel bed, between drooping willows and clumps of wild rosebushes, and the sound of the gently flowing water was a soothing murmur.

Despite the early hour, the trees and grass and brush were already wet with freezing dew. His breath fogged the air in front of him, and in the crispness, he could feel winter’s impending arrival.

Murtagh rucked the blanket around his thighs and stepped into the creek. The water was like liquid ice. He grimaced as he reached down and pulled his clothes from under the rocks holding them in place.

As he returned to the bank, an aggressive chittering sounded on the other side of the creek. There, among the willows, was a large river otter with a thick brown pelt, waving its paws at him and baring its teeth. The otter chittered again and squeaked—as if offended by Murtagh’s presence—and then slid into the water and swam away downstream.

Murtagh shook his head and hobbled on numb feet back to Thorn.

“Adurna thrysta,” he murmured, and water wept from the woolen shirt and trousers, splattering the blades of grass below. He dressed in the now-dry clothes and repeated the process with his boots, which were still damp from his unexpected swim the day before.

As he forced his feet into the boots, he realized the leather had shrunk slightly, and he berated himself for not attending to them earlier. It wasn’t good to let things like that slip. If you didn’t take care of the little tasks, how could you be trusted to take care of the important responsibilities in life?

He rubbed some bear grease into the outsides of the boots, and then went to the saddlebags and dug out a dried apple and the last two strips of the jerky he’d bought before traveling to Ceunon. A warm breakfast would have been nice, but he didn’t want to lose the time, and in any case, a pair of farmhouses and associated outbuildings were dimly visible to the north. A fire would risk attracting too much attention, even at such a desolate hour.

Murtagh didn’t mind cooking, but he never liked how long it took. He thought of all the meals he’d had growing up, when servants would bring him whatever he wanted, or when he could visit the kitchens and snare a cooked pheasant or aged beef roast and a pitcher of cool milk to wash it down.

The jerky was tediously hard. He chewed like a cow on cud and stared at the ground. With every bite, he felt worse and worse. Just swallowing hurt his throat.

You should stay, said Thorn. You’ll make yourself sicker if you go.

He coughed. “I know, but I can’t give up on Silna. Not now. We’ve already wasted too much time. She might not even be in Gil’ead anymore.”

What if she isn’t?

“We’ll have to track her down. Even if I have to rip the information out of someone’s mind. Besides, if we don’t help Carabel, I have no idea how we’ll find Bachel.” He made a face as he swallowed and the flatbread scraped his raw throat.

Why don’t you use magic to heal yourself?

“Because there’s nothing to heal,” Murtagh said peevishly. “Nothing’s broken. Nothing’s bleeding. What do I fix? The bad humors in my blood?”

Why don’t you try?

“Because…because if I cast a spell without knowing what it’s supposed to do, it could consume all of my strength and kill me. You know that.”

But you know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to heal your fever. You’re trying to make your throat feel better. That.

“I…” Murtagh stared helplessly at Thorn. “Haven’t you ever heard that there’s no cure for the common cold?”

No. A wolfish grin split Thorn’s jaws. You are a magician and a Rider. You speak the Name of Names and bend spells to your will. What can you not do?

“Your confidence is inspiring,” Murtagh said dryly. Still, Thorn had a point. “All right. I’ll try. Intent does matter when it comes to casting spells. Maybe that’ll do the trick.”

Gathering his strength, Murtagh focused on himself, on his body and his growing discomfort. And he said, “Waíse heill.”

A gentle warmth passed through his body, and he felt a sense of lightness, as if he’d pulled off a corselet of mail after a hard day’s march. His throat grew itchy, and then the itch subsided along with the warmth, leaving him feeling cool but not chilled.

His throat was, if not entirely normal, far better than before, and his fever seemed to have vanished, along with quite a few bruises and not a little of his soreness.

Murtagh rolled his shoulders, surprised. “I don’t know if it entirely worked, but…I do feel better.”

See? said Thorn.

“Yes, you were right.” With renewed vigor, Murtagh set to gnawing on the last piece of tough flatbread. He swallowed with some effort. “I really want a proper loaf of bread.”

Thorn sniffed. Meat is better. Why chew on burnt plants?

“It tastes good, that’s why. You should try it again.”

No. It only tastes good because you put fat and salt on it.

“You have a point. All right, fat and salt taste good. Happy?”

Thorn’s eyes glittered. Bring me a mountain of bacon, and I will be happy.

“If I were king, I would,” Murtagh muttered. Their saddlebags were looking sadly depleted, and he’d spent almost all of their coin. With an unpleasant twinge, he remembered the purse he’d taken off bird-chest. He pulled it out of the pouch on his belt and cataloged the contents.

It wasn’t very much. Which he’d expected. If the man had been well off, he wouldn’t have attempted robbery. Still, the purse contained a handful of coppers and a single silver coin, which would be plenty to replenish their supplies.

After. Silna came first. Besides, what kind of a Rider would he be if he abandoned her?

He pocketed the coins and, as he did, noted the—again—empty sheath on his belt. With some regret, he imagined his pilfered dagger lying in the mud at the bottom of the lake. “Blast it. I don’t like going anywhere unarmed.”

He went to where Muckmaw’s head lay on the ground, wrapped in the muddy remains of his cloak. The thick, fishy stench nearly made him gag.

Murtagh grimaced as he gathered up the hem of his cloak. “And I just got clean.”

He grabbed the corners of the cloak and started to pull. After a few steps, he stopped and swore. The head was too big and heavy. If he dragged it all the way back to Gil’ead, he’d be completely exhausted by the time he arrived….

“Reisa,” he murmured.

Without a sound, Muckmaw’s head lifted off the ground, so that it hung floating a finger’s breadth above the matted grass. Murtagh waited a moment to see how much effort the spell cost him. It felt equivalent to shouldering an overladen pack: noticeable, but not so much that he couldn’t sustain it for a fair amount of time.

He grunted. “Good enough.”

Thorn crouched low, with a certain tightening around his eyes that Murtagh had learned was an expression of concern. How will you open the door that is closed?

“Carefully, I think. After our little escapade with Muckmaw, I have an unpleasant suspicion there’s more to it than Carabel said. Of everything she asked, I’m afraid this one might be the trickiest.”

Even more so than Muckmaw?

Murtagh shook his head. “Muckmaw was difficult, not tricky. This, though…I have to deal with other people, and people are hard to predict.”

Thorn hissed. I don’t like being left behind. I want to help.

“What would you have me do? There’s no changing this, not unless you want to face every soldier in the city—”

A small tongue of red flame jetted from Thorn’s narrowly opened maw. I would.

Murtagh gave him a hug about the neck. “Be careful. I’ll be as fast as I can. If all goes well, we should be able to slip away without being noticed.”

Good. And then we can fly again and not worry about these people and their prying eyes.

“And then we can fly again.”

The waterskin sloshed against Murtagh’s side as he ran. He’d learned his lesson from the previous day; he wasn’t going to be caught without water a second time.

On his back he carried his bedroll and, wrapped in the blanket, a few basic items, such as his tinderbox, pan, some food, and the other kit a traveling soldier might be expected to have.

All part of his plan.

Behind him, Muckmaw’s bundled head floated across the countryside, smooth as silk sliding over skin. A slight film of sweat coated Murtagh’s brow. Keeping the head suspended was taking its toll, but far less than if he’d attempted to drag it through the brush by strength of limb.

The eastern sky brightened as he ran. Grey turned into pinks and yellows, and the blue shadows that lay across the land began to thin. The sun would just be rising when he arrived at Captain Wren’s barracks, which was as he wanted.

The streets of Gil’ead were still mostly empty when he reached the city outskirts, though the smell of baking bread wafted from the buildings, warm and enticing.

His stomach growled.

With a thought, Murtagh ended the spell holding up Muckmaw’s head. The head fell to the ground with a wet splosh. He staggered at the sudden pull of weight and regripped the corner of the bundled cloak.

Leaning forward, Murtagh started to drag.

As before, he avoided the main roads, making his way between fields and outbuildings until he was able to slip into the city proper without being seen.

A mongrel dog with reddish fur matted with mud came skulking after him, sniffing the trail of slime Muckmaw’s head had left. “Go on,” said Murtagh in a low voice. “Shoo. Be gone.”

The cur’s lip quivered, and his ears flattened.

Unwilling to risk the dog barking, Murtagh said, “Eitha!”

The mongrel uttered a small yelp-whine and ran off with his tail tucked between bony legs.

Murtagh shook his head.

From the cramped back garden of one house, he appropriated a small cart. He plopped Muckmaw’s head into it, made sure the lump of fish meat was well covered by his ruined cloak, and then trundled off toward the fortress.

Long shadows speared westward from each building as the sun broke free of the horizon. Within seconds, the air started to warm, and a flock of sparrows darted across the flushed sky, chasing insects rising off the lakefront.

Murtagh’s watchfulness sharpened as he neared the fortress; an unusual number of soldiers were moving through the city, and several elves stood by the front gate of the stronghold.

His misadventure at Oromis and Glaedr’s barrow seemed to have put the entire garrison on high alert.

Murtagh spotted a manservant holding the reins of a white mare by the front garden of a large house. He swung across the street and said, “ ’Scuse me, master. Could y’ tell me where I might find th’ barracks of th’ city guard?”

The manservant eyed Murtagh and the cart with undisguised disdain. His hair was pulled into a short ponytail, and his shirt was made of fine bleached linen, and he stood with the poised grace of a dancing instructor. He sniffed. “Up that street, on the right. Although I’ll be much surprised if they’ll speak to the likes of you.”

Murtagh bobbed his head. “Thank’ee, master.”

He continued on, feeling the servant’s eyes boring into his back until he turned the corner.

The barracks were a series of stone-sided buildings set against the fortress’s outer wall and protected with a much shorter wall around their perimeter. The entrance was a narrow gatehouse with a black oak door studded with iron nails. Two pikemen stood watch at the open door.

Through it, Murtagh could see men walking about a paved courtyard, sparring, drilling, and loosing arrows at straw targets. They were each garbed in the watch’s standard uniform: a red tabard over a padded gambeson stitched with the Varden’s emblem.

Murtagh lifted his chin and let his stride acquire some of the regulated crispness of a marching man. Here goes, he thought.

The pikemen crossed their weapons as he pushed the cart to the gatehouse. He noted that their tabards were neat and in good repair, which spoke well of Captain Wren’s command.

The two men looked more bored than concerned or aggravated by his presence. A good sign for things to come, he hoped.

“ ’Ey now,” the man on the right started to say, and Murtagh whipped the cloak off Muckmaw’s head.

The men’s eyes widened. The guard on the right whistled. He appeared a few years older than his counterpart. “Well, blow me sideways. Is that there what I think?”

Murtagh let go of the cart and stood straight. “It is. Muckmaw himself.”

The guards gave each other a glance. The older man pushed back his helm and leaned over the cart for a better view. “Son of an Urgal. It’s ’im, all right…. An’ I suppose you’re the one as caught ’im, is that it?”

“Yessir. And I’d like to join up. Sir.”

The pikemen looked at each other again, this time more seriously. The older one rubbed his chin and said, “Don’t sir me. I’m as common as dirt. Thing is, I’m ’fraid Captain Wren isn’t looking for no green recruit. Standing orders. You’ll be wanting a different company. They’re always eager for—”

The younger man tugged on his companion’s arm. “It’s Muckmaw, though, Sev. Muckmaw!”

The elder pikeman gnawed on his lip, his expression doubtful. “I don’t know, now. The captain’s orders were plain as day. If—”

Murtagh drew himself up and snapped his heels together. “I’m not green. And I’d like to serve Captain Wren.”

The man frowned, but then, to Murtagh’s relief, he turned to the yard and raised a hand. “Oi! Gert! Over here!”

One of the guardsmen broke away from sparring and headed toward them. Gert was heavy-shouldered, broad-handed, with the sort of determined stride that Murtagh had seen in dozens of veteran weaponmasters. He wore thick, short-cropped sideburns shot through with white, and his brow seemed permanently furrowed with exasperation at the stupidity of his troops.

As Gert reached the gatehouse, the pikeman said, “Look there. He caught Muckmaw!”

Gert’s tangled eyebrows rose as he surveyed the slimy, gape-mouthed head. “Muckmaw, eh?” He spat on the paving stones. “About time someone put an end to him. That creature’s been a blight on the lake fer an unnaturally long time.”

“An’ our friend here wants to join up,” the older pikeman said. “Says he has experience.”

Gert’s scowl returned as he looked Murtagh over. “That so. You’ve carried arms before?”

“I have.”

“Used them?”

“Yessir.”

Another grunt, and Gert smoothed his sideburns with one thick hand. “It’s against company policy, but any man that can kill the likes of Muckmaw is the sort of man the cap’n wants in his ranks. But afore I go bothering the cap’n ’bout you, you’ll have to prove yourself to me, Gert. The cap’n’s a busy man, you see. He has no time for nonsense.”

Murtagh nodded. “Of course. I understand.”

“Mmh. All right. Bring that stinking mess of a fish in here, and we’ll see what you’re made of.” The weaponmaster strode back into the yard, and after a moment’s hesitation, Murtagh picked up the handles of the cart and followed.

“Leave him there,” said Gert, pointing to a spot just inside the gatehouse.

The other guards stopped what they were doing and watched as Murtagh deposited the cart where indicated. Gert led him to one of the sparring rings made of packed dirt and retrieved two spears with padded heads from a rack set against the inner wall of the yard.

He tossed a spear to Murtagh.

Murtagh caught it one-handed and slipped off his bedroll. He hadn’t trained much with spears—they were the main weapon of the common footman—but he knew the basics. He hoped that would be enough.

“Right,” growled Gert, taking a ready stance opposite him, spear extended. “First position. Show me what you know.”

Murtagh obeyed. As Gert barked out orders, he mirrored the other man. Lunge, stab, block, thrust, deflect. Advance, retreat. With every motion, he felt the bruises Muckmaw had given him. Then Gert closed the distance between them, and they battled spear against spear for a few blows. Murtagh was fast enough that he thought he didn’t totally embarrass himself, even though Gert knocked him once on the outside of his left knee.

Afterward, Gert grunted. “Not half bad. Not half good either.” He held out a hand, and Murtagh gave him the practice spear.

“I’m better with a blade,” said Murtagh.

Gert raised his tangled eyebrows. “Uh-huh.” He returned the spears to the rack and then picked up a pair of wooden wasters made in the style of arming swords.

The other guards started hooting and shouting:

“Get ’im, Gert!”

“Show ’im what for!”

“Put a good mark on him.”

“Give him stripes! Beat him black-an’-blue!”

Gert handed one waster to Murtagh.

The wooden sword was lighter than Zar’roc, and shorter too, and the balance wasn’t quite the same as a real sword, but the shape was familiar, and after hefting it a few times, Murtagh felt confident he could use it to good effect.

“No head strikes,” warned Gert, raising his waster.

“No head strikes,” Murtagh agreed. Neither of them was wearing a helmet. He spun the sword about in a quick flourish.

Gert gave him no warning. The man attacked with a speed that belied his bulk, beating Murtagh’s waster and stabbing at his liver.

If the stab had landed, Murtagh knew he would have been curled up on the ground, unable to move. But it didn’t land. He parried the stab and took advantage of the resulting opening to poke Gert in the right armpit.

The man fell back a step, his expression surprised. He recovered quickly, but before he could launch a second attack, Murtagh feinted toward Gert’s left hip.

Gert moved to block, and Murtagh whipped his waster around—changing directions in midair—and rapped Gert against his upper arm, near the elbow.

A series of cries went up from the onlookers.

Gert grimaced and shook his arm, and Murtagh allowed himself a quick grin. The blow hadn’t looked like much, but he knew it hurt badly.

Then Gert feinted as well and attempted a short slash across Murtagh’s ribs, although it was an obvious attempt to lure Murtagh into a disadvantaged position. The man was skilled, but nowhere near the level Murtagh was accustomed to.

He allowed the slash to fall past without blocking or parrying, and when Gert drew back in an attempt to regain position, he struck the flat of Gert’s waster. Hard. Harder than most men should have been able to hit.

The man’s blade flew wide, and Murtagh brought his wooden sword up, faster than the eye could see, so that the dull edge touched the side of Gert’s neck.

They stood like that, Gert breathing hard, Murtagh’s chest barely moving. Did I dare too much? Yet he also felt a fierce satisfaction at a move well executed, at a duel well fought and won.

He lowered his waster, and the guards watching started shouting and hollering.

“I had a good teacher,” said Murtagh. He held out the waster, hilt first.

Gert shook his head with a wry expression. “That you did, boy.” He took the waster and returned the wooden swords to the rack. Then he looked round at the onlookers and bellowed, “What are ye lollygagging ne’er-do-wells doing? When you can beat old Gert w’ the sword, then you can waste the day away staring at what’s none of yer business. Back at it, or you’ll have scrubbing from evening to morn.”

He gestured to Murtagh. “You’d best follow me. The cap’n had better see you after all.”

CHAPTER VIII Masks

Murtagh scooped up his bedroll and fell in next to Gert as the stocky man headed away from the courtyard, toward a stone structure attached to one of the barracks. It looked more like a square-sided watchtower than a house, but Murtagh guessed the tower contained the officers’ living quarters.

As they walked, Gert said, “Where’d you learn to handle a sword like that, boy?”

“There was a man in our village who had some experience soldiering when he was young. He taught me as I was growing up.”

The guard grunted, and Murtagh wondered if he believed him. The skills Murtagh had demonstrated hardly matched those of the average foot soldier. But Gert had the good manners not to inquire further.

The interior of the tower was cool and dark, illuminated only by the occasional arrow slit or wall-mounted torch (few of which were lit). The stones smelled of damp, and the smell reminded Murtagh of the bolt-hole tunnel he had used when meeting Carabel: a mossy, moldy scent that spoke of caves deep underground and of dripping stalactites and blind fish nosing against cold rocks.

Gert led him straight through the building to a closed door by one corner. He knocked and said, “It’s me, Cap’n. Mind if’n I come in?”

“Enter,” answered a man from within, strong and clear.

Gert gave Murtagh a stern look. “You wait here now an’ don’t move.” Then he pulled open the door and stepped through.

Murtagh glanced up and down the stone hall. It had an arched roof similar to some of the dwarf tunnels around Tronjheim. There was a low wooden bench against one wall, but he decided it was better to stand. Next to the bench was a planter full of artfully arranged bundles of dried baby’s breath.

He wondered who had requested the flowers.

Gert kept him waiting for over ten minutes. Then the door swung back open, and the weaponmaster poked his head out. “Cap’n will see you now.”

Murtagh hefted his bedroll and walked in.

The captain’s study was a modest affair, as such things went. Murtagh had seen officers commission or commandeer far more ostentatious chambers in order to flaunt their family’s wealth or improve their chances of climbing the ranks of power at court. Wren’s tastes were more restrained, if somewhat unusual.

The walls were the same bare stone as the outside, but they were lined with racks of scrolls, over which hung maps of Gil’ead, maps of the Empire, and maps of Nasuada’s new queendom, the Spine, and Alagaësia as a whole. A broad table dominated one side of the room, and even more maps—these pinned with small flags and carvings of soldiers—lay strewn across it, along with scrolls and piles of parchment covered with writing.

The captain himself sat behind the desk, marking runes on a half sheet of vellum. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with a touch of grey at his temples and a few fine wrinkles about his eyes from years spent drilling in the sun. Lean, focused, with an intelligent and perceptive gleam to his gaze, he struck Murtagh as the sort of man who could both plan a campaign and execute it, while also earning the love of his men.

His hair was neat, his tabard and jerkin neater. Even his nails were clean and trimmed. The one flaw in his appearance was his hands; the knuckles were swollen and the fingers twisted with arthritic distortion in a way Murtagh had only seen before among the extreme elderly.

On the wall behind the captain was the room’s most notable feature: two lines of wooden masks mounted on the stone. They weren’t the ornate party masks of the aristocracy, with which Murtagh was well acquainted. Rather, they were rough, barbaric-looking creations that evoked the faces of different animals: the bear, the wolf, the fox, the raven, and so forth, including two animals that he didn’t recognize. In style and execution, they resembled no tradition he was familiar with; if pressed, he would have said they had been crafted with the crudest of stone tools.

And yet the masks had a certain entrancing power; Murtagh found his gaze drawn to them as a lodestone drawn to a bar of iron.

Wren put down his quill and, with a slight grimace, flexed his hand. He eyed Murtagh. “So you’re the one who caught Muckmaw.”

At the back of the room, Gert slipped out and closed the door.

Murtagh stood at attention and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“How did you manage it, son?”

The run to Gil’ead had given Murtagh plenty of opportunity to think of an answer. As always, the best deception was the one that hewed most closely to the truth.

He adopted a somewhat abashed expression. “Truth be told, I weren’t trying to. I were out fishing for eels, and Muckmaw grabbed my bait and pulled me into the water. I’m not ashamed to say, I thought my last moments were upon me. I saw the fish come at me, and I tried to use my dagger on him, but it just bounced off his hide.”

Wren nodded, as if this were expected. “And then what?”

“Well, he knocked me down into the mud, and I’m pretty sure he were fixing to eat me, but I meant to make it a real pain for him. I caught hold of what I thought were a stick, and I gave him a good poke in the head. You can imagine my surprise when the stick went right in and that were the end of him. After I got out of the water, I saw it weren’t no stick but a piece of bone from some unfortunate soul. You can see it if’n you want, out in the yard.”

“So his weakness was bone,” Wren murmured. “No wonder it escaped discovery until now.” He gestured at Murtagh’s clothes. “I see you managed to dry off since your misadventure.”

Blast it. Murtagh shrugged. “It were a long walk back to Gil’ead dragging that monster’s head. It’s bigger than a bull’s.”

“I see.” Wren tapped his fingers against the desktop. “What’s your name, son?”

For the second time in as many days, Murtagh had to choose a new name. And not just a name, an identity. “Task,” he said. “Task Ivorsson.”

Wren picked up the quill again and made a note. “Well, Task, you’ve done a great service for the people of Gil’ead, and you’ve more than earned your reward.” From a small box on the desk, he counted out four bright gold crowns into Murtagh’s palm.

Murtagh felt a small shock as he saw Nasuada’s profile stamped onto the front of each coin. It was the first time he had encountered the new currency of the realm, and he allowed himself a moment of inspection, disguised as the gawking of a man who had never before held so much gold.

The likeness was an uncanny one. So skilled was it, Murtagh felt sure magic had been used in its creation. The sight of Nasuada’s all-too-familiar profile—proud and perfect in resplendent relief, with a modest diadem upon her brow—set a familiar ache in his heart, and he touched the image with hesitant fingers.

Wren noticed. “I take it you haven’t seen our new queen before.”

“Not as such, no.” It was an unfortunately ambiguous answer, and Murtagh berated himself the instant he spoke, but to his relief, the captain didn’t request further clarification.

“Her Majesty’s treasury issued these near winter’s end,” said Wren. “I understand all the coinage is to be replaced in due course.”

Murtagh closed his hand over the crowns. It made sense. Nasuada would hardly want images of Galbatorix circulating throughout the land for the rest of her reign. He slipped the coins into his pouch.

“Now then,” said Wren. “I understand you want to join my company specifically. Why?”

Murtagh straightened further. “Everyone says it’s the best in the city, sir. And I’d like to be of some use again, aside from just guarding caravans.”

“Very commendable of you. Gert seemed impressed with your swordsmanship, and it takes a lot to pry a compliment out of that old goat. He also says you have some experience. So tell me, Task, where did you serve?”

It was a question with many meanings, and they both knew it. Murtagh noted that the captain had been careful not to ask with whom. “At the Battle of the Burning Plains,” he said quietly. “And I were also at Ilirea when it fell.”

Wren nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the vellum. As Murtagh had expected, the captain didn’t inquire further. Most of the men in Galbatorix’s army had been conscripts forced to swear oaths of loyalty to the king in the ancient language. Since the king’s death, and since Eragon had used the Name of Names to break those oaths, the many thousands of soldiers had been free to pick their own path. The majority returned to their homes. But a significant portion opted to continue their profession as men-at-arms, and Nasuada’s current regime was not so well established that they could afford to turn away so many trained men.

Besides, there were plenty of people throughout Nasuada’s realm who still held sympathies for the Empire and who regarded the Varden with no small amount of ill will. It was possible that such was the case with the captain.

Either way, it would have been impolitic for Wren to press for more details as to Murtagh’s past service. Knowing that, Murtagh had avoided mentioning his presence at the Battle of Tronjheim, for the only notable human forces there had been among the Varden, whereas humans had fought on both sides at the Burning Plains and Ilirea.

Captain Wren said, “How were you trained?”

“As a footman, but I’m better with a blade than a spear or pike, and I’m more than passable with a bow.”

The captain nodded, making another note. “And why are you looking to serve again, Task? Yes, you wish to be of use. But why now? I assume you’ve not marched under a banner since Ilirea.”

“No, sir…I wanted to see my family. I’m from a village called Cantos, in the south. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it….”

Wren shook his head. “I can’t say I have.”

“Well, it’s not a big place, sir. Or, it wasn’t. There weren’t much left of it when I got there.” Cantos had been the village Galbatorix had ordered Murtagh to burn, raze, and eradicate; he’d fled before obeying, but he knew the king would have found someone to commit the crime all the same.

“I see. I’m sorry to hear that, Task.”

Murtagh shrugged. “It were a hard war, sir.”

At that, a flicker of some indefinable emotion appeared in Wren’s eyes. “That it was, Task. That it was.” The captain leaned back in his chair and gave Murtagh a thoughtful look. “Have you any of your old kit?”

Murtagh gestured at his bedroll. “A shirt of fine mail, sir, but that’s all.”

“It’s better than most, Task. There are some required items you will have to purchase of your own, but with your reward for Muckmaw, you have more than sufficient funds. The rest of your equipment can be provided, assuming…”

Murtagh cocked his head. “Assuming what, sir?”

Wren rested his elbows on the desk and placed one gnarled hand over the other. “If you’re serious about joining my company, Task, you’ll have to swear fealty to the queen, to Lord Relgin, and to this unit, with myself as its commander. Do you understand?”

A sick feeling formed in Murtagh’s stomach, and the back of his neck went cold. I should have realized. Something of his reaction must have shown, because Wren’s expression hardened. “Is that a problem for you, Task?” He picked up his quill again.

“That depends, sir. Does the queen require swearing in this tongue or…or…”

Wren’s expression cleared. “Ah, I take your meaning. No, the queen does not believe in enforced loyalty. After all, a man’s word should be an unbreakable bond, no matter what language he speaks. One’s honor and reputation are more valuable than the greatest of riches, as I’m sure you agree.”

“Yes, sir.” Murtagh couldn’t help but think of his own reputation among the common folk, and he suppressed a grimace.

The corner of Wren’s mouth quirked in a partial smile. “Of course, the reality isn’t always as pure or shining as the ideal, but we must trust in the goodness of our fellow men. And we must allow them to make what mistakes they will, without corralling them with magical enforcement.”

What are you playing at? Murtagh wondered. It sounded as if Wren were criticizing, if only indirectly, the means and methods of Du Vrangr Gata. Or perhaps he was trying to assess Murtagh’s own sympathies. Which reinforced his impression of the captain being a cautious, clever man.

“In that case, sir, I’ll be happy to swear.” He wouldn’t be, and wasn’t, but Murtagh couldn’t see a way to avoid it.

“Excellent,” said Wren, and started to shuffle through the sheets of parchment on the desk. “Pay is given on the twenty-first of every month. For that, you’ll have to see Gert. Leave is subject to our duties, but normally you will have every fifth day to yourself, and harvest days and queen’s celebrations are divided among the company. Someone has to stand watch, but you are guaranteed leave for at least half those days.”

“Yes, sir.”

Again, Murtagh found his gaze drawn to the masks on the wall, as if their empty eyes contained secrets worth learning. There was something odd about the masks that he couldn’t quite identify; looking at them was like looking at objects through a slightly warped mirror.

Wren noticed his interest. “Ah. You find my humble collection interesting, do you?”

“I’ve never seen anything quite like those masks before,” Murtagh confessed.

The captain seemed pleased. “Indeed. They’re not easily found in Alagaësia. It took me over ten years to acquire these few. The masks are made by the nomads who frequent the grasslands. Their artisans produce all sorts of arcane objects that are unknown to the rest of us.”

“They seem quite lifelike, in a curious sort of way,” said Murtagh.

Wren’s eyes brightened. “Oh, it’s more than that, Task. Look.” He reached out and pulled a mask from the wall, the one carved in the likeness of a bear. Wren placed it over his face, and in that instant, his appearance shifted and warped, and he seemed to swell in size—shoulders widening, growing sloped and heavy and shaggy—and the mask moved with his face as if it were made of flesh and bone, and not wood, and an overpowering sense of presence made Murtagh fall back a step. It was as if the essence of bear had enveloped Wren, burying the man beneath a bestial cloak.

Then the captain pulled the mask away, and the impression vanished. Once again, he was just a man sitting at a desk, holding a wooden mask in his twisted hand.

“That…What is that, sir?” said Murtagh.

Wren chuckled and rehung the bear mask. “A powerful glamour, Task. I don’t know why the tribes make them, but I can tell you they’re not for hunting. Animals react quite badly if they see you wearing one of the masks. Dogs and horses especially. They go mad with fear.”

“I see, sir.”

Wren went back to searching the contents of his desk and, after a moment, produced a sheet of parchment covered with lines of runes. “Ah, there we are.” He rang a small brass bell and then dipped his quill in the inkpot. “Let’s see. Task Ivorsson, was it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain was already writing the name on the parchment. It was a form; Murtagh could read some of the upside-down words, but he pretended otherwise. A common foot soldier wouldn’t be likely to know his letters.

The door to the study opened, and a young guard entered. At first glance, he reminded Murtagh of a friendly, overeager hound: jowly and red-cheeked, with a shock of straw-colored hair and a ready smile. “You wanted me, sir?”

“I do, Esvar. Task here is joining our merry band, and I need you to stand witness.”

Esvar saluted and stood at attention next to Murtagh. “Sir, yes sir!”

Wren gave him a tolerant smile. Then he read from the parchment. It was a contract outlining Murtagh’s responsibilities to the company and the company’s responsibilities to him. He barely listened; he was familiar with the terms. What bothered him was the part to follow….

“—and make your mark here,” said Wren, handing him the quill and pointing to a blank spot near the bottom of the parchment.

Murtagh drew an X.

“Good. Now, Esvar.”

Murtagh passed the quill to the young guardsman, who also made an X on the contract.

“Excellent,” said Wren, and took back the quill and signed the parchment himself. Only he used runes; the captain had had a noble’s upbringing and education, Murtagh guessed. Or that of a particularly well-off merchant.

Then Wren placed his knotted fist over his heart, and Murtagh followed suit. And the captain said, “Repeat after me. I, Task Ivorsson, do hereby swear—”

Murtagh’s voice caught in his throat, and it was only with conscious effort—and not a small one—that he was able to obey: “I, Task Ivorsson, do hereby swear—”

“—my fealty to Queen Nasuada—”

“—my fealty to Queen Nasuada—”

“—and to Lord Relgin—”

“—and to Lord Relgin—”

“—and to the city guards of Gil’ead, as commanded by Captain Wren.”

“—and to the city guards of Gil’ead, as commanded by Captain Wren.”

“And I swear to uphold all laws and orders—”

“And I swear to uphold all laws and orders—”

“—such as I am subject to as a member of this force.”

“—such as I am subject to as a member of this force.”

The captain smiled, showing his strong, straight teeth, and extended his crooked hand. “Welcome to the company, Task. You’re one of us now.”

“Thank you, sir,” Murtagh said, forcing the words past the constriction in his throat.

“Esvar will get you settled into the barracks, and then he’ll see to it that you’re properly kitted out.” Wren gave the guardsman a mock-stern look. “Do see that he’s kitted out, Esvar.”

“Yessir!”

“Oh, and, Task, do you know if you have any wards on you? Charms against magical attacks or a spear to the skull? That sort of thing.”

“Not that I know of, sir, but then, how would I know?” Murtagh hoped the answer was vague enough to save him trouble later on.

Wren waved a hand. “No matter. We’ll see to it that you’re charmed up tomorrow. I can’t have my men walking around vulnerable to the slightest piece of magic.”

Startled, Murtagh said, “You have a spellcaster in your ranks, sir?”

“Hardly,” said Wren. “We coordinate with Du Vrangr Gata. Their magicians provide wards for everyone who follows the queen’s standard.”

“I see. Thank you, sir.”

Wren waved a hand. “That will be all, Task. Dismissed.”

CHAPTER IX Uniforms

“The captain’s hands, have they always been—”

“You don’t ask about the captain’s hands,” Esvar said firmly. “Not unless you want Gert to beat the tar out of your hide.”

“That’s good to know. Thanks.”

Esvar gave a companionable nod and pointed toward the far barracks as they exited the stone tower. “Thatwise is where we’re headed.”

The yard had emptied during Murtagh’s interview with Captain Wren, and the shadows had shrunk beneath the midday sun. Someone had removed the cart with Muckmaw’s head.

Murtagh glanced at the deep blue sky. It had been only a few hours, but he already missed Thorn. They were too far apart to easily exchange thoughts, and he didn’t want to risk shouting with his mind when there were those within Gil’ead who might notice. I hope he’s safe. He could barely feel his connection with Thorn—just enough to know that Thorn was alive and not in pain.

Esvar gestured at the yard and the high fortress wall that backed the compound. “This all is ours. Captain Irven has command of the other half of the guard, at the grounds ’cross the fortress, but this here is Captain Wren’s fiefdom.”

“Do the captains get along?” Murtagh asked.

“Not hardly. But that’s all right. Lord Relgin favors our captain, so you chose the right company, Task.”

“I’m just glad to be one of you.”

Esvar laughed. “Say now, you killed Muckmaw! No one in their right mind would turn you away.”

Murtagh made as if he were embarrassed. “I got lucky, but thanks. So have you been part of the guard for long?”

Esvar beamed with pride. “Two months, an’ I’ve loved every day of it, even the drilling. Even the standing watch, though it does get mighty miserable when it’s raining.”

“I’m sure.”

“An’ where do you hail from? Your tone’s not from around here.”

“Far to the south,” said Murtagh as they entered the barracks. It was a long, half-domed room with rows of cots, each with a wooden chest at the foot. A number of men were on the cots, playing runes, napping, or oiling their boots. Shields hung on the walls, and a rack of pikes and spears stood by the door. At the back of the barracks, as Carabel had said, was a stone archway and, through it, a staircase that led down into darkness.

That’s where I need to go. But finding an opportunity was going to be difficult. Either the barracks would have to be empty or he’d have to wait until the men were asleep.

A knot of anxiety twisted within Murtagh’s gut. Would Silna even still be in the compound by the end of the day? He could always try to ambush any group that left the enclosed grounds, but he had no means of knowing all the ways in and out, and in any case, an open attack would make further subterfuge impossible.

He was tempted to reach out with his mind, to see if he could detect Silna’s consciousness underneath them, but he resisted the urge. There were too many people around, any one of whom might notice the touch of his thoughts.

Esvar walked him through the room, introducing him to the men, who varied from friendly to standoffish to outright hostile. But they all wanted to hear the story of how he’d caught Muckmaw, and Murtagh found himself regaling them with the same account he’d given Captain Wren. The men seemed well enough impressed, but they followed up with plenty of comments about the state of his clothes, or else joked about him being fish food. He accepted the remarks with good grace, for he knew who he was. A certain amount of ribbing and gibing was normal for an outsider. Until he proved himself, the men wouldn’t trust him.

Of course, he wasn’t going to be there long enough to prove himself. For some reason, the thought caused him an obscure sense of regret.

Three-quarters of the way through the room, Esvar stopped by an empty cot. “You can bunk here for now. If’n Gert or the captain likes you, y’ can request a change, but I wouldn’t bother were I you. It doesn’t serve to be too close to the front; someone or other is always getting up in th’ night to visit the privy.”

That could be a problem, Murtagh thought. He glanced around as he dropped his bedroll on the cot. “Where does that go?” he asked, pointing at the archway at the back.

“Down t’ the catacombs,” said Esvar.

“There are catacombs?” Murtagh said, feigning surprise.

Esvar bobbed his head. “Oh yes. We use ’em for all sorts. The captain an’ the other officers meet down there every week, an’ we use ’em for storing supplies an’ such.”

“I see.”

A doleful expression formed on Esvar’s face. “It’s not so nice. Th’ catacombs are dark an’ full of spiders, an’ the captain insists that we keep watch on th’ storerooms. He says no fighting force is prepared ’less they know their weapons an’ supplies are secured.”

“The captain sounds like a wise man.” Privately, Murtagh cursed Wren’s cautious nature. It wasn’t going to make it easy to find out what was behind the closed door.

“That he is!” said Esvar. “An’ speaking of supplies, I ought t’ get you your kit. Thisways!”

Murtagh hoped the younger man might take him down into the catacombs, but instead Esvar headed back out of the barracks and led him toward a small storehouse set against the fortress’s outer wall.

Esvar was still talking; he never seemed to stop. “The catacombs were built ages ago. They say it were the elves that first quarried ’neath here, but I’ve never seen no elf digging in the ground or cutting stone. But Gil’ead has more ’an its share of history, yes it does. Right on th’ other side of that wall is where Morzan an’ his dragon were killed, near on twenty years ago.” He gave Murtagh a wide-eyed look. “It were before my time, but my ma, she says the whole city shook, and there were fire and flames and lightning like a great storm.”

Cold tingles ran up Murtagh’s arms. Right through there, he thought, staring at the wall. That’s where his father had died while trying to track down the dragon egg—Saphira’s egg—that the Varden had stolen from Galbatorix.

Esvar seemed encouraged by Murtagh’s expression. “It’s true! A magician came to Gil’ead an’ challenged Morzan to a duel. No one knows his name, only that he wore a hooded cape and carried a wizard’s staff, like in th’ stories.”

“I wonder who it was.” But Murtagh knew: Brom. The old man had lost his dragon during the fall of the Riders, but he had still been a clever spellcaster. Not clever enough to ward off the Ra’zac’s dagger, though.

Esvar shrugged. “Probably one of the Varden. Or maybe a sorcerer from th’ plains. Captain Wren says nomads know all sorts of magic.”

The yellow-haired youth kept chattering as he ushered Murtagh into the storehouse and gathered equipment for him. It wasn’t long before Murtagh found himself fitted into a new set of clothes, with a red tabard over his mail corselet and a warm woolen cloak clasped about his throat. He quite liked the uniform. It was neat and clean, and there was something appealing about the fact that folks would no longer see him as a person apart but as just another member of the guard. There was safety in numbers, after all, and he had never before felt joined to a larger group of like-minded people.

Yet he knew the truth was otherwise, and his disquiet remained.

Along with the clothes, Esvar presented him with a spear, an arming sword—complete with belt and sheath—and a deftly painted kite shield.

“You’ll have t’ talk with Gert about being issued a pike,” said Esvar. “He won’t let new recruits have one till he’s gotten to train ’em.” He made a face. “I’m still stuck with a spear myself.”

As Esvar showed Murtagh around the rest of the compound—the privy, the stables, the mess hall, the smithy, and the small garden where they grew crabapples for cider—he continued to shower him with questions. Murtagh kept his answers short, but when it came out that he had participated in the battles of the Burning Plains and Ilirea, Esvar grew visibly excited, and his questions redoubled.

Murtagh fended them off as best he could while they went to the mess hall for the company’s midday meal. The food was nothing special—half a loaf of dark-brown bread, a bowl of stew, and a mug of small beer—but Murtagh enjoyed what he now knew was the not-so-insignificant luxury of having someone cook for him. Still, it was a muted pleasure. He could not forget his purpose for being there: Silna. Frustration burned within him and dulled his appetite. He wanted nothing more than to act, but until the moment was right, all he could do was bite his cheek and wait.

So he ate and pretended at niceties.

Esvar sat on the other side of one of two long wooden tables that filled the mess hall, still talking. “Did y’ see Eragon, then? And the dragon Saphira?”

“I saw them,” said Murtagh.

“Were you close to them? Did you get to talk with them?”

He shook his head. “No. I only saw them at a distance.”

“Ah,” said Esvar, disappointed. “But still, you were awful lucky to see ’em! I’d love to have th’ chance someday. Can you believe how brave they were t’ face the king and Shruikan, and they killed ’em too!”

Not without my help. Murtagh bit back his annoyance and, in a mild tone, said, “I’m sure they were very brave.”

Esvar didn’t seem to notice. “Supposedly Eragon is only a year older’n me! How strange is that?! Can you imagine being a Dragon Rider? Can you imagine having a dragon! Why, I don’t know what I’d do. Fly to the top of the sky and fight every bandit and traitor I could find.”

Murtagh smiled into his mug and then tipped it toward Esvar. “You know, I believe you would.”

Esvar leaned in toward him, face shining, cheeks reddened with excitement. “Did y’ fight any Urgals at th’ Burning Plains, or had they already joined with the Varden?”

“They’d already joined.”

“That’s too bad. I always wanted to fight an Urgal. But surely you saw some up closelike, yes?”

Sitting at the other table, Gert looked over from the food he was busy shoveling into his mouth with the practiced haste of a man who had been a soldier for most of his life. “Don’t bother Task with so many questions. The man must be half dead from ’em.”

A flush turned the tips of Esvar’s ears bright red. “Yessir. Sorry, sir.” And he bent over his own food.

Murtagh gave the weaponmaster a thankful nod, but Gert looked away without acknowledging it.

At the far end of the tables, several of the guards were talking amongst themselves. With Esvar quieted, Murtagh took the opportunity to eavesdrop.

“—as you will, but th’ queen is still young,” said one man.

“Ah. ’S never too early,” said another. “Till she has an heir, the kingdom won’t be settled. She’d best marry King Orrin, and—”

“That mewler?” broke in a third guard. “Lord Risthart o’ Teirm would be a far better match. Or even our own Lord Relgin. At least he—”

“Old Relgin’s wife might have something t’ say ’bout that,” said the first man, followed by a rather crude suggestion.

As the guards laughed, Murtagh stared into his bowl, his fist tight around the handle of the spoon. The thought of Nasuada marrying any of those men, much less some faceless stranger, filled him with an inexpressible rage.

How difficult her position is. The men were right. If Nasuada didn’t produce an heir in the next few years, the crown would rest uneasy upon her head, and the continuity of her lineage and the peace the Varden had fought so hard for would be in jeopardy.

Murtagh didn’t want to think about whom Nasuada might have to choose as her consort. The demands of statehood and diplomacy made no allowances for personal feelings. Nasuada would do what was best for her realm, and as for him…if he could work from the shadows and help keep Alagaësia stable, perhaps he could buy her some more time to consolidate her rule.

He forced himself to keep eating, even though his appetite had deserted him.

It wasn’t long before Esvar started talking again. He didn’t ask so many questions as earlier but instead went on about the guards, Captain Wren, and his own experience in the company (all two months of it), as well as his life in general. Murtagh was happy to listen; he’d spent so long with only Thorn for conversation, the sound of another human’s voice was in itself rewarding. But he also found interesting the things that Esvar considered important.

Only a handful of years separated the two of them, and yet Murtagh felt as if he were decades older. Esvar’s mind was full of dreams of daring, adventure, and honor. He nearly worshipped Captain Wren and others he considered to be shining examples of heroic accomplishment, including, of course, Eragon. And he was devoted to the guards with the fevered conviction of youth or the newly converted.

Over the course of his talking, it came out that Esvar’s father had died in a storm, out on Isenstar Lake, when Esvar was only seven. At that, Murtagh felt a sympathetic pang; he understood Esvar’s need to find guidance and a sense of purpose. It was an almost physical longing.

Esvar had an additional motivation for joining the guards, one Murtagh had never experienced: a need to provide. As he said, “An’ this ways I can give coin to my ma, and she doesn’t have to spend so much of th’ day at the market. I’m able t’ put bread an’ meat on the table, and my sisters can get a new dress each year, both of ’em.”

“That must make you proud,” said Murtagh.

Esvar nodded, but his expression was serious. “It’s an awful responsibility, though. If something were to happen to me while on duty…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“No,” said Murtagh. None of them had any shield against the vagaries of fate. Not even Dragon Riders were safe from tragedy.

After they ate, Murtagh attempted to return to the barracks while the rest of the men were still in the mess hall, but Esvar forestalled him, saying, “What for? Y’ have everything y’ need, Task. ’Sides, Gert’ll be wanting us on th’ field.”

Murtagh clenched a fist even as he forced a smile. “Of course. After you.”

With Esvar, he joined the guards who weren’t stationed on watch in drilling with spear and pike in the yard. It was an odd experience. Murtagh had always trained alone or with a single instructor, such as Tornac, and he had never fought as part of a massed formation, not even in Farthen Dûr. Moving in unison with the other men, shouting as they shouted, stamping his feet against the ground as they lunged and stabbed, advanced and retreated…there was a comfort to the experience. Murtagh found himself relaxing, feeling as if he could stop the run of his thoughts and simply exist.

For the first time, he realized how appealing it was to follow instead of lead. The guards could trust Gert and Captain Wren to think for them. All they had to do in turn was obey. Which, admittedly, was sometimes easier said than done. Even so, the effort of drilling or standing watch paled in comparison to the responsibilities of command.

As the sun descended, and their boots kicked up a haze of golden dust in the yard, Murtagh felt a sudden and strong regret that he couldn’t stay. That he had to break his oath to Captain Wren and—yet again—prove himself a liar and betrayer.

Murtagh’s enjoyment of the moment turned to bitter ashes, and his mood remained dark and dour throughout the rest of the drilling.

Afterward, as he and Esvar replaced their weapons on the racks along the yard, the yellow-haired guard said, “It wears y’ down some, but it always feels good t’ practice, don’tcha think?”

Murtagh grunted.

Esvar misunderstood. “Ah, don’t let it get t’ you. Few days of it, an’ you won’t even notice th’ weight of a spear.”

Once more, Murtagh attempted to return to the barracks, only for Gert to quickly remind him of the downside of belonging to the company: the lack of personal freedom. The weaponmaster set them to drawing water for the scullery, and then there were shirts of mail to oil and stables to muck and stocks and stores to organize.

Captain Wren, Murtagh soon came to understand, did not believe in letting his men stand idle when not on watch.

Murtagh’s frustration grew. In the stables, he saw evidence for what Carabel had mentioned: a wagon readied for departure, saddles laid out, bridles being repaired. A blacksmith was seeing to the shoes of several horses, including Captain Wren’s black charger, a great fearsome beast by the name of Beralt.

When Murtagh asked about the preparations, Esvar shrugged and said, “Couldn’t say. Captain’s business.”

Murtagh took consolation in the fact that whatever was planned had yet to happen. Regardless, it hardened his opinion toward Wren and the guards. If Carabel was right, at least some of them were engaged in inexcusable villainy.

As they were shifting firewood for the captain’s quarters, as well as the kitchens, Gert came by. “We had word from th’ fortress,” he said. “First thing tomorrow, Lord Relgin wants to see th’ one what killed Muckmaw. Best make sure your boots are shined and your hair is combed, Task. Won’t do to offend his Lordship.”

“Yessir.” An iron door seemed to slam shut inside Murtagh’s mind. There was no choice now. He couldn’t stay among the guards past the night. An appearance at Relgin’s court would be the surest way of breaking his disguise.

Once the sun was down and the guards were asleep, he had to try to reach Silna. It would be his only chance. Don’t give up, he thought. I’m coming.

Evening had settled over Gil’ead, and the streets were mired in purple shadow. Warm candlelight started to appear behind shuttered windows, and lanterns and torches bobbed along the ways as late travelers and early carousers hurried to their destinations.

Murtagh trotted between the wooden buildings, nose wrinkled in distaste at the smoke that had settled across the city along with the late-afternoon chill. His duties with the guards were over for the day, but Wren’s company closed and locked their gatehouse at sundown, so he had only a few minutes of freedom left.

Was that a familiar face among the knot of men and women standing by the door of a common house across the street? No…no, he didn’t think so. He ducked his head and hurried on, trusting that the tabard of the city watch was all anyone would see when they looked at him.

At the eastern edge of Gil’ead, he found a lone poplar tree by the edge of a barley field. After checking that no one else was in the vicinity, he sat and closed his eyes and focused on the thread of thought that joined him to Thorn.

As the window between their minds widened, the dragon’s relief was a palpable sensation washing over Murtagh’s body. For a time, they merely enjoyed their shared embrace, and then Murtagh said, Are you safe? Has anyone found you?

Only a wandering jackrabbit, who was much surprised.

I can imagine. Did you eat it?

Murtagh could feel Thorn snort. To what end? I find larger pieces of meat stuck between my teeth. What of you? How goes it?

He made no attempt to hide his aggravation. They’ve kept me running ragged all day long. I haven’t had more than five minutes to myself.

Do they smell something wrong with you?

I don’t think so. It’s just how they operate. I’m going to try for the door once everyone’s asleep. If all goes well, I can sneak Silna out without being noticed, and then I’ll take her to Carabel, and we can be rid of this city.

Thorn noticed his grimness at once. Why do you hate it so?

Words were insufficient, so Murtagh shared the images and feelings dominating his mind—Esvar’s comments about Eragon and Saphira; his own conflicted response to being so close to the death place of his father; the sense of unity he’d experienced moving together with the other men in the yard; his distaste at breaking another oath; and in general, the deep and growing discomfort Murtagh felt for the situation and his place within it.

This is why I prefer to avoid your kind, said Thorn. They are too difficult, too complicated. Things are simpler when we stick to the sky.

If only we could.

Then, too, Murtagh shared the men’s comments about Nasuada and her need for an heir. And he made no attempt to hide his distress at the thought.

Thorn hummed in his mind, and in Murtagh’s mind, he saw the dragon’s tail wrapping around him, as if to protect and comfort him.

Perhaps you should seek her out, if you feel so strongly about whom she chooses as her mate, said Thorn.

It’s not that simple.

It is as simple as you make it.

If I were a dragon, maybe.

Slight amusement colored Thorn’s response: You are as close to a dragon in human form as I have ever met.

Coming from Thorn, that was no small compliment, and Murtagh knew it. If only I could breathe fire like you.

That’s what magic is for. Then, changing the topic, Thorn said, What do you make of Captain Wren’s intentions?

Murtagh opened his eyes and looked at the first few stars appearing in the orange and pink sky. I don’t know. Politics? Personal ambition? He seems intelligent and devoted to his men, but I have a feeling…

The wood face masks.

Yes. Anyone who has masks like that has an interest in secrets, in hiding themselves, and in magic. It’s a dangerous combination.

An image of the masks passed through Murtagh’s mind as Thorn returned the memory to him for notice. Which mask would you choose?

A short laugh escaped him. None. I wear too many already.

Not with me.

No, not with you.

Then Thorn wished him luck, and they said their farewells, and—with a strange feeling in his heart—Murtagh headed back to the barracks.

As Murtagh sat on his cot and started to unlace his boots, Esvar came over and, in a somewhat subdued voice, said, “Look, ah, Task, I’m sorry if I were bothering you earlier.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” said Murtagh. He pulled off his right boot.

“Well, that’s kind of you to say. I just got excited t’ have someone new in our ranks, ’specially one as fought with Eragon and Saphira.”

“Again, it’s fine.” He pulled off his left boot.

Esvar shifted uncomfortably. “Well…I know ’tisn’t easy settling in thisways. It’s a big change joining the guard. Least, it were for me. But…anyways, I wanted you t’ know you’re welcome, an’ I’ll be glad t’ stand watch with you any day, even if’n it is raining.”

The words struck Murtagh to the bone. He stared at the boot in his hand for a moment, and then looked up at Esvar. “That’s very kind of you, Esvar.”

Esvar bobbed his head, embarrassed, and was about to leave when Murtagh said, “Are you standing watch tonight?”

“Me? No, no. I get t’ sleep tonight.”

Good. Murtagh watched Esvar walk back to his own cot. Then he shook his head, undid the clasp of his new cloak, and pulled off his red tabard.

As did the other men, Murtagh stored his clothes and belongings in the chest at the bottom of his cot. To his displeasure, the hinges of the chest made an annoying squeal loud enough to wake anyone who heard it.

It was night then, and Gert stood at the front of the barracks, looking them over with a half-shuttered lantern in his hand. He gave a satisfied grunt. “Right. Turn in. First call is two bells before dawn.” Then he closed the lantern and left through the front door.

The interior of the barracks was profoundly dark, even after Murtagh’s eyes adjusted to the absence of light. The only hint of illumination was a thin beam—pale and indistinct—that slipped through a crack in the shutters facing the stone tower of the officers.

Murtagh lay on his back with his eyes open, listening to the breathing of the other men. The black underside of the curved ceiling was deadly dull, but he was afraid to close his eyes, lest he nod off and lose his chance.

It probably wasn’t much of a risk—the thought of sneaking into the catacombs filled his veins with too much fire for sleep to be a likely prospect—but it was best to be cautious. Any mistakes in the barracks could prove fatal. If not for him, then for the men around him, and Murtagh preferred to avoid fighting them.

As long as he did everything right, no one should know what he had done or where he had gone. He felt sorry about Esvar—the youth’s optimism and enthusiasm were bright spots of positivity in the day, but some things couldn’t be helped.

Time passed with creeping slowness. Murtagh tried counting the beats of his heart, but that only made the minutes seem even longer.

He was determined to wait until at least an hour past midnight before he chanced the catacombs. That would allow the guards plenty of time to fall asleep, and it might even be long enough for the man standing watch underground to nod off.

At least Murtagh hoped so.

He shifted on the cot, uncomfortable. He’d spent so long out of doors with Thorn, it felt strange to be lying on a bed again, even an unpadded cot. The canvas backing sagged beneath his weight, putting a curve in his spine that made his lower back ache. He tried shifting to his side, but that only put a painful crook in his neck.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was going to be a taxing few hours.

To distract himself, he set to composing another poem, this one not an Attenwrack, but a form of his own devising. In a silent voice, he said:

Sing of sorrows soft and sad.

Cry, O winged herald, of battles won and lost.

Who mourns for fallen men, in conflict slain?

What comfort tears when flocks of crows descend?

The words echoed in his mind as he lay in the dark. “Forgive me,” he whispered. Whether the words were meant for the ghosts of his past or the men in the barracks, he wasn’t sure, but when he closed his eyes, a field of drowned bones filled his vision.

CHAPTER X Softly Creeping…

Somewhere in the sleeping city, a black-faced owl hooted and then hooted again.

Murtagh levered himself into a sitting position on his cot. Throughout the barracks, the guards lay still and silent, their breathing slow, even, measured. One or two of them snored, but not loudly enough to wake the others.

Ever so carefully, Murtagh opened his mind and extended his consciousness to touch the thoughts of the other men. They were, as he hoped, all deeply asleep, lost in the confusion of their dreams.

He maintained a delicate contact with their collective minds as he edged down his cot and put a hand on the lid of the chest. “Maela,” he whispered. Quiet.

Holding his breath, he lifted the lid.

It swung up and back with hardly a sound.

Relieved, he slowly pulled out his bedroll and all it contained, as well as the boots, cloak, and arming sword he’d been given.

But he left the kite shield. It would just slow him down and make stealth that much more difficult. Besides, he had his own shield, albeit with Thorn. And he left the tabard. It might have helped him to avoid unwanted attention, but he no longer felt comfortable wearing the uniform of the guard.

He wrapped the cloak around the belt of the sword so the buckle wouldn’t jangle, and then slowly stood and padded on sock-covered feet toward the back of the room.

At the last cot in line—which was empty—he tripped.

He cursed silently as he regained his balance, his face frozen in a snarl.

Across the barracks, one of the guards stirred, and he sensed a twinge of awareness from the man’s mind.

Murtagh remained hunched in a half crouch, afraid to move.

After several minutes, when the man seemed to again be deep in slumber, Murtagh straightened inch by inch and continued to the ink-black archway at the rear of the barracks.

He put a hand against the cold stone wall and felt his way down several steps. Then he sat and pulled on his boots, laced them tight, unwrapped the sword, buckled it around his waist, and secured the clasp of the cloak at his throat. The cloak was a gamble; it could easily get caught between his legs at an inopportune time, but it would also serve to muffle his movements. Lastly, he slung his bedroll across his shoulders. He wasn’t planning on returning to the barracks—not to sleep, in any case—and there was a chance he’d have to leave in a hurry, and he didn’t want to lose any more of his belongings. When you owned only a few things, they became all the more precious.

He stood and resumed feeling his way down the stairs. He wanted to cast a werelight, but it would be too risky, and besides…

…a dull orange glow appeared before him as he spiraled beneath the surface of the earth, gilding the face of the stone wall so that every pit and pock and chipped imperfection stood in high relief.

At the bottom of the stairs was another archway, this one easy enough to see in the flickering light.

Murtagh pressed himself against the outer curve of the staircase as he edged down to the archway and poked his head around the frame of mortared stone.

A long, dark tunnel stretched out to the left and right. Despite what Esvar had said, it didn’t look like elf-work to Murtagh, but rather ordinary human craftsmanship. The passage to the right extended underneath the fortress, while the left-hand branch reached toward the city.

Too many tunnels, he thought. It would have been helpful to know of them when he’d been trying to rescue Eragon from the fortress. He’d had no idea that the city was sitting on a rabbit warren of underground passages.

It was the left-hand side of the tunnel that interested him the most. Several wooden doors, reinforced with bands of wrought iron, were set into the walls. Bolted to the walls between the doors were sconces that held tall candles, two of which were lit and which cast a field of dancing shadows across the stones.

A guard stood next to the middlemost door, leaning on his pike, head slumped forward, eyes half closed.

Murtagh took a moment to consider. From what Captain Wren had said, he knew the guards had wards on them. And he knew that some of the wards were intended to protect against magical attacks. But what exactly constituted an attack was open to interpretation.

Murtagh didn’t want to harm the man. The guard was doing his duty without obvious malice. But he did have to get past him.

He frowned. If he cast a spell on the guard and it triggered any of his wards, the man was sure to know. The drain of energy would alert him, if nothing else. Which left only two options: either Murtagh could physically overpower the man or he could use the Name of Names to strip the man’s defenses and then incapacitate him with magic.

He tightened his hand on the hilt of the arming sword. The Name of Names was the obvious choice, but he hated to keep using it. The Word was a powerful secret—one of the most powerful secrets—and every time he uttered it, he risked teaching it to some unknown listener, even if he paired it with a concealing spell, as he had done in the Fulsome Feast. And no matter how well constructed a piece of magic, there was always a chance it might not have the intended effect.

It was bad enough that he, Eragon, and Arya knew the Word. Three was two too many to keep a secret, and every additional person who learned the Name was another chance for someone to cause untold harm.

If Murtagh had known more of the ancient language and its uses—if he’d been properly trained as a Rider and magician, as Eragon had been—he would have felt more confident of bypassing the guard’s wards without the Name of Names. But as it was, he keenly felt the inadequacy of his instruction, and he resented it.

The arguments for and against using the Word flashed through Murtagh’s mind, but he knew he had already made his decision. He had to avoid making noise, and since he wasn’t going to kill the guard…

Keeping his voice as low as possible, he uttered the Name of Names, and with it, he said, “Slytha.” Sleep.

Even as he spoke, he darted into the tunnel and ran toward the guard.

The man twitched and fell forward, arms and legs going limp, pike slipping from his slack fingers.

Murtagh caught the guard before his head slammed into the floor, but the pike clattered against the stones, and his helmet slipped off and bounced away, sending echoes chasing back and forth through the tunnel.

“Ah!” said Murtagh. He lowered the man to the floor and then fled down the tunnel, out of the range of the candlelight and into the shadows. There he waited, breathless, straining his ears to hear if anyone in the barracks was coming to investigate.

Long moments passed. A breath of wind tickled the back of his neck, and he watched a large brown spider crawl along the corner of the wall, a sac of white eggs webbed to its back. His lip curled.

He loosened his grip on the hilt of the arming sword. They’re still asleep. He didn’t feel safe, though. All it would take was one of the guards waking up to use the privy, and his absence could be discovered.

Moving quietly, he returned to the guard he’d put to sleep and placed a finger against the man’s stubbled neck. His pulse was strong and steady, and his chest continued to move.

Satisfied that the man was fast asleep, Murtagh stepped over the pike on the ground and went to the middlemost door. It was the one the man had been standing watch by, so Murtagh guessed it was the door he wanted.

He pulled on the iron ring bolted to the wood. The door didn’t move. Of course. He pushed instead. The door still didn’t move.

Murtagh’s eyes narrowed as he searched the wood planks for a keyhole. In the dim light, it took him a few seconds to find: a small round hole by one corner of the iron plate that backed the ring.

He raised a finger and touched the keyhole, prepared to use magic, but a thought stopped him.

He knelt by the sleeping guard and searched along his leather belt. The man smelled of smoke, mutton, cardus weed, and long hours spent drilling in the sun. Murtagh wrinkled his nose. He didn’t understand why more folks didn’t bathe on a regular basis. Cold water was no excuse to walk around stinking like a tannery.

Metal clinked as his fingers found something hard hanging off the guard’s belt. He looked; as he’d hoped, a key.

He fit the key into the lock and turned it until he heard an unpleasantly loud clunk. With a final glance up and down the tunnel, he pushed open the door.

CHAPTER XI The Door of Stone

The chamber inside was totally dark. Even Murtagh’s eyes—sharpened as they were by his bond with Thorn—could not pick out a single detail.

He returned to the tunnel and retrieved a candle. With his free hand, he grabbed the guard’s ankle and dragged him through the doorway into—

—a war room of sorts. A long wooden table occupied the center of the chamber, and on it, a map of Alagaësia, similar to the one in Captain Wren’s study. Backless chairs surrounded the table, and a rack of scrolls rose against a side wall. Several tall iron candelabra stood around the room, and there were soot stains on the low vaulted ceiling, which was covered with bricks.

Opposite the door he’d entered, there was another—smaller, darker, made of polished wood—that led deeper into the catacombs.

Murtagh left the guard by the table and went back out into the tunnel to fetch the fallen pike and helmet. With both in hand, he closed the door behind him, locked it, and then placed pike and helmet on the table.

He glanced around, curious. Part of him wanted to linger, to see what was written on the scrolls, to see if he could find out what sort of schemes Captain Wren was working on. But time was limited, and he had no intention of getting caught.

He checked on the guard one more time. Still asleep. The spell Murtagh had cast was a powerful one. Barring outside interference, the man should sleep for half a day or more.

Murtagh lit several tapers in the candelabra before proceeding to the next door.

He raised his eyebrows. “Interesting.”

Lines of runes had been carved into the gleaming wood, which looked old and worn, ancient even. He touched the scarred surface; it felt denser than oak, hard as metal. “Môgren,” he muttered. The black-needled pinetrees that grew in the Beor Mountains, home of the dwarves. It was rare to find anything made of that wood in the western half of Alagaësia. He looked closer. The runes themselves were of an archaic design, and as he tried to read them, he realized that they were indeed runes such as the dwarves used, not humans.

He shook his head. He could read many types of writing, but Dwarvish wasn’t one of them. What were dwarves doing here, and so long ago? he wondered. Or had the door been made elsewhere and then brought to Gil’ead at some later date?

Questions that he doubted he would ever have answers to. Perhaps the Eldunarí could have told him.

Unlike the first door, there was no keyhole cut into the Môgren, but there was an oddly shaped depression, as wide as his hand, in the center. Because of the shifting shadows of the candlelight, it took him a minute to realize what he was seeing: a reverse impression of the bear mask from Captain Wren’s study. A lock, then. Possibly magic, but not necessarily.

“What are you up to?” he murmured.

Murtagh considered sneaking back into the barracks and over to Wren’s study to retrieve the mask, but dismissed the idea as too risky.

No, what he needed was…He glanced around the room. Wood. He needed wood.

He went to the rack of scrolls and, after examining it, pulled out one of the shelves. He placed one end of the plank against the depression in the door and whispered, “Thrysta.”

Instead of releasing the power in a single burst, he restricted it to a gentle—but inexorable—push. The plank crumpled inward as if being crushed by an invisible boulder, and the wood fit itself to the lines and contours of the mask impression.

A small, tight smile formed on Murtagh’s face as he guided the spell. Just a little more…

The door broke with a loud crack, splitting up the middle.

“Son of an Urgal,” he said, teeth clenched. He ended the spell.

There was no helping it now; the guards would know someone had broken in. Literally.

Annoyed with himself, Murtagh started to pull the pieces of wood away. Once the opening was wide enough, he fetched a candle and stepped through.

Light blossomed overhead.

He winced and lifted a hand to shade his eyes. After a second, he could see.

The light came from a piece of white quartz embedded in the ceiling; it emitted a steady glow similar to that of the dwarves’ flameless lanterns, which he had seen throughout their city-mountain Tronjheim.

The chamber was longer and narrower than the war room. The walls curved inward and were supported by thick white ribs. Actual ribs. The bones of a dragon.

A horrible suspicion formed in Murtagh that he was looking at the ribs of Morzan’s dragon, buried beneath the city by whoever had made that space.

Anchored between the ribs were shelves. On those shelves, and on a stone-topped table in the center of the room, were dozens of flasks, alembics, beakers, burners, bottles, and casks, and several braziers. Alchemy. Or something like it.

Murtagh slowly walked through the room, stopping at times to examine this or that. The place was a treasure house for any magician. He picked up one of several books and opened it to find himself looking at a list of words.

Words in the ancient language.

Words with definitions.

Excitement shot through him as he realized what he was holding. A dictionary! His lips moved as he sounded out several of the entries: “Flauga, flautja, flautr…” Of all the valuables in the chamber, a compendium of the ancient language was by far the most precious.

The book released a small puff of dust as he closed it. Hardly able to believe his good luck, Murtagh carefully placed it in the pouch on his belt and continued forward.

Two steps farther, he found a small ornate box full of faceted gems. He picked up a teardrop-shaped yellow diamond nearly as big as his thumbnail and, on a hunch, attempted to touch it with his mind. A torrent of coiled energy twisted and turned before his inner eye, constrained by the substance of the gem.

He withdrew his mind and smiled a crooked smile, bouncing the gem on his palm. After a moment’s thought, he tucked the diamond into the hem of his cloak, where no one was likely to find it. Having extra equipment was always a good idea, whether it was a weapon, armor, or—in this case—energy to fuel his spells.

The more Murtagh looked, the more questions he had. The room seemed to be devoted to the study of all things magical. On a shelf was a line of bottled liquids labeled with such words as Health, Strength, Fire, and so forth. Potions, he guessed, enchanted to achieve certain effects.

Deep disquiet stirred within Murtagh. Was Wren the magician who used the room? Or was there another? Some unknown spellcaster who lurked in Gil’ead while engaged in arcane study? And what invidious need could they possibly have for werecat younglings?

He touched one of the ribs along the walls. The bone was cool and smooth against his hand, and he felt a pang imagining it was Thorn’s. But he was not sure how much sorrow he felt for Morzan’s dragon. The creature had chosen to serve Galbatorix as much as Morzan had himself; they were both culpable for their sins. As are we all, he thought.

He hurried through the rest of the room. Surely he couldn’t be far from Silna now, though he feared what he might discover when he found her. If she was even there.

Yet another door met him at the far end, and it too differed from those that came before. The lancet structure was made of a single piece of yellowed dragon bone. Perhaps a shoulder blade or a section of enormous skull. An iron ring hung from the center of the door. Embedded above it was a decorative pattern of gems of all different colors: rubies and emeralds and rainbowed diamonds. Tourmaline, star sapphires, and banded chrysoberyl.

Wary, Murtagh touched one of the stones. As he suspected, it contained a notable amount of energy.

He lowered his hand. The door was trapped. That seemed obvious. And if he triggered the trap, there was a good chance it would alert the magician who had made the door. At least, that was how Murtagh would have done it.

Or was it? What if the magician were on the other side of Alagaësia? Alerting them might take a prohibitive amount of energy.

Murtagh scratched his chin, thinking. He could just trigger the trap and trust his wards to protect him, but…that was hardly the smartest path forward. The question was, what would it take to outthink the magician who had enchanted the door? If the spellcaster were clever enough, doing anything to meddle with the door or its surroundings would set off an alarm. Even the Name of Names was no guarantee that Murtagh could completely subvert someone else’s spells, as his experience with Muckmaw had taught him.

Blast it. I can’t waste time.

He paced back and forth, debating. What if he tunneled around the door? That would take a lot of energy; he’d be exhausted by the time he broke through into the room on the other side. And there was a good chance that the walls surrounding the next room were enchanted with some sort of warning spell as well. Again, it was what he would do.

Murtagh squatted and rested his head in his hands. To subvert a ward, you had to think in a sideways fashion. Which was hard—very hard—but in a way, that was the point. The difficulty of imagining a new approach was what protected the person or thing behind the ward.

He imagined inverting a sphere without breaking it. He imagined moving in a straight line down a right angle. Every impossible action that his mind could conceive, he thought of.

A small smile formed on his lips. Perhaps…Eragon had defeated Galbatorix not by trying to hurt him but by trying to help him understand the consequences of his own actions—an approach that neither the king nor his many enemies over the years had thought of. It was possible that a similar indirect approach might work on the door.

The jewels contained energy needed to power whatever enchantments were imbued into the bone door. And if that power were consumed, it would need to be replaced. So it ought to be possible to both place and remove energy from the gems without triggering an additional trap.

Again, it depended on how clever the mysterious magician had been.

Murtagh decided to chance it. What was the worst that could happen? A grim chuckle left him. Most people might say death, but dying was far from the most fearful fate. He and Thorn had already passed through the darkest valley; nothing the wards might do could approach the depths of pain, fear, and debasement they had already faced.

First he needed a place to funnel the energy; it was too much to hold within his body. He’d burn up if he tried. Normally he would store energy within Zar’roc’s ruby pommel, but without the sword…

He retrieved the teardrop-shaped yellow diamond from his cloak. It seemed the stone was going to prove its usefulness sooner than expected.

Holding the diamond in his left hand, he pressed his right against the door. The facets of the jewels were sharp against his palm. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and slowly, cautiously, began to siphon energy out of the gems and into the yellow diamond.

For the first few seconds, the flow of energy was smooth and untroubled. But then he felt increasing resistance, and the diamond grew warm in his hand. The heat quickly increased to an unbearable level. His skin began to burn.

In an instant, he realized the stone was about to explode.

He dropped the diamond and gasped, “Brisingr!”

A bright blue werelight sprang into existence to his right: a burning ball of flame hanging at eye level, the rippling flames causing the air to shimmer and waver like crystal water.

He diverted the energy into the werelight, which grew brighter and brighter, until it was painful to look at, and waves of heat washed off the fist-sized knot of flames. Murtagh ducked his head and leaned away, but he kept his hand on the gems, and he kept drawing on them.

He slowed the flow of energy when the heat became unbearable. Beyond that, his own wards would have been triggered.

Minutes passed while the miniature sun blazed beside him, a pocket furnace suspended by invisible forces, fueled by the potential stored within the jewels.

At last, he felt the flow subsiding, and the werelight dimmed and cooled. He drained every last iota of energy from the gems, emptied them of their dregs, and left them as brittle chalices ready to again be topped to the brim.

Then he ended his spell, and wings of shadows wrapped around him as the werelight vanished.

He wiped the sweat from his brow. His heart was pounding painfully fast, and he felt shaky. The spell, he knew, had nearly killed him. If the diamond had exploded, he doubted that his wards would have been strong enough to protect him.

He picked up the gem. It was still uncomfortably warm. Murtagh had never had difficulty storing energy in a gem before. Though now that he thought about it, he’d only really used the ruby in Zar’roc’s pommel, and that was a far larger stone, of finer quality too, and woven through with elven enchantments. The diamond had none of those advantages. It must have already been filled to its limit. That or there had been significantly more energy stored in the door than he’d realized.

He carefully tucked the diamond back into the hem of his cloak. It was a matter that bore more attention, when he had the time.

He squared his shoulders. Now for the most dangerous part…

He pushed on the door.

It didn’t move.

He pulled, and still…it remained obstinately closed.

Angered, Murtagh said, “Ládrin.” Open, and he put the full force of his will behind the arcane word.

With an alarming creak, the door swung inward on hidden hinges. Murtagh waited a moment to see if he’d triggered a trap, but nothing happened, so he again took up his candle and stepped across the threshold.

Another light sprang to life from a piece of quartz set into the ceiling of the third room. By the calm, unwavering light, Murtagh saw an underground garden. Raised beds of dirt, edged with brick, lay to the right and left of a narrow path, and in those beds grew trees, flowers, vines, bushes, and all manner of small, woody herbs. The air was warm and aromatic with a heady perfume, and it was moist too, as if a bank of mist had settled across the ground. The low hum of bees sounded amid the leaves.

Some of the plants Murtagh recognized: healing plants, poisonous plants, plants for inducing visions and compelling sleep. But many were unknown to him. There was a lily whose leaf and stem seemed made of living gold and whose petals were of a whitish metal. A drooping tree with berries that glittered like beryls. Mushrooms that had purple caps and electric-blue gills.

And he saw a plant unlike any he had encountered before. It had a single stem topped with a fleshy, pitcher-shaped cup perhaps two hands high. And from the cup stood small orange tentacles, which waved gently in the air.

Even as he watched, a frog hopped past the pitcher plant. Two of the tentacles reached out, fast as snakes, grabbed the frog, and pulled it into the mouth of the cup and held it there.

The frog uttered the smallest, most pitiful screech Murtagh had ever heard. Then it made no more sounds.

His face tightened, and he gripped the hilt of the arming sword, half-minded to chop the tentacled plant in twain.

After a moment, he thought better of it. But he kept his hand on the sword as he continued down the path. What witchery is this?

He was so focused on the odd sights that he forgot to watch where he was walking, and he caught an ankle on the corner of a brick that stuck out. He stumbled forward a step. As he recovered, he saw a crystal case sitting between two bushes, nearly hidden by the leafy branches. And resting in the case, a blue-black oval that was half a foot wide and half a foot tall. An egg. An evil-looking egg.

He stared at it, unsettled. What sort of creature hatches from such a thing? Not a dragon, that seemed sure, nor any other being he was familiar with. For the first time in his travels, he wished that Eragon or Arya were there with him. Whatever the purpose of the rooms underneath Gil’ead, they had been built and furnished with serious intent, and he had a creeping feeling that whoever it was that used them was dangerous in the extreme.

His gaze turned to the door at the back of the garden—the last door that needed opening, or so he hoped.

With quiet steps, he moved toward it.

The door was made not of wood, not of bone, but of grey granite, as hard and unyielding as an oath of revenge. The surface had a dry, textured appearance, and there were veins of tarnished copper running throughout. A handle also made of granite was mounted upon the left side.

Murtagh stood before the door, wary. He probed with his mind and felt…nothing. No gems, no stored energy, no hidden consciousness watching him, just cold dead stone, heavy with the weight of ages.

He pushed his thoughts past the door, into the chamber beyond. Even there, he found nothing but blank emptiness.

Worry and anger hardened his mind. Had Carabel been telling him the truth about Silna? Suddenly he had doubts. What if all this was a ploy to deceive me into coming here? But for what reason? To gather information on Carabel’s behalf? To confront the spellcaster using the chambers? Was Carabel working at Relgin’s behest?

Murtagh wasn’t willing to give up on the idea of Silna, though. He had to know for sure whether she was imprisoned beneath the barracks.

He grasped the handle.

The garden remained as before, bees humming in the background.

He pulled.

The door swung open in perfect silence.

The room past the garden was a bare stone cell. The walls were roughly quarried granite, devoid of windows, with a single iron bracket hung next to the door. On the bracket sat a stub of a candle.

A small sky-blue blanket lay crumpled on the floor. And that was all.

The sight made Murtagh’s heart ache. For a moment, it felt as if he were back in Urû’baen, in the dungeons beneath the citadel—he and Thorn both—listening to the screams of other prisoners while the overpowering weight of the king’s mind bore down upon him. The walls seemed to close in on him, and he had a sudden feeling of being deep underground, alone and isolated, trapped in the airless dark.

He picked up the blanket. It was barely bigger than a kerchief and smelled of…smelled of fear. Silna, or some other child, had been held captive there. That much seemed certain.

Tears welled in his eyes, but they did not fall.

He blinked and took a closer look at the back wall. Was there something on the…Yes. A faint line of white chalk. He traced it with his eyes and found that the line drew an arch from floor to head height.

An arch or a doorway. The idea of a doorway. A yearning for freedom.

He touched the back wall. It was hard, with no hint of movement, and when he tapped on the stone, it sounded solid.

His breath caught in his throat, and an oppressive grief collapsed upon him. Then a terrible rage began to build atop the grief, and his hands closed in fists, and he set his teeth and ground his jaw.

They would pay. They would all pay for what they had done to the werecat youngling, and he would teach them to fear him as they had feared his father.

“Curse you,” he muttered, and spun around to leave.

A blur of brindled fur sprang toward him from the back corner of the cell. Weight struck him against the neck and shoulders, and hisses and yowls echoed in his ears as a flurry of white claws tore at his throat.

CHAPTER XII Pathways into Darkness

Murtagh’s wards protected him from the creature’s attack, but the impact caused him to stumble backward into the edge of the door. He dropped to one knee.

Despite his wards, instinct led him to keep his eyes screwed shut. He felt upward until his hands closed upon warm fur, and then he pulled the kicking, clawing, spitting creature off his neck.

Only then did he get a good look at it.

Silna!

The youngling was a mosaic-coated cat with large green eyes narrowed in anger, tufted ears pressed flat, tail puffed out, and heavy paws that scraped at the air. The werecat was close in size to a housecat, and her head had the distinctive, overly large appearance of a kitten’s.

“Shh, shh,” Murtagh tried to say in a calming manner, but the werecat kept twisting and biting in a desperate attempt to break free.

Finally, he said, “Silna! Eka fricai. Eka fricai.” I am a friend.

The werecat’s clawing ceased, and she stared at him with a flat, hostile gaze.

He hesitated and then carefully placed her on the floor and let go.

The ridge of fur along Silna’s spine remained raised. But she didn’t run. She seemed, Murtagh was relieved to see, unharmed, though she looked painfully thin.

He held out his hands, palms raised. “Can you understand me? Carabel sent me to find you.”

Silna’s lips retracted to bare her sharp white teeth.

“I’m a friend,” Murtagh insisted. He reached out with his thoughts toward the werecat’s mind. The instant he touched her consciousness, she hissed, and he felt nothing but fear on her part.

He recoiled from her mind. “I’m sorry. Sorry. Do you understand?”

The werecat’s slitted eyes darted between him and the open door, and he realized he was still blocking the way. He didn’t move. “I can help you out of here, but you have to trust me.” He held out one hand toward her, same as he would with a skittish horse.

Silna let out a small hiss, but she didn’t retreat.

It’s a start. “Can you change forms?” he asked. “Then we could talk. If you can talk…” Murtagh wondered at what age werecats gained the ability to shift their shape. Were they born with it?

He edged to one side of the doorway, opening a space for Silna to pass through. “Come on,” he said in a coaxing tone. “Come with me.”

The werecat’s eyes narrowed again, and then she darted forward and past him before he could react.

“Blast it!” Murtagh scrambled to his feet as Silna streaked toward the far end of the arcane garden.

Just before she reached the doorway to the alchemy workshop, a voice sounded ahead of them. Esvar’s voice: “—an’ I swore I heard somethin’, so I came t’ get you directly. Look!”

Silna slid to a stop and darted back the way she’d come.

Within the workshop, Murtagh saw Esvar, three other guards, and the nearly white-haired magician of Du Vrangr Gata. Esvar gaped at Silna. Whether from surprise that she had escaped or at seeing a werecat, Murtagh didn’t know.

Nor did he wait to find out.

He opened his mouth to speak the Word and break any spells protecting the men or directed at him or Silna. But before he could utter a sound, the men spotted him, and a blade of thought stabbed into his mind—the magician attacking the very essence of his self.

Stay! Murtagh flung the word toward Silna’s consciousness, and then turtled in on himself, armoring his mind with blinkered focus: “You shall not have me. You shall not have me.” He dared not let the magician see his thoughts, and because of that, he dared not loosen his defenses enough to speak the Word and work magic of his own. Not until he gained control of his enemy’s mind.

The werecat kitten cowered behind his back foot and hissed.

The three guards in the front charged: one in front, two behind.

Murtagh swept his cloak across their field of vision, causing them to flinch, and used the momentary cover to draw his arming sword.

The distraction allowed him to strike first. He jabbed the lead man in his right hip and—

—the tip of the blade skated off an invisible barrier a finger’s width from the guard’s skin.

Blast it!

The guard slashed at Murtagh with his own weapon, causing Murtagh to duck. Swordplay alone wasn’t going to win the day. He had to figure out a way around the guard’s wards.

His misadventure with Muckmaw leaped to mind.

Fine. Bracing himself, Murtagh slammed his shoulder into the guard’s chest and knocked him across the room. The guard’s wards kept him from suffering scratches or worse as he crashed into a pair of bushes, but they did nothing to keep his head from whipping to the side and striking the crystal case that contained the blue-black egg, dazing the poor man.

Cracks spiderwebbed the case.

The next soldier shouted and stabbed a spear toward Murtagh’s face. He let his own wards deflect the blow as he darted forward and, still holding the sword, clapped his hands against the sides of the guard’s helmet. The man cried out, dropped his spear, and collapsed.

As Murtagh had suspected. No wards against sound.

The third guard poked at Murtagh with a billed pike. He dodged and smashed the pommel of his sword against the crest of the man’s helm. The blow staggered the guard, and Murtagh followed up with another clap on either side of the man’s head, which sent him reeling into a bed of lilies.

The whole while, Murtagh could feel the magician trying to dig into his mind. The man’s neck was corded with strain, his lips pressed white against his bared teeth, and his hands worked feverishly within the sleeves of his robe.

Murtagh started for him, but Esvar stepped in front of the magician and raised his sword.

“Move aside,” said Murtagh between clenched teeth.

Esvar held his ground. His face was red with anger, but he also had a look of hurt innocence that Murtagh could hardly bear to see. “You swore,” said Esvar. “You swore. I was there. An’ you betrayed us!”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Murtagh. “Stand down.” A bumblebee flew past his face. Its body was iridescent blue.

Esvar shook his head, his expression one of fixed determination, and took a half step forward. “Never! You attacked th’ guard. I’ll die afore I let you pass. Traitor.”

Murtagh had been called worse. He spared a glance for the men lying groaning on the floor; they wouldn’t be a problem. Silna still crouched low to the ground behind him, safe for the moment.

“Kill him,” said the magician, his voice tight with strain.

“You’re no match for me,” said Murtagh. He sounded calmer than he felt.

Esvar’s upper lip curled. “Don’t matter. It’s my duty.” And he lunged, extending his arm in a long stab aimed at Murtagh’s throat.

Murtagh parried, closed the distance between them, and smashed the pommel of his sword against Esvar’s helmet. The younger man dropped to one knee, and Murtagh was about to step past when Esvar drove his shoulders into Murtagh’s knees.

His knees locked out and lightning shocks of pain radiated from the joints. Murtagh stumbled back and watched with some amazement as Esvar got to his feet and shook his head. A thread of blood trickled from his left ear.

“My ma always said I had a thick head,” said Esvar, grim. He lifted his sword again. “Y’ can batter me deaf, Task, but you’ll have t’ kill me afore you get by.”

Murtagh’s frustration boiled over into anger, and he launched several quick jabs at Esvar’s shoulders and hips, hoping that if one of them went through, the wound wouldn’t prove fatal or crippling. But none of them did. Esvar’s wards continued to protect him. The impact of blade against spell sent sparks flying from Murtagh’s sword, and he saw the tip was bent and broken.

He wished Zar’roc was in his hand. Even if the enchanted blade couldn’t cut through Esvar’s wards, the brightsteel wouldn’t break.

Esvar fell back before the blows. He rallied and replied with another strike, attempting to cut Murtagh across the neck and waist.

“Why. Won’t. You. Give. Up!” shouted Murtagh, his fury swelling like a storm. He rained down a series of heavy cuts onto Esvar, breaking his guard and driving the young man to his knees. There was no finesse to Murtagh’s attack, no art, no grace or intelligence as Tornac had taught him, just sheer brute strength. And yet Esvar’s wards continued to hold. Murtagh’s sword glanced off his clothes and skin as if deflected by oiled ice.

Murtagh could see that the spells were tiring Esvar, but no faster than the blows tired Murtagh.

Esvar lashed out with a blind swing toward Murtagh’s legs. Murtagh let the blow bounce off his thigh and hammered at the guard’s shoulder with every fiber of his being, as if he were trying to split the earth itself.

Ting!

His sword shattered, and half of it flew spinning across the room to embed itself in a length of dragon bone.

Murtagh stabbed with the needle-tipped shard that remained attached to the crossguard and—

—the jagged piece of metal sank into Esvar’s upper chest, between his neck and shoulder, near his collarbone.

The guard’s eyes went wide, and he fell onto his backside, stunned. He put a hand to his chest, and his mouth worked several times, but no sound came out.

In an instant, Murtagh’s rage shifted to regret, sorrow, and loathing for what he had done. The distraction was enough for the magician to delve deeper into his mind, gripping and tearing in an attempt to control Murtagh’s thoughts.

“Oh no you don’t!” he growled, finally giving the spellcaster his undivided attention. He attacked the consciousness of the robed man, holding nothing back, only seeking to overwhelm, crush, and suppress.

The spellcaster’s mental defenses crumbled before the onslaught, and Murtagh received a brief flash of imagery from the man—his name was Arven, and he was deeply frightened about, about…—and then the magician’s eyes rolled back and he keeled over.

Murtagh caught him and lowered him to the floor. He’d never had someone faint on him during a mental battle before.

“Why?” asked Esvar in a guileless voice. Tears gleamed in his eyes. “Why would you? I thought…I thought you wanted t’ be part of the watch. Why, why, why?”

“I wish I could,” said Murtagh. He gestured at Silna’s crouched form. “But some things are more important than oaths.”

Confusion filled Esvar’s eyes. “What does a cat have t’ do with it? I don’t understand.”

“I’m glad you don’t,” said Murtagh. He hesitated and then grasped the hilt of the sword sticking out of Esvar. The young man stiffened and held up a hand as if to stop him. “Bite your sleeve. This is going to hurt.”

After a second, Esvar obeyed.

Murtagh gathered his will and said, “Waíse heill,” as he drew the blade out of Esvar’s chest.

The youth arched his back, and cords of muscle stood out on his neck as his clawed hands scrabbled at the floor. Blood welled out around the broken blade as it slid free, and then muscle and skin knit back together, leaving behind unblemished flesh.

Esvar fell back on the floor, limp, and Murtagh sagged with sudden exhaustion. “Why?” whispered Esvar. “Y’ swore an oath, Task.”

Murtagh clenched and unclenched his hands. “I’m sorry. The watch isn’t all you think it is.”

As he turned to leave, he spotted something around Arven’s neck. On a sudden hunch, Murtagh bent, dug his finger under the magician’s collar, and pulled free…

A bird-skull amulet, identical to the one Sarros had been wearing in Ceunon.

Murtagh stared for a second and then covered the amulet with his hand and yanked it off Arven’s neck. He tucked the amulet into the pouch on his belt—next to the one from Ceunon—as he stood. Looking back at Silna, he said, “Come.”

The werecat trotted after him as he strode out of the garden and through the rooms beyond.

As Murtagh stepped into the catacomb tunnel, he heard voices and clattering armor echoing down the staircase that led to the barracks.

What took them so long? he wondered.

To his left, the tunnel ran under the fortress. That way lay more enemies and uncertain escape.

To his right, the passageway would take him out under the main part of Gil’ead. It was his best chance of slipping away without another fight.

Silna attempted to run past him, but he caught her around the belly. “Ah, ah. I don’t think so,” he murmured, and scooped her off the floor.

She tried to wriggle free, but he pressed her close against his side as he turned right and sprinted into the unknown. To his relief, she didn’t bite or claw.

The sound of his pounding footsteps outpaced them in the darkness.

The tunnel curved. Once the staircase was out of sight, Murtagh whispered, “Brisingr,” and formed a small red flame above his head so he could see his way.

Silna growled at the light, and her pupils contracted wire thin.

“Quiet.”

A few hundred feet later, he arrived at an iron grate blocking the tunnel. He grabbed the bars and yanked on them. Flakes of rust showered him, but the metal held.

“Jierda!” The metal snapped like rotten wood, and Murtagh shoved the grate against one wall and hurried past.

His boots splashed in water. A thin rivulet ran down the center of the tunnel, and the walls dripped with moisture. A rat the size of a small dog squeaked when it saw him and the werecat and scurried into a hole in the stone wall.

Behind him, Murtagh heard shouts and curses and spears beating against shields. He quickened his pace as much as he could without losing his footing on the wet rocks.

Silna squirmed in his arm, and he tightened his hold.

The tunnel split in four directions. Uncertain, he took the leftmost branch. Not much farther, it split again, and then yet again, and Murtagh realized he didn’t have the slightest idea which direction he was going. He didn’t despair, though. Tornac had taught him a trick for besting the hedge maze at Lord Varis’s estate, which was to turn in only one direction—left or right, it didn’t matter, as long as you were consistent. Solving a maze in such fashion might take a while, but if there was a path to the other side, doing so would always find it.

So Murtagh turned left at every opportunity. Twice more he had to cut through iron grates, but unlike before, he took the time—a few precious seconds—to reattach the grates, both to inconvenience his pursuers and to hide his trail. He just hoped that the catacombs had more than one exit and that he wouldn’t come out to find half the city’s garrison waiting for him.

Even with the werelight, the darkness was oppressive, and the walls seemed uncomfortably close. Murtagh felt as if he were no more than an insect creeping through the bowels of the earth. He hated the dark and the damp and the memories of being imprisoned beneath Urû’baen.

He tried to avoid remembering, but thoughts of Esvar and the cell hidden behind the door of stone were no less unpleasant. Oathbreaker, that’s what I am. And he knew it was so, for oathbreaker was part of his true name.

The werecat continued to struggle and complain, so at last he said, “Fine. You want to go down? Here.” And he plopped her on the wet stones.

Silna hissed, fur still fluffed out, and she crouched and looked up and down the dark tunnel, uncertain.

Murtagh studied her. Cats weren’t as trusting as dogs, and werecats were even more of an enigma than ordinary cats, but he was beginning to wonder what more he would have to do to prove himself to her. “It’s all right,” he said in a soft voice. When that failed to evince a response, he motioned in either direction. “What’s it to be? Hmm? I don’t know about you, but I’d like to escape here with my hide intact. Come with me, and I’ll do my best to keep you safe.”

The tip of Silna’s tail twitched.

Murtagh took a step down the tunnel. He looked back.

The werecat didn’t move.

He took another few steps. Still, Silna refused to budge. In the gloom, her patched coat nearly vanished, just one more shadow amid the larger darkness.

He kept walking, and as the glow from his werelight faded from Silna’s position, he heard the faint pad of paws following him.

When he turned to look, Silna immediately sat and started licking a paw, as if nothing had happened.

He snorted and resumed walking. He felt sure she would stay close, but for safety’s sake, he opened his mind and let out a tiny feeler, just enough to sense her presence.

In like fashion, they continued.

The two of them wandered for what seemed like hours. They should have long since left Gil’ead behind, but the tunnels were a tangled nest of intersecting and overlapping openings. Who dug these? Murtagh wondered. In places the tunnels almost resembled natural formations; he even bumped his head against a stalactite in one dark corner. The warren made no sense. It reminded him of the lines dug by beetles under the bark of trees.

Still, they pressed onward, and Murtagh did his best to avoid any passage that led deeper into the earth, even if it meant bypassing another left-hand turn. If they ended up on a lower level, he doubted they would ever find the way out, barring a spell to burrow back to the surface.

At times he thought he heard voices behind him, ahead of him, to the sides, but they were always phantoms. The speakers never materialized, and he began to wonder if he were imagining things.

Throughout, he didn’t dare try to contact Thorn. If Arven or any other magician from Du Vrangr Gata—or even an elf—were looking for him, they would be sure to notice his mind reaching out.

So Murtagh confined his thoughts to himself, and he and Silna trotted along in silence.

Finally!

A faint silver glow brightened the tunnel ahead of them, and Murtagh heard the steady burble of running water. “Stay close,” he whispered to Silna. Then he snuffed his werelight, drew his cloak around his waist so it wouldn’t tangle his legs, and crept forward.

The passage narrowed until he was half hunched over, and the light strengthened until…

He saw an end to the tunnel. An end covered by an iron grate, which overlooked a small stream with low, muddy banks. Arching over grate and stream was a wooden bridge. Numerous footsteps echoed off the bridge.

Relieved, Murtagh sank against the curved stone wall. From the stars in the sky and the moonlight on the water, he could tell that he and Silna had been in the tunnels for most of the night. It felt far longer.

They were still in Gil’ead; buildings were visible on either side of the bridge, and men of the guard marched along the banks of the stream, shouting directions to each other. It sounded like every soldier in the city had been roused, which was to be expected.

Silna crept up beside him. Her ears stood tall, and they swiveled to track the passing footsteps.

“Wait,” he whispered.

She flicked an ear and then, after a moment, settled onto her belly and tucked her tail around herself. It was the nearest she had come to him since he’d stopped carrying her. He could smell the musky scent of her wet fur, and the hairs along her tail tickled the back of his left hand.

Satisfied that she wasn’t about to run off on him, Murtagh risked sending an exploratory thought toward where he believed Thorn was hiding.

He found the dragon almost immediately, and he was far closer than Murtagh expected: only half a mile or so outside the city walls, amid a patch of wild roses.

A turbulent wave of joy, relief, and anger washed over him from Thorn. There you are! growled the dragon.

Here I am.

I thought I would have to tear Gil’ead apart stone by stone to find you.

It almost came to that, said Murtagh.

How went it? Did you rescue the—

Yes. But it isn’t safe to talk like this. What about you? Are you in any danger?

There are soldiers searching the fields, but none of them have sighted or scented me.

Despite his words, Murtagh felt Thorn nestle deeper into the rosebushes and the pain as spines tore at his delicate wings.

All right. Stay where you are, and I’ll come to you once I can.

A deep hum came from Thorn’s mind. Be careful.

Always.

They separated their thoughts, and then Murtagh wrapped his cloak around his arms and settled into a more comfortable position. Somehow he had to get Silna to Carabel. There were too many guards on the bridge and in the streets to risk going out, but if he waited too long, the sun would be up, and he’d lose his chance, and he didn’t want to wait for another nightfall. Eventually, someone in the guard might think to check the grate where they were hiding.

He looked at Silna. The kitten blinked and stared back at him.

“Why did they want you?” he asked. “What did they do to you?”

The werecat’s fur bristled, and she looked away.

Murtagh didn’t know why he’d expected anything else.

He closed his eyes for a second and then thought better of it. No sleep for him until Silna was safely with her own kind and he was long gone from Gil’ead. Besides, he didn’t think he could relax enough to sleep.

In his mind, he could still hear Esvar asking, “Why, why, why?” Murtagh ground the heel of his hand against his temple, trying to press the voice from his head. He couldn’t. And he worried that he wouldn’t be able to for days to come.

To distract himself, he pulled out the compendium he’d appropriated—What an elegant word for “stole”—set the tiniest red werelight burning above the pages, and started to memorize the ancient language words. Already he’d found dozens that he could envision being useful. The realization filled him with fierce determination. The compendium alone was worth all the misadventures he’d endured over the past two days. With it, he could begin to bridge the gaps in his arcane education, a prospect that he welcomed most devoutly.

Silna sniffed the corner of the book. Her nose wrinkled.

The dull ache returned to Murtagh’s left forearm as he read, and because of it, he was slow to notice a tickle on the back of his wrist and hand. At last, it became strong enough that he looked down.

A large black spider had crawled onto him. He forced himself not to react, though it took the full strength of his will. If he could not control himself, then he was prisoner to circumstance, and he refused to accept such helplessness.

Nevertheless, his gorge rose, and revulsion made him want to fling the spider away.

With tiny steps, it crossed his hand and passed onto the pages of the book. The creature’s hooked feet made a faint scrabbling sound against the paper.

He tipped the book against the wall and let the spider run onto the stone. It stopped a few inches away, a huddled fist of legs. Silna eyed it, seemingly without interest.

For a moment, Murtagh again felt the weight of dozens of fat-bodied spiders moving across his skin. Their bites had burned like fire and, when left unattended, festered into greenish sores that took weeks to heal. The creatures had bedeviled him every night in that cold underground, making it impossible to sleep, and he had been unable to do more than shake himself in a futile attempt to throw them off….

He reached out and put his thumb down on the spider and pressed it flat. Yellow ichor spilled from its abdomen as it split like an overripe grape.

The werecat’s ears angled backward. She stretched out her neck and nosed the dead spider.

Murtagh returned to reading.

He listened to the city as he scanned the columns of runes. When the streets quieted for a time, and he heard no sounds but the babble of water and the flutter of nightjars chasing their morning meals, he extinguished the werelight and put away the book.

“Be ready,” he whispered to Silna, and edged forward.

The metal bars of the grating were no different from those he’d encountered before. “Kverst,” he said in a quiet voice, and drew a finger across the cold and pitted metal.

The bars parted with bell-like tings, and he lifted the grate out of its setting and placed it to one side. He listened for bystanders and passersby again—he didn’t dare use his mind to probe the area—and then pulled himself out of the tunnel and dropped several feet to the muddy bank below. He turned back and reached up for Silna.

The cat stared down at him without expression.

“Come on,” he whispered, and wiggled his fingers.

At last, the werecat kitten walked to the lip of the tunnel and allowed him to pick her up and place her on the ground next to him.

“Worse than a dragon,” he muttered. He wedged the grating back into position and then said, “Thrysta,” using the spell to force the metal into place. It would take a hammer and chisel to break it free again.

Murtagh bundled the red cloak of the watch around one arm as he led Silna out from under the bridge. He glanced up and down the banks of the stream and—seeing them clear—scrambled up into the street.

He turned to make sure Silna was following.

The instant the werecat cleared the top of the bank, she took off between the buildings, sprinting faster than any human, her stiff tail tracing circles behind her.

Murtagh swore and started after her, but Silna had already vanished into the city, and he could see people staring at him from across the way. He risked opening his mind, but it was as if the werecat had ceased to exist. All he could feel were humans and dogs and the self-satisfied thoughts of a notch-eared tomcat sitting atop a plank fence.

He swore and then swore again.

There was no helping it. Silna was gone, and he had no confidence he could find her again, even if he searched for days. All he could do was hope the guards didn’t spot her and that she was able to return to her own kind.

He swore once more. He had rescued Silna. But would Carabel still give him the answers he sought if he couldn’t deliver the youngling to her? He chewed on the question for a time. It left a bad taste on his tongue.

If the werecat refused…he would insist. That much he was sure of. After everything he’d done for Carabel, he was due his answers. And if, by insisting, he ended up turning werecats as a whole against him—and Thorn—well, that was the price they’d have to pay.

There was only one way to find out.

He pulled his hood over his head and hurried deeper into Gil’ead.

CHAPTER XIII Confrontation with a Cat

It was still early dawn, and all was grey and silent except for the occasional tromp of soldiers and the cry of the watch.

A direct approach to the fortress would have been suicidal, so Murtagh skirted the center of the city and kept to alleys and side streets where possible.

The few folks he encountered gave him suspicious glances, but no more than the situation warranted. All of Gil’ead felt tense, alert, as if violence could break out at any moment. Shutters in houses swung shut seemingly of their own accord when he lifted his gaze, and he saw members of the guard posted along the main thoroughfares.

Murtagh couldn’t stop worrying about Silna as he made his way through the city. Difficult and standoffish though she’d been, he hoped that she was safe and that the guards wouldn’t catch her. She was so small and young…. I should have done a better job of watching her, he thought.

As he neared the fortress, he slowed to a measured walk, not wanting to rush headlong into a dangerous situation.

Without too much trouble, he found the house that Bertolf, Carabel’s manservant, had brought him to before. Murtagh wondered if Carabel owned the elegant building or if she had an arrangement with whoever did. It seemed risky to be ducking in and out of a secret tunnel on a property where you didn’t know who might be watching.

With quick steps, he descended the stone stairs to the well set ten feet or so below the surface of the ground. There, he pushed on the same piece of carving as had Bertolf, and the hidden door swung open.

Murtagh wasn’t eager to again enter a tunnel, but at least he was familiar with this one, and it was far, far shorter than the maze they’d spent most of the night wandering. The thought reminded him of his lost sleep, and he fought back a powerful yawn. Two bad nights in a row took their toll.

He ducked beneath the lintel and walked in. Behind him, the door swung shut with a thud of deadly finality, and darkness swallowed him.

Somewhere ahead of him, the skittering footsteps of a mouse sounded.

“Great,” he said, starting forward with one hand against the wall for balance. “Just great.”

Murtagh growled as he entered the storage room at the end of the tunnel and his shin banged against the lip of a step. Once he closed the tunnel’s other entrance, he listened for anyone in the hall outside. This time he used his mind also, sending his thoughts searching for nearby beings. The only one he found was a rather frightened mouse in a crack along the wall of the storeroom.

Now! Murtagh left the storeroom and hurried through the same side passages Bertolf had led him through during his last visit. He was grateful that the path had been easy to remember and that it was still early enough that most of the fortress’s inhabitants had yet to wake. Plenty of the servants would already be after their duties, but he didn’t think he needed to worry about running into the castle’s baker that far outside of the kitchens.

Nevertheless, he was happy to reach the paneled door to the werecat’s study without incident.

He didn’t bother knocking; he lifted the latch on the door and pushed. It wasn’t locked or barred and swung inward with hardly a sound.

Carabel was sitting on the velvet cushion behind her desk. She was in the shape of a cat, tassel-eared, with a large mane around her neck and down her spine, and beautiful white fur that shone like satin. In size, she was perhaps three times larger than a normal cat, and lean muscles rippled beneath her hide in a way that spoke of savage strength.

She was purring and licking with her pink tongue the matted head of none other than Silna, who lay curled against her side, eyes closed in apparent bliss.

Murtagh paused at the entrance of the study, surprised and somewhat off-balance, but—for many reasons—relieved to see Silna safe. Then he moved in and closed the door behind himself.

“I take it she found you,” he said. He dropped his bedroll on the floor.

Carabel looked at him, and her purring deepened. He felt the touch of her mind, as if she were attempting to communicate with her thoughts, like Thorn.

He armored his consciousness against her and shook his head. “Oh no. Not like that. We talk with words or not at all.”

The werecat’s ears flattened against her narrow skull. Then her form blurred and wavered, as if seen through rippling water, and after a few seconds, she again resembled a short, thin human.

Only she was without clothes.

Murtagh did not care. In other circumstances, her figure might have been distracting, but right then, it had no effect on him. He kept his gaze on the werecat as she picked up her shift from the desk and pulled it on.

“How inconvenient,” said Carabel, showing her pointed little fangs.

Silna made a mewl of protest at being abandoned, and Carabel turned back and began to gently draw her sharp nails across the top of Silna’s head. The kitten nestled closer to Carabel, and Murtagh would have sworn there was a smile upon her tiny lips.

Murtagh planted himself on the center of the knotted rug, directly before the desk. Uncomfortable suspicion soured his mouth. “The two of you are very familiar.”

“Of course,” said Carabel, directing a fond look toward Silna. “She is my daughter.”

“Your daughter.”

“One of many, yes. My youngest.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The werecat looked at him with solemn eyes. “Because names are powerful things. If you had known, it is possible our foes could have discovered the truth from you, and then they might have used Silna against me.” She cocked her head. “You of all people ought to understand the danger of one’s name, Murtagh son of Morzan.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It is who you are, human.”

Murtagh fought to control his temper. “So they didn’t know Silna was yours?”

Carabel shook her head. “No.”

“It was just happenstance that they took her?”

“As best I can tell.”

He growled and paced about the rug. “Why did they kidnap her, then? Excuse me, kittennap her? And the other younglings. Has she said?”

Silna began to purr—a soft, steady rumble—as Carabel scratched along her cheek. Carabel said, “Only that the magician was involved—”

“Arven.”

“Yes, that was his name. And Captain Wren too. They spoke of sending her somewhere farther south.”

Murtagh’s irritation with the werecat receded into the background as he stalked back and forth across the width of the study, trying to puzzle out the situation. “Lord Relgin has to be told.” He stopped and gave Carabel a sharp look. “Or was this done at his command?”

Her expression grew severe. “I do not know,” she said in a dangerously quiet voice. “And I would not care to hazard a guess. In this matter, safety will only be found in surety, and so far, surety eludes us…. I take it you did not find any of our other younglings?”

“There was no sign of them,” he said, and her eyes softened with sorrow. “Does Silna know what happened to them?”

Carabel placed a protective arm around her daughter. The sight sent a pang through Murtagh. “Alas, no,” Carabel replied. “She saw nothing of them. Tell me, if you would, how you rescued her. I would hear the whole of it, in every detail.”

“You owe me answers, cat,” he said, grim.

“And answers you shall have. But first this, if it please you.”

Murtagh took a breath and did his best to put aside his impatience. He could not fault the werecat for asking.

So he described his time at Glaedr’s barrow and how he had extracted the dragon’s golden scale from within its earthy tomb. And he explained the steps he had followed to find Muckmaw’s feeding ground, and how he had fought and killed the great fish.

The werecat listened intently, and at the point of Muckmaw’s death, she went, “Sss. Good. Let the rats eat his tail and may his bones crumble to dust.” By her side, Silna wiggled and looked up at her mother. Carabel resumed petting her. “The fish ate many a werecat over the years, human. It is good he is gone.”

“And you got me to kill him for you.”

Carabel cocked her head. “Would you have been able to gain entrance to the guard otherwise?”

“…No. Probably not.”

Smug, the cat took a sip from a chalice on the desk. “See? There was a rightness to this.” She waved an elegant hand. “You may continue.”

Murtagh’s jaw tightened, but he did as she said and described how he had ingratiated himself within Captain Wren’s company and then how he had made his way into the catacombs beneath the barracks.

The werecat spread the fingers on her free hand and dug them into the top of the desk. “Ssss. And what saw you thereafter, human?”

Murtagh gestured at Silna. “Surely your daughter can tell you.”

“Your eyes see differently than hers.”

He grunted. Then he described the two chambers he’d found after the war room: the magical workshop and the garden of rare and unknown plants. When he mentioned the strange egg in the garden, Carabel stiffened and her spiked hair fluffed, as if she were frightened.

“What is it?” Murtagh asked.

“An ancient wrongness that will need to be dealt with,” said Carabel, examining the tips of her nails. “Rest assured, human, I will see to it that the problem is taken care of.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what this wrongness is?”

Her lips split in a sly little smile. “Every piece of information has a price, human. What would you be willing to pay for such a lovely morsel?”

“I would have thought I already earned it.”

She laughed, her voice like silver coins tumbling. “No, no. Each mouse you wish to catch is different. Each mouse is new. This is a separate matter.”

Talking with the cat, he decided, was like playing a game of hazard where the rules changed with each throw of the dice. Very well, if I have to be tricksy, I’ll be tricksy. “A secret for a secret, then. Will that satisfy you?”

Carabel licked her fangs as she considered. “Is it a good secret, human?”

“As good as any I know.”

“Hmm. A strong claim, that.” She picked at a scratch in the desktop. “Very well. A secret for a secret. The egg belongs to the creatures known in this tongue as the Ra’zac.” She added a trill to the r at the beginning of the name, and the sound sent a prickle down Murtagh’s spine.

He swore explosively and paced in a circle before coming back to face the desk. “Them? Those foul creatures! How?”

The werecat raised her delicate eyebrows. “You must have known that Galbatorix hid some of their eggs about the land.”

“He never spoke of it.” Murtagh made a face, annoyed with himself. “I suppose I should have guessed as much. He always was devious. What is it doing here, though?”

A low half purr, half growl rumbled in Carabel’s chest. “That is indeed the question, human.”

“If I’d known what it was…” He shook his head. He would have melted the egg in a blast of fire fit to rival even the flames Thorn produced. As Carabel had said, the Ra’zac were a wrongness. They were the hunters of humans, nightmares of the night that fed off the flesh of people.

Murtagh remembered the moment he’d seen them crouched around the campfire where they’d caught and bound Eragon, Saphira, and Brom: stooped figures in dark hoods that hid their vulturelike beaks and round, bulging eyes, pupilless and devoid of white. He’d shot at them with his bow and driven them away. Though not before they succeeded in mortally wounding Brom….

He shook himself from the shadows of the past.

“If I’d had word of it beforehand,” said Carabel, “I would have said as such to you. Now your secret, if you please, human.”

A rough knocking sounded.

Murtagh started, and then the study door opened to show Bertolf’s broad face. He peered at Murtagh suspiciously. “Were you wanting me, ma’am? It’s near time for breakfast, but the kitchens are behind today.”

Carabel waved a hand. “Leave us for now, Bertolf. I’ll ring if I want you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The man bowed and withdrew.

The werecat focused on Murtagh once again, fierce and serious. “Your secret now.”

From his belt, he removed the second bird-skull amulet and placed it on the desk. Silna hissed, arched her back, and batted the amulet onto the floor.

Murtagh bent and picked it up. Moving slowly, he placed the amulet on the corner of the desk farthest from Silna.

The kitten spat at the amulet and then hopped down to the floor and went to sit curled on the study hearth.

With an expression of distaste, Carabel hooked the amulet with a fingernail and held it up to examine. “I fail to understand,” she said. “You have already shown me this unpleasant trinket. Although”—her nose wrinkled—“there is a different scent to it now.”

“I took that amulet off the spellcaster,” Murtagh said. And he showed her the original amulet in the pouch on his belt.

The tips of Carabel’s tufted ears pressed against the side of her head. She growled then, a deep, throaty emanation that made the front of her shift vibrate. Hearing such a primal, animalistic sound coming from such a human-looking being made the hair on Murtagh’s neck stand upright. “Arven. He of Du Vrangr Gata,” she said.

“Indeed.”

“Sss. The situation is worse than I feared, Rider.”

Rider, now? She must be truly concerned. Murtagh seated himself, and he and the werecat exchanged a long, grim stare. For the first time, he felt as if they understood each other. “I think,” he said with deliberate care, “that you had best tell me what exactly you know.”

Carabel frowned as she again looked at the amulet. “I suppose you’re right.” She leaned back on her cushion. “Where shall I start?”

A faint pop came from the bed of coals in the fireplace, and Silna flicked her ears with annoyance. Outside, in the bailey of the fortress, loud voices sounded. Murtagh kept his gaze fixed on Carabel.

“Start with the witch-woman Bachel,” he said.

The werecat hissed. “Yesss. That one. Very well. For some years now, we have heard rumors—no more than whispers—of strange folk moving through the land. Dreamers, they call themselves, and the few that have been questioned claim to serve this Bachel. Who she is and what she wants remain…uncertain, but it is known that she is capable of weird magics.” The werecat indicated the amulet. “We have sought this secret, human, in our own careful way. We are curious by nature, and unanswered questions attract us as moths to the flame. Five of our kind have ventured into the wilds in search of Bachel, and of those five, none have returned.”

Murtagh listened with growing unease. “Where did they go?”

“Here and there,” said Carabel with an unpleasant smile. “But I suspect…Well, you shall hear. You should know that the Dreamers have become more common. When captured and questioned, they kill themselves without hesitation, but this much seems certain: their influence spreads throughout Alagaësia like roots creeping through the soil. Their kind has been seen dealing with all the races, including the elves and Urgals, and we have scented their meddling in many a dark affair. But again, we know nothing of their goals or causes—only that their pawprints appear ever more frequently, and rarely absent blood or death.”

Another pop sounded in the fireplace.

The werecat continued. “The amulet you found on Arven proves as much. As for where Bachel might be…Every few weeks, ships depart Ceunon and sail north in the Bay of Fundor. Even in the winter, when ice rims the bay and the waves grow steep and dangerous, even then you will find ships that take this journey. They are never gone very long. A few weeks at most, and then they return with their crew grim-faced and closemouthed. The passengers on these ships vary. Often they hide their faces and their minds, but we have seen many a notable merchant and many a scion of a titled family venture forth into the bay, and when they again alight in Ceunon, they often associate with the Dreamers, or else act in ways that seem to aid them.”

Carabel pushed the amulet farther away and then licked her finger, as if to clean it. “Last year, we spoke with one of the sailors who made the journey.”

“And?” asked Murtagh. His voice sounded unusually loud in the room.

The werecat lifted her chin. “He told us of a village set against the Spine. A village where the ground smells of rotten eggs and smoke rises from blackened vents. He told us of these things…and then he died. If your mind is set on finding the witch Bachel, seek you there, O Murtagh son of Morzan.”

Rotten eggs. Brimstone. Exactly what Umaroth had warned him of. Murtagh was glad of the confirmation, and yet it left him with a deep disquiet. But he’d asked for answers, and now he had a start on them. “So the stone Sarros brought me comes from the same place as Bachel?”

Carabel shrugged. “It seems likely, but I cannot say for sure.”

“And what do you think these Dreamers want with werecat younglings?”

Red fire lit her eyes, and she showed her fangs. “Sss. I do not know. Maybe nothing. Maybe this is solely the work of Du Vrangr Gata. Maybe it is a private villainy of Arven. Or Captain Wren. I do not know, but I swear this to you, Rider: I shall not rest until I discover the truth and either rescue or avenge all of our lost children.”

“Good,” said Murtagh in a flat tone. And he meant it. Whoever was responsible deserved the worst possible punishment. If it had been Arven alone, then justice had already been delivered, but he doubted it.

The more Murtagh thought about the situation, the worse he felt. If the Dreamers had infiltrated Du Vrangr Gata—or recruited sympathizers therein—without arousing suspicion, that was alarming enough. But if what the cat said was true, they were operating upon a larger scale, and with a larger goal in mind, and they had already amassed a dangerous amount of influence. The realization made his skin crawl. How could they have escaped notice for so long? What hold did they have upon those they enlisted?

They have to be stopped, he thought. “Have you informed Nasuada of this?”

“Not as yet.”

“Eragon or Arya?”

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

Carabel gave him a withering look. “Whispers and suspicions are not enough to raise a force, rouse a queen, or recall the leader of the Riders. We must have a clear understanding of the threat first.”

“You mean someone needs to go to the village.”

“Go. And return.”

“Maybe. But I would say this”—he poked the amulet—“is proof enough that concern is warranted. That, and the kidnapping of your younglings.”

Carabel’s expression soured. “Again, we do not know if the Dreamers are responsible. Still…perhaps you are right, and this unfortunate trinket is proof enough. Certainly it would be if you were to bring it to Nasuada along with an accounting of what we have learned.”

Murtagh looked at the fireplace, uncomfortable. “You know I cannot.”

“Can’t you? It is said that the queen has some special fondness for you, and—”

Anger dragged his attention back to Carabel’s smirking face. “It is said? Said by whom? You had best watch your words, cat.”

Carabel shrugged, seemingly impervious to his tone. “By those with ears to hear and eyes to see.”

“Well, they know not what they say, and I’ll please you not to insult the queen or me with such slander.”

After a moment, Carabel inclined her angled face. “Of course, Rider. Very well, I shall compose a message for Nasuada directly, but I do not pretend to know how she will respond. It would be best were you to pen a few words of corroboration. Will you agree to this?”

He grunted. “Fine. Yes.”

As the cat collected her writing instruments, Murtagh sank back in his chair, brooding. Captain Wren’s insubordination, the potential undermining of Du Vrangr Gata, the activities of the Dreamers, and the blasted Ra’zac egg—each was a serious matter. Taken together, they might represent a credible threat to Nasuada’s crown.

What if…For a moment, he considered flying to Ilirea, but then he put the idea from his mind. As tempting as it was, doing so would be a mistake for everyone involved, including Nasuada. Her subjects wouldn’t take kindly to their queen publicly treating with the traitor Murtagh.

And besides, whom would she end up sending to investigate the village? Whom could she send? Du Vrangr Gata was not to be trusted, and at any rate, none of its spellcasters were skilled or strong enough to deal with the sort of wordless magic he had encountered. Few were. Eragon, for one, but he was busy protecting the Eldunarí and the dragon eggs, and he would not lightly leave them. Arya and the more accomplished of the elven mages were certainly capable, but Murtagh knew Nasuada would be reluctant to request help from magicians—much less a Rider—who were neither her subjects nor human.

Which left him. Him and Thorn.

The conclusion did not displease Murtagh, even if the unknown was, as always, unsettling. To have a clear and righteous cause to pursue was a rare treasure. By it, they could do good, and not just in a general sense, but for Nasuada specifically. She whom he had so badly hurt.

He roused himself from his brooding as Carabel gave him a sheet of parchment, a pot of ink, and a freshly cut goose-feather quill. Murtagh hesitated, unsure how to start, for he felt a weight of expectations and experiences and feelings unsaid. He shook himself then and focused on what needed saying. Wants would have to wait.

For a few minutes, the scratching of the quill was the only sound aside from the fire. He ended with:

Thorn and I will depart directly to find this village. What we might discover, I cannot say, but if it is a danger to you, your realm, or Alagaësia as a whole, we shall deal with it as need be. On this, you have my word. In any account, you may expect to hear from us upon our return.

He frowned as he stared at the last few lines. He was committing both himself and Thorn to this cause without asking Thorn. He hoped the dragon would not mind.

There was another problem besides. Nasuada did not know his hand, so how could she be sure the letter was from him? He could enchant the parchment, but to what end? She wouldn’t trust a spell from an unknown source. And he didn’t have a signet ring or other token on his person that she might recognize. Which left him with only his words.

He dipped the quill anew into the inkpot. Then, with special care, he wrote:

If you question the hand that scribes these runes, if you suspect my motive and wonder why, then I can only answer by saying—you know why.

Murtagh

The final sentence was a temerity. He knew that. But he couldn’t think of anything else to write that he was confident Nasuada would believe was from him. He’d uttered those last three words to her—and her alone—in the dark grimness of the Hall of the Soothsayer. It was the closest he had ever come to confessing his feelings for her, and while it felt like an imposition to mention them now, when the situation was so much changed, he had no other choice.

He felt older than his years as he blotted the letter and wiped dry the quill. He folded the sheet and then melted a few drops of Carabel’s red sealing wax onto the seam of the parchment.

“There,” he said, feeling a sense of resolution.

“My thanks,” said Carabel. “I am in your debt, human, as are werecats everywhere.”

He inclined his head. “No thanks are required.”

A small smile appeared on Carabel’s face. “Perhaps not, but they’re still polite. How do you plan to proceed, then?”

Murtagh rubbed his right elbow as he thought; the joint still hurt from the thrashing Muckmaw had given him. “I realize this is another question, cat, but perhaps you’ll humor me and answer.”

Her expression grew wicked. “Perhaps I shall,” she said.

“How do you think I should proceed?”

The cat wiggled on her cushion, tufted ears perking up. The corner of her shift slid off to bare one shoulder. “Sssah. Very well, but I will warn you, human. Advice serves those giving it as much or more than those receiving it.”

“I’ll take that risk.”

“Then I say this: it is better to open doors than to wait for them to be opened. And it is better to know what is on the other side of a door before it opens.”

Murtagh understood. He rose and gave her a small bow and a smaller smile. “I thank you for your advice, werecat Carabel.”

She sniffed and examined her fingernails again. “You are welcome, human.”

Outside, in the bailey, shouts sounded—captains rallying their troops. To Murtagh’s ear, it seemed as if the entire city garrison was being assembled in the yard.

Carabel noticed as well. She turned her head, and the thin morning light entering through the loophole window made the tufts on her ears glow. “I think you had best be off, human, lest Lord Relgin get the idea to search the keep. He’s annoyingly imaginative sometimes.”

“I’ll bid you farewell, then, and take my leave, fair C—” Behind him, Murtagh heard a faint sifting sound, as of falling cloth. He turned to see Silna standing on two feet next to the hearth, a small wool blanket wrapped about her spare frame. She was no taller than the poker and tongs that hung nearby. Her skin was pale as snow, the veins smoke blue beneath the surface, and there was a translucence to her, as if she were not entirely substantial. Eyelids like polished shells, hair still brindled and in disordered shocks, and all about her a wild alertness, as if she had stepped from a glade within the deepest, darkest forest.

She walked to Murtagh and stood before him. He looked down into her enormous emerald eyes, clear and innocent, and knew not what to say.

He knelt before her, even as he would have knelt before a queen.

With a single bare arm, Silna hugged him about the neck. Her skin was cold against his. In a small, feather-soft voice, she said, “Thank you.” Then she kissed him upon the brow, and the touch of her lips burned long after she pulled away.

She left him blinking back a film of tears. When he mastered himself well enough to lift his gaze, he saw her lying by the hearth, again in her cattish form, eyes closed, tail wrapped about her paws and nose.

His legs were unsteady beneath him as he stood. He looked to Carabel and opened his mouth and then closed it again.

For the first time, Carabel’s expression softened, and her voice was husky with emotion. “I meant what I said, Rider. I am in your debt, as are all werecats. You may count yourself as a friend of our kind, and should you ever need help, you may seek us out.”

He nodded and swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I am glad I could help.” He drew himself up and gave her a courtly bow. “My thanks for your answers, Carabel. May your claws stay sharp, O most estimable of cats.”

She bared her teeth in an appreciative smile. “Be careful where you tread, Rider. This witch is like a spider lurking at the center of a great web, and she has venom in her bite.”

“Then it’s good I’m not scared of spiders.”

Murtagh straightened as he exited the low tunnel that led under the fortress’s curtain wall. He rolled his neck, hoisted his bedroll higher on his back, and checked the position of the sun: still low in the sky. He should be able to leave Gil’ead before most of the city was up and about.

He rubbed his brow. It felt as if he’d been branded. The memory of Silna’s eyes lingered in his mind, and he felt as if she had seen to his very center, every flaw laid bare before her guileless gaze. It was an intimacy he was only used to sharing with Thorn, and it left him with an uncomfortable sense of vulnerability. And yet, to be seen as he was, and accepted…was there any greater grace?

Troubled, he started away from the fortress. I’m on my way, he said, sending the thought to where Thorn was waiting. A faint sense of acknowledgment was his reply.

As Murtagh padded between the buildings, he continued to gnaw over what Carabel had said. Bachel, Wren, the Ra’zac…the world was out of sorts, and in ways he didn’t really understand. The fact made his gut tense, as if he were about to receive a blow.

Again, Silna’s eyes filled Murtagh’s mind, cool and clear and full of promise. And again, he felt her kiss upon his brow.

He stopped at the side of a street, and every part of his skin prickled. His thoughts raced as he tried to solve the puzzle before him, tried to find the path of safety through a perilous maze. Had he been wrong? Bachel needed attending to, yes, but Nasuada was in danger, and his letter was hardly a proper means of protection.

He opened the pouch on his belt and dug through it until his fingers found cold metal: the coins Captain Wren had given him. He pulled one out and looked at Nasuada’s embossed visage.

As perfect as the likeness was, he could not decipher her expression. She wore a mask of her own, the impassive regality that custom—and necessity—imposed. He found no encouragement in her golden features, and yet their very familiarity helped settle his mind.

He decided.

They would go to Ilirea. Despite everything he had thought and said, it was the right thing to do. He would explain himself to Nasuada and face whatever approbation came from her subjects. Difficult though it would be, he would have the satisfaction of knowing Nasuada was safe. And once she was, only then would he and Thorn hunt down Bachel.

With the decision came a sense of relief. Murtagh nodded, put away the coin, and hurried on his way, feeling fit to face the trials of an uncertain future.

Would Thorn agree? Murtagh felt sure he would, once he shared his mind with the dragon. Unless, of course—

Someone collided with him from the side. He shoved the person away, ready to kick and punch and fight.

“Murtagh!” exclaimed a low, urgent voice.

Dismay gripped Murtagh as he saw the same unpleasantly familiar face he had spotted outside the citadel not two days past: pale Lyreth in his drab finery. And surrounding them were Lyreth’s guards: six burly men with necks like bulls, the faint whiff of rotting flesh clinging to them. Ex-soldiers of the Empire, spell-warped to feel no pain.

“Murtagh, it is you,” said Lyreth, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Murtagh clenched his teeth. Thorn’s alarm was a rising note of anxiety at the back of his mind. He considered bolting, but there were other people on the street, and he saw a squad of soldiers two houses away, marching toward them….

Lyreth drew closer, his eyes darting about, the whites showing with some combination of fear and concern. “I thought I saw you a few days ago, but I wasn’t certain. What are you doing here? Don’t you know what they’ll do to you if they catch you?”

“I need to go,” said Murtagh, and started to pull back.

Lyreth caught him by the sleeve and held him with a surprisingly strong grip. His breath smelled of lavender and peach liqueur, but it wasn’t enough to conceal the sharp stench of nervous sweat from under his arms. “You can’t stay out here. The magicians of Du Vrangr Gata are everywhere, and there are elves in the city. Elves! Come, come, hurry. You’ll be safe at my house. Hurry!”

Murtagh! growled Thorn.

I know!

The guards closed in around Murtagh, preventing him from stepping away as Lyreth pulled him up the street. And Murtagh had no choice but to accompany his unexpected and thoroughly unwelcome companions.

CHAPTER XIV Duel of Wits

Murtagh kept careful track of the streets as Lyreth hurried him through the city. If he had to run, he wanted to know exactly where he was.

Lyreth brought him to a small stone house—one of the few all-stone structures in Gil’ead—tucked away in the corner of a square that was surrounded by cramped log-built dwellings jammed cheek by jowl. The ground was dirt, and there was a watering trough in the center for horses. The whole place felt dark, sheltered, and somewhat decrepit, and the only other living creature to be seen was a bedraggled rooster pecking at the dried mud outside what looked to be a candlemaker’s shop.

Lyreth used an iron key to unlock the front door of the stone house, and then he waved Murtagh in. “Quickly, quickly now.”

Wary—and somewhat curious—Murtagh entered. As dangerous as the situation was, his desire to know was stronger than his sense of self-preservation. How were the former members of Galbatorix’s nobility surviving? In a different set of circumstances, he knew he would have been the one hiding like a rabbit trying to escape a hungry hawk.

The building’s shabby face belied its luxurious interior. Dwarven rugs covered the tiled floor. Carved balustrades lined a marble staircase that climbed to a second story. Dramatic portraits hung on the walls—portraits that were too detailed, too lifelike, to have been created without the help of magic. A gold and silver chandelier hung from the wood-braced ceiling, and cut gems dangled from the chandelier in a rainbow of tears.

“This way,” said Lyreth, leading Murtagh past the anteroom into a modestly sized but beautifully decorated dining hall. Silken tapestries depicting battles between dragons, elves, and humans adorned the walls, and the candlesticks on the long table looked to be solid gold.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Lyreth gestured at a velvet-backed chair at one end of the table.

Murtagh counted thirteen chairs around the table, including his own. The number gave him a cold chill of realization.

He took off his bedroll and set it down by the table, close at hand. Then he gathered his cloak and sat. “What is this place?” he asked. He suspected he already knew the answer.

“A place of safety,” Lyreth said, seating himself. He waved at the guards, and two of them took up posts by the entrance while the others filed out of the hall. “Formora had it built as a sanctuary from Galbatorix if ever the need arose. Also”—he indicated the chairs—“as a location where the Forsworn could meet in private, away from the king’s prying eyes.”

Formora. She had been an elf, and one of Galbatorix’s favorites among the Forsworn. By all accounts, she had been cunning, cruel, and capricious to the extreme, even as measured by the standards of her fellow traitors. Murtagh remembered Lord Varis telling him that, when she was provoked, her habit had been to cut her foes apart with magic, piece by piece…while keeping them alive for as long as possible. That, and she had been overly fond of candied fruits.

Murtagh glanced around the room. He’d heard of such places before. Secret hiding holes where the Forsworn could protect themselves, if not from the king, then at least from the king’s other servants. Galbatorix’s followers—willing or otherwise—were hardly known for their cooperative nature, and the king had encouraged their backstabbing and bloody machinations with often undisguised glee. The walls of the house would be laced with powerful wards, and more than wards: traps that would far exceed the strength and complexity of those he had encountered in the catacombs. The whole structure was probably riddled with charged gems.

“Were they ever truly free of Galbatorix’s gaze?” Murtagh said.

Lyreth shrugged. “Were any of us?” He clicked his fingers, and a manservant in a fine woolen coat hurried into the hall, his polished bootheels tapping a precise tempo against the hard floor. The man placed a silver platter on the table and offloaded a decanter of cut crystal, a bottle of wine, two gold goblets, and a tiered tray of assorted delicacies: sweetmeats, aspic with candied fruit, bite-sized berry pies, and what looked to Murtagh like honey-glazed pastries.

His mouth watered. It had been well over a year since he’d tasted anything resembling proper fine food, and he found himself suddenly nostalgic for the flavors of his childhood.

The servant poured the wine, and then brought Murtagh one of the goblets as well as the tray of delicacies so that he might make his own selection.

Murtagh took some of the aspic, a berry pie, and two honey-glazed pastries. The servant then attended to Lyreth, who selected a sweetmeat and nothing more.

“You may go,” said Lyreth, and the servant bowed and retired from the room.

A honey-glazed pastry was halfway to Murtagh’s mouth when thoughts of poison and spells stayed his hand. Lyreth noticed and, in an offhand manner, said, “The food is safe, if you’re wondering. The wine too.” And he gave Murtagh a crooked smile before taking a sip from his own goblet.

Murtagh deliberated for a moment and then popped the pastry into his mouth. It melted with sweet, buttered deliciousness, and he fought to keep his pleasure from showing.

“My family acquired this place some years ago,” said Lyreth, nibbling at the sweetmeat on his plate. “We kept it as a safeguard against exactly this sort of eventuality.”

“Mmm.” Murtagh tasted the wine; he recognized the vintage. A red grown in the vineyards of the south, near Aroughs, bottled near fifty years ago. He doubted more than a few dozen bottles remained in the land. “You honor me,” he said, raising the goblet.

Lyreth shrugged. “What good does it do to hoard fine wine in these trying times? We might all be dead tomorrow.”

“As you say.” Murtagh took another carefully controlled sip as he studied Lyreth. The man appeared to have been under considerable stress (and understandably so); he was thinner than Murtagh remembered, and his skin had the unhealthy pallor of an invalid confined to bed. Seeing him the worse for wear was the source of some satisfaction for Murtagh, although, despite himself, he empathized with Lyreth and the difficulties he must have faced since Galbatorix’s fall. It couldn’t be easy, living every day in fear of being caught out.

“You smell of fish,” said Lyreth abruptly.

“Baths are hard to come by on the road.”

“Were you responsible for killing Muckmaw? It’s all my guards have been able to talk about since yesterday. I thought it might have been you.”

Murtagh toyed with the stem of his goblet as he considered how to answer. The conversation was a duel for information, and they both knew it, but the unspoken reality was that Lyreth held no power over him. If Murtagh wanted to leave, or to attack, there was little the other man could do about it. “I may have played a part in the matter.”

Lyreth made an unimpressed sound. “You’ve certainly managed to stir up the local peasantry. They seem to think Eragon himself is wandering the land, curing their ills.”

“If only.”

At that, Lyreth made a face and took a deep quaff of his wine. “Blasted Rider.”

Murtagh could feel Thorn’s ongoing concern. Peace, he said to the dragon. I have his measure.

And it was true. Murtagh had had ample opportunity to study Lyreth and the group of eldest sons he associated with at court. To the last, they had been arrogant, cruel, overconfident, and yet also deeply insecure. There was no such thing as safety around Galbatorix, and their parents had all been born to power and influence, or else had acquired it through cunning and savagery. None of which bred kindness in their offspring. Murtagh had always been the outcast of their generation: the only known child of the Forsworn; ostensibly ignored by Galbatorix during his childhood, yet still understood to be favored by the king; groomed for power and yet powerless himself, with Galbatorix holding his father’s estate in his stead until he came of age. Added to that, Murtagh’s own distrust and inexperience when it came to navigating the treacherous currents of power, and he had been both an object of fear and a figure of scorn and ridicule that they had used poorly however they could. Only once Tornac took him under his wing had Murtagh begun to learn how to defend himself, in more ways than one.

He ate a spoonful of aspic. Of Lyreth, he had no fond memories. Two experiences remained in Murtagh’s mind as emblematic of the man. The first was when Lyreth and a number of other boys had set out to steal cherries from Lord Barst’s private garden in the citadel at Urû’baen. Murtagh had tagged along, hoping that they might let him be part of the group. They’d barely started picking the cherries when one of Barst’s men discovered them and held them at spearpoint. All of them save Lyreth, who managed to slip away, only to return a few minutes later, leading Lord Barst and loudly declaiming the misbehavior of the other boys.

Despite their noble lineage, Barst proceeded to thrash the lot of them. But he spared Lyreth, which earned the young noble no end of hate from the other boys, although most of them were devious enough to hide their true feelings. Lyreth’s family was too wealthy and well placed to openly oppose.

The second incident had been on Murtagh’s fifteenth birthday. No one save Tornac had seemed to mark the significance of the day, but somehow word must have gotten out in the court, probably from the pages. How else to explain that, on that day of all days, as Murtagh climbed the narrow spiral staircase that led to his chambers, a group of boys had ambushed him and beaten him and left him bruised and bleeding on the sharp stone steps?

The attackers had worn party masks of a type common at court, but Murtagh could guess their names regardless. And as the fists and feet had pummeled his sides, he’d heard a semi-familiar voice cry, “That’s it! Get him! Knock him down!” And he knew the voice as Lyreth’s.

None of the boys ever admitted what they had done. They continued to treat him the same as ever about the citadel, and the only hint of acknowledgment was several snide comments made when they saw him limping the next day: “Ha! What happened? Did a horse step on your foot? Murtagh Crookshank! Ha!”

Murtagh had never forgotten. Nor forgiven.

He eyed the decorations in the hall. Despite the house’s rich appointments, he guessed Lyreth found the place uncomfortably confining. For one who had grown up in the citadel in Urû’baen and on Lord Thaven’s vast holdings, living in such a small house would feel like being locked in a closet.

He must be going mad trapped in here, Murtagh thought.

“How fares your father?” he asked. What he didn’t say was, Is Thaven still alive?

Lyreth’s expression remained studiously flat. “As well as could be expected.”

“Of course. In these trying times.” That earned him a twitch of annoyance from Lyreth. Good. The more he could needle the man, the more Lyreth was likely to slip and say something he shouldn’t. “The Empire couldn’t last forever,” said Murtagh. “At some point Galbatorix was bound to fall. It was inevitable.”

“Maybe,” said Lyreth with undisguised bitterness. “But it didn’t have to happen during our lives.”

“No, but that’s not ours to say, is it?”

Lyreth opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again and said, “Were you there? At the end? When…he died?”

“I was.”

The man’s gaze flicked toward him from under bloodless lids. His eyes were grey blue, like distant thunderheads. “How was it done? I’ve heard conflicting accounts.”

“With kindness.”

“You mock me.”

“Not at all.”

A faint frown formed on Lyreth’s brow. “Him? Kindness? That’s pre—”

“You never were the brightest,” Murtagh said in an uninterested tone. “Cunning, that I’ll give you. Determined, even. But not very bright.”

Lyreth inhaled through pinched nostrils. “Keep your secrets, then. I’ll learn the truth of it regardless. Tell me this, at least, if you would so kindly deign. How did you and that dragon of yours escape Urû’baen? Both Eragon and Arya were there, I understand. Surely they tried to stop you.”

“Do you really expect me to explain?” said Murtagh. “Would it help you to know the spells I used? Or the dangers we braved? Does any of that matter? Suffice it to say, we escaped, and at no small risk.” The truth, of course, was nothing so dramatic. He and Thorn had simply…left. They had played their part in toppling Galbatorix—Eragon never would have been able to work magic on the king if Murtagh hadn’t used the Name of Names to break the king’s spells—and after, neither Eragon nor Murtagh had the stomach to continue fighting.

Not for the first time, Murtagh reflected on the fact that if he had been in Eragon’s place, he wouldn’t have thought to force empathy on Galbatorix. It wasn’t part of his nature. Perhaps that was a failing of his—Murtagh was willing to admit it was—but he didn’t feel that his lack of charity toward Galbatorix was wrong, not given what the king had done to him and Thorn.

He placed the small pie in his mouth and chewed, enjoying the flavors of blueberries and blackberries admixed.

Lyreth shifted in his seat, as if there were burrs pricking him from beneath. “And since then? What have you been up to, Murtagh? Wild stories have reached my ears. Tales of a red dragon seen here or there. Whispers of magic that only a Rider or an elf might be capable of casting.”

With the fine linen napkin from by his plate, Murtagh dabbed the corners of his mouth, brushing crumbs off his stubble. “Thorn and I have been traveling the land, seeing what there is to see. What of you and your family, Lyreth? How have you managed since Galbatorix fell?”

“Well enough,” Lyreth muttered.

“No doubt. But how long can you continue to live in hiding? Eventually someone will realize who you are. You would be best served to surrender and cast yourself on the queen’s mercy. She does show mercy on occasion, or so I’m told.”

“Don’t speak to me of that puffed-up pretender. She’s a commoner, without a drop of noble blood in her veins, not from any of the proper families nor from the old lineages of the Broddrings.”

“Those who conquer, rule,” said Murtagh calmly. “So it has always been. You forget your history if you think otherwise.”

“I forget nothing.” A feverish gleam appeared in Lyreth’s otherwise insipid eyes. “You’re right, though, Murtagh. The current state of affairs can’t continue. My family aren’t the only ones hiding. A number of the most powerful nobles—men and women whose names you would recognize—have been biding their time, consolidating their positions for when the moment is ripe.”

“Ripe for what?”

Lyreth leaned forward, suddenly animated. “What are you doing here, Murtagh? Muckmaw dead, and all of Gil’ead in a commotion. What is it? Are you raising troops? Killing Nasuada’s lieutenants? What?”

“You’ve grown obvious, Lyreth,” said Murtagh in a lazy tone. “You wouldn’t have lasted a week at court like this.”

“Bah.” Lyreth waved his hand and sank back in his chair. “Events are afoot, and directness is needed. If you are too cautious, the prize shall go to another…. You could take the throne, Murtagh. You know that, yes? And all the great families would rally to your banner…those of us who still have some standing, that is. Hamlin and Tharos were fools. They couldn’t wait, they couldn’t gather the army they needed, and so their rebellions failed. Hamlin ended up with his head on a pike outside these very walls, and Tharos will spend the rest of his life in Nasuada’s dungeons. Unless…”

Murtagh cocked his head. Nothing Lyreth said was particularly surprising, although the implications were far from pleasant. “Are you really so eager to return to the days of Galbatorix, Lyreth? Would you see me raised above you, to rule in perpetuity, undying and unchanging? Is that really your wish?”

“It would be better than what we have now!”

You mean, it would free you from hiding and again place your family in a position of power.

A sly expression formed on Lyreth’s face. “Besides, think of the advantages for you, Murtagh. I know you always chafed under Galbatorix’s strictures. Were the crown yours, you could rule as you see fit, with our men and gold as your bulwark. And it would be good for our kind. Nasuada cannot hold her own against Arya. A Dragon Rider as queen of the elves, who ever heard of such nonsense? Eragon is a threat as well. He’s building a force of Riders out in the east. Once they’re grown and trained, who can stand against him? Only you, Murtagh. And I know there is no love lost between the two of you.”

The pretense to intimacy made Murtagh bristle. “Oh you do, do you?”

“I know it to be true. Come, Murtagh. What say you? All of the Empire could be yours. And more too. Galbatorix should never have suffered Surda to exist. You could break them and unite this land in a way that has never been done before. All of humanity gathered under a single standard. Then the elves might fear us, and the dwarves too.”

The wine and the delicacies no longer sat so well within Murtagh’s stomach. The future Lyreth described was more tempting than Murtagh wanted to admit. Were he to claim the throne, few could challenge him or Thorn, and neither Eragon nor Arya would be eager to again plunge the land into war. They would tolerate his existence and, in time, perhaps come to respect his authority. In one fell swoop, he could restore glory to his family’s name and secure power such to protect Thorn and himself against all but the most dangerous of foes.

But in order to elevate himself like that, he would have to depose Nasuada, and her fate thereafter could only be exile, imprisonment, or death. And that he could not countenance. Then I would truly be known as a betrayer, he thought. Not just to the common folk, but to the one person, besides Thorn, who fully trusted him. Nasuada was the very reason he’d been able to break free of his bondage and help topple Galbatorix. To then act against her…No. It was unthinkable.

He let the idea go, and he felt no regret.

Lyreth fidgeted, seemingly on tenterhooks as he waited.

Instead of replying directly, Murtagh decided to unbalance the other man, to step sideways when a forward step was expected. From the pouch on his belt, he produced the bird-skull amulet he’d found in Ceunon. He placed it on the table and slid it to the other end.

“Have you seen one of these before?”

Lyreth picked up the amulet with forefinger and thumb and held it dangling before him, much as Carabel had done. He showed no reaction aside from bland curiosity, but Murtagh wondered if, perhaps, there was a flicker of some emotion in the man’s eyes. For a moment, Murtagh debated touching Lyreth’s mind, but there was no way for such an action to be interpreted as anything but an attack. In any case, as with all the children of nobility, Lyreth had been raised with extensive training on how to protect his thoughts from eavesdroppers or intruders. Success was not guaranteed even if Murtagh tried, not unless he were willing to totally break Lyreth’s mind.

It might be worth it, he thought. Lyreth and his family posed no small threat to Nasuada and the stability of her realm. If Murtagh could do something about it…

He licked his lips, muscles tightening in anticipation of action. A few quick words, a barrage of mental violence, and he would have complete control over everyone in the house.

Surely he knows that. The thought gave Murtagh sudden pause. Why was Lyreth willing to take such an enormous risk?

Lyreth dropped the amulet on the table. “What a barbaric creation. I can’t say I have, and I’m glad of it too…. But you have yet to answer me, Murtagh. Come now, what will it be? The crown, or a lifetime of skulking in the shadows until the queen’s pet magicians hunt you down like a rabid dog?”

Murtagh smiled slightly as he rolled the wine in the goblet, studying his distorted reflection. “Neither,” he said, gathering his will in preparation to attack. He lifted his gaze to meet Lyreth’s storm-cloud eyes. “I walk alone these days, Lyreth. Thorn and I answer to no man, and we will not be beholden to anyone, least of all your family. But I will know the truth of what you’re planning.”

Lyreth’s expression didn’t change, as if Murtagh had done no more than make a passing comment on the weather. “You never did know your place,” he said.

A powerful itch kindled in the middle of Murtagh’s palm.

He opened his mouth—

Lyreth’s finger pressed against the edge of the table.

Clunk! The floor dropped out beneath Murtagh, the room tilted like a pinwheel, and his stomach lurched as he plummeted into blinding darkness.

CHAPTER XV The Tangle Box

An instant of shapeless black void, a clang, and—

—a bone-jarring crash as his heels struck metal and his knees buckled.

He would have fallen onto all fours. He was falling, and then a battering ram seemed to slam into him front to back and side to side, pinning him in place, holding him upright.

The impact drove the air from his lungs, and he felt a sudden drain from his wards. He tried to inhale, but the crushing weight pressing in from all sides made it impossible.

Then the air around him vanished, and the last dregs of breath left in his lungs forced their way up his throat and out his mouth and nose.

He gaped like a stunned fish.

A high keening—eye-watering and teeth-vibrating—sounded inside his skull, so loud and penetrating it made thought itself difficult.

Time seemed to slow for Murtagh.

His lungs were burning with terrible fire. His veins throbbed. His skin was swollen like an overfilled bladder. Crimson stars mottled the edges of his vision. And the ever-present shrilling disrupted his ability to focus.

He had seconds to act, if that. He couldn’t speak, and holding the ancient language in his mind was impossible.

So he did the only thing he could.

He cast a spell without a word to guide the magic. Only intent constrained the burst of energy, and that intent contained and embodied a single sentiment: Stop!

The energy for the spell was spent in an instant. The shrilling stopped, and blessed silence reigned. But no air returned; still his lungs were empty, and still his veins burned, and he was about to pass out.

He could see only blackness, but he knew where he was: inside a tangle box. A trap for magicians, designed to keep them from speaking or thinking, designed to suffocate them so they could be safely disposed of.

He tried to rally his strength for a second spell. If he could break the walls of the tangle box, he could let in air, precious air, and if he could breathe, he would have a chance.

But he couldn’t concentrate well enough to again work magic. The glass-pane barrier in his mind was too strong for him to reach through to the flow of energy on the other side, and the crimson tunnel narrowing his vision had nearly closed.

Is this really how I die? THIS? The thought was enraging, but at the same time, he felt acceptance as awareness deserted him….

A thunderous crash sounded above. An earthquake-like vibration shook the metal underneath his feet, and the tremor passed up through his legs and chest and caused his teeth to chatter, rousing him back to awareness.

Stone cracked, metal tore, and then a rush of cold wind touched his cheeks.

His lungs filled with sweet air, and he gasped like a drowning man.

Bright daylight appeared overhead, dispelling the darkness. He looked up, coughing, blinking, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes.

Through petals of torn iron, he saw Thorn leaning toward him, the dragon’s scales covered with chalky dust, his long, heavy jaws open to show rows of bloody teeth.

Behind the dragon, the sky was pale blue, devoid of clouds. Broken ceiling beams intruded on the bright expanse.

Thorn reached down with one taloned paw and scooped Murtagh out of the pile of muddy gravel that had immobilized him. Pebbles fell like hail as Thorn lifted him back up into the dining hall.

Murtagh’s chest heaved as he struggled for air. Thorn’s mind pressed against his, the dragon’s thoughts sharp with anger, fear, worry, and barely leashed panic. Still, his presence was comforting, and Murtagh began to think he might actually survive.

Thorn uncurled his paw and deposited Murtagh on the debris-covered floor. He nudged Murtagh in the ribs. How are you hurt? Tell me. Tell me! Try to breathe!

“I’m—” Murtagh gasped. “I’m…trying.” His lungs still burned as he forced himself onto his knees, half expecting to be attacked.

No sign remained of Lyreth in the dining hall. The fine wooden table was shattered to pieces beneath Thorn’s weight, and the silken tapestries hung in tatters. By the door to the hall lay three of the bullnecked guards, limp and bloodstained, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

Thorn nudged him again. The dragon’s eyes were wide and wild, and his sides heaved, not just from exertion. Murtagh could nearly taste his fearful agitation.

Glancing around, Murtagh became aware of how small the interior of the house was. Thorn’s wings almost scraped the walls, which seemed to lean inward with ominous intent, and the timbers jutting overhead were uncomfortably similar to broken branches against a dead sky.

Newfound alarm caused him to stagger to his feet. He gave Thorn a weak pat on the nose and cast about for his bedroll. A corner of it stuck out from under the ruined table. He grabbed it and started to move toward the dragon’s side, meaning to climb onto his back.

Outside the broken house, shouts and brassy horns sounded, along with a clatter of arms and armor as soldiers rushed in.

Blast it! “We have to get out of—”

A section of roof caved inward, and the slate shingles poured across Thorn’s back with a dusty, deafening discord.

Thorn roared, and Murtagh both heard and felt his jolt of mindless panic. “No, wait! It’s all—”

The crimson dragon reared and tried to spread his wings, only to be blocked by the walls of the house. Then he truly went mad. He thrashed like a great snake, and the shell of the building shook and shuddered, and beams tumbled down, and walls collapsed, and a thick cloud of dust darkened the air.

Murtagh crouched and covered his head with his bedroll as the house fell around them. He tried to join with Thorn’s mind, but the dragon was too far gone in his fear; Murtagh could not reach him, could not calm or reason with him.

His wards deflected a mass of timbers that would have crushed him, and he gasped at the sudden loss of energy. Zar’roc. He needed the sword, needed the energy stored within the sword’s ruby pommel.

A moment of shocking silence followed. Before him, Murtagh saw mounds of beams and rubble coated with a finger-thick layer of ashy dust. The house was no more, and beyond its confines, shadowy shapes of men moved behind the curtains of obscuring haze.

THUD.

A beat from Thorn’s wings blew whorls of dust spinning into the sky and cleared the area around Murtagh. He lifted his head.

A shifting group of soldiers surrounded the square, their faces white with fear, hate, and dust. They held their spears pointed toward Thorn—as if the weapons would do any good against a dragon—and they cursed Murtagh and Thorn and shouted insults and provocations. Flights of arrows arched in from between the buildings, whistling their deadly song.

“Thrysta!” Murtagh cried, and the arrows shattered in the air and fell harmlessly to the streets.

Thorn roared again, and the men shrank back. Desperate, Murtagh pressed his mind against Thorn’s, but it was like battering his head against a wall of blank stone. Fear ruled the dragon’s thoughts—no other emotion was strong enough to intrude or override. In that moment, he was become a mindless beast, and Murtagh did not know how to help him.

Thorn twisted and swung his tail through the air and struck the nearby houses. The weight of his tail, and the strength driving it, broke the buildings, snapped their timbers like dry kindling, and sent doors and shutters and shingles and entire walls crashing to the ground.

Murtagh ran toward Thorn. “St—”

The dragon turned and placed a paw over Murtagh. The weight pushed Murtagh to the ground, and then Thorn’s claws curved around him, and a forceful yank caused his neck to whip as Thorn loosed an unearthly bellow and sprang into the air.

Murtagh struggled to move, struggled to see, but the cage of Thorn’s talons was immovable, unbreakable.

Thorn roared again. Beneath them, Murtagh glimpsed the soldiers fleeing through the streets, and he thought he saw Esvar’s face among the throng, the yellow-haired youth’s expression fear-stricken and accusatory. Closer to the fortress, he spotted two figures garbed in the dark robes of Du Vrangr Gata, and also a trio of elves standing by the corner of a building, the air shimmering between their hands as they chanted in what he knew was the ancient language.

No!

More arrows flew up toward them, and an enormous jet of flame shot out from Thorn’s maw. Even closed within Thorn’s paw, Murtagh could feel waves of searing heat rolling out from the fiery torrent.

The arrows flared red, white, and yellow and vanished like sparks in a campfire.

With another roar, Thorn bathed the buildings below in a stream of liquid fire. Yellow sheets billowed from the roofs, and the flapping of the ravenous flames drowned out a chorus of shouts and screams.

Murtagh was shouting as well, but Thorn wasn’t listening.

Then they were flying across the city, and as Thorn flew, he laid down a track of burning destruction. A spell of some kind caused the air about them to grow cold and thin, but whatever the intended outcome of the enchantment, the effects soon vanished, and Thorn continued as before.

They passed over the edge of Gil’ead, and then Thorn was climbing into the sky with desperate speed, and the only sounds were the rush of air and the heavy beats of his wings.

CHAPTER XVI Aftermath

Thorn flew for hours.

Murtagh kept trying to talk with him, but the dragon’s mind remained closed, armored by unreasoning fear. Helpless to do more, Murtagh strove to impress a sense of calm and safety on Thorn, despite his own upset. He wanted to rage and curse and weep, but he knew that would only worsen Thorn’s state, so he crushed his own feelings and focused on maintaining an even frame of mind. Thorn needed to know that he wasn’t alone and that both he and Murtagh were safe. Only then would he regain his senses.

Every wingbeat caused a painful jostle as the scales along Thorn’s knobby fingers cut into Murtagh’s skin. The rush of cold air was loud and distracting and leeched the life from his limbs, though he clung to his bedroll for warmth. Soon he began to shiver.

Murtagh tried to track their path, but he could only see a small patch of the ground. He could tell they were heading north and east, and that was all.

The sight of the burning buildings kept filling his mind, and he kept pushing it away, not wanting his own distress to worsen Thorn’s. But he couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of inevitability at what they had done.

The sun was directly above them when, at long last, Thorn angled downward and glided to a stop upon a small hill by the edge of the vast eastern plains.

They landed with a jolt, and Thorn opened his paw. Murtagh dropped onto the dry grass hard enough to cause him to let out his breath in a whuff.

He unclamped his grip on the bedroll and slowly got to his feet.

Thorn was crouched next to him, shoulders and wings hunched as if to ward off a blow, eyes half closed, his entire body racked with tiny tremors.

Murtagh wrapped his arms around Thorn’s head. “Shh. It’s all right,” he said, both out loud and with his mind. “We’re safe. Be at ease.” He repeated the words until he felt the tremors begin to subside.

It is not all right. Thorn blinked and hunkered lower. It will never be all right.

“The elves will have put out the fires. It’s easy enough with a word or two.”

Thorn laid his head on the ground and let out his breath in a great sigh. His scales felt uncommonly cold to Murtagh; normally the dragon ran hotter than a human. How many do you think I killed?

“…I don’t know. Maybe no one.” But they both knew that was unlikely.

I hate this weakness in me. This is not how I should be. It is unbecoming for a dragon, much less a dragon with a Rider. I dishonor you and my kind.

“No, no, no,” said Murtagh. The words tumbled out in a rush. “This isn’t your fault. It never was.”

Thorn turned doleful eyes on him. Galbatorix is dead. My actions are my own. What he did to me—

“What he did to us.”

We cannot be blamed for it, but the fault here is still mine.

A strange desire to weep came over Murtagh. He remembered Thorn as a hatchling, pure and innocent, free of any misdeed, and despite all they had done, he saw the youngling in Thorn yet. “You’re not helpless,” he said with fierce conviction. “You can overcome this fear of yours. Nothing in this world is mightier than a dragon.”

Thorn snuffed the ground by his feet. Nothing but a dragon’s own mind. To that, Murtagh had no answer, and his helplessness turned into coiled frustration. Thorn noticed. But I will try, however I can.

“I know you will. Tomorrow, let’s find some trees, and we’ll work on this together.”

Together.

With his right hand, Murtagh stroked the scales along Thorn’s jaw. They were still cold against his palm. “Thank you for coming to get me. I would have died if you hadn’t.”

I flew…very fast. Thorn shivered again, and his eyelids drooped lower, although his shoulders and wings remained hunched.

“You need to eat,” said Murtagh. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

No. Do not go….

But Murtagh was already trotting down the hill.

Thorn’s approach had scared away any nearby game, and Murtagh had to range longer and wider than he wanted before he spotted a herd of red deer grazing along the banks of a creek.

He stopped some distance away. A pair of does looked in his direction before returning to feeding. They seemed entirely unfrightened; he was too far away to be a threat, and he saw no settlements in the area. The animals weren’t used to being hunted by humans.

He cast about the ground, looking for a rock, but unlike the land near the Spine, the soil of the plains was rich and black and had no stones in it. What he found instead was a piece of wind-scoured bone, a fragment of a deer’s thigh or foreleg.

It would do.

He concentrated on the largest deer, lifted the bone on his outstretched palm, and said, “Thrysta!”

The shard flew faster than his eye could follow. With a thup, it struck the doe between her eyes. Her head snapped back, and the animal collapsed, hind legs kicking.

The rest of the herd fled.

Murtagh walked to the fallen animal. By the time he arrived, the doe had gone limp and still.

He looked at the deer, contemplating what he had done. The animal’s eyes were still open, and they were beautiful: round and glassy and gentle. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Then he grabbed the deer by its legs, slung it over his shoulders, and started the long walk back to Thorn.

As he strode across the grassy plain, the weight of the animal warm and heavy around his neck, Murtagh again saw the stone cell where Galbatorix had kept Thorn imprisoned. The chamber had been long but narrow, with murder holes cut in the ceiling. Too large and cold and unfriendly of a place for a hatchling, but there Galbatorix had placed Thorn all the same and anchored him to the floor with chains of iron. Small ones at first, to match Thorn’s size, but bigger and bigger ones thereafter, until the links were as thick about as a man’s torso and too weighty in their combined mass for even a dragon many times Thorn’s age to lift. Whenever he moved, the chains made a harsh and horrible sound. Many a night Murtagh had lain awake in his own cell, listening for the distinctive clink.

At first his heart ached for Thorn’s isolation. It was a cruel thing to put a small creature into such a hostile place, and he could not comfort Thorn with his thoughts, for the king and his servants kept them under constant mental watch (and ofttimes outright assault). But the space was not overly large for long. Thorn’s magically augmented growth meant the cell soon became cramped, and the walls kept him from spreading his wings, and the bony knuckles on the fingers that extended through his flight membranes rubbed raw against the rough stones.

Then Murtagh felt for Thorn’s confinement more than his isolation. He often heard him throwing himself against the walls and chains in a futile attempt to escape, panicked thrashings punctuated by roars and growls that turned to pained whines when the guards came and jabbed spears through the murder holes or else dumped buckets of slop onto Thorn’s sides, forcing him to lick the leavings off his scales.

It was no way to keep an adult dragon, much less a hatchling. A child by any measure. To spend the first few months of your life in such a fashion…

Murtagh clenched his jaw and quickened his pace as a familiar rage flared within him. At times, he fantasized about finding a spell that would let him bring Galbatorix back to life so that he could kill him again. But not by imposing understanding. With the sharp edge of his sword so that the man might feel the full, agonizing force of Murtagh’s fury.

But it would not be enough. For revenge could not fix what the king had broken.

As Thorn had grown, he had become increasingly reluctant to return to his cell whenever Galbatorix saw fit to release him. So much so that Thorn would break into frantic, frenzied fits at the sight of the guards. He would whip his tail and snap and claw and make every attempt to escape. The sight was inspiring at first but then piteous when the king would, with a few words, reduce the dragon to a cowering heap mewling in pain.

Yet the punishment was not enough to overcome Thorn’s dread of close spaces, and day by day, his aversion became ever deeper until it was an instinctual reaction.

Murtagh had only realized the full extent of the problem after Galbatorix posted them to Dras-Leona during the war and Thorn grew frightened while walking amid the city’s narrow streets. The dragon had destroyed four houses and wounded several soldiers in his sudden effort to win free.

Murtagh had hoped that their travels might help, that by avoiding cities and towns and keeping to open places, Thorn’s fear would abate. And perhaps it still would, but it was going to be a slow process. If even it were possible.

He shuddered and looked to the sky for strength. He wished things had been different. But the past couldn’t be changed, and the hurts they had suffered would be a part of them forevermore.

Thorn lifted his head as Murtagh trudged up the hill and dropped the deer onto the ground in front of him.

Thorn sniffed the carcass. Thank you.

“Of course. Eat.”

Murtagh went to the saddlebags and retrieved a waterskin. He drank and watched as Thorn seized the doe, ripped it apart, and swallowed each piece nearly without chewing.

Going to Ilirea and Nasuada was out of the question now. Admitting as much pained Murtagh, but after Thorn’s razing of Gil’ead, he couldn’t see how Nasuada could accept them into her court. Popular opinion would force her to deal with them harshly, and while Murtagh would have submitted to whatever punishment she deemed appropriate, he wasn’t willing to subject Thorn to possible confinement. Or worse.

No. His letter to Nasuada would have to suffice, and he had to believe that she would have the wherewithal to navigate the dangers that beset her. He comforted himself with the knowledge that she was more cunning and capable than most.

Still, it was difficult to accept the change in his and Thorn’s situation. For one shining moment, he had thought another path lay before them. But now Murtagh realized it had been an impossible dream. They would never be able to clear their name and attain a position of good standing among the peoples of the land. That way was forever closed.

Would Nasuada think they had turned against her? He hated to imagine her feeling betrayed. The public accounts of their escape from Gil’ead would confirm the worst aspects of his and Thorn’s reputation. He could only hope that his letter would help Nasuada to understand that more was at play than was first apparent.

Murtagh drank again.

He wondered if perhaps it would be better to take Thorn farther east, to Mount Arngor, where Eragon and Saphira had established the new home of the Dragon Riders. There, Thorn would be able to live with others of his kind, far from any places where he might cause more harm. And he could receive such instruction from elves and Eldunarí as had been traditional for dragons in their order, and which Galbatorix had denied Thorn.

But Murtagh didn’t want to give up. Bachel needed dealing with. And he didn’t want to give Eragon the satisfaction of acknowledging his authority. Most of all, Murtagh didn’t want to admit to the world that he or Thorn needed anyone else’s help. His stance was sheer stubborn pride, but he could not bring himself to show their weakness to the world. Weakness was dangerous; weakness allowed others to hurt and exploit you. Weakness was the first step on the path to death.

Thorn sensed something of what he was thinking, for he said, I will go where you want to go. As long as we are together, I am content.

Murtagh nodded and stoppered the waterskin. “That’s good, because we can’t stay here or anywhere in Nasuada’s realm.”

I am sorry.

Murtagh avoided Thorn’s gaze and did his best to bury his discomfort. “It is what it is.” He replaced the waterskin in the bag. “Still, we’re outcasts now, even more than before. Exiles. We’ll have to stick to the wilds, keep our distance from settled spaces.”

We can fly together from here on? Just us? No more anthill cities?

“Yes, we can fly together. And no more cities.”

Thorn swallowed the deer’s head and licked clean his chops. Having eaten, he seemed calmer, more alert. What of you? Tell me of Gil’ead. How went things with Silna and Carabel? And how did you end up caught in a tangle box?

“I got careless,” said Murtagh. He started pulling from the bags what he needed for his own dinner. He would have to do some hunting for himself if he wanted anything to eat tomorrow.

As he worked, he shared his memories with Thorn, starting with how he’d gained admittance to Captain Wren’s company. When he came to the arcane garden and explained to Thorn about the Ra’zac egg, the dragon snorted with enough force to singe the ground with a finger of flame from each nostril.

Vermin! I had hoped we had seen the last of them.

“I know,” said Murtagh. He blew on the newly birthed flame of the fire he was building. “Eragon did the land a favor when he rid us of them.”

The priests of Helgrind will be seeking to restore the Ra’zac to their previous glory.

At that, Murtagh gave a short laugh. “I can’t see how they could. Soon there will be dragons throughout Alagaësia. No Lethrblaka could survive here.” The Lethrblaka were the adult form of the Ra’zac: hideous flying monsters more akin to bats than dragons.

A Ra’zac might still work plenty of mischief before reaching full growth. Especially if a magician forces it to serve their will.

For a moment, Murtagh contemplated returning to Gil’ead with the express purpose of destroying the Ra’zac egg, but then he berated himself for the stupidity of the idea. Aside from the danger, Captain Wren or Arven would surely have moved everything of value from the chambers under the barracks.

He patted the pouch along his belt. The compendium was still there, as was—when he reached farther down—the yellow diamond hidden in the corner of his cloak.

The fire flared higher, and he continued with his memories. It wasn’t long before he arrived at his confrontation with Arven, Esvar, and the rest of the guards, and Thorn tasted his regret at the outcome of the fight.

Dry grass and the stems of withered thistles snapped under Thorn’s feet as he moved over and nuzzled his shoulder. You did what you had to. No one died. Tormenting yourself won’t help.

Nothing in life is easy, said Murtagh with his thoughts, for the sound of his voice seemed unbearably harsh.

Why should it be? Life is a fight from start to finish.

A grim smile crossed Murtagh’s mouth, and he patted Thorn. And it’s better to win than to lose. The crimson fire in Thorn’s eyes deepened. They understood each other.

Murtagh resumed his review, and at the end of it, he said, “I want to find this witch-woman Bachel even more than before. And I want to know what these Dreamers are about.” He smashed two more turnips with the rock he was holding. He wished he’d managed to find a knife to replace his dagger before leaving Gil’ead. “Whatever they’re planning, it’s more dire than I feared.”

Thorn hissed, and his tongue darted out between his scaled jaws. And you still don’t wish to warn Eragon or Arya?

Murtagh dropped the smashed turnips into the pot hung over the campfire. The thought of begging Eragon for help made him want to spit. Especially since he knew Eragon would help. That was the worst of it. “If Nasuada wants to inform them of the situation, that’s her prerogative. However, it would take too long for either of them to join us, and in any case…I want to deal with this ourselves. If we can. Blast it, we don’t even know what’s actually going on! Until we do, I say we stay the course.”

A sense of agreement emanated from Thorn. Then a low cough sounded in his chest, and his tongue lolled from between his jaws.

“What?” Murtagh asked.

The dragon showed both rows of teeth. A thought occurred to me. Carabel did you a greater favor than you realize.

“How do you figure?”

She saved you from having to treat with Ilenna. A great boon, that.

Murtagh stared at him for a second and then started to chuckle. With a wry twist of his head, he said, “You might have a point….” Then he grew grim again as he looked into the flickering flames.

What is it?

He shrugged, keeping his gaze on the fire. “I just wish I’d known to include something about Lyreth and his kind in my letter. I’m sure Nasuada suspects they’re working against her, but forewarned is forearmed.”

Could you use a spell to warn her?

Murtagh scrubbed the dirt with his boot, pensive. “Probably not. Urû’b— Ilirea is too far away for magic, easy magic that is, and Nasuada is sure to have wards protecting her against such intrusions. I could hire a courier, but I wouldn’t trust a stranger with this information.”

Thorn touched his shoulder again, and Murtagh forced a small smile. He scratched Thorn’s cheek, and the dragon huffed. We head north, then?

He nodded. “Back to the Bay of Fundor. We’ll follow the Spine up along the coast until we find the village Carabel spoke of.”

And then?

Murtagh pounded another turnip with the rock. “And then we’ll see what Bachel has to say for herself.”

Despite his extreme exhaustion, Murtagh found it difficult to sleep that night. His mind kept gnawing over the events of the past few days. Again and again he relived their escape from Gil’ead, and he questioned what he could have done to avoid such a disastrous outcome. Images of Esvar and the field of drowned soldiers continued to bedevil him, and the faces of Silna and the two brothers from the Rusty Anchor rose up before him. The center of his brow burned, and he thought too of Essie and of the stone room beneath the barracks and the rank smell of fear.

When sleep finally took him, he dreamt of empty castles and locked doors and footsteps chasing him down endless corridors. And he heard his father’s voice echo overhead with dreadful intent, followed by a remembered touch upon his cheek, soft and loving, and his mother saying, “Beautiful boy. My beautiful boy.”

Then visions of battle filled his slumbering mind: Glaedr and Oromis over Gil’ead, swords clashing upon the Burning Plains, soldiers dying at his command, banners and pennants whipping in the wind, the smell of blood and fire, and water in his nose and throat choking him as he struggled with Muckmaw.

Thank you, whispered Silna, but he felt no relief, no absolution, and the nightmares dragged him further down, down, down to the cells beneath Urû’baen, where Galbatorix had bent and broken him, and throughout, he heard the growls and cries of Thorn, of his dragon, his beautiful, newly hatched dragon, suffering in the chamber near his.

With morning came frost, and it took Murtagh a good hour or so to warm up enough to face the day. He was sore, and tired too, and the fibers of his being were frayed from use.

After a cup of elderberry tea, he practiced with Zar’roc, and the exercise helped clear his mind and focus his thoughts. And not just his, Thorn’s too. How one of them felt had a large effect on the other, and Murtagh was determined to do everything he could to shore up Thorn’s fortitude.

When he finished with his forms, he and Thorn left their belongings at camp and descended from the hill to a copse of birchwood trees standing along a trickle of a stream.

Murtagh entered first. He walked backward into the copse, feeling with his heels to avoid tripping and keeping his eyes on Thorn the whole while. Once he was a good thirty paces into the stand, he held out his hands.

“To me.”

A dry rustle as Thorn shuffled his wings. He shook himself, and his scales prickled along his glittering length. Then he took a tentative step forward, so his head was just under the reach of the leafless trees. The branches groaned under the influence of a passing breeze.

Thorn stiffened, and Murtagh said again, in a soft voice, “To me.” He smiled for Thorn’s benefit. “You can do it.”

The weight of Thorn’s forefoot crushed dozens of frost-shriveled leaves as he took another step forward. And another.

“That’s it,” Murtagh whispered. If Thorn could break his fear but once, Murtagh knew he could build off that triumph, and the fear would decrease with every success.

As Thorn’s hunched shoulders moved between the pale trunks, the dragon tensed even further. He dropped into a low crouch and dug his talons into the loam, and the tip of his tail whistled as it swung through the air.

“Don’t stop.”

Thorn refused to meet Murtagh’s gaze. He could feel the rising tide of panic swallowing the dragon’s mind, and he fought it with soothing thoughts, but he might as well have tried to beat back the actual sea.

“Try!” commanded Murtagh, his tone suddenly hard. Where enticement would not work, perhaps ferocity would serve. “Now! Don’t think about it!”

An anguished roar escaped Thorn, and he lurched forward on stiff legs, as a wounded animal might, and in his haste, his head brushed a low-hanging branch. Blinding fear swept the dragon’s mind with such strength it sent a bolt through Murtagh’s temples. He cried out and dropped to one knee even as Thorn thrashed and wriggled back out of the copse.

Thorn sat on the open ground, shivering and blinking. His jaws were open, and he panted as if from a desperate run. Then he lifted his snout and loosed a mournful howl that sounded so lonesome and eerie, the entirety of Murtagh’s skin crawled.

I cannot, said Thorn. My legs seize up, and I cannot move. It is as if a spell grips me, and I feel as if I will die.

With an effort, Murtagh got back to his feet and, with slow steps, made his way to Thorn. “They’re just emotions. Emotions aren’t you.” He tapped Thorn’s foreleg. “You can feel them, you can let them pass through you, but who you are doesn’t change. Remember that. Remember the parts of your true name that describe the best parts of you and hold to them.”

Thorn lowered his head in acknowledgment. The doing of it is difficult.

“It always is.” Murtagh gestured at the stand of birchwood trees. “Again. Now.”

Fear and uncertainty flickered at the back of Thorn’s gaze as he regarded Murtagh, but then he drew himself up with a proud arch to his neck, and a puff of smoke swirled from his nostrils. For you.

As before, Murtagh backed into the copse, and as before, Thorn attempted to follow. The red dragon managed to force himself a few feet farther than on his first attempt, but then his nerve broke and he had to retreat. So strong were Thorn’s memories of imprisonment that, for an instant, they overwhelmed Murtagh’s mind, and the dungeons of Urû’baen appeared before him, as seen through Thorn’s eyes. That and the dragon’s visceral aversion were enough to drive Murtagh out from among the trees himself.

They took a few moments to collect themselves. Murtagh’s heart was beating uncomfortably fast.

Then they tried once more with similar results.

“Enough,” said Murtagh, laying a hand on Thorn’s neck. The dragon was coiled into a tight knot upon the matted grass, panting and shivering as if with ague. It was still morning, and they were already wrung out.

They were both uncommonly quiet as they returned to camp and prepared to leave.

Only once Murtagh had packed up and was performing a final check on the rigging of Thorn’s saddle did the dragon say, Tomorrow, I will find another stand of trees.

Murtagh paused with a half-fastened buckle in his hand. He finished securing it. “I’ll help you.” And a sense of shared determination passed between them.

Before climbing into the saddle, Murtagh wetted a scrap of cloth and wiped the sweat from his face and under his arms. He would have preferred a proper bath, but the nearby stream was too small to fit in.

“Shall we?” he asked, rinsing and wringing out the cloth.

Thorn stretched the fingers of his wings and shook them, as if to rid himself of nervous energy. The winds are changing. We will have to dance about the clouds.

Murtagh clambered up Thorn’s side and into the saddle. As he cinched the straps around his legs, he took one last look at the peaceful expanse of grasslands and nodded. “Then let us dance. No, let us hunt.”

And Thorn growled with approval.

CHAPTER XVII Exile

While Thorn flew and the land rolled past below, Murtagh let his mind wander. His natural inclination was to think—to endlessly turn over all that was, had been, and could be—but he fought the urge. No remembering! Rather, he found solace in existence without contemplation. It was a simple pleasure, perhaps the simplest of all, and yet no less profound.

High above the ground, the air was chill, and his lashes froze together if he blinked slower than normal. Murtagh used a spell to buffer the wind in front of him, to slow the loss of heat from his body. Thorn needed no such protection; his scales were sufficient guard.

From the grasslands northeast of Gil’ead, Thorn flew back across Isenstar Lake and started to follow the Ninor River northwest toward the Spine.

They made good time, but Murtagh worried that events were outpacing them, and he was likewise concerned that Du Vrangr Gata, or even the elves, were hunting him and Thorn. Unless Carabel had abilities as yet unsuspected, it would take some days for his letter to reach Nasuada. Until then, Nasuada, Arya, and Eragon—all of whom had no doubt already received word of the fight at Gil’ead—would assume the worst. Eragon and Arya might even be so alarmed, Murtagh belatedly realized, as to set out in pursuit. He half expected them to contact him, and every time he felt a touch on his mind, he fought the urge to flinch. But always it was Thorn, and the dragon said, You are as twitchy as a mountain cat bitten by too many fleas.

Don’t talk to me about cats.

The land beneath them was beautiful, and Murtagh found himself wishing that they could ignore the concerns of queens and kings and live according to their own devices, just as Thorn had wanted. Whether that meant settling in one place—with magic as his tool, he could raise a hut or a palace, whichever suited his fancy—or searching the skies like an albatross set to wander all its days.

But in his heart, he knew neither option would work. No one truly lives apart. We are all connected. And ignoring their responsibilities, his responsibilities, would only lead to regret.

That evening, they made camp by a stand of poplar near the banks of the river. Murtagh went hunting with a pebble and spell and quickly collected a brace of hares and a large blue-footed duck that was foolish enough to swim past.

Before he started a fire and fixed himself dinner, he and Thorn went to the stand of poplar, and Thorn again attempted to enter among the trees.

In this, he was more successful than before, for the poplar were sparsely grown and Thorn had greater room about his head and sides. But in the end, the same fear caused him to freeze and then retreat, and Murtagh did not count the undertaking as much of an improvement.

The exercise furthered their end-of-day tiredness, and they spoke little through the rest of the evening.

After eating, Murtagh banked the fire and sat with his back against Thorn. For a time, he stared moodily at one of the gold crowns he’d received from Wren. Then he took up the dictionary he’d stolen and read from it while the sun set and clouds of gnats rose swarming from the treetops.

On the morning of the second day, while Murtagh waited for what remained of the duck to finish heating, he again returned to the compendium. The words it contained represented an incredible opportunity—potential, in fact—and he found himself constantly thinking of ideas for new spells.

This time, instead of picking up from where he had left off, he flipped through the compendium at random, taking in a word here, a word there.

His gaze landed upon one in particular. “Deyja,” he murmured. He looked at the definition. His eyes widened. “To die. To stop living.”

Thorn snorted. A dangerous word, that.

“Indeed,” said Murtagh softly. He felt rather awed by the word. Such a simple one, and yet so profound. Galbatorix would never have dared teach it to him. In truth, deyja likely wasn’t that useful. Murtagh guessed that most magicians would have a ward that would block its effects. And yet to see it, to know it, felt significant, as if he had surmounted a spire built over a measureless void.

He wondered what the word for life was.

He kept reading, hoping to find it. Instead, he chanced upon the word naina. “To make bright. Light without fire. See also líjothsa.” He turned to the entry for líjothsa and read: “Light as the thing itself. See also naina.”

His brow furrowed as he parsed the difference. Then his thoughts shifted to the light-emitting quartz he’d encountered within the catacombs and also the difficulty he’d had illuminating Isenstar Lake while in the water. Fire was a poor choice for underwater light; it created too many bubbles and too much steam.

Murtagh glanced up. The morning sky was clear and bright, filled with a seemingly endless pool of sunlit radiance. What if…The spell that he used to hide Thorn from observers worked—as best he could tell—by thickening the air underneath the dragon’s body so that it bent the light around him, similar to how a lens of polished glass might.

Perhaps he could modify the spell to gather light from a large area around them and concentrate it on a single spot, to use in place of a lantern or to store for later need.

On a whim, he poured some water into his battered tin plate and then cleared his mind, chose the needed words from the ancient language—the spell was awkward, but he thought it would do what he wanted—and said, “Vindr thrysta un líjothsa athaerum,” with the intent of focusing the light onto the plate.

BAM!

A flash as bright as the sun exploded in front of him, a crack of thunder echoed across the plain, and a cloud of cinders and superheated steam blasted outward. Murtagh felt the heat against his face as he fell backward, his wards activating.

Thorn let out a startled roar and reared up, spreading his wings. A tongue of red flame flickered in his mouth.

With some dismay, Murtagh saw their campfire blasted to bits: pieces of smoldering embers lay scattered in every direction, and the ground was blackened. Wisps of smoke curled up from patches of dry grass. The pan with his bacon was folded in half, the bacon itself lost somewhere in the dirt.

Cursing, Murtagh ran about and stomped out the cinders before they could start a wildfire.

What did you do? Thorn asked, his wings still slightly raised.

“I’m not sure. It was just light!” Then Murtagh explained what he had been trying to accomplish. He shook his head. “I definitely won’t use that spell again unless it’s at a distance.”

A long distance.

“Agreed.”

They continued to follow the Ninor River until it began to bend more to the west and south than to the north, at which point they broke from the river and struck out across the trackless plains.

Not for the first time, it occurred to Murtagh how empty Alagaësia was. For all the efforts of humans, dwarves, and elves, vast swaths of the land remained unsettled, undeveloped, and uncivilized. Part of him preferred it that way. If all the world were as cramped as Ilirea or Dras-Leona, there would be no place for those who didn’t belong.

In early afternoon, Murtagh composed a stanza that he particularly liked:

Atop the tower a hollow man,

Shell of shadow, void within,

Bound by words, a villain’s blade.

A name of shame, a fear of fate.

Break the bond, change the path,

The shell remains, a haunting shade.

By evening, the Spine had faded into sight far ahead of them as a line of purple jags propped against the reddened sky.

Their camp that night felt terribly alone. The land was flat, with few ridges or washes and thus nowhere to hide. Despite the lack of cover, they shared a sense of relief at the absence of copses, caves, or other enclosures. Thorn more so than Murtagh, but they were both glad to have a break, if only for a day, from Thorn’s fear of narrow spaces.

They made their own shelter beneath Thorn’s wing, and Murtagh amused the dragon by singing songs from court, and he even danced a step or two for Thorn’s benefit.

And that was the second day.

On the third day, the eerie howls of a wolf pack woke them before sunrise. The wolves were loping across the grasslands some miles to the south, and their baying carried with surprising volume and clarity through the still morning air. Even at that distance, Murtagh could see how large the animals were; they must have been twice the size of a mastiff, with tawny coats and long, thick tails.

Shall I answer them? Thorn asked.

“If you want,” said Murtagh with a smile.

Then Thorn raised his head and made a passable imitation of a wolf howl, only far louder, and far more menacing.

The pack yipped with fear, and thereafter ran in silence.

Murtagh laughed and patted Thorn.

It is good for them to know they are not the only hunters about, said Thorn, self-satisfied.

Despite an annoying side wind, they arrived at the edge of the plains late that morning, and the land rose into foothills and then the steep heights of the Spine. A dusting of snow extended halfway down the sides of the mountains, and the pinetrees glittered as if strewn with diamonds.

A band of silver water lay athwart their path, and Murtagh knew it for the Anora River, which flowed northward to the Bay of Fundor. He directed Thorn to follow the river upstream, deeper into the mountains.

Thorn did so without question; the dragon was as curious as Murtagh.

The Anora led them to a pinched mountain pass that stood at the mouth of a long, deep-set valley. Atop the mountain to the left of the pass was a ruined watchtower built in the elven style, with no path or road that led to its dark walls, and Murtagh knew it and spoke its name in the ancient language: Ristvak’baen, or Place of Sorrow. He felt both sorrow and revulsion, for it was there, in that tower, that Galbatorix had slain Vrael, leader of the Riders, following the great battle on Vroengard Island. That event, more than any, had marked the Riders’ downfall.

Galbatorix had bragged of the fight more than once. Murtagh could see him still, sprawled across the fur-draped chair in his banquet hall, his harsh, eagle-like features lit by the flames from the long fireplace set within one wall, eyes burning with unsavory delight as he recounted how he had felled Vrael with a kick betwixt the legs.

An urge came over Murtagh, and before he could speak it, Thorn responded, banking leftward and spiraling down to a flat rooftop alongside the ruined tower.

The presence of the rooftop was most convenient, Murtagh thought. Then he felt foolish. The tower had been built by and for Dragon Riders. Of course it would have a place for a dragon to land.

Stone scraped under Thorn’s talons as he settled onto Ristvak’baen. Murtagh hoped the structure was still sound. It had held for over a hundred years; surely it could hold a few minutes more.

He dismounted, and he and Thorn looked up at the crumbling tower. A human-sized archway pierced the outer wall of the building and led to a small courtyard.

Murtagh walked through.

Patches of moss and lichen mottled the stones of the courtyard, while tufts of dead grass poked up between the joins. A stunted juniper grew from a crack in the wall higher up, its trunk a withered twist of creviced wood, and a desolate wind shook the branches. Snow clung to the corners of the yard where shadows shielded it from direct light. A single doorway gaped in the side of the tower, hinges warped, broken, rusted black.

A circle of twelve brass sockets lay embedded within the stones in the center of the yard. The sockets were each the size of a fist and as eyeless and empty as a skull. Waxy verdigris colored them green. What they had once held, Murtagh could not guess.

Behind him, Thorn hesitated and then, with a soft growl, crouched low to the rooftop and stuck his head and neck into the courtyard. His whole body was tense with strain—his lips wrinkled to show teeth—but he didn’t retreat. Murtagh counted that as a small improvement.

He continued to study the yard. No evidence remained of the fight between Galbatorix and Vrael. The place was cold and empty, devoid of all comfort, and the rattle of dry branches reminded him of a rattle of bones.

Thorn scented the air. It is strange to think how much turned upon their meeting here.

Heat poured through Murtagh’s limbs, like a flood of molten wax. His jaw clenched, and his fists also, and tears dripped from his unblinking eyes. The surge of emotion was so sudden, so strong and unexpected, he shouted from surprise. Then he shouted again out of sheer blind rage.

Thorn flinched, but Murtagh didn’t care.

He howled at the empty sky. Howled and screamed until his voice broke and blood slicked the back of his throat. The paving stones bruised his knees as he fell forward and hung his head like a whipped dog.

With one gloved fist, he pounded at the stones of the courtyard. Sharp pains lanced the bone in the heel of his palm, and great hollow booms echoed through the tower, as if his fist were a mallet made of iron.

A growl tore his throat, and he slapped his palm flat against the stones. “Jierda!”

With a deafening report, cracks spiderwebbed out from his hand and split the paving stones throughout the yard. Ribbons of dust drifted up from the exposed rock faces, and one of the brass sockets fell free of its setting.

Spent, Murtagh collapsed onto the broken stones and buried his face in a fold of his cloak.

The wind clawed at the sides of the tower.

Thorn’s mind was a warm presence against his own, but the dragon said nothing, only watched and waited.

After a long while, Murtagh lifted his head and pushed himself back onto his knees. His cloak pooled around him in ripples of dark wool, and the sharp edges of the cracked stones cut into his shins.

He wiped his eyes with the back of a gloved hand.

“All this,” he said, his voice harsh and stark in the thin air. He coughed. “All this because the Riders didn’t kill Galbatorix when they had the chance. If they had—”

You would not have been born.

“Then maybe someone else would have had a better opportunity at life.”

Thorn snarled and leaned forward, as if to crawl into the courtyard, but a tremor racked him, and he sank back on his haunches. Do not say that. Never say that! Do you not want to be joined with me?

The question cut through Murtagh’s grim introspection like a razor through silk. “Of course I do. That’s not what I meant.”

Then say what you mean. I chose to hatch for you, Murtagh. I do not wish for another.

The dragon’s fierce earnestness sobered Murtagh. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I spoke without thinking. I was feeling bad for myself. It’s an unfortunate habit.”

Very.

“Why did you hatch for me?” In all their time together, Murtagh had never thought to ask.

Thorn blinked. I was tired of waiting to emerge, and I could feel that we were a proper fit. That, and you had none of Galbatorix’s madness.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you better.”

Now you are feeling bad for yourself again. You did as well as anyone could have and better than most.

“Mmh.” Murtagh slowly got to his feet and gave Thorn a rub on his snout.

Thorn hummed and pressed against Murtagh’s hand. We survived. That is what matters.

“I still wish we could fly back through the years and help Vrael.”

Then everyone everywhere would do the same with their own regrets, and the world would be unmade.

“I suppose that’s true.” He eyed the cracked stones with some ruefulness. He hoped the tower wouldn’t fall. “I’m going to look inside. I’ll be quick.”

Watch for traps. Thorn retracted his head and neck from the yard and turned to look upon the valley.

Murtagh cautiously stepped through the doorway at the base of the tower. A short, dark hall lay before him, the stone floor crusted with dirt and twigs and leaves and withered grass gathered in tangles along the corners.

From there, he made a pass through the interior of the tower—what he could access of it, that was. Fallen stone blocked several of the doorways. The rooms were dry, dead, and deserted. Some of the furniture remained: wooden chairs brittle to the touch, an iron poker leaning against the kitchen fireplace, the rotted frame of a narrow bed.

Down a flight of narrow stairs, on the floor of what he guessed had been a storage room, he found a dented brass goblet decorated with fine tracery that could only have been the work of an elven artisan. The metal was frigid against Murtagh’s gloved fingers as he picked it up. He turned the goblet in his hand, studying it, wondering whom it had belonged to and what things it had seen through the long years.

On an impulse, he kept the goblet as he climbed the narrow staircase back up to the courtyard.

Thorn’s tail whipped from side to side as Murtagh joined him on the flat-topped roof.

“A relic from another age,” Murtagh said as he held up the goblet for Thorn to sniff. “I think I’ll keep it. This cup can be the first treasure of House Murtagh. How does that sound?”

Thorn gave him a dubious look. What about Zar’roc?

“A curse, not a treasure.” Murtagh bounced the goblet in his hand and then went to the saddlebags and unbuckled one.

Perhaps you can forge a new history for the blade, said Thorn.

Murtagh tucked the goblet beneath his bedroll and closed up the saddlebag. “It would take an era and a half to balance out all the misdeeds done with Zar’roc.” He walked back around to face Thorn.

Then I will have to make sure you live a long, long while, said Thorn, a twinkle in his ruby eyes.

“Are you sure? That sounds like a burdensome task.”

Thorn huffed, and the twinkle brightened. Very sure.

“Mmh,” said Murtagh, but he was touched. He turned and looked out over the valley. “So this is where they came from.” Palancar Valley: home to Eragon…and their mother. The place where she had returned to give birth to Eragon, far from Morzan and the Empire.

It looks like a good place to hunt.

Some distance from Ristvak’baen, a small town was visible next to the Anora River. Therinsford, Murtagh guessed, if his memories of what Eragon had told him about the valley were accurate.

He climbed back onto Thorn and secured his legs. “Ready.”

Hold on!

With a mighty leap, Thorn launched himself into the air. Then he climbed several hundred feet above the mountain peaks, where the air was thin and it was unlikely anyone below would hear the beat of his wings.

Murtagh watched with a fixed gaze as the valley unfolded beneath them. It was as much family history as geography. If events had played out only a little differently, Palancar Valley would have been his home, same as for Eragon. He wondered what it had been like to grow up in such an isolated place.

It made him wish he could talk to his mother, ask her about her childhood and her reasons for abandoning Palancar Valley to follow Morzan into the wider world. And also why, why, she had chosen to save Eragon from Morzan but not him, her eldest son. Had it been a matter of ability and opportunity or one of preference? The question had tormented him from the moment he’d learned of his relation to Eragon. How could a mother sacrifice one child for another?

How? It was true that Eragon had been in mortal danger. He was not Morzan’s son, and had Morzan discovered the truth…Murtagh shuddered to imagine his wrath. So there was that. Still, Murtagh couldn’t help but wonder if it had been choice rather than necessity that kept his mother from bringing him to Palancar Valley.

What was worse, to see Eragon hailed as the hero of the age made Murtagh fear that she’d been right to choose Eragon, and that there was some irreparable wrongness or inadequacy in himself, some flaw that their mother had perceived in him.

Perhaps it was the scar on his back. He was marked by Morzan’s darkness in a manner that Eragon never had been.

Gently, Thorn said, You do not know her reasons or situation. And regardless, I chose you.

The words softened Murtagh’s mood and dispelled some of his bitterness, though it lingered like a poisonous pool at the back of his mind. He scratched the scales along Thorn’s spine and leaned forward to give the dragon a quick embrace.

Then he sat tall in the saddle and strove to bury his dark contemplations.

Halfway through the valley, Murtagh saw what he was looking for: a burnt husk of a farmhouse standing near the river, perhaps a day’s walk from Therinsford. A chill crept down his back, for he knew he was looking at the house where Eragon had lived and that the Ra’zac had burned after questioning—or rather, torturing—his uncle Garrow.

So much from so little, said Thorn.

Indeed.

Murtagh was surprised the farm was still abandoned. He’d thought that Roran or one of the other villagers from Carvahall would have rebuilt it.

Lifting his gaze, he saw Carvahall itself, nestled between river and foothills at the northern end of Palancar Valley. The village looked different than Murtagh expected. A thick wood palisade surrounded a cluster of thatched cottages, rustic and newly raised amid the sooty outlines of what Murtagh realized must have been the original village, before Galbatorix’s forces had razed it. The thought was an uncomfortable reminder of his and Thorn’s actions in Gil’ead. The western flank of Carvahall butted against the Anora, and a sturdy bridge extended across the rushing water. On the far side, a wide, rutted path led to a tall hill that overlooked the rest of the valley, and upon the crown of the hill were the stone foundations and partially built walls of what appeared to be a small castle.

With his mind, Murtagh drew Thorn’s attention to the unfinished castle. It seems Eragon’s cousin has been busy. He learned the hard way that safety can only be ensured through force of arms.

Roran is your cousin as well.

Mmm. I wonder how similar we really are.

Thorn angled downward slightly. Do you wish to land?

Murtagh nearly said yes. He did want to talk with Roran and meet his family—he had a baby daughter, or so Murtagh had heard—for they were Murtagh’s only remaining relatives, aside from Eragon. But if they did, there would be shouting and pointing of weapons and all sorts of difficult emotions. Even imagining it was exhausting.

You could go by yourself, said Thorn. And Murtagh knew how much it cost the dragon to suggest such a thing after the events of Ceunon and Gil’ead.

No…no, I think not. But thank you. If nothing else, he didn’t want to take the time. Visiting Carvahall would delay them by at least a day, probably more, and Murtagh felt an increasing urgency to find the witch-woman Bachel.

“Someday,” he muttered as Carvahall and the unfinished castle passed under them. Someday he and Roran would have a reckoning. Even though they’d never met, the bonds of blood could not be ignored.

Murtagh took one last look over the full scope of Palancar Valley, doing his best to remember every detail of the place where his mother had grown up, and Eragon too. A lonely pain formed in his heart, and then he turned his back on the vista and held on to Thorn even tighter.

Palancar Valley was the last large valley they saw. Thereafter, the mountains grew closer together and only allowed for small rifts and gaps between their forested flanks: narrow, deeply shadowed vales where, during the winter months, the sun never touched the bottom.

As they flew, Murtagh had a sense they were leaving behind the last vestiges of civilization. As rough and isolated as Carvahall was, it at least shared some connection with the rest of Nasuada’s realm. Now they were entering lands that belonged to no country or race.

By late afternoon, the Bay of Fundor was visible to their right, butted up against the edge of the Spine. The mountains plunged to the water’s edge, with hardly a buffer of open land, and the air acquired the taste of salt, and the cries of gulls and terns followed them along the jagged range.

Look for a wharf or a jetty. Any sort of building, said Murtagh, even though he knew they were probably still several days away from the village they sought.

Thorn coughed in agreement.

Before long, a harsh wind sprang up from the north, and Thorn’s flight slowed until they were barely moving relative to the ground.

Enough, said Murtagh, and Thorn descended to a small island—no more than a hundred feet across—just off the shore. There they camped, and the wind bore down on them with unrelenting ferocity while flurries of snow obscured the mountains.

By morning, the clouds had vanished.

We should make haste, said Thorn. The weather will not last.

Whitecapped water to the right, mountains beneath and to the left. A domed expanse of sky ahead. The landscape was beautiful and forbidding in equal measure, and Murtagh felt the loneliness of their position with physical force.

He kept an eye on the bay, but no ships appeared. If anyone were making the trip to visit Bachel, they were steering well away from the bay’s western shore.

That day they saw great numbers of wildlife along the edge of the bay. Vast herds of bugling red elk, the animals far larger than those Murtagh had hunted on the plains by Gil’ead. Giant brown bears that trundled their solitary way through the forest. Packs of shaggy grey wolves. Hawks that screamed, and ravens and crows that cawed, and fish vultures that wheeled above the shallows and occasionally dove for the silvery bergenhed that darted through the leaden water.

Even high in the air, Murtagh felt the need to stay alert. The mountains were stark and savage, and the slightest mistake might cost them their lives, despite all their strength, spells, and experience. It was not lost on him or Thorn that Galbatorix’s first dragon, Jarnunvösk, had died in the frozen reaches of the Spine.

I understand now why the Riders warned Galbatorix against venturing so far, Murtagh said.

He and Jarnunvösk were not alone, were they?

No, two others went with them. Riders both, all of the same age. Galbatorix was their leader. Always he craved power, and always it was his undoing.

A slow beat of Thorn’s wings punctuated their conversation. The dragon said, Did Galbatorix ever tell you why they flew north?

Murtagh snorted. For the daring of it, I believe. To show their mettle, despite their elders’ disapproval.

A sorrowful cast darkened Thorn’s mind. And so they paid the price of their folly.

We all did.

It was Urgals who attacked them upon the ice, was it not?

Murtagh scratched his chin. So he said. But they must have been skilled and mighty Urgals indeed to overcome three dragons and two Riders. In truth, I’ve always wondered about it, but Galbatorix was never inclined to answer questions. He again looked down upon the ridged peaks. For an instant, sympathy flickered within him. How horrible it must have been to travel all this on foot, alone, and after losing his dragon.

It would have driven anyone mad, human or dragon.

Just before noon, they spotted threads of smoke rising from a narrow valley deeper in the mountain range. Thorn diverted to investigate, and they saw a small collection of huts—which looked like the hulls of overturned ships—in a meadow by a stream. Tall, multicolored banners hung outside each hut.

“Is that—” Murtagh started to say. But it wasn’t the Dreamers. Even as he spoke, a figure emerged from one of the huts. An incredibly tall figure with grey skin and horns that curled about his enormous head.

Urgals, said Thorn with a mental growl.

And a Kull at that. No other Urgals grew as tall. Not one of them stood under eight foot, and many were far larger. Murtagh still found it impressive that the dwarves had been able to hold their own against the gigantic creatures during the Battle of Farthen Dûr.

Murtagh watched with fierce interest as Thorn circled the village, trusting his spell of concealment to keep them hidden. He saw what he took to be Urgal women—a first for him—washing clothes in the stream, and half-naked Urgal children—also a first—running about the meadow, shooting at one another with bows and padded arrows. Several males were chopping wood; others were sparring with staves and spears and clubs.

Both Galbatorix and the Varden had allied themselves with the Urgals over the course of the war, but never during Murtagh’s time with either one. Before that, his only interaction with Urgals had come when he’d gone on patrol with Lord Varis’s men. A band of Urgals had been raiding the holdings on Varis’s estate, and it was thought that a show of force might scare them off. If that failed, their goal was to hunt down and kill the Urgals, and specifically, their chieftain, who was—according to the reports of survivors—violent, ruthless, and given to fits of insanity.

Murtagh had been seventeen and just coming into his strength. He was eager to prove himself and to use the skills Tornac had taught him. (Tornac would have argued against the expedition, but then Tornac had been back in Urû’baen.) So Murtagh convinced Varis to let him accompany his men.

The Urgals had ambushed them by a small stand of firs just outside one of the villages on Varis’s lands. The fight had been short, loud, and confusing. In the midst of it, an Urgal had knocked Murtagh out of his saddle. He barely got back to his feet before the brute was upon him, swinging a heavy chopper—more like a sharpened mace than a sword.

Murtagh’s shield split, and he knew he had only seconds to live. All his training with a sword was little help against the sheer strength and violence of the Urgal’s assault.

But then another Urgal had pulled away the one attacking him, and Murtagh had found himself facing the leader of the band. The chieftain had a crimson banner mounted over his shoulder, and on the banner was stitched a strange black sigil.

The chieftain had smiled a horrible smile; his teeth were sharp and yellow, and his breath stank like that of a carrion eater. Then the rest of the Urgals left their kills and formed a circle around Murtagh and the chieftain, and they’d shouted and bellowed and beaten their chests as the two of them closed with each other.

Murtagh had known what was expected of him. And he tried. But the chieftain wielded a long-handled ax, and Murtagh did not know how to defend against it. The ax was like the worst parts of a spear and a pike combined, and the Urgal quickly gave Murtagh a cut on his left shoulder, a cracked rib, and another cut on his right thigh. He’d fallen then, and he surely would have died if not for Varis.

The earl had ridden up with another, larger group of soldiers. They had driven the Urgals away, killing many, but not, to Murtagh’s regret, the chieftain.

And it had been that same crimson-bannered Urgal who had led the Kull who chased him and Eragon deep into the Beor Mountains….

Murtagh shook himself and brought his attention back to the village below. Ostensibly a treaty had been signed between Urgals, humans, and elves—and indeed, Eragon had even added the Urgals to the pact that joined Riders and dragons (though the thought of an Urgal Rider still gave Murtagh pause). But whether word of the treaty had reached this isolated village was an open question.

How do you think they would react if we showed ourselves? he asked Thorn.

Amusement colored the dragon’s thoughts. They would all want to fight you, to prove themselves.

Probably. Part of Murtagh was tempted. He held no love for the Urgals—he still had nightmares about the chieftain, and about fighting hordes of Urgals during the Battle of Farthen Dûr—but he was curious. If there was one thing the past few years had taught him, it was the importance of knowing and understanding both himself and the world around him. And he didn’t feel as if he had a good understanding of the Urgals. Recognizing his own curiosity surprised him. He really would be willing to sit down and talk with an Urgal, despite the atrocities they’d committed throughout the land. After all, he’d committed his own share of violence.

At the realization, some of the tension eased from his muscles, and he loosened his grip on the front of the saddle. The Urgals were dangerous enough, it was true, but so were he and Thorn. It did not mean they were not worthy of investigation.

A thread of acrid smoke streamed back from Thorn’s nostrils and passed over him. The dragon said, I would roast them with fire and eat them if they attacked us.

Eat an Urgal? Really? I can’t imagine they would taste very good. Besides, they’re not animals.

Thorn snorted and turned back toward the bay. They are meat. Meat is good.

Once again, Murtagh was reminded of the differences between them. He made no attempt to hide his revulsion. Would you eat a human as well?

Indifference was Thorn’s response. If I did not like them. Why would I not?

Because it’s wrong. You might as well be a Ra’zac, then!

A sharp hiss came from Thorn. Do not compare me to those foul creatures. I am a dragon, not a carrion picker.

Then don’t act like one. Promise me you won’t eat any humans, elves, or Urgals. For my sake.

Hmph. Fine.

It was, Murtagh reflected, not without reason the elves had forged the initial bond between themselves and the dragons. He frowned as he thought of all the dragon eggs Eragon had taken to Mount Arngor. Some of them were enchanted that the younglings inside might bond with Riders, but the rest were wild dragons, unbound and free to act as they would. How well would those wild dragons fit into Alagaësia once they were old enough to return?

As the day progressed, a thick layer of clouds formed, low enough to clip the peaks of the mountains. It forced Thorn to fly closer to the ground than he preferred, lest they should overlook the village of the Dreamers.

Before night fell, they spotted three more Urgal settlements hidden among the folds of the mountains. Murtagh had always thought Urgals lived in caves. So he’d been told growing up. It was strange to learn that they had humanlike towns. How many of them are there? he said.

Enough for the army he raised, said Thorn.

Murtagh nodded. It was true. The horde that had attacked Tronjheim had been the equal of any army in the land. Which meant the Urgals were far more numerous than commonly believed. They’ve done well since the fall of the Riders.

Will we have to drive them out?

Only if they make a nuisance of themselves again. Eragon thinks he can keep them as allies, but…

You don’t agree?

I don’t know. Eragon sometimes has a good feel for such things, but he’s also rather simpleminded when it comes to the realities of war and politics. At least, he used to be.

They landed for the night by a small mountain stream that poured into the Bay of Fundor. As Murtagh made camp, an unfamiliar roar startled him.

He spun around to see a great brown bear standing on its hind legs not twenty feet away. The beast was as tall as a Kull and far thicker and more muscled.

Murtagh’s pulse spiked for a second, and then he mastered himself. The bear was no threat. A single word would be more than sufficient to kill it, but Murtagh didn’t like the idea; he and Thorn were the intruders, not the bear.

Thorn snaked his head around Murtagh and growled in response, making the bear sound puny in comparison.

The animal didn’t seem scared. It roared again, dropped to all fours, and then reared back up, paws and claws extended.

“What’s wrong with you?” Murtagh shouted. “Are you stupid? Don’t you realize you can’t win?”

The bear appeared startled. It snarled at him and then looked at Thorn and let out a long, outraged bellow. On a hunch, Murtagh searched the surrounding area with his mind for cubs or other bears. Nothing.

“I think it just wants to fight.”

The dragon’s eyes glittered. Then we shall fight.

“No, please. Not now,” said Murtagh. “It’s been a long day.”

Thorn huffed, disappointed. Fine. As you want. Then he loosed a long jet of red and orange fire directly over the bear’s head, singeing the fur on the tips of its ears.

The bear yowled, turned, and loped down the shoreline faster than a man could run.

“Thanks,” said Murtagh as he watched the animal go. “I wager it’s never met anything it couldn’t intimidate before.”

Well, now it has, said Thorn, sounding satisfied.

Murtagh glanced at the snowcapped mountains. He hoped no one had heard the commotion. “We should be careful from now on,” he said, returning to the fire he was building. “You never know who might be listening. Especially out here.”

That night both Murtagh and Thorn had terrible dreams, and their nightmares spilled over from one mind to the other until it was impossible to tell where they originated. Urgals featured in many of the dreams: a great army of them marching through the Spine, with a king at their fore and the heads of their enemies spiked on their spears. And a bloody battle beneath the dark pinetrees, with Urgals bellowing like bears and humans screaming, and Murtagh and Thorn crouched by the upturned roots of a fallen tree, trying to hide. They were crying, crying, crying, and the tears pattered against the dirt along with the drops of black blood….

Sleep provided no rest that night, and when Murtagh and Thorn woke, they were still exhausted. Those were no normal dreams, said Thorn.

No. There’s something strange in the land here…. We can’t be far, I think.

Murtagh’s words proved prophetic. In the middle of the afternoon, as Thorn rounded the flank of a particularly tall peak, a swift-flowing river came into view, pouring out of a cleft in the Spine and feeding into the Bay of Fundor. A blanket of low-hanging clouds roofed the cleft, and the interior was deep and dark and densely wooded. However, the shadows and the trees did nothing to conceal the pall of bluish smoke crowded at the back of the narrow valley.

And as the wind gusted, it carried a whiff of sulfurous stench that made Murtagh’s throat sting and his eyes water.

He straightened in the saddle, feeling a strange thrill.

They had arrived.