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.
