The corner chambers Bachel had given him would have been considered poor accommodations in Urรปโbaen. But by the standards of a rustic, out-of-the-way village, they were sumptuous.
The inside of the temple was in better repair than the outside: the stone walls were clear of moss and lichen, the ๏ฌoor was well swept, and there were no cobwebs to catch in his hair.
A stone ๏ฌreplace was set against one wall. Facing it was a four-poster bed of black walnut, with blankets that seemed clean and a sheepskin laid on top that smelled only faintly of the animal it had been cut from. An iron candlestick with an unlit taper stood by the bed, along with a bare side table and, a few feet past, a plain wardrobe. A bearskin with the head still attached lay in the center of the ๏ฌoor.
Adjoining the space was a small washroom with a stone basin, a porcelain chamber pot, and a bucket of fresh water for his ablutions. There were no carvings or banners upon the walls of either room, but the washroom ๏ฌoor had a mosaic made of chips of colored glass, and it contained the same branching patterns that adorned the rest of the village.
Several shuttered windows marked the walls on either side of the bedroomโs outer corner. Murtagh checked to make sure that no one was hiding in the chambers, and then he went to the windows and unfastened the shutters.
The dragon sculptures that lined the upper part of the building extended past the sides of each window, the exaggerated shapes of their snouts hooked downward like overgrown corbels.
To the east, the windows opened onto the temple courtyard. The villagers had alreadyโwith unexpected speed and e๏ฌciencyโcleared the tables, braziers, food, and skins from around the ruined fountain.
Thorn sat crouched on the ๏ฌagstones, eyes open and alert. He saw Murtagh, and the dragonโs tongue slipped out as he tasted the air.ย There you are.
Here I am. By the entrance to the yard, Murtagh spotted a pair of bored-looking villagers sitting next to a glowing brazier. The men carried spears and had swords at their waists, but Murtagh couldnโt imagine that Bachel expected the guards to stop him or Thorn if they chose to leave. Their only purpose, he decided, was to keep watch and inform the witch as to the activities of her guests.
Guests. His lip curled.
The guards glanced up at him and then returned to talking amongst themselves.
One moment, Murtagh told Thorn, and went to the north-facing windows. Not far from the temple, he saw the narrow structure that Bachel had called the Tower of Flint. It stood tall and stark in the moonlight: a spear of rough-hewn stone, velvet grey, with belfry-like openings beneath the domed roof. From the tower, he thought he heard a faint murmur of sleeping birds, but the sound might as easily have been a trick of the imagination.
Past the tower stood a number of houses, and he was also able to pick outโdimly visible in the moonlightโthe corner of tended grounds that extended behind the tower and temple. Their presence intrigued him. There was a path running across the neatly trimmed grass and between a double row of low shrubs, leading toward the trees along the foothillsโฆ.
Murtagh looked back at the guards below. Experience had taught him caution, but it had also taught him the importance of decisive action. Whatever the truth regarding Bachelโs means and motives, he didnโt feel
comfortable waiting for her to reveal it. He wanted to ๏ฌnd out for himself what secrets lurked at the heart of Nal Gorgoth. That way, at least, he might be able to determine whether Bachel was lying to them.
All of which justi๏ฌed taking a bolder-than-normal approach. But carefully.
Murtagh scratched his chin. The guards didnโt appear to be wearing amulets like the ones he had encountered in Ceunon and Gilโead. However, Bachel might have gifted them with some form of wards. There was no way to tell beforehand, and the nature of her wordless magic meant that the Name of Names would be of no help. And while it was possible Bachel was ignorant of more formal magic, he couldnโt see how to use that to his advantage. StillโฆWhatever wards protected the guards, they might not block spells intended to help rather than harmโeven as had been the case with Galbatorix.
He decided to risk it. As with all magic, intent mattered, so he concentrated on the fact that both of the men appeared tired. It was late, and they ought to be in bed. It would be best if they slept, for their own good.
With that ๏ฌrmly in mind, Murtagh cast the same spell heโd used on the guard in the catacombs under Gilโead: โSlytha.โย Sleep.
He released the energy for the spell in a carefully controlled trickle over the course of half a minute or more. It was a gentle piece of magic, subtle enough that if a wardย didย stop it, the warriors might not notice.
The guards slumped over, and one of them dropped his spear. It clattered on the ๏ฌagstones with startling loudness, and then the village was again quiet.
When no one came to investigate, Murtagh allowed himself a pleased chuckle. As much as he hated to admit it, the way Eragon had used magic on Galbatorix had been a stroke of inspiration. No one seemed to think of guarding themselves against the good, only the bad.
It wouldnโt last, of course. Over the years, word would spread from magician to magician, and eventually no capable spellcaster would leave themselves open to well-meaning attacks. A contradiction, that! But a reality all the same. Regardless, Murtagh wasnโt about to lament Bachelโs ignorance.
As long as the technique continued to work, heโd use it and be grateful for it too.
Of course, he still didnโt know for sure if the guards had wards, but he would have been shocked if they didnโt.
How long will they sleep?ย Thorn asked.
As long as needed. Help me down, said Murtagh, climbing through the window onto the skirt-roof below.
Thorn snorted and lifted his head. Murtagh stepped onto it, careful not to put a heel in the dragonโs eyes. Then Thorn lowered him to the ๏ฌagstones, and Murtagh straightened his sword belt and looked around.
โThanks,โ he murmured, suddenly gleeful, like a fox that had broken into a henhouse while the hounds were away.
Bachel is very dangerous, I think, said Thorn. โI agree.โ
Perhaps we should leave. We know where this place is now. Let Nasuada or Arya or even Eragon deal with it. This isnโt our responsibility.
โDonโt you want to ๏ฌnd out the truth behind Bachel and this Dreamer of Dreams? Not to mention this supposed prophecy regarding the two of us. Arenโt you curious?โ
Thorn sni๏ฌed the night air and was slow to answer.ย I amโฆbut I am also wary. I feel as if weโre sticking our paws into a dark burrow. We do not know what we might ๏ฌnd. We might end up bitten.
โAnd if we do?โ asked Murtagh, serious. โWould it not be better to know if thereโs something here that can bite us?โ
Is that even a question? The only mystery is, how large of a bite?
Murtagh cocked an eyebrow. โSo far, Bachel and her people have shown us nothing but hospitality. Even if Grieve is a surly malcontent.โ
Yet you do not trust the faces they show you, else we would not be having this discussion.
โNo. Youโre right.โ
Thorn released a very human-sounding sigh.ย You will not sleep well unless you sni๏ฌ about, will you?
He grinned. โYou know me too well.โ
After a moment, the dragon lowered his head, and the soft warmth of his breath enveloped Murtagh.ย All right. But if you get caught again, Iโll grab you and ๏ฌy out of here, as I did at Gilโead.
โAnd if it comes to that, Iโll be happy for you to grab me.โ He rubbed Thorn behind one of his neck spikes, and the dragonโs sides vibrated with a low hum of satisfaction.
Where do you want to search?
Murtagh glanced at the tiered temple. The mountains rose high behind it, the peaks pale as the ๏ฌnest pearl beneath the twinkling stars.ย There, but I think it would be too risky. Too many people in the building.
Then where?
Murtagh pointed at the Tower of Flint.ย It must be important for the Dreamers to have named it. And I want to see the grounds behind the temple. He cast a critical eye over Thorn.ย Some of the villagers may still be up, and youโre a bit big to be sneaking around these days.
Thorn snapped his jaws shut with a soft but de๏ฌniteย click. Then we wait until they are asleep. Where you go, I go.
Murtagh could tell there was no point in arguing. โYouโre as stubborn as a mule,โ he muttered.ย All right. But youโll have to stay behind where you donโt ๏ฌt.
The dragon nodded.ย That is acceptable.
Then Murtagh nestled against Thornโs side, and the dragon covered him with a wing so he was hidden from any who might pass by. Knowing that Thorn was keeping watch, Murtagh closed his eyes and used the opportunity for a quick nap. Even in the midst of his enemies, he could still sleepโa useful, if somewhat regrettable, skill garnered over years of dangerous living.
 |
The sharp tip of Thornโs snout poking him in his ribs woke Murtagh. He reluctantly opened his eyes.
Iโm up, Iโm up, he said as Thorn continued to nudge him.
The dragon snorted and pulled his head out from under his wing.
Murtagh yawned. What had he been dreaming about? The memory scratched at the edge of his mind, and he had an obscure sense that it had been importantโฆ.
Well?ย Thorn asked, and lightly scratched the ๏ฌagstones.
Give me a minute. Let me make sure no one is watching. Carefully, cautiously, with almost paranoid slowness, Murtagh reached out with his mind and checked the surrounding area. He felt a few people nearby, but they were deep asleep, dreaming whatever it was the Dreamers dreamed.
All clear, he said, crawling out from under the wing.
The moon was directly overhead now. The pall of smoke had dispersed, and the air acquired the perfect clarity found only on bitter winter nights. And yet the village retained an unseasonal warmth, as if summer still dwelt among the stone buildings while frost and ice accumulated on the encircling hills and peaks. Perhaps, Murtagh thought, the heat was coming from the ground itself. It would explain why the ๏ฌelds that fronted Nal Gorgoth were charred black.
He sni๏ฌed. He couldnโt smell the stench of brimstone anymore. Was that because it had departed along with the smoke, or had he simply gotten used to the odor?
The second explanation bothered him more than he wanted to admit. โWatch your tail,โ he murmured to Thorn. โDonโt go caving in any of
the buildings.โ
Thorn gave a dismissive snort.ย Iโm more careful than that. โMmm,โ said Murtagh, unconvinced.
From the courtyard, he scouted down the adjoining streets before heading around the corner of the temple and toward the Tower of Flint. Thorn stalked after him, as quiet as a cat. He lifted the tips of his claws so they didnโt touch the stones and walked on the pads of his paws with impressive delicacy. His tail he kept raised o๏ฌ the ground, and it hung behind him like a great crimson snake, headless and blindly following.
Just o๏ฌ the temple was a roofed well with a small winch for lifting its bucket. The well was plain enough, devoid of even the most basic
decoration. Murtagh doubted it was the sacred well that Grieve had mentioned.
On the o๏ฌ chance he was mistaken, he leaned on the mouth of the well and peered over the edge. The black depths echoed with the faint sounds of his hands against the ๏ฌtted stones. Nothing about it seemed unusual.
If heโd had a coin, he would have tossed it in for luck. He and Thorn needed more than their fair share.
โNothing,โ he said to Thorn. โDo you smell anything?โ
The dragon sni๏ฌed, and his tongue darted out.ย Only water, wood, and sweat.
Murtagh moved on.
A hip-high wall of mortarless stonework encircled the Tower of Flint, and there was a small wrought-iron gate blocking the way. The bars of the gate traced the outline of a dragonโs head as seen from the top.
โThey really seem to like dragons,โ said Murtagh as he unlatched the gate and pulled it open. The hinges squealed loud enough to make him pause, but no one was near to notice.
Why should they not?ย said Thorn.ย There is no other creature or being that can match the beauty of our form.
โPerhaps not, but you donโt have to brag about it.โย The truth is never bragging.
Murtagh smirked. Dragons had many virtues, but modestyย wasnโtย one of them. โWait here. I wonโt be long.โ Leaving Thorn at the small gate, he proceeded to the door of the tower. It was wood, with a heavy iron lock set into the boards.
He opened it with a subtle application of the wordย thrystaย and a slight surge of energy.ย Clickย went the lock, and he pulled the door open.
The acrid stench of bird droppings struck him, making his breath catch and his eyes water. He screwed up his face and padded into the dark interior. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust well enough to make out even basic shapes. He was standing at the bottom of a great cylinder, which started at the base of the tower and rose right to the top. Lining the walls were hundreds of tiny wooden coops, each with a section of a bark-covered
branch protruding from the front to serve as a perch. From inside the coops, he heard a thousand little murmursโthe sounds of sleeping birdsโand the silky whisper of feathered wings shu๏ฌing and readjusting. The ๏ฌoor was soft with a thick layer of droppings, and there were crates and barrels and other objects piled along the bottom of the walls.
Murtagh stared. The tower was as curious a space as heโd ever seen, even including the catacombs under Gilโead. It was a demented, oversized version of the dovecotes that Yarek the spymaster had built in Urรปโbaen for housing his homing pigeons. But what birds were these? Not pigeons or doves, he suspected.
He cast about on the ๏ฌlthy ๏ฌoor, looking for feathers that might help identify the birds. Instead, he stepped on something hard and felt it break beneath his foot. Holding his breath, he bent to look.
Half buried in the droppings was a beaked skull. The skull of a crow.ย Of course. The tower had to be where the Dreamers raised the birds that Bachel used to make her amulets. Murtagh straightened. The sheer number of crows in the tower made him wonder just how many amulets Bachel had enchanted.
How are they fed?ย he wondered. It would be no small task tending to so many birds.
Keeping a hand out for balance, Murtagh felt his way around the outer curve of the chamber, intending to make a circuit and then depart. What was he looking for? He didnโt know. Crows werenโt used for carrying messages. There would be no writing desk with secret messages lettered across slips of parchment. No maps or magical items used for enchanting, assuming he was correct about Bachelโs spellcasting. But he felt obliged to be thorough.
Three-quarters of the way around the tower, he stepped in a particularly slippery patch of droppings, and one foot slid out from under him. He ๏ฌailed and caught himself with a hand on the ๏ฌoor. His right knee banged against the corner of a crate, sending a hot jolt through his leg, and the tip of Zarโrocโs scabbard knocked against a barrel.
A muted chorus of disquiet passed through the tower as the crows shifted in their sleep, their murderous minds for a moment disturbed.
Murtagh clenched his teeth, held his breath, and didnโt move. His knee throbbed. A spike of alarm came from Thorn, and Murtagh quickly reassured him:ย Iโm ๏ฌne. Donโt worry.
Then he whispered, โMaela.โ It was said that the ancient language was the mother tongue all creatures had spoken at the beginning of time. Murtagh wasnโt sure if he entirely believed thatโhe had his own ideas about how the language might have been enchanted to in๏ฌuence living beingsโ but itย wasย true that animals responded to the ancient language in ways they didnโt to other tongues.
Sure enough, the birds began to settle down, and shortly thereafter they were again quiet.
Murtagh made a face as he started to push upright and the droppings squished between his ๏ฌngers. He uttered a single, soundless curse, as foul as the situation he found himself in.
The heel of his palm sank into the excrement and touched cold hardness buried within. He frowned.ย Huh.
Despite his disgust, he dug down until he could grasp the object. It felt like metal: oval, half the size of his hand, with carving on one side.ย A coin?ย But no, it was too large for that.
Keeping a ๏ฌrm grip on the object, he stood up and carefully made his way back out through the tower door.
Thorn wrinkled his snout and retreated several steps as Murtagh approached. โThat bad?โ said Murtagh, rueful, closing the small gate behind him.
If you donโt bathe before tomorrow, everyone for a league will know where youโve been.
โUh-huh.โ Murtagh turned so the moon was behind him and held up the object heโd found. As heโd suspected, it was a ๏ฌat piece of metal: electrum, by the looks of it (although it was hard to be sure in the moonlight; it could just as easily have been gold), with an iron hook on the back. It was a clasp for a cloak that would be fastened at one shoulder.
Droppings were embedded in the design on the claspโs face, and Murtagh spent the better part of a minute scraping the muck away with his thumbnail before he could make sense of it.
A shock of recognition passed through him, as a bolt of lightning through a drought-stricken tree.
What is it?ย Thorn asked.
Murtagh shared with him a memory of Galbatorixโs private dining hall, where crimson banners hung along the walls, banners embroidered with the crests of the Forsworn. The one opposite the middle of the table, facing the chair where Murtagh had so often sat, had borne the same design as the clasp.
โIt is the mark of Saerlith.โ
A similar shock passed through Thorn.ย How came it to this place?
โI donโt know.โ Saerlith had been a lesser name among the Forsworn; heโd done little to distinguish himself from his fellow traitors, although he had shared in their general infamy. All Murtagh knew of him was that he was human and had come from somewhere around the city of Teirm. That, and his dragon was unfortunate enough to have puce-colored scales. Like the other dragons of the Forsworn, the name of Saerlithโs dragon had been lost, erased by the collective will of their species. Dragons did not forgive those they considered betrayers. A fault of theirs, perhaps, but when it came to the Forsworn, an understandable one.
Murtagh tried to recall how Saerlith had died. Not in Nal Gorgoth, that much he knew. Accounts were mixed, but supposedly Galbatorix had dispatched Saerlith to Alagaรซsiaโs southern coast, where the Rider and dragon had been ambushed and killed. By whom, Murtagh had never heard, although he assumed the Varden or their allies had been responsible.
Regardless, Saerlith had perished long before Murtaghโs time. Thorn said,ย If Saerlith and his dragon discovered Nal Gorgothโ
โThen maybe Galbatorix knew about this place.โ Murtagh bounced the clasp in his hand. โOr maybe Saerlith was working with the Dreamers for his own gain.โ
Galbatorix would have killed him for that.
โIf he knew of it.โ Murtagh placed the clasp in the pouch on his belt. Again he felt as if the village were a living thing that was waiting and watching with unknown intent. He grimaced, knelt, and used the ground to scrape more of the crow dung o๏ฌ his ๏ฌngers. โI donโt like this,โ he said, straightening back up. โI donโt like this at all. Thereโs more at work here than Bachel is willing to admit.โ
Thorn nodded toward the pouch.ย A strange people to leave makings of the Forsworn lying about.
โItโs careless, all right. Or arrogant.โ He paused to consider, and his skin prickled with goose๏ฌesh as an unsettling thought occurred to him. โWhat ifโฆwhat if Galbatorix found Nal Gorgoth when he was traveling back through the Spine, after Urgals killed his dragon? Or what if this is where he and my father ๏ฌed after they betrayed the Riders? Iโve always heard it said that Galbatorix hid in an evil place, where the Riders dared not follow. What if Nal Gorgoth is that place? What ifย thisย is where Galbatorix met Durza andโฆwhere they trained my father?โ
Thorn hissed, snakelike. Murtagh shared the sentiment.
If the Riders were familiar with Nal Gorgoth, why would they su๏ฌer it to endure?
โI donโt know. Maybe they thought it was abandoned. Maybe they set ๏ฌre to the place and drove out the original inhabitants. We donโt know how long Bachel or her people have been here. The buildings are older than any Iโve seen. Who knows who made them.โ
Thornโs gaze grew more intent.ย Umaroth knew enough to warn us against coming here. What if the dragons of old and their Ridersโhis tongue ๏ฌicked across his teethโwere afraid?
