Fugitives again, thought Murtagh as he ran through Ceunonโs open gatehouse. It seemed like he and Thorn were always having to ๏ฌee one place or another. Unwanted. Thatโs what we are.
A horn rang out within the city, and he ducked his head, half expecting a ๏ฌight of angry arrows to land about him. He heard such horns in his dreams: dread-inducing clarions that heralded the approach of faceless hunters, relentless in their pursuit.
He ran faster.
Past the stables outside the city walls, he swung o๏ฌ the road and into rows of snow-dusted barley, heading east toward where Thorn waited for him.
The night was descending into total blackness. Even once his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could barely see where to put his feet. Nevertheless, he maintained his pace as best he could, determined to put distance between him and Ceunon.
Several molehills caused him to stumble, and he nearly twisted his ankle in a badger hole.
โSon of an Urgal,โ he muttered.
At the far end of the ๏ฌelds, he paused to look back. The city gate had been closed, and lamps bobbed along the outer walls as soldiers patrolled the battlements, but he saw no sign that anyone had left Ceunon to give chase.
He started to relax. But only slightly.
As he continued on his way, he risked summoning a small werelight with a whispered โBrisingr.โ
The werelight was a drop of bloody ๏ฌame wavering in the night, just bright enough for him to see the ground. It hung several feet in front of him and held its distance no matter how fast he ran.
Brisingr. Eragon had taught him that word of power, as he had many of the words in the ancient language during their travels together, in the brief period when they had been friends and allies. For all the stresses of that time
โthey had been evading the Empire the whole whileโit had been one of the most enjoyable chapters of Murtaghโs life. He remembered it with a curious mixture of gratitude, regret, and resentment: a short, shining span of freedom, bracketed by his initial escape from Galbatorixโs tyranny in Urรปโbaen and his subsequent recapture at the hands of the kingโs minions outside of Tronjheim. Following which, Galbatorix had bound him with the ancient language and forced brother to ๏ฌght brother.
Murtagh found himself clenching his teeth. Brother. It was still strange to think of Eragon as such. Half brother, in truth, for while they shared a mother, Murtagh was the son of Morzan, ๏ฌrst and foremost among the Forswornโthe thirteen Dragon Riders who had betrayed their order to aid Galbatorix in his campaign against the Riders over a century ago. I am the traitor son of a traitor, thought Murtagh, and the knowledge burned like acid dripped upon his heart.
Eragon was also the son of a Rider, but in contrast, his father, Brom, had bitterly opposed Galbatorix and all his servants. A fact that had a deeply personal outcome, for it was Brom who had slain Morzan and his dragon when Murtagh was still a young child.
His lip curled. Their family history was as tangled as a briar patch and just as painful to wade through. He wished their mother were still alive that he might question her about it, but she had died shortly after giving birth to Eragon. And while Murtagh knew it was irrational, he could not help but blame Eragon for the loss: one more reason for resentment among so many others.
With an extra-deep breath, Murtagh cleared his lungs and lengthened his strides. It was true that stepping outside the main current of events in Alagaรซsia had helped calm his mind, but he still felt twisted up inside, him and Thorn both.
It might take years for either of them to unknot, if ever they did.
An owl hooted from a nearby tree, and somewhere in the brush, an animal darted away. Maybe a rabbit. Maybe something worse. A Svartling perhaps. The small, dark-skinned creatures were said to help with household chores if given gifts of bread and milk, but they were also said to treat travelers with cruel and often dangerous tricks.
Whatever the sound, Murtagh didnโt want to meet its author in the middle of a night-bound ๏ฌeld.
He slowed as he climbed the hill where theyโd landed earlier, weaving between the crags of rock and the thickets of hordebrush.
At the crest, he found Thorn crouched, ready to spring into the air. The dragonโs eyes outshone the werelight, and his scales ๏ฌashed and ๏ฌared with renewed brilliance. Great furrows scarred the earth around him: the tufts of grass torn, hordebrush uprooted, rocks split.
Thornโs tail twitched when he saw Murtagh, and he shivered with an excess of unburnt energy. A snarl wrinkled his muzzle.
Murtagh eyed the furrows but made no comment.
โIโm ๏ฌne,โ he said. โSeriously.โ He turned in a circle, arms outstretched. โThe blood isnโt mine.โ
Thorn sni๏ฌed him and growled slightly before settling back on his haunches. His muzzle smoothed, but Murtagh could still feel his fear, frustration, and anger. I should have come to help you.
โItโs all right. Really.โ He stroked Thornโs neck before continuing to the saddlebags, where he removed Zarโroc, unwrapped the crimson sword, and
โwith a sense of reliefโstrapped the weapon to his waist.
โWeโd best ๏ฌnd somewhere else for the night,โ he said, climbing up Thornโs back to the saddle strapped between the large spikes on the dragonโs shoulders. Once in place, he snu๏ฌed the werelight.
Always you stir up the ant-nest cities, said Thorn.
โI know. Itโs a bad habit. Letโs go.โ
Another growl, and with a great gust of wind and surge of steely muscles, Thorn leaped into the night air, the thud of his wings an invisible hammer blow.
Three more beats carried them into the clouds. The mist was cold against Murtaghโs cheeks, but not unpleasantly so after his run. It tasted of moss and fresh-cut grass and new beginnings.
Thorn ๏ฌew east for a seemingly endless while. At last, they descended to settle on a ๏ฌat-topped knoll with a commanding view over the landscape. Dark though it was, Murtagh could just make out the forest of Du Weldenvarden farther to the southโa long black smear that extended across the land, like a great arm pointing back toward Ceunon.
The cold stung his skin as he dropped his cloak and pulled o๏ฌ his bloodstained shirt, trying to avoid touching the spots of gore. โHvitra,โ he murmured as he imposed his will on the garment.
The cloth shimmered slightly, and the blotches of red faded.
Murtagh stroked the linen. It looked clean enough, but he still intended to wash the shirt before he wore it again.
He stored the shirt in a saddlebag and removed his one other garment: a thick woolen topโknitted, not wovenโdyed a dark brown with interlaced patterns of red along the wrists and neck. The wool was itchy, but it was his preferred wear for ๏ฌying, as it was far warmer than the linen.
Eager to cover his skin, he donned the top and again wrapped himself in his cloak.
Since a ๏ฌre might draw attention, Thorn curled into a tight ball, nose to tail, and Murtagh crawled under his right wing and laid out his bedroll next to the smooth scales of Thornโs underbelly.
Was it worth it? Thorn asked.
โI think so,โ said Murtagh. Opening his mind more than felt safe around strangers, he shared his full memories of Ceunon.
They were not very good, said Thorn, ๏ฌxing on an image of Sarrosโs guards. โNo, they werenโt. Lucky for me.โ
A faint growl, and the dragon drew his wing tighter around Murtagh. I see now there is a storm set before us.
โBut how big, how bad? We still donโt know.โ But it exists.
โYes.โ
Thornโs plated eyelid closed and opened with a slight nack. You wish to ๏ฌy into the storm.
โMaybe not into it, but toward it, yes. What say you?โ
The dragon coughed with his peculiar laugh. That we should take the stone to Tronjheim and have the dwarves carve it into something pretty for us.
Murtagh snorted. โWith our heads on pikes to watch?โ
A faint scent of dragon smoke ๏ฌlled the space around them as a thread of crimson ๏ฌame ๏ฌickered in Thornโs nostrils. No? Then I say we should sleep and speak of it in the morning.
โI suppose youโre right.โ
Behind him, Thornโs belly vibrated with a low hum, and Murtagh crossed his arms and let his chin sink to his chest. Underneath the wing, all was still, and it felt as if he and Thorn were the only two creatures in existence.
Before sleep took him, Murtagh did as was his nightly habit and, in a silent voice, spoke the words in the ancient language that were his true name. Hearing them was never easy; to know your true name was to know your faults as surely as your virtues. Yet he said the name every day so as to be assured that he still understood his own nature and that no one besides Thorn held claim over him. For a true name granted power to those who heard it, and even as a magician might command an object with the proper words, so too might they command a person.
As Murtagh and Thorn had learned to their sorrow and despair during their subjugation in Urรปโbaen.
Thorn too spoke his true name, a deep singing sound that made Murtaghโs skin feel as if laved with warm water. Then the dayโs tensions
ebbed from their limbs, and they fell into close slumber.
Morning brought freezing fog from the ocean and a thick layer of feathered frost. Ice crystals cracked loose as Murtagh crawled out from under Thornโs wing and squinted toward the pale disk of the rising sun, thin and rose pink above the edge of Du Weldenvarden. Streamers of mist ribboned upward from the treetops, the entire forest steaming with stored warmth from the previous day.
Murtagh shivered and pulled his cloak closer. The morning cold never got any easier.
He checked their surroundings and was pleased to see no sign of search or pursuit.
Con๏ฌdent that theyโd escaped detection, he allowed himself the luxury of a small ๏ฌre, built with scraps of dry hordebrush he foraged from the top and sides of the knoll.
Thorn lit the ๏ฌre for him, igniting the woody stems with a single, tiny pu๏ฌ of ๏ฌame from his nostrils.
โThank you,โ said Murtagh, and he meant it. Fiddling with ๏ฌint and tinder when your ๏ฌngers were half numb wasnโt fun, and he preferred to avoid using magic for everyday tasks. Magic made its own sort of noise for those with the ears to hear it, and it was impossible to know who might be listening.
Breakfast was ๏ฌatbread and bacon and two dried apples, with a cup of elderberry tea to warm his insides. Thorn watched as he ate but had no food of his own; the dragon had devoured several deer not three days earlier and wouldnโt need to feed again for the better part of a week.
By the time Murtagh ๏ฌnished, the morning had warmed enough to melt the frost and dissipate the morning haze.
He took out the bird-skull amulet and the coal-like stone and laid them on a scrap of cloth between himself and Thorn.
Thorn sni๏ฌed the two objects, and the tip of his tongue ๏ฌicked out between his teeth. As he scented the stone, the scales along the back of his head and neck ๏ฌared, like those of a pinecone opening in a ๏ฌre.
โWhat?โ said Murtagh, leaning forward. โWhat is it?โ
A shiver ran Thornโs sinuous length, and he cowered in a way that Murtagh had only ever seen him do before Shruikan. The stone smells wrong.
โHow so?โ
Likeโฆblood and hate and anger.
Murtagh scratched his cheek. His beard was prickling again. โCould it be magic?โ
Another ๏ฌicker of Thornโs tongue. Maybe. But then it should a๏ฌect you as well.
โUnless itโs meant only for dragons.โ Murtagh picked up the rock, bounced it in his hand. On a whim, he extended his mind toward the piece of stone, thinking perhaps it held some secret spark of consciousness bound within. But he felt nothing. He frowned and returned it to the cloth. โWe need to ๏ฌnd out where it came from.โ
Thorn hissed like a snake. No. You want to ๏ฌnd out where it came from. There is a di๏ฌerence. We should destroy the rock or else bury it where none will ๏ฌnd it. There is evil here. Leave it, forget it, do not pursue it.
โYou know I canโt.โ
A growl rumbled in Thornโs throat, and his scales rippled. You can! Listen to Umaroth. He warned us for good reason.
โAnd what reason is that?โ It matters not!
Thorn released a hu๏ฌ of black smoke and reached with one taloned paw toward the rock and amulet, as if to sweep them aside.
โNo!โ Murtagh cried, and sprang to his feet so he blocked Thornโs way. They stared at each other, neither backing down. The air between them seemed to vibrate with the force of the dragonโs glittering glare.
Move aside. โNo.โ
This hunt will bring nothing but sorrow.
โI donโt believe that.โ
Fingerling ๏ฌames danced along Thornโs tongue, and the inside of his mouth glowed like a bellowed forge. When has fate ever gone as we wish? Let this go.
โI canโt,โ said Murtagh. A familiar grimness descended upon him. โI canโt sleep easy knowing thereโs a wolf stalking around in the dark. Something so dangerous Umaroth wonโt even give us its name.โ
Some secrets are better left buried.
โNo! No, no, no. Do you want to wake up one morning to ๏ฌnd out that weโve been outmatched, outmaneuvered, and outsmarted? Not me. Not ever again.โ Murtagh stopped, hands clenched, and his nostrils ๏ฌared as he steadied his breathing. He ๏ฌxed Thorn with an iron gaze. โNever.โ
The dragon released a long, snaking hiss and said, Isnโt what we have enough? All the earth and sky is ours to travel. We sleep when we want, eat as we will. We paid our price, we shed our blood.
โAnd weโre still not safe!โ With a conscious e๏ฌort, Murtagh lowered his voice, though his words remained as intense as before. โWe never will be, but perhaps we can catch our enemies unaware. Umaroth is hiding something from us, and I wonโt rest until I know what it is.โ
Thorn breathed out a stream of black smoke that enveloped the stone and the bird-skull amulet. Were you to take those to Eragon or Aryaโ
โThis has nothing to do with them!โ Murtagh ran a hand through his hair. It was getting long again. โI want answers. And I want to be useful.โ
Being yourself is use enough. We do not need to prove ourselves to anyone.
He laughed bitterly. โMaybe if youโre a dragon. But Iโve always had to prove myself, and I always will. Thereโs no easy path through life when youโre born as Morzanโs son.โ
He went to Thorn and put his hands on either side of the dragonโs scaled snout. โBesides, you and I, we are Dragon and Rider. We swore no oaths to the Ridersโโ
Thorn arched his neck in a proud curve, though he left his head in Murtaghโs hands. And I will swear no more oaths of fealty. No words will bind me, nor shackles or fetters.
โNo,โ Murtagh agreed. โNor me. But we owe a debt to those who came before. We wear their mantle, whether we wish it or not, and I ๏ฌnd myself reluctant to dishonor their memory by ignoring this.โ
Thorn snu๏ฌed. No one would know if we chose another path.
โWe would know, and that is enough.โ He gestured toward the rock and bird-skull amulet. โThat there is work for a Rider and Dragon, as it was of old.โ
The dragon turned his head then, to better see Murtagh. So shall we ๏ฌy about ๏ฌghting evil and righting wrongs wherever we ๏ฌnd them? Is that how you wish to spend your days?
Murtaghโs lips quirked. โNot entirely, but perhaps we can do some good here and there while we attend to our own interests.โ
As you did with the girl.
โAs I did with the girl.โ He put a hand on Thornโs cheek then, and opened his mind as much as he could to the dragonโs inner eye. Look, he said, and let Thorn feel the fullness of his heart.
Finally, Thorn uttered a soft growl and pulled his head away. I understand. โBut you donโt agree.โ
The last few feet of Thornโs tail slapped the ground. Once. Twice. Three times. What you want isnโt what I want. A wave of his hot breath rolled over Murtagh. But where you go, I will go.
He nodded, grateful. Their relationship wasnโt as smooth as Eragon and Saphiraโs, and Murtagh didnโt think it ever would be. But that was all right. A dull thorn was no thorn at all.
Besides, Murtagh knew that he wasnโt the easiest person to get along with, even for a dragon.
Thorn must have sensed his mood, because a faint hum of amusement came from the dragon, and he curled his neck and tail around Murtaghโs legs.
What then?
Kneeling, Murtagh touched the bird skull. โWe need to ๏ฌnd someone who can tell us about the witch-woman Bachel, and about this stone.โ
Umaroth?
He shook his head. โToo far away, and he would just warn us o๏ฌ the stone again.โ
Thorn snapped his jaws together, quick and sharp as a steel trap. Would he? I still think you should speak with Umaroth. He is wiser than most.
It was a fair point. Not only was Umaroth old and learned, but he and his dead Rider, Vrael, had been the last leaders of their order. That alone was reason enough to give weight to the dragonโs words. Yet Murtagh remained wary. โI respect Umaroth,โ he said. โBut Iโm not sure if I trust him.โ
You think he lies?
โNo. I think his goals and aims may not be our own. We donโt know. How long did we speak with him outside Urรปโbaen? Barely a few minutes, if that.โ Murtagh picked a breadcrumb out of his beard. Annoyed, he ๏ฌicked it at the ground.
So you wish to ๏ฌnd the truth of this yourself. โI do.โ
Thorn nodded toward the amulet. Then whom shall we seek out instead? โIโm not sure. We need someone here in Alagaรซsia, someone who is
familiar with the secret doings of the land.โ
Thornโs eyes narrowed to knife-thin slits. What of Yarek?
The back of Murtaghโs neck prickled, and a ๏ฌst seemed to close around his chest, making it di๏ฌcult to breathe. Yarek Lackhand, tight-mouthed, hard-eyed, clever as an elf and cruel as a torturerโMurtagh could see him still, standing in the stone hallways of Galbatorixโs citadel, a drably dressed man with an iron cap strapped over the stump of his right wrist. Yarek had been Galbatorixโs spymaster, and from what Murtagh had seen, heโd excelled in the position. It was he who had arranged for the Twins to kidnap Murtagh from the Varden so the king could break him, bend him to his will.
Thorn touched his snout to Murtaghโs elbow.
He patted the dragon. If not for Yarek, he wouldnโt have ended up bonded with Thorn, and Murtagh had to count that as a good thing. However, the spymaster had been the very de๏ฌnition of ruthless. And he kicked dogs, which Murtagh disapproved of. โEven if heโs still aliveโโ
You know he is.
Murtagh inclined his head. โProbably. But Iโm sure heโs disappeared down some hole, and if I start poking around, asking questions, itโll attract attention.โ
Thorn made a deep, coughing sound. โWhat?โ
If not Yarek, why not the female, Ilenna?
โIlennaโโ Murtagh gave Thorn a quizzical look. Of all the folk who had passed through Galbatorixโs court, Ilenna had been one of the more unusual. She was a younger daughter of a merchant family based out of the city of Gilโead. Her fatherโs cargo trains had helped supply the kingโs army during the war, and the family had made a fortune because of it. Despite her lowborn station, the girl had pursued him most assiduously whenever she was at court, so much so that Murtagh had taken to actively avoiding her. That alone was hardly unique, but what had caught his attention was how particularly well informed she was. As heโd later learned, her family had done more than just shift supplies for Galbatorix. They had also served as gleaners and sifters of information on Yarekโs behalf, and Ilenna no less than her father or brothers.
โThereโs no telling if she knows anything about Bachel or the stone.โ Thorn coughed again and tapped the ground with the tip of one razor-
sharp claw. She is more likely to than most. And if not, no doubt she would be eager to ask questions on behalf of the great Dragon Rider Murtagh.
He grunted, unamused. โEven if thatโs trueโ No. Weโre not going there. Weโll ๏ฌnd someone else, somewhere else.โ
Who? Where? If you want to track down Bachel and the source of this rock, then Gilโead is the answer. If not, how long will it be before you catch their trail?
โYou never know,โ Murtagh mumbled. โIt could happen. Maybe one of the tinkers orโโ
A pu๏ฌ of acrid smoke blew over him as Thorn snorted.
Murtagh stopped. The dragon was right; he was being ridiculous. Grim, he crossed his arms and stared out over hill and dale toward the horizon.
The weight of unspoken memories hung between them.
โGilโead is dangerous.โ
More dangerous than Ceunon? More closely guarded than Ilirea?
Murtagh shifted his shoulders, as if he had an itch in the middle of his back. He still wasnโt used to Urรปโbaenโs new name. Every time he heard it saidโIlireaโhe felt as if heโd missed a step on a ๏ฌight of stairs.
Finally, he answered, with his mind, not his mouth, I donโt want to. There was no dissembling when it came to mental communication, no barriers to understanding. It was the most vulnerable form of connection two beings could share, and he shared it with Thorn.
The dragon hummed a soothing note and lowered his head until it rested on the ground by Murtaghโs feet.
Then leave it, said Thorn. Or hold the course. What is this hunt worth to you? Murtagh let out his breath and uncrossed his arms, forcing himself to stand straight. He put a hand in the middle of Thornโs forehead. The scales
were hot against his palm.
โAll right. Weโll go to Gilโead and ๏ฌnd Ilenna.โ
Before they departed the knoll, Murtagh sharpened his dagger on the bit of dwarven whetstone he carried with him. He stropped it on his sword belt and then made a mirror from water poured in a plate and stilled with the word entha.
Peering into the silvery grey surface, he was struck by how gaunt he looked. He hadnโt been eating enough. They were always moving, walking, ๏ฌying, often in inclement weather. Meals were intermittent at best, and more than once heโd gone a full day without so much as a bite.
Not good, he thought. The thinner he was, the less reserves he had for spells when the need arose. The magicians with the most raw power were always the heaviest.
He pulled the skin on his jaw ๏ฌat and tight, lifted the dagger, and started to shave.
The dagger wasnโt as sharp as a barberโs razor, but it did the job. Even after the ๏ฌrst pass, his face felt colder, and Murtagh half regretted his decision. Still, he persisted, and soon enough, he was ๏ฌnished.
He only cut himself three times, which he counted a success.
Afterward, he studied himself in the makeshift mirror. Without the beard, he appeared younger but also leaner, harsher, like a starveling wolf.
He dashed the water aside with the ๏ฌat of his hand. You are yourself again, said Thorn.
Murtagh grunted. Maybe he should have waited until after Gilโead to shave, but he couldnโt bear to have crumbs on his chin. Not to mention the constant itching.
He dried o๏ฌ the plate and tucked it into the saddlebags. Then he bounded up into Thornโs saddle and strapped down his legs so he wouldnโt fall. โLetโs ๏ฌy!โ
Thorn growled in a ๏ฌerce, pleased tone and sprang into the sky, wings sweeping overhead.
The world lurched around Murtagh, and he gripped the neck spike in front of him, squinting against the rush of cold wind. For better or worse, they were going to Gilโead.
