Thornโs wings knocked loose a ๏ฌurry 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 con๏ฌned space. He growled, and a brace of ravens sprang cawing from within the poplars.
โItโs all right,โ said Murtagh in a soothing tone. โWe have to hide, and this is a good place for it. If anything happens, you can take o๏ฌ.โ
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.
Satis๏ฌed, he said, โItโs safe.โ
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 ๏ฌre was too risky so close to Gilโead, 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.
โHe knowsย ofย me, but I donโt think weโve met. In any case, I shouldnโt cross paths with him.โ
And if you do?
โIโll lie, and if lies arenโt enough, Iโll run.โ Thorn blinked.
A sparrow darted past over the clearing, chasing morning insects. Murtagh scooped the last of the porridge into his mouth. โEither way,
Iโll be back by sundown. If notโโ The soft soil squished between Thornโs claws as he kneaded the ground. โIf not,โ Murtagh repeated with gentle emphasis, โIโll let you know.โ
Will you take Zarโroc with you this time?
Murtagh looked at the sword propped against the log he was sitting on. He wanted to. Entering Gilโead unarmed wasnโt an appealing prospect. โItโll attract too much attention. Iโll bring my dagger instead.โ
Thorn uttered a hiss of disapproval.ย Always this problem. You should get another sword, one that you can carry wherever you go.
โThatโs not a bad idea,โ said Murtagh, wiping his mouth. โIโd have to enchant it, though, so it didnโt break.โ
Then do so, insisted Thorn.
Murtagh eyed him. โAll right. Gilโead has a large weapons market. Or it did. Iโll see what I can ๏ฌnd there.โ
Good. Thorn dug his claws deeper into the ground.
โBut in the meantimeโฆโ Murtagh hopped to his feet and walked among the trees until he found a poplar saplingโas thick as his wristโthat 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. โDone,โ he said, hefting the sta๏ฌ. โNot the best wood, but itโll do for now.โ
You can ๏ฌght with this?ย Thorn asked.
โBetter, I can walk with it,โ said Murtagh, and he leaned on the sta๏ฌ as if he had a bad knee. โIf anyone looks, theyโll see my leg, not my face.โ
Thorn sni๏ฌed the sta๏ฌ.ย 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.
โThat wasnโt on purpose.โ
It never is. Perhaps Ilenna can keep you from getting into trouble, hmm?
Murtagh raised an eyebrow. โIf I didnโt know better, Iโd think you wanted her to catch me.โ
Thornโs mouth spread in an approximation of a smile.ย Maybe you should let her. It might ease the ๏ฌre in your belly.
Murtagh snorted. โYou know what that leads to. Children.โย Hatchlings are not a bad thing.
He eyed Thorn, serious. โThey are if you canโt give them the care they need. I wouldnโt in๏ฌict that on any child of mine. Iโd sooner die.โ
|
From the hollow, Murtagh trotted east and north until he intercepted the main road leading up to Gilโead. 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 masterโs men. His master? One Burdock Marrisson, who had served honorably as captain in Nasuadaโs army and been awarded a minor title as reward. No, he didnโt 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 Gilโead.
And so forth and so on. The story wouldnโt stand close inspection, but Murtagh hoped it would be enough to avoid trouble if trouble came
looking.
In the ๏ฌelds alongside the road, he saw traces of the battle for Gilโead, ghosts of past bloodshed. There along a hedgerow was where the Empireโs cavalry had massed, and even now a circle of ground was bare where horses had trampled the dirt until it was hard as ๏ฌred brick. Half a ruined wagon lay rotting along the lip of a nearby ditch, the wood burnt black by spell๏ฌre. Farther to the east was where the elves had broken through the armyโs defensive lines and begun to drive them away from Gilโead.
Murtagh forced himself to stop looking, but he couldnโt stop remembering.ย It must have been terrifying, he thought. To be stuck on foot, with dragons ๏ฌghting overhead, and ranks of elves descending upon your positionโฆHe could hardly imagine a worse situation.
As he drew closer to Gilโead, 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 couldnโt make sense of it. There were no stands beside the oak.
No merchants or tinkers plying their trade. It was justโฆa 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 couldnโt have been older than ten or twelve.
โPardon me, neighbor,โ said Murtagh, putting on a northern accent. โWhat might be happening over at that there tree?โ
The farmer glanced at him sideways and twitched the stalk between his lips. โThaโs where the dragonโs buried.โ
A knot formed in Murtaghโs stomach. โA dragon?โ
โAyuh. Anโ an elf too, if โn you believe it.โ The two boys peered curiously around the farmer at Murtagh, and the oxen lowed. โThโ elves burned thโ dragonโs body, anโ grew that tree over thโ ashes.โ
Then the wagon rolled past, leaving Murtagh standing alone.
With heavy steps, he resumed walking. He didnโt 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, โIโm sorry.โ
He could still see Glaedrโs battered body falling from on high, a burning meteor plummeting toward the bloody mire that footed the world, wings ๏ฌuttering like wind-torn ๏ฌags.
Thornโs mind touched his, and the dragon said,ย 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 Eldunarรญ.ย No, but
Galbatorix wouldnโt have succeeded without us. Not then. Not there.
A sense of reluctant agreement came from Thorn.ย I would have liked to have known Glaedr as a friend, not a foe.
And I Oromis. Itโs 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 couldnโt help but resent Eragon and Saphira for having the chance to study under Oromis and Glaedr.ย If only weโd had the same opportunities, what could we have become?ย A useless line of thought, and he knew it, but the sentiment weighed on him all the same.
We have become strong, said Thorn.ย 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 ๏ฌxing most of it.
He kept the feeling to himself. He didnโt 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 wasย 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 childrenโand the thought ๏ฌlled him with the deepest trepidationโhe knew he would do everything within his power to ensure that their ๏ฌrst few years were full of love and joy. If nothing else, then, the children would have those ๏ฌrst 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:ย โโฆ beautiful boy. What a strong boy. You make me so proud.โย His motherโs voice, half remembered, as sheโd spoken to him in the hall of Morzanโs castle.
Murtaghโs steps faltered. He leaned on his sta๏ฌ 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?โฆHe couldnโt tell.
Setting aside his feelings, he continued forward. It was all he could do.
|
Gilโead didnโt have a proper city wall, as did Ceunon and Dras-Leonaโin the event of an attack, the commoners were expected to shelter inside the central fortressโbut 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 e๏ฌort to inspect those who entered.
He lowered his head and hurried past, trying to blend in with the caravan heโd 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; theyโd 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-o๏ฌ 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 dwarvesโ ponies. Close to the center of Gilโead, Murtagh saw a pair of elvesโone male, one female, both with ink-black hairโstanding inside the gate of an ostentatious stone-walled house, talking in the front garden while purple-edged butter๏ฌies ๏ฌuttered about their heads and shoulders.
Murtagh suppressed a snort.ย How like them. Weโre 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 earsโand noseโ and he found himself ๏ฌinching at unexpected noises.
Youโre turning into a wild animal, he thought. Skittish and untamed. He wasnโt 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 sta๏ฌ, 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 Ilennaโs 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 Relginโs court, advising the earl on her fatherโs behalf.
Satis๏ฌed with his ๏ฌndings, Murtagh stopped at a small tent decked with wicker cages containing doves, pigeons, and songbirds of various sorts. The owner was a gru๏ฌ, mustachioed man who more resembled a military quartermaster than a merchant.
After some brief haggling, Murtagh bought the brightest, sweetest-sounding ๏ฌnch. 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 didnโt head toward them. The guards standing on either side of the gatesย wouldย 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 couldnโt 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 didnโt 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 o๏ฌ in the direction of the market. Murtagh perked up.ย 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.
โPlease, master, sir,โ they said in unison, and held out cupped hands.
Murtagh couldnโt tell if the children were male or female. He decided it didnโt matter. He also decided it didnโt matter if they were making a fool of him, if they had a house with family and food and a warm hearth.
โHere. Go buy something to eat,โ he said, ๏ฌshing two coppers out of his purse.
They laughed and bobbed their heads. โThank you, sir! Red, red, red, anโ dragon getโcha!โ 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, heโd doneย someย 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.ย 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, โBoy! Hold there. I would speak with you.โ
The page froze, and Murtagh could see panic in his eyes as the youth tried to ๏ฌgure out whether he was in trouble and, if so, how much.
โY-y-yes, sir?โ The page bowed slightly, and then looked askance at Murtaghโs travel-stained clothes. A line of gravy ran from the pageโs half-eaten pie and down his hand.
Hesitation would lose the day. Assuming a haughty air, Murtagh beckoned him closer. โCome here, boy. You are a page of Lord Relginโs court, yes? I have need of a courier to deliver a message of mine.โ
The youth glanced back at the fortress and shifted on his feet, as if to turn and run. โMy masterโโ
โSpeak not to me of your master! This is of the highest importance.โ Murtagh tapped the side of his nose. โTheย highestย importance.โ The pageโs expression sharpened into interest. Intrigue always had that e๏ฌect. โYou know the goodwoman Ilenna who attends Lord Relginโs court?โ
โI knowย ofย Ilenna, sir.โ
Murtagh gestured as if that were of no matter. โAnd you no doubt might command her attention, by reason of your position, yes?โ
The youth pu๏ฌed out his chest slightly. โWhy yes, sir. I suppose I might.โ
โExcellent.โ Murtagh held out a square of folded parchment sealed with a blob of melted tallow. โThen 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 o๏ฌer this gift to Ilenna, as a sign of my deep respect.โ He motioned to the cage by his feet.
The page eyed the cage and parchment. โIf I do ๏ฌnd her, sirโโ
โThen return with alacrity, boy, and let me know her response. This is a matter of urgency.โ The page hesitantly accepted the parchment, and Murtagh said, as if heโd forgotten until that very moment, โOh yes, and for your troubles.โ He handed over a tarnished coin. โA silver now, and a crown when you return.โ
The pageโs face brightened. โSir,ย yes sir!โ
A crown was more than the youth likely saw in a year. An expensive bribe, but worth it, although the cost left Murtaghโs purse sadly depleted.
If this keeps up, I might have to seek gainful employment, he thought, sardonic.ย Perhaps as a mercenary or a chirurgeon.
As the youth scooped up the cage, the ๏ฌnch inside warbled with sleepy protest. โIโll be back as soon as I can, sir.โ
Murtagh nodded, again wrapping himself in his cloak. โI shall wait until such time as I hear Ilennaโs response. Now go! And swift fate guide you.โ
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 ine๏ฌcient, means of communication in Galbatorixโs 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 Gilโead. There were soldiers in shirts of rusted mail, with spears resting at a jaunty angle on their shoulders. O๏ฌcers trotting past on well-groomed horses with braided manes. Merchants with plumed hats and clothes made of rich fabrics. Noblesโor would-be nobles drawn from the upper ranks of the Vardenโattempting to avoid splattering mud on their ๏ฌnery, 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 couldnโt 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 didnโt miss the never-ending drive to present a perfect image to the world. Now that heโd 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 heโd enjoyed at court, although everything surrounding the dancesโ the politics and machinations and general villainyโhad been miserable. But the dances themselves, ah, those had been a special pleasure. Heโd 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 di๏ฌerence between victory and defeat, and the right move wasnโt always the expected one.
A face across the street caught Murtaghโs attention. A ๏ฌash of pale cheek, the line of a jaw, the distinctive silhouette of a noseโฆMurtagh sti๏ฌened as he eyed the pro๏ฌle of a youngish man walking amid a knot of ๏ฌve guards.
It canโt be. Lyreth?ย The oldest son of Lord Thaven, who had served as commander of Galbatorixโs navy? Lyreth was four years older than Murtagh. Heโd always been larger and stronger while growing up and hadnโt been shy about using that to his advantage.
Now that Murtagh thought about it, he hadnโt seen Lyreth in Urรปโbaen during his last stay in the capital. Thavenโs son had been smart enough to avoid appearing at court while Murtagh was there as a Rider.
Whatโs he doing here now?ย 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 di๏ฌculty recognizing him.ย I shouldnโt have shaved.
But no reaction altered Lyrethโs 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 Galbatorixโfamilies who had accumulated enormous wealth and power during his century-long tenure on the throneโhad 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 Galbatorixโs followers were living in gilded secrecy.
He didnโt envy Nasuada having to deal with their undermining in๏ฌuence.
|
Murtagh wasnโt 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 palmโas if his hand had fallen partially asleepโand he scratched it without thinking.
He froze. His right palm was where his gedwรซy ignasia lay: the silvery, scar-like blotch that marked where heโd ๏ฌrst touched Thorn as a hatchling. And it often itched or tingled when there was danger nearby.
The feeling wasnโt infallible, but it had saved his skin more than once.
Again alert, he glanced around.ย There. Soldiers slipping out of the fortress entrance and gathering by the corner of a house. Heโd been too distracted; heโd missed the ๏ฌrst few.
And with the soldiersโฆa 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 una๏ฌliated 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 ๏ฌghts between magicians were rarely resolved with spells alone. Mental
prowess mattered, and if you could gain control of your foeโs mind, they would be at your mercy, no matter their skill, strength, or wards.
โCurse you,โ he muttered, meaning the page. It wasnโt the betrayal itself that bothered himโMurtagh was well acquainted with betrayalโit was the inconsistency. Pages werenโt supposed to rat out those who came to them in con๏ฌdence! How could a court function otherwise?
A feather-light touch brushed Murtaghโs mind.
He recoiled, retreating deep within himself and armoring his mind with a wall of iron determination. โYou shall not have me,โ 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 ๏ฌnd.
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.
Heโd just reached the other end of the alley when a thickset man in a sleeveless jerkin stepped in front of him. The manโs bare arms were as heavily muscled as a smithโs, and he carried a cudgel in one hand.
Murtagh nearly struck the stranger, but the man backed o๏ฌ, arms spread wide, and in a low, gru๏ฌ voice said, โAre you Tornac?โ
โWho asks?โ 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 notโฆ
A ๏ฌicker of annoyance crossed the manโs face. โThe werecat Carabel has sent me. She requests the company of this Tornac.โ
A werecat!ย 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. โThatโs me,โ he said, curt.
โThis way, then. Right quicklike, if you please.โ
The bare-armed man hurried up the side street, and Murtagh followed close behind, carrying his sta๏ฌ 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.
Murtaghโs mind whirled with puzzlement. How had Carabel ended up with his note? Of all the creatures in Alagaรซsia, werecats were the most secretive. Always they kept apart from others, although in the ๏ฌnal press of the war, they had joined forces with the Varden against Galbatorix. But on the whole, they werenโt 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 Nasuadaโs throne. And likewise in King Orrinโs court in Surda, and in the courts of all the great cities. Murtagh assumed Carabel served in a similar fashion at Gilโead. But what did she want withย him?
She canโt know who I really am, he thought. Unless, of course, she was a confederate of Ilennaโs. He supposed he would ๏ฌnd 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?ย he thought. But he didnโt allow himself to relax.
Not yet.
The man led him to a narrow house built close to the fortress, through the houseโs gated yard, and down a ๏ฌight of mossy stairs set against the fortressโs outer wall. At the bottom was a well situated within an alcove adorned with carved ๏ฌowers. 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 forti๏ฌcations, but when needed, nothing else would su๏ฌce.
โAfter you, sir,โ said the man, holding the door open. A low, dark tunnel ran under the fortress, its far end hidden in shadow. โCarabel awaits.โ
โAnd what does she wish with me?โ
โWouldnโt be my place tโ say. Youโll have to ask her yourself.โ
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 didnโt 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 softย thud, and the sound echoed the length of the tunnel.
