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

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

The mark on his palm no longer itched, which gave him some comfort.

Nevertheless, he remained tense.

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

“Understood.”

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

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

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

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

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

Using his staff for balance, he climbed. One…

Two… Three… Four…

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

Five… Six…

Seven. A dim thread of light appeared before him, tall and straight. “Give it a good push,” said the man. “It’ll open right fine.”

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

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

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

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

Murtagh stepped through it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is the wrong question. You should instead ask how I knew to seize your letter and gift. The page’s master is Lord Relgin’s chamberlain, and the

page told him of the strange man offering coin to speak with Ilenna Erithsdaughter. No doubt the chamberlain rewarded him far in excess of your bribe.”

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

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

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

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

A coal popped in the fireplace, startlingly loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And him.” Murtagh jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. A slight purr escaped Carabel. “Bertolf is trusted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In exchange for what?”

She blinked. “The smallest of favors.”

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

The werecat lifted her pointed chin, defiant. “A task that needs doing,

and none there are in Gil’ead who can do it, save you.”

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

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

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

“You will agree to it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Human I am.”

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

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

He lifted the staff a few inches and let it rap against the floor. Once. Twice. Three times. He decided. The cat was right; he wouldn’t be able to talk with Ilenna without attracting attention. Regardless of the favor Carabel

had in mind, he might learn something by putting his questions to her. Even if she knew nothing helpful, that itself was a useful piece of information. And in any case, it could be prudent to forewarn Carabel and, by extension, Lord Relgin about the strange doings in the land.

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

A sulfurous smell began to taint the air.

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

Once again, Murtagh had the disconcerting realization that he wasn’t

talking with another human, but something entirely different. “Ceunon. I took them off a rather disreputable trader by the name of Sarros.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her lips retracted, showing more of her pointed teeth. “Yes and yesss.” “And you will tell me?”

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

“What guarantee have I that you actually possess the information I seek?

Tell me first.”

Her tufted ears pressed flat against the sides of her head. “After, human.

After. We must both grasp the sword.”

Murtagh still wasn’t convinced. “Maybe I should talk to Ilenna instead.

I’m sure I could find a way to approach her unseen.”

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

“But you do.” “Yesss.”

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

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

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

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

A sympathetic anger formed in Murtagh. “Seized by whom?” “Men. Humans. But I cannot say why.”

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

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

“But you can’t get to her.”

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

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

“We do not know.”

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

The tips of her ears twitched. “More than you might think, human.” He let that pass. “Who else has access to those chambers?”

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

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

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

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

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

“And you need someone you can trust.”

She met his gaze and held it. “Yes.”

Murtagh wondered about the elves. That Carabel had not mentioned them was answer enough, but he was curious as to the reason. Elves and werecats did not seem entirely dissimilar, and if bad blood lay between them

—or even just a basic dislike—he was interested in knowing why. A question for another time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop calling me that! “Where are the barracks?” Her hair bristled slightly. “It is not that simple.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And that’s not suspicious at all.”

Carabel flicked her ears. “But not uncommon for officers of distinction.” “True enough. So how do I earn Captain Wren’s trust?”

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

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

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

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

“Not at all. But, alas, to kill the fish, you will need a special lure.” “Bah!” With an expression of disgust, Murtagh fell back in the chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What sort of lure is that?”

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

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

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

Again, Murtagh saw Oromis and Glaedr falling limply through the air while ranks of men and elves clashed on the ground below. He rubbed his

knuckles as he stared at the floor. “I’m not happy about this, cat.”

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

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

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

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

A shrug from Carabel. “Yes. Probably. That is why we haven’t tried.

That is why we must ask you, Rider.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Then we’d best not waste any time.”

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