The Book of Murtagh

Volume Two, The Queen's Seal

Chapter One

The Palace in Ilirea

The Queen's Workroom. Late Afternoon.

The work table is clear and polished. There are flowers everywhere. Music and sounds of talk and laughter drift up from the courtyard below. The balcony doors are open and light filmy drapes sway in the spring breeze.

The outer door opens and Murtagh and Nasuada rush in laughing. They are both beautifully dressed and exhilarated. They come to the center of the room and kiss, swaying to the dance music from outside. They look into each other's eyes and Nasuada begins undoing the gold clasps of Murtagh's white jacket. He gently unlaces her bright golden gown and slides it down over her shoulders, revealing her lace-trimmed chemise. She slides her hands beneath his jacket, over his chest and around his neck. They kiss again as he shrugs off the jacket and throws it on a chair. He unfastens his collar, pulls off his red silken scarf, and gazes down at her as she delicately unbuttons his shirt. She waits while he, very slowly, undoes her chemise and cups his long, strong hands under her full dark breasts, breathing hard.

Her head falls back as his hands slide behind her and brush her full-skirted gown over her hips, letting it fall to the floor. Her chemise follows and her tiny gold sandals too as he lifts her in his arms and carries her to her bed. He lays her gently on the folded sheet, tears off his boots, sword belt and leggings and lies down beside her. At first he gazes at her in the soft golden light, drinking in the dark glory of her skin, the richness of her curves, the delicacy of her slender flanks and long sinuous neck. She strokes his chest and nibbles at his muscular arm and shoulder, breathing in deeply the warm, spicy scent of his maleness.

He kisses her long and deep and her arms circle him, stroking his broad muscular back, tracing the long scar from his left shoulder to his right hip, her wrist just grazing the brand mark on his lower back. She clutches his shoulders and arches back as his mouth touches the angle of her chin and moves tenderly to her neck. Her soft moans tell him how she welcomes the deep pressure of his kiss on her tender skin. Her hands stroke his head and twine in his dark hair, and he moves lower to her full and swelling breasts.

The light from the windows sheds a ruddy glow on his eager face. She looks down at him and traces the line of his glowing cheek and strong jawline, feeling her newly betrothed husband's slight bristle, grown out just since that morning. How odd it must be to be a man! How wonderful to hold him like this, skin to skin, feeling her power to give him such pleasure just by being herself, looking as she looks. She gloried in offering him her beauty and grace of form, reveling in his adoration, his love, his tenderness yet tinged with that scent of dangerous masculinity, that promise of more to come that enticed her with something like menace.

Yet he needed her so. That was her power as well, to give him what he had long needed and hungered for. She rolled slightly so that his lips brushed her nipple, and held his head against her, kissing his dark hair and damp forehead. "Please" she murmured into his ear. "Please kiss my breasts." His gasp of surprised pleasure cooled her soft rosy aureole for the second it took him to swallow, glance up at her, and bring his warm mouth back where she longed to feel it. She relaxed into the soft lapping of his tongue, the gentle suckling pressure of his lips, feeling her womanliness expand against him, her fierce love for him flow from her in a warm lush flood from the nipple he suckled so hungrily. She wanted him to know of that feeling, and, inviting the touch of his mind, she felt the brush of his consciousness against hers and shared with him the feel of her love for him, gushing like a sweet warm spring from her breast into his eager mouth, making more of itself within her swelling breasts, the more he drew it from her. Stroking his cheek, she felt it glowing warm and now wet with tears, the sign of his deep joy in receiving her woman's gift.

Now the sky was darkening, the voices below diminishing, and the simple dance tunes had changed to the wilder strains of the elven singers, pipers and harpists filling the courtyard with their weird but lovely melodies, their intricate rhythms and harmonies. The fountain seemed to sing with them as they wove its familiar flow into their more artful strains.

Nasuada felt the music surge into her, setting her body trembling, her breath coming in gasps, suddenly feeling a need to dance with wild abandon in the warm early spring moonlight that flooded the fountain below. Murtagh looked at her and laughed his deep open-throated laugh that was so rarely heard, that none but those few who were closest to him would have believed it came from him. He rolled gracefully to his feet and drew the casement closed, and the chamber door as well, murmuring in elvish and then, as he lay beside her again, translating "Thanks fellas, but we got this." He looked into her eyes and asked " Are you all right? They play like that for their Saturnalias, their spring fertility rites, and it does strange things to us humans, or so I've heard." Her trembling eased, she relaxed against his chest and found she could still hear the elvish music, its fey strains much fainter now. The steady beat of his heart sounded stronger and the deep susurrus of his breathing calmed her. "I love you" she said, and he held her close and murmured into her ear "My love, my lady, my betrothed, my sweet beloved." He lay still a moment, as if listening, then said to her, " Thorn wants to tell you something. Would you like to hear it from him? Or should I pass it along?" "Tell him I would like to hear it from him." She relaxed her mental defenses and heard Thorn's husky young man's voice vibrate in her mind. "Nasuada-Queen, I am happy that you have chosen my Rider for your mate. It is a great honor for us to be the ones to bond with you, to help you to fill and guard your nest. May your hatchlings be many and strong, and may our bond with you be a long and a joyous one." She spoke in her mind to the dragon and his Rider, "Thank you, my friend and the partner of my beloved. I welcome your blessing on our betrothal and I glory in the promise of becoming the spouse of your Rider and the mother of his children and mine."

Murtagh was silent for another moment and smiled, then bent to kiss her forehead. "He really likes you a lot. I know he would do anything for you. In fact, he just told me so."

"Yes, and I could feel his love for you, too - so fierce and so protective. I am glad you have him to look after you. "

He laughed softly. "I am glad of that too. I can look after myself mostly, but Thorn has my back when anything unexpected happens. And he is so intimidating, trouble tends to back away when it sees him coming."

She sighed with deep contentment and began stroking his broad deep chest, feeling its rise and fall as his breath came faster and deeper under the touch of her warm soft hands. She kissed him softly, stroking her cheek over his chest, teasing his nipples with her tongue and heard him gasp they stood up hard against her soft lips. Cupping the firm nubs against her palms, she moved lower, teasing and nibbling at the taut skin of his belly that drew in under his ribs at her touch. She nestled against him and breathed in deeply the sharpened scent of his sweat. She traced the groove that curved from his hips to his groin with her fingers, then with her tongue. She watched as his shaft hardened rising and swelling under the touch of her hand. It felt gloriously warm and alive, the veins pulsing and thrusting out, the tip emerging, red, wet and tender from its cowl of creamy bronze skin. She wanted to kiss it, and licked her lips, wondering if she dared. She glanced up to his face and read his longing, his deep desire, in his open mouth, his pleading eyes. She lowered her mouth to the tender red tip that seemed to reach up to her, and gently surrounded it with her lips. She lifted her tongue to lap it with the smooth underside of her tongue and heard as well as felt his deep moan of pleasure. Bolder now, the stroked him with all of her tongue and his moans increased. Her mouth opened wider, and, a little surprised with herself, she found herself driving deeper down his throbbing shaft until she breathed in the wild spice of his groin against her widening nostrils. Her tongue found his tender underseam and moved down it to touch the soft skin of the double sac that now filled her cupped hands with its precious warm weight of life. She stroked his hard-muscled thighs and wondered at his hard solidity. Only the soft sac he carried everywhere before him was so tender and so vulnerable, it seemed to her incredibly brave of him to wear it so exposed.

His strong hands found hers and drew them up to his lips and kissed them hungrily. Then she felt him draw her head slowly back up his shaft, then in a rush, he clasped her whole body against his and held her in a fierce embrace that drew a gasp from her throat. He rolled her over onto her back and kissed her fiercely at first, then with infinite tenderness. He drew back and his tenderness and wonder shone in his eyes as he gazed searching into hers. "Yes" was the only word she could think of to say. It filled her entire being and echoed in her mind. "Yes" she said aloud and in her mind, a wild shout. "Yes" she whispered into his neck close to his ear. "Yes" as his calloused hands stroked her from neck to thighs, "Yes" as he settled between her thighs that fell open for him, welcoming him in. "Yes, oh yes" as his hands, strong, rough, knowing, found her soft mound and began circling it with gentle and deepening pressure that sharpened within her loins a piercing pain that was no pain but an agony of pleasure and longing.

He felt her sweet wet mound rising under his hand as she lifted to his touch, circling her hips in response to his caress. He felt the soft swelling under his fingers, springing up like a wide round mushroom cap in a warm summer rain. "Oh you darling" he heard from his own throat, not quite sure if he was speaking to the warm wet mushroom or to the woman he loved. She seemed to know though, as she gurgled a deep laugh and lightly touched his circling hand and felt the bulge and slide of the muscles in his strong forearm. He traced the cleft of her vulva, warm, creaming-sweet and swelling over his fingers, drawing them in. He found her wet, flowing opening and felt her body lift and her thighs draw wide to welcome his touch.

Lifting himself over her, he let the tip of his shaft find its way to her opening, felt the tender band of her maidenhood and drew back a little for the strong deep thrust that would tear through it quickly and, he hoped, with little or no pain.

Suddenly she cried out in terror, pushed him roughly away from her and curled into a tight ball on her side, shaking with hard, wracking sobs, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs that were folded tight against her chest. He fell on his back beside her, frustration and fury tearing at him as he struggled to contain his searing hurt and bewilderment. What had he done? What had gone wrong? What was hurting her? He looked around wildly, reaching instinctively for his sword beside the bed, but dropping it as he saw there was no attacker in the room. He felt Thorn's mind against his, the dragon's anxious wordless questioning, and tried to calm his partner in the teeth of his own wild confusion. "Later" he said in his mind. "I need to deal with this first." He felt Thorn's worry and his reluctance to withdraw from their connection. "I wish you could help, too. I will let you know as soon as I can." He drew his thoughts back to Nasuada, still curled tightly away from him, shaking with hard sobs, gasping for breath with strange whooping drags of air in her throat. What could he do for her? Was she suddenly ill? He leaned over her, trying to see her face, but her sobs quickened and she wrenched herself further away from him. Sitting up against the pillows, he tried to calm his own mind, feeling his breathing, listening to his pounding heart, trying to slow them both down so he could think. Finally he turned toward her again. "Nasuada?" He spoke softly. She ignored him. He tried again, touching her on the shoulder. Again she wrenched away. She seemed to be trying to speak, or at least to suppress her sobs, but she could only whimper and moan, making no words. "Nasuada? Will you let me touch your mind? I can't bear this much longer. I want to help you. Please?" She breathed in a long ragged breath, and nodded once. He calmed his own mind, then gently brushed against hers.

A monster leapt out at him and he drew back, almost breaking their connection, but stopped and forced himself to keep looking. The monster, shaped like a tall broad-shouldered man, was dressed in red and carried a flaming brand in his hand which he swung menacingly before him. His face was covered by a mask that reflected like a mirror, magnifying the flames he waved before him, and his eyes were cruel, the eyes of one who craved to inflict pain. The monster laughed coldly as he looked down at his victim, a young woman bound and helpless on a cold slab of stone. She was naked and shaking with terror.

He knew her of course. He knew the monster too. He released his link with her and turned face down on the pillows. He thought, if he stayed that way long enough, he would run out of air and suffocate. He thought about it. He wondered how long it would take. He wondered if he could do it. He thought he probably could.

Then he thought of Thorn, and of her.

He sat up and dropped his head on his arms.

He had sworn to protect her. He felt helpless, useless, incapable, contemptible. How could he, out of all the people of Alagaesia, help or protect her from...himself?

Her memories of what he had done to her would haunt her forever. No whys, wherefores, situations or circumstances could alter what he had done to her. His love for her that filled his whole heart, his whole mind, his whole body to the bursting point, was useless to her. Her love for him... he knew it was, incredible as it seemed, as real and as strong as his for her. Yet even that could not help her. Probably it made her even more vulnerable. The thought sickened him.

Must he leave her? A pain like a huge lead weight dropped inside him. No. Not that. Please not that. But if that was the only way she could heal, then... His oath made harming her impossible for him. He thought it might kill him to leave her. Thorn might have to kidnap him, tear him away. Thorn was bound by the same oath as he was. If staying with her, was harming her, he could... and No, it would not kill him. It would tear him apart, hollow him out once more. He had lived as a hollow man before. Death would be easier. Except for Thorn. His death might kill Thorn. Probably would.

He groaned, trapped in a labyrinth of despair. No. There had to be a way out. There was always a way. He would find it if it killed him.

Her sobs had quieted as he sat with his misery. Misery was the name of his sword that his brutal, hated father had carried before him. It was no help to him now. Nor was any magic he knew of. Magic could be used to erase memories, he knew. The elves could do it. Maybe. But he knew she would not allow it. She wore her scars proudly from the Trial of the Long Knives that won her the allegiance of the Wandering Tribes. She wore her sleeves cut off at the elbows so everyone who saw her knew of her courage by her jagged scars. She would scorn to have her pain-filled memories of her torture in the dungeons of the old Tyrant taken from her. Those were her mental scars, as much a part of her as those on her arms.

The memory of pain was a burden they shared. He had told her little of his own torments at the hands of the sadistic Twins, the traitor magicians who had pretended to serve the Varden while sharing their secrets with the Tyrant, undermining their strength and finally dragging him away as their prisoner. There were many torments he could not tell her of. He thought of a line of poetry he had read or heard once:

"She loved me for the dangers I had passed,

and I loved her that she did pity them."

Her pity, her sympathy for his pain had helped him to believe in himself. How did that work? He despised being pitied. But she made him feel that the torments he had suffered, the dangers he had passed, were not right. He had not deserved to be brutally attacked by his drunken father, repeatedly abandoned by the mother he loved, to lose his best friend and trusted mentor, to be ripped from the friends he had fought beside and who had come to like and respect him, to be tortured into submission by the evil Tyrant and by those who served the Tyrant's twisted pleasures. He had not deserved any of it. He had survived, escaped and overcome much. She loved him for the dangers he had passed. She loved him for his strength and determination. So he had come to respect, even love, those qualities in himself. She had helped him, through her understanding, to understand himself, to grow into his own skin. To fill up the hollow emptiness inside him.

He turned to her now and placed his hand gently on her shoulder. This time she did not cringe away from him. He spoke her name softly and she unclenched a little. He found a clean kerchief and gave it to her. She dried her tears and finally looked up at him. She said, " I'm so sorry" and he fought back the tears in his own eyes and throat. "Oh, my poor love, you have nothing to be sorry about. I saw what frightened you. I am the one who is so terribly sorry for having hurt you so. It is beyond hope of forgiveness, for it hurts you still. I would do anything to stop the pain and fear that tears you apart. I have my own nightmares and terrors that haunt me, and if I could, I would take yours from you and carry them too, and more, because I hate that monster you saw just now. I would kill him if I could. I would rather have never existed than to have caused you such pain and horror at my hands."

She sat up beside him and pushed back her hair. Her voice was thick and hoarse but she spoke with calm, direct clarity.

"Well, you do exist and you are here with me now. I want you to go on existing and to go on being with me." She took his hands and kissed his palms. "Now hold me and comfort me as you did in our worst of times and in our happy times too. I know our best times are ahead of us still, and I want you here to hold me like this, in my life and at my death." She laid her head on his chest and drew his arms around her. He held her close and stroked her hair. He listened as her breathing became slow and even.

His face is calm now but his eyes are troubled still.

"Did you bite her too hard?" Thorn's voice sounds softly inside his head.

He smiles; his eyes close. "No. It wasn't that. It was a memory. A very bad one."

"Oh. Memories bite hard. Is she better now? Were you able to heal her?"

"She is sleeping. I don't know how to heal what she remembers. I doubt if anyone can. "

"You will find a way. You healed my wing when Saphira had nearly torn it off. You healed me from wounds of tooth and claw, spear and sword. You healed her burns and bites too. You are a strong healer. "

"I am glad you think so. But memories are harder. "

They are silent together, each following his own thoughts, but still connected to each other.

Thorn speaks again. "When we first flew against the Varden on the Burning Plains..."

"Yes?"

"You saw those two evil magicians who had tortured you."

"The Twins. I remember."

"You stopped your fight with Eragon so you could watch them be killed by a Varden."

"That was Eregon's cousin Roran. The one they call Stronghammer. He smashed both their skulls with his hammer."

"You liked watching that. You like remembering it. You speak of it and think of it, and you feel happier when you do."

"That is true. Their deaths were too quick and too easy for men who had done so much evil, but I am glad they are dead. You are right. I liked watching them die, and I like remembering their deaths and praising Cousin Stronghammer."

"Does that remembering change your memories of the pain they caused you?"

"No, of course not. I still remember everything they did to me."

" You remember, but maybe the pain memories have lost their teeth. You remember the pain, but it no longer bites and tears at your dreams. Other memories do, but not those."

"You know, you are right. I did not conquer those two, but I saw them conquered and utterly destroyed. Somehow that helped."

"You helped their conqueror. By not warning them, you helped the one who killed them."

"Well. Only a little."

"When you saw them killed, your fear of them died. Maybe it is fear that keeps the teeth sharp in the memory of pain."

Murtagh thought about that. Thorn was still very young, but the wisdom of dragons is carried on the wings of time, passed down through the generations. The teeth in the memory of pain... could those teeth be drawn from her memories in a way that would not kill them both? How could she conquer the monster in her dreams? How could he help her?

Now he was sure there was a way.

He knew he would find it.