Murtagh collapsed. The cold, rough granite of the dungeons was almost soothing against the wounds burning on his body. He tried to raise himself, but his hands slipped on the slick stone.
Pain.
He could hear his dragon's helpless roars—he had withdrawn from their contact so Thorn did not have to bear the same pain—and shut his eyes.
"Aren't you enjoying this Murtagh? For if you were not, why would you fail me? Where is Eragon Shadeslayer!" Galbatorix ended in a roar.
Thorn…
"Answer me!" Galbatorix whispered a few words, and instantly, Murtagh felt several ribs crack.
"I…don't know," Murtagh was dizzy with the pain, he couldn't think, couldn't feel. He wanted to…
"You will go again. You will not fail. Do you understand me?" the King's voice was soft; lethal in the way a panther stalks its prey.
Murtagh didn't answer; he couldn't. His jaw—or any muscle—had ceased to obey him. Some of them were torn; some ligaments pushed to strange areas, and he could feel life just barely pulsing inside him.
And it was beginning to leave him…
The world flickered, until a soft wash of black took him.
Galbatorix sneered contemptuously. "If only your great father could see you now," he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
…
"Illera!" the head healer, a thin woman named Meira barked.
Illera jerked her head around from where she was scrubbing bedpans in the infirmary. "Yes, Meira?" she held no particular love for this woman; she reminded her too much like a bird of prey. She was too eager to leave her healers behind, to send them into the dragon's den in the centre of the castle.
"You're needed in the dungeons. Deal what you find there," Meira said. "The King orders it."
"Magically or…?" Illera asked. "You know I've not the strength for healing entirely whomever the King has decided to amuse himself with."
Meira shot her a sharp look. "Shh!" she hissed. "You need to be more careful."
Illera straightened, but did not apologize.
"Go, eat then, first. The cooks will have something for you."
Illera shook her head. "There will be time enough for that later. I will be attending to the poor man then," she began to make her way out of the infirmary. The shaking of the castle and distant roaring of who-knew-what had finally ceased after several hours.
A left, to nearly the other end of the castle, and then, down a dank set of steps to finally reach the dungeons. As she strode, Illera was forced to periodically pull her starched, white uniform upwards. The stamped uniforms had been made for men, and the smallest size that had been without use could have fit a burly twenty-year old; of which she was neither. Even a belt did not help. She had reached her eighteenth birthday several months ago and had been driven to seek a job anywhere she could. In Uru'baen, there were worse lines of work than a healer; even if magic was much preyed upon.
Illera descended the cold stone steps, shivering at the cold, moist air. She nodded to the guard stationed in the stairwell before entering. There were cells, many cells…And then she noticed something unusual: there was no guard.
Galbatorix always posted a guard.
Why was it that today, there was no guard? Unless…
He was assured whomever he dealt with couldn't be a threat.
With more trepidation now, she quested forth.
The stench hit her before she reached the last—and largest cell. It was cloying, sticky; blood. The last time she had smelled the hot scent was when she had pushed her way through a slaughterhouse neighborhood…
She forced herself to look into the cell and suppressed a gasp of revulsion.
Gashes slit the young man's back, so deep that she wondered how he remained in one piece. Some of them had cut straight through a thick, white, ropey scar that crossed his back. Part of his left shoulder had been crushed; there were cuts as if made from a sword. Tiny burns also peppered his tan skin; she recognized them as having been made from Seithr oil. The last man she had treated for that hadn't survived.
How could the man still be alive? And yet, he was. She felt his life beat in the air, yet it was slow, so slow that she wondered if he would slip into the void at any moment.
Illera rolled up her sleeves and knelt—and then she slid suddenly.
"What the—" her voice was cut off when she realized what exactly she had slipped in.
His blood.
The cuts still gushed sluggishly, and so she healed the more shallow ones with whispered words of "Waise heill!" She knew that the muscles severed in many of the cuts needed to be reattached; yet she lacked knowledge of the words necessary for such a spell, so she simply healed the skin above it. And also, she lacked the strength to heal so many wounds.
Illera left briefly to request several wash cloths and a basin of warm water, both of which arrived shortly.
Softly, she used a cloth to scrape off the majority of the Seithr oil, using a separate one to gently cleanse the wounds on his back before closing them with the murmured words.
Illera healed as much as she could, but she eventually could do no more and sat down hard, leaning against the wall several meters away, breathing hard. If she wasn't careful, she could faint from the over exertion.
She recovered slightly before turning him over, using the cloth to lightly rub away dried blood from his features, and rinse his own blood out of his matted hair.
It was then that she realized who he was.
Illera recoiled, jumping backwards. There was no doubt—the man who lay in front of her was the Red Rider.
She hit the wall, and pushed herself upright against the unforgiving surface, shaking her head wearily. He had several cracked ribs in addition to more mutilated muscle and she could only mend three out of the five; her strength had gone.
Illera called for clean water and for food—she needed fuel if she was going to continue. When it arrived, she devoured the bowl of stew and bread eagerly, feeling her strength return with each bite.
And afterwards she healed all that she could on his body, and pressed all the energy she could spare into him.
With those wounds, she needed him to wake and heal himself before…Illera couldn't stand seeing anyone or anything die, especially not while she had worked upon them. She frowned, reaching out with her mind to force him to wake. Yet, when she did, a foreign, completely alien presence slammed into her consciousness, driving into her mind. Illera flinched, recoiling and attempted to shield herself, but her wards were swept away like dust in a storm. And just as suddenly as it had attacked her, it was gone.
She was still recovering from the pain it had caused her when the Rider let out a chuckle. She couldn't move, but he whispered a few words and the wounds were healed instantly, and his shoulder restored.
Illera was shocked at the ease he had shown to use heal his grievous wounds; that he could rise from a deep sleep to full strength.
"You attempted to heal me," he said, rising.
She nodded, shutting her eyes as sleep tempted her. Even speaking was too much effort now.
Murtagh knelt beside her, touching her arm lightly and returning much of the energy she'd given him to her.
It soothed her pounding head and she released a breath, before realizing.
Galbatorix must have been in such a rage because the army had lost the Battle far away. And the Red Rider, he had been ordered to capture the other Rider. Clearly, he had failed, and was being punished.
She offered a wan smile. "Thank you."
He shrugged. "Thank you."
Illera stood, putting out a hand to steady herself on the wall. "You should go to the kitchens and eat."
He raised an eyebrow, and she elaborated.
"I'm a healer," she defended herself. "I need to see my patients recover."
He nodded at her uniform, now soiled and soaked through in patches of his blood. "You had better go change. You don't…you needn't see me to the kitchens."
Illera shrugged a shoulder. "I would see you eat something before I go."
Something—the same, alien presence brushed her mind again and she shied away, flinching.
The Rider laughed; yet it was almost humorless. "I can see you've met Thorn."
"Thorn?" she asked, wincing when the presence quested towards her again.
A corner of his mouth turned up. "He is a dragon."
Her lips opened a fraction of an inch before she shut them, pushing her long, black hair out of her face. "Oh."
Murtagh was silent. "He wants to know why you came."
"Orders," she said, dumping out the basin of water and watching it mix with scarlet blood as it dripped down a drain. "Meira asked me to come down here and attend to whatever I found."
Murtagh watched her place the dishes into the basin, asking the guard to call a servant to clear it later.
"Now," she said, and he saw that her eyes were as dark as mud seen in a starless night. "You need fuel. Go, eat."
He seemed to be amused, but she could not bring herself to care. His care had taken more out of her than she had expected, and she only wanted to rest for ages.
"You as well," he said unexpectedly. "You will need it too."
"I—" she began, but he cut her off.
"Tis simply lunch," he said, taking a hold of her arm. "Tauthr."
She couldn't refuse his strength, nor the way he imbued the word for follow with power.
And so it was, as she followed him, her destiny began to awaken.
Illera departed the kitchens almost a half-hour later, amazed at how with just a simple command, the kitchen staff had rushed for the Rider for anything he asked. Mead, ale, bread, stew or a pie; anything he wished for, it was given as quickly as they could cook.
He had asked her a few questions; her name, wondering how much she knew in the Ancient Language, how long she had worked in the castle. She could not help but be curt and swift in her responses; her own past was littered with too much sorrow and much too many images she had no wish to revisit.
Finally, she drew a hot bath, determined to scrub off all of the dried blood from her skin. All of his dried blood. Illera felt as if she were coated in his essence, a primal part of him…
It wouldn't do, she decided. He was so powerful, so different, stoic, serious—and his dragon! So foreign and alien to her…everything about him frightened and called to her at the same time.
It disconcerted her to find, when she slid into the bathtub, flakes of maroon scrape off her skin and melt into the water. Red, red; a pale, watery rose. So much unlike the Rider's dragon.
He released the slight magic sustaining his scry, unusual surprise welling. He was rarely even surprised now, after so long.
He had watched the girl, with the eyes like pitch struggle and nearly cause herself to faint while healing his insolent servant. He'd watched the byplay between them, and watched as they made their ways to the kitchen. He had more than watched; he had listened.
Illera.
The name resonated like the city his Uru'baen had been named before the kingdom rose. She could be trained, into a worthy magician, into part of the Black Hand.
An idea crept into his mind…
Shells of iridescent green, and every other color of the rainbow, flashes of gold and reds and yellows and blues across the skies.
His dream could reawaken.
Murtagh, son of Morzan. Illera, and eventually, the Blue Rider Eragon Shadeslayer.
All under His Majesty Galbatorix Kingslayer, Ruler of the Empire.
Galbatorix had, of course, seen everything.
…
intiating rewrite. I'm fully aware that I can't possibly hope to be finished by the time the final book comes out but the first version was so painful to even look at, I MUST re-write it.
