WHAT were you thinking?
I wasn't ready.
Thorn veered sharply to the left, preparing to descend upon the rear of the Empire's encampment. Murtagh felt his stomach fly up to his throat. The bone colored canvas tents below billowed in the sultry breeze.
Thorn, we're going back to Uru'baen. Galbatorix wants us to report directly in person. You know that.
Thorn snorted angrily as he righted himself and glided through the air. You know what will befall us upon our empty-handed return.
Not quite empty-handed. Murtagh reached for the pommel of Zar'roc that was now belted about his waist. My father's sword. It ought to buy us some mercy.
Murtagh drew a long sigh, his steamy breath filling his helm. Irritated, he slipped it off and hung it upon the horn of his saddle. The wind cooled his sweaty face and combed through his sweat-drenched hair.
Adrenaline still hurtled through him, numbing his senses. No more than thirty minutes had passed since his encounter with Eragon. Intermittent tremors riddled him and he constantly adjusted his grip on Thorn and his saddle. An ominous sense of detachment pervaded him. The sensation sent pin picks of unease over him. He shuddered at the thought of Galbatorix forever denying him the ability to forge his own destiny.
It's not too, late, Thorn pressed. We can still turn around and catch them unawares. Thorn slowed his pace and they drifted along on a balmy air current.
Murtagh considered the proposition. It was the wise thing to do; it would safeguard him against the king's fury. But his courage would not be broken so easily. Eragon was, after all, a brother. And the bond they had forged in the time between Brom's death and his capture at Tronjheim triumphed over his fear of Galbatorix's displeasure. Indeed, they were much the same arguments Eragon had used to dissuade him from fulfilling Galbatorix's orders. But none had been as convincing as when Eragon had said: 'If you do this, Murtagh, you'll be lost forever.' The words chilled him to his core.
No, Thorn.
Thorn huffed and the smoke from his nostrils thickened. Seething with anger that burned through Murtagh's mind, Thorn pumped his wings hard, giving Murtagh a jolt as they surged towards the northeast.
He was my friend. He is my brother…. Murtagh struggled to explain the complexity of the situation.
What friend counsels suicide? He tried to kill you! Eragon is our foe, Thorn growled. The smoke from his nostrils thickened.
Murtagh bristled at Thorn's judgment. I don't expect you to understand, Thorn, seeing as you've never known the meaning of friendship.
Thorn snarled with a menacing growl. Murtagh felt a surge of hurt ripple through Thorn's being.
I'm sorry; that was cruel. I beg your patience. Meeting Eragon today has troubled me more than I expected….that I haven't come to terms with our lot.
Thorn's anger still burned against him, but the intensity diminished somewhat. I will try, was all the young dragon said. Then, You dwell too much on the past. There's freedom living in the present.
To this, Murtagh was unable to reply and settled for ruminating upon Thorn's counsel. They sailed through the sky towards the royal city of Uru'baen, each conjuring images of what dark reception would await them.
At dusk the next evening Thorn and Murtagh glimpsed the palace of Uru'Baen, bathed in a ruddy glow from the setting summer sun. Murtagh's stomach cramped so tightly he couldn't imagine it could get any tighter. His heart pounded as it had when he'd come across Eragon on the Burning Plains. As frequently as Murtagh had experienced apprehension, he had never grown accustomed to its nauseating weight.
We don't have to do this, Thorn entreated. Murtagh sensed the overwhelming dread in his steed.
We must. Running from him is useless. Murtagh recalled his capture at Tronjheim; it seemed a lifetime ago. He always catches you in the end.
He's waiting for us, Thorn said tensely as a shudder ran the length of his body. I see him waiting outside the roost.
They were approaching the royal city, its ornate pillars and steeples stretching towards the dusky sky. Towering above all the city and its lofty buildings was the palace, its dragon roost crowning the impregnable fortress that was Galbatorix's awesome lair.
Murtagh rallied his courage and prepared himself for a less than warm welcome. He took several deep breaths to fortify his stony composure.
Courage, my friend, Murtagh soothed. Courage. We are not cowards. Murtagh bestowed several reassuring strokes upon Thorn's neck.
A moment later, Thorn exclaimed, He's leaving! Suppose he rides out to meet us...
As the distance closed between the palace and the returning sojourners, relief replaced their anxiety as it became clear that Galbatorix had abandoned the landing site and was nowhere to be seen in the air upon his ghoulish Shruikan.
A male attendant, dressed in a handsome tunic with the Empire's emblem stitched upon its front, rushed out from the roost's dimly-lit expansive archway. He kept his eyes lowered while addressing his superiors. "My lord Murtagh, King Galbatorix knows of your return. He says you are to rest this evening. He will summon you when he sees fit."
Murtagh noted the wavering in the servant's voice, evidence that Galbatorix was in a dark mood.
Murtagh and Thorn were conflicted over whether they should be alarmed or relieved with this news. They bade each other a brief, grim farewell and went their separate ways.
While passing through the cavernous roost, Murtagh avoided looking in the direction of Shruikan's abode; but Murtagh sensed the malevolent gaze of the King's monstrous dragon on him, following him through the large doors that led into the palace.
"Fie! FIE!" These milder words of displeasure were soon followed by harsher, darker oaths. Galbatorix was an exquisite orator of oaths, and was perhaps greater at delivering these tirades than his polished speeches meant to invigorate the kingdom. He now resembled a great, roaring thunderstorm.
Two women heard this oath storm approaching down the corridor outside their room.
"Quick! No sense seeing what can already be heard." A plain woman, of a round face and just as round eyes and form, dropped her needlework instantly and ushered her companion out of a decadent sitting room into a narrow but elegant hallway.
The round woman's companion was a young woman who appeared very much the opposite of the round woman. Her long, thick, dark hair was bound in a jeweled net. The round woman sturdily gripped her slender hand and pushed her forward with a hand upon her back, steering her through the short hall and into an unlit room. The last vestiges of twilight cast the room in menacing gray shadows.
The roundly woman retraced her steps to shut the doors they had trespassed. Just as she shut the door to the room they had stowed themselves in, a clanging boom of massive doors thrown open reached their ears. They clung to each other in their fright.
"Damn you Morzan! Damn the whore you took to your bed!"
There are no words to convey the volume of his voice and its fury.
The women heard a sharp crack followed by a rumbling thud as some piece of furniture was shattered against a stone wall of the neighboring room.
"Damn you and your cussed bastard!" A primal yell of indescribable rage followed.
"Fate help you Murtagh, you slimy boneless rat, that I don't slaughter you where you stand!"
There was more crashing of furniture and then there was a sudden popping explosion as heavy wood splintered. The two women could hear shards of glass and wood pelt the wall.
There were several tense moments of pure silence. The women held their breaths, fearful that somehow it would betray them to the monster in the next room.
After several quiet minutes passed, the round woman squeezed her charge's hand. "I think it best you sleep in my quarters this night."
The young woman felt the trembling of her servant and silently complied. Together, they softly treaded the room to a door that let them out onto a giant corridor. From there, the round woman escorted the young woman through a door at the end of that corridor, and down a flight of stairs in a narrow dark stair well, through another door, trekked a modest hall, their journey ending in a humble set of rooms.
The rooms were dark and the round woman, knowing her rooms well, found her way to candle and flint.
"Marla, what if he-"
"He won't be wanting company tonight."
"Can we be certain of that?"
There was tiny snap as a flame burst forth in the dark. It fluttered and then it shone steadily, illuminating Marla and the window ledge upon which it sat.
"No, suppose not. But he'll thank me in the morning." She paused and lit several more candles with the first one. "I believe the worst of it is over."
Marla, the servant, turned down her bed and gestured for her charge to take it.
"I'll sleep on the floor," said Marla.
The young woman resigned herself to the bed and lay down. Marla began to draw the covers over her.
"No, I don't want them," said the young woman, a tint of exasperation coloring her voice. She brushed the back of her wrist across her brow, removing the thin film of sweat that had collected there. A silver bracelet slid up her arm slightly as she did so.
"Very well, Nefalia." Marla drew the covers back. "Sure is a bit stuffy in here. Whew!"
Nefalia turned to face the stone wall. She reached out a hand, her long fingers tracing over the cool, smooth stone. She was wide awake and knew she would never entice sleep to her.
"I hope he didn't ruin my sewing," Marla muttered as much to herself as to Nefalia. "Some of my best work, it is."
No more of this, Nefalia thought, ignoring her servant. She watched Marla's shadow flutter on the wall. I refuse to accept this as my fate. I refuse to lose everything.
Late in the evening, after dining on food and drink superior to army rations; and several awkward, irritating encounters with wide-eyed hopeful young females, Murtagh resigned himself to the solitude of his chambers. It wasn't that he didn't like girls. He smiled. Oh yes, he had enjoyed the company of several ladies during his short-lived freedom outside the King's control; and he had had a few flings with girls in Uru'baen in the time before he realized Galbatorix had maniacal tendencies. Mindful of his past romantic exploits, he avoided the public thoroughfares in the palace. Disconsolate females were the last thing he wanted to contend with tonight.
He removed the key to his room from a secret pocket within his shirt. He supposed he could have used magic to disengage the lock but the old habit refused to be broken.
The antechamber was lit by a single brilliant overhead lantern. He was pleased that the servants had prepared his quarters for his return. His rooms, five in all, were lit by several candelabras and oil lamps. Their flames did not waver in the languid summer air.
The antechamber opened onto his sitting room where he received visitors, conducted personal meetings and other such social engagements. Large windows, now opened wide to receive the night's feeble breeze, were directly opposite the entryway. Light-weight curtains the color of ashes, gathered at each end of the enormous windows, framed the moonless night beyond.
Off to the left was his study, fully furnished with all the ornate trappings fit for both a prince and a prestigious Dragon Rider. It was a room he had inhabited for hours on end with tutors aiding him in the pronunciation of the Ancient Language and mastering the basics of magic. When he had mastered the foundation, he was then personally tutored by Galbatorix himself in a room more conducive to their lessons. Each wall was lined with shelves containing precious books and scrolls concerning the subject of magic. Galbatorix had provided him all the literature thereby ensuring that Murtagh would not encounter ideas contrary to the royal curriculum. Upon the completion of his training, Murtagh rarely entered the room; it possessed a suffocating atmosphere.
On the other side of the sitting room was his bedchamber and off of that was the bathroom. They were handsome quarters; Galbatorix had spared no expense. The best linens draped a luxurious mattress which dressed a canopy bed frame wrought from exotic woods. The bed posts were carved by master craftsmen, depicting vines and thorns woven in intricate patterns. After spending countless nights on nothing more than a cot or the hard, damp ground itself, Murtagh looked forward to bedtime.
He entered his sitting room, unbelted Zar'roc, and collapsed onto a plush armchair that faced a double-sided fireplace; the other side opened onto his bedroom. His fingers kneaded the squashy padding of the armrests as he stared into the dark, ashy depths of the hearth. His thoughts ran along familiar paths in an unremitting labyrinth, searching for an escape from his enslavement. None came. And there was no evading punishment for releasing Eragon and Saphira.
He pressed his head against the plush backrest of the chair and released a deep sigh. Out of the corner of his eye in the shadows, he saw an unfamiliar mass near the door. He wasn't alone. Turning with a start in the direction of the doorway, Murtagh bolted to his feet and whipped out the dagger stored inside his boot. When his eyes took in the tall, black-clad, and lithe female figure leaning against the doorframe of his sitting room, he lowered the blade. But only slightly. And for a split second he thought it was Arya.
"If you had been my target, death would have claimed you and deposited your pathetic little soul in the void long ago," said the uninvited guest. "And you never would have known."
"You?" It was both a pronouncement and a query laden with disgust.
"Oh, come now, Murry. That's your greeting, is it?"
Murtagh scowled.
Laughter erupted from the intruder, but Murtagh did not consider it a laugh. It crackled with cynicism. It was the laughter of one scarred from living in pursuit of self- preservation. At any cost.
"You never did like your pet-name," the woman said with a wry smile.
"Luana," Murtagh growled. Hatred swelled within his chest.
Luana cocked her head to one side, considering him. Her lips were pursed together as if his voice were a sour flavor on the tongue. "I didn't expect much of a greeting from you. We hadn't parted on the best of terms. Did we?" Her eyes glistened with dangerous mischief.
"Get out," Murtagh snarled. This Luana was one such disconsolate female and more.
"Thanks, love." Luana swaggered over to an armchair and settled her sleek figure upon it. "Please, Murtagh, sit. The lady is seated. She nodded to the chair opposite her. She spread her arms over the armrests and appeared by all accounts entirely at ease. "We mustn't forget our manners."
He clenched his dagger tightly. He wanted to pin her against the chair. With his dagger. He envisioned the hilt protruding from the space just above her collarbone. Perhaps he would even cut out her heart. If she has one, he thought bitterly.
Luana's eyes went to his weapon. "Surely you can do away with that. I know I mistreated you, but surely not to the point to warrant a blade." She paused and winked at him. "Pun intended."
Murtagh did not ease his stance, but his focus wavered. She had soft bronze colored skin with a glow to warm a cold heart if only for a moment. Her eyes often appeared narrow so that it either lent her the expression of sheer mischief or primal ferocity. Often times her gaze was unreadable but nevertheless penetrating and always possessed the power to enchant. Her hair, pulled back now in a series of tight and intricate weaving against her scalp, had the luster of polished stone. The color was that of ebony but the light of morning or evening would lend it a reddish hue. Indeed, she was an exotic beauty in Murtagh's mind. And if Murtagh were not the skeptic that he was, he would have thought her a goddess.
"What you did far surpasses mistreatment."
"Come around now, Murry. We're civil human beings, aren't we?" She crossed one long leg over the other. Her black leather knee high boots creaked slightly with the motion.
All she had to do was speak, and whatever physical affection he felt for her was diminished. He had once thought her voice seductive and nearly irresistible; it was on a slightly lower register than most women but was smooth and clear as a songbird. But now he found it loathsome and slippery.
It was a terrible pity, he thought, that so lovely a woman as she should have the personality of a cunning predator. A cobra with legs, he had once told Thorn.
"I'm not so sure."
A grin filled her face. "You got me there. I've trespassed. How terribly uncivil of me. And you…" She paused and smiled as if savoring some great wine. "You slew the king of the dwarves. And by all accounts, that was not so civil. You really are Galbatorix's long-reaching right arm…or, if you rather, his puppet."
Within seconds, the flat of Murtagh's blade was pressed beneath her chin and its keen edge was poised to slice her soft skin. His other hand gripped the back of her collar and yanked it down so she had to peer up at him. He felt her posture tense, and then relax. He had only frightened her for a fraction of a second. He marveled at her courage.
She smirked. "Hit a nerve, did I?" Her eyes passed over him, assessing his face. Murtagh kept the blade steady. When she spoke, the blade pricked her neck. "My, how you have changed. Groomed and fit for kingly service."
"You never could stop talking about yourself" he growled.
She smiled, but her eyes narrowed in anger. "Interesting. I paid you a compliment, and you rejected it with…was that a note of shame in your voice?"
Murtagh made no reply. Her words stunned him but not so much as a sharp prick of pressure upon his chest. The point of a very small blade was on the verge of slipping into his ribs. Her execution was impeccable. He cursed; his thirst for vengeance had compromised his defenses.
Neither lessened the intensity behind their weapons.
"It is shame, isn't it?" She continued as though they were having a pleasant conversation over tea and crumpets. "You're ashamed of being a Rider, of serving King Galbatorix-"
"Put it away!" he hissed.
Her eyes narrowed, glaring at him with vivid blue eyes. So blue that it reminded Murtagh of a mountain lake, deep and cold. The color had always surprised him.
"You take my life, and I'll take you with me," she muttered. Her blade pierced his clothing, the point resting on his skin. "The blade is poisoned," she added softly with a smirk.
An excruciating moment passed, neither daring to move, and neither willing to surrender.
"I've dreamed of this moment," said Murtagh.
"Liar. I'm still alive."
Murtagh ignored her remark. "You told me you never go back."
"True."
"So talk."
"You're too close for comfort." She smiled victoriously.
Murtagh hesitated then slowly removed the blade from her throat. She watched him as if she were enjoying some comic routine performed by a jester. As her blade retreated, he gave her a little shove on the neck while releasing his grip on her collar.
"Maybe I won't talk afterall," she stated flatly while rubbing the back of her neck, but the playful edge had not yet slipped away. She was still toying with him and her miniature dagger remained prominently in hand.
Murtagh sat in the opposite armchair, also keeping his dagger at the ready. He was so tense that the muscles in his shoulders and back ached. "What do you want, Luana?"
"Tea?"
"No more games."
"Oh," she pouted. "Murtagh is too old, too important for games. Or maybe it's just that he has forgotten how to play?"
Murtagh glared fiercely at her. He was beyond irritated. "Stop wasting my time, you whorring traitor."
There was a brief moment of silence as she stared at him with blue slits. "All right," she said, throwing up her hands in surrender. "All I wanted was to say hello and how good it is to see you again, returned safely home from the battlefront. And on the verge of victory."
"The truth, Loony. Or have you buried yourself so deep in lies that you can't find your way."
She cocked her head at him. "Truth, Murtagh, is in the eye of the beholder."
He saw her growing impatience in the way her jaw muscles clenched and un-clenched. Desiring to exacerbate her further, he did not speak or even offer the faintest of smiles.
"Still not satisfied," she observed. "Truth will out, they say." She sighed. "I wanted to rekindle what we had—"
"Our past is dead and buried."
"Ever hear of necromancy?"
A shadow passed over his countenance. His gaze shifted away from her momentarily.
"But is it really dead and buried?" She let the question hang in the air a moment before her gloating grin disappeared. "In all sincerity, Murtagh, I only wanted to say hello." The playful edge in her voice was gone.
Murtagh shook his head. "Not you. You never want to 'just say hello.'"
"I wanted to see what Galbatorix had done with you-"
"I knew you had a selfish reason," Murtagh interjected.
"-since the Twins carted you back to our lovely city. May they rest in peace."
Murtagh furrowed his brow in a query. "How do you know what happened to them?"
"It's called a network, love."
Murtagh ignored her response, impatient. "You were saying?"
She smirked. "It seems to me, Murtagh, you don't want to hear what I'm saying. I know when I'm not wanted." She rose and sauntered to the door.
"You're here because I have something you want," called Murtagh as he rose to his feet, watching her like a vendor eyeing a potential thief.
"Obvious, but vague."
"You want me," he sneered.
"That's twice you've insulted my honor. Don't be so quick to assume you are the precious, chosen one. Find me when you've figured it out." Before exiting, she threw him that cheeky little grin of hers.
He dashed over to her before she exited and seized her arm in grip that nearly cut off her circulation. "You want me to kill you," he muttered as he stared straight into her blank eyes.
She blinked. "Absolutely. Not."
Taking her by the shoulders, he shoved her against the door jam. "I swore I would avenge Tornac."
"Such devotion. People will wonder," she chimed with innuendo.
He slammed her against the door jam again. "I will kill you. I will find a way. And you will curse the day you were born as I stand over you, watching as you slowly, painfully, slip into the void. I will be the last thing you see."
"Is that so?" she asked softly, not breaking his gaze. "I wager you'll be a puppet on strings, manipulated by King Galbatorix, before that day comes." With agility and speed, she twisted her way out of Murtagh's grip and dashed into the shadowy corridor.
Murtagh muttered several choice derogatory words directed at his fleeing intruder. In a sudden burst of rage, he threw his dagger into the back of the door.
Luana's visit left a foul and ominous pit in his stomach. She was not a woman to trifle with; her sudden appearance disconcerted him.
Murtagh wrestled his dagger from the door.
Luana, Luana, Luana. He turned her name over in his mind as memories of their past swept before him. He had once considered her a friend, with benefits albeit, but that was long ago. Long, long ago it seemed now. In truth, it had only been a couple of years. Regrettably, he had trusted her more than he should have. More than he had with others. And he had paid a bitter price.
She had betrayed him and Tornac to Galbatorix on the night of his bid for freedom.
He was determined to kill her, but he realized his quest for vengeance would have to wait. She was an integral member of the Black Hand; of that he was certain. If he were to brazenly murder her, he would have to endure Galbatorix's wrath and he believed that the fulfillment of his revenge should not be tainted with a royal reprimand. He would have to kill her quietly and outside Galbatorix's suspicions.
He retrieved Zar'roc from the floor. It was significantly lighter than his old hand-and-a-half sword and its weight still surprised him. Bitter regret welled in him. He missed his old sword now and wished he had not left it with his brother. It had been a fine and worthy sword.
"Times have changed," he sighed to himself. As he said it, loneliness dampened his smoldering anger.
He withdrew the blade. The handle was comfortable and seemingly tailored to his hand, but it was still foreign to his grasp. A shudder rippled down his back. The sword's handle had been made just for his father Morzan so why should it not have fit Murtagh's own grip? He performed a few exercises. It certainly was a superior blade to his old one, but it would still require time to become intimately acquainted with his new blade.
My inheritance, he thought. A strange gleam rested in his eyes as he gazed up and down the crimson hued blade of his nefarious father.
It seemed odd to him that he should now possess it. Eragon had wielded it for so long. He recalled their sparring, the battles they had fought alongside each other, and more recently, their fierce confrontation on the Burning Plains. He recalled all the swirling emotions he felt when he first saw it back in that cave where Brom had died. At first it had repulsed him, yet deep down, when he was honest with himself, he had wanted it all along. It was a profound part of his identity.
Then he pondered Galbatorix's possible reactions to his acquisition of Morzan's sword. He wondered what would have happened if Brom had not taken the blade and it had come into Galbatorix's possession. Would Galbatorix have passed it along to him? Truly, the sword was worth more than all the fortunes of the nobility gathered in Galbatorix's court. Murtagh was shrewd enough to conclude that the sword was worth more than material wealth to the king. It was the sword of his oldest, most tried and true servant.
Murtagh returned the blade to its sheath as feelings of uncertainty and dread threatened to overwhelm him entirely. He stood there in the dim light with the resplendent sword of his father lying in his hands, looking at it but without really seeing it, lost in the blade's long, twisted history.
Luana sprinted to a seldom used stairway after fleeing from Murtagh. Her meeting with him flustered her more than she was willing to admit. She brushed the memories aside. Murtagh meant nothing to her apart from being a serious threat to her life. She scowled. She would give Duthind a piece of her mind.
She sighed as she sidled along, picking at a wayward thread on the hem of her shirt. It had not been her idea to see him tonight and it never would have been her idea. As Murtagh reminded her, she never returned to past lovers.
But the authority of the Empire cared little for her personal code of conduct.
Treading silently down a narrow hallway, she reflected on Murtagh's appearance. It was the first time she had seen him since she had wounded him with her betrayal and that was about a year ago. And though he was still clearly Murtagh, his appearance was haggard, hard, and fierce.
She realized he had always looked that way but recent events had only pronounced the brooding frown, the distrusting brown eyes where a fire smoldered beneath the surface. She had seen it in his murderous gaze. Granted, she wouldn't have expected anything else from him considering their past.
Her journey led her to an inconspicuous door where she muttered a few words of the ancient language and allowed herself in. Shutting the door behind her, she recited several more words of power and descended down a spiral stairwell. Low burning sconces set in the wall cast just enough light to illuminate the shadowy steps.
The stairs emptied onto a brightly lit and spacious chamber. The chamber contained sleek furniture of a blackish hue. The design of each fixture contained no curves. It was all straight lines, giving the room an orderly and austere atmosphere. Nothing adorned the stone walls, save for the sconces that held burning torches. The room was purely designed with functionality in mind.
Across the room an older gentleman sat behind a massive desk reading a sheaf of parchment. The surface of the desk was clear except for a few eclectic, sinister ornaments.
"You have returned sooner than expected." His voice was soft and cultured, and devoid of warmth. The man did not look up from his reading.
"I made contact with him," she said as she entered the vaulted space. With a keen gaze she watched him set aside the parchment. He was in his fifties, she guessed, but was doing physically well for his age. He was trim and his loose clothing concealed surprising strength and agility.
He looked at her with gray eyes the shade and sheen of polished slate. She thought it was a sickly color.
"And what did you glean from this meeting?"
She sat in the chair positioned directly opposite him.
"He nearly killed me as-"
"So he has not forgotten?"
She frowned. She hated it when he interrupted. "As I predicted. So, to answer your question, Duthind: no, Murtagh has not forgotten."
A moment of silence passed between them as he studied her imperiously. Disappointment riddled his features.
"This was a harebrained idea," she remarked.
"It would be best if you kept such opinions to yourself," said the man sternly.
"It would be best if you listened to my opinions. I betrayed the man once already. The chances of me regaining his confidence is nonexistent."
"If King Galbatorix and I did not believe you were capable, then we would have assigned someone else. Someone whose credentials are inferior to yours and that would not be expedient. Your history with him is exceedingly useful to the King."
"Don't assume I know what's going through that blasted head of his."
"You carried on your love affair with him for, what was it, approximately half a year? That is more than a sufficient amount of time to assess a man's practices and beliefs, especially for someone with your training."
She glowered at Duthind, her fingers gripping the keen edges of the chair's armrests. "I am certain his practices and beliefs of the past are no longer of import. He is not the same-"
"Luana, this isn't about those things."
"You said it was." Now she was just being plain obnoxious.
Duthind raised his eyebrows. "The young man is clearly out of control. If he continues on this reckless path-"
"Then I suggest Galbatorix take control. I won't be Murtagh's nanny." Luana gave the man a hard stare, serious again.
"We have been through this once. I know your arguments, but who are we to argue with our king? I suggest you work out a strategy for captivating Murtagh's attentions instead of sulking. We have so little time." Duthind withdrew a new sheaf of parchment and a quill. "And you're not playing nanny; you're playing, to put it politely, mistress."
"No."
"Luana, this is unprofessional."
Luana snapped to her feet and placed both hands on the desk and leaned over, forcing Duthind to give her his undivided attention. "We left professional weeks ago."
The man glowered at her, the slate in his eyes transforming into steel. "I may not be Galbatorix, but I do represent him. Respect will do more for you than belligerence."
Luana's face hardened. Every scathing and hateful word was ready to spring from her mouth but discipline held her tongue. "Very well. Then I want an increase in pay. The stakes are higher now. I want compensation and I want it now."
"We'll discuss it at our next scheduled meeting. And you had best come prepared with a modified attitude and significant data."
With a sudden, slight bow, she started for the exit.
"Wait just a moment!"
Luana stopped and turned to look at him.
"I have not dismissed you," he said, smirking.
"Technically you did. I believe your exact words were 'I suggest you work out a strategy for captivating Murtagh's attentions instead of sulking.'" She paused dramatically. "'We have so little time.'"
"Luana! If you please." His temper flared and subsided.
She stood facing him, arms crossed over her chest.
"Know this. Murtagh is capable of showing mercy. He bestowed it upon Eragon. Perhaps he will to you."
She glowered at him before leaving the chamber in stony silence.
Murtagh?
Murtagh started from his reverie. He had retired to his armchair after Luana had gone, brooding over recent events between dozing off occasionally.
You're still awake? Murtagh queried as he rubbed his eyes with his palms.
Has he visited you?
Murtagh was about to ask who "he" was when he realized what Thorn was asking. He felt his stomach drop as if he had been riding Thorn and had taken a sudden dive. No.
Murtagh sensed the frustration and impatience that consumed Thorn's thoughts, undermined by a new contempt for Murtagh. Then he has not seen you. Shruikan has only stared at me since we arrived. I can't relax because you had to play the village idiot!
Murtagh scowled. Agitated, he got to his feet and began pacing the room. What's done is done, Thorn.
Am I supposed to derive comfort from that? Thorn snipped.
What do you want me do? Murtagh demanded. Shout it from the roof-tops that I'm the fool of the age? Grovel for your forgiveness?
Thorn was silent a moment, hatred flaring. I want you to never forget the torment you have brought upon me. I hope he flays open your mind. With a huff, Thorn withdrew from a stunned Murtagh.
Murtagh leaned on the windowsill, his hands gripping the smooth marble stone for support. He and stared out into the inky night. A chilling isolation pressed upon him like a thick fog. His thoughts swarmed with memories of his wretched past. It seemed to him he could never do right.
His loneliness gave way to guilt. Thorn would have to suffer punishment on his account; and the intensity of Thorn's discipline would not correlate with the dragon's disobedience, for it's purpose was only to intensify Murtagh's punishment.
Eragon would never… He couldn't form the rest of the thought; it was too painful. Eragon and Saphira shared a bond that he and Thorn could only hope to mimic.
Eragon, thought Murtagh bitterly.
In the dwindling hours of the night, Murtagh began to forget why he had ever released Eragon. Eragon no longer seemed a friend, or a brother, to him. His appearance had changed, his skills had somewhat increased, but what struck Murtagh the hardest was that Eragon had suggested that he commit suicide, and when Murtagh had refused, Eragon had attempted to murder him. Eragon's attack had so surprised him there on that plateau that he had not fully assessed the situation. Regret consumed him as he realized that Eragon was emerging more and more as a stranger to him and less as a friend and ally.
I've lost Tornac…Eragon…and Thorn. Murtagh blinked hard to shut in his grief and ram it back down into the confines of his stony, thorn infested heart.
Exhausted, Murtagh abandoned his tortured thoughts and swiftly fell asleep.