Thorn and Misery - Chapter 2
It was Murtagh's hunger that finally awoke him. He rose slowly off the soft bed, surprised to find that he was not dirty, tired or in pain. His only discomfort was a dull ache at the base of his skull, which disappeared within seconds as the remnants of Murtagh's profound sleep left him.
A tray laden with fruit and rolls and a pitcher of ice water sat on the nightstand. Sniffing them warily, Murtagh found no traces of drugs. He bit into a roll studded with dried fruit and nuts, surveying his surroundings.
He was in a small, simple bedchamber. A wooden writing desk stood against one whitewashed wall opposite the four-poster bed, beside a shelf filled with books and scrolls. It all seemed strangely familiar to Murtagh.
A weapons rack lay beside a set of large double doors, upon which were Murtagh's hand-and-a-half sword, horn, yew bow and quiver and his dagger, Drac'ner.
The dagger had once belonged to his faithful teacher, Tornac. The night they had fled the city and Tornac had been killed, Murtagh had taken his dagger from his corpse. It now served as a memento of his friend's sacrifice. Strange, though – he didn't remember having the dagger with him during the scourge of the tunnels.
Then, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Murtagh realized where he must be. It was in these very rooms that he had spent most of his childhood, avoiding King Galbatorix and his courts. Tornac had taught him to read and write at that desk. He had spent too many sleepless nights in the bed on which he now sat. He had returned to Castle Ilirea, the citadel at Uru'baen.
Feeling faintly nauseated, Murtagh rose and started to pace the room. He could not believe that after such a long time spent running from the Empire he had be forced to return.
A pair of cotton breeches and a shirt was laid out at the foot of the bed. Needing to do something physical, Murtagh dressed, but his mind was not in the task.
Murtagh stood and walked through the door that led into the rest of the suite. He found himself in a cramped, utilitarian sitting room, furnished only with a few chairs and a stout wooden table. As he made to sink into one of the cushioned chairs, he heard a knock at the door.
A serving-woman in a dark grey dress and white apron stamped with a tongue of scarlet flame stood outside. She smiled and curtsied when Murtagh opened the door.
"Excuse me, sir, but His Imperial Majesty King Galbatorix bids you to come to the greater throne room," she said politely. "If you would follow me."
"I know where the throne room is," Murtagh replied icily. He was in no mood to be polite to anyone, particularly not someone who served Galbatorix. "I'll be along later."
"I'm sorry, sir, but His Majesty was very insistent," the woman said, surprised by the malice in Murtagh's voice. "He expects you in the throne room immediately."
"Fine," said Murtagh, becoming annoyed. He ducked back into his suite and slid Drac'ner into his right boot.
The woman led Murtagh through the dark and sickeningly familiar halls. After many twists and turns, they came to a great set of double doors. A towering, life-sized oak tree divided the circular scene into four sections. Each section, wrought of pure gold, depicted one of the races of Algaesia: elves, men, Urgals and dwarves. Among the branches of the tree were more of the realm's sentient beings. At the forefront of the entire scene was a brilliant golden dragon, curled in a ring with its tail in its mouth. Murtagh had of course seen the doors before, but he was never less than awed by their beauty.
The great doors were unguarded, and swung inward of their own accord as Murtagh and the servant approach. The woman did not follow him, but curtsied low and fled.
Murtagh walked slowly into the throne room. He didn't need the double row of flameless lanterns that lit a path through the otherwise gloomy space, and kept his eyes on the floor. When he reached the dais at the head of the room, he froze, dreading what he knew he would find. He stared at the stone flags for as long as he could, but before long he felt an irresistible pressure forcing his gaze upwards. Slowly, Murtagh raised his head and looked upon the man he had hoped never to see again.
King Galbatorix had not aged a day since Murtagh had escaped Uru'baen. His hard, dark eyes were sunken deep into his lined face. His strong nose arched proudly over a thin mouth, which was framed with a neatly trimmed coal-black beard. Galbatorix looked to be no older than his mid-forties, though Murtagh knew that was not the case. A benign smile that belied his twisted nature played on his lips.
"Welcome back, Murtagh. You have returned to my beloved Uru'baen," the king said, casting his gaze downward. "I trust your voyage was comfortable?"
Murtagh said nothing.
"You have no doubt noticed that I have kept your old suite warm for you, against your return. I hope it is to your liking."
Again Murtagh kept silent.
The king sighed. "You have a grudge against me, I am sure. Will you not voice your complaints?" Galbatorix looked directly into Murtagh's eyes, and Murtagh felt a sharp finger of energy probe his consciousness. He threw up his mental barriers.
"I keep no quarrel with you, Majesty," said Murtagh, spitting the word out with as much venom as he could muster.
"Do not be coy with your king, boy," said Galbatorix, gazing ever more intensely into Murtagh's calm grey eyes. "We both know what you are hiding from me. I have been informed that you recently found refuge among the Varden, and that you fought with them against my forces. Forgive me if I find this a trifle insulting."
Murtagh bristled at Galbatorix's soft, yet commanding voice. The words, which carried the slightest hint of an accent he couldn't quite place, slid like ice water through his veins. It was in this very fashion that Galbatorix had been able to bend Murtagh to his will during Murtagh's last stay in Uru'baen. Murtagh would not be pulled under in such a way again. He strengthened his mental wall against Galbatorix's intrusion.
Galbatorix sighed and spoke again, trying another tactic. "You must remember that I keep you in a private suite out of compassion, Murtagh. It does me no discomfort to have you moved…elsewhere." A sly smile warped Galbatorix's mouth. "The soldiers in the dungeons will be delighted to see you, I'm sure. After all, you gave them such a kind parting gift when last you met."
Murtagh's thoughts flitted back to the night he and Tornac fled the capital. He had bribed a dungeon gatekeeper to leave a door open for them, but Galbatorix's soldiers had obviously been informed of his plan, and were lying in wait outside. Murtagh and Tornac had tried to fight their way out, killing several of the guards before Tornac had taken a dagger to the back. Murtagh had left the city alone that night.
"Why have you brought me here?" Murtagh demanded. He needed to keep talking, or he would lose his nerve entirely. "I'm of no use to you."
"Oh, but Murtagh, you are being modest!" exclaimed Galbatorix. "There was a time when you were anxious to be in my service. Not a year ago, you swore to me your undying fealty." He shook his head, smirking slightly. "The rebel leader had to be dispatched, of course, but in that I saw another opportunity. I assure you, you have the chance to be of great assistance to me. Your usefulness will be revealed in due time."
Glabatorix continued. "I must say I am very disappointed in you, Murtagh. I sheltered you for years, gave you every comfort you required. I even offered you the chance to rise by my side I created my new order, and how do you repay me? By running away and joining my enemies." The king smirked. "You have displeased me, and you will be punished."
Murtagh had had enough of the false king. "Your threats will not work on me, Galbatorix. I am much smarter now."
"As am I, Murtagh."
And then, without warning, a burst of immense power shot through Murtagh's defences, cleaving him from crown to soles. It shattered his mental walls like glass and continued into his mind, raking through all traces of thought. Murtagh roared in agony and sank to his knees. He couldn't even try to repel Galbatorix's attack, so great was the pain. Foolishly, desperately, Murtagh reached for his right boot, where Drac'ner was still stowed, but felt his muscles seize up in agony. He could not move.
The foreign probe delved deeper and deeper into his mind, ripping at his memories of his childhood, his youth and his flight to the Varden. Anything, everything, pulled out against his will. Galbatorix stole Murtagh's heart and made it his own, feeling every emotion that Murtagh himself had ever experienced. The king twisted and shredded through Murtagh's thoughts until every aspect of his being was laid bare for the world to see.
After what felt like a lifetime, Galbatorix found the thoughts that Murtagh kept most closely guarded: his memories of Eragon, Saphira and the Varden. Murtagh could feel the king's glee as his own as Galbatorix fervently examined the recollections.
Murtagh was now completely incapable of coherent thought. All he knew was pain, and the searing heat of fire. He could not move, he could not think, his head was reeling with the effect of torture beyond anything Murtagh had ever experienced.
And then, as quickly as it had come, the fire receded. The pain departed in a great rush, leaving Murtagh in the dark, now empty realm of his own consciousness. The silence deafened him. Murtagh was completely alone.
And yet, he was not alone. Galbatorix had shown him the very qualities he had ignored since leaving Uru'baen: his bitterness, his jealousy of Eragon, his fear of the Varden. His emotions had been revealed to him with a terrible finality. It was intensely disturbing, for Murtagh, to see the demons he had fought so hard to suppress shown to him so bluntly. He could not bear the reality, but neither could he deny it. Even inside his own mind, there could be no hiding from the truth.
Suddenly, there was a burst of bright, slightly surreal light inside Murtagh's head, and in a flood of agonizing realization, two small words rose from his innermost being and floated to his lips.
Galbatorix drew back from Murtagh's mind. He appraised his slumped, form with an icy eye. "Very well, Murtagh. You have left me much to ponder. You may return to your suite now, but come here one hour after the noon bell tomorrow. I have something to show you."
In a dazed voice Murtagh said, "Yes, your Majesty." He bowed slightly, then turned on his heel, strode out of the throne room and returned to his suite.
As he lay huddled, childlike, on the bed, silent tears carving glistening tracks along his tanned cheeks, Murtagh came to grips with the enormity of what Galbatorix had done to him. Galbatorix knew his true name. Murtagh was his prisoner forever.
A/N: I know this chapter is off, but this is one of the issues that will take a little longer to fix. I want the torture scene to be longer, more detailed, etc. but I'm in too good a mood right now to write about Murtagh getting the crap mentally beaten out of him. I'll expand this later, but for now it stays how it is.
- Miss Maddie