Chapter III: Revelation
As the stars began to rise, and all men returned from forging or hunting, only one house in Urû'baen was quiet. A small candlelit window to the left of the doorway flickered hours after the moon had risen. This candle was light to a small room, housing one cot and a small table and washbasin. On the cot, a battered cloak rested in a heap. Next to the cloak sat a finely crafted bow and small dagger. The room was empty of all life, except for the dancing candle flame. The washbasin still remained full of water, though it was only used earlier that morning. The surface of the water was still – if only for a moment.
Outside the room, the front door could be heard shutting lightly. The basin's water rippled softly then subsided to a steady beat matching footsteps quickly approaching the room. The door opened and a dirt-coated figure strode in carrying at his side an equally stained hand-and-a-half sword. The hilt was bruised, and the hand grasping it was covered in tiny cuts that dripped scarlet tears. Covering the wrist and forearm was a makeshift black bandage that was ripped in several places. It too was stained with blood.
The figure was tall, just barely reaching six feet. The candle's dim light shone on the face, revealing that the figure was a man. His tanned face was only covered by small cuts.
The man turned to the basin and looked solemnly at it. He then faced the bed and retrieved the sword's sheath. Before placing it back in though, he noted the blood on the sword. Deciding not to put it away, he merely set the item on the cot parallel to the dagger and bow.
Sitting on the bed, he removed one browned boot from his foot and bent his toes so that they would not stiffen. This he performed with the other foot as well. The boots lay unmoved on the floor afterwards.
Barefoot, the man returned to the basin. Drawing in his breath as he reached over his head, he pulled his tunic off of his back, bearing his torso to the air. It seemed odd how the man's body itself was not scarred from recent fights. His back only showed one mark: a scar extending from one shoulder to the opposing hip. Otherwise, it was as evenly toned and conditioned to that of any other master swordsman. He then carelessly threw the tunic down, landing with a faint thud as it fell overtop of the boots.
Above the basin was a mirror for the man. He gazed at himself for a minute. Running a hand over his chin, the rough bumps of an incoming beard were like sandpaper, hard and ragged. Seeing no razor, he shrugged it off. The man then put his hands to the water, cupping them as he brought them back out. He splashed this water fiercely on his face, then ran his hands through his dark hair. It reached just behind his ears and was invading the back of his neck. Shaking his head as if he were a shaggy, damp dog, he grabbed a fresh nightshirt from the drawer under the basin and headed out of his room.
Hours passed, and still the two had not moved. Kavalnir stood at the entrance to the barn, head hung. Agathore sat on the workbench still with his face in his hands. The shade of a nearby tree in the yard loomed over the entryway. Kavalnir looked to it, and counted a few buds of new leaves and smiled.
Hey, you have to come look at this; she waved an idea to Agathore. She felt the reply of small curiosity from him. Kavalnir turned to see him facing her. He slowly paced to the opening. She pointed at the tree and admired it. Agathore glanced at it for a moment but then turned to the girl. He grinned, small though, at that view instead. Agathore felt a small impulse from his mind. He did not react much. His hand lifted slightly to Kavalnir's, but held back. He let it waver and fall in a sort of embarrassment.
It's too soon, Agathore thought.
What? Kavalnir turned completely to him with a concerned face.
Um…He didn't realize that she could hear it. "The buds," he said quietly. "It's too soon for them. They bloom in the New Year, then die soon after."
Kavalnir's spirits fell, and then lifted. Well, these buds are different. They'll last much longer.
Agathore smiled fully this time. Perhaps you're right.
The man entered the kitchen. Sitting at a table by himself sat an older man, roughly sixty years old.
"Ah, good evening Murtagh," the man at the table said. He stirred a cup of tea slowly. "How was your afternoon?"
The one called Murtagh took a seat. "Unsuccessful," he admitted. "I only managed to have myself rained on, then have the winds at me." He rubbed his temple from the day's failures.
The man with the tea frowned. "I am sorry to hear that. The storm…if you would call it that, did not pass through here. We merely received thunder and a crack or so of lightning."
Murtagh played with a thought, and formed his words. "Fane."
"Hmm?"
"I am leaving tomorrow, and I plan to pay your rent. I like you, Fane. I will miss your company."
With that, Fane saw no reason to talk to Murtagh longer. He stood, tea in his hands, and left through the opposite hallway. He did not talk to his guest for the rest of the evening.
The moon had fully risen an hour later. Kavalnir, shortly before, went to sit under the tree. Agathore joined her but kept his distance. They struck up a conversation pertaining to weaponry.
"My bow is made completely of oak wood. It is not the best, but I like how it shoots." Kavalnir recalled her memories of when she would hunt with her bow. Agathore received bits and pieces of what she was thinking, and noted that she was an experienced huntress.
Agathore nodded. "Where do you get your arrows?"
Kavalnir started, "I make them. I'd find small sticks in the street and on the ground and carve arrows from them. I know, I know, it's not the best method. They do work, though. I have to admit, I enjoy weapon simplicity." She laughed at this.
"Ah, well, you don't have a sword I see."
"Yes," Agathore had struck a sour note with his statement. "I'd never had enough money to purchase one. It saddens me, but I've always managed to suffice."
Agathore had an idea at this time. "Would you like one?"
"How do you mean?"
"I'll buy one for you."
Kavalnir denied. "You have already done much for me, I couldn't ask for more. The greatest…sacrifice you have made is giving up your private thoughts and feelings to me, and I you. I will not accept it."
" I insist."
"Well…perhaps. I would owe you, owe much at that, and you mustn't forget that."
"I won't."
The following morning, Murtagh gathered all of his belongings. He threw the heavy cloak over his matted hair and tunic. His sword went in its sheath, and his bow in his hand. Murtagh's dagger was safely hidden against his calf in his right boot. The sun shone through the window, and Murtagh headed out of his room and the house. Fane was waiting outside the door, sharpening a knife. He looked up at Murtagh through dulled amber eyes.
"Fane," Murtagh said softly. He drew few gold coins from his cloak. "Your rent. It is all I have, I wish you to accept it in full." Fane put his hand out for the gold."
"I will do just this."
Murtagh smiled slightly, and after a moment clasped arms with the man. Fane was considerably shorter, so it was an awkward position for both.
"Well, it has been…well!" Murtagh laughed.
Fane replied, "Murtagh. You share the name of few…you are unique. Do not forget this statement."
Unique indeed, thought Murtagh. "Thank you, Fane. Thank you for your hospitality to myself, a mere traveler."
The shorter man nodded. "I enjoyed our time," he looked down. "Now, it is spent."
Murtagh's face became hard.
"Seek thy destiny, O Murtagh, and reap the great benefits." Fane smiled once more.
"I shall," and with this Murtagh let his arms fall to his sides. He turned his back to Fane. "Goodbye, Fane. We shall meet again someday." Murtagh lengthened the space as he walked between himself and Fane.
When he was out of reach, Fane whispered, "Again, indeed. Goodbye." He headed inside shortly after the departure. The oak door shut quietly for the first time in many months.
Kavalnir adjusted her cloak as she trudged through the Urû'baen streets. Agathore donned one as well so they could not be recognized. When they reached the forgery, a little elderly man approached them.
"What be your quest, strangers?" He halted them in the entrance.
Agathore spoke in a low tone. "We would like to purchase a sword. Your finest, if you will."
"Names?"
"Griffis and…" he paused before he uttered the next name. "Caldenar."
Which one of us is Griffis? Kavalnir whispered, though she did not need to in this manner.
I am, Agathore turned to her. You are Caldenar.
Why do you say that name in such a hushed way?
Caldenar was my father's name.
Kavalnir drew in a breath.
The little man returned with a sword wrapped in cloth. He removed one fold to the buyers. Its form was graceful, yet it was not too long.
I like that!
"How much?" Agathore barked.
"No need to be so harsh, Griffy," the man grinned a toothy grin. "Forty pieces for the lovely sword."
"Silver?"
The man thought a moment, and wheezed, "Gold."
Agathore raged. "Listen, man," he grabbed the merchant by the front of his tunic. "I know you know that right now, gold is illegal for currency. It will be forty silver…or no deal." He let go roughly.
"Alright, alright. I apologize," he said, not meaning it. "Forty silver." He handed Agathore the sword and he relayed it to Kavalnir.
Her eyes were wide as the gripped the sword in her hands. This one is absolutely perfect.
Murtagh walked around the main square of Urû'baen. He searched for the cheap rations to last his journey. A few feet away, he could hear a man arguing for the price of a sword to be lowered. He laughed to himself, examining at one booth multiple carts of fish. How unlucky, what this city is becoming, he thought. Galbatorix may fix it, or destroy it, just as long as I am not in it. He put a fish back onto its cart and walked away.
