Thorn and Misery - Chapter 10
Galbatorix was growing impatient; Murtagh could see it in his black eyes. "No! Try again!" he barked.
"I am trying!" snapped Murtagh. He, too, was quickly becoming irritated. "Stenr reisa, Stenr reisa!"
Murtagh had been making precious little progress over the last three days. Though he had been anxious to begin the study of magic, he found it to be much more difficult than it seemed when he had first uttered the word "brisingr." While bringing fire to his palm had not been easy, Murtagh had produced a spark on only his second try. Now, he could not for the life of him lift a small rock, nor could he perform any of the other tasks Galbatorix had had him try.
For days now he had attempted various forms of magic, all with as little success as this one. He could barely move even the tiniest of pebbles, and found himself unable to conjure fire or water. Occasionally, he had been able to channel a small spark of power into his efforts, but the brief accomplishment came in fits and spurts, few and far between.
Thorn had still not woken from comatose state, at least not since Murtagh had dashed to the adjoining field during the few minutes' rest he had been allowed over lunch earlier that day. Murtagh had visited the inert dragon every time he had a spare moment, but Thorn slept on, oblivious to Murtagh's mental and physical attempts to wake him. His worry about Thorn's continued torpor did not help Murtagh's attempts at magic. He was tense and distracted, which lead only to more failure.
Galbatorix was not pleased with Murtagh's lack of improvement, to say the least. With each disappointing attempt, he would punish Murtagh brutally, with mental, sometimes physical blows. The king was not a patient man, and was quick to let Murtagh know the effects of his short fuse and explosive temper. The cuts and bruises that Murtagh sustained on his account weakened his already battered body, but even the threat of corporal harm did little to encourage his magic. If anything, the punishment made it all the more difficult, as Murtagh's body was further unable to handle the strains of using even the simplest spells.
Shruikan was the only one who seemed to find the proceedings amusing. The immense dragon sometimes watched from the edge of the field, as he was today, chuckling at each fruitless attempt. The dragon's haughty, commanding presence did nothing to relieve Murtagh's stress.
Contrary to what Galbatorix had first thought, Murtagh actually knew quite a lot of the theory behind magic. He had learned much from the books he had studied in his youth, and more still from Eragon during their travels together. It was just the application that was giving Murtagh so much trouble.
The most Murtagh had accomplished yet today was making his gedwey ignasia glow dimly. The fist-sized rock he had been trying to lift for the past hour was still stuck resolutely to the ground. No matter what he did, he simply could not get the stone to move. Now the sun was creeping ever closer to the horizon, casting long shadows over the desolate landscape.
"You are not concentrating!" Galbatorix growled, kneading his temples with long, spidery fingers. "It seems I was mistaken in my assessment of your strength. Any novice could easily do what you are failing to accomplish now! Try again!"
Taking a slow, calming breath, Murtagh stuck out his hand over the rock and said, "Stenr reisa."
The stone trembled for a moment, and then was once again immobile.
"Idiot!" cried Galbatorix. "How many times have I told you that it is imperative that you master this quickly? These are the very basics of the magical arts!"
"It would help if you stopped breathing down my neck!" retorted Murtagh. He, too, was rapidly losing patience with himself. He had no idea why he could not do what Galbatorix asked of him. He knew what he had to do, but found that putting the theory into practice entirely impossible. He supposed his lack of faith in his own power didn't help, either, but constant failure had a way of undermining one's confidence.
"Silence," ordered the exasperated king, sending a short, painful crack of power resounding through Murtagh's body. Murtagh was so accustomed to the pain that he barely noticed it now.
"I can see that is the best we are going to accomplish today," continued Galbatorix. "I must say, Murtagh, you have disappointed me." The two of them crossed to an outdoor terrace, where their evening meal was waiting: roast pheasant for Murtagh and Galbatorix and a side of raw beef for Shruikan. "Come and eat dinner, then you are to get some sleep. We will try again in the morning." Galbatorix gave Murtagh an icy glare. "I hope, for your sake, that you are more successful then."
As they ate their evening meal, a question that had sat at the back of Murtagh's mind all day rose to his lips. "Why do you eat meat?" he asked Galbatorix.
"Shouldn't I?" asked the king.
"The books I've been reading have mentioned several times that the elves and Dragon Riders of old refuse to eat it."
Galbatorix scoffed. "The elves, pathetic sentimental creatures that they are, refuse to partake of the meat on principle. Their childish morals prevent them from consuming the flesh of animals whose minds they have shared, but I see no problem with it. Eat all you will. You will need to keep your strength up." Galbatorix took a slice of roasted pheasant from his own plate, chewing it thoughtfully. "Tomorrow, your training will intensify. I have no time to continue teaching you such basic spells. I will have to lend you strength so that you will be able to master the spells that will actually be of use to you."
Murtagh ate quickly, gulping down the last of his water. He was eager to get away from both Galbatorix and Shruikan. His head was pounding, and he wanted to check on Thorn one last time before bed.
"That won't be necessary," said Galbatorix suddenly, interrupting Murtagh's thoughts. At Murtagh's quizzical glance, the king continued, "I forgot to tell you – Thorn woke up earlier this afternoon. I believe he is already in the meadow outside your suite."
Murtagh gasped, inhaling a rather large amount of water. Coughing, he glared furiously at Galbatorix, who shrugged. With an exasperated sigh, Murtagh pushed himself away from the table and, without a word, dashed northward along the shortcut he had discovered three nights previously.
Murtagh was panting when he reached the meadow, but his excitement spurned him on. Pushing his way through the thick undergrowth, he stepped into the meadow.
Thorn was lying in the hay in the metal structure at the far end of the lawn, his great red wings furled at his sides. He was awake, and Murtagh could see his ruby eyes glittering as he approached.
You seem smaller, said Thorn as Murtagh flopped down in the straw beside him. His voice was a faint whisper than seemed far too small for the massive body that encompassed it.
Murtagh laughed and hugged Thorn around his thick neck. "I shrunk in my last hot bath," he replied. "How do you feel?"
I feel…strange, the dragon said slowly. My bones have stretched. My body aches.
"He hurt you," said Murtagh furiously. "He promised he wouldn't hurt you." Despite Galbatorix's oft-repeated reassurances, Murtagh couldn't help but feel that something was off inside Thorn. His mind seemed different than it had been before the magical growth. Behind Thorn's consciousness, Murtagh could sense a faint but steady undercurrent of whispers that reminded him far too much of the lightless spirit-orbs the king had summoned during the spell.
Wearily, Thorn swung his long neck around so his massive ruby eyes were level with Murtagh's. Do not worry about me, he said. I will be fine.
Murtagh kept silent for a long time. He stretched out along Thorn's scaly flank and found that the warmth from the dragon's body kept the night chill entirely at bay. Evening had worn into night as the two lay talking. Murtagh gazed up at the sky, watching the waxing crescent moon lend its light to the grassy meadow. The world was so large, and yet here they were, confined to but one tiny speck of it. Finally, Murtagh said, "I pity you, Thorn."
And why is that?
"You've never known freedom. You've been Galbatorix's prisoner since your birth." Murtagh's voice was low and strained as he continued. "And it's because of me. It's my fault you were born into captivity."
Don't trouble yourself about it, small one. Thorn turned and gently nuzzled Murtagh with his head. I am content.
"You are?"
Of course. I am with you.