Disclaimer: I don't own the Inheritance Cycle and promise to put the toys back in the toy box when I finish playing.

Chapter 11

Naming

Murtagh paced in front of the fireplace, wincing as he turned; Roran's blade-work had excelled since the birth of his yet unnamed hatchling, and the red Rider bore multiple bruises from Roran's improved skill. He tried not to show his discomfort as not to give his student the satisfaction of knowing he was repaying some of the countless bruises he had received, but he caught Roran smirking to himself. Murtagh clenched his jaw, his wounded pride aching at the sight of the former farmboy turned Rider.

"What are you smiling at?" he snapped. "Have you finally learned something of use?"

Roran immediately sobered, though his hatchling nuzzled his arm supportively from his perch on the table next to his Rider's books. While Roran's physical training might have been successful, his academic endeavors had proven less than stellar. Murtagh, far from a suitable teacher by his own admission, was running out of ideas to make his student understand his letters.

Aren't you being a bit harsh on him? Thorn asked gently, interrupting his Rider's brooding.

Murtagh forced himself to calm down. It's been nearly a week with no progress, he retorted, outside of the few words in the Ancient Language he's managed to memorize.

Roran was only recently a farmboy. He's not used to this, Thorn reasoned, attempting to ease Murtagh's tension.

Neither was Eragon and he seems to be doing well enough, Murtagh muttered bitterly before running a hand over his face. I'm no good at this.

You do as best you can.

But if I don't produce the desired results, Galbatorix will be furious. He shuddered, his blood running cold at the thought. And he shall take out his anger on me, the failed teacher. He had sworn once that he'd do anything to avoid any more escalated violence at the king's hand and had, thus far, managed to keep to that oath.

Only because of Roran's presence, a voice mocked him. The king has been more interested in your cousin's presence than torturing you.

Murtagh shook off the unhelpful thoughts and turned back to Roran, whose blank gaze was on the books in front of him—the books he was unable to decipher for some reason. The new Rider seemed to have a block. The problem facing Murtagh, then, was overcoming it. As someone with scholarly interests of his own, Murtagh had a hard time empathizing with Roran's struggles, making the invention of new tactics difficult.

Murtagh froze in the middle of his pacing. Tactics. Of course! he realized with a jolt. He strode to Roran's side and leaned over the open book in front of the younger man.

"Think of learning letters like a battle," he said.

Roran's attention perked at the comparison. Battle was something he knew, that he could relate to. Battle was something tangible he could study and plan for, using his tactical mind to gauge the odds and determine maneuvers.

"Using language is like executing a battle plan," Murtagh continued once he was sure of his pupil's full attention. "The right maneuvers must be executed in a fight." Roran nodded his understanding. "And when using language, the right words must be used, most especially in the Ancient Language."

"What do you mean?" Roran asked hesitantly, as if nervous Murtagh would snap at him for speaking up. And considering Murtagh's mood for the previous week, such fears were justified.

"Words in the Ancient Language are precise. Using the right word with the wrong nuance can have disastrous results, much less using the wrong word altogether."

Seeing that he was losing Roran once more, he returned to the battle analogy. "Think of speaking a word in the Ancient Language like swinging a sword. The wrong word is the wrong form—a mistake that can be fatal." He waved a finger in Roran's face to make his point. "And if you simply use the right word, the right form, with the wrong nuance, the wrong angle of the swing, you could be cut or possibly killed as well."

Recognition lit up Roran's eyes and Murtagh let out a relieved breath. The new Rider leaned in toward his tutor, interested. "What else?"

"Studying language, then, is like studying tactics and forms—studying your tools and resources before a battle. With magic at your disposal now," Murtagh told Roran, "the Ancient Language becomes your weapon. You cannot perform magic without knowing the words, just like—"

"You can't fight a swordsman empty-handed," Roran finished.

Murtagh nodded. "Precisely." He was pleased to have finally hit on something to motivate Roran—and save both their skins from Galbatorix's displeasure.

"I think I've seen that wrong angle," Roran spoke up suddenly. Murtagh looked at him curiously, but his gaze was faraway. "In the Varden," Murtagh tensed reflexively, "there was a girl that Eragon blessed when she was born. But he got the blessing wrong—or at least the wrong…"

"Nuance," Murtagh finished breathlessly. He could tell this story would not end pleasantly.

Roran nodded, absently stroking his hatchling's back, much to the infant's pleasure. "He wanted to say the child would be shielded from misfortune but instead said she would be a shield from misfortune." He grimaced. "She was…changed."

Murtagh wondered what such an error might create, especially with magic as strong as Eragon's, but dared not ask. Roran looked suddenly guilty for sharing something intimate about the Varden. It didn't matter, Murtagh wanted to tell him. If Roran had knowledge of it, so now did Galbatorix. But he held his tongue, preferring to keep his pupil interested in studying.

"As I give you common words to learn in the Ancient Language," the red Rider said, "we will also study our language because they work much the same. We can build your vocabulary and teach you your letters."

Roran nodded, visibly struggling to pull himself from his reverie; undoubtedly some memory of the Varden had ensnared him.

You can't stay attached, Murtagh wanted to tell him. It will only hurt more later.

"Let's try again, then," he said instead.

Roran turned out to be a quick study once he had reason to care about the topic. Murtagh's analogy seemed to have encouraged him to try harder, and this time the concepts were sticking. Thus, his blade training in the day became more and more advanced while his language studies at night were moving forward quickly as well.

The green hatchling was learning as well. It followed Roran everywhere, shadowing his every action—while seemingly studying them as well. Roran had not said anything about communicating with his hatchling, but Murtagh had no doubts the creature would initiate contact sooner rather than later. There was something special about the final hatchling, but how it was manifested, Murtagh could not place.

One afternoon, a couple of weeks after Roran's breakthrough, the two men sat in the drawing room after a full morning of practice. Having determined there was little else he could teach Roran at this point, Murtagh had set their lessons into lengthy sparring matches. In fact, Murtagh found himself studying Roran's creative maneuvers.

Roran approached battle in a way that a seasoned warrior would never think to due to ingrained study and habit. With no such formality to distract him, Roran attacked from dangerous angles that left him open but surprised his opponent and put him on the defensive. Roran's style, Murtagh decided, was high risk, high reward. He was unconventional and that made him a dangerous force on the battlefield. That would make him a dangerous spellcaster as well. Creativity in spells, as with a blade, often yielded results that an opponent could not counter.

Roran, with his humble and pragmatic nature, might surpass them all if they were not careful.

And that made Murtagh wary.

As the two men sat in the drawing room, only the sounds of turning pages or the hatchling squawking occasionally broke the silence. Murtagh held a rather grim tome in his hands about the bloodiest battles in history prior to the Fall—one of Morzan's preferred volumes, judging by the various handwritten notes in the margins. His thoughts, though, were otherwise engaged by the book of unreadable prophetic runes and his father's notes, both hidden in the bedchamber.

Galbatorix's not-so-veiled comments had been meant to elicit some response, but Murtagh did not understand why. If the king knew about this attempted coup decades before, why leave the notes for Murtagh to find? What new type of psychological torture was he playing at now?

Other than to keep Murtagh distracted from plotting against him.

Unless, Murtagh realized with sudden clarity, the king had not known for sure.

But how could Murtagh be of use in solving the mystery? He had been a toddler when Brom had killed his father, after all. He slumped further into his seat. If Galbatorix was simply enjoying confusing Murtagh, then he must be downright gleeful because Murtagh was clueless—as well as too preoccupied to research true names.

There was some piece, a key to this mystery that he was missing. And for now, the door to the mystery would remain locked. There were moments when Murtagh didn't want to open that lock even if he were to find the key. He was further entrenched in Galbatorix's politics than he'd ever wanted. Going further might only get him killed.

And staying alive was first priority for him and Thorn.

Meanwhile, Roran sat at the table with parchment, books, and a green hatchling surrounding him. His assignment was to attempt to form simple sentences to show Murtagh for correction. He was instead flipping through books in the Ancient Language, Murtagh noted out of the corner of his eye. Roran would scan the pages, eyes lighting up each time he recognized words or phrases. It seemed he had taken to even learning some words on his own now that he had the basic tools to do so. He was a rather impressive student when focused.

"Edoc'sil lif," Roran abruptly said aloud in the Ancient Language.

Murtagh nearly dropped the book from his hands. "What?"

Roran looked up, something indefinable on his face. "That is my dragon's name: Edocsillif."

The dragon in question purred his acceptance of the name.

Murtagh unsteadily pushed himself to his feet. He placed the book on the chair behind him and crossed the room. "Where did you hear those words?"

Roran pointed to the page in front of him. "I read them."

"You read them," Murtagh echoed flatly. Roran shouldn't be able to read such advanced words in the Ancient Language yet. Unless his progress had really increased that much. "Do you know what they mean? To name your dragon…" In your current situation, he added silently as he trailed off.

Roran grinned. "I just knew. I just knew they were right when I saw them."

"Do you know what they mean?" Murtagh repeated, slamming his palms into the table. Galbatorix was not going to be pleased by this.

Roran nodded, though his expression was more serious. "Unconquerable Life."

Murtagh spent the night tossing and turning in his father's bed. He never slept well in it, but tonight he simply could not stop his thoughts from turning to the green hatchling. Edocsillif. When Galbatorix learned the dragon's name—for the creature had accepted it so there was no changing it—he would undoubtedly see it as an act of rebellion.

Galbatorix did not take kindly to rebellion.

Murtagh knew this fact all too well. And he knew what followed would be unpleasant for both himself and Roran. He shivered before berating himself. He was acutely afraid of the pain the king could inflict so followed his orders; what a good servant he made, he thought darkly. It didn't matter who he fought or killed as long as it prevented the king's wrath.

He pictured Eragon's face when they had met for the first time after his capture. The confusion and betrayal on the younger boy's face stirred something within him. And for one instant, he finally understood Eragon's plea to let him kill Murtagh, to save him from his spiraling fate. For a brief moment it made sense and he wished he'd accepted.

Then his oaths of loyalty crashed down, suffocating him with invisible hands around his throat. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. His disloyal musings were going to kill him, Murtagh thought desperately. He wanted to flail, to breathe in, to scream, anything…but he was frozen. His throat was on fire and closed off while his mind panicked and the room swam in front of his eyes.

Murtagh! Thorn's alarmed cry rang through his mind.

And the spell was broken.

Murtagh slumped, sweating, deeper into the sheets. He was panting, desperately pulling in life-giving air. He was light-headed and the fear had not quite left his system yet. The new oaths he had sworn since letting Eragon go on the Burning Plains left little room for disloyalty.

Murtagh, what happened? Thorn asked. You suddenly felt terrified.

Murtagh swallowed, the air burning his throat. It seems even momentary disloyal thoughts trigger the oaths.

Thorn growled angrily through the bond. Murtagh could sense the frustration at his helplessness to do anything for his Rider. He smiled fondly at his friend's concern before sitting upright. He needed to get out of this room, this castle. Even if the oaths were no longer physically suffocating him, the weight of his father's presence was doing its best to crush him as well.

The red Rider rose, pulling a tunic over his head. He grabbed Zar'roc out of instinct, attaching it to his belt as he stepped into his boots. Running a hand through his hair, he paused, wondering what exactly he was doing. Then, mind made up, he stole through the antechamber, careful not to wake Roran, though he could feel the green hatchling's sleepy eyes following his muted movements. Edocsillif made no move to wake his Rider, however, much to Murtagh's relief.

With a pale werelight bouncing in his palm, he made his way through the silent corridors of his familial home. He felt as though his ancestors were watching him, judging him as he walked through the haunted halls. But, he decided as he walked into the courtyard, tonight he was not Murtagh Morzansson, red Rider of the Empire and right hand man to the king.

Tonight, he was simply Murtagh, Rider of Thorn—if only for a few hours.

He entered the dragon hold and found Thorn alert and waiting for him. Murtagh smiled at his friend before he realized the expression had reached his lips. His dragon had that calming effect on him. Somehow things seemed manageable when he faced them in Thorn's company.

What is it? Thorn asked as his Rider pulled the saddle down from its hanging on the wall.

Let's go for a ride, Thorn, Murtagh replied. Sleep will not come this night.

Thorn grumbled his agreement as Murtagh set to securing the saddle on his dragon's back. We have not ridden in many moons.

Yes.

Murtagh hoisted himself onto Thorn's back and grasped the reins. Thorn huffed, preferring Murtagh to ride bareback, though understanding that his scales irritated his Rider's more fragile human body. They exited the dragon hold and dragon and Rider, as one, took in a breath of the still night air, savoring it.

Then Thorn beat his wings and took off into flight. The air was intoxicating to Murtagh after his lungs had nearly stopped functioning only a handful of minutes before. He took in deep breaths and reveled in the openness; the manor was so closed and imposing, but the sky was infinite and free. The pale moonlight danced on Thorn's red scales like small flames in a lantern.

Murtagh closed his eyes and leaned his head back to soak up the waxing moon's rays. He imagined they felt cool to the touch, opposite of the sun's warm rays during the opposing day. Thorn flew higher, closer to the moon and stars—to forever. Murtagh opened his eyes and looked at the ground below. The manor was just a speck in the distance.

If only they could fly on forever and never come back to the castle, to the Empire…to Alagaësia even.

Murtagh's throat constricted once more and he hurriedly shoved such thoughts from his mind.

Neither Rider nor dragon felt the need to converse. While flying, their thoughts and feelings were even more in tune than usual. They were closer in spirit and understanding. These were the moments when Murtagh felt like a void in his soul had been filled—Thorn's presence rushed into the gaping hole and filled it with warmth.

Murtagh felt Thorn humming beneath him in contentment. The Rider patted the dragon's side and leaned forward resting his head against the cool, glistening scales on Thorn's neck. He could feel his dragon's pleasure through the bond and had no doubt his own satisfaction mirrored it.

The higher the duo flew, the colder the air became, but Murtagh paid the temperature no mind. His fiery temper from recent events—the anger that had seeped under his skin and had festered through his frustrations—was cooled by the air. As he felt the pent-up anger dissipate from his system, his mind cleared like clouds parting after a storm.

He could face the problems that lay ahead. Together with Thorn, he could face anything. That certainty was what it meant to be a Rider.

Dawn is approaching, Thorn said after what seemed like the blink of an eye. These were the first words either had spoken since leaving the castle.

Aye, Murtagh replied with a heavy sigh, descending from his emotional high. Roran will be expecting our daily sparring session once the sun rises.

Thorn suddenly changed directions, flipping backwards before righting himself and his Rider to fly in the direction of the manor. Murtagh had grabbed the dragon's neck with both arms at the sudden inversion. He thought his stomach might have dropped into his throat, but was right-side up before he realized what had happened. After a moment's consideration, he smirked.

Sloppy.

Thorn snorted, though he was amused. I am out of practice. That's my Rider's fault.

Indeed, Murtagh replied apologetically.

The remainder of the flight was silent as both rider and dragon tried to enjoy the last free moments in the sky. When the manor appeared on the horizon, a knot formed in Murtagh's stomach. Something wasn't right. He just felt it.

Sensing his Rider's sudden agitation, Thorn sped up his pace. The closer to the castle they came, the tighter the knot became. Had something happened while they were away? But what could happen in such a remote location that few knew of or would dare approach?

As Thorn began his descent into the courtyard, Murtagh could make out three figures in the dilapidated quad.

"Oh," Murtagh exhaled warily once he recognized the forms.

Roran, Edocsillif in his arms, stood completely still as if afraid to move without permission from his companion.

Be strong, Murtagh, Thorn encouraged as he set down on the cracked stone, carefully out of reach.

Murtagh dropped from the saddle just as the first rays of sun spilled over the walls and into the dead courtyard. He stayed carefully within Thorn's shadow, reassured by his dragon's proximity. Roran looked relieved to see his cousin, to not be alone in the presence of the third man.

"So glad you could join us, Murtagh," Galbatorix said as Shruikan towered over him.

tbc…

Revised as of September 2, 2011.