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


Chapter 12

Fealty


"You've returned so soon, Your Majesty?" Murtagh asked in genuine surprise. He hadn't expected the king for several more weeks at the earliest. If he had arrived early, then there must be some external factor forcing him to move. The prospect made Murtagh nervous.

"I said I would return when the time was right," Galbatorix replied. "The time was right."

Murtagh bowed his head, having no response for this. He has something planned, he muttered to Thorn.

No doubt, the dragon agreed.

Galbatorix turned his attention to his other prisoner. "How does your little one fare, Stronghammer?" His voice was far too kind to be genuine.

Roran paled at the direct address. "W-well enough." After a side-glance in Murtagh's direction, he tardily finished his statement with, "Your Highness."

"Is he named?" the king asked.

Murtagh's stomach dropped. Roran would not dare lie—nor should he—and the king would undoubtedly be furious with the answer he received. Murtagh only wondered how much blame, and therefore pain, he would receive as a result.

"Aye," Roran replied more steadily. It seemed his dragon's newfound name was a source of pride and therefore confidence for him. "He is named Edocsillif. Edoc, I call him."

Galbatorix was silent a long moment, his expression unreadable. And then he threw back his head and roared in laughter—or what served as a laugh; it was more of a barking sound.

Murtagh didn't realize what he was hearing at first. When had Galbatorix laughed around him? He smirked quite often and perhaps barked some derisive laughter, but nothing like this.

What is so funny? Thorn asked.

I have no idea, Murtagh answered, bewildered.

After a few moments, the king collected himself. He cleared his throat and leveled a stare on Roran and Edoc. "Unconquerable Life, is it?"

Roran nodded defensively, pulling his hatchling closer to his chest.

"I like it," Galbatorix announced. "I like your spirit, Stronghammer. It will serve the Empire well." The king glanced toward his other Rider before turning back to Roran. "You remind me of your cousins. There is much fire and spirit in your blood." His eyes narrowed. "And I fully intend to utilize it."

"I…do not understand," Roran said slowly, brow furrowed.

"You will." With the flick of one crooked finger, Roran and Edoc were pulled as if by an invisible hand to stand in front of Galbatorix.

Murtagh knew where this was going and had no desire to watch, but his oaths held him in place. Yet a small part of him wanted to see it confirmed—that he had been helpless when forced to swear fealty to a man he hated; that Eragon and the Varden had no right to judge him because he'd had no other choice. Roran's own swearing would somehow demonstrate the power the king had even over the strongest warriors.

How selfish he was.

"Kneel, Stronghammer, Rider of Edocsillif."

Seeing no other choice, Roran did as he was bidden, though the expression on his face was akin to one climbing the gallows. In a way, Murtagh supposed, Roran was. His life would no longer be his own after this.

"You will swear fealty to me," Galbatorix declared. Panic spread across Roran's face and Edoc squeaked in protest of his Rider's sudden discomfort.

"I…"

"In the Ancient Language."

Confusion replaced the panic on Roran's face. "The Ancient Language? But I've only started learning it."

"I have it on good authority you know enough for this purpose, Stronghammer," Galbatorix retorted. His tone indicated that his patience was beginning to wane.

"But—"

Roran's protest was cut off as he was thrown backwards by an unseen force. He cried out in pain, writing on the ground with Edoc still clutched in his arms. The small creatures own cries only added to the agonized cacophony.

Murtagh wanted nothing more than to look away from the unfolding drama, but that pesky selfish part of him was also drawn to it.

This looks familiar, he thought bitterly. Roran's back arched off the ground as his ear-splitting cries cracked through the air. He fell back to the ground and rolled from side to side, unable to shake the internal attack of magic.

And suddenly it was quiet again. Roran, having turned onto his stomach with his elbows propping himself and Edoc off the ground, was panting from exertion but no longer crying out. Edoc had stopped his own wails as well.

How much pain can a hatchling take? Murtagh asked curiously as he watched the small creature. Though Thorn was technically still a young dragon, the Eldunarya had aged him considerably before he had forced them to swear loyalty oaths.

Much, Thorn replied matter-of-factly. Dragons are not nearly so fragile as you humans. Even younglings can withstand pain that would kill a normal human.

I see, Murtagh replied, not rising to his dragon's half-hearted bait. Something still did not make sense, though.

"Now you will swear oaths of fealty to me in the Ancient Language," Galbatorix stated.

Roran pushed himself to a knee with one unsteady hand while the other held his hatchling. He looked up at the king for one brave moment to ask, "But why in the Ancient Language?"

Galbatorix's lip twitched. "Did you not explain it to him, Murtagh? That seems negligent."

Murtagh shrugged. "We never progressed much past memorization of words and simple phrases," he replied. "Such rules do not apply to rote memorization."

Perhaps he should have said something, however, considering Roran's impressive learning curve once the lessons had begun sticking. With two languages to instruct, though, Murtagh had not expected as much progress as Roran seemed to have made in so little time.

"What rules?" Roran asked between wheezes. "Like the 'nuances' you were talking about?"

"Tell him, Murtagh," Galbatorix commanded directly, leaving no room for leaving anything out.

"It is impossible to lie in the Ancient Language," Murtagh told Roran heavily. "To swear an oath is binding—to break that oath means death if you somehow circumvent the language's magic to do so in the first place."

Understanding washed across Roran's face before his features fell. All hope for him—what little he might still have harbored—would be lost with a few choice words in the Ancient Language.

"Is that true?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur'tugal," Murtagh replied. Upon my word as a Rider.

Despite his limited grasp of the tongue, Roran seemed to understand the message. He swallowed fearfully. Another bolt sent Roran tumbling to the ground once more, screaming as he thrashed about. Galbatorix's face was deceptively blank considering the agony he was inducing. Eventually the king relented, undoubtedly wanting his prisoner conscious to swear his oath. He knelt in front of Roran and grabbed his chin, forcing the younger man to look at him.

Murtagh nearly put a hand to his own jaw, vividly remembering the king's vice-like grip. Instead, he balled his hand into a fist and remained otherwise still.

"Do you know what a true name is, Stronghammer?" Galbatorix asked.

Murtagh's chest tightened. He couldn't possibly…

Roran nodded after a moment, unable to speak due to the king's hand clasping his jaw. Eragon must have told him.

"So you know that a person can gain complete control over another were they to know their true name?" Roran nodded. "Even determine life or death should they so choose?" Another nod.

Galbatorix shoved Roran to the concrete and the younger man was thrown back into blinding agony. This pain, Murtagh knew, was far worse than normal physical pain; this was pain of the soul manifested in physical torture. There was no beginning or end, light or dark, hot or cold—only misery.

Once Roran's screaming died out into pained wheezes, Galbatorix grabbed him by the tunic to sit upright. The boy was sweaty and panting. His limbs were practically useless due to their shaking from the pain.

"That knowledge can also cause pain. For you, Stronghammer. And for your dragon."

Roran paled even further and looked down at Edoc; he had dropped the hatchling from his grasp, and the small creature had been squawking and growling at his Rider's pain, helpless.

I know that helpless feeling, Thorn murmured. It is the worst torture to sense your Rider's pain and to be unable to help.

Thorn…

I swore to myself that day that I would always protect you after that, Murtagh. That I would always shield you, the dragon continued. I will protect you so you never have to hurt like that again. And because these oaths don't interfere with Galbatorix's oaths, I can swear.

Murtagh was touched by his dragon's gesture, knowing he would do the same for his soul mate. Such an oath only served to strengthen the bond between Rider and dragon as they were sworn to protect one another by their sheer natures.

But he frowned in confusion at the scene playing out in front of him. He now knew what was off—how had the king learned Roran's and Edoc's true names? He could believe the king discovering his own and Thorn's because their captivity had been directly under Galbatorix's claws in Urû'baen. Ample opportunity presented itself there. But the king had not been present for weeks outside of a few sparse hours.

Galbatorix looked up at Murtagh. "You wonder how I discovered Stronghammer's true name and that of the hatchling."

Momentarily stunned, Murtagh clenched his jaw once he recovered. Get out of my head!

"Then how could I punish your traitorous inclinations, Murtagh?"

Murtagh's eyes widened and his hands nearly shot up to his throat at the memory of his near suffocation hours earlier. "You—"

"Indeed. I was already en route to the manor when your disloyal thoughts caught my attention. Mere musing would not trigger your sworn oaths, of course. But that is still unacceptable." The king smiled grotesquely at his red Rider. He still held Roran by the tunic, but the younger man was lost, trying to follow the conversation with little success.

"Know, Murtagh, that I have not forgotten you in favor of your cousin. Or your brother," Galbatorix added. "This is your lesson as much as Stronghammer's."

"My Lord," Murtagh murmured, bowing his head.

He couldn't bring himself to meet the king's gaze. Ever since the battle with Oromis when Galbatorix had completely taken his body over, Murtagh had harbored fear that the king would retain presence within his mind in order to strike whenever he pleased. It seemed that was not unfounded. Without knowing when the king was looking or what he might be seeing, Murtagh's small rebellions would have to be put on hold—such as the search for the truth of true names.

Murtagh… Thorn trailed off. His tail rustled irritably against the cracked stone.

Not now, Murtagh hissed, thinking of the king's likely continued presence in his mind. Their conversation would have to wait.

Thorn grumbled but understanding flowed through the bond, communicating that dragon held no hard feelings for the situation. Murtagh sent his own gratitude in return.

"But that doesn't answer your question," the king mused. "The simple truth is that true names are something of an interest to me." More than that; an obsession, Murtagh wanted to say, but the king undoubtedly heard his unspoken commentary anyway, so he remained silent. "The more I know of my subject, the easier it becomes to deduce his true name."

"But true names are not just something that can be guessed, Your Majesty," Murtagh protested. Now his argument was purely academic.

"Unless one is an elf."

Murtagh frowned, unsure of where the conversation was going. He followed the king up until the deduction part of his equation. By breaking his victims completely, he gained complete access to every thought, feeling, and secret housed within. He knew everything about Murtagh after breaking—no, shattering—him and later held his true name. His recent breaking of Roran seemed to have produced the same result. But how?

"I don't understand."

"It's so simple, it's beautiful," Galbatorix crowed. "The elves have the ability to decipher true names no matter one's race. It's a part of their magic. So all one needs—"

"Is an elf's magic," Murtagh trailed off in sudden horror. He couldn't have…

"Precisely."

"I missed something," Roran broke in, his voice gruff. He sounded dazed but was mostly coherent. Impressive.

"I obtained an elf's magic for myself," Galbatorix clarified.

"That…Is that possible?" Roran asked foggily.

"You have much to learn of magic, Stronghammer," the king tsked. "Consider this your first lesson."

Tell him, Murtagh, the king commanded silently.

Murtagh pursed his lips but obeyed. "It is possible to drain a magical creature's power from them, but it is highly dangerous dark magic." Magic thought lost, like much else, in the world-shattering Fall. "It's rather like," he paused, "skinning the victim alive."

"F-fatal?" stammered the immobile Rider.

"Slow, painful, beyond comprehension. And yes, fatal. Magic is as much a part of a creature's life as his heart or brain. Remove it and..."

"Death," Galbatorix finished. "But the extractor can consume the magic and it become his."

"You extracted an elf's magic, my Lord?" Murtagh whispered partly in horror and partly in awe.

The power it would take to methodically peel the magic core of such an inherently magical being was unbelievable. The overwhelming power combined with the surgical precision would require a magician unmatched in all of Alagaësia—not to mention the daring required to delve into such dark, tainted magic thought lost. Though insane and evil, Galbatorix was truly a genius spellcaster that Murtagh sometimes couldn't help but admire.

"Correct." Galbatorix smirked. "My mastery is not yet perfect, but with enough information, I can decipher a true name."

That explained Roran, but not Edoc. The dragon was still an infant; how could a hatchling swear allegiance? But the look on the king's face said that there was indeed a way. Of course there was.

"Now, Stronghammer," Galbatorix said, turning back to his captive Rider, "you will repeat the oath in the Ancient Language exactly as I say it, or the consequences will be…unpleasant."

Panic and fear were etched on Roran's face at the thought; he couldn't bear the thought of feeling that pain again. He was just about to the point, like Murtagh, where he would do anything to avoid it. Pain of the soul was a persuasive tool.

"Yes, of course, anything," Roran replied desperately.

Galbatorix nodded. "You will sear to obey me to your dying breath. You will go where I tell you, when I tell you. You will follow my orders exactly, without deviation, even at the cost of your life or your dragon's." When Roran remained silent, the king continued. "Your allegiance is now to the Empire, your fealty to me, the king. Your loyalty will not waver, nor will you attempt to escape. To me and my goals you are now bound. Upon your oath as a Rider."

Roran's eyes had grown large—his grasp on the Ancient Language was not nearly so strong or complex—but the fear of Galbatorix's threat kept him from arguing.

"Now," Galbatorix said, apparently sensing Roran's language deficiency, "repeat after me in the Ancient Language."

And Roran did.


"What exactly are they?" Roran asked, eyeing the group of large pulsating stones on the table. He was sitting on the edge of the futon, Edoc in his lap.

"Eldunarya," Murtagh told him from his seat across the table in the antechamber. "Or Eldunarí singularly."

"What does that mean?"

"They are heart of hearts," the red Rider said heavily. "A dragon's heart of hearts more precisely." He gestured to the half dozen gem-like stones. "Each one of these is the consciousness of a dragon. They removed their heart of hearts while alive—for varying reasons we can only begin to guess at," he added at his cousin's expression. "Now this consciousness is all that remains of them."

"What…why?"

"Why does the king want you to have them?" Murtagh guessed. Roran nodded. "Because of their immense power. Your magic will be strengthened a hundredfold, your body as well. And they will aid Edoc as well."

"How?" Roran seemed genuinely curious, which Murtagh had to admire after the younger man's trying morning. He had recovered most admirably, on the outside at least.

Murtagh paused before answering. "They will aid his magic and strength as well. They will also," he steeled himself against his memories before answering, "cause him to grow at an unnatural rate."

Roran looked down at Edoc in shock. "He'll grow? Quickly?" he practically squeaked.

Murtagh nodded. "And communicate with you sooner."

"How do you kn—" Roran began to ask when recognition lit up his face. "Eragon said after the Burning Plains that your dragon had grown impossibly fast. And that your magic was impossibly powerful for the time you had to master it."

The red Rider closed his eyes a moment to collect himself before opening them again. "Eragon was correct."

"So…you have Eldern—"

"Eldunarya, yes." Murtagh shrugged. "I mostly leave them with Thorn; a friendly, or at least familiar presence, as it were."

"But if they are consciousnesses, shouldn't they communicate?" Roran pressed, eyeing the stones curiously.

Bright boy. This was the learning curve that had proved so formidable in action once again. "They cannot. Or at least, these Eldunarya cannot."

"Why?"

"Galbatorix has spelled them," Murtagh answered darkly. He didn't like the thought of a dragon's consciousness being completely suppressed; he feared the same fate for Thorn someday, once the red Rider and dragon had overstayed their usefulness. He could not bear the idea. Dragons were noble creatures, powerful and wise. So much was lost with them. "Thus, only their magic remains active." Slaves.

"Oh." Roran seemed stumped by that. "So…what do I do with them?" he asked on a different note.

Murtagh shrugged once again. "It's your choice. As I said, I leave mine with Thorn. Perhaps yours should remain with Edoc."

Roran shook his head. "Edoc is always with me."

For now, anyway, Murtagh thought. Until he grows too large to perch on your shoulder.

"Then leave them here for all I care," he snapped, his impatience surprising even himself. He wasn't sure where that had come from.

"Ah, right."

Murtagh rose, deciding he needed some space. He had much to consider after the day's events. Roran looked at him for a moment, a question on his lips that he seemed uncertain in asking. Edoc's quiet humming seemed to prod him into speech despite his concern. "Is it normal…" he trailed off, searching for the right words, "to feel, ah, caged in? After, I mean."

After swearing fealty to an insane king whom you hated, Murtagh filled in silently. He strode toward the door but paused and turned to his cousin. "Yes." He turned back to the door. "I feel it every moment of every day." Of every night as well, but he did not add that detail.

And he left the room, unable to face the captive Eldunarya any longer.

Perhaps Galbatorix's spell was for the best, Murtagh mused dejectedly, so he would not have to hear their objections to how their powers were being abused. His own conscience was trouble enough no matter how often he tried to squash it.


tbc…

Revised as of September 2, 2011.