Thanks so much for all the birthday wishes! I had a great day! And the reviews were excellent- you all are so enthusiastic! Thanks so much to Pimi for putting this story in a C2, and specifically, the best of the Inheritance Cycle! You all are so encouraging!
You all seem to think Saphira is at Morzan's Castle. Hmm... I think you find out Chapter... 24? I think? It's quite interesting for me to read your theories.
Oh, yes, and I'm thinking about writing a fanfic called Descent into Madness (after I'm done with this one) where Eragon captures Murtagh and erases his memory to change his true name... and Murtagh goes insane. Does that sound like something you'd like to read?
Okay, here's the chapter that takes the game to a new level. Take a deep breath, strap yourselves in, and enjoy the ride. You should probably watch out for the ga-zillion foot drop at the end... just warning you.
Eragon's up next chappie!
Chapter 21: Threats
When Murtagh returned to his room several hours later, Kidasku was leaning against his bedpost, reading a book. The door to the library was shut, voices- plural- drifting to Murtagh's ears.
Kidasku smirked up at him. "That old nurse of yours made me let her in. She brought a few maids with her- I think they're working on whatever Halia's going to wear to the Gala. I can't be sure, but we're locked out.
"Actually, I haven't decided what I'm going to wear either, assuming you haven't. I'm thinking a green vest and black pants- it would go well enough. Technically I'm not invited, but who is the King to keep me out of his birthday party?" The werecat laughed mirthlessly, Murtagh hearing a note of contempt in his tone.
"The food is always supreme, even if the company is not. I don't have to talk to anyone, so that problem is solved. I guess I'll be modeling you."
Murtagh rolled his eyes, picking a book off of his dresser.
"The King has been particularly gleeful lately; I assume his plans for the war and the Gala are going well. Do you know anything?"
Murtagh knew too much. "He plans to send me to Dras-Leona soon."
"Oh, that's old news. I was there when he decided it. Those magicians were not particularly happy; evidently he gave them control of Helgrind, and they don't want you any nearer than necessary. I wonder why..."
Murtagh kept his eyes down on the book, though he did not comprehend the words scrawled across the page. For one, he couldn't read his own handwriting in that particular note, and secondly, his nagging suspicion was growing in his mind. Kidasku gave him an odd look- Murtagh caught it from the corner of his eye.
"You know something I don't, don't you?" The werecat began, his voice almost a hiss.
Murtagh rolled his eyes again as laughter leaked through the door- he heard Halia's laughter, and it almost put a smile on his face.
"Tell me, please?" The werecat crooned, crawling towards him.
"No, Kidasku. It is nothing more than a theory."
"Then it won't hurt if you tell me."
Murtagh sighed but did not let up.
"This may be one of our chances to get me out of Uru'baen, you know." Kidasku argued. "I need to know everything of note."
As much as Murtagh wanted the King and his magicians to suffer, as they would if the Varden found out where Eragon was, he did not want either side to gain total control over his brother. If the Varden found him, Murtagh undoubtedly would be sent to capture him- again. And that never went well. But if the King realized the truth of what the magicians were doing, (Murtagh doubted he did, since his catastrophic fit had been over where Eragon was) or ordered Eragon to Uru'baen... Murtagh shuddered at the thought.
That would be another living nightmare for both brothers.
Which gave him the final option of rescuing Eragon for himself. But where would he take him? How could he hide it from the King?
"Please, Murtagh?" Kidasku pleaded
"No. You know more than enough to help the Varden."
Another set of giggles leaked through the door- Murtagh realized the pain he would experience if any of those gossiping maids heard him.
Shut it. He told Kidasku, glaring. We can't let them hear.
They're distracted.
One can never be too careful.
"Anyway, all of the nobles are such poor company. All unoriginal and selfish- ugh." The werecat shuddered, a faint smile flickering across his face. "That's why I like it here- you and Halia are so much more interesting. We werecats have excellent taste, you know."
Murtagh knew too well.
"I don't mind the dragonhold either, as long as Shruikan's in a pleasant mood and Thorn doesn't step on me."
Werecats and their grudges!
"And I have to admit that the throne room can get interesting, especially when the King goes on his rants."
Murtagh violently disagreed- the King's rants were the worst.
Kidasku eyed him carefully, choosing his next words delicately. "I was there when those Twins first brought you from the Battle of Farthen Dur; I remember the drug hadn't totally worn off-"
Murtagh spun around, drawing Zar'roc instinctively in his fury. His glare alone rightfully would have sliced the werecat into a thousand cubes. "You will never speak of that again. Never." He growled, his voice deadly quiet. Morzan, when he was angry, would shout and wave, break things, and throw a tantrum. Not Murtagh, though he had broken things before.
Kidasku nodded solemnly, biting his lip. His expression suddenly lifted. "I remember now- I was going to ask you what you planned on wearing to the Gala. I think a green vest would look nice on me, since I'll be in this uncomfortable human form, perhaps with black pants. Do you agree?"
Murtagh's fury had not worn off, but the absurdity of the question stunned him. "Do you think I care?"
"Not at all. I was merely asking your opinion."
"My opinion doesn't matter."
"It does to me." Kidasku protested. "Who else am I to ask? Thorn can't hardly tell one color from another, and Shruikan doesn't speak to me. I already asked Halia- she was polite, and actually answered- and that leaves you. I'm not going to start a conversation like that to just anyone in this castle.
"Besides, other people care about your opinion. Those magicians- the fat ones- they care. They care so much I wonder why. Haven't you noticed how they cling to your every word? How they listen with rapt attention whenever you actually speak- mind you, that isn't very often. And I think Halia cares too, though don't tell her I said that. She's been reading your library, you know. She's studied your notes too, even the parts that are illegible. It's rather hilarious to watch her try to decipher your handwriting- it's atrocious, you know. She can get so focused, like when she tries to remember magic."
Murtagh narrowed his eyes. "She doesn't remember the Ancient Language?"
"Well, she can speak it, but actually doing magic isn't working so well for her. Like that part of her mind is still lost with everything else she can't remember. It's really sad, when you think of it. And she's trying so hard." The werecat shook his head. "But she sounds like she's enjoying herself now."
Murtagh could hear her laughter again- it sent a shock down his spine, tingling along his scar. He didn't know why- the answer slipped beyond his grasp. The maids giggled again, their noise grating on his ears compared to Halia's.
"All right, all right." Nannie Fae was saying. "We all have duties, ladies. Come along, now. Quickly, before all of you get a scolding. Come!"
The door opened, revealing no less than five maids- Murtagh glared at them. Nannie Fae, though, received the brunt of his ferocious stare.
"Finally!" Kidasku muttered to no one in particular.
The maids fell silent as they filed past Murtagh, his arms folded across his chest.
"Don't give me that look." Nannie Fae reprimanded him, just like she had when he was two. "We're leaving now, so get over yourself. Halia needed the help."
Murtagh sensed something in her eyes, in her stare. It held more meaning than the nurse should have had, like she was silently trying to tell him something. Murtagh wasn't so good at translating female body language. Before he had the chance to ask, she vanished, and he turned to Halia.
A green dress was draped over her arm, made from the same fabric he had bought. But her expression demanded his attention.
She was furious.
Green eyes blazing, she spun around and immediately folded the dress into a neat pile, setting it with her other sewing supplies. Her movements were uncharacteristically jerky and forceful; her hands were clenched into red and white fists, shaking.
"Halia?" Kidasku asked. "Was it that bad?"
Murtagh thought she had been enjoying herself, but evidently...
She did not reply, turning her back to the confused males and facing the bookshelf, picking something off of it. Murtagh felt the castle shudder- Shruikan or Thorn, or both, were stomping around the dragonhold.
What is going on? Thorn asked. Shruikan is suddenly very frustrated.
Halia's angry and we don't know why. Murtagh explained.
Please make her explain- Shruikan is about to roar, and I don't want the King coming here.
That motivated Murtagh to step forward, taking a determined stride towards her. "Halia, explain yourself." Even to himself, he sounded demanding, angry.
Her frail shoulders, thin, shook with fury as she took a deep breath. When she spun around to face them, a stoic mask had replaced her burning look, and she stood as still as a statue.
"What did they do to you?" Murtagh repeated, softer. He hadn't put gentleness into his tone in so long, he was surprised it even worked.
And her mask slipped, falling invisibly to the floor. Rage sprang across her face, and Murtagh reeled internally, wondering if he had done something wrong- if she knew he had seen her dreams.
"What did they do?" She hissed. "Where should I begin? As if torturing me with fire and magic wasn't enough!"
Murtagh and Kidasku stared at her, and then each other, incredulously. Neither understood.
"They know no bounds! I swear I'll kill them myself, ship their bodies to- to-" Her expression faltered as she struggled to remember, and then that emotion mixed with her fury, creating a catastrophic mix.
"Who?" Murtagh repeated, his hand instinctively resting on Zar'roc.
"Those magicians!" Halia shrieked, and Murtagh was surprised she didn't add a string of profanities with her announcement. "They sent those gossiping, prying, inconsiderate, selfish, shallow maids-" She spat out the word- "To spy on me. I saw it in their minds- they bribed them with money and jewels and a higher status- as if that can give them happiness! As if they haven't already had their share of my blood! Do they feel compelled to banish my sanity? Why don't they simply kill me? That would release my mind, surely.
"What do they want from me?" She asked- Murtagh figured the question was rhetorical. "They already stole my memories- what else could they want? What else do I have that has demanded their attention? What of me that appeals so much to their twisted minds?"
The rage drained out of her face, replaced by utter hopelessness. Her exquisite eyes took a hollow look, like that of a starving child, and she slipped to the floor, her head in her hands.
In the dragonhold, Shruikan roared his fury, the sound rumbling through the castle. A higher pitched wail- Thorn- joined in the symphony. The King was going to be furious.
"Halia." Murtagh began, looking at her curled form. She didn't respond.
He took three determined strides towards her and crouched not a foot from where she sat. She smelled faintly of spring- Murtagh shoved the thought away and watched her.
"Halia."
She finally faced him, her eyes filled with nothingness. It stabbed Murtagh through, to see her so miserable; and still, he did not know why.
"When I was captured after the Battle of Farthen Dur by the Twins, I was tortured just like you. I understand; Shruikan understands. I'm sure Arya understands; Eragon-" He choked out the name- "and I rescued her from Durza while we were on our way to the Varden. But you're safe here, as ironic as that may sound; the King has sworn both Karth, Furdor and I to not kill each other, though we try every other day."
A flicker of amusement almost crossed her face; it lost heart half way and faltered back.
"They replaced the Twins, Karth and Furdor's predecessors, who were killed at the Battle of the Burning Plains." Murtagh edited out that his own cousin had killed them. "The Twins tortured me; everyone even slightly tied to them is my sworn enemy. Do not fear Karth or Furdor; they will be dead before they touch you again. Shruikan, Thorn, Kidasku and I will protect you. Remember that."
"You can't always protect me, Murtagh. The King's hold is too strong on you."
The truth stung like alcohol poured on a fresh wound.
"But I am Karth and Furdor's superior- if I ordered them to do something, they by law would have to do it." Murtagh took a breath, unsure of whether or not to reveal the second part, the ultimatum in the situation. "And I know where their hideout is; I know where they torture their victims. It's not in this city; and my status give me full right to go there and take whoever I please.
"You're safe, Halia. I will not ask you to trust me, but I won't stand aside and let them hurt you."
Suddenly embarrassed, Murtagh turned and left the room, heading out the door. But he managed to hear Kidasku say something about a speech; he didn't wait for Halia's answer. What was wrong with him? Why did she even matter to him?
And a Black Letter interrupted him.
As he hurried around a corner, it zipped around the same one, punching Murtagh in the gut. More poking, but all the same. Cursing, Murtagh opened it to see the King's wet scrawl, the red ink glittering against the black page. It read:
My Rider-
You are to attend the Gala and act like a gentleman.
You are to bring your elf, and she is to be attired properly.
You are to leave for Dras-Leona three days after the Gala. Your duty there will not be to command the forces, but to kill as many of the Varden as possible, should there be a battle. If Eragon appears, you must capture him. I do not need to remind you of your vows.
You have my permission to watch the Lords Karth and Furdor. Their recent auras have interested me; I do not want to ruin the suspence by simply pulling the news from their minds. Find me some clues.
Your loving Lord, the King of Alagaesia, Rider of Javornask and Shruikan, the Father of the People, the Master of Vroengarg and the Southern Islands, High Priest of Helgrind,
Galbatorix
Fury as hot as Shruikan's boiled within Murtagh's chest; fury for everything that the King had done to him, fury for everything Thorn had to withstand, fury for the century of Shruikan's pain, fury for the uncountable eldunari the King had under his dictator-like grasp, fury for all the lives the King had taken-
And fury that he, Murtagh, couldn't do anything about it.
Save us, then. Sicorro murmured after weeks of silence. Healing Halia had drained him of strength.
Murtagh ground his teeth in frustration, because he had absolutely no way of doing that.
Find the Rock of Kuthain. His eldunari murmured, the faint voices of trapped souls. Save us; save yourself.
Finding the Rock wasn't the issue- Murtagh already knew where it was. Anyone who was drowning in the King's game of war knew where the Rock was. Opening it, though, was an entirely different matter- and Murtagh didn't even know how it could help. At one point someone had mentioned a name, but Murtagh's name certainly wasn't any kind of help.
Why? The answer stood glaring down at Murtagh with cold, unfeeling eyes, the symbol of the King's power and authority.
Because the Rock of Kuthain was Galbatorix's freezing throne.