Thorn and Misery - Chapter 21
The following evening, Murtagh looked out on the setting sun with a growing sense of trepidation. He was waiting for the mental message from Galbatorix to let him know when it was time to go to the dining hall, where the king's grand ball was to be held.
Thorn, the lucky bastard, was already settling himself for sleep in his shelter.
The only good thing that came with this ball was that Murtagh had been given the day to himself to prepare. As per Galbatorix's orders, he had slept an hour longer than usual, the king explaining that he needed to be well-rested.
Murtagh had spent the morning doing easy stretching and running exercises in his back meadow. Then, he had done many repetitions of the first level of the Rimgar, a series of poses that Galbatorix had taught him. Combining flexibility, strength and balance, the challenging postures had been invented by the elves, and were used to prepare warriors for battle as well as simply to stay in shape. Murtagh had been awed after watching Galbatorix perform the fourth, most difficult level perfectly, and had longed to try the twisting poses himself. However, he soon learned that the first level of the Rimgar would be the most he would be able to manage for some time – even that was tricky.
When he finished the Rimgar, Murtagh had bathed and changed into the pretty new clothes that had been left on his doorstep early that morning. He had combed his hair and brushed his teeth. For the first time in several months, Murtagh felt properly clean.
The sun was just beginning to set. Galbatorix would call for him any minute.
Murtagh stood on the stone patio outside his rooms, watching Thorn. The dragon's sleepy presence in his mind reached him from across the meadow.
I would wish you good luck, Thorn said, but I don't really know what this ball entails.
There's to be a lot of eating food that's too rich and dancing with ladies I don't know, Murtagh responded. You would hate it. He gazed around the meadow, wishing he could just stay here. I suppose 'good luck' is an appropriate sentiment, he said. I'm going to need it.
As if on cue, Murtagh felt a tickle in the back of his mind. It's time.
Groaning inwardly, Murtagh set off towards the dining hall. Galbatorix had told him earlier that day to wait in the antechamber off the hall until he was called forward. Murtagh took a roundabout route and arrived in the torch-lit chamber where Galbatorix had tested his skill in swordplay a month ago. The door to the dining hall was closed, but he could still hear the chatter of nobles, army officers and other dignitaries as they trickled into the hall. Murtagh's heart sunk lower with every passing second.
At long last, the noise began to die down. Murtagh could only assume that the guests had taken their seats. He heard the scraping of a heavy chair against flagstone, and then the sound of Galbatorix's voice as it echoed around the cavernous room.
"Welcome!" said the king to his subjects. "Welcome, my dear friends. I hope you all found your lodgings comfortable?" There was a smattering of polite applause. "Excellent! I am honoured to be in the company of such esteemed guests tonight, and it is my great pleasure to be the one to house and entertain you during this troubled time. As you all know, the war has dwindled our resources. It is my hope, however, that it has not weakened our spirits!" The crowd clapped again, louder this time. "The presentation of young nobles has been a tradition of this court for longer than I'm sure many of you can remember - " laughs from the audience " – and I don't think any of us believe such a time-honoured custom should be sacrificed in light of the present climate. And so, I present to you this year's class of young nobles, straight from Lady Isabel's convent school in Teirm!"
Murtagh couldn't help it. Crossing to the door, he pushed it open a fraction of an inch and peered outside into the hall. Hundreds of nobles in their finest attire applauded as a line of twenty or so young men and women emerged from the back of the hall. The walked slowly and gracefully to the head table, where the men bowed and the women made deep curtsies. Galbatorix acknowledged them with a nod of his head.
Then a herald stepped forward and read their names and the names of their home cities off a long scroll. When he finished, they bowed or curtsied again, both to Galbatorix and the audience. Galbatorix waved the young nobles to an empty table at the front of the hall and they sat down.
"Congratulations!" called Galbatorix, pitching his voice over the din, which began to fade. "Though your chosen paths differ greatly, I hope that each and every one of you will become a credit to your respective cities. Now, before we begin our delectable feast, there is one more person you need to meet."
Murtagh felt an odd swooping sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with his hunger.
Galbatorix continued. "This man is the very reason the rebels have not come knocking at your castle doors – nor will they ever! You all sleep soundly in your homes because of what he is working to accomplish for the sake of the peaceful Empire that you all want to enjoy."
That's laying it on a bit thick, thought Murtagh wryly.
Galbatorix's voice continued from the other side of the door. "He is the son of my greatest ally and a new hope for the Empire! I present Dragon Rider Murtagh Morzansson!"
Murtagh pushed open the door to the hall to the sound of tumultuous applause. Thunderous his welcome was, Murtagh could sense an uncertainty in that made him uneasy. People here were only clapping to blend in with those around them. The ovation was punctuated with astonished whispers that spread from the front of the hall to the back like a wave of water:
"Dragon Rider, did he say?"
"That's what I heard."
"A Dragon Rider?"
"No, that's impossible!"
Murtagh joined Galbatorix at the head table and looked out over the crowd, glaring at anyone who dared catch his eye. He hoped these people would recognize his contempt and leave him be. Murtagh sat in the chair Galbatorix offered him, right beside his own throne-like seat. Murtagh noticed that the king wore a sharp, pointed crown on his bald head, an ornament he had never seen before.
As the last of the applause finally died, Galbatorix's voice rang once again over the crowd. "I know the real reason you're all here," he said. "It's not to honour your sons and daughters, nor is it to welcome my new Rider. No, it's to eat!" The crowd roared its approval. "Let the feast begin!"
Galbatorix snapped his fingers. Hundreds of silver platters and goblets on the tables instantly filled themselves with food and drink of every description.
The crowd gasped its amazement, applauding further.
Murtagh rolled his eyes. Not only was Galbatorix expending magic on frivolities, he was also feasting his nobles while the rest of his country starved. What a waste.
Pulling a steak, some mashed potatoes and a heap of spring vegetables on to his plate, Murtagh ate quickly and silently, ignoring the older nobleman on his right. Thankfully, the man followed his lead and didn't try to make conversation. Galbatorix was chatting animatedly with the man on his other side, leaving Murtagh to eat his meal in peace.
His tactic of unobtrusive silence worked all the way through his desert course. Galbatorix snapped his fingers yet again, and the last of the cakes melted from the silver plates. He stood up and called "I hope you have all enjoyed the feast! Now, if my young lords and ladies would please join me on the dance floor?"
The group of young nobles that had been introduced earlier stood and strode to the centre of the highly polished wooden floor. The men bowed to the ladies, who curtsied in turn. Then, a group of minstrels struck up a fast waltz, and they began to dance. Soon other couples from around the tables stood and joined them, until the hall was filled with dancing, laughing people. Shaven-headed slaves wearing clean white robes and carrying platters walked carefully around the edges of the dance floor, offering wine, mead and tea to the nobles who weren't dancing.
This was the part that Murtagh had been dreading the most. Before the Galbatorix could force him to dance with some noble lady, he excused himself from the table and headed for a dimly lit nook behind the head dais, which earned him a glare from the king. He ignored it leaned against the wall, dong his best to avoid the gazes of the many nobles that spun by him as they danced, trying to get a better look at the mysterious newcomer. He kept to the shadows as much as he could, but found that he could not avoid the courtiers' open stares for very long.
He wanted to sit on the floor, but Murtagh knew that Galbatorix would not allow him to muss his fancy new clothes. Still, standing where he was, as far removed from the public eye as possible, was infinitely preferable to a seat at the head table. There, he would be thrust under the noses of countless nobles whose names he would be expected to remember, who would try to bow and scrape their way into the king's good graces by befriending his Rider. Their false smiles made Murtagh cringe.
Murtagh sighed and blessed his dark clothes, trying his best to blend in with the shadows.
Chancing a quick peek onto the dance floor, Murtagh saw a couple after couple whirl past his hiding place, most of them glancing momentarily his way before moving on. One of these young women Murtagh recognized as being among those that had been formally presented alongside him. The herald had announced her as Bethany of Ceunon. Even as he watched, another young man detached himself from her circle of admirers and asked for a dance.
Murtagh supposed that to some, Bethany of Ceunon could be beautiful. She was quite pretty, he decided, in a generic sort of way. Light brown curls fluttered gently down her back as one of many nameless gentlemen twirled her around the dance floor. Her eyes were a warm honey-brown, framed with long black lashes. Her smile, if rather vapid, showed off very white, even teeth.
Murtagh, however, had never been attracted to the shapely maidens that so often frequented Galbatorix's court. Bethany possessed no real uniqueness. She was exactly the same as every other lady presented to the court on feast days. Murtagh preferred exotic beauties, with some sort of intellectual stamina.
Nasuada was exotic.
Murtagh didn't really know how she had popped into his mind, but found himself imagining her. He had always found Nasuada alluring. The large, almond-shaped eyes that possessed a sense of regal power. The way she carried herself like a noble princess. He rich, deeply brown skin.
The way she filled out her –
Stop it, Murtagh chided himself firmly. Don't think about her like that. Besides, she never noticed you. Blast it; she's the leader of the Varden now. She'd never want a traitor like you.
Though Murtagh had never thought about it that way before, he supposed he was a traitor. The Varden had finally accepted him, and he had sided with Galbatorix. He had betrayed them.
But it's not my fault, Murtagh exclaimed inwardly. It was never my fault. I was kidnapped, damn it! I had no choice!
You're just making excuses. You could have run, somehow. You could have returned to the Varden.
They never would have taken me back.
You don't know that. How do you know that Nasuada wouldn't just have been glad to see you alive? They all think you're dead, you know. Eragon, Saphira, Nasuada. Everyone.
Shut up, Murtagh told himself.
As much as he hated to admit it, Murtagh missed Nasuada. She had often visited him in his cell after he had refused the Twins' entrance into his mind, listening carefully as he recounted his own version of his life. Nasuada was the only person who had ever accepted Murtagh for who he was, instead of judging him for who his father had been. The two had spent long hours together, talking softly, or even just reading in silence.
The best thing about Nasuada was that she had never tried to persuade Murtagh to let the Twins into his mind. Though she pitied his solitary existence in the underground prison, and wished better for him, she alone appreciated his need for privacy.
Of course Murtagh's cell had been warm and comfortable, and he had been given everything he wanted, as long as he didn't cause trouble. But it had been rather lonesome. The only time he had talked to anyone was when Eragon or Nasuada had come to visit. The vast majority of his time had been spent alone, counting the cracks in the walls when he grew tired of reading.
Yes, Murtagh thought ruefully, I miss her.
Gazed blandly at Bethany, who was dancing with yet another young nobleman, Murtagh idly fingered the silver brocade detailing on his black dress tunic. The garment was still uncomfortable, even after the seamstress had changed the material. He longed for the comfort of his old clothes. Murtagh knew the finery was just for show, but couldn't help but think that Galbatorix could have come up with a better way to impress his court. The king wasn't the one that had to suffer the indignity of wearing hose.
Lost in his boredom as he was, Murtagh barely noticed as Bethany sidled up to him, resplendent in a violet silk gown. "Aren't you going to ask me to dance?" she asked, a flirtatious smile dancing on her full pink lips. "Everyone else has."
"No," replied Murtagh simply, without meeting her simpering gaze. Though Galbatorix would surely berate him later for his rudeness, Murtagh hardly cared now. A long time ago, he had learned how to dance, but enjoyed it about as much as he did having a splinter extracted.
"Come on, now, Rider," said Bethany, tugging lightly on his arm. "It's our presentation day. We have to dance." She eyed Galbatorix, who was watching the festivities from his throne-like chair. "His Majesty expects it of us."
Murtagh glanced over at Galbatorix, who gave him the tiniest of nods, accompanied by a stern glare. Get moving, Murtagh, the king said.
Murtagh didn't need the mental message to understand what the look meant. He allowed himself one pleading glance, and was rewarded with the mental equivalent of a firm shove forward. Grudgingly, he took Bethany's arm, and let her lead him onto the dance floor as the band struck up a slower waltz. Taking her small waist in his arms as he had been taught to do, Murtagh let his mind detach from his body. Bethany chattered on about this and that, everything and nothing: the goings-on at court, life at her home in Ceunon, the Empire's northernmost city.
Bethany left him terribly bored. Though she had much to say, there was very little that was of any interest to him.
"It's very quiet, up in Ceunon," she babbled. "Not much happens, you see. Other than the Traders setting up their headquarters there a few years ago, the last excitement we had was when a tree got knocked over in a storm and crushed a barn. It killed one of the farmer's cows, I heard. My father's workers spent weeks cleaning it up. Those are my parents over there," Bethany said, finally taking a breath. She nodded to a stiff-looking elderly couple not far from the head table. "Duke Tarrant and Duchess Cyrilla. Don't mind them. They're not much for court functions."
"Neither am I," said Murtagh through gritted teeth, wishing Bethany would take the hint. It was the first real comment he had offered since she had approached him. The lady was making his head hurt.
"You're not even trying to enjoy yourself," accused Bethany with a pout. "If you keep sulking like this, Mother will swat me with her fan for not entertaining you." She giggled softly at her own joke.
Murtagh sighed. He loathed giggles.
He wished he could be with Thorn.
As he and Bethany spun past one of the many long tables, Murtagh noticed a young woman, within a few months of his own age, sitting by herself, watching the couples dance. Her dark, wavy hair was pulled back from her face and left to fall to the middle of her back, offsetting the lady's creamy skin. Her simple, navy blue dress, looser than fashion dictated, was long-sleeved and unadorned with the ribbons and bows that the other court ladies seemed to favour. To his intense surprise, Murtagh could just see the faint outlines of flat-hilted daggers at the lady's neck, the small of her back and her wrists.
His interest piqued, Murtagh spun Bethany, who was still chattering at him, over to where a group of young, partnerless men were laughing merrily. Catching the eye of a tall, curly-haired blond man that looked to be a few years older than himself, Murtagh sent him a pointed look and a very slight nod.
Recognizing his intent, the man excused himself from his comrades and approached Murtagh and Bethany.
"May I cut in?" he asked, tapping Murtagh on the shoulder.
"Of course," said Murtagh with a smile and wordless thank you. "Lady Bethany," he said curtly.
Before he could turn away, Bethany lifted a dainty hand and stared at him expectantly. It took Murtagh a moment to realize that she wanted him to kiss it. Murtagh groaned inwardly. Keeping his eyes stuck resolutely to the polished floor, he lifted her outstretched hand to his mouth. His lips grazed the lily-soft skin for the barest instant before he let it drop. Bethany frowned, her full lips pouted.
The blond man took Bethany, who still looked a tad put out, in his arms and whirled her away. Murtagh turned, heading back the way he had come, to where the dark-haired woman was still sitting.
Murtagh cleared his throat. "Pardon me, my lady, but would you care to - ?"
But the woman cut him off mid-sentence, not lifting her gaze. "There are plenty of other available ladies if my lord would like to dance." Her tone, though polite, was sharp.
Murtagh tried a different tact. "Would you prefer to go for a walk, then?"
The lady looked up, her deep blue eyes widening in surprise when she saw who addressed her. She was silent for a second, then regained her composure and said, "Why, yes, I – I would love to, my lord Dragon Rider."
"It's Murtagh," he replied. "Just Murtagh."
Still looking a little nervous, the lady rested her hand on Murtagh's arm and he led her out one of the side doors to an outside terrace. It was a beautiful evening. A full moon was just beginning to rise in the clear sky, illuminating the twisting cobblestone paths. The rosebushes were alive with fireflies, twinkling bright in the twilight. The air was cool and sweet, a welcome change from the stuffy, oppressive heat of the dining hall.
As the pair set off down the path, Murtagh asked, "What is your name, Lady - ?"
"Teresa of Furnost," she replied, naming a small city several leagues south of Uru'baen, on the northern shore of Lake Tudosten. He recognized her name from the list the herald had read. "But if you are to be 'Just Murtagh,' then I insist you call me 'Just Teresa.'"
"Very well – Teresa."
"You weren't enjoying yourself back there, were you?" It wasn't really a question. Teresa's directness surprised Murtagh, who grinned wryly. "Could you tell?"
"I saw you dancing with Bethany. Excuse me for saying so, but you looked like you were in pain."
"I must confess that I, like yourself, am not privy to the glamour of court social functions," said Murtagh, mocking a courtier's flourishing air. "And she did step on my foot once."
This drew a laugh from Teresa. It was a lovely sound, light and musical, not at all like Bethany's shrill giggle.
Murtagh and Teresa walked in comfortable silence for a while, until Murtagh said, "Actually, there is a reason I asked you here." He led her to a bench, where they sat down. Taking her hand in his, he said, "You carry daggers with you." If Teresa could be direct, then so could Murtagh. Slipping a finger inside the sleeve of her gown, he pulled the slim, flat-bladed weapon from its wrist sheath and laid it in her small hand. "I would like to know why."
Teresa's eyes went wide in astonishment, tainted with a touch of fear. "You could see them?" she gasped.
"Yes, but they were well hidden. I doubt any who didn't know exactly what to look for would notice."
"Please understand, Murtagh, any weapons I have are for self-defence only. I would never dream of…" Teresa trailed off, but Murtagh knew what she meant.
"Of course not," said Murtagh quickly. "I was only curious. Daggers at a court ball?"
"One can never be too careful," was Teresa's cool reply. "One of the first lessons I learned as a young girl was to carry a weapon at all times."
"I understand," said Murtagh, pulling Argedauth, the dagger Galbatorix had given him, from his boot and offering it to her.
Teresa took the dagger, inspecting the simple wire-wrapped hilt. Running her hands over the tempered steel, she checked the weight and balance with a practiced eye. She turned the knife this way and that, letting it catch the moonlight and reflect it into her eyes, which were bright with admiration. Flicking a fingernail against the opal set into the pommel, Teresa smiled in satisfaction at the ringing, bell-like peal. Then, tossing the blade into the air, Teresa let it flip end over end several times before it thunked neatly back into her palm. She passed it hilt-first back to Murtagh. "This is beautiful," she said, almost reverently.
"You obviously have an eye for the art form." Murtagh said as he stowed Argedauth and they set off once again down the winding path. He was pleased to note that Teresa, unlike many women Murtagh's age, was more than capable of upholding a conversation that wasn't banal.
"Oh, yes," replied Teresa, her fair cheeks colouring slightly. "I know it's hardly a ladylike pastime, but I've always had an abiding interest in weapons of all kinds. In fact," she said a little smugly, "my family's most prized possession is a sword that we believe is centuries old. It's quite odd, really. The blade is bright orange, and it has a matching gemstone set into the pommel. It doesn't appear to have ever been sharpened, and yet it can slice through a single hair."
Murtagh gaped. "That sounds like a Rider's sword!" he exclaimed.
"Really? How do you know?"
"They were all made like that. The blade and gemstone match the colour of the dragon's scales, and they are spelled so they never dull."
Teresa smiled widely. "I knew the sword was ancient, but I had no idea it once belonged to a Rider." Suddenly, her face fell. "The king…he won't try and take it from us, will he?"
"He may," said Murtagh grimly, remembering the room off the armoury that was filled with Rider's swords. "He does consider such things his by right."
"You won't tell him?" Teresa turned to face him, looking him straight in the eye, her voice deadly serious. He could tell how important this was to her.
"I won't - er, tell him, but I can't promise he won't find out," admitted Murtagh, and his face, too, became downcast. "He may know even now. The two of us are...connected. I can keep no secrets from him, whether or not I wanted to."
"You mean he - ?"
Murtagh nodded soberly. Though he doubted she knew of the magic of true names, it was obvious Teresa understood the power the king held over him.
"Very well," she said, her voiced edged with glum resignation. "I suppose it's just a sword, after all. But it really is a shame; I would have liked to study it further, now that I know what it really is."
Teresa paused for a moment and glanced back to the entrance to the hall. The sounds of music and conversation, which had been boisterous when they left, were beginning to fade. When Teresa spoke again, her words carried a tone of finality. "We should get back - it sounds like they're wrapping up."
Murtagh nodded, suddenly wishing the subject of the Rider's sword had not been broached. He pulled himself back into the moment and the two of them turned and headed back up the path until they reached the glassed double doors, still thrown wide onto the terrace.
Stepping back into the public eye, Teresa curtsied gracefully and Murtagh managed a passable bow. Taking her hand, her brought it to his lips and kissed it gently.
Teresa smiled. If she was upset at the possibility of losing the sword, she did not show it. "Good night, Rider Murtagh," she said.
"Good night, my lady."
Teresa turned and, with a swish of her navy skirts, she stepped out the main doors and was gone.
There weren't many people left in the dining hall, most having left while Murtagh and Teresa were out walking. As the bell for the first hour after midnight chimed, Murtagh headed back to his rooms. He took a lesser-travelled route to avoid the nobles as they, too, returned to their private suites.
When he reached his own, Murtagh shed his fancy clothes and donned a pair of loose cotton breeches and a shirt. Yawning, he crossed the meadow to where Thorn was asleep. Murtagh was glad for that – he didn't feel like recounting all that had happened at the ball just yet. Settling himself in the hay, Murtagh closed his tired eyes.
He woke with a start just moments after he fell asleep, realizing only then that today was his nineteenth birthday.
A/N: So there it is. After hemming and hawing for months about whether or not to completely delete the Teresa subplot, I've decided to keep it, but it will be altered significantly. Thanks to everyone who put up with the long wait. More chapters are on the way.
- Miss Maddie