10/23/101
Late Morning
Thorn paced back and forth, twitching with boredom. The conversation between Eragon and Saphira provided no source of entertainment, as both of them didn't talk to him—they only raised their heads every once in a while to give him these calculating looks before ducking right back down to their conversation.
Murtagh? he said.
I'm here. There was a small sigh. What is it, Thorn?
The red dragon huffed, accidentally snorting out a sharp jet of fire, which drew dozens of nervous looks. Where are you? Thorn asked, studiously ignoring them.
Back in my rooms, Murtagh said. The elf—Inari—gave me a book to read.
Oh?
Yes, Murtagh said, but he sounded uneasy.
What, is it that bad? Thorn asked, puzzled by the uncertain tone of Murtagh's voice. Saucy? Bawdy?
No, it's not the book, Murtagh said, and Thorn could hear the exasperation in his voice. Just...
It doesn't feel right to be relaxing, does it? Thorn said knowledgably. Under Galbatorix, there's always something to do—fighting, training, taking care of the brat and his pet Rider...speaking of which, I wonder how they're doing?
He could almost see Murtagh shaking his head, with his knees drawn up to his chest and resting his head against the wall. Thorn's eyes narrowed when Murtagh didn't reply. Do they know about her? the dragon asked softly.
They know there is a third Rider, yes, Murtagh answered. And that her name is Orca. But they don't know who she is. Or the fact that she's just five years old.
Yes, that might be a bit of problem, Thorn said ruefully. That and the fact she doesn't talk. He paused, his curiosity piqued. Why are you so concerned, though? You've never liked Orca that much. Or Anil, for that matter.
There was another pause, and Thorn sighed mentally. Don't tell me you've turned into a mother hen, Murtagh. Missing your foster daughter of sorts?
She's not my foster daughter, Murtagh said, more vehemently than he really needed to be. I just—there was a hesitation, then Murtagh said, It's a long story.
So tell me. I have time. Thorn cast an appraising eye over Eragon and Saphira, then groaned. Lots of time. Eragon Shadeslayer is having a very long talk with his precious she-dragon.
She-dragon? There was a definite tone of amusement in Murtagh's voice. Not dignifying her with a name anymore?
What name? Thorn sniffed. Now stop changing the subject. You're bored, I'm bored; let's entertain each other. What's wrong?
XXXXXXXXX
Murtagh stared blankly at the length of the wall, his thoughts a turmoil in his head. What was wrong, really? It wasn't Orca—all right, maybe he was a bit worried about how she was doing, but that wasn't the large of it. The main point was—
He didn't feel like Murtagh. He had all his memories back, true. He could remember his life, about what he did before he became a Rider—Selena, Eragon, so on and so forth. But truly, none of that was him. The person from his memories was some other person entirely—who was he now?
But earlier on, you sided with the Varden, Thorn said, puzzled. If you're not who you were, why would you do that?
Murtagh laughed wearily, rubbing his temples with his palms. Because that's what he would do, if he had to choose. He spoke of his past self—the one before Galbatorix had tampered with his memory—as a distant figure, an acquaintance. But not him. As for me, well...
They're up to something, Thorn said darkly. It's not a good time to be indecisive, Murtagh.
I know that, Murtagh sighed. He blinked, and then the sentence fully registered in his mind. What?
Saphira and Eragon, Thorn snapped. They keep on looking at me in a way I don't like.
Murtagh laughed softly. Don't go around biting their heads off. It would ruin any chances of staying alive here, especially with that odd murder earlier and all.
Oh, the one with the stabbed elf and the shrieking about Galbatorix?
Right, Murtagh said. So no biting, snapping, or otherwise tearing Eragon's head off.
It would be fun, though, Thorn said wistfully.
Only for a few moments. Murtagh grined involuntarily, but the smile soon faltered as his thoughts returned to more serious subjects. Thorn?
Mmm?
So whose side are we on? You knew me—well, me as who I was before...it happened. Who was I loyal to?
You have the memories, don't you? Thorn asked.
Murtagh groaned, shaking his head. But they're not mine. I feel like I'm living someone else's life now, speaking their lines and playing their role. He trailed off. Well? he asked, waiting.
I don't know, Thorn groaned. Personally, if I had the choice, I'd nip off to somewhere nice and secluded and wait it out until Galbatorix and the Varden finished smashing each other to bits. As for you? You—well, I can't narrow it down to just 'Varden' or 'Empire', because you were somewhat of a rogue. You loved the rush of power from the void, and of learning those dark spells that the elves forbade years ago. But you also had some loyalty to the Varden—Eragon, he's your brother, you know, and all that. And you let him go at the Burning Plains for some reason. So I don't know. You had ties to both.
Murtagh was silent for a long, long moment. I'm still in shock over that one, Murtagh admitted quietly.
What—the Burning Plains thing?
No, the fact that we're related, Murtagh said ruefully. It is true, isn't it?
Yes.
Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Brightscales, Murtagh said musingly. Varden through and through.
Well, you haven't killed a Shade, but I could be Brightscales too, Thorn said brightly. My scales will blind you on a good day; they're that shiny.
Thorn Shinyscales? Murtagh said wryly.
Doesn't have quite the same ring, does it. A small grunt came from Thorn's end, and then the dragon heaved an annoyed sigh. Murtagh raised an eyebrow as he felt Thorn get reluctantly to his feet. I should go, the dragon said at last. They've finished talking, and Nasuada's coming.
All right then, Murtagh said softly.
Read your book. I'll be right back, Thorn said, closing the connection.
XXXXXXXX
Her voice was gone, but she was still screaming—wordlessly, soundlessly where no one could hear. Tears ran unchecked down her face as the guards deposited her unceremoniously in Derek's quarters. Anil whimpered and nosed her, his tail drooping unhappily. Orca? Orca, talk to me, please?
Orca pulled away from his touch, curling into a tight ball. Anil whimpered again, softly, and then pleaded again, Orca?
The girl raised her head to look at him, and he at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen with tears, and bits of dried blood and gore stained her hands and face and clothes. Anil inched closer, and she put her arms around him, resting her head at the hollow of his neck.
We have to leave.
This thought was muddy in communication but clear in resolve. Anil jerked back, looking at her anxiously. The girl looked back at him, wiping her nose unhygenically on her sleeve but nodding determinedly. What? Anil said. Where will we go?!
Anywhere. Everywhere. I won't stay here, Anil.
But—
I want Llynis, Orca whispered, tears brimming in her eyes again. I want Mommy. I want Aunt Llynis. And I hate him! I hate that—that man—
Images and thoughts spilled from her mind to Anil's, and the dragon recoiled at the violence of them. In them, the Man quite literally tore the Second Woman's guts from her body, and blood spattered over every exposed surface. The Man was laughing at the Woman's agony, as she struggled to put her intestines back where they were, and all the time—
Anil pulled his mind away, suddenly shivering. Orca stared at him, and he nodded slowly. But how? he asked.
The girl sniffed wetly and raked her dirty brown hair away from her face. We have to run away, she said stubbornly.
Anil shook his head. But the Man will catch us if we just go, he said pragmatically. We won't go very far without a plan.
Orca shook her head. She stared at Anil for a moment, then added, We'll go find Murtagh. How about that?
Anil, a bit more sensible than his Rider despite the fact that he was more than four years younger than she was, looked doubtful. I don't know about that.
Can you carry me?
I've never tried, Anil said hesitantly. The month-old dragon stood slowly, standing nearly a foot taller than Orca. Let's see.
He bent down, and Orca clasped her hands around his neck, wincing slightly as his scales cut her skin. Gingerly, she began to climb onto his back, then stopped. Hurts, she said briefly. Your scales are scratchy.
Anil dragged a blanket off of Derek's bed with his teeth. Orca took the blanket carefully in her small hands and clumsily folded it, laying it on Anil's back. She tried again, this time achieving a precarious perch on Anil's back. Can you fly? she asked.
Anil limbered his wings. I don't think I should fly in here, he said. I might break some of Derek's things.
Orca glared at him—Anil's head was turned away from her, but he caught it anyway. With a sigh, the dragon clambered onto the bed and did a tentative jump off the edge, flapping his wings madly. Orca fell off.
That didn't work, Anil said, stating the obvious.
Orca got up obstinately, her fists clenched. We're going to do this, Anil, she told him silently.
Anil looked at her for a long moment, then pressed closer to her, rubbing his head along her shoulder. I know, he said.
And I wouldn't have it any other way, he added, shuddering at the shared memory of the Man's brutal killing.
XXXXXXXXXX
Galbatorix was scrying, idly trying out images of the Varden's elite. The Riders themselves were protected, but foolishly, they'd left the key figures of the resistance vulnerable to scrying. He snorted inwardly, shaking his head. Negligence, that's what it was.
He flicked to an image of the erstwhile leader of the Varden, Nasuada. He'd seen her just once before as a baby, when he'd met her interesting father, Ajihad. But that was ancient history. At any rate, it was enough to scry her. She was deep in conversation with somebody that he couldn't see, chattering away without a care in the world. Galbatorix adjusted the spell to hear her voice— "...when do you set out?"
There was a pause.
"Oh." Nasuada seemed to consider it, then nodded. "The elves are still working on that. I believe Arya has gone to question him now—what? Are you sure—" In the scrying glass, Nasuada looked around wildly, clearly puzzled. She looked down, then at whoever she was speaking to, and abruptly vanished.
Galbatorix sat back, piqued. Evidently her conversation partner sensed his presence and had protected her from his scrying. He sat back, thinking for a long moment. Now that he couldn't see the Varden leader...what about this Arya? No, but he'd never seen her personally, so he couldn't scry her. Pity.
He shrugged, still basically optimistic at heart. Instinctively, he reached out with his mind to find his newest Rider and her pet dragon—they were both in her guardian's rooms, buzzing with thoughts of flight. Orca seemed to be well-recovered from her shock earlier, when he'd shown her the price of disobeying the Empire. Maybe she had the stomach to be his Rider after all.
Galbatorix smiled, amused despite himself. At any rate, they'd have a while to wait for flight: Anil was barely a month old; it took almost four before his own dragon could carry him—
He pulled himself away from those thoughts, breathing hard. No. He had Shruikan now, and that was enough. He would not think about his original dragon, the one he'd lost…no.
To soothe himself, he turned back to scrying. As a challenge, he tried to scry Ellesmera, and amused himself with trying to poke holes in the anti-scrying defenses. They were well-built and impenetratable, as he knew from experience, but still. It was fun, in a way, and challenging.
And it's not like he had anything else urgent to do—everything was going along according to plan.
XXXXXX
Murtagh read the book, not because it was very interesting, but because it beat sitting around and doing nothing. It turned out to be a fairy tale of sorts, but the kind where the dragon ate the hero.
I suppose this is an elf's sense of humor, he thought dryly to himself, leaning back against the bedstead with a musing sigh. He reached out for Thorn briefly and caught a sort of 'busy, come back later' signal. Deciding not to bother his dragon, he turned back to the book, almost missing the quiet knock on the door.
He stared at the door and the blank expanse where a doorknob would've been if he had one. "Come in," he said at last. "Although I don't think my permission will matter very much."
The door opened smoothly, revealing two elves waiting at the other side. "Murtagh," Arya said, striding confidently into the room. Trailing behind her like a lost duckling was Inari, her hands folded chastely in front of her. "Have you found your accommodations adequate?"
Murtagh looked around his luxurious quarters—beautifully furnished, and perfect in every way except that the door lacked a doorknob and was impossible to open from the inside. "Yes," he said after a moment.
"Good," Arya said briskly. "Lady Nasuada asked you earlier as to your allegiance, and you have shown it to favor the Varden. As such, we will need to know a few vital things—"
"To, ah, prove my loyalty?" Murtagh said, raising an eyebrow. "About the defenses of the Empire? The state of the army? Oh, and let's not forget—the third Rider?"
"An admirable summary," Arya said, giving him a curt nod.
Murtagh looked back down at the pages of his book for a long moment. "And if I cannot?"
Arya looked at him sharply. "Do you have reason to refuse?"
Murtagh smiled humorlessly. "Yes," he said simply.
Arya studied him for a moment. "How about this," she said at last. "We will agree to exchange questions with you. If you answer three questions of ours, we will answer three of yours. The ancient language will forbid us to lie, so you may be assured of our honesty. Have we an agreement?"
Murtagh hesitated, taken aback at the unusual offer. His mind raced, trying to cover any loopholes or complications with the agreement, and almost immediately found one. "There are some things I am…forbidden…to speak of," he said at last. "By—"
"The power of your true name," Arya said quietly.
Murtagh's chin jerked up at the tone of her voice, and a sudden chill ran down his spine as he remembered that elves were just as capable of finding out true names as Galbatorix was. Certainly, there were spells to safeguard against such revelation, but without his magic...he clenched his teeth and met her gaze squarely, missing the warm glow of his magic more than ever. Maddening as the voices were, being without protection in the company of two prestigious elfin spellcasters made him all the more aware of its loss.
"Yes," he said at last, keeping his face flat and smooth to match hers. "There is that. Also the retribution that Galbatorix metes out can be…"
He trailed off, memories rushing through his head. It was difficult to match the torturer of his dreams with the refined emperor that he had served, but the pain—the agony—of them was clear enough.
"We understand," Arya said smoothly. "But there are things we must know. And we will protect you from Galbatorix's wrath, should it come to that."
She spoke all this in the common dialect of the region instead of the ancient language, her expression giving nothing away. Murtagh eyed her for a moment, and then turned his gaze to the elf behind her—Inari. The other elf looked visibly uneasy, and looked away when he stared at her intently.
Murtagh tried to reach out, brush their minds to know what they were feeling, but found it impossible. The trickle of power available to him only allowed him to speak to Thorn. No one else. He would have to rely on other clues, instead. "Very well," he said after a long pause. He might have to speak the truth, but that didn't mean he had to reveal everything. He suspected the elves would do the same—it was only natural.
"You spoke the name of the third Rider previously—Orca, I believe. Where does her allegiance lie? How skilled is she in the matter of the art of magic?"
"That's two questions," Murtagh pointed out.
Arya paused. "Yes. But the more lenient you are in answering ours, the more giving we will be in answering yours."
"That wasn't part of the agreement," Murtagh said coolly.
Arya paused. "Then answer the second question."
"You don't wish to know about her allegiance?" Murtagh said, raising an eyebrow.
"Shall I count that as one of your questions?" Arya fired back.
Murtagh felt the corners of his mouth twitch, and he saw Inari duck her head to hide a smile behind her hair. "All right," he said. "Maybe I deserved that. As for Orca's skills—" he hesitated, running through his memory. His recollections of Orca were clear and felt like a distinct part of him, unlike his more shadowy past. "She was rather lacking in that area," Murtagh said at last in the ancient language. "No, not very skilled at all."
He tilted his head, thinking hard. She'd never spoken during their lessons in the ancient language; Anil had absorbed the language like water into a sponge, but if Orca herself had learned anything, it was only by association. Murtagh looked down at the open book in his lap and found himself smiling reminiscently at Galbatorix's mild exasperation over the fact she never spoke, and never displayed the least sign of magical skill.
I can wait, he'd told Murtagh. Magic takes its time, and we might as well ground her in the basics of nonmagical pursuits first. In the meantime, try to get her to speak, will you? I know she's not mute—at least, I don't think so.
Arya raised an eyebrow and seemed to be mulling his answer over. "Galbatorix allowed his second Rider to be so negligent in her education? And don't answer that—it's called thinking out loud, Rider."
Murtagh glanced at her briefly and then away, feeling oddly uncomfortable. His memories—the part that really felt like his—showed Galbatorix as kind, benevolent, if a bit short on patience. But surely the rest of his life couldn't have been wrong…? But if so, how could the emperor have maintained a façade for so long, so—well? Could anyone be that good of an actor?
A rustle of cloth brought him out of his uneasy thoughts, and he glanced briefly at Inari, who bit her lip as his gaze met hers. She seemed more human, more emotional than other elves—certainly more so than Arya, at any rate. But then again, certain rocks had more emotion than Arya.
"All right. Now ask your question, Murtagh," Arya directed, her voice cutting into his thoughts.
Murtagh inhaled deeply, then smiled to himself. His question was quick and succinct, and unlike Arya's, covered just about everything he wanted to know. "Why am I here?" he asked directly.
Arya exchanged a glance with Inari, and the two seemed to engage in telepathic communication of some sort. It was Inari who finally answered, holding her hands out placatingly. "Divide and conquer, Murtagh. We sought to separate you from Galbatorix, as that would make the empire less of a threat. Also, Eragon Shadeslayer indicated you had..." she hesitated, then completed artfully, "—conflicted loyalties. In addition, you are—or were—Galbatorix's right-hand man. You would know things."
Murtagh digested this. "So you wanted me here just to reduce the threat of Galbatorix, and to tell you what I know."
Inari nodded.
"That's not the whole truth, is it?" Murtagh asked softly, meeting Arya's gaze steadily.
"It is true. Are you ready for the second question?" Arya asked.
He paused. "No. But do I have a choice?"
Arya looked at him implacably. "Your magic," she said at last. "The elves have long since forgotten the dark magic that Galbatorix uncovered, and we do not believe it is a result of natural growth. The question is: how did you acquire the source, the energy of such power?"
XXXXXXXX
The Rider's face almost quite literally closed down, any expression wiped away. Inari watched with interest as he closed the book on his lap carefully, setting it down by his side. "What makes you think it is unnatural?" he said quite casually. "Dragons have formidable resources of energy, and I have trained well."
"Eragon spoke of voices in your head when he tried to awaken you from your unnatural sleep," Arya said. She touched Inari's mind—It is as we suspected, Inari-elda, the elfin princess said, her voice carrying a hint of triumph.
Inari blinked. But to destroy the sacrifice...
That is your responsibility. Play your part well, Inari-elda.
Murtagh tilted his head, studying Arya, his eyes dark and blank. "Voices in my head could just mean that I'm schizophrenic."
"Let us be frank," Arya said very calmly. "It is possible to draw energy from other living beings; any advanced spellcaster knows that. But only ancient texts—now in Galbatorix's possession—tell how to draw it from the dead. A limitless fountain of power, capable of...almost anything, if not blocked away. You know something about this, don't you, Murtagh?"
"Why ask me, if you already know?" the Rider retorted.
"Yes or no? You may count that as my final question, if you like. But answer honestly."
Inari's eyes flicked from Murtagh to Arya and back, trying her best to appear visibly nervous. Play your part well. She could do that. Maybe. And now to add fuel to the fire... "Arya Svit-Kona, maybe this isn't the best time—" she began, letting anxiety show on her face.
"Quiet, Inari-elda," Arya said commandingly, and Inari shut up. "Well, Rider?"
Murtagh's gaze rested on Inari calculatingly. The elf tried throwing a coy look at him from under her eyelashes, something she'd picked up from seeing the humans of Surda flirt. If it worked on him, he didn't show it; his expression was as impassive as ever. "Yes," he said at last. "I do."
"Thank you," Arya said quietly. "That is all we needed to know."
"It won't do you any good," Murtagh said, his voice harsh.
Arya smiled lightly, almost poisonously. "That is for us to judge," the elf said. "And you may ask your questions now, if you so desire."
"What do you plan to do with this knowledge?" Murtagh fired back almost immediately, looking furious.
"To acquire power," Arya said smoothly in the ancient language, her voice carrying a faint taunt. "That is a true answer." A true answer, yes, but there were dozens of those lying around.
You are angering him on purpose, Arya Svit-Kona? Inari asked, slightly impressed. Though magic-less, baiting a Rider was never a good idea in her experience.
He may let something slip, Inari-elda. Emotion is always a useful ally.
To their disappointment, Murtagh seemed to regain control of himself, inclining his head in acknowledgement of a point scored. "All right then. I'll save my last question, if you don't mind."
"If that is what you so desire," Arya replied. Inari-elda, see what you can do. "I will take my leave, then."
The elfin princess turned, whispering a few words to the magically locked door. It swung open in response, and Arya walked out.
XXXXXXXXX
Six more practice runs later left them with a ruined blanket, multiple destroyed items, and—this was a good thing—the ability to stay on. Orca clung doggedly to Anil's neck as the dragon wearily climbed back onto the bed, limbering his wings.
One more try, the green dragon said.
He jumped off the bed and took an ungainly flight that was cut short by the fact he crashed into the opening door. The two landed into an undignified heap; overhead, they heard a furious yell as Derek discovered that most of his things were broken. "What?!" their erstwhile guardian shrieked, dropping the bundle of food he carried. "I come back to bring you lunch, but in the meantime you've been shattering my things?!"
Grab the lunch he's carrying! Orca directed.
What, we're leaving now? Anil said, startled.
Derek advanced onto them, his face red. Anil blinked, then said, Okay, let's go. Jumping up, he knocked the human over, snapping his jaws an inch from Derek's face to warn him to stay down. Orca scooped up the food in clumsy hands. The two of them pelted down the hall.
Their escape was helped by the fact that they were spelled with a 'forget' magic. Anyone who saw them automatically erased them from memory. Most of the time, it was annoying, but Anil welcomed it now—any amount of crashing or banging went unnoticed; behind them, servants began to blame each other for broken things.
They made it down to the first floor without much trouble. Anil ducked behind a beaming cherub statue in the garden, panting slightly. I haven't seen the Man, he said, referring to Galbatorix. Where do you suppose he is?
Orca shrugged. As long as he's not here, I don't care. Let's go.
She unwrapped the food and spread the blanket across Anil's back, hugging the food tightly to herself. It wasn't much—a wedge of cheese, a few celery sticks, a length of dried meat for Anil—but it was food.
The dragon waited until she was properly seated, and then tested out his wings. Under a full-grown human, he'd never be able to make it. But as it was—and Orca was helpfully small for her age—he managed to take a meandering, circling flight away from the palace.
XXXXXXXX
Galbatorix looked up, registering the quiet knock on the door. He yawned, stretching luxuriously—in his quest to penetrate Ellesmera's defenses, he'd gone stiff.
Setting aside his scrying glass, he ambled over to the door and pulled it open. An impassive guard moved aside to reveal a wild-eyed servant—Derek, Orca's guardian. "Yes?" Galbatorix said politely, watching with distaste as the man began to weep. "What is it, servant?"
"Your majesty—" the servant choked out. "They—they—" He broke off, dropping to his knees. "Your majesty, please, mercy—"
A chill of foreboding shot down Galbatorix's spine. He didn't waste time waiting for Derek to choke out his story—Galbatorix grabbed him by the collar and plunged into his mind, ransacking it for the memory that had the servant so troubled. Derek shuddered, then began to scream as Galbatorix saw the details of Orca's escape.
Galbatorix's mind flashed back to his search earlier—flight. Orca and Anil had been thinking of flight. How stupid could he get? He'd passed it up as a child's fantasy, eager to soar with her dragon, but all the time it meant—
He glanced at the sunlight streaming in from a window farther down the hall. It was early afternoon, perhaps, and he could tell that Derek had been searching wildly for at least a couple of hours. The rage in his stomach settled at this thought, turning into ice—cold resolve, harsh determination. A child. Rider, perhaps, but still a child, alone and unskilled. How far could she get?
He killed Derek without a second glance and strode down the hall, reaching out in his mind for Shruikan.
XXXXX
Hoooo boy. I haven't updated this in ages—like, a year maybe. And I thought I could just let it be, but a craving to write something about Murtagh (grown-up, not a little kid) led to me rereading the beginning chapters, and then typing this out... Groveling, painful apologies to everyone. -sighs-
At any rate, I don't have a plot, because I lost my old one somewhere along the lines of the past year. Should I keep going, since Brisingr's coming out soon? Reviews, suggestions, are all very welcome.