As always, you all are the best. Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I appreciate you all so very much, and your thoughts and theories are so much fun for me to read. Thank you for coming along with me on this journey~

Chapter 34

Murtagh took a long time in waking. Warmth cradled him on every side, soothing the ache right out of his muscles. His head was heavy, foggy, but the persistent throbbing was gone. When he took a breath, his lungs filled with air and not smoke or blood. The holes in his skin and his gut were gone, and he patted his stomach to make sure.

A dim, flameless lamp lit the stone walls of the cavern where he lay. Wood weaved together in intricate ways to create tables and chairs. A wardrobe of tightly woven threads of bark stood against one wall. Murtagh sat up in a bed, and as soon as his bare skin was exposed to the air, a violent shiver ran down his spine. He tugged the woolen blanket around himself and held fast to it.

Far to one end of the cavern was an enormous opening large enough for a dragon, though only darkness crept inside. Not far from the bed, tucked against the back wall of the cavern, was some sort of enormous nest—something fit for a dragon. Bound to the stone wall by vines that crept everywhere was a fairth with Selena's likeness on it, her image both strong and beautiful. Murtagh stared at it briefly and then looked away. It must have been Eragon's new dwelling.

Angela's satchel of medicine sat on the table along with a bundle of fabric and Zar'roc. Murtagh dragged the blanket with him off the bed and went to the table, drinking a vial of medicine to combat his growing fever. Then he sifted through the garments and found his former attire cleaned and repaired. Even after dressing, he could not part with the blanket and remained perfectly fixed in a tight bundle.

Several books were propped on a small bookshelf, and Murtagh crouched and read the titles. A few of them were rare, one of a kind. If the circumstances had been different, he would have crawled into bed with them and spent the remainder of the day—or the night, whatever it was—and read himself into oblivion. Time was precious now, though, and so he left them as they were.

Instead of lingering any longer, he folded the blanket and set it on the bed, gathered his sword, and went out the enormous opening. A mild breeze rustled his hair on the way out, and stars blinked at him from straight ahead. Wherever he was, he was high up. Beyond the opening was a narrow ledge that overlooked the enormous stronghold built for dragons.

The stronghold consisted of vast courtyards and ample open space. High stone towers reached for the heavens, and platforms large enough for dragons protruded from their walls. The dragon's keep was in the center of several smaller stone buildings. Most of the rubble from their battles was already gone. Several of the stone buildings were missing walls or had half-built second layers. Heaps of stone filled the area. It was still a work in progress.

On the outer edges of the stronghold, trees were sung into elven dwellings. Eragon and Saphira alone lived up high in such a place. Certainly Saphira did not fit well into a tree, so they had to make an exception. A winding staircase was created of stone and bent wood all the way down, and Murtagh descended. When he was halfway down the mountain slope, he paused.

In one of the courtyards, Fírnen lay on the ground without moving, his wings folded tight at his back. Arya was near him, always keeping her hand on him, and many other elves stood by. Eragon and Saphira were with them, but their backs were turned to him. They were too far to be clearly heard, but the tones of their voices were melodic, jovial. Every now and again, Eragon would lean against Saphira, and she would wrap her wing around him.

Perhaps Thorn had returned to his true form now that the spell was broken.

Murtagh could look at the reunion no longer, for it was not his right and not his place. He went down the stairs and ventured across rough stone walkways until they took him beyond the thick stone walls. No guards stood near the gate. Beyond the walls were steep and jagged trails down the mountainside that eventually gave way to forests of vast and towering pines. With no destination in mind, he kept walking. This was more his place, this barren emptiness where nothing and no one existed.

Finally he reached a slight clearing and stopped. Water had gathered in a small, rocky pool, and it reflected the starlight like a flawless mirror. Pine needles crunched under his boots in the tall grass. Bathed in pale moonlight, a few small boulders littered the clearing, and Murtagh set himself on one and stared at the sky. Wind rustled branches all around him, and finally, now that it was quiet, a host of insects and frogs filled the night with song.

"Are you there?" he asked the spirit, and he prodded it with his mind.

I am, it said. Have you need of me?

"No."

So the spirit no longer slept and was a constant observer from the back of his mind. Once upon a time, the invasion would have bothered him, but Murtagh could not muster the energy to care at all.

Night crept by, and the moon reached from one side of the clearing to the next. Murtagh eventually slid off the boulder and leaned against it, sitting in the grass. A few times he dozed in the midst of his thoughts, but for the most part, sleep eluded him. It was for the best. Too many nightmarish memories haunted him, and if he had to hear Galbatorix's voice one more time, he would lose his sanity.

Then suddenly, darkness swallowed the moon and all went quiet. Murtagh was on his feet with Zar'roc drawn before he even lifted his head. A blur of blue invaded his line of sight, and then Saphira crashed into the clearing and scattered the stars along the surface of the water. She folded her wings, snorting a harmless puff of fire into the air, and then she sat. One of her eyes settled on him, unblinking.

"You're a little far from home," he said. Fastening Zar'roc to his belt, he turned away from her. Hair stood on the back of his neck from her lingering gaze.

As are you, she replied, and there was a sharp edge to her mental tone.

Murtagh leaned against a boulder but did not sit, and his hand lingered on Zar'roc's pommel. Their last several encounters had not been positive ones. After a stretch of silence, he rose to leave, aiming down the mountain rather than up it.

You almost allowed the spirit to take Eragon, said Saphira, and he froze. Fírnen and the rest of my kin as well. All almost perished while you did nothing.

Murtagh opened his mouth to speak and found no words. His hand left Zar'roc and fell to his side. It was a terrible truth—that in one disgusting moment of weakness he had nearly cost the world the last of the dragons and Riders. Between this and Morzan stealing the spirits he was trying to save, Murtagh was failing quite miserably at the task he had accepted.

His voice caught in his throat, but he managed to say, "It won't happen again." Then he kept walking.

Saphira's wings snapped out, and a rush of wind filled the clearing. Murtagh gasped as the dragon fell over him with a boom that shook the mountainside, her paws landing on either side of him. He stumbled backwards and hit the grass before scooting out from underneath her. Craning her head, she scrutinized him with one eye, and then she exhaled a cloud of smoke into his face and elicited a cough from him.

Murtagh scrambled to his feet and took only a single step back before she hit him with the heel of her paw and sent him to the ground again. Her claws settled just above his shoulders.

"Leave me alone," he growled, and he crawled under her so he could slip out from under one of her legs. As soon as he stood, Saphira dropped her wing on top of his head and put him back on the ground. Lights blinked across his vision despite her wing covering him. "Eragon and the others are fine. Leave me be!"

I am fully aware, Saphira responded curtly.

Murtagh rolled away from her, but she followed him like a shadow. Once she tried to catch him under her paw, claws extended, and he narrowly slid past her, and then she persisted in folding her wing over him as if to smother him. If she were anything but a dragon—and his brother's dragon no less—he would have used magic, and despite what she was, he was getting very close to doing so anyway. He kicked her in the side and propelled away from her, but her wing hit him and planted him into the grass.

"If you are trying to eat me," he grumbled, "this is not how it usually works."

I have no interest in eating you, Saphira said, and she patted him with her leathery wing. Surely you taste terrible, and there is not much meat to you. Hardly a worthwhile snack.

"Then let me go." Flipping off his back, Murtagh dove out from under her wing and sprinted for the trees. Saphira's spiky tail curled around and tripped him up, and he staggered and collapsed over it. She carried him back to her side. With a sigh, he hung limp over her and stared as the ground passed by. "What do you want?"

Saphira set him in the grass and turned her neck so she could look at him closely with one of her deep blue eyes. Do not think I have forgotten how you responded to me—to us—before you thought to oppose the spirit hurting my Rider, she said. Then she set her wing over him, pinning him down.

Murtagh cringed. He had responded like a selfish, childish, weak, and pathetic mess, and it made him sick. Even so, he crawled across the ground and tried to sneak out from beneath her. As soon as he reached fresh air, Saphira took a slight step forward and folded him in again. This time, she curled her wing and pressed him against her body before dropping him at her side.

Persistent for a little human, she crooned. But you are tired, and I have been at rest for several weeks. I will certainly outlast you.

Murtagh had no doubt about that. Even then his head was spinning and his body ached, particularly when she threw him against her hard scales or when he fell to the ground, and his meager energy reserves were fading quickly. Nevertheless, he was perhaps more stubborn than a dragon. He would fight until she grew bored of him or finally ate him and got it over with.

Casting a harmless spell of fire near her head to distract her, Murtagh dove for the trees. Saphira snarled and then jumped on him again. This time her paw caught him directly, and her claws dug into the ground and shackled him.

Snorting over his head a puff of sulfurous air, she bared her teeth. Push me and I may very well eat you.

"Go ahead," he insisted with a smirk. "And I hope I make you sick."

Saphira hummed, and her eyes shone. Murtagh was not particularly familiar with her mannerisms, but somehow he gathered she was amused. Drawing her claws away from him, she turned abruptly and put her wing over him again.

Murtagh groaned. "What do you want?"

I want, she began, and then she tucked her wing under him again and drew him against her side, you to rest. Settling on the ground, she kept her wing over him like a tent. If you were going to surrender at a time when Eragon needed you most, then certainly you were at your limit.

Murtagh stared at her scales, each one like a finely polished piece of glass, and then blinked at the covering she placed over him. So she was not trying to punish him. Strength drained from his muscles, and his eyelids drooped as the warmth from her body enveloped him.

He ran a hand over his face. "You should go back to Eragon."

I will. Later.

Murtagh winced and rubbed his eyes. It was becoming a challenge to keep them open, and his body was dead weight. As darkness took him, he muttered, "You are the worst."

Her body vibrated against his as she hummed. Quietly she said to him as he drifted to sleep, As are you. Now rest.

Someone kept saying his name. Quiet at first, and then it grew louder.

Murtagh rolled onto his side and then covered his head with an arm. The voice did not go away even after he covered his ears.

Murtagh, Eragon spoke into his mind.

The blue canopy over Murtagh shifted and disappeared. Brilliant light washed over him and stung his eyes, and so he buried his face in the grass. His head was in a fog and every inch of him ached, but finally he hauled himself upright. Saphira sat beside him, stretching her legs and wings, tipping her head from side to side. Eragon entered the clearing without urgency. Murtagh had to blink several times and squint to make sure it was him.

"I put you in bed," started Eragon, huffing, and his eyebrows pinched together in feigned annoyance. His face was elvish now and his ears were pointed. "But instead you come out and sleep in the grass. Are you an elf?"

Murtagh rolled one shoulder and then the other, his joints achy and sore, and then he sprawled in the grass again and buried his face. No, he was not quite ready to try being human again. Eragon released a puff of air, akin to a quiet laugh, and his footsteps approached. When next Murtagh turned his head, a vial of medicine hung in his face. He took it from Eragon's hand and sat up again.

"It's easy to tell when your fever comes back," Eragon said, crouching beside him. Despite his weak smile, his eyes were filled with sorrow. "Your face is very pale."

Sighing, Murtagh took a drink but did not finish the vial. It should have been just enough to take the edge off his fever. When Eragon frowned at him, he sealed the vial and turned it over in his hand. "I'll need this medicine more when there is danger."

"Angela gave you plenty. You don't need to ration it," Eragon reminded him as he put a hand on Murtagh's forehead. Violent tremors ignited through Murtagh's body. Eragon clicked his tongue. "Especially not when your fever is this high."

"I'll take it when I need it." Murtagh tucked the vial in the pouch on his belt and then stood—and abruptly tottered and almost fell down. Eragon caught him until the world stopped swirling and he regained his sense of balance.

"Let's go back and have something to eat." Eragon tugged his arm in suggestion, leading him not up the trail but towards Saphira. "You're probably thirsty by now."

Thirst was a constant companion of fever, but Murtagh's tongue was particularly stuck to the roof of his mouth. He licked his cracked lips and rubbed the back of his head. Judging by the height of the sun in the sky, it was still early in the day. "I didn't sleep that long."

A day and a half is quite long, actually, Saphira said, and she crouched as Eragon reached her side. Especially for your tiny little bodies.

"A day and a half!" Whatever fog that was in his head was gone now, and Murtagh's eyes shot wide open. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"Because you needed the rest." Eragon climbed on Saphira's back, nonchalant as could be. Then he flapped his hand for Murtagh to join him. "Come on."

Murtagh rubbed his brow and growled. Rest was beneficial but was a luxury he did not have time for. Every moment he wasted resting was a moment Morzan or the spirits could attack and cause greater harm to Alagaësia. Rather than dwelling on already lost time, though, he determined only to keep it from happening again. He joined Eragon on Saphira's back, and she ferried them back to the hold.

To the west were grassy plains and a thick and winding river, and the mountainside was covered in vibrant green forests nearly halfway to its blazing white peak.

"What happened…?" Murtagh asked.

Eragon followed his gaze and then smiled. "When you released the spirit, everything was restored to how it should be."

Saphira hummed and curved around the mountain, giving them the full view, and then she glided into one of the courtyards. Fírnen slept on the other side, and Arya remained with him but stood upon their arrival. Murtagh and Eragon hopped to the ground as soon as Saphira landed, and Murtagh broke away from them and approached Fírnen. Only a few of his scales had any green in them at all, and the rest were translucent with a milky tinge.

"I can heal him again," Murtagh offered.

Arya met eyes with him for a moment and then faced Fírnen. She covered it well, but her movements were slow, pained. Her thin form had taken on a nearly wraith-like appearance. Muscles wasted away beneath her skin, and shadows hung under her eyes. Stepping back, she nodded.

Murtagh had grown so accustomed to stealing from the spirit that he did not bother asking permission. He tapped into the being's power and combined it with his own, transferring strength into the mind and body of not only Fírnen but the elves as well. It drained him far too quickly, for the others were terribly weak, but then dozens of different consciousnesses rallied around his own and lent him their strength. Dragons, young and old, empowered him, and he restored as much as he could before his body shuddered in protest and black crawled across his vision. He ceased his efforts and stumbled backwards, blinking rapidly.

Color spread from Fírnen's snout down to his tail, and though he remained weak, he managed to lift his head. Thank you.

Arya stared at her hand and turned it, and then she closed her fingers into a fist. Straightening, she frowned at Murtagh. "Are you well?"

"The Eldunarí helped," he said.

Setting his hand on Zar'roc, he scanned the bright blue skies. It was a perfect day, not too hot or cold, and it gave the impression that the world was safe. It was an illusion. The dragons would remain in danger for as long as Morzan and the spirits existed as they were, and so Murtagh closed his eyes and weaved spells of protection and sealing over the entirety of Mount Arngor. A film of light spread out from Murtagh and washed upon the ground before lifting into the sky. It went on until they could no longer see it and farther still. Murtagh made certain of it. Then he wavered and clasped his throbbing head.

Arya's face twisted into a frown, and she pressed her lips so tightly together that they turned white. Yet she spun without saying anything and ran her hand along Fírnen's jaw, and the dragon leaned into her touch.

She knew. Of course an elf would figure it out. Murtagh chided himself for being careless and for using the same spells. Surely she recognized the spell he had originally placed around Mount Arngor and matched it to those of Du Weldenvarden and Ilirea, for they were one and the same. He was lucky Eragon had no magical aptitude at the time otherwise his sibling would have learned the truth as well.

When Arya met eyes with him again, Murtagh dropped his gaze to the ground. He could ask her to keep it a secret, but that would mean acknowledging there was a secret to keep. And his presence that day was not the only thing he wanted to hide. And so he remained silent, and she did as well.

"We should eat," Eragon said, his attention jumping back and forth between them, and then he set his hand on Murtagh's forearm. Immediately he recoiled. "And take more medicine. You're burning up."

Murtagh sighed and drank the rest of the vial from earlier. Then he followed Eragon towards a door leading inside.

"Thank you," Arya said, causing both Murtagh and Eragon to glance back. Focused wholly on Murtagh and with much significance in her words, she added, "For what you have done."

At least for now, his secret would be safe. Murtagh nodded, and he and Eragon went inside.

Arya remained the only one besides Thorn who knew of Murtagh's initial visit to Mount Arngor. No one else said a thing about it, elf or dragon alike. Most only had faint memories of the attack, for the army of spirits had overwhelmed them quickly and completely in mind and body. It was for the best.

After having a meal with Eragon and several elves—and Murtagh was even allowed to sit at the same table as them!—they went to the dragon's keep which Eragon informed him was called the Hall of Colors. His Lethrblaka was still on the ground, lifeless. All around it shone a rainbow of Eldunarí. Their colors scattered across the walls.

"We didn't want to move it because of the spirit inside of it," Eragon explained, standing at a distance.

Murtagh knelt beside the Lethrblaka's head, setting his hand over its beak. Then he drew Zar'roc, sheathed it in glowing white, and stabbed it into the creature's body. The Lethrblaka shattered and turned to dust that dissolved into the air. Nothing of it remained but the shining spirit that had concealed itself inside it.

Murtagh rose and fastened his sword to his belt. The spirit circled him and stopped only when he raised his palm, and it settled on his fingertips. Tingling heat ran up his arm from the contact, and for some reason he could not help but smile. It was a strange sensation, for it was not his joy but the spirit's. Then it touched his chest and disappeared within him.

It joined him along with the spirit he had rescued from Eragon, and they existed as silent observers in the back of his mind along with the keeper of balance. Three spirits in all.

"If you are not a sorcerer," began Arya as she entered. In one hand she held a majestic bow of intricately carved wood and in the other she carried a quiver of arrows. "Then what are you?"

Murtagh folded his arms over his chest and tapped a foot on the floor. Good question. Yet he had no idea how to answer her, and so he said nothing.

Arya did not push him and simply offered him the bow and quiver. "I have heard that you excel in archery. Consider these an expression of our gratitude."

"I have a terrible habit lately of losing my weapons," Murtagh said without taking them.

"When someone offers you a gift, you should accept it." Whatever she was referring to, it was not the bow and arrows. Her tone was too serious for it.

With a slight frown, he received them from her. "Thank you."

"Fírnen and I will stay here in case trouble should arise," she explained, and now she spoke to both him and Eragon. "Our power is faint, but we will call for you if need be. In the meantime, we will fight."

"I wish I could do more, but it was not this spirit that took your power," Murtagh said. The spirit that stole their strength was still enslaved, a powerful puppet on Morzan's strings. He could not return what he did not have access to, and all he could offer was a temporary fix.

"You have done more than enough." Arya tipped her head at him. "Thank you for saving Fírnen's life."

"As I said, the Eldunarí helped with that." Murtagh scanned the hall.

For a room full of dragons, it certainly was quiet. It was not a surprise, though. Several of the Eldunarí had been abused by him under Galbatorix's command, and he had played a role in Glaedr's death, as well as the death of his Rider. His sins against them would forever outweigh any good he might do. At least in the end their hatred towards him would disappear along with him.

An elf entered the hall and gestured respectfully towards his queen, and then he said to Eragon, "Preparations for your journey are complete."

"Thank you," Eragon said, and he, Arya, and the newcomer aimed for the door.

Murtagh turned to follow and stopped when a familiar voice spoke into his mind, deep and gruff. Do you not intend to take any of us with you?

Spinning, Murtagh scanned the room. A gold Eldunarí blinked at him from across the hall. He fastened his newly acquired weapons at his back and then allowed his hands to fall at his sides. No. It would not be right.

You are defending all of Alagaësia, said Glaedr. It would be right of us to aid you.

"Murtagh," Eragon called out from the door. The others were not invited to this conversation, and they stared at him.

"Coming." Murtagh turned his back to the Eldunarí and ended the conversation with ease. My father will seek your power, and it would be foolish of me to place you within his reach. It would be a greater evil than what I have already done.

No one argued, and so Murtagh followed the others outside.

Saphira waited in the courtyard with Fírnen's two-person saddle on her back. She stretched her neck and wings high, her body swaying in a flashy display of blue. Are you ready?

"Yes," Eragon said aloud, and he hoisted himself onto her back and began to fasten his legs into the saddle.

On the other side of the courtyard, Fírnen blinked at them without lifting his head. Despite his borrowed strength, he was still weak. If there was an attack and Murtagh's barriers fell, there would be little he could do. The elves were stronger than before, but without magic, they were terribly limited.

Murtagh used the spirit's power to wrap powerful wards around everyone at the castle. Faint lights rippled around Fírnen, Arya, the elves, and then Eragon and Saphira. He placed similar wards around the Eldunarí as well. Dizziness struck again and he swallowed hard several times to keep from losing everything he had just eaten.

Eragon glanced at his hand as the light passed over him, and then he shouted, "Stop doing that!" It was definitely not intended to be comical, but Murtagh coughed out a laugh. His brother scowled at him. "Are you trying to see how much energy you can use before you faint?"

"No, but I can," responded Murtagh with a lopsided smile. "I'm going to put so many spells on you—"

"Get on," Eragon grumbled.

Saphira vibrated as she hummed. At least someone was amused. She dipped low so that Murtagh could more easily climb into the saddle, and then she straightened as he fastened the buckles around his legs. Her wings stretched wide.

"May your travels be safe and your mission a success," Arya said to them as Saphira lifted off the ground. Then she turned her voice inward and spoke to Murtagh alone. And may you find what you came here looking for.

Murtagh blinked down at her as they took to the sky and said nothing.