SimplySupreme and Draco Lucis: Sorry- it's going to be a while until you hear about Halia! Late fourties, I bet. It's for the benefit of the story, though; I hope you're not disappointed!
: That was a mis-type on my part. I probably should've just stopped the sentence before "and it appears the opposite."
ZeZe123: I got the idea from HP 7- when Professor McGonagall bewitched all the statues and suits of armor to protect Hogwarts. :)
TheLunyOne: I refuse to believe that. It's too horrible- I mean, CP has made Murtagh's life miserable enough- why take away his only true friend? IT CAN'T BE TRUE!
Kilana89: ... Uh oh...
Anyway, I figure it would only be fair to give y'all a fair warning: I'm going to be gone for the next three weeks. Starting Saturday. No computer, no updates. Yeah- I think I'm going to die. I want to update before then, Friday-ish, but the chapter I'm working on is... difficult. And I don't really know why. But 'I will be strong, I will endure/ Laziness is not the cure/...' :)
Either way, enjoy this chapter! (It's another Murtagh one- don't forget to review!)
Chapter 38: Jura
Of course, Thorn didn't have any second thoughts about Murtagh getting blasted and electrocuted; he basked in the glory of their newest eldunari, and in his case, his newest friend.
Murtagh resented that blast, and leaned against Thorn's side, hovering on the dragons' conversation but paying more attention to the scrolls, which he was scanning. He wanted a map of the city... surely Drakan had a map among his most valuable possessions...
And Glaedr did not have his eldunari? The other eldunari asked.
We didn't look. My tail was gone, and Murtagh had fallen into mind blackness. Thorn answered. Of course he had passed out- the King had possessed him.
There it was- a decent map. Murtagh looked closer; was it even of Dras Leona?
He had given Halia a map... a map of Uru'baen...
No! Murtagh shouted at himself. No, not now. Don't think of her right now.
But the damage was already done; memories of her danced before his eyes, mocking him, drawing him closer, deeper into the pain of knowing he would never see her again.
No. He ordered himself, and mustered what strength he had into locking her memory in its box.
But the box was determined to cause him as much distraction as possible- it was determined to haunt him, to fight him.
Swearing under his breath, Murtagh poured all his attention into the map spread before him; it was better than nothing, but hardly suitable, all the same. It was poorly made and had gaps; why had Drakan kept it among his valuables? It was worthless, in Murtagh's eyes. But one man's treasure, another's trash.
He pushed the inept map to the side, rifling once more through the dusty volumes and crackling scrolls.
Thorn was going on about Shruikan; Jura, however ancient she was, had known his great-great-great-grandsire.
Very old, then.
There was a history volume, but flipping through just several pages told Murtagh that most of it was lies- twisted facts and distorted quotes meant to show evil as good. But notes had been scribbled along the margins; at first, Murtagh didn't bother reading them, but the further he flipped through the tome, they multiplied, so that some pages didn't have a single yellow patch- all was covered in ink.
The handwriting was sloped and graceful, albeit jagged, and in the Anchient Language.
M. told me Klaer murdered Lord Hilk, not that Lord H. died after being thrown off his horse. One passage read.
K.G. said King Palancar was his ancestor, but this family tree shows no G. on it. Ran another.
B. said M. killed Narethin in a duel.
F.'s dragon went insane- that must be a natural cause, according to this passage.
Murtagh's eyes narrowed. Who had written these notes? Who was M, and K. G., and B., and F.? The person must have known them, to be so bold as to give them nicknames.
He flipped back to the page that was blackened with ink, and started reading.
An involuntary shudder spiked down his back. He started with the text; and numbness started at his fingertips, running beneath the words that suddenly had double meaning.
Morzan's Black Hand is a woman named Selena; his consort, he boasts. A lovely thing on the eyes, but no so lovely on the body. She gives a slap that stung for days, and Morzan is on the receiving end, most of the time. And if you get in her way, you wouldn't live to see another day.
A fearsome thing; the perfect woman for Morzan, though. She adores him, though some sort of tension is between them. I haven't devised why.
That's where the text ended- the even font was rather large- but the rest of the page was blackened by the slanted scribbles of the scholar. It ran along the margin, squeezed between the lines, and gave every indication of being hastily written.
On their tension- perhaps she was tired of being his puppet, his personal assassin, or he had grown tired of her, for whatever reason. A pregnancy is another option, though I can't see M. letting a child of his live very long. That, or he'd raise it to be its' mother- his servant.
But all of that doesn't matter, in light of the fiasco with the blue egg. Morzan set off to catch it again, only to die and fail in his last mission. Selena had gone missing, reappeared several weeks later, and joined her master. It is thought that she ran off to find M.'s murderer and have her revenge, but she never said. Pity, that such a talented thing should have been wasted. The King surely could have saved her, but she died in M.'s castle. Rumor was that a dark-haired, gray-eyed, four year old lived there… a child of the ill-fated couple? Must investigate.
Murtagh's fingers froze over the last, almost-illegible line of notes. That section was written… fifteen years ago? Fourteen? But by who?
He turned the book over to study the leather cover- it gave no indication of an author.
Panic started rising in his heart, like bile- sharp and disgusting- but Murtagh had to know! He had too! Who had written this? Who had suspected his existence? Someone who had been there, someone in the court-
Not the King- inspiration slapped Murtagh's mind; K.G. Had to be King Galbatorix, M could be Morzan, B... he skipped B after a moment of uncertainty, he could figure that one out later... F... F...
They had to be Dragon Riders-
Brom.
Formona.
Klaer had been one of the Forsworn, as well as Lord Hilk and Narethin... but who was the author?
Murtagh bit back the curses slipping through his gritted teeth- he needed a sign, anything!, of who had scribbled down such a history-
He felt like he had been punched when his eyes landed on a certain scrawl; the wind was knocked out of him, and for one frozen moment, he was numb, unfeeling, stunned.
His fingers almost touched the name on the title page-almost- but he recoiled, like the black ink was poison.
We are Durza.
It was like the King's threat trailed him wherever he went- was he never to have a moments peace? What a stupid, idiotic, worthless question. He was Morzan's son- of course he would never have that restless thing called peace.
Gingerly, he picked through the rest of the book- oh gods, there was his name, bright as day. Durza even recounted the... adventure in Gil'ead.
It was not a journal, or (gods forbid!) a diary. It was a history, all told from Durza's perspective. It was his judgement on events both before and during his time.
Self-absorbed bastard. Murtagh snarled. A few other choice names fell from his lips, and suddenly restless, Murtagh started pacing the little hill. Thorn's eyes were fixed on the glowing eldunari- Jura. He gave Murtagh a passing glance and sighed as his Rider trampled the grass.
Has a temper, doesn't he? Jura mused.
Murtagh snarled at her- who cared if she was a dragon?
Thorn didn't say anything, but his pain seeped through their connection- their agony met and merged, swelling as they stared into each other's souls...
Thorn, pay attention. Jura interrupted, ignoring Murtagh. What of Vroengarg? What has Galbatorix done to it?
I don't know. Thorn sighed. I've never been there, and the last time Shruikan was, he was barely fifteen months old. It's probably a crumbling castle right now.
Jura keened a low wail- a silent howl, a groan. Would your vows restrain you from visiting it?
Thorn and Murtagh exchanged a calculating glance.
Why does it matter? Murtagh asked. Our tasks will always come first.
But from what I've heard, your King- she spat out the word- cares greatly about his power.
…so? Thorn asked.
Don't be so daft, hatchling! Jura cried. Everyone and everything great had passed through the halls of Vroengarg! It was the center of learning in my day- Illyria was nothing more than a patch of trees then. It held nought a candle to Vroengarg's flame. The two-legged's leaf-and-bark books were housed in rooms bigger than Bid'daum, may his soul be at rest, and our kind's hearts laid in a vault that reached for leagues under the very earth. It was the heart of the Rider's power; it was the heat of the dragon's fire. The Master of Vroengarg was the Master of the Riders, and in some ways, the Master of All.
Vroengarg, to the Riders, was the highest symbol of power. If this Galbatorix has the hearts that were kept there, I cannot imagine a greater danger and tragedy. But I've heard murmurs that you, two-legged, are the Heir to the Vault- you must go to Vroengarg and save what hearts you can! Surely your Lord cannot have taken all of them- if it is as you said, and Shruikan has been kept in Uru'baen, perhaps there are some hearts that are still free-
Do not get your hopes high. Murtagh sighed. The King has had plenty of time to shuttle eldunari from Vroengarg to Uru'baen; he knows no limits and has great skill in manipulating others.
But no power is infinite. Jura argued. Not even the hundreds of thousands of hearts that yet exist in Alagaesia combined creates an infinite source of energy and wisdom, and everything that is not infinite can be destroyed. I feel your hopelessness- why do you give up so easily? Why do you believe all is lost? And why in the heavens above has Bid'daum chosen you to be the Heir?
Murtagh and Thorn both froze- Thorn in shock, Murtagh in wonder. Where could he even begin with his questions? A thousand had sprung from Jura's words!
Bid'daum chose me? Bid'daum? Murtagh asked. Is he the one whose voice I hear?
Yes, silly two-legged. Who else among the dragons would have the authority to decide the Keeper of the Vault? A wild dragon? Surely not. Bid'daum was the Lord of the Riders, the Greatest of the Dragons; why do you even bother asking? Of course Bid'daum did- any other would be perposterous.
But how can you hear him- how can you communicate with him, when your eldunari's are hundreds of leagues apart?
Jura chuckled. The earth says many things, if you are patient enough to listen to it. When you have had hundreds of years of resting in silence, you learn to hear the slightest sigh.
I will make a pact with you- I know you have many questions. You have the mind of a scholar- a rather life-weary one, but a student all the same.
If you will go to Vroengarg and search every nook and shadow for the hearts of my kind, I will answer all your questions, as much as I know. And if my answer falls short, I will seek one from my brethren.
But the King has our true names; we've made vows-
You are to be the Keeper of the Vault! Jura cried. Take up your task and find those who need you! We don't care if your two-legged King takes us into his horde- we are stronger as one! We will help you, if you will help us!
The same line, over and over.
Murtagh looked across the hills at Dras-Leona. He could feel the humming, thriving force of life there; the panic of battle, the confidence of the drunk, the pain of the wounded, the hope of the bold.
Thorn nudged his mind- they both heard that thought.
They did not have any vows preventing them from leaving, since they were only required to be at the battle, and that wasn't for several days…
And Murtagh only had a week to live…
He looked towards that damned rock, Helgrind; it was across Leona Lake, an ominous purple mass on the horizon. Had that been where Halia was tortured? He shuddered at the thought and quickly banished it- he couldn't be distracted. But he didn't have to fear for her, if he angered the King…
And Eragon was in there, alone, dying, helpless…
A mental blast knocked Murtagh off of his feet- he hadn't been prepared for the wall to crash into him, overwhelming his defenses, surrounding his mind, threatening to smother him with its weight. It was like a mountain had collapsed on him, like the King was breaking into his mind-
He didn't recognize the voice, or understand how it was even possible, but the message was the same:
MURTAGH, THORN! HELP US, AND WE WILL HELP YOU!
Murtagh, Thorn! Help us, and we will help you!
Murtagh, Thorn! Help us, and we will help you!
Murtagh, Thorn! Help us, and we will help you!
After that, there wasn't really much of a decision left to be made.