Chapter One - Intrusion
Nasuada was pretty sure she wouldn't have made it as an immortal.
For one thing, her mind was entirely too full of all the information and memories she had gathered during her short, mortal life so far, and she couldn't imagine stuffing another few hundred years worth into the already-cramped quarters of her brain. And for another, she was exhausted by queenship after only two years; she couldn't imagine how the Tyrant King Galbatorix could possibly have wanted to be ruler for all of eternity, or how he hadn't thrown in the towel after the first hundred years.
Today was the same as all the other days–busy, frantic, and high-stakes–with every problem of every person in every little village of the kingdom demanding her attention. It was nothing compared to her time leading the Varden, which by comparison looked like a scrappy band of vagrants, easily coordinated with the help of a few trusted friends. Queenship was that times a hundred times a thousand, and Nasuada had to constantly remind herself that each person's problem really was, to them, just as important as the next. When she received complaints that she found ridiculous, she had to take a moment and hide a mad bark of laughter, before approaching the problem as though it were her own, as though she felt as strongly about the matter as whichever subject was complaining at the time. Some days, hiding the madness was harder than others.
However, she did have a cadre of reliable buffers to the onslaught of requests she received–Jormundur, Triana, and Farrica just to start with, and they could often keep the most ridiculous of requests from assaulting her ears. Elva was also a help–after having returned from an unexpected and prolonged absence–Nasuada was embarrassed to admit that she'd missed the unnerving child, who at this point appeared more like a young woman, though she was no older than five. When Elva had reappeared in the castle hallways one day several long months after she'd inexplicably vanished, Nasuada had tried to hold onto her suspicion and resentment, especially when the girl refused to explain anything of her disappearance, but once Elva had resumed her role of protector and advisor, and Nasuada felt the weight of worry lifted from her shoulders, she had been forced to let go of her annoyance and accept the child back into the castle gratefully. Elva knew this, of course–she always knew what made Nasuada uncomfortable–but this meant she also knew how to ease that comfort–and whatever journey she had been on for those few months had seemed to make her more inclined to exercise that ability. The witch-child had returned softer, calmer, more helpful and less spiteful, though she still had her moments of darkness. Nasuada decided not to complain, and refused to listen to Jormundor's well-intentioned but misguided warnings not to trust the "little girl", as he called her. Elva explained to Nasuada that much of the discomfort and worry she felt from Jormundor stemmed from his deep care of–and therefore deep worry for–Nasuada, whose father he had served just as faithfully. So Nasuada forgave Jormundor his short-comings, knowing that in him, unlike Triana and many of the other courtiers, she had not only a trusted advisor, but a dear friend.
Now, as the sun had begun to set and her daily duties were wrapping up–save only a dinner she was scheduled to attend at the home of one of her Lords–Nasuada was hoping she might end the day without a major catastrophe. She was with Farica and Elva in one of the rooms in the castle reserved for her private use–a room she used to get ready in between various events, when a change of clothes or a brief rest was needed. The room had its own name, but she couldn't remember it. All the rooms in the castle seemed to have their own names, and that was a piece of information that could find no place to sit in the confines of her mind. This particular room had a desk and a few comfortable places to sit or lie down, a tall, elaborate mirror for making sure her clothes were perfectly put-together, and a place for setting water and food if she needed to eat alone, which she often did. She preferred not to be hungry when she went for meals or hosted banquets, as she was usually forced to converse too much to actually do any eating, and it was not becoming of the Queen of Alagaesia to stuff her face in front of all her nobles.
So she stood now and allowed Farica to mess with the hem of her evening gown as she tried to spot new age lines along her face.
"You look just the same as you did yesterday," Elva said dryly from her place lying down on one of the couches, not looking in Nasuada's direction. Nasuada dropped her hand from her forehead.
"Everyone thinks you are beautiful, and by the standards of the day of the human race, they are correct," The girl finished, her eyes closed and her small hands folded across her stomach.
"What does that mean 'by the standards of the day'?" Nasuada asked with a little scoff–it somehow seemed that even when Elva complemented her it still felt like an insult.
Farica met Nasuada's frown with a small shrug. The two of them were used to Elva's disposition, and Nasuada had mostly learned to laugh off the meanness, though recently it had been less cutting.
"I only mean," The girl's voice continued behind Nasuada, "That beauty is subjective, and to various races beauty means various things. A werecat would find you hideous."
"Oh. Thank you."
"An elf would find you dull,"
"Very well–"
"And a dwarf would think you too lanky, tall, and pathetically hairless. This doesn't make you inherently ugly."
Nasuada waited a moment more, to see if Elva had something else to say, but the girl seemed satisfied that she had made her point.
"I see," Nasuada said with a small smile, "Well I am glad to know you think I am not inherently ugly."
She heard a little snort from Farica.
"I didn't say I thought that," Elva corrected, but Nasuada just smiled. The girl was being funny, in her own way. Her humor was not like most children, and not like most adults either–especially when addressing the Queen of Alagaesia–but in her own way Elva was attempting to be endearing, and Nasuada had learned to accept what little charm Elva was willing to dispense.
She is not incorrect, though, Nasuada thought, watching the mirror, A werecat would find me hideous.
"Elva–"
At that moment Elva bolted upright on the couch, sparked to life suddenly and staring into the nothingness. Nasuada stopped mid-sentence and watched the girl in the mirror.
"What is–"
Suddenly a sound shook the windows of the castle, a great crash that sent vibrations through the very stones on which they stood. Then a rumbling, rippling sound that came to Nasuada's ears in a great wave, and shook her very bones.
Dragon.
Nasuada's whole body was diffused with heat. She had heard the roar of a dragon before, and she would never forget it. Farica looked up at her, her face suddenly drained of blood, and Nasuada reached for the knife that was always hung at her side, as shouts and screams began to echo down the hallway.
"Elva?" Nasuada demanded, turning from Farica, who hurried over to the desk and grabbed her own small weapon in shaking hands. Nasuada had demanded that all her servants have some way to defend themselves, knowing how many people would be aiming to harm Nasuada one way or the other. She wanted no collateral damage.
Elva was still sitting with the far-off gaze that Nasuada recognize–a gaze that was watching a hundred events play out in a hundred different ways, a gaze that saw all the pain that was about to happen to everyone within a hundred feet of the girl.
The rumble shook the castle again, and matched the pounding in Nasuada's heart. There was a dragon in Ilerea. But whose?
Eragon? That was her first, fleeting, hopeful thought, but then she heard the clang of swords and the shouts of guards, and she knew it could not be him. Why would they fight him?
Then a darker, but still more hopeful thought–Murtagh?
The dragon roared again, clattering Nasuada's very teeth.
"Elva!" She barked, her panic growing as the sounds grew closer and louder. Elva snapped out of her daze, just as Nasuada began to hear a humming whine from behind her.
"Drop the knife!" Elva demanded, her voice shrill.
"What is it?" Nasuada barked back, her hand still clenched around the hilt.
"Both of you, drop the knives!" Elva barked again, as the high-pitched whine grew. The sound seemed to becoming from the mirror, but it disappeared among the blood pulsing through Nasuada's head and the sounds of combat growing closer to her door.
Drop the knife.
She tried to sort through Elva's command, which went against her well-earned self-preservation instincts, which told her to not, under any circumstances, let go of her weapon when an attack was imminent. She heard guards shouting outside her door, the blast of explosions, or magic, or who knew what shaking the stones.
"Now!" Elva shrieked, and Farica obeyed, placing her knife down on the desk–Nasuada had instructed her to always follow Elva's commands when it came to situations like this. But could Nasuada follow her own instruction?
The girl's fearful purple eyes bored into Nasuada's head. It had been long since she had placed her confidence in this child, taken her in as a trusted bodyguard and seer, placed her life in the girl's hands. Elva had never led her into danger; had never allowed her to be hurt when it could be prevented.
Drop the knife.
Just as Nasuada heard the first bang against the door handle, she forced her grip to loosen on the hilt of her blade and heard it clatter to the floor as a blast of magic sent the doors bursting open.
Nasuada held her breath as the world began to move in slow-motion, and a man with a sword flew into the room, raising the blade above his head and hurling it towards her with a shout. She watched as it rotated end over end, flinging towards her, certain to pierce her heart. She closed her eyes and prepared for the end, and then she felt the whoosh of air as the sword flipped past her and embedded itself in the standing mirror with a shattering crash.
Nasuada gasped for breath as Farica shrieked, and she opened her eyes again to look at the man–dark haired, stern-eyed, and dressed in worn traveler's clothes, standing frozen without breath, an arrow protruding through his side.
Murtagh, Nasuada realized.
"Your majesty," The young man grunted, before collapsing to the ground.
Suddenly the world snapped into focus. Farica was screaming, guards were streaming into the room, a dragon's roars echoed down the stone hallway, and Nasuada rushed to Murtagh's side, turning him over and watching blood spread into his tunic.
"Murtagh!" She cried out as a chorus of voices shouted at her to get away from him. Half a dozen bruised, disoriented guards were standing with their weapons raised, a few pointed bows in their direction, one of them had hit its mark.
"Someone get a healer!" Nasuada demanded.
"Your majesty, please, get away from him!"
"Fetch a healer, now!"
Murtagh's eyes were fluttering in a half-conscious state. His sleeve was torn and his arm was bleeding, a cut above his eye dripped onto the floor, and the arrow through his side spread blood throughout his torso. A thousand questions flooded Nasuada at once, as one of the guards ran to fetch a healer and the others pleaded with her to get away from the dangerous man.
What was he doing here? Why had he thrown a sword at her? How did a plain soldier's arrow get through his wards?
Then Nasuada looked through the shattered doorway down the hall, where dozens of guards stood shakily, or lay down, or limped towards her, all wounded and disheveled. And she realized that the arrow hadn't broken through any wards–the wards had failed, because Murtagh had fought his way through the entire castle garrison on his way to her. The last few blows had hit their marks after the ward magic gave out.
Nasuada tried to catch her breath, her arms shaking even as she heard the rush of feet that told her a healer was coming. She felt Elva standing above her, and raised her eyes to the girl with a silent question.
"You would have thrown it," Elva explained dully. "You would have killed him."
Nasuada felt Murtagh's blood soaking her fine sleeves, and she turned her gaze to the knife which lay on the carpet-covered stone, and the sword which had embedded itself into the now-shattered mirror. Zar'roc. The red sword that matched the red of Murtagh's dragon.
Another roar shook the castle, and Nasuada returned to her senses.
Thorn.
Triana and one of the castle healers were suddenly at her side, bending down with astonished expression.
"Ma'am, that is–"
"I know who he is, heal him!" Nasuada demanded, extricating herself from Murtagh's body and making way for the healers, who began muttering and scanning his body with raised hands.
"Don't you dare let him die," She commanded, and Triana nodded with a dark look.
Then, Nasuada took off down the hallway just as Jormundur ran towards her.
"Milady–"
"–there's a dragon in the upper courtyard," Nasuada said, marching towards the very same courtyard as the guards flanked her.
"Yes–so, please–"
"I'm going to see him."
"What?! You can't–"
Jormunder grabbed Nasuada's arm, but she whirled towards him.
"One of my men just shot his rider–"
"–because he was trying to kill you!"
"If he'd wanted to kill me, I would be dead, I think he made that abundantly clear. But if I don't keep his dragon from rampaging into the castle, then someone is going to end up dead."
"Your majesty he's attacked over thirt–"
"How many guards are dead?"
"What?"
"How many are dead, Jormundur?"
Jormundur stood opening and closing his mouth, his face flushed, shaking his head.
"N–none, but–"
"Exactly. Are you going to try and convince me that was a coincidence?"
"I–"
"Thorn will not hurt me."
Nasuada turned, then, knowing she could not waste time convincing Jormundur. She wasn't quite convinced herself–she had met Thorn for no more than a few minutes, and for most of his life he had been her sworn enemy. If he thought Murtagh was dying because of her…
She steeled her nerves and clenched her hands tightly to stop them shaking.
When she stepped into the fading sunlight of the second-level courtyard, everything was chaos. Rows and rows of Ilerea guards were congregating on the various balconies, their weapons pointed at the massive shape of a blood-red dragon who stood crouched low on the edge of the courtyard, his descent having destroyed the railings behind him. Thorn's growls reverberated in Nasuada's skull as he swung his head back and forth at the terrified guards, daring any one of them to fire the first shot. Nasuada knew that he could cook most of them in their armor with one pass of fire, and it seemed they knew it too, because none of the frightened men made the first move.
"Nasuada, please–" Jormundor whispered, gently tugging on her arm.
"Let me do this," She said quietly, removing herself from his grip.
"Thorn!" She called, stepping past the front row of guards, startling several of them as the dragon swung his great head in her direction. She stepped carefully forward with her hands raised, her heart pounding and her limbs tingling with the urge to run. Despite her almost-certainty that Thorn was not there to kill her, Nasuada felt her limbs weaken at the terrifying sight of the glittering dragon.
She took a breath.
"My name is Nasuada," She said as calmly as she could, her voice bouncing off the stones. "We have met before… do you remember me?"
Thorn's head tilted, his eyes deep pools of red, a thin smoke rising from his nostrils. He ducked his head in what Nasuada interpreted as a nod, and she nodded in return.
"It is… good to see you again," She said. "May I speak with you in your mind?" She asked, but this elicited a stronger reaction. Thorn growled low in his chest and his clawed scraped against the stone, diggin fissures into the pavement. Nasuada took this as a no.
"Very–very well," She said, trying to keep her calm, "Your rider is wounded, as I am sure you can tell."
Thorn growled in agreement, his great head low to the ground.
"B–but my healers are working on him even now, and they have my strict command to heal him to the best of their abilities."
Don't let him die, Nasuada thought desperately, not only for the sake of every person in the city, who would feel Thorn's rage if his rider succumbed to his injuries, but for herself, who was suddenly flooded with a mixture of frantic emotions upon seeing Murtagh for the first time in two years.
"I would ask you… to agree not to harm any of my guards here," Nasuada gestured. "They are not your enemy, nor am I."
Thorn merely blinked.
"I give you my word," Nasuada said with a loud voice for all the frightened soldiers to hear, "That none of them will attack you if you do not attack them," She said, receiving some skeptical glances.
"Can you promise me this? So I can go back and attend to your rider and make sure he is alright?"
Nasuada wondered what was keeping Thorn from communicating with her–they had spoken in their minds before, if only briefly, and she would think that such an important matter would motivate him to open his thoughts to her, with Murtagh incapacitated. But he merely ducked his head in another nod, and crept back a few feet, to show his intent on peace.
"Thank you," Nasuada said with a slight curtsy. Then she raised her voice to the men.
"The dungeons for any man who attacks this dragon!" She said, and all the quivering soldiers echoed a yes, your majesty, while keeping their weapons raised.
Nasuada took a breath, and turned back to the destroyed hallway, passing Jormundur, who fell into line alongside her.
When she made it back to the shattered doors of the room, Murtagh's body was no longer there. Triana and the other healer had disappeared as well, moved to the closest healer's quarters, which was a short but confusing walk up several flights of stone stairs.
Nasuada listened for commotion in the courtyard as she trudged through the castle, cursing for the hundredth time how intolerably large the place was, and how impossible it was to get anywhere conveniently. It did remind her of Tronjheim, though, and sometimes the vastness was comforting–the ability to disappear into any number of hallways and unoccupied rooms, the feeling that you were both alone and surrounded by people.
When she'd passed the group of guards who had posted themselves by the healer's quarters, she entered a small, light-filtered room that smelled of crushed grass, and found Triana and Milar–the old woman who was the castle herbalist–fretting over Murtagh, who was lying unconscious on a wooden slab table.
"How is he?" Nasuada asked briskly, keeping emotion from her voice as she saw Murtagh's pale face, his tunic open and revealing a bloody wound. The arrow had been removed, and Triana was muttering some spell over him while Milar crushed up a red root of some kind.
"Your majesty," The old woman bowed, but Triana did not take her eyes off Murtagh as she concentrated.
"He–he should live," Milar offered, glancing at the sorceress as she chanted, "Long as he wakes up."
"Can he wake up?"
"Oh, certain, yes, but… well…"
Triana finished her muttering and straightened, opening her eyes. The wound in Murtagh's side seemed to knit itself together–not fully, as Nasuada might have expected from a powerful magician like Eragon or the Elf-Queen Arya, but just enough that it wasn't spewing blood any longer.
"There's no reason he can't wake up, now we've stopped the blood loss," Triana muttered, her perpetually-annoyed demeanor twinged with exhaustion from working the spell. "And certainly if he did, he could fix himself," She cast a disapproving glance in Murtagh's direction, "But I can't trigger him awake. His defenses are too strong, even while unconscious."
"So what is to be done?" Nasuada asked as Milar descended and began putting salves and pastes on Murtagh's wounds.
"Wait," Triana shrugged, "Or you could ask the dragon."
Nasuada saw Milar shudder. She understood what Triana meant–if anyone could get into Murtagh's mind while unconscious and help him wake, it would be Thorn.
"Let's not… jump to that just yet. In any case, he couldn't get back here, and I don't think it wise to move Murtagh again."
Triana nodded, another shrug, and walked to a wash basin to clean the blood from her hands as Elva slipped through the door and pattered to Nasuada's side. Elva was hunched and uneasy, a demeanor that Nasuada recognized from times when she was intensely feeling others' pain. She glanced at Murtagh with a frown.
"Jormundur," Nasuada turned to her advisor, "Give me a recount of what happened."
"Yes ma'am. The dragon was spotted in the clouds just moments before descending towards the castle–it seems they–they were making for the second courtyard; f–for you specifically; they knew where to land and which door to take. Of course as soon as he was spotted the horns were blown and the guards defended, but it seems they were… protected."
"Right. The wards," Nasuada nodded, keeping her gaze away from Murtagh as Milar administered her healing treatments.
"Well, the guards… they were no match, unfortunately. The spellcaster assigned to them was crippled; but I've just been told he's recovering."
Nasuada nodded, feeling reassured. No deaths. Murtagh had killed no one–not her and not any of her guards. Whatever he was doing here, he hadn't come to murder.
"He made it almost to your doors before the wards broke, then the men got in a few strikes but…" Jormundur shrugged. "The dragon is unharmed."
"Good."
Jormundur looked skeptical–their ideas of good were quite different.
"Any news from elsewhere in the city? Anything related? Anyone else besides these two?"
Jormundur rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and grimaced.
"Well, there was… it likely isn't relevant–"
"–just tell me," Nasuada interrupted as the door opened behind them and Lord Calthwaite–one of her nobles–slipped into the room quietly.
"One of the wives of your personal guard was attacked this morning, rendered unconscious. Then not five minutes ago she woke up to find their horse stolen. It's likely a wandering vagabond but the t–"
"The timing is suspicious," Nasuada agreed, staring at the floor and trying to calm her racing mind.
"Your Majesty," Lord Calthwaite said in the lull, bowing low as he approached her, "I came as soon as I heard, I pray to know you are unharmed."
"I am, Lord Calthwaite, you may pass the news to the other Nobles at your leisure," Nasuada returned cordially. She did not particularly like this man–a former member of Galbatorix's court who, like many others, had claimed enforced servitude by magic as the only reason he had served the Tyrant King.
He, however, was far more tame than those Nasuada had dismissed from service, or punished with prison sentences. He had been a merchant of fine goods and wine, not exactly a war general, but still Nasuada felt uneasy about having members of Galbatorix's court in her circle. She had made the move in an effort to preserve the loyalty of the people who had resented the rebellion, and it had worked. The tumultuous first few months of her reign had given way to a solidified kingdom of loyal subjects who, if not eager to have a former-Varden member from the Wandering Tribes as their sovereign, were content to live their lives under her and her nobles. The nobles, in exchange for places of honor and houses of comfort, spread their approval for her far and wide. Lord and Lady Calthwaite were such as these–willing to serve whoever was easiest and most lucrative, and too cowardly to do any real harm, Nasuada had deemed. Lord Calthwaite was also a very smooth talker, and had thus been elected speaker and liaison between the nobles and herself, an additional honor which made him an important man to please.
"Is there anything we can do to assist you in this dire hour?" The lord asked, bowing again, his fine cape brushing the stone floor.
"No, my lord, I am safe and the situation is well under control."
The lord nodded, but glanced at Murtagh, lying pale on the wooden slab. Elva moved behind Nasuada and stood next to Murtagh, glowering in Lord Calthwaite's direction.
"I am… sure your majesty is aware who–"
"Yes, I know who he is. The dragon in the courtyard was a clue."
Lord Calthwaite blanched.
"I–I see."
"I would beseech you to keep the details of the situation quiet for now, my lord. The nobles need only know that there was an incident, and that I am unharmed. Until the rider awakes and we are able to discern what has happened, I do not want any rumors spreading. For the safety of the city."
Lord Calthwaite bowed.
"Of course, your majesty."
Nasuada nodded, and Lord Calthwaite took the cue to dismiss himself, casting an uneasy glance towards Elva.
"My lady, I would ask that we move this conversation to an inner chamber, where you might be safer."
"Safe from whom, Jormundur?"
"From…" Jormundur gestured vaguely. "Well from him, for starters, and from whoever he might be working with."
"Murtagh and Thorn landed on the castle ramparts in broad daylight and stormed their way into a heavily-guarded hall, making as much noise as humanly possible and allowing their wards to be hacked away to nothing, before throwing a sword at a mirror. Thorn has not forced himself into this castle, as I am sure he could do if he were of a mind, and by your own account not one single person has died."
"There were some significant injuries."
"If he wanted me dead, I would be dead," Nasuada stated again. "I am therefore no safer than if I am at his side, because clearly he is more capable of defending me than thirty of my own men."
Jormundur bristled, but he couldn't argue.
"What I would like to do now, is go look at that mirror."
Jormundur blinked.
"He went to an awful lot of trouble to destroy it," Nasuada said with pursed lips, "I am beginning to wonder why."
When Nasuada stepped through the splintered timbers of the doorway, the name for this particular room reappeared in her memory as if it had grown there for the first time. The Map Room. This, of course, was partly because of the elaborate tapestry that took up most of one wall–a detailed picture of Alagaesia at the start of her reign–a gift from some Governor of some city during her coronation.
The Map Room was in shambles, the doorway broken open, mud from the guard's boots staining the fine carpet, a sword jammed through the splintered wood of a once-elegant mirror, and Nasuada's knife still lying on the ground. She thought of Elva's warning, you would have killed him, and shuddered, thinking how close she had been to ending Murtagh's life only moments after being reunited with him for the first time since their captivity in Uru'Baen. She bent to pick up the knife. To think that such a small thing could have done damage to one as powerful as Murtagh–but he had allowed his wards to be torn to shreds, and had used all his energy trying to reach her in time… in time for what?
Nasuada raised her eyes to the remains of the mirror, where Zar'roc sat protruding from the wooden board like a knife through a well-done steak. She frowned, scanning the ground and seeing that there were no shards of glass littering the fine carpet.
"Who cleaned up the glass?" Nasuada asked, turning to Jormundur, who hung back nervously in the doorway, watching for threats.
"Milady?"
"The glass, from the mirror–someone cleaned it up…" She pointed to the bare carpet. The former mirror was now just a wooden board with gilded edges–no shards remained inside the frame either.
"I gave orders that no one touch anything," Jormundur said, and he looked to one of the guards posted in the doorway.
"No, sir, no one's entered, on my life," The young man confirmed nervously.
"Where'd the glass go, then?"
Nasuada gestured, her annoyance growing. Too many questions and no one to ask them to.
The man shrugged and shook his head, flustered,
"I–I apologize, your majesty, I cannot say. No one has entered since they took… the rider away."
Nasuada and Jormunder met each other's gaze. A dragon in the courtyard. A self-exiled rider returned after two years. A disappearing mirror, and… and the shrill whining noise that had been emanating from it just before Murtagh's attack. Nasuada remembered it, a background noise in an otherwise frantic scene. What had made the noise? And how could a pane of glass disappear without a trace?
"Keep this room locked down, Jormundur. I don't want anyone cleaning it."
"Yes, your majesty."
Elva had remained in the healers quarters at Murtagh's side when Nasuada went to investigate The Map Room, and when she returned she found the girl sitting on a tall stool, frowning in Murtagh's direction as though puzzled by the unconscious man. Nasuada did not like to see Elva puzzled; it did not happen often.
"He was not here to kill me," Nasuada stated, half-questioning, standing now across from Elva as Milar tended to linens in the corner. She had ordered the guards to shut the door and remain outside, a command which was met with heavy protests that were only silenced when she allowed Fryan, one of Triana's spellcasters and a veteran of the war against Galbatorix, to remain inside.
Elva shook her head.
"No."
"Do you know why he came?"
Elva squinted.
"Someone would have killed you. If he hadn't stopped it."
Nasuada raised an eyebrow.
"Someone?"
Elva tilted her head as if trying to read Murtagh's mind. Nasuada knew from experience it would not be easy, but if anyone could break through his iron-hard defenses it would be this girl.
"Hmm. I don't know," The girl said dreamily, "Maybe someone… maybe something."
Nasuada sighed.
"And is that something still a threat?" Nasuada asked, Elva's crypticness only adding to her unease. The girl frowned deeper.
"Yes, but not to us. Not now. Maybe to him."
"Maybe?" Nasuada felt her pulse quicken at the thought of Murtagh in danger. What had he done to get here? How had he possibly known of her imminent danger?
"He has to wake up," Elva said, her voice sick with urgency. "We have to wake him up."
"How?"
"I don't know! Ask one of your healers."
"They don't know either."
"Well don't ask me."
"Elva…"
Elva huffed, scrunching her face in discomfort, irritable from the pain.
"Let me talk to the dragon," Elva said then, and Nasuada blinked in surprise.
"Thorn?"
"No, the other dragon," Elva gave her a sardonic look.
"He wouldn't talk to me."
"Yes. To you. He'll talk to me."
Elva hopped off her stool and trotted for the door, and Nasuada, feeling helpless, followed after, passing by Fryan and commanding him to keep watch over Murtagh.
The way back to the upper courtyard was faster, now that she had familiarized herself with the turns, and they made it back into the open before the light had disappeared from the sky, just when the torches were being lighted throughout the city–the most beautiful time of day, in Nasuada's opinion.
Thorn was sitting very still in the same place as before, though he was more relaxed–not entirely at ease, but sitting with his massive forelegs crossed, his head resting on top of them, his tail twitching slowly. The guards, too, had taken a stance of relaxed readiness; some sat or leaned against walls, others stood at attention, as though taking turns guarding the massive dragon. When Nasuada emerged with Elva at her side, though, they all snapped to attention and focused again on the beast before them.
Thorn's eyes followed Nasuada an Elva as they entered the stone courtyard, but his head remained rested on his forelegs. Nasuada slowed as they approached, but Elva kept up a steady trot on her thin legs, until she was standing mere feet from Thorn's head, and he raised it curiously.
Elva bowed and spoke some quick words in the ancient language that Nasuada did not catch; this was another skill the girl had acquired during her travels–an almost-mastery of the language of magic. This skill did not particularly please Nasuada, who already felt like she was constantly trying to keep up with the girl in every other matter. Whatever the words she spoke, they seemed to have an effect on Thorn, who growled from deep within his chest and kneaded his claws. Nasuada hoped Elva was not insulting the great dragon; it would not do to have bloodshed now, after Nasuada had demanded protection for the beast. Not to mention the fact that Murtagh would never forgive her if… but that wasn't relevant.
She focused her gaze on Elva, who was now, madly, reaching out a flat a hand towards Thorns head, and patting him on the snout. Nasuada blinked in surprised as some of the guards murmured around her. To her astonishment, Thorn ducked his head and allowed Elva to pat him between the eyes as well. Then she proceeded to march up to his foreleg and climb her way up the massive trunk until she was sitting in the saddle that was strapped to his back.
She must have convinced him to communicate with her in his mind, because the girl seemed to know exactly what she was doing. She reached into Murtagh's saddlebags, pulled out a small silver mirror, and proceeded to throw it to the stones, where it shattered loudly, and, to Nasuada's surprise, dissolved until only the frame was left.
Nasuada's mouth hung open, and the guards were all frozen with shock and fear, waiting for Thorn to react angrily to the broken item. But Elva simply swung herself down from his shoulder and walked back to the ground. Patting his snout once more and giving a little bow, before trotting back over to Nasuada.
"He should wake up now," The girl said as her only explanation. Nasuada stood staring at the remains of the mirror, and the dragon who sat behind it.
"He's going to kill Fryan if we don't hurry," Elva called back dryly.
Then Nasuada turned and hurried after her, as close to a run as it was dignified to be.
Sure enough, when Nasuada and Elva burst through the door of the healers quarters, Milar was screaming and Fryan was writhing on the floor in pain. Murtagh stood above him, half-clothed with a bandaged side, his left hand held out, shaking with energy as his gedwey ignasia glowed and he muttered a spell through gritted teeth.
"Murtagh!" Nasuada cried, horrified at the scene, but Murtagh didn't even look at her. He seemed to be in a trance, his eyes locked on the helpless magician who was curled up in pain. Without hesitation, Elva marched over the writhing man, grabbed a wooden bowl from Milar's table, and bashed Murtagh in the head with it. He crumpled to the ground with a grunt of pain and curled inwards, dazed. Fryan stopped his writhing and Milar huddle in the corner, frozen with fear.
Elva stood over Murtagh, who was wheezing for air and holding his wounded side.
"Stop it!" Elva barked, holding the bowl at her side, as if in threat. Murtagh groaned in pain, and seemed unable to quite catch his breath, but the blow to his head didn't seem to have bothered him. It was almost like he was just-now feeling the wounds inflicted on him from the castle guards. He winced and pushed himself into a sitting position, looking around the room in confusion, from his bandaged side to the magician lying on the ground next to him, to his glowing hand and finally, to Nasuada.
Nasuada felt a shiver when he met her gaze, his eyes confused and afraid, but sparked with life. She saw his recognition, and his mouth moved as though he was trying to say something. But then he saw Elva standing over him, and he looked between the two.
"Thorn…" Was all he said, and she understood the question.
"He's fine. He's in the courtyard," Nasuada explained quickly.
"Are you done? Or are you gonna keep torturing him?" Elva demanded, gesturing to Fryan, who seemed to have passed out.
"What?" Murtagh looked again from the magician, to Elva, to Nasuada. Elva frowned, lowering her bowl.
"Hmm," She said, then she dropped it, evidently deciding Murtagh was no longer a threat.
"What's going on?" Murtagh asked, looking down at his wounded side.
"I might ask you the same thing," Nasuada said coolly, "Since you're the one who threw a sword at my head."
Murtagh looked like he was trying to pick memories out of a sea of confusion. Something was wrong with him. Something strange was going on here.
"I…" He blinked. "Then she didn't… she's gone."
"Who?" Nasuada demanded, growing ever more frustrated with the slow unraveling of this mystery. Murtagh shook his head, as though shooing a fly.
"I n–I need to talk to Thorn."
"You need to talk to me," Nasuada retorted, "I have barely convinced Jormundur not to kill you, but I need to know why you brought your dragon into my castle, nearly killed half my guard and threw a sword at my head!"
"It wasn't–I wasn't aiming for your head."'
"The mirror, then?" Nasuada scoffed, "Y–you nearly got yourself killed just so you could break a mirror?"
Murtagh frowned, looking down at the stones to sort out his muddled thoughts.
"She was using it… skry-traveling… she was going to get in through the mirror."
"Who? Get in where?"
There was a pause. Then Murtagh looked up at her, his dark eyes clear.
"To your room. To kill you."
There was a witch. Bachel. And she used magic that had no words, and she was set on killing Nasuada. Why? Murtagh couldn't say for sure. He had never actually encountered the woman; had heard only whisperings of her presence from various servants and messengers. He had fought a group of men impervious to his power, given charms from her that warded against all magic that used the ancient language. It was, of course, a great secret that magic could even be used without words, and Murtagh had made Nasuada and Jormundur swear in the ancient language not to reveal that knowledge to anyone else. They were alone in the room, as Elva had excused herself as soon as Murtagh woke up, and Murtagh had demanded the others leave before they discussed any further.
Now he sat slumped on a stool with a cup of water in one weak hand, all energy drained from him. He looked tired, and worried; his hair was longer and the bags under his eyes deeper–but there was a strength to him now, that Nasuada had not known before. A calm confidence, a sense of self-ownership that came from freedom. He was tired from hard work, yes, but it was work he had chosen to do himself, not that which had been forced upon him.
Nasuada tried to keep her own questions out of the conversation–where had he been all this time? How had he been faring? Had he found any place to live or rest? Had he talked to his half-brother? Had he made any good companions? She bristled with questions that she wrestled down as Mmurtagh spoke, his voice as haggard as his clothes, clearly having come from a long, harrowing journey.
He explained that he and Thorn had been investigating something–he would not say what–and had come across traces of this witch woman's magic. They had followed her for many months, trying to pin down who she was and what she was doing; there had been strange deaths along the way, disappearances in the towns that she had gone through and blights on nearby forests, and they didn't know why. Somehow she'd been able to track their progress and keep one step ahead of them, and they realized that she had somehow been using scrying despite their wards against it; another element, perhaps, of her wordless magic.
They'd put up extra measures of defense, though, and had nearly cornered her in a village far to the south. Murtagh had gone to the town square to find her, finally get a sight on her, and try to determine who she was working for and what their ultimate goal was. But before he could pick her out from among the crowd of minds, he had been assaulted by an overwhelming, voiceless presence, and his mental defenses had been overcome. But for Thorn, he said, she might have killed him right then, but as it was she had been able to extract much of the information in his mind. Not the most important, he said, and Nasuada knew what he meant, but she had, he knew, ripped from him the image of Nasuada's face. It was after this that he and Thorn had realized that they'd been tricked–they were hunting her down, but she had all the while been luring them in to get this exact information.
"With it, she could get to you in a matter of hours," Murtagh said tiredly, "Her goal was to kill you."
"Why? I–I mean how?"
Murtagh shook his head.
"I don't know. But we knew she intended to kill you, and we knew how she had been managing to outpace us, even on dragonback. She's been skry-traveling through–lakes, mirrors, windows, anything you could scry on… she's figured out how to transfer herself from one place to another almost instantly, like walking through a doorway. She just needs a mirror."
"H–how is that possible?" Nasuada asked, stunned. "I thought the energy needed–"
"–exactly. It should be too much. Somehow she's doing it, though."
"So you broke the mirror…"
"She was about to step through it," Murtagh nodded, his quiet gaze flicking towards her. Nasuada suspected he had some personal questions for her as well.
"Why not just tell us of the threat?" Jormundur put in, "Instead of charging into the castle like a madman!"
"No time," Murtagh said. "If I had descended with Thorn and surrendered to you, and waited for you to decide that you would relay my message to Nasuada, it would've been too late. As it was, we barely made it. We've been traveling for twenty-three hours straight from the village in the south. The only reason she didn't get to you first is because she had to recover her energy, and because of your wards. She couldn't scry you and find out where you were in the castle. She had to wait until you were in front of a mirror for long enough to find it and step through."
Nasuada sat breathless for a moment, blindsided by the fact that she had nearly been killed that day. It wasn't the first time, of course, she'd come close to death many times, had several assassination attempts during her time as Queen, but now it was Murtagh who had saved her life; not Elva, not one of her guards, not Eragon, but Murtagh. Of course she already owed him her life for what he'd done for her in Uru'baen. But this felt different. He'd come across the whole of Alagaesia in a mad rush to save her life; he'd risked himself and, more importantly, his dragon, in order to save her. Nasuada wondered what it had taken him to convince Thorn to go along with this, to fling themselves into danger and hope their wards would out-last the strength of the guards in order for them to reach Nasuada in time.
"And the mirror in your saddlebags?" Nasuada asked, remembering Elva smashing the thing on the courtyard floor.
"We were using it to watch her, once we knew she was hiding in the mirrors. That's how we knew where you were, how to find you, which mirror to destroy."
"But you didn't wake up…"
Murtagh winced, looking uneasy.
"I… I believe I was locked in her mind, for a moment."
"L…"
"When I shattered the mirror in your room, I think she diverted through the nearest mirror she could find–the one I'd taken in my saddlebags. But she couldn't physically manifest, because it was stuck inside the bags, so she sent her mind searching for me from there, extending her reach. Thorn kept his thoughts shut because that was our plan–knowing we had to keep away from her mind probing. But that meant I was vulnerable to attack, and I was trying to defend myself while unconscious. I don't… quite remember, but I think… well with the magician on the floor… I think I thought he was her…"
Murtagh looked reluctantly towards Jormundur.
"Please give him my apologies."
Jormunder just twisted his mouth. The unconscious man had been taken to a different healing room. Whatever Murtagh had been doing to him hadn't left any physical effects, but it did chill Nasuada to think that Murtagh could overpower someone like that–leave him writhing on the ground in agony just the words from his mouth, even while half-conscious.
Magic, She thought as a curse once again.
"You said she was extending her reach…" Nasuada said slowly, her mouth dry, returning to the issue at hand. "Where was she reaching from?"
Murtagh met her gaze.
"Somewhere in the city. Has to be. She would've traveled into whatever mirror she could find, and searched for you from there."
Nasuada and Jormundur glanced at each other. They both knew. The guard's wife. The stolen horse.
"Send someone to investigate," Nasuada said, and Jormundur nodded with a bow. He didn't move though, and Nasuada looked at him discerningly.
"He's not going to hurt me, Jormundur, I think he's made that abundantly clear."
Jormundur looked between Nasuada and Murtagh, reluctant to leave her but unable to disobey an order from his Queen.
"Your majesty," He said finally, bowing briskly and heading for the door. Nnasuada felt her shoulders relax just a little when her and Murtagh were alone–alone, with Murtagh. That hadn't been true since some of the darkest days of her life, when she was certain death was coming at any moment and had no firm hold in her mind except for his presence.
She stared at the door for a long time, reluctant now to turn back to him, and knowing that there were guards hovering on the other side of the door, waiting to burst in and come to her aide.
"And you? What can I do for you? Are you able to heal yourself?" She forced her gaze to remain neutral when she turned to him, feeling free now to observe him as she had wanted to when the others were in the room.
"N–not yet. I'll have to get some energy back."
Murtagh winced as he shifted.
"I do really need to speak with Thorn, though."
"You cannot reach him from here?"
Murtagh twisted his mouth.
"I'm not sure I want to try just yet."
"But you said the woman was gone."
"Most likely."
Nasuada took a breath, nodding tersely.
"Very well. I will take you to him, when you've recovered a bit."
"I'm fine," Murtagh stood, and caught his hand on the stool, swaying a bit. He frowned at his boots, clearly not fine.
"Thorn can wait. I told him you were okay. Elva… spoke with him as well."
He squinted at her.
"She smashed the mirror; that woke you up," Nasuada explained. Murtagh looked distant then, like he was flipping through a dozen memories.
"Would you sit for a while? Eat something and rest? Thorn wouldn't appreciate it if I allowed you to pass out on the stones and break your head open." Murtagh managed the smallest of smirks, before lowering himself back onto the stool.
Nasuada rose, and rifled through Milar's stores for some dried meat and bread.
"I don't think it's proper for the Queen to be serving me food," Murtagh muttered as she returned with a small wooden plate–the companion of Elva's makeshift weapon. Nasuada smirked as she handed the food to Murtagh.
"I'll let the Queen know," She said, and Murtagh took the proffered food. Then, Nasuada had a thought,
"You don't… I mean, do you eat meat?" She asked, knowing Eragon was wont to refuse it, having become attuned to the minds of animals or something. Murtagh nodded and bit into the bread.
"I suppose your brother has the luxury of choosing his meals," Nasuada suggested, remembering Murtagh's story of being on the road for so long. Murtagh seemed to hide a reaction–perhaps how he felt about calling Eragon his brother. Nasuada felt energy leaping in her hands; so many questions fighting to burst from her, so many things she wanted to say to her person who sat before her. Her day had taken such an abrupt turn and she'd been so close to dying that the adrenaline had not yet drained from her.
"H…how have you been? Where have you been?" She asked. Murtagh chewed quietly for a moment, before looking up at her reluctantly.
"I'm sorry, I really… I feel like I need to stand up with you in the room, do you want to sit?"
Nasuada blinked. Then she remembered she was the Queen. Murtagh had lived most of his life among nobles and royalty–no doubt the previous monarch would not dream of serving food to someone or allowing them to sit in his presence.
"Certainly," Nasuada said, and unceremoniously dragged one of Milar's chairs over to join Murtagh. He ducked his head in thanks.
"Like I said, we've been traveling. Here and there. Sometimes with a purpose, sometimes just to keep safe."
"I suppose there's only so long Thorn can stay anywhere without attracting attention," Nasuada said softly. Murtagh nodded, his shoulders hanging tiredly.
"And… has it been… good? Have you found… companionship or…"
Murtagh twisted his mouth staring down at his food. His demeanor was different from the last time she'd seen him–still guarded, as always, and still heavy with old pain, as he had been when she'd first met him in Tronjheim, but this new Murtagh had a gentleness to him. His eyes were not icy and biting, he did not sit proudly, or carry himself like a man ready to fight. She knew he could fight at any moment, of course, but the man who sat before her might just as easily been sitting in a forested glen enjoying a summer's day as in a council of war. Freedom suited him.
"It's mostly just me and Thorn," Murtagh explained softly, "Long-term companionship does not come easily for… someone like me."
He glanced her way briefly.
"A dragon rider?" She asked, and he paused.
"Yeah, that too," He responded, taking another bite. "But we've met good people along the way. The world is full of… beauty. I guess I never really noticed it before."
Nasuada smiled. Murtagh had always been eloquent–well-educated and well-mannered–but in the brief times she'd known him he hadn't been all that poetic.
"Any word from Er–"
"Have you heard–"
They both stopped, and laughed quietly.
"I suppose not," Murtagh said, lowering his head.
"No, no, I… we have scryed, several times. He checks in. It's probably… been a month or two. Time moves so quickly, I'm so busy."
"I can imagine."
Nasuada flattened the pleats of her dress–a gown intended for a dinner that would not be happening now.
"You haven't spoken to him?" She asked. Murtagh shook his head, and she sensed a melancholy to it. She knew Eragon had been interested in finding him again, ever since they parted, and that Murtagh had hidden himself well, but she wondered if it had been a choice, or a result of his own guilt and shame.
"You know… about the training? The dragons?"
Murtagh nodded.
"He's got five, last I was told."
At this Murtagh's whole face changed, his head rose and his eyes sparkled for a moment.
"Five?" He breathed. Nasuada nodded through a smile.
"Yes. Three wild hatchlings, I believe, and two bonded with a rider. An elf child and a dwarf."
Murtagh blinked.
"A–what?"
"Yes," Nasuada nodded, laughing a little, "I'm sorry there's a lot you might not have heard."
Murtagh was smiling now, clearly bewildered by all the news.
"I…" He shook his head in disbelief. "Thorn will be very pleased to hear."
"I'm glad."
Nasuada poured herself some water from one of Milar's pitchers and refilled Murtagh's cup, keeping her hands tightly controlled.
"He misses you," Nasuada commented, "Eragon; he asks about you, if there've been any sightings in the kingdom."
Murtagh drank.
"There would be, if people ever looked up," He said with a touch of humor. Then he sighed, and a heaviness returned.
"I'm sorry for causing you trouble," He said in a determined tone, "Thorn and I will be gone just as soon as we can recover our energy."
He refused to quite look her in the eye, and Nasuada felt a quiet flush of frustration.
"I would be very disappointed if that were the case," She said, controlled. He met her gaze unflinchingly. Then she took a breath, and dove in.
"Murtagh, I have made it known to my nobles from the beginning that I consider you a hero of the war, along with Eragon and Queen Arya. I have only ever spoken highly of you, as has Eragon, and today we are proven right."
"I nearly killed half your guards," Murtagh scoffed.
"Nearly. But you didn't. You certainly could have, and now they all know it. But you didn't."
Nasuada leaned in, growing in her eagerness and excitement.
"I see this as an opportunity. You've just saved my life in a very public way. Once I reveal what's happened to day–the sentiment of the people will be for you. If we lean into this now, we can make it so that you and Thorn don't have to run and wander and hide away, but can be in public, in peace. Respected, and–and beloved. As you should be."
Murtagh looked uneasy, clearly the talk of being out in the open was not to his comfort. But Nasuada knew what he cared about most.
"Think about Thorn," She pleaded, "Think about him having to–to keep himself hidden all the time, to sneak around. It isn't right. He deserves better, doesn't he? Doesn't he deserve to have people respect him? To revere him as they do Saphira?"
Nasuada could see her words working through him. She had hit right on the target, of course. If his esteem for himself was all but nothing, his esteem for Thorn was greater than anything Nasuada could imagine. She knew it hurt him to see Thorn disrespected and downtrodden, and if he wouldn't stand up for himself then maybe he would stand up for his partner.
"I want to have… a banquet, when you are recovered. It will celebrate the thwarting of another attempt on my life, which is important for me as Queen, to demonstrate my power and stability–that I am… unaffected by these attempts to bring me down." Nasuada shifted, "And…it will celebrate the man and dragon who saved my life. And make sure everyone knows what kind of heroes they are, what kind of… allies I have."
Murtagh looked at her skeptically.
"That's a bad idea."
"I disagree. I think it's the perfect idea. I need people I trust to be by my side, Murtagh, and I trust you. I am not content to have you being a–a fugitive in my kingdom–treated like a criminal–"
"–I am a criminal," Murtagh said miserably, and Nasuada stopped up cold.
"Half the nobles in my court.. served Galbatorix," She said, an old anger rising in her, not at Murtagh, but because of him–because he still held onto the guilt of deeds he'd been forced into, because he was the most innocent of all of them and couldn't believe it.
"...they worked for him, supported him, supplied him, but I allowed some to remain in my court because I needed the loyalty of the people. I needed to keep the peace." Nasuada forced her voice to remain calm. "They all claim, of course, to have been forced into servitude with oaths and magic. I believe that's true for some. But it is impossible for me to determine who is telling the truth and who is covering up their past. You…" She pointed a determined finger at him, "Are the one person I know for certain did not serve Galbatorix willingly."
He wouldn't look at her, but she hoped he could hear the urgency in her tone. She had been envisioning this moment for two years, thinking through this speech every night before she fell asleep, trying to convince the broken man in the tower at Uru'baen that he would not have to remain broken under her rule.
"I need you to be free to do as you will, to go where you decide, to be unencumbered by the fear of being discovered," She pleaded, "Because I know that you will use your freedom to help Alagaesia."
She let that sit for a while, hoping the words were sinking in through Murtagh's armor.
"It'll cause trouble for you. Especially with the dwarves," He murmured, picking at the hem of his tunic. Nasuada felt a twist in her heart. Yes, especially for the dwarves.
"Leave me to deal with the dwarves," She dismissed, knowing he was right. It would be a problem, but it would be a problem she would take on willingly, if it meant freeing him of the last chains that still held him tied to his previous life.
"Can you talk it over with Thorn, at least?" She asked. Murtagh sighed, and placed his plate down on the wooden slab.
"We'll have to burden you for a few days anyway, to recover," He said, "I can't speak for Thorn, but… I will attend whatever you wish me to attend."
He met her gaze reluctantly, and she smiled. She allowed herself the small indulgence of placing a hand over his.
"Thank you," She said softly, "This will be a great help to me."
It was true, what she had said–showing that she was defended by powerful and mysterious allies such as Murtagh and Thorn would be good for her public image, and for those Galbatorix-loyalists who still resented her heavily, it would be a strong statement in her favor to have Galbatorix's former lieutenant at her side. So she allowed him to think that he was doing it for her sake. But mostly she wanted him to be free, wanted him to feel as she did–that his actions during the battle of Uru-baen had been nothing short of heroic, and that whatever sins he might have committed before then, he had equaled them with deeds of valor, and goodness, and self-sacrifice. That was the Murtagh she saw, amidst the dark strands of hair and the heavy shoulders, the guarded looks and the sadness. He was good. That she knew.
When Nasuada had emerged from the hall into the courtyard of soldiers with Murtagh at her side, shuffling along slowly, there had been a tense silence. She had announced, firmly, that Murtagh of The Riders had just saved her life, thwarted an evil plot to bring down the kingdom, and saved the city from great disaster. She commended the soldiers for their brave attempt at defense, and promised them all raises, and that those who had been wounded would be seen immediately by the members of Du Vrangr Gata, given special permission to be healed by magic as much as was possible.
"I pray you will let go of any resentment you may hold towards Rider Murtagh and his noble dragon," Nasuada said, her voice traveling across the courtyard to the various wounded men, "And turn your anger instead towards me. For it is my fault you were wounded. It was in my defense that they acted as they did, and my safety that caused your hurt. I apologize deeply for your troubles, and I hope to earn your forgiveness."
Nasuada dipped her head as low as would be respectable of the queen. Of course, after this speech, none of the soldiers could stew on their resentment, as it would mean being angry towards her whom they had sworn to defend. She had dismissed them to their usual posts then, and sent a messenger to make sure extra portions of ale and food were available at that evening's garrison dinner.
Then Nasuada joined Murtagh at Thorn's side, as the great dragon ducked his head and allowed Murtagh to stroke his neck, nuzzling his warm nostrils against Murtagh's wounded side. Whatever conversation they were having, it seemed Thorn was on the disapproving end; Nasuada imagined the frantic chase across the country and perilous dive into danger on her behalf had not been the dragon's idea. She ducked her head with a smile.
"He would like to say hello," Murtagh said, "If that's alright. There are no hostile minds within range."
Nasuada nodded, feeling a flush of excitement. It was an honor to speak with a dragon–even as queen–and Nasuada still felt a sense of awe whenever she touched the mind of one so old and mighty.
She stood forward, and curtsied, carefully lowering the defenses she kept up around her mind, and touching Thorn's, whose thoughts felt like the curling of many strands of music overlapping each other–sometimes in harmony, sometimes in discord. There was a darkness, a confused, twisted nature to it, but also a beauty, a peaceful rhythmic calm, the determined strength of a dragon who had fought since the day he was born.
Greetings, Nasuada Nightstalker, His voice hummed in her head, and Nasuada took a breath to steady herself.
Greetings to you, Thorn, well-met.
Hmmm. No. Poorly met, such an occasion as this.
Nasuada almost laughed. She had not expected a wordy banter with a dragon–it seemed Thorn was as well-spoken as his rider.
You are correct, of course. Poorly met, but glad nonetheless. And you have my thanks, for saving my life.
It is my rider who saved your life, Thorn dismissed.
And your help will not be forgotten.
If that is so, would you tell your healers to fix my rider? Their magic has worked but little, and he is in pain, though he would not say so. I would lend him my own strength, such as I have left, to heal himself, but he refuses that also.
Nasuada grimaced.
I am sorry, truly, Thorn Bjartskular, but my healers are nothing compared to your own power. They have done their best for now. I can offer some of my own strength, though, in payment of my life-debt.
Mmmm, no, Thorn rumbled, kneading his claws against the ground, My rider would certainly not accept that. But your offer is kind.
Thorn then turned, and said something to Murtagh, who nearly rolled his eyes with a sigh. Thorn almost seemed to smile, and swung his great head back in Nasuada's direction.
I will force him to accept a warm bed and a good dinner, Thorn said then, And that will have to do for now.
And for you?
For me?
Yes. What can I get for you? I can have my men make you a soft place to lie in one of our rooms, and a–a cow, or a barrel of mead.
Mmmm, I prefer to sleep under the open sky and warm myself in the sun, Thorn responded in a hum, And I do not enjoy the strong drink of the two legs–Murtagh drinks enough for the both of us. I will, however, accept a cow, if you are offering.
He ducked his head respectfully. Nasuada was struck by his deference and humility–not usual traits among dragons, or so she'd heard.
It will be done. She curtsied again.
It had taken some doing, but she'd managed to coordinate a bed for Murtagh in the first room off the hallway to the courtyard, and a whole steer to be slaughtered and hauled up, and as many soft bales of hay as could be found, to create a bed for Thorn. The poor stable boys whose task it was to deliver the hay were shaking with fright as the giant dragon calmly rose and stepped out of their way, allowing them to scatter the hay on the floor.
Thorn had thanked her, and promised to attend her banquet with Murtagh, and told her also that he thought she was as beautiful as the night sky, which she found a strange compliment to receive from a dragon, but which she accepted nonetheless.
When she finally returned to her own quarters for the evening and allowed Farica to undo her blood-stained dress and help her bathe, she couldn't take her mind off the dragon and rider sleeping inside her castle. A whirl of emotions fluttered through her–nervousness and excitement, fear and trepidation, joy and bewilderment. What did it mean? What would happen now that the thing she had been anticipating for two years had finally come to pass? Had Murtagh been thinking about her as much as she had thought about him in the past two years? Had he missed her during his travels? Did he notice the lines of age from the intervening two years? Had he really been unattached during all that time?
She tried to tamp down the more unreasonable, girlish thoughts among all this flurry. Murtagh was an ally and a potential public figurehead, not a village boy for her to daydream about. She had no reason to think that he saw her as anything more than a respected monarch. Whatever had happened between them in Uru-baen had been an entirely different affair–the desperation of the situation had inflated things, made emotions more potent. She had expected imminent death and he had been drowning in despair; they clung to each other, it was only natural. Now, however, they were on an even plain. They were both free and responsible for their own actions–and she had to look at the situation as an adult. As a Queen. Someone had just tried to murder her, and he'd saved her life–as any rider might do. It was the same as if Eragon had come to her aid, so she tried to convince herself. But it wasn't exactly true. She would not be so flustered about Eragon sleeping a few hallways away.
Word had spread through the city before the sun had gone down about a dragon attack on the citadel. Then it spread again the next morning that the dragon had saved the life of the queen–the same dragon, it was remarked, that had been one of Galbatorix's vassals, and had then betrayed the Tyrant King and helped Eragon Shadeslayer bring down the empire. The talk was not all of the dragon, though, because Murtagh had spent much of his life in the city that was formerly called Uru-baen, and the talk surrounding him was not only of his deeds during the battle of Uru-baen, but of his life in the courts before then, of his deeds as Galbatorix' lieutenant, of his mysterious mother whom he shared with the famous Eragon, and of his father Morzan, whose named had been feared and revered alongside Galbatorix's. Some said he had come to take over the throne. Some said he had come to kill Queen Nasuada, but was mind-washed by the witch child who was always found at the Queen's side, and was now a raving mad man in the castle dungeons. Nasuada hoped the rumors would level out, and that the people would be convinced of Murtagh and Thorn's innocence and bravery before too long–before Murtagh took it upon himself to leave the city and spare Nasuada any more trouble.
If the people feared this new rider and his dragon, though, their fear certainly did not overcome their curiosity. The lower courtyard–when it was open to the public during the day, was flocked with people just sauntering in to catch a glimpse of the bright-red sunbathing dragon. Men who had fought in the war–alongside or against Galbatorix–recounted stories of seeing the ruby-colored beast in action; his fearsome fire-bellows and terrifying roar. The castle guards were sought after for any news on the mysterious visitors, and all the former members of the Varden who lived in the city were suddenly celebrities for their equally as riveting tales of Saphira's prowess. They were brought into the square to make comparison–was this red dragon bigger? Was his tail shorter? Did he breathe the same color fire? Were his scales as bright?
If Thorn minded the attention, he didn't show it. Mostly his back was to the crowd and he left his head resting on his forelegs. When Murtagh emerged during the day and gingerly climbed up on Thorn's leg, there was an excited murmuring amidst the crowd, hoping to see the pair take off into the sky. But they were disappointed when Murtagh–with the reluctant help of one of the terrified stable boys–undid the straps of the saddle and took it off to make Thorn more comfortable.
Triana came to see to Murtagh's wound again–he had tried to heal himself that morning after rising, but had been unsuccessful, though whether this was because of his exhaustion from their marathon race or because of something else, Nasuada couldn't tell. He seemed disturbed.
Triana was stiff and unfriendly to Murtagh, even more stiff and unfriendly than usual, and while she did her utmost to heal the wound over, it was clear she did not find any joy in the endeavor. Nasuada understood the resentment–she was not alone in it–Murtagh had likely killed more than one member of the Du Vrangr Gata. He would find resentment everywhere he went, and while Nasuada had seen his valor in action, the others only had her word to go off of, and even a Queen's word could not erase the memories of war.
Still, the mood around the castle was mostly of curiosity regarding the rider and his dragon who had driven back the palace guard, and when Nasuada announced a banquet in their honor to be held in two days' time, most of the staff had taken to the idea with gusto.
Murtagh remained in his room for most of the day, sleeping and eating and drinking and sleeping again. If he was not there, he was curled up beside Thorn's head, resting against his neck amid the thick layer of straw and basking in the red light that shone off his scales. Nasuada liked to see him like this–he seemed most at peace when he was close to Thorn, and the peace made a change in his features that Nasuada found becoming.
She spent little time with the pair, as she had to see to a host of regular duties, as well as order preparations for a last-minute banquet and address security concerns regarding the near-miss assassination attempt and the witch-woman Bachel. The report from the guards wife had been of little help–she'd been going about her daily chores in the early afternoon, when she heard a bump and a slosh behind her, and she turned to find a dripping-wet woman standing in her home. What the woman looked like she couldn't say–perhaps pale, perhaps of darker skin; perhaps she had straight long hair, perhaps she had no hair at all. She was naked, that was one thing the woman remembered, but she couldn't describe anything else about the figure, before it had rushed her, and she was unconscious. Then suddenly she had woken up alone, and heard their family mule calling out in fright. When she'd gone to check, their horse was gone.
Murtagh said it was likely the woman had skry-traveled through the reflection of the water basin, was indistinguishable because she had not fully returned to herself, and was naked because she could not bring any tangible items through skry-traveling. Nasuada found the thought dizzying–that someone could unmake and remake themselves somewhere else through magic. That a person could be on one end of the country and appear on the other in mere minutes? Murtagh said this was unlikely, as the act still required energy, and the farther one traveled the more energy it would take, but still, the thought that any reflective surface could be a dark corner for an evil sorceress to hide in made Nasuada's skin crawl.
All the mirrors in the castle were removed from their places and packed away tightly in a guarded room–much to the chagrin of some of the noblewomen and dignitaries who were visiting, and unable to check their reflections. Water basins were covered, fountains were allowed to drain, and windows were covered in dust to lessen their reflectivity. It was an odd juxtaposition–the bustle of preparing for an elegant party and the tension of possible danger lurking around every corner. Nasuada found herself splitting her feelings into carefully-guarded sections, as she had during the war. She could only tackle one problem at a time, and she would not waste any energy worrying about the next problem before she got to it.
Jormundur added to her personal guard, and Elva was instructed to stick close, though Nasuada noticed that the girl avoided being in the room with Murtagh unless he was by Thorn's side. She would find Elva sitting on the floor at Thorn's feet, rubbing his scales and apparently conversing in her mind, but she had very little to say to Murtagh. The day before the banquet Nasuada dared to ask why this was, and all Elva said was,
"He hurts too much."
When the evening of the banquet arrived the city was full of local dignitaries who would not miss a chance for finery and revelry, last-minute though it had been. Everyone wanted to see the new dragon and rider that the Queen had taken as vassals–for this was the new rumor, that Murtagh had been sent by Eragon to swear fealty to her and be by her side in his stead.
As evening fell and torches lit up the castle, Nasuada donned a hastily-made but stunning new dress, so very different from her meager wardrobe during her time as leader of the Varden. With no looking glass to admire herself in, she relied on Farica to tell her she looked well, and allowed her maidservant to make the finishing touches to her hair and face, and to donn her jewelry.
"Lovely, milady," Farica offered with a little bow.
Nasuada went over the list of security measures that Jormundur had implemented as they walked together down to the second great hall–which was the smaller of the two halls in the castle, but which had one end opened to a large garden, and therefore had suitable access for a dragon.
Before she pushed through a pair of double doors into the hall, she took a steadying breath, and aligned herself with her purpose for the night:
Assert your strength, and restore Murtagh's reputation, She reminded herself. These were the reasons for all the finery–to show she was undaunted by fierce opposition, and to show the people that she had fierce allies.
When she entered the party she was greeted with a chorus of Your Majesties as she passed, smiling graciously and accepting the hand of as many nobles as she could manage. Most of them she felt well-enough towards, and bore them no ill will. Some were particularly irksome or particularly conniving; some she actively disliked and some she was suspicious of. Very few she admired and looked to for advice. She had ejected those previous servants of Galbatorix whom she knew to be guilty of war crimes and murder, but she knew her stables were not entirely clean, and she didn't intend to step in the muck.
When Thorn and Murtagh arrived, the attention was entirely diverted from her and she had a moment to breathe. She smiled at Murtagh across the room, and he gave her only a serious nod. He was dressed in a fine, dark tunic and trousers which she knew the castle stitchers had made for him especially, but he had apparently rejected the cape, jewels, and fine belt that they had also selected, and was, in appearance, rather plain, though Nasuada did not mind this at all. She had found his rugged appearance when they'd first met in Tronjheim to be much more becoming than the awful finery Galbatorix had forced upon him. Perhaps he felt the same. She also noted that Zar-roc was not at his side, but rather, was tied to a harness that hung from Thorn's neck. The dragon was unsaddled and had no adornment other than the sword, but he was the most dazzling thing in the room.
The terrified but awestruck courtiers kept their distance from the pair, which seemed to be just as Murtagh liked it, because he did not stray more than five feet from Thorn's side, and hardly looked at anyone but Nasuada as he made his way to the front of the room.
Thorn had been given a fine rug to rest on to the right of the head banquet table, much to the chagrin of the man in charge of castle textiles, who had reluctantly offered up his largest piece for the dragon. Murtagh had informed Nasuada that Thorn would consent to take his place on the rug so long as the doors at the back of the hall remained open to the night air–he did not like to be indoors, and did so only as a favor to Nasuada. This was no issue, as rows of large doors let out into the garden, and the weather was pleasant.
When the courtiers had arrived and Murtagh had found his way to a seat near Nasuada, the musicians ceased their playing at a signal from her, and she stood to a hushed room. The night air drifted in softly from outside and owls hooted in the garden. The room was aglow with the light of many torches and the smell of good food made her feel warm inside. Some evenings, being Queen was a delight.
"Greetings to you all," She said to the packed room, "I thank you for making the journey on such short notice, to celebrate with me, the defeat of yet another of Alagaesia's enemies."
There was a polite applause, which Nasuada acknowledged with a raised hand.
"You may hear many things, about the incident that occurred in this castle not two days past. But the truth, you will hear from me tonight, and I would bid you spread it to your houses and your friends, for it speaks to the strength of the city of Ilerea, and this great Empire."
Nasuada took an appropriate pause, and scanned the faces of the crowd with regal sentiment.
"Two days ago, my life was threatened by a magician bent on evil, who attempted to infiltrate this castle, and murder me," She said to a smattering of murmurs. "That plan was thwarted by the brave actions of the man by whose side I have the honor to sit tonight–Murtagh of the Riders, brother of Eragon Shadeslayer–and by his dragon–Thorn of the Ruby Scales–without whom I would not be standing here today."
Nasuada gestured, and there was a great applause. Murtagh gave only a curt nod, and Thorn lowered his head in a dignified manner, a much more tame response to high praise than Nasuada had come to expect from dragons.
"I would also like to acknowledge the brave actions of the castle guard, who did their duty amidst an overwhelming enemy and terrible odds," She called, gesturing to the men who stood stationed at the edges of the room.
There was a slightly less raucous applause.
"I invite you all, friends, to celebrate with me tonight, that another enemy has been thwarted, and another ally discovered. That Alagaesia is land of free peoples, who choose good even at risk for themselves, and that Ilerea, her crowning city, is watched over once more by dragon riders, as in its golden days."
This was met with a thundering applause that lasted for a long minute and forced Murtagh to step forward again and raise his hand. Nasuada felt badly for him–so clearly uncomfortable as he was–but she hoped it would all be worth it, after today, that the people would see him and Thorn differently, and that they would be welcome in whatever place they chose to venture.
After the banquet, during which Murtagh said very little and responded only briefly to the noble on his left–Lord Vallaquay–who, Nasuada had made sure, was neither a former member of the Varden nor a former member of Galbatorix's court, but rather a merchant from Tierm who had worked his way into Nasuada's good graces by offering free work during the rebuilding of the citadel of Ilerea. Lord Vallaquay was one of few whom Nasuada found it easy to pass an evening with–fatherly and humorous as he was, but his charms did not seem to ease Murtagh's discomfort.
After the banquet and the initial entertainment–a troupe of colorful acrobats who mixed magic into their routine–Nasuada stood to offer her greetings to the nobles as the others took to dancing.
"I'm sorry, I'll have to ask you to join me," She said to Murtagh, who looked like he was anchored to the safety of the table, and the barrier it created between himself and the crowds.
"Just a few more hours, then it'll be all done. You don't even have to say anything," She promised with a smile. Murtagh inclined his head and took a steadying breath and a steadying drink–his third of the night. Nasuada wondered at that, and at Thorn's comment from the earlier day; she hoped Murtagh was not slipping into bad habits–she had seen far too many soldiers–and kings for that matter–given to over drinking as a way to soothe their hurts.
One problem at a time, Nasuada dismissed the thought as the first of the nobles approached her with bows. She stood two steps up on the dais, so she was always above even the tallest of the men, and Murtagh stood on step down to her left, his hands folded behind his back and his face expressionless.
Most of the nobles greeted him with a polite nod or a curtsy. A few of the more exuberant ones shook his hand vigorously and exclaimed how thankful they were to him for saving the Queen's life, and what an honor it was to meet Eragon Shadeslayer's brother.
If this bothered Murtagh, he didn't show it. He had the practiced calm of a person who grew up among the hustle and bustle of the court, and might have been conducting conversations with Thorn in his mind the whole time. Once or twice Nasuada caught Thorn tilting his head or bobbing as though amused. Perhaps they were finding clever ways to insult the finely-dressed crowd, as Nasuada sometimes did.
Those nobles whom Nasuada knew had served under Galbatorix seemed the most nervous of Murtagh, and their greetings were quite short. She imagined they had seen more of his darkness than she liked to think about; she wondered what kind of commander he had been–enslaved, but forced to play the master, full of rage and fear–and she wondered if he knew which nobles had been lying to her about their involvement with Galbatorix, and if that was why they were so nervous.
The least bothered of the former Uru-baen Elite was Lord Calthwaite, who pushed through the crowd after the deputy-governor of Dras Leona and bowed low, his wife, Lady Calthwaite, curtsying at his side.
"Your Majesty, excellent to see you in such good health and high spirits. And Lord Murtagh, an honor to see you again," The large man bowed, and his wife curtsied again, and Nasuada turned her polite smile towards Murtagh, but she found that he did not nod back, and he was not smiling, and the hands that were gripped behind his back were trembling. His face had turned pale and his breath was uneven. Nasuada felt a sudden alarm, glancing at his side to see if blood from his wound was seeping through. She looked to Thorn, whose head was suddenly raised off the ground, and whose eyes were locked on his rider from across the room.
Lord Calthwaite floundered for a moment, unsure what to do with Murtagh's lack of response, but he soon recovered with a good natured smile, bowing again to Nasuada and saying,
"Your Majesty," Before turning into the crowd to let the next pair of nobles approach. His wife, however, lingered for a moment, and curtsied again in front of Murtagh, her shoulders and the glittering jewelry around her neck caught in the light.
"My lord," She said in a honey sweet voice, before sauntering away after her husband. Nasuada hid her expression as the next nobles approached, and she watched Murtagh, who would not even look at Lady Calthwaite.
An uneasy knot formed in her stomach as she repeated her greetings to the next pair, smiling falsely. Murtagh remained expressionless towards them too, as though something had frozen him and he was unable to move, but she saw his hands clenched together behind his back so tightly they were turning his skin red.
Nasuada continued the charade with the next pair, and the one after that, until she could hear Murtagh's ragged breathing in between the notes of the musicians' tune. Suddenly, as she was giving a greeting to Lady Ansel–an unwed woman whose age no one knew for certain– Murtagh turned and started a brisk march for the open end of the hall which spilled into the garden. Nasuada half-listened to Lady Ansel's crooning as she watched him weave through the crowd. She looked towards the garden to see what might have caught his attention, and she looked towards Thorn, whose neck was still lifted, and who was kneading the rug beneath his talons, a low, uneasy rumble filling the air around him.
Something was wrong. Nasuada finished her greeting with Lady Ansel and signaled to Jormundur who took over greetings on her behalf as she excused herself with an apology and made her way to the far wooden door, where she was joined by her guard. She could not head to the garden directly, or she would be followed, so she hurried through a short webbing of passageways that lead her to the dark side entrance, and she stepped onto the cool grass in her fine shoes, her dress brushing in the dirt.
Her eyes scanned the darkness as music from the banquet hall drifted in through the arches. Soft lanterns glowed along the pathways of the garden, and here or there she saw the shapes of people taking a stroll between the flowers, but she hurried away from them in the dark, seeking only Murtagh, followed by her faithful but noisy guard.
She found him pacing by a hedge in the far corner, taking shuddering breaths and running his palms against the side of his head as though trying to press out whatever thoughts had driven him to flee the light of the banquet hall.
"Murtagh?" Nasuada asked softly when she was several feet away, not wanting to startle him. He stopped in his pacing and looked up, his eyes glowing in the light from the nearby lanter.
"M–my lady, I–I apologize, I only needed… some air."
He glanced warily at Nasuada's three guards, who stood behind her at attention. His hand hovered near his right hip, as though ready to draw something to fight. She imagined he had not left himself totally undefended with Zar'roc strapped to Thorn's back.
"Guards, if you would, leave us for a moment," Nasuada said calmly, smiling at the men who flanked her. They looked reluctant, no doubt instructed by Jormundur to keep close at all times.
"Only step back towards the path if you wouldn't mind," She offered again, keeping sweet. At this the guards obeyed, and Nasuada waited until they were well out of human earshot to turn back to Murtagh, whose eyes had taken a distant look.
"Murtagh… what is it?"
She asked, and he snapped his attention back to her.
"It–It's noth–"
"Please. I think we can both agree that dishonesty does not become us."
She held his gaze firmly but gently, willing him to be straightforward with her. He dropped his gaze, grimacing.
"I'm–I'm sorry, I'll just… just give me a moment and I'll come back inside."
"I do not want you to come back inside, if you don't want to," Nasuada corrected calmly, reminding herself to breathe as she watched Murtagh shift in the darkness. Something had unmoored him, broken his calm demeanor, made him panic in a way she had never seen before. It scared her, because it clearly scared him.
Murtagh winced and his eyes scanned the far away light of the ballroom.
"Was it Lord Calthwaite?" She guessed, and she saw him shudder ever so slightly. He ran a hand over his hair again and took a shuddering breath.
"Please, Murtagh…" She whispered again, unable to see him like this. It reminded her too much of the darkest time of her life; of the helpless, impotent man who'd slumped into her prison and sat weeping against the wall, drinking to numb the pain.
Finally Murtagh spoke, haltingly.
"Y-you… they are not the–the kind of nobles I think you would want in your court," He managed. Nasuada breathed to steady herself. This made sense–perhaps he knew something of Lord Calthwaite that she did not; a dark act in the service of Galbatorix.
"Alright," She said carefully, "What did he do?"
Murtagh grimaced, looking anywhere but directly at her.
"Y–you don't… you don't want them at your side. You said you needed people you can trust, you can't trust them."
"Why not?"
He winced again.
"You just can't."
Nasuada grimaced now, reluctant to push him when he seemed so fragile, but knowing her duty as Queen.
"If they are untrustworthy, I would know why," She said, stepping closer to him.
"Don't–can you not take my word for it?"
"I can, yes. And I do. But if I… if I'm going to dismiss one of my nobles I need to know what he's done to deserve the dismissal."
"No, not…" Murtagh shook his head. He grunted in frustration, unable to speak, staring off into the darkness.
"Why should Lord Calthwaite be dismissed from my court?" Nasuada said, stepping closer again, heedless of whatever eyes might be watching them in the dark, of the careful gaze of her guards.
Murtagh shook his head and said nothing.
"I have to know why, Murtagh. I have to give Jormundur and the others a reason–"
"–you can't–no–you can't tell them," He said, almost pleadingly, and Nasuada's fear deepened. She had never known Murtagh to beg; even at his weakest, even when he was under Galbatorix's thumb he didn't beg.
"Alright, so tell me the truth, and I can make up a close enough lie," She offered, trying to hold his frantic gaze. She wondered if Thorn had stayed on his rug in the banquet hall, or if he could feel the fear radiating from his rider and would swoop down in a storm of anger to rescue him.
"Murtagh…" She whispered once more, placing her hand in his.
"You can tell me."
Murtagh frowned, his face contorted, then he seemed to stop for a minute, and turn his head, and Nasuada looked back to see Thorn staring at them over the crowd. He was speaking to Murtagh's mind. But saying what?
Murtagh closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he was looking at the ground and would not meet Nasuada's gaze, but the panic was slightly diminished. He felt suddenly frail to her, fragile and ready to tip, but his words came out softly.
"It isn't Lord Calthwaite. His w–" Murtagh stopped for a moment. "His wife."
Nasuada's breath was shallow.
"What about her?" She asked.
Murtagh swallowed, and looked behind him, checking the shadows for any eavesdroppers. Then he muttered something in the ancient language, and frowned and looked into the darkness on the other side.
"No one will hear us," Nasuada assured quietly. "Please Murtagh, what is Lady Calthwaite guilty of?"
Murtagh took a steadying breath, still looking at his feet, and he spoke,
"G–Galbatorix had his nobles, and… and he used all of them. He always–he always needed something. Weapons, or–or food or finery or whatever it… whatever."
Murtagh sniffed, his hands clenching and unclenching.
"And… he had to… curry favors with them. To get them to agree without force…he had to–to offer them something in return."
Murtagh risked a glance up at Nasuada and she saw that his eyes were brimming with an old hatred, and also tears of hurt. He dropped his gaze just as quickly.
"Gold… or–or magic, or land, or…" He took a shaking breath.
"Or… the company… of his pet dragon rider."
Murtagh lifted his eyes to her, and Nasuada felt the air leave her lungs. The garden was silent for a moment, and she tried to hold back her reaction as she met his gaze, full of self-loathing.
"And he–he made me swear to do whatever it took," Murtagh murmured, his whole frame unsteady, "To get them to agree."
Nasuada had to force herself to breathe, a flush of hot anger suffusing her skin. She pictured Lady Calthwaite–the regal, elegant wife of the bubbling Lord, always so smooth, always so pristine. A malice behind her smile and a darkness in her laugh. Nasuada felt her fury building. A long moment passed between them as Nasuada tried to form words.
"Did she know?" She managed to ask in a calm voice, "Did she know… you couldn't refuse?"
She had to know the truth. If Lady Calthwaite really was guilty of–of this, she had to know.
Murtagh met her eyes, and nodded.
"She knew."
Nasuada controlled her own onslaught of tears, so angry she was, and so sad for Murtagh, and so furious with herself for allowing such a woman to be numbered among her court.
"Were there others?" She asked reluctantly, knowing it had to all come out now. She had to know who. She had to pull them like weeds from a garden bed.
Murtagh didn't answer for a moment, and Nasuada felt a lurch of fear. How many times had this happened to him? How many guilty parties were among the ranks of her nobles?
"No one who's still in your court," He murmured finally, and still Nasuada wanted to demand their names–to make a list and hunt them down wherever they had fled to after the war. To throw them all in her dungeons and make them suffer for what they'd done. Disgusting. Revolting. To use someone in such a way, to see someone helpless and to exploit them nevertheless. It was somehow worse to her than murder; murder she could understand–murder could happen in a fit of anger, murder she could find a righteous reason for. Some people had to die, she knew this, everyone who fought in the war did. But this? There was no reason for this. No excuse. This was pure evil.
She thought of the sad man again, who'd slouched into her torture chamber drunk out of his mind and wept to her because he had no one else to weep to. What else had he suffered that she had been unaware of? What other horrors was he fleeing from?
She reached a gentle hand out and placed it in Murtagh's, holding tightly to him, fearful that he might drift away. She suddenly felt very protective of him–dragon or no dragon–and she wanted to waltz into the light-filled ballroom and clap Lady Calthwaite in chains and drag her away. But he had begged that no one should know. And it would wound him even worse if, in her desire to punish his abusers, she were to declare his shame to the whole world. No. She would have to come up with a clever lie. She would see the Calthwaite's deposed, ruined, taken down to the lowest, and she would be happy for it. But she would not give that woman the satisfaction of watching Murtagh's shame be put on public display. No. She, Nasuada, was High Queen of Alagaesia, and she would see that justice was done.
After their hushed conversation in the garden, Murtagh did not return to the party, and Thorn left shortly after his rider had disappeared through the back entrance. The dragon's departure caused a stir and a wave of bows and acknowledgements as he passed through the ballroom, but Nasuada watched him after having resumed her place at the head table, and she could see the hunch in his great shoulders and the scowl along his snout. She hoped that Lord and Lady Calthwaite had the good sense not to get in his way. It might be satisfying to watch, but she couldn't abide Murtagh's dragon making a public meal of one of her nobles.
After that the party dragged on for several more excruciating hours, and Nasuada waited impatiently until it was appropriate for her to make her exit. She resisted the urge to have the Calthwaite's ejected from the ballroom, as the timing would be too suspicious, and simply sat stewing in her anger until the wine had made most of the guests drowsy and they began to speak of returning to their carriages.
When she made her exit, she headed immediately for the hallway off the upper courtyard where Murtagh was residing, and knocked on the door to no answer, her guards stationed behind her. She waited for several moments, hoping he would change his mind and come speak with her, but not wanting to press the matter. When he didn't answer her second knock, she sighed and twisted the fabric of her fine garment, before turning for the upper courtyard and the half-repaired door.
When she stepped into the cool moonlight she saw the massive shadow of Thorn's body curled up on his bed of straw, silhouetted by the soft light of the sky. She had to stop for a moment to enjoy the sight–the beauty of the majestic creature, who lay with his head down and his eyes closed. Then she noticed a figure curled up by his shoulder in the straw–Murtagh–asleep against the beating heart of his dragon, gripping Zar'roc's sheath against his chest.
Nasuada sighed. Of course. He had not been ignoring her. She turned to go, not wanting to disturb the sleeping pair, when a presence which she recognized as Thorn touched her mind, and she turned to find the dragon looking at her with one great eye. She lowered her mental defenses.
Hello, Thorn, She said, trying to keep the bombardment of her furious sadness from leaking through to him.
Queen Nasuada Nightstalker, The dragon greeted, his inner voice a low thrum. I thank you.
Nasuada frowned.
For what?
A low rumble came from his chest.
My rider has carried many burdens on his own–things that he will not even speak of with me, though I know them, nonetheless, The tone of Thorn's mind was twinged with melancholy, a heaviness that implied a creature much older than he was.
It is a boon even just to share them with someone, as he has done tonight with you. And I trust that you care for him enough to not leave these evils unpunished…
Nasuada saw the deepening of rage in the dragon's deep red eye. She understood–Thorn expected her to see that justice was done on his rider's behalf.
I will see to it, Thorn Bjartskular, Nasuada promised, You have my word as Queen.
Thorn blinked his great eye, not moving lest he disturbed Murtagh's sleep.
I will hold you to your word, Nasuada-daughter-Ajihad.
Nasuada smarted at the use of her father's name. It had been a while since anyone had referred to her thusly–and she never expected to hear it from Thorn, who had not even been hatched when Ajihad was killed. Still, though, she understood his meaning; he invoked the name of her father because he knew what kind of man Ajihad had been–because he had seen Murtagh's memories of the day when he had been captured and Ajihad killed, and because he no doubt understood that Nasuada feared bringing dishonor to her father's name. The dragon was keen and far-seeing, and his use of her father's name was another seal of her oath.
When she left Thorn in the courtyard her frantic anger had abated somewhat. She knew what needed to be done, and she would see it so.
The next day was busy with a cascade of duties that had been postponed after the near-death incident. She heard reports that the mood of the nobles was generally good, that they had been more impressed than offended by her public commendation of Murtagh and Thorn, and that most of the people of the city had now concluded that–attempted murder or no–the Queen's new rider was a fine addition to the ranks of her soldiers.
She felt uneasy about this, though, knowing that Murtagh had never promised to stay for longer than a few days, and that he was unlikely to feel any more comfortable in her court after last night's disaster. She saw him only briefly around dinner time, after he'd returned from a short flight with Thorn.
The next day, she was told, he'd found the castle library and was poring over books for most of the afternoon–whether for pleasure or purpose she didn't know. They shared a few short words in the brief breaks that she could manage, but it was clear that Murtagh had no desire to speak any further on what he had told her the night of the ball. He was closed off again, though she felt a softness towards her, and knew he did not resent her presence. She worried, though, that he would not be comfortable to stay long in the city where so many of his worst memories had taken place.
Her fears were confirmed to her when, the following day, she made her way to the upper courtyard in the morning and found him packing items into Thorn's saddlebags, still moving stiffly from his wounds.
"You are… headed somewhere?" She asked tightly, trying to keep emotion out of her voice. Murtagh reluctantly looked her way.
"We've indulged in your welcome for long enough," He said softly.
"It's not even been a week. I think the palace coffers can spare a few more cows," Nasuada said tersely, angry now at the prospect of him leaving so soon after two years of absence. Murtagh sighed and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword.
"What is it really?" Nasuada demanded coolly. "I am dealing swiftly with–"
"–it's not that," He interrupted, not meeting her eyes. He glanced back at Thorn reluctantly. "Something's…wrong with me," He said quietly, catching Nasuada off guard.
"What does that mean?"
Murtagh inhaled, then he pointed his palm outwards to a small piece of stone that had come loose from the pavement.
"Stenr risa," He commanded, and she saw the gedwey ignasia on his palm glow for a moment, and the stone wobbled, and Murtagh seemed to grit his teeth, and then the stone flopped down to the floor and the glow faded. Murtagh caught his breath, his forehead beaded with sweat. Nasuada frowned.
"What's wrong?" She questioned, looking between Murtagh and the stone..
"I don't know. Something's interrupting the flow of magic–making it–making simple things…" Murtagh shook his head. "I think she managed to do something to me–Bachel–when I was fighting her off."
"So… so, well if that's the case you need more time to recover. Leaving isn't the answer–if you are unwell. You should stay here where my healers can fix you up and you can consult–"
"–I'm going to find Eragon," Murtagh interrupted, cutting her short. She closed her mouth before it gaped too long.
"N… now?"
Murtagh sighed again, placing a tired hand on Thorn's neck.
"I've been avoiding it for awhile now. But yes. This woman… she's not done with you, with–with whatever it is she's planning. And if she managed to cripple me–"
"–your powers will return," Nasuada insisted, "You're just tired."
Murtagh's lips thinned.
"I've long since recovered my physical strength," He said, "This is something else. And regardless, Eragon needs to know. A woman with power like this… she isn't going to stop just because she's been thwarted once. And we know for a fact that killing you isn't her only goal."
"She wants to kill Eragon?" Nasuada said, her voice tight.
"...something like that."
There was much Murtagh was hiding from her–whatever they had been searching for when they came across this woman, whatever secret mission he and Thorn had been carrying out…
"If I am her current target, shouldn't you stay and protect me?" Nasuada asked then, feeling a twinge of guilt over manipulating him like this. Still, she couldn't stand the thought of him disappearing again–of wondering where he was and if he was okay and what he was doing and thinking–of waiting for another two years to see him again.
Murtagh smiled only slightly.
"You have a good protector by your side," He confirmed quietly, "And I happen to know you're going to be receiving another very soon."
"Another? Who?"
Then Nasuada heard the quiet patter of small feet, and Elva entered the courtyard, followed by the distinctive shape of the werecat, Solembum. That could only mean one thing.
She looked back to Murtagh, who was tightening the strap on Thorn's saddle as the dragon took a long draft of water from a nearby tub.
"When will you return?" Nasuada asked, resigning her sinking heart to the reality that he was leaving again.
Murtagh held her gaze a moment.
"As soon as I can," He offered, which was of little comfort to her. She fought not to feel the pain that was threatening her–the pain she knew Elva could sense as she watched him pack his meager belongings back onto the dragon's back.
When he turned to her, though, his demeanor was soft. He approached her and she felt her pulse quicken, wondering what he might do–out in the open with all her guards and people in the courtyard and Elva watching.
But he merely took her hand and kissed it, with a low bow, as any respectful vassal might.
"I look forward to our next meeting, your majesty," He whispered, looking up at her through the dark fringe of his hair. She controlled her breath and kept her back straight.
"I hope it will be soon," She said calmly, "Two years… is too long."
He released her hand and nodded.
"As soon as I can," He said; then he flashed a look in Elva and Solembum's direction, and turned back to Thorn, who waited for him to climb into the saddle before rising and shaking loose straw from his scales, sending chips of red light dancing around the courtyard.
"And don't use any mirrors!" He called down from the height of the dragon as Thorn spread his wings and Nasuada backed away, fighting a hot pain in her heart.
Murtagh met her eyes solemnly for one moment, and she felt the sudden press of his consciousness against hers–like an incorporeal embrace. Before she could lower her defenses and speak back to him, Thorn pressed into the ground and launched himself from the courtyard, to the delight of the gathered people below, his mighty wings buffeting them with a rush of wind as he took to the skies in the morning sun.
Nasuada held her gaze towards the glittering shape of Thorn as he grew ever smaller in the distance. She felt Elva standing beside her, also staring up, the girl's long hair blown by the sudden gust of wind.
There was a breathless silence as everyone in the city paused to watch the sky.
"You knew," Nasuada said softly, not taking her eyes from the dragon. "When Lord Calthwaite entered the room, you felt it." She pictured the way the girl had moved to Murtagh's side as he lay unconscious, standing over him protectively, glowering at the old man.
"Mmm," Was all Elva said in return, as Solembum rubbed himself against her leg.
"You could've told me."
"Wasn't my place to tell."
"That hasn't stopped you before." She met the young girl's large purple eyes.
"I could've had them gone, right then and there," Nasuada said, angry that Elva could have prevented the Calthwaites from making an appearance at the banquet–prevented Murtagh from having to face the woman who'd hurt him in that way.
"Wasn't my place to tell," The girl repeated, her expression solemn, before she turned back towards the hallway with Solembum at her side, pattering away as the stable boys came to clean up the large pile of hay.
