It was a cold evening in late winter, and Roran Stronghammer was leading his mare back into the stable that sat on the edge of his property. It had been a long day of meetings with the various town leaders in the valley, most of his hours spent in the keep where he conducted his business as Earl of Palancar Valley. The work of an Earl was long and arduous in a way that was entirely different from the long and arduous work of farming, and even more so from the long and arduous trudge of war, all of which he knew personally.
The valley was thriving, though, by all accounts. The rebuilding of the village of Carvahall was nearly complete, and the work on the castle keep was coming along well. The people of Carvahall had once again proved their ability to exceed expectations when they were determined. Many new faces were to be seen in Carvahall and in nearby Therinsford, people migrating from other parts of Alagaesia that had been opened after the downfall of the Tyrant King Galbatorix and the rise of the new ruler, High Queen Nasuada, from whom Roran had personally received his Earldom.
Most of the people in the valley had taken to his governance well; the villagers who had joined him on their perilous journey to the Varden and the long war thereafter trusted him implicitly, and would have no other leader. Those others who had not known him personally had likely heard of his deeds in war and his relationship to the famous Eragon Shadeslayer Kingkiller, savior of the peoples of Alagaesia–a relationship which, he knew, accounted for some of the influx of people to the valley.
The remaining few who were suspicious or resentful of a farmer taking up the role of Earl in their small valley had kept their peace, and some had been won over by his hard work and fair approach to governing. Many of them had been impressed that he had kept on his profession as a farmer, accepting only a small salary in exchange for his work as Earl. This he had done for many reasons, partly because farming was where his heart lay, and partly because he knew it would win the people's loyalty to see him toiling alongside them. It was also, he admitted, partly because he did not expect his newfound prosperity to last.
Governance was a different life, though–to be looked to for leadership and accountable for every disaster weighed heavy on Roran some days. He missed the simplicity of just being a farmer, and even the clear goal of soldiering. The rhythm of life in Palancar Valley was a slow, steady climb, with slips here and there, the occasional tumble, and the occasional ledge to rest on, and it had taken Roran some time to adjust to it.
Now here, back on the property where he'd spent his childhood, he could feel the pressure of the day giving way to peace. The stable he had built for his ever-growing collection of animals was covered in a soft layer of snow from the previous day, and the lights from the handsome house further in the property beckoned him with the promise of warmth, good food, and a kiss from his wife, Katrina.
He stabled his horse, fed her, and hung up the fine saddle that had been gifted to him from one of the wealthier families of Therinsford, making note that it needed a good oiling after drying out in the cold air. These were the kinds of tasks he did himself during the winter, when the young lads he employed to keep up the farm and do the chores were off working in other trades.
He'd just snatched up the water bucket to refill at the well on his way into the house, when he heard a creak of wood behind him. He paused with his hand reaching for his coat, and felt his whole body lock into position. He listened again… another creak–not the horse–not the cow or the two goats–not the gaggle of chickens to his left. There was the sound of breath and a shift in the air; someone was in the barn.
Roran straightened up with a whistle, snatching up his coat calmly and swinging the bucket from his hand. He had just thrown his coat over his shoulder and turned to the front exit, when a voice started,
"Rora–"
He changed directions and hurled the bucket down the alleyway, immediately taking hold of the hammer that still always hung from his belt, and raising it for a blow.
The bucket hit a man–dark clothes, dark hair–on the shoulder as he ducked away from the projectile.
"I'm not here to hurt you!" The man called, but he was a stranger, and Roran was already bellowing and bringing the hammer down.
"Roran–" The man was quick, throwing himself out of the way as the hammer fell, hitting only air. Rolan shot out an elbow, but the man ducked that too, and blocked the next hammer blow with a quick flick of his arm.
"I'm not trying to hurt you!" He repeated, but Roran didn't care. Sneaking up on a man in his barn at nightfall was warrant enough for a maim-first ask questions later approach–Roran had long since learned not to trust the word of a stranger. But this stranger was not easy to maim. He easily dodged Roran's blows, blocking one with the bucket, which he picked up as a sort of shield, shuffling back on trained feet, moving stiffly as though wounded, but still lightning fast.
Then Roran overswung and the stranger managed to knock the hammer from his grasp and send it tumbling into the cow's enclosure. Roran cursed and bellowed, employing the only tactic he knew in such situations, and charging for the man full-on, realizing only at the last minute that the stranger had a sword strapped to his waist–a red sword with a dazzling gem set in the pommel.
As the stranger with the dark hair twirled out of Roran's oncoming charge, a dozen thoughts settled into place like silt on a riverbed.
"I'm trying to help Eragon!" The stranger said as Roran stopped his momentum and turned.
The man panted with exertion, white mist billowing from his mouth, his whole frame tilting to the side as though sheltering a wound. Roran's hands were poised to strike, but he kept still for a moment, waiting for his mind to catch up with itself.
The man Roran was looking at was a stranger–he had never met him before–but the dark hair, the shape of his face, the sword on his belt, the skill of his movements. Roran knew who this was.
"You," He growled.
"I'm not here to hurt anyone," Murtagh repeated, still breathing tightly, his heavy gaze boring into Roran from across the alleyway. Roran straightened, but did not relax.
"Swear it."
Murtagh frowned.
"Swear it–right now–in the ancient language, swear you'll not lay a hand on me or my family. Otherwise you can leave now."
Murtagh said a string of words that may or may not have been an oath of peace–Roran didn't actually know the ancient language; he only knew that oaths made in it were binding, and he hoped Murtagh Morzansson was not aware of his ignorance.
Roran straightened.
"You have 'til the sun disappears behind those trees to tell me why I shouldn't have you run out of town tonight."
Roran pointed out the back of the barn, where the sun was already dangerously low. Murtagh blinked.
"I'm looking for Eragon," He said.
"Not here," Roran spat.
"N–I know. I know where he is."
"You just said you were looking for him."
"I meant I'm–I'm trying to get to him."
"To kill him?"
"No," Murtagh frowned. "To warn him. He's in danger."
"He's a rider, he can handle it."
"Not this danger."
Roran felt a flush of unease run through him. He was thinking fast. Trying to assess the danger. His wife and children were in the house a hundred yards away, could he get to them in time? Could he hope to defend them against someone as powerful as Eragon's brother?
"I need your help."
This caught Roran off guard; what could a dragon rider possibly need from him? Then he began to look at things again. He had never seen Murtagh up close before. He had only watched him fight from his dragon in the sky, and caught a brief glimpse of him during the aftermath of the battle of Uru'baen, but he could tell this Murtagh was not the same as the man he'd watched wreak havoc on the forces of the Varden, or rescue the now-queen from the rubble of the citadel.
This man was travel worn, his long black hair was unkempt and his clothes faded. The only fine thing that showed was his sword and scabbard, which hung on a plain belt. He stood uneasily, and held his left hand close to him, like a wounded cat. Roran also noticed a flush of red on the left side of his neck that crawled up from his collar to the lower half of his face. Some kind of burn. Murtagh was injured, and he hadn't healed himself with magic. Why?
"Last time a dragon rider needed help around here… things didn't end well for my people."
Murtagh only breathed, his expression unreadable. A brief moment passed between them as the darkness in the barn deepend.
"We're trying to make it to Eragon, but we won't get through the wilds without some help."
"We…" Roran muttered, thinking for the first time about what Murtagh's presence meant.
There's a dragon in the woods, He thought, almost as a curse.
"Yes. We."
"Why can't you just talk to Eragon, you know–with the magic."
"I am unable to skry at the moment," Murtagh said in a low voice as though trying to keep others from hearing.
"For the same reason you're unable to fix that burn on the side of your face?" Roran gestured. Murtagh nodded carefully.
"Please," He asked softly, "Your cousin is in danger. We're asking only for some food, some medicine and a way to fix a saddle and we'll be out of your way."
"Food, medicine and leather may not be much where you're from, but that's a hefty request around here. Especially in wintertime."
Murtagh grimaced, clearly in pain and muddling through it.
"I understand the cost. I will repay it how I can. But it is important we get to Eragon, and we've no one else to go to."
Roran thought how desperate the rider and his dragon must be to come to him, a man who, for all they knew, would just as soon kill them as look at them.
"How're you going to make it through the wilds in winter?" Roran asked tersely, "The storms'll knock you down quick, even if you are on dragonback."
Murtagh winced at this.
"We have to try," He said feebly. Roran felt strange–sharing a conversation with this man in between the stalls where his animals slept.
He'd had quite the idea in his head of what Eragon's brother was like, and this was not matching up to it. To see him in shoddy clothes, half dead in a barn on a cold winter's night, pleading for aid like a wandering vagabond… it didn't fit with his memories of the man with the flaming red sword astride a fearsome dragon, bringing down hellfire upon enemies of the empire.
Nevermind that Eragon and Nasuada, and even Arya, had vouched for his character–his vital role in the downfall of Galbatorix–nevermind that he was technically Roran's cousin, his own blood, just as Eragon was. Roran could not forget the rider who'd been his enemy for all the long battles of the war. That must have been someone else.
"If you tell me to go, I will go," Murtagh continued, his voice drained with exhaustion, "You need fear no harm from me if you refuse. But please, if you can do anything… I am trying to keep Eragon safe, to keep those with him…" He gave Roran a knowing look, "...from being hurt. They don't know what's coming."
Roran stood still for a moment, clenching and unclenching the hand which usually grasped his hammer. He didn't trust strangers, and this man was a stranger. Cousin or not, he did not know what Murtagh son of Morzan, Rider of Galbatorix turned Traitor to the Empire, was capable of. If he allowed him to step over his threshold, he was risking his family's life. But if he turned him away now, and something happened to Eragon…
He scanned the travel-worn man once more, a scowl building on his face. These damned magicians always needed help somehow–all their power and they still needed the strength of a good strong hammer, and the help of an ordinary soldier.
"Fine," He muttered, "But you're not bringing that sword into my house."
Murtagh's grip tightened.
"It could be dang–"
"It stays here."
There was a moment of icy quiet, as the sun finally gave up for the evening.
"Very well," Murtagh agreed.
Roran held up fingers and counted as he spoke:
"Saddle. Medicine. Food. Then you're gone."
"Yes."
Roran took a breath and pursed his lips.
"Well, come on then."
When he opened the door of his family's two story home, Roran smelled the intoxicating scent of a dinner that would have made his whole evening twenty minutes earlier. Now, though, his stomach was in knots and the thought of eating anything repulsed him.
They had hurried across the frozen ground in the dark, after Murtagh had stowed his sword between two hay bales and left it to be guarded by the cow.
"Who shall I say I am to your wife?" Murtagh had asked as they trudged, and Roran noticed his gait was uneven.
"Say you are who you are," Roran growled, "I don't keep secrets from Katrina."
Murtagh had nodded in the dark, hurrying after Roran's long strides.
When he had wiped his boots off on the rug in the entryway and hung up his coat and slightly-damaged water bucket on the hooks, he trudged down towards the kitchen, Murtagh behind him.
"Katrina, love, we have a guest," He said as he entered the warm room, trying to keep his voice calm.
Katrina turned from her work around the table, her hair braided to one side, beautiful and delicate, perfectly accenting the dazzle of her eyes. Those eyes widened a bit at the news of a guest, and widened even more when Murtagh entered behind Roran, and bowed.
"My lady," He said quietly. Roran waited to see if Katrina would recognize him, but from the way she curtsied and wiped her hands on her apron, it was clear she saw only a travel-worn stranger, and not the half-brother of their dragon rider cousin.
"How do you do," She murmured with a smile, "I–I am sorry the fare is not grand this evening we weren't expecting–"
"–it'll serve just fine, love," Roran interrupted, clearing his throat, "Kids are…?"
"Ismira's washing up. The baby's having a lie down." Katrina said with a smile, her demeanor reserved in the presence of a guest. Roran took a breath and convinced himself to just get it done with.
"This is, uh…" Roran glanced at Murtagh sideways, "This is… Eragon's brother. Murtagh."
Katrina blinked. Then her head swiveled from Murtagh, to Roran, and back, her mouth half-open.
"He needs some help. He's trying to get… to help Eragon. So. He'll… be staying in the barn for a bit, until they can get… going."
Katrina's face had drained of all color, and her hands were suddenly gripping the handle of her stirring spoon with vice-like strength.
"They," She said, her voice a whispered shout, "They, as in…"
She looked between the two of them.
"Roran Stronghammer, are you telling me there is a dragon in our woods right now?" She hissed, pointing through the window with the spoon.
"Not your woods," Murtagh offered, "He's up the river–by the falls–the Spine, I think it's called."
"Sakes alive!" Katrina exclaimed, still keeping her frantic voice low. "Just in the Spine, is it?"
"Katrina–"
"Don't you dare, Roran," Katrina gestured with her newly-minted weapon. "And you–" She swiveled the spoon towards Murtagh, "You swear to me right now, in the language you cannot lie, that you and your dragon are not here to bring harm to me, or my family, or anyone in this valley!"
"I swore to your husban–"
"And you'll swear to me," She demanded, her face set. Murtagh was very still for a second, then he said again a string of words in the ancient language that Roran hoped Katrina got the gist of–she had studied it a little during their time with the Varden.
Whether or not she could understand him, Katrina straightened, and the spoon was lowered, and she took a breath and adopted a more civil demeanor.
"He'll not be staying in the barn," She said coolly.
"It's just for a few–"
"No. I will not have people saying that Lady Stronghammer keeps her guests in a barn. He'll be staying in the spare room and that's that."
There was a moment of quiet, and the crackle of the fire filled the silence. Katrina took a deep breath through her nostrils, seeming to reset her thoughts for a moment before saying,
"Dinner is ready, I've got to fetch the baby."
She placed her spoon on a hook and whirled away, the sound of her shoes sharp against the new wooden floor.
"Right, then," Roran breathed, unhooking his hammer and setting it on the table, before sitting himself down for his evening meal.
Ismira stared across the wooden table at the new stranger in her house, her face barely rising above the flat surface, her spoon hanging from her mouth.
"Head to town first thing," Roran murmured through his own bites, hunched over the table, "You have a cloak?"
"I do," Murtagh nodded, his left arm still curled protectively against his torso as he took small spoonfuls of stew. The stew was hearty and had plenty of meat–another of the changes to Roran's life since becoming Earl; good meat was no longer a rare luxury.
"Good. You'll wear it. Hide your face. If anybody asks, you're a messenger from the Queen, just passin' through."
Katrina fed the baby a bit of mash as he flailed his chubby arms.
"Not likely anybody'll recognize you straight off, but I'll take no risk," Roran concluded.
"Very well."
"You ever seen anyone from Carvahall up close? Eragon introduce you to anyone?" He inquired stonily. Murtagh shook his head at the table.
"Wasn't much time for pleasantries," He murmured. Roran grunted, remembering the day Uru'baen fell.
"There'll be no end of trouble if anyone gets wise, so that dragon of yours had better behave himself."
"Thorn knows how to be careful."
There was a sharp clack as Katrina scraped the bowl of food. Roran glanced her way, and little Ismira finally pulled her spoon out of her mouth and pointed it across the table.
"Unca Ragon," She said to Murtagh brightly. Murtagh blinked, and looked to Katrina for explanation, but Roran's wife looked just as perturbed as their guest.
"Unca Ragon!" Ismira repeated, sliding off her seat and trundling around the table.
"Ismira finish your food, love," Katrina chided, but the girl was on a mission; she passed around the table and grabbed at Murtagh's right hand.
"Come see, come see, Unca Ragon," She urged, pulling him with gusto. Murtagh rose at her bidding, looking to Roran and Katrina for permission. Katrina only looked bewildered, but Roran watched his daughter lead the dragon rider, limping slightly, across the kitchen towards the hallway.
"Ismira," Roran said, rising after them nervously. When he ducked into the hallway he found Ismira and Murtagh standing in front of the wall hangings he had put up at the beginning of that summer–a collection of magic paintings that Eragon had sent them via a dwarven supply train–fairths he'd called them.
"Unca Ragon!" Ismira pointed to the second fairth up–an image of Eragon and Saphira, standing in front of a lush green forest. Then Ismira pointed to Murtagh, whose hand she was still clenching tightly.
"No, love, that's not Uncle Eragon," Roran corrected softly, taking up his daughter in his arms and glancing suspiciously at Murtagh, who stood staring at the collection of fairths with a distant expression.
"You like Unca Ragon," Ismira insisted, pointing again at the picture of Eragon and Saphira, "He has a dwagon–that Saphiwa. Daddy met Saphiwa, I never met a dwagon before."
"Hush, love," Roran chided.
He supposed she was right, though–Eragon did bear a resemblance to his half-brother in that particular image–his hair was longer than it had been during the war, his clothes dark, the set of his brow echoed Murtagh's now. Eragon's features were finer, though, due to the elves' strange magic working in him, but Roran could see why Ismira had made the connection.
"He… sent you these?" Murtagh asked softly, his eyes scanning each image separately. Besides the one of he and Saphira, Eragon had made an image of Garrow and Marian–in their younger years before Roran's mother had passed–as well as an image of Carvahall as it had stood before the destruction of the empire–a beautiful fall day in the village when the leaves were turning and the air looked crisp.
The fourth fairth was of their old family farm–the same property on which Roran had built his new home, and which had been destroyed at the time of his father's death. And the last was a woman that Roran had only a fleeting, foggy remembrance of–his Aunt Selena; an image copied not from Eragon's memory–as he had never met his mother–but from a fairth given to him by the elves. This was the image at which Murtagh stared, and it took a moment for Roran to remember why.
"Dunno if, uh, I know he didn't make that first one. Think an elf did or some such," Roran muttered, unsure what to say. Murtagh's right hand raised as if on its own, then he stopped.
"May I?" He asked softly, Roran shifted Ismira on his hip.
"'Spose," He muttered, and Murtagh gently lifted the fairth down, holding it close in the lantern light from the hallway. He stared at the image of Eragon's mother–his mother–for a long time, his expression soft.
"I know this place," He murmured, touching the surface of the tablet reverentially, as if he could caress his mother's face.
"I played in this garden, when I was young."
Roran held very still, lowering his eyes in embarrassment. He wasn't sure what to do with all this.
When they returned to the dinner table, Katrina ushered Ismira back to her seat and cast a concerned glance in Roran's direction. He knew they would be having a long conversation when the rest of the house went to sleep. Katrina seemed determined that Murtagh should be treated as a welcome guest, but it didn't mean she was relaxed about having a dragon rider with questionable loyalties under her roof.
"You ever seen a dwagon before?" Ismira asked as her mother encouraged her to eat more of the stew.
"I have," Murtagh answered carefully, glancing at Katrina to be sure she would not object.
"I want to meet a dwagon! Can I meet a dwagon mommy?"
"Certainly, when you're a hundred years old and I'm long gone," She said chidingly, raising an eyebrow in Murtagh's direction. It was clear Thorn would not be discussed openly in the house.
"A hundwed! That's old! Daddy are you a hundwed?"
"Feel like it some days," Roran murmured, and Katrina smirked. Baby Garrow babbled and smacked at his bowl of mash, sending it onto the table and splashing some onto Murtagh's sleeve.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, so sorry," Katrina exclaimed, her face turning red. She snatched up a cloth and hurried over to Murtagh.
"It's not a problem; they're hardly clean sleeves anyway," Murtagh took the cloth from her with a small smile and wiped the mash off himself. Meanwhile baby Garrow whacked the table with two meaty hands, pleased with himself.
"I have a friend who makes a much worse mess when he eats," Murtagh excused, letting the baby grab at the damp cloth as he pulled it away. Katrina recovered quickly from her embarrassment and cleared her throat.
"I see you may have a wound that needs some treating there, on your neck," Katrina gestured as she shuffled back to the other side of the table. "Let me put the children to bed and I'll see about mending it."
"Oh, you don't have to do that. If you have something to clean with and a few bandages, I can manage."
"I insist. It's a specialty of mine. One picks the skill up quickly when… well, with our history," She glanced towards Roran, who kept his face neutral.
The war was often a subject that hung around the fringes of their conversation. Murtagh's presence was only exacerbating the memories that always lingered in the back of Roran's mind–memories he tried not to dwell on.
When the children had been ushered off to their beds–only after Ismira was allowed to give a hug to "Unca Ragon", which she insisted on calling Murtagh–Katrina retrieved her box of healing supplies from the back hall, and sat herself on the chair next to Murtagh while Roran pulled out the wooden carving he was making for his son.
"Is this, uh… some kind of burn?" Katrina asked as she separated the clean cloths she kept for bandaging, and the cream to treat infections. She'd studied under Gertrude a fair amount, and learned on her own treating Roran's various injuries over the years.
"Kind of–a sting, I guess."
"A sting?" Katrina frowned, "From what, exactly?"
"Not sure what it's called," Murtagh muttered, gingerly rolling down his collar to expose the red rash.
"'It'? Some kind of creature?" Roran said, sanding the horns of the little wooden cow he was fashioning. "What thing would be mad enough to attack a dragon?"
He said the last word quietly, glancing down the hall towards the children's rooms.
"Not sure," Murtagh said as Katrina dabbed the wound with her cream. If the touch hurt him, he didn't show it.
"Wasn't round here was it?" Roran demanded.
Murtagh shook his head only slightly, leaning his neck to the side for Katrina to do her work.
"Somewhere over Du Weldenvarden," He said.
"What in the blazes were you doing there?"
"Avoiding the Hadarac," Murtagh muttered, "Trying to get to Eragon in the Eastern Reaches. We were skimming the fringe between the desert and the woods. Storm rolled in one night, and we got pushed in a little too deep, didn't realize."
"And a–whatever it was–just flew up and attacked?"
"Happened so fast I thought it was a lightning strike."
"Your–your magic didn't protect you?"
"My magic is… unreliable, at the moment," He said reluctantly, "Thorn got the worst of it, though, whatever it was."
Roran did not ask if the dragon needed a medic's attention–he didn't want to know the answer.
"How far down does this rash go?" Katrina asked as she placed a bandage on Murtagh's neck and pressed it tight.
"Sort of…" He vaguely gestured to the entire left half of his body, turning his wrist over to show the blotchy ends of the sting sticking out from his sleeve around the wrist.
"Sakes alive, you sat through a whole dinner and didn't say nothing, and a wound like this?!" Katrina huffed, pushing herself into standing and hurrying for the pot she hung over the fireplace to heat water.
"Roran, fetch some wood from the back, I need to boil more rags."
Roran sighed and set down his work, pushing himself to his feet and giving Murtagh a dubious look. When he returned, Katrina was still tutting her disapproval as she hung her water-filled pot and stoked the coals back into life.
"You men are all the same," She muttered, "Sitting half-dead and waiting for someone to bury you before you'll admit something's wrong."
"I didn't mean to impose," Murtagh apologized.
"It'll impose a lot more if you die at my kitchen table. That rash isn't just a skin ailment; that's as bad a burn as I've seen, and for you to still be walking around and eating like nothing. Come now, think of your brother–think of your dragon! What do you think he'd do if you went and died on him, hmm? You people need to learn to take care of yourselves."
She gave Roran a scathing look and he knew she wasn't just speaking of Murtagh. Even before the war she'd always chided him for not being more careful, for his recklessness and for every time he wouldn't admit when he was hurt or needed help. It was a bad trait of the men of their family, he supposed–a thought that surprised him, when he applied it to Murtagh.
"Take off the tunic and let me see what's going on–does it go down your leg?"
Murtagh nodded.
"Trousers will have to go too, then, but we'll deal with that later."
Murtagh glanced towards Roran skeptically–as though seeking permission to undress himself in front of his wife. Roran rolled his eyes.
"Get on with it, before she cuts them off you."
Wincing, Murtagh used his uninjured right hand to lift his shirt over his head, gingerly pulling the sleeve off his left arm.
When Roran saw the blotchy, discolored skin that ran down Murtagh's side all the way from his neck to the top of his trousers, he let out a low whistle–the scar was impressive, even by Roran's standards, and he was even more impressed that Murtagh had apparently traveled all the way from Du Weldenvarden, located the Stronghammer farm, waited in the barn for who knew how long, fought Roran, and sat through a whole dinner with a chatty three-year-old without collapsing from the pain.
Katrina merely sighed, her disapproval clear, before setting to work. She did what she could with her ointments and salves–using up pretty much all she had in her store–but by the time she'd reached the area by Murtagh's ribcage she was running out altogether.
"I'm sorry to say, but I don't know how much I'm going to be able to help you here," She murmured, scraping the bottom of her jar. "You may have to see about finding Gertrude–"
"–not an option," Roran said firmly; Katrina raised an eyebrow in his direction.
"We can't send him to Eragon half-dead," She retorted.
"I'm sure I'll be alright," Murtagh said with a weak smile, leaning on the table with his uninjured elbow.
"Nonsense. You'll have to see Gertrude, one way or the other. If your leg is as bad as the rest of you I can't see you riding that dragon very far without passing out."
She stood and began to put away her now-empty jars.
"I'll stew a tea for the pain," She concluded, "When you're in town about the saddle you can stop by Gertrude's."
She looked at Roran expectantly, and it was clear he either agreed to bring Murtagh in to see the healer, or faced his wife's wrath. Sometimes her goodness vexed him.
"Fine," He said with tight lips, as Murtagh stood and pulled his shirt back over his head.
As he did so, Roran caught a glimpse of a twisting scar that cut across Murtagh's whole back, disappearing into the bandaged skin along his side. This feature Roran remembered Eragon mentioning to him–he'd compared it to his own wound, the one given to him by a shade, the one that the elves had healed for him.
Murtagh's old wound was even more ghastly than the new burn, not least because Roran knew it had been inflicted by his own father, and by the very sword that now sat hidden between hay bales in Roran's barn.
Roran continued his carving in silence as Katrina handed Murtagh a cup of her medicinal tea, and made sure he drank it all down. Then she bid Roran to show him up to the guest room, sending along another cup of the tea with him.
Murtagh limped up the stairs behind Roran, who held a lantern to illuminate the way–the stairs smooth from his careful building. It was still something he had to get used to, having two stories to his home.
When he'd shown Murtagh the modest guest room–which Katrina kept pristine year round, even though they only ever had guests in the fall when the traders came through–he left the lantern behind and turned to go.
"Roran," Murtagh said to stop him. Roran turned reluctantly.
"I thank you and your wife for your hospitality. And I understand the risk you are taking to help me."
"I'm not sure you do," Roran deterred, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.
Murtagh breathed, but he didn't seem angered by Roran's bluntness.
"Well. I'll be out of your way as soon as I can."
Roran nodded.
"We leave for the town first thing," He said, and turned back down the darkened staircase.
The day was crisp and beautiful when Roran and Murtagh set out over the hard-packed ground, Roran astride his mare, and Murtagh on an older gelding that was mostly used by the farm hands during the warm months. They had retrieved Murtagh's broken saddle from where he'd stashed it near the goat's pen and loaded the large parcel onto the back of the gelding.
Murtagh had wisely not suggested carrying his sword into town with him, and instead retrieved a knife from his saddlebags, and strapped that to his belt as Roran had his usual hammer.
As they rode, Murtagh wore his hood up and over his face per Roran's demand, even though they were unlikely to meet anyone on the road to Carvahall this time of day. It was early, and it wasn't a market day, so the path through the woods was empty except for them.
The keep that stood on the hill afar off grew larger as they closed in on the town–Roran knew he would have to find a young lad to send as messenger to those who would be expecting him at the keep today. He would announce that a messenger from the Queen was passing through, and he was playing host–that would seem important enough to miss a day of governance.
Meanwhile, as they trotted down the cold ground, Roran went over in his head what he would say to Horst–the man he was bringing Murtagh to see. He couldn't lie to Horst. His friend knew him too well, and in any case, it wouldn't feel right, after all they'd been through together, to try and pull one over on him.
Horst and his sons were the town blacksmiths, and from what Murtagh had shown him of the destroyed saddle, it would need a few of its metal components replaced. The majority of the work would be with leather, but Roran did not trust the tanner, Gedric, as much as he trusted Horst, and he figured Horst could procure the pieces they needed while arousing the least amount of suspicion.
The two men were quiet their whole journey, and Roran wondered what Murtagh might be thinking–following for the first time the road that his half-brother had traveled down a thousand times in his childhood.
Roran found himself curious about a great many things, but tamped that curiosity down, not interested in exchanging pleasantries with the man who rode opposite him. He was not welcome, Roran reminded himself, but tolerated. He would help Murtagh because Murtagh could help Eragon, but as for the man himself–he was a murderer and a danger to everyone he met. Whatever great peril he was trying to warn Eragon of, Roran wasn't resting easy that that threat hadn't followed Murtagh to Palancar Valley. The last time someone had come looking for a rider in Carvahall, the town had been destroyed.
They made it to the village without incident, and Roran was struck for the hundredth time with how changed the place was. A main road paved with stones stretched out between two neat rows of buildings, a fountain decorating a large center square, next to which the newly-built inn sat.
This was not the Carvahall of Roran's youth–this place had been planned and constructed and funded with money from Ilerea, doled out under Roran's supervision, and lending a sense of finery that had not been seen in the old thatched houses of the Carvahall he'd grown up in.
It made him glad to see the land inhabited once again–the sight of the charred remains of the town when they had first returned from the war had left him hollow for weeks. But still, it was changed, and it was a town with no history to it yet. No familiarity. Cold and strange, not yet tamped down with the living of generations. Roran hoped it would come to be that way, some day, but for now the whole place still felt foreign to him.
"Down this way," Roran murmured as the horses clopped over the stones. Tara swept the dirt from her stoop and raised a hand to Roran as they passed, a great tree with its leaves all gone for the season looming over the inn behind her like a mother hen.
He raised a hand in return, and saw the curious turn of her head when she noticed the stranger riding by his side. He knew the town would be aware of a visitor before mid-morning, especially this time of year when visitors were rare. That, at least, hadn't changed about Carvahall; despite the new faces that had joined those Roran had grown up with–it was a place where everyone was familiar with everyone else.
As they rode up the hill toward Horst's newly-constructed home, which was still being finished and added to by him and his sons, Albrecht and Baldor, Roran murmured to Murtagh,
"Now this fellow is a good friend of mine, and we'll be telling him things as they are," He met Murtagh's quiet glance. "He might not take to you keenly right off, so just keep your cool. He fought in the war right alongside me, so if he's got a bone to pick with you just let him pick it and we'll be done with it and get to business."
"He is trustworthy?" Murtagh questioned, urging the old gelding up the hill with practiced skill.
"As trustworthy as they come."
Roran and Murtagh pulled up their steeds outside Horst's finely-crafted house, wrapping the reins at the family's hitching post and dismounting, which Murtagh seemed to find a bit difficult. When Roran knocked on the door it took Elain only moments to answer, and the smell of warm food wafted through the entryway.
"Ah, goodmorning Roran–I–" Elain noticed Murtagh behind him, "–my–my Lord Stronghammer," She curtsied, dropping her familiarity out of respect.
"Good morning Elain, good to see you. I'm hoping to find Horst around?"
"Yes, yes, he's here. He was planning to head to the keep today to find you, so he should be glad, come in, please."
She stepped back to allow Roran and Murtagh in, and closed the door behind them.
"I've some leftover biscuits from breakfast, please help yourselves," She took a cloth off a covered bowl and placed biscuits on the table, "I'll go find my husband."
Neither Murtagh nor Roran sat as they listened to Elain's steps go through the house in search of her husband. Roran noticed Murtagh standing very still with his eyes closed.
"What are you doing?" He murmured.
"Listening," Murtagh responded.
"To what?"
The room was quiet except for the soft crinkle of the embers in the fire. Before Murtagh answered, they heard Horst's heavy boots down the hall, and the blacksmith emerged into the kitchen with a smile.
"My Lord Stronghammer," He greeted warmly with a short nod, "A pleasure to have you in our home, welcome…"
Roran clasped Horsts arm in greeting.
"It's alright, Horst, no need for the formalities," He managed, suddenly feeling nervous in front of his friend. He would just have to get it over with, just like with Katrina. Wasn't any way around it.
"Uh, I wish I were here on town business, but unfortunately this is more of a personal favor."
"Alright," Horst said coolly, glancing between Murtagh and Roran, "Please, uh, go ahead and sit."
Horst sat, and finally Roran and Murtagh obeyed, Murtagh moving stiffly. Elain set water before each of them as Horst leaned back.
"Well? You know you don't have to hesitate to ask me for a favor, Roran." The older man again looked between the two, a hint of confused suspicion playing on his weathered face.
"Uh… well, I hope you'll first do me the favor of–of not sharing what we'll have to talk about with… with anyone."
Horst raised an eyebrow and Elain stood by the counter very straight.
"...alright, Roran, whatever you say," Horst returned.
"It's important that the whole town not know–"
"I think you know you can trust Elain and I to keep your confidence."
"Yes. Of course, it's… it's just difficult," Roran glanced at Murtagh, who was catching Elain's curiosity now.
"The thing is, uh, my friend here is in need of some help, to get him on his way as soon as possible, and it's got to be sort of… on the quiet side."
"And does your friend have a name?" Horst asked, his shoulders suddenly squared. Roran's own nervousness was rubbing off on Elain and her husband; he could tell they knew something was wrong.
Roran opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He'd always been straightforward and blunt, but he couldn't quite figure out how to say this one.
"Show them–the–the–" Roran gestured to his own hand, unable to find the words. After a slight pause, Murtagh reached for the glove over his left hand, and removed it, turning his wrist over on the table so that his gedwey ignasia was clearly visible.
Roran watched Horst's reaction, and it was almost like the older man had left his body for a moment he became so still. Elain, too, was leaning in, her eyes concentrating hard on the silver mark on Murtagh's palm–both of them trying to figure out what this meant.
When Horst finally came back to life, he straightened, and shifted both feet so they were firmly on the floorboards–ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Elain's realization was only seconds behind him, her lips parting in a small gasp as she raised wide eyes to Murtagh's face.
"Elain…" Horst said with a controlled tone, "Why don't you take Hope out for a walk," He suggested without taking his eyes from Murtagh.
Elain didn't move for a moment, so frozen in fear and confusion, her hand hovering by her apron pocket, where Roran knew she always kept a small knife, ever since the war.
"I am not here to hurt–"
Horst raised a hand to stop Murtagh speaking.
"Elain, love," He repeated, turning his head only slightly.
The woman moved slowly, skirting the edge of the room like she was afraid to get too close to the man sitting at her table. Her eyes never left Murtagh and her hand never left her apron pocket.
When she reached the hallway she finally turned away, and Roran heard her pushing out into the back yard of the house.
Then Horst took a calming breath, and shifted his weight, one hand on his hip, where he had his own sheathed knife.
"I 'spect you have a damn good reason for this, son," He said to Roran with a forced calm. Roran breathed as well, glad that, at least so far, they had not come to blows.
"He needs to get to Eragon as soon as possible; there might be danger."
"We don't have need of any more danger here," Horst retorted flatly.
"I know. That's why I'm hoping to get him on his way quickly. He's not a threat to us–"
"–I know a few hundred dead Varden who would disagree."
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"Eragon needs help," Roran murmured feebly, not knowing how else to appeal to the old blacksmith.
"And you're willing to take this man's word on that?" Horst questioned. Roran glanced at Murtagh, who was sitting still and calm–he wondered briefly if Murtagh was reading Horst's mind–if he would know the moment the blacksmith decided to strike. If he already knew what his first move would be.
"Eragon trusts him," Roran offered, "And I trust Eragon."
"Eragon ain't here, son."
"I know. Look. He needs to fix a saddle, that's all. He won't be around for long, he's staying on our property far out of town, and his… his companion is deep in the spine."
Horst let out a little grunt, but his expression remained unchanged.
"I'm no saddlemaker," The older man countered.
"I know. But I didn't think I could rely on Gedric for… this kind of thing."
Horst squinted, but Roran thought he saw a reluctant change in the set of his face. The blacksmith looked through his kitchen window, his hand still near his belt.
"My sons and I only just finished building up this house last spring," He said, still looking away. "Built it new from the ground up, after laboring on the old one for years." Roran dipped his head, understanding where Horst was going.
"Our first home got burnt to the ground by the soldiers who forced us to flee Palancar valley," The blacksmith concluded, turning his gaze back to Murtagh, stern and unyielding.
"That's what happened the last time we helped a dragon rider."
Murtagh's head only moved slightly.
"I am not here to cause anyone harm," He offered again, quietly. "And if I thought there was danger pursuing me, I would not have come here."
Horst considered Murtagh with a tight stare, but Murtagh, to his credit, was unflinchingly calm, an attribute which Roran knew would mean something to Horst.
Finally, the old blacksmith sighed, his finger tapping at the polished wood table.
"Every time I think you've settled down, Roran Garrowson," He said, "You come up with a new foolhardy plan to cause me trouble."
Roran allowed a small smile, knowing they were safe now. Horst would help.
"So what does the dragon rider need to be on his way?"
Murtagh stepped outside to fetch the torn saddle from the back of their horse, and went into detail with Horst about what repairs needed to be made. The blacksmith seemed unconcerned by the size or style of the saddle, observing each moving part with the practiced eye of a craftsman. He made his notes on what they would need to gather and what he would have to make, and measured the lengths of the various pieces of torn leather to make sure he had enough.
"Some steed you've got," Horst muttered with a bemused shake of his head. "And he's only set to get bigger, ain't he?"
Murtagh nodded.
"But he grows slower than most, because of… what was done to him early on."
Horst raised an eyebrow, but asked no more.
"I suppose you've… warned him not to go eatin' anyone's herd animals or setting fire to no homesteads."
"Thorn knows how to keep himself hidden," Murtagh repeated.
"Thorn…" Horst murmured under his breath as he marked the leather with a charcoal piece.
When Horst had gotten what he needed, he quickly bade them be on their way and ushered them to the door,
"Baldor and his wife'll be comin' by sometime tonight, and you don't need him finding out about your guest until he's long gone."
Roran understood. Baldor had lost many fellow members of the Varden to whom he'd grown close–they all had. And Roran recalled that one particular siege saw a whole company of Baldor's closest friends crushed by falling debris–debris caused by Thorn's attacks. Baldor would not be as understanding as his father.
The day was full of sun when Murtagh and Roran left Horst's house and made their way back over the stone-paved main street towards Gertrude's small hut. They said very little, and Roran again caught Murtagh riding with his eyes closed, his body very still as the horse clopped along. Roran knew the rider was likely looking for something in his mind, but he himself felt no probing touch or attack, so he wondered where Murtagh could be looking.
Eragon had given him the rudimentary tutelage needed to block unwelcome intrusion to his mind, but it had been years since he'd felt the need to consciously engage these defenses. With Murtagh around, though, he didn't know what to think.
When they'd led their horses to the alleyway by Gertrude's house and knocked, the old woman answered quickly, looking as if she was about to head out herself. When Roran quickly explained that a messenger from the queen had come through and needed some attention after an attack on the road, Gertrude set aside her root-gathering basket, and ushered Murtagh and Roran inside.
She, too, was impressed by the size of the wound along Murtagh's left side, and impressed as well by Katrina's skill in treating most of it. She did ask a few too many questions about the wound for Roran's comfort, but Murtagh seemed to handle the lie effortlessly, claiming that it had been dark, and he wasn't sure what it was that had attacked–perhaps something kicked a log from his fire and it had burned him, perhaps it was an underwater creature crawled out from Isenstar Lake where he had supposedly been camping.
Roran was both impressed and concerned with the easy way that the lies flowed from Murtagh's mouth–how convincing he was to the old healer, who was shrewd and insightful and not easily fooled. Roran wondered what other lies the rider had told effortlessly, what other deceptions he was juggling.
The one thing Gertrude did find odd, though, was that Murtagh had removed his shirt and trousers at her bidding and was sitting in only his undergarment, but had not removed the glove from his left hand. His explanation that he had an unsightly deformity of the hands didn't phase her:
"You think I care about a little thing like a deformity? I've seen much worse, young man, trust that."
His explanation was made even more flimsy because the rest of Murtagh's body was riddled with scars and bruises of various sizes and stages of healing, not the least of which was the huge mark across his back. But thankfully Gertrude did not press the issue, and Roran stood for a while focusing on the wall while she treated the burned skin down Murtagh's leg.
She gave Murtagh an ointment and some wrappings, and advised him not to make the ride back to Ilirea for a few days at the least, to let the skin heal over.
"You'll have a bit of a discoloration for certain, 'less you can get one of the queen's magic users to heal that scar over, but otherwise I wouldn't worry too much, long as you keep it clean 'til it closes up."
"Thank you, milady," Murtagh said, taking the ointment from her, and offering from his belt a coin in return–a generous amount for the service he'd received.
"Oh, no thank you sir, not necessary," The old woman demurred, "Happy to serve the Queen, and Lord Stronghammer," She looked with a cheeky smirk in Roran's direction, and Murtagh put the coin away.
They left Gertrude's and caught a few glances of the curious villagers who were going about their business, but no one ventured to speak with them, and they headed out of town immediately.
The road was again quiet as they made their way back to the Stronghammer estate, passing only one farmer bringing in a new litter of piglets. He nodded to the pair as they passed and murmured a,
"Lord Stronghammer."
When he had passed behind them and the sound of the horses had filled the quiet, Murtagh spoke.
"The town has great respect for you," He commented, looking ahead to the cold gray of the countryside. Roran breathed.
"Enough," He conceded.
"They have known you from birth, yet they show deference to you as Earl," Murtagh continued, "The Queen chose well."
Roran noticed the stiffness in Murtagh's tone when he'd said, "The Queen" as though he'd rather have said, "Nasuada."
"Folks 'round here don't take much ruling," Roran said crisply, "They do their own work–all I do is make sure they've got what they need for it."
"No small feat," Murtagh responded. Roran didn't know what to say to this–he didn't really like receiving compliments from this particular man, wasn't sure what Murtagh was trying to gain by being cordial. Roran had learned a long time ago that there were very few people whose compliments he could take at face value: most of the time when people were kind to you, it was because they wanted something.
"And you?" Roran turned the conversation, "How is it you've been keeping yourself these past years? That gold coin was a generous gesture."
Murtagh glanced his way, and he understood the question.
"Not by thieving, if that's what you would imply."
Roran said nothing.
"It's relatively easy, if you're an accomplished magic user and if you're careful, to find work wherever you go."
"You advertise yourself as a sorcerer for hire?" Roran frowned.
"No. It would be too risky if people knew I was as skilled with magic as I am. But I can complete most tasks in a fraction of the time it takes non-magic users, so it is easier to earn coin from anyone who is willing to pay." Murtagh gestured to a sturdy oak as they passed, "I could turn that tree into a table today and sell it at market tomorrow. I could repair leather or clean a shed or fix a roof in a matter of minutes, if I'm clever enough with the spell."
Roran grunted.
"Still seems like thieving to me–taking work from honest men's hands."
He ducked under a low hanging branch and didn't look at Murtagh. He'd always been uneasy with the understanding that all the work he and his folk did to feed their families and make a living was just a trifle to magicians like Murtagh and Eragon. It made Roran feel very small.
"Perhaps," Murtagh admitted. "But we never stay anywhere for long, so I don't imagine the lack is felt by anyone too deeply."
Roran didn't say anything to this. He wanted to find fault with Murtagh, but all in all he couldn't blame the man for how he made his living–he could've hired himself out as an assassin, could've taken over people's minds and made them give him whatever he wanted, could've made himself invisible and taken gold, or even made gold out of thin air. Working for his food by using magic was probably the least conniving thing he could have done, and yet Roran resented the idea.
"But now your magic ain't working," Roran said finally as the horses stepped past the last of the trees onto the open road. Murtagh breathed tightly.
"Aye. Not reliably, anyway."
"Any idea why?"
Murtagh shifted on his saddle.
"It started when I was in Ilerea–there was an attempt on the Queen's life, which I thwarted, but a sorceress attacked me."
"And what? Crippled your magic? Didn't know that was possible."
"I'm not sure. That's part of why I need to see Eragon."
"And to warn him. 'Bout this sorceress."
Murtagh nodded.
"He and his… friends… may be able to help where I cannot."
Roran knew what Murtagh meant–the dragons that Eragon had brought with him, and the hearts of ancient dragons that acted as his advisors. If anyone knew what was wrong with Murtagh's magic, or who this sorceress was, it would be the conclave of dragon-minds. It made Roran dizzy just to think of.
It was late afternoon when they returned to the house, and after greeting Katrina and eating the food she had prepared, Roran took advantage of the last of the daylight to deal with some spring preparation he had been putting off.
He would've left for the keep to take care of some business there, but he did not feel comfortable leaving Katrina and the children on the property alone with Murtagh there. Not that he could've done much, if Murtagh decided to attack–even wounded and without his magic he was a formidable fighter, not to mention he had a dragon on his side. But still, Roran felt better keeping close, as Murtagh dismissed himself to the guest room to lie down.
The rest of the evening passed quietly, and Roran relayed the events of the day to Katrina over their dinner, lingering on Gertrude's compliments to her. Murtagh came down only briefly to eat something, then returned back to his room for the night.
Roran slept restlessly for the second night in a row, unable to calm himself thinking of Murtagh's presence just down the hall from them, and the possibility of danger encroaching on Carvahall. He was responsible for all the people in Palancar valley, and most especially for Carvahall, and here he was, harboring a traitor, a murderer, a dragon rider.
And my cousin, Roran thought uneasily.
In the morning Roran woke to the smell of Katrina's cooking and was loathe to get out of bed and start the day. When he passed the guest room, the door was open and Murtagh was not there–this made him uneasy for some reason, and when he found that the rider was not at the breakfast table either, he was even more bothered.
"I heard him rise early, before first light; I think he went out for something."
Roran felt uneasy by this too.
"Where's Ismira?" He asked, buttering the loaf that Katrina had baked. Young Garrow played with the cloth his mother used for cleaning.
"Playing in the garden."
The garden was just a crushed collection of dead sticks this time of year, and a few covered bulbs, but Ismira liked to wander about and found rocks that fascinated her. Roran felt uneasy, though, thinking of his daughter outside, and not knowing where Murtagh had snuck off too.
"How long 'til the saddle's fixed?" Katrina asked, sitting herself down. Roran took to feeding the baby some crushed apples while Katrina ate her own breakfast.
"Four days, at least," Roran said reluctantly. He'd begged for it to be done in a day, but Horst was adamant that if he had to do all the work himself and keep it quiet from Albrecht and Baldor, it was going to take at least half a week. Roran didn't like the prospect of Murtagh lingering around any longer, but he'd quieted his hesitance and accepted the blacksmith's terms.
He finished his breakfast quickly and rose,
"Got chores," He murmured, throwing on his outer coat and tromping towards the door.
The morning was biting cold and the sun was hidden behind sheets of cloud; the frosted ground crunched beneath Roran's boots as he walked towards the barn, scanning the treeline and surreptitiously looking to the sky.
When he neared the barn he heard the soft lowing of Pippa, their milking cow, and also a rhythmic whistling sound, like someone swinging a scythe. Roran slowed, his ears pricked and his feet moving carefully. The sound was uneven, but consistent, and as he grew closer he heard the creak of wood as though of footsteps.
When he was close enough to peer through the alleyway, he found Murtagh, with Zar'roc in his hand, swinging through a series of complex sword maneuvers. The air whistled as he brought the blade down in tightly controlled arcs–parring, thrusting, ducking, striking at invisible enemies. Zar'roc was a red blur in Murtagh's hand, so skillfully handled that it looked to Roran like a dance, the sword and swordmaster perfectly in sync.
If Murtagh's half-healed wounds caused him pain as he shuffled back and forth on the barn floor, he didn't show it; his face was even with concentration, his breaths strong. He appeared as graceful and controlled as an elf–or as close to an elf as any human could hope to get.
Roran watched Murtagh move through his exercises for a few long moments, before stepping into the alleyway to make himself known. The rider stopped up short and quickly lowered the blade.
"Good morning," He offered, breathing deeply but evenly, not as out of breath as he ought to have been from such a show.
Roran only grunted, and went for the feed buckets.
"Interesting place for sword practice," Roran muttered, giving flakes to Pippa and the horses.
"I'm sorry… I didn't want to frighten your daughter," Murtagh offered, stepping out of the way, Zar'roc held at his side. Roran felt uneasy just being in the sword's presence.
"So you frighten my cow instead?" Roran returned sourly, but Pippa gave him a low, reprimanding moo–Roran knew the cow wasn't bothered in the least. Murtagh only ducked his head apologetically, though, and Roran was given no reason to upbraid him more.
"You seem alright today," Roran continued gruffly.
"Your healer knows her craft," Murtagh offered. "It is not back to what it was, but certainly manageable. When the saddle is ready, I will be ready."
"Hence the sword work."
Murtagh nodded.
"I can find a place in the woods to do my exercises, if you would prefer."
"Nah. You're here anyway. Better to be out of sight. Just don't go markin' up my wood, I know those rider swords are fearful sharp."
"I won't hit anything," Murtagh promised, and Roran knew he had the skill to back it up. He'd seen the best swordsmen the Varden had to offer–and Murtagh would outmatch them all with ease. Only an elf could best him in straight-on swordfighting, Roran imagined, and probably Eragon, who was really half-elf now anyway.
"I'm going to check on Thorn later this morning, if you didn't have anything pressing you needed me to do."
Roran paused with his hand on the feed bucket handle.
"Check on him how?" He questioned cautiously.
"Reach out to him. Find a place to meet him out of the way in the woods. Let him know how things are looking."
Roran twisted his mouth, keeping his back turned to Murtagh as he filled up pellets for the goats.
"Would you like to come with me?"
At this Roran froze.
Come with? To meet a live dragon? To exchange words with a heartless killing machine?
Roran cleared his throat.
"What for?"
He felt Murtagh shrug.
"Perhaps you'll feel more comfortable having him around once you've met him. He can be quite charming."
Roran almost wanted to laugh at this–a charming dragon? Roran didn't think he would feel comfortable if the dragon showed up in a skirt and danced a jig. A dragon was a dragon, and he'd seen this particular dragon wreak havoc on entire battalions.
"He wants to meet you as well," Murtagh concluded, and this was the most ridiculous of all.
"Why?" Roran scoffed, unable to contain his amazement anymore, as if they were talking about meeting an old friend down at the tavern.
"You're… my cousin," Murtagh said with a bit of a shrug. "And Eragon's. He likes Eragon; he wonders if he'll like you too."
"And if he doesn't like me?"
"He likes most people."
Roran didn't know what to say to that. He looked at the feed buckets, and through the alley opening where he saw Ismira picking through the crushed stalks of last year's corn. He supposed it would help him get a handle on the situation, if he went to meet Thorn, speak to him. He could make sure that the dragon understood which animals to keep away from, and which streams he could and could not drink from, and that he should under no circumstances set fire to anything.
He also admitted, after his experiences with Saphira, that he'd missed the grandeur and beauty of the mighty beasts for the long two years since the war had ended. And if the townspeople ever got wind of Murtagh's presence, at least he would be able to say that he'd spoken to the dragon and received his personal assurance that no villagers would be eaten during his stay in the Spine.
Roran had to admit he felt a little bit of excitement at the idea. The thing he considered most, though, was that if Murtagh and Thorn were with him in the woods, he knew that they weren't up to anything else, and that Katrina and the children were safe.
Keep your enemies close, He thought, sighing inwardly.
"Alright," He concluded then, "I'll go with you then."
Murtagh nodded briskly, which Roran had learned was his version of a smile, and he reached for Zar'roc's scabbard, which sat on one of the hay bales.
"Very well. We can head into the woods whenever you're ready."
Katrina had blanched when Roran told her of his morning plans. When Murtagh offered for her to come speak with the dragon as well, she'd lost even more color. Needless to say, she rejected the idea as calmly as possible, and gave neither approval nor condemnation to Roran for his choice to go.
Murtagh and Roran stepped into the gray trees and tromped their way through the underbrush, heading, Murtagh said, into the forest deep enough that he could reach out to Thorn and arrange a meeting. This turned out to be a hefty request, as they had to find a spot where the dragon could fly in without being spotted. It was a gray day, and the clouds were low-hanging in spots, but it still took some time to find a suitable clearing.
When Murtagh stood with his eyes closed in the middle of the woods and spoke silently to his dragon, Roran scanned the treeline for threats. It didn't escape him that allowing himself to be lured into the woods alone with the promise of meeting a dragon wasn't the most intelligent choice he'd ever made. But he figured that if Murtagh had been trying to kill or capture him, he could've easily done it already.
The more hours that passed the less he suspected Murtagh of foul play–the man really just seemed ragged and lonely, not conniving and scheming. Roran tried to keep reminding himself that Eragon had given his half-brother his full approval and trust, which meant Roran could trust him too, at least somewhat.
We would not have won the war without him, Eragon had said during one of their many talks in the first months after the war–when Ilirea was being stabilized and Eragon had not yet left for the east. Most of the things he did were not by choice–any of us would have been forced to do the same in his position.
Roran wasn't ever quite clear on what that all meant–something to do with magical bindings, unbreakable oaths, the threat of death. But he thought that if he had been in a position where his choice was to serve Galbatorix or die, he would have chosen the latter, and kept his honor.
He'd essentially done that, when the Ra'zac first came to Carvahall looking for Eragon–choosing the peril of the Spine over submission to the Empire. So he didn't hold much charity for Murtagh's choices–if he had been a true man of honor he would have died before betraying his friends.
Still, the man in tattered clothes standing in the forest clearing with his eyes closed didn't look anything like the murderous commander astride his mighty beast. Something was certainly different, but which Murtagh was the true Murtagh, Roran wasn't sure.
When Murtagh opened his eyes, he said that Thorn had agreed to come, and he then sat on an overturned log to wait. Roran did not sit, but waited nervously with his hand on his hammer, his palms hot and his skin tingling as though anticipating a fight.
He started to wonder why he'd agreed to such a foolhardy thing in the first place, and if he wasn't getting too bored with his life of Earldom and farmwork, two years after the excitement of soldiering and saving Alagaesia.
His ears were peeled to catch the sound of the dragon's thumping wings, but the only indication he had that Thorn was near was when Murtagh stood up from the log and stepped into the circle, his lips twitching as if amused by something. Then suddenly, a great red shadow dropped from the cloudbank above, and a gust of wind blasted downward from his mighty wings.
Roran stumbled back, and Murtagh's cloak snapped in the wind as the giant dragon settled himself on the ground with a heavy rumble, his wings outstretched. Roran had to remind himself to breathe as the dragon shifted and folded his translucent wings against his sparkling side.
The underbrush cracked beneath him, making a sound as if fissures would open in the earth, but Murtagh strode right up to the fearsome beast and took his massive head in his arms, placing his forehead above Thorn's scale-encrusted eyes and stroking the dragon's jaw gently. Roran tried to recover his wits, seeing Murtagh truly smile for the first time, his eyes closed as he held the dragon's head–which was bigger than his whole torso.
After only a moment, though, Murtagh turned to Roran, his whole demeanor somehow lighter, and his face somehow changed, as he said,
"He'd like to say hello. You may speak to him directly, or through me, whichever you'd be more comfortable with."
It took Roran a long time to swallow down bile and calm his hammering heart, but then he said,
"I'll, uh… I 'spose I could do it myself," He managed. Murtagh nodded, and the dragon slowly swung his head in Roran's direction, his head snaking out until he was gazing into Roran's face with two dazzling red eyes.
Roran took a breath, and clumsily removed the guards around his mind, trying to relax despite the sudden weakness in his legs. When he felt the dragon's mind touch his, he instinctively retreated, but once he'd forced himself to be calm and accept the new presence, he was surprised to find a soft, melodic, energy–like deep music coming from the earth and shaking up into his very bones.
Greetings, Roran-cousin-Murtagh, The voice hummed in his head, and Roran, his eyes closed, tried not to be dizzy.
You have helped my rider; you have nothing to fear from me, The voice assured, sensing, Roran could tell, the uneasiness rolling off his mind.
Hello, Roran managed to form a coherent word after a few moments of struggling. He got the impression that something amused Thorn.
I sense you have things you want me to know, Thorn said, and Roran forced himself to blink his eyes open, so he could look the dragon in the face.
Y-yes, I… I want to make sure you are being careful not to disturb the people of this valley, He managed, focusing hard on the conversation, and not the size of Thorn's teeth, which were barely two feet from his face.
They are my responsibility, and under my care–as are their flocks and fields. I would not have them hurt by anyone–accidentally or otherwise.
Roran hoped this would not offend Thorn to anger–he knew dragons were proud creatures. But Thorn's head seemed to dip as though he were nodding.
You care well for your family, Thorn murmured, You protect your valley like a mother sparrow protects her nest. If all the leaders of the two-legs were like this, Alagaesia might be a better place.
Roran tried to nod, taking a deep breath, and the dragon's voice echoed again,
I have long since learned how to hide myself and avoid unwanted attention. It has been my way of survival since the day I was hatched.
Roran sensed a twinge of melancholy at these words, too vague to make out clearly.
But I will take extra care with your home, Roran-cousin-Eragon-cousin-Murtagh, since I consider you my family, as you are my rider's.
Roran wasn't sure how to respond to this. He did not feel the same familial connection to Murtagh and Thorn as he did to Eragon and Saphira, but the dragon apparently did, and he was not eager to argue against him.
Th-thank you, He returned with a nod, and the dragon's eyes seemed to soften as if smiling.
Roran was uneasy with each passing day, worrying that someone would discover Murtagh's presence on his farm, or that Thorn would be spotted and the town would be in uproar, or that unseen danger would descend upon the valley.
When he went into town a few people asked him about the Queen's messenger, and what news he'd had to bring. Roran kept his answers vague and non-committal, feeling a twinge of guilt at lying to his friends. But he knew the best thing for all involved was to get Thorn and Murtagh fixed up and out of Palancar Valley without anyone being the wiser.
Murtagh rested, and went into the woods to meet with Thorn, and practiced his sword work in the barn, and otherwise kept himself out of the way. He was a quiet man, Roran observed, who seemed always to be contemplating some idea, or listening to the sound of nothing–or at least, it was nothing to Roran.
He found Murtagh one evening sitting on one of the rocks that lined the path to the woods out back, his legs crossed and his hands on his thighs, utterly still, as though he were asleep sitting up.
When Murtagh heard the sound of Roran's feet, he opened his eyes calmly.
"I hope I am not in the way," He said softly.
"No, just, um… coming to tell you dinner's ready."
"Very well."
Murtagh unfolded his legs and stood, but Roran frowned at the rock.
"What, uh… what was that you were doing?"
"Trying to–well, trying to meditate I suppose, listen to the world."
"What's there to listen to?" Roran looked around. It was a cold day of late winter, dry and brittle, not quite ready for the noise of spring.
"A lot," Murtagh said, bending down to pick up his outer coat, which he'd laid on the rock beneath him, "If I were any good at listening."
"Seemed to be… doing just fine to me," Roran offered as they began their walk back towards the house.
He found riders strange. He had found Eragon strange when they'd reunited after their many months apart, and he found magicians of all kinds to have a sort of ethereal quality that never sat well with him.
The exception to this had been Carn, his friend in the Varden who'd died in a battle with another magician–Carn had always felt solid and down-to-earth, not otherworldly or superior, like Triana and some of the Du Vrangr Gata, or like the elf-queen Arya, or like Eragon.
"Unfortunately my training did not focus much on the small things," Murtagh said heavily, "The king was more concerned with making sure I knew how to fight than making sure I understood the workings and rhythms of the natural world. Thorn and I have had to teach ourselves some things."
Roran was surprised at Murtagh's sudden volunteering of information–perhaps his time sitting and listening on the cold rock had loosened his tongue.
Nearly a week had gone by since Murtagh's arrival, when Albrecht rode onto the Stronghammer farm and dismounted to say that his father had finished his work, and that Roran could pick up his saddle the following day.
"What you need a new saddle for?" Albrecht asked warmly, letting his horse drink from Roran's water trough.
"Oh, it's… the Queen's messenger, he had some trouble on the road," Roran managed. "Needed some repairs, is all."
Roran could tell Albrecht's interest was piqued; no doubt he'd like to learn more about the messenger that had come from Ilerea, so he could share the gossip with his friends, but he didn't deign to ask straight out.
"And Gedric couldn't fit it in?" The young man asked curiously.
"Ah, no. Needed a new stirrup, anyhow, and I figured your father could get it all done himself and take the coin."
"Well, yeah, that's the Queen's coin isn't it? Not bad business." Albrecht smiled warmly, and Roran let out a little breath, feeling safe that the younger man did not suspect anything.
When Horst's son had begun the long ride back to Carvahall, Roran informed Murtagh that they would have to head back to town the next morning to retrieve the saddle.
"Thank you," The rider had said calmly, "If all is well, we should be able to get out of your way in the next few days."
Roran thought Murtagh still looked rather haggard to be making promises like that, but he didn't want to object–he wanted the pair gone just as soon as possible, and if Murtagh was willing to fly off half-healed and make his way through the wilds on his dragon, Roran wasn't going to stop him.
Elain was standing at the counter when Murtagh and Roran entered Horst's house the next day, and she did not leave this time. She placed a plate of warm scones crisply on the table and stepped away, retreating to her corner as Horst trudged back into the room with the cloth-covered saddle hanging from his arms. He placed it on the table next to the scones, and removed the cloth.
Roran was impressed by the improvement–not only were the broken pieces of the cinch mended perfectly and the metal supports replaced, but the saddle was cleaned and oiled, the straps re-sewn, and the worn-out cantle re-laced with a fine decorative rawhide. It was a gorgeous piece of work, and Roran was almost disappointed that no one but him and Murtagh would get to see it.
"Well, there it is. Hope it's up to snuff," Horst said, but Roran could tell he was pleased with himself–he'd completed quite the feat, getting all this done alone in a matter of days on a saddle that was unlike any he'd mended before.
"It's better than I could've asked, thank you," Murtagh said, running his hand along the leather appreciatively.
"Think the cinch will be big enough for your, uh, your fella?" Horst questioned, gesturing to the long leather girth that was fitted with holes to expand as time went on.
"Yes," Murtagh nodded, "Thank you, it's perfect."
Murtagh reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out several gold coins, offering them to Horst across the table.
"Ah, that's far too much," Horst demurred. "Half that will do."
"I've asked you to work alone, and to keep secrets from your sons," He glanced to Elain in the corner. "This is far less than you deserve."
Murtagh's gaze was steady, and Horst was reluctant.
"Please," Murtagh murmured, "Eragon would not like me cheating his friends."
At that Horst had to accept, so he took the coins with a grateful nod, and Roran saw Elain relax just a little. The money would go a long way towards covering over whatever resentment she might've had.
"Well. Send our regards to Eragon when you get to him," Horst said, pocketing the coins. "Tell him to come visit us sometime."
Murtagh glanced Roran's way.
"I will, thank you."
Horst nodded, and Roran felt ready to get Murtagh and the saddle out of there, but Elain had made scones, and they were obliged to sit for a while more.
Horst and Roran spoke of the town, and the preparations for spring planting, and the building of the keep, and Murtagh stayed quiet and disappeared into the background.
Elain sat with her husband, very straight-backed, and sipped tea, which she also served to her guests. Hope toddled in from outside at one point, and Roran felt Elain tense as the little girl trailed mud tracks behind her, followed by the family's scruffy dog.
"Say hello to Roran, love," Elain beckoned as the girl snatched a scone.
"Hello," She said, staring over her scone at Roran and Murtagh, "Can Ismi come play?"
"Oh, Ismi's at home, Hope, but I'll tell her you said hello–"
Hope's mouth twisted in disappointment.
"Can I go to Ismi's house?"
"Not today, darling," Elain interrupted briskly, holding the girl's shoulder and glancing in Murtagh's direction.
Then Roran heard hooves trotting up outside, and he suddenly tensed.
"Is someone here?" He asked sharply, and Horst was frowning in the direction of the door.
"I don't th–"
"Baldor was coming by later today," Elain murmured, alarmed.
"Later?"
Roran barely had time to register his worry when the door opened and Horst's son stepped through, a basket hanging from one hand, and a knife on his belt.
"Decided to swing b–" The young man stopped abruptly when he saw Roran and Murtagh.
"S… uh, apologies, Lord Stronghammer, good afternoon." He gave a little nod, but then his eyes were scanning the table, and the oddly large saddle sitting in front of Murtagh, and then he looked Murtagh directly in the face, and Roran watched the cold wave of recognition enter his whole body.
Baldor dropped his basket and uttered a curse, drawing his knife out with lighting fast practice. Murtagh had shot out of the chair before Roran could even blink, throwing himself to the other side of the room as Baldor lunged.
"Wait!" Roran shouted as Elain let out a scream and snatched Hope towards her. Horst was yelling and Baldor was yelling and Murtagh was crouched like a werecat poised to strike, his own knife now drawn.
"Do you know who he is?!" Baldor screamed, his calm demeanor suddenly gone, the wildness of war upon him. Roran held his hands up, standing between Murtagh and the furious Baldor.
"Baldor–"
"Father, he's the dragon rider!"
"You're scaring your sister!" Elain shouted over Hope's cries.
"Baldor–"
"He's the one–the red dragon–the commander–it's him, father!"
"I know who he is, son! Now calm yourself before Roran has to hurt you."
Baldor's wild gaze swiveled between his father and Roran, always returning to Murtagh with a fearful rage, but aghast at Horst.
"Y–what is he doing in our house?" Baldor asked, horrified that his father had consented to it.
"My house, Baldor. And he's buying a saddle from me is what."
"A s–" Baldor's eyes returned to the saddle, and the horrified understanding of what that meant.
"Don't you tell me who I can and cannot do business with, young man," Horst said evenly. "I'm sending him on his way to help Eragon, and that's that."
"To help Eragon? He's a bloody murderer! He should be strung up in the square!"
"You will watch your tongue around your sister," Horst commanded. "Go home, Baldor. Go back to your wife and leave us to finish our business."
"I will not stand by and keep quiet when this man is roaming around Carvahall, free to murder and main and do who knows what else!"
"He's not here to maim no one," Roran asserted calmly, "And he's here by my leave."
Baldor scoffed wildly, all friendliness gone.
"Oh, by your leave, is it, Lord Stronghammer? And what would the people think if they knew? Hmm? You think they'd be alright with scum like him? You think they'd have any love for their lord if they knew you were sheltering this monster?"
Baldor pointed his knife across Roran's shoulder towards Murtagh, who remained utterly still, his eyes flicking between Baldor and Roran. Roran knew he had to stop the confrontation from escalating–Murtagh might kill Baldor if it came to that. And if by some miracle Baldor killed Murtagh, then the whole town would feel the wrath of a furious dragon.
"He is my guest. And you will not harm him," Roran said coolly, hoping Baldor's respect for him would outweigh the young man's pain and fury, hoping he would not be blinded to reason by the horrible memories of war.
Baldor scowled, shaking his head, fuming with disbelief.
"Baldor, please, your sister is scared," Elain said again, her voice breathless as Hope huddled against her waist.
Roran thought Baldor looked as though he might walk away, when suddenly Murtagh straightened, and stared towards the door. A half-second after, there was a distant crash, and a handful of screams, and they all followed Murtagh's gaze.
In a moment they had unfrozen, and Roran was bursting through the door, followed by Baldor, Horst, and Murtagh.
When he emerged onto the hill, Roran could see a billow of gray smoke rising from the town below, and as he began to run, he saw that the tavern was lit ablaze, and the roof appeared half-caved in.
Women were screaming, and villagers from every corner were running in the direction of the tavern. Already there were calls for water buckets, and Baldor sprinted to the well, hoisting up a bucket as Roran continued his blind dash down the hill, followed by Murtagh. All thought of secrecy was gone from both their minds as they ran into the town, where the smoke was spreading.
When they reached the fountain in the center, Roran saw that the great beam that had spanned the front of the tavern had been split in half, crushed by the massive tree that had sat behind the building. Its roots had torn from the ground, sending it careening down towards the structure and taking most of the roof with it.
"Morn! What's happened?" Roran shouted as he saw villagers begin to throw water on the flames.
"Bloody well caved in out back; earth shifted and the roots come up!" Morn shouted, running hands over his bald head, his voice tight with loss.
"The fire?"
"The thing's half deadwood! Must've caught from the cookfire in the hearth!"
It was true–up close the tree was clearly not waiting for another spring to give it new life–it was gnarled and cracked, and should've been cut down for firewood years ago. Now its branches had begun to catch fire even as the rubble was still shifting. Roran cursed himself for not seeing the danger earlier.
He shoved those thoughts aside, though, as he saw Earin–a new villager who'd moved his family to Carvahall after the war–desperately trying to find a way past the giant beam that blocked the entrance.
"My girls!" He screamed, "My girls are inside!"
A billow of smoke belched up from the demolished structure, and Roran felt a twist in his gut.
"Is Tara inside? How many others?" Roran demanded of Morn as more and more buckets were brought. But the dead tree and the thatched roof had already started a conflagration, and Roran had a terrible recollection of the last time a fire had nearly taken out the whole village.
"Tara's at her cousin's, but we had maybe… three or four guests, and a few come by for vittles."
"How many is a few?"
"I—I can't recall, Lord Stronghammer, I'm–"
Roran scowled and turned away, knowing it was useless to keep probing for information. It didn't matter anyway. The mound of crushed rubble made an almost insurmountable barricade, and even if someone did manage to get inside, how would they climb back out?
Baldor and Horst rushed up on horseback with buckets of water sloshing at their sides. They threw their contents on the growing flames and Horst hurried back for more.
"Baldor!" Roran barked, "run around back and see if there's an easier way to get in or out."
Earin's desperate shouts and the noise of the fire were matched by the alarm bell, ringing from the keep at the top of the hill, signaling all available villagers to come help. Murtagh was standing at Roran's side, invisible to the frantic townsfolk, staring up with a pained expression on his face.
Roran lent a hand with tossing the water, but even he could tell it was a losing battle. One soot-covered inn guest stumbled out under the half-fallen front beam, and Roran tried to ask the disoriented visitor how many were still inside, but he could hardly catch his breath and Gertrude ushered him away quickly. Earin tore at the rubble, and bucket after bucket was tossed on the conflagration, and Roran felt utterly, furiously helpless.
He unhooked his hammer and was just about to climb his own way up the rubble, when he heard a terrified scream from within, and a branch from the dead tree cracked off, sending up a new spark of embers.
Earin howled in terror, and Roran struggled to breathe through the wave of smoke, but suddenly he saw Murtagh running past him, and he watched as the black-clad rider took a firm stance in front of the destroyed structure, held both his palms towards the flames, and shouted,
"Vindr eitha!"
There was a whistling sound, like biting wind on a cold winter's day, and then a strange silence, and then a gust, which blasted back Murtagh's hair and sent up a cloud of dirt from the floor.
Then suddenly, it was quiet. And when Roran looked up through stinging eyes, the fire was gone, only lingering smoke sitting heavy in the air. The gathered villagers were frozen in confusion, and Roran brought his eyes down to see Murtagh swaying on his feet, his hands half-lowered.
He rushed to Murtagh's side just as the man's legs gave out, and he caught him by the shoulder before he hit the ground.
Murtagh was wheezing, and his whole body was trembling, and his eyelids fluttered. Roran heard murmurs and confusion spreading throughout the crowd.
"Girls?!" Earin shouted, his voice cutting through the sudden silence. "Tielle? Meadra?"
"Murtagh, stay awake," Roran muttered as he lowered the rider to the ground, his arms cold to the touch.
There was a call from inside the rubble, a child's frightened voice.
"Girls?!" Earin shouted again, and lunged back for the now-cold rubble.
Murtagh wheezed, and suddenly his hand gripped Roran's arm.
"S–stop him, stop him, he'll crush them," He muttered, fighting to keep awake.
Roran jumped up and grabbed at Earin's shoulder before he could climb over the rubble wall.
"Let me go my girls are in there!"
"You'll kill them if that rubble shifts!" Roran shouted. "We can't go in 'til we know it's stable."
"They'll die!" Earin tried to wriggle away, but he was a small man compared to Roran's bulk, and he was panicked.
"The fire's out! We can take our time, and think of how to do this right."
The realization that the fire was out seemed to only just hit Earin, and he looked from the now-flameless debris, to Murtagh, who lay crumpled in the dirt.
"He some kind of sorcerer?!" One of the villagers called through the silence. They all murmured uneasily.
"That one of the Queen's magicians?" A woman asked.
"He's no sorcerer, he's a dragon rider! And a murderer!" This was Baldor's voice, and he was loping around the back of the destroyed structure, an older man covered in soot and leaning on his shoulder.
"That is Morzansson! Galbatorix's own lieutenant!"
At this Roran saw a shift in the villagers. They all reached for their weapons or backed away–mothers ushered their children away in fright, and some stepped forward as if to charge.
"Yes!" Roran said quickly, hurrying back to Murtagh's side and placing himself between the half-conscious man and the angry crowd.
"It is true, this is Murtagh, formerly of the empire, and he is a dragon rider. But he is my cousin as well, and that of Eragon Shadeslayer! The Queen has pardoned him utterly, and he is not here to cause any of you harm," Roran panted for breath, desperately spewing out whatever words he thought could stop a mob from forming, "Whatever qualms you have, you may take them up with me, but first we must rescue the poor souls trapped in this building."
This seemed to stay the crowd's surge. They gripped their weapons but held their ground. Baldor had set the old man down, but he stood glaring, his fists clenching and unclenching, his hand close to his knife.
"What do you propose we do, Lord Stronghammer?" Horst said calmly, his arms crossed. Roran breathed for a moment to calm himself.
"Gertrude… please…" Roran gestured to Murtagh, and the old healer shuffled forward after hesitating a moment. She gave Roran a withering look as she passed. He knew he would be receiving her reprimand later.
"My girls need help!" Earin pleaded.
"How are we supposed to get them out if we can't go in there?" Another man called from the crowd. Roran tried to think. It had taken them hours to lift the front beam into place, a dozen men working together with their mule teams. They wouldn't be able to move it, and even if they did, it could cause an immediate collapse of the whole teetering structure, sending the massive tree hurtling downward. They needed to lift the tree, the beam, and most of the rubble at the same time, but that would be impossible unless–
"Roran," Murtagh's voice came weakly to him. Roran turned, his mind going a hundred different directions at once. Murtagh was sitting slumped against the rubble pile, looking gray and limp with exhaustion.
"What is it?"
"Y–you have to… Thorn…" His weak hand gestured vaguely to the sky. It seemed he had thought the same as Roran.
"I don't know if I can convince them–"
"No," Murtagh winced, "N–he's–he's coming. He's coming now. He felt me g–felt me fall."
Roran's veins turned to ice. His gaze shot to the sky.
"Don't let… don't let them hurt him," Murtagh murmured, as he began to tilt to the side.
"Not sure I can do anything for him, Stronghammer," Gertrude said, catching him before he fell into the dirt. "Dunno what he did to himself."
"Exhaustion," Roran muttered, but his eyes were scanning the clouds, where a furious dragon was set to come careening out of the sky any moment.
He was going to need that dragon.
"No one will fire a shot or throw a weapon without my say!" Roran barked, surprising the gathered group.
"A dragon is about to descend from the clouds–" Frightened chatter started immediately, everyone looked up, and some began to run.
"–not one of you will attack it without my leave, or you will face punishment!" Roran tried to meet everyone's gaze, including Baldor, whose shoulders were hunched and whose glare was piercing.
Before Roran could decide if he should try and disperse the crowd, the air began to thump, and the clouds above them shifted, and he looked up to see Thorn's shape dropping out from the sky, and a deep rumble shook Roran's chest.
Women screamed and men fled and every weapon was drawn. The dragon landed hard by the fountain in the square, cracking stones beneath him and sending up swirls of dust.
Then, but for his mighty breaths, there was silence.
"Thorn!" Roran called, bringing the red dragon's head towards him and away from the frightened faces of the villagers. The eyes Roran had before seen as deep and sparkling and wide with curiosity were now so dark red they were almost black, and brimming with barely-controlled fury.
"Your rider is not injured," Roran said, trying to keep his voice from shaking as he gestured to Murtagh unconscious behind him. "He–he expended himself using magic to put out this fire."
Roran gestured to the building now.
"That is all. No one here has laid a hand on him and no one here is a threat to him. He is safe, and our healer Gertrude is–is tending to him."
Gertrude was frozen in fear, crouched over Murtagh, but staring at Thorn, who let out a low rumble from his throat, and stretched his neck past Roran, bringing his snout close to Murtagh and sniffing, as Gertrude trembled. Thorn scanned Murtagh's soot-covered body and sniffed again, but after a long, tense moment, he brought his head back and raised it, straightening his whole massive body.
What has happened here? The deep melodic voice boomed in Roran's head. Why has he caused himself harm like this?
"Th–there are children–trapped inside," Roran answered with his voice, "And others. The fire might have killed them if he hadn't put it out. But we cannot get to them."
Thorn scanned the rubble, heedless of the frozen villagers around him.
"C–can you get to them?" Roran ventured, receiving an incredulous look from Gertrude.
Thorn sniffed the rubble, and swiveled his head to look at it from many angles. Then, without a word, he crouched, and leapt, causing several screams in the villagers around him as he buffeted his wings downward to take flight.
As he lowered himself over the ruined building Earin shouted in alarm and started to charge, but Roran grabbed the frantic man and held him back, as two villagers dragged Murtagh's body away from the rubble, and the dragon reached out its mighty talons.
In one great grasp, Thorn took hold of the dead tree, the massive front beam, and a whole pile of fractured sticks, lifting them from the rest of the building with a chorus of cracks and shrieks. He beat his mighty wings steadily and floated behind the buildings, where the tree's roots had given way in the soft soil. Once he was clear of the structures, Thorn released his mighty load and let it come crashing to the earth, leaving the rest of the destroyed tavern gaping open.
Roran released his grip on Earin as the dragon flew back and landed by Murtagh near the fountain, hanging his head low over his rider and growling at anyone who got too close. Before they could all recover, and before Earin had gotten very far into the collapsed structure, a girl's voice called out,
"Papa!" And two children clambered over the beams and broken furniture that remained, covered in suit and scratches, but otherwise unharmed. The villagers began to pick through the ruined tavern and found four others who had been trapped inside, all shaken, and several wounded, but none mortally so.
Roran began to breathe again when the townsfolk started to pick up the mess, and clean, and some of the women brought out food and water. A dragon sat in the center of town guarding his unconscious rider, and everyone was glancing sideways and moving very uneasily, but no one seemed primed to attack.
Roran met Baldor's gaze across the stones, and the young man scowled, and dropped his arms, before getting on his horse and riding away.
Murtagh came back to himself eventually, and took a scone and some water from Elain, sitting slumped against the fountain and trying to still the trembling in his hands.
"Some spell," Roran commented. Murtagh could only nod weakly, and a voice from behind them said,
"Lord Stronghammer?"
Roran turned to find the young girl–Earin's daughter Trielle, standing in her soot-covered dress, only her face wiped clean.
"Yes, young lady."
"May I… may I speak to them?" Her large eyes blinked in Murtagh's direction. Her father stood holding his younger child on his hip, and Roran looked to him questioningly. The shaken man nodded his assent, and Roran stepped aside.
"Certainly."
The little girl stepped shyly up to where Murtagh sat, and she curtsied.
"Thank you for saving my sister and me. We were very frightened."
Roran could sense the other townsfolk watching, even as they continued their work.
"You are welcome," Murtagh managed weakly, "But Thorn got you out, not me."
He gestured to the dragon, who tilted his head at the child.
"C–can you tell him thank you, for me?" The little girl asked, twisting her hands nervously.
"You can tell him yourself, he will understand," Murtagh offered, and Trielle seemed both terrified and excited by this.
She stepped forward gingerly until she was looking right at Thorn, and at this the crowd nearby no longer pretended to work; they only stopped and watched in a mix of horror and fascination.
The little girl curtsied with a slight giggle.
"Hello, I'm Trielle," She said nervously, "Th–thank you for saving my baby sister and me," She offered, and Roran watched with held breath as Thorn lowered his mighty head and touched the girl gently with his snout, his eyes blinking closed. Roran didn't know if he was speaking to her in his mind, but his demeanor was wholly docile.
The girl giggled, and, to Roran's shock, she reached out her arms and hugged Thorn around his head, laying her cheek against his nose like she was cuddling a dog.
Thorn hummed deep in his throat, his eyes closed as the girl patted him. Roran looked back at Earin, whose face was a little green, but who was also smiling, holding his youngest daughter close.
After Trielle's success at petting a dragon, some of the other children, who had escaped their mother's clutches to come have a look, began to get bolder, and to ask for permission to pat Thorn on the nose, or stroke his wings, or look at his claws. Thorn consented to all this, and seemed to quite enjoy the attention, even allowing Trielle to climb up his leg and sit on his back between the spikes.
Some of the townsfolk muttered uneasily, but as the afternoon stretched on and Thorn made no move to harm anyone, most of them started to mutter that, after all, he had saved six lives that day, and after all, he could've set the whole town ablaze already, if he'd been of that mind.
For whatever reason, they were not as charitable to Murtagh, who sat against the fountain by Thorn's side and hardly moved, only taking food that Elain made sure to offer him, since none of the other women were brave enough. Katrina rode into town with Ismira and the baby beside her, ready to help with the cleanup along with everyone else.
Ismira and Hope were just as dazzled by the dragon's beauty as the other children, and it wasn't long until they were climbing all over him. Katrina was reluctant, but seemed to resign herself to this.
By the time the sky had turned orange and the sun had begun to sink, the shell of the tavern had been mostly cleaned out and the street cleared of debris. The remains of Tara and Morn's things were split into those items that were still usable, and those that were utterly destroyed, but already replacements for some of these items had begun popping up, brought over by the men and women of Carvahall, who were nothing if not faithful in tragedy.
Towards evening Murtagh beckoned Roran over, and asked him to give three gold coins to Tara and Morn, so they might buy replacements for whatever items could not be found. This was generous, not only because Roran knew Murtagh was not unendingly wealthy, but also because neither Tara nor Morn had thanked him for stopping the fire that would have destroyed everything they owned.
Roran knew Murtagh had intended for him to make it appear as a gift from the Earl of Palancar Valley, but when he handed the coins to Morn, as the man began to thank him with excited eyes, Roran informed him that the person he ought to thank was sitting over by the dragon. At this, Morn's excitement was a little dampened, and although he accepted the money, he did not seem eager to give his gratitude to the exhausted rider.
Before sunset, Murtagh announced that he would have to fly back to the farm, as he wasn't strong enough yet to make the journey on horseback. Katrina's breath tightened beside Roran.
"Or I can have him take me to the woods–spend the night with him," Murtagh offered, his face still haggard. Roran wondered if it was usual for one spell to take this much out of a powerful magician like Murtagh.
"That won't be necessary," Katrina answered coolly. "I only ask that he watch out not to step on anything important."
Katrina gave a stern but nervous glance to Thorn, who Roran imagined gave a small smirk.
When Thorn rose from his spot, the townsfolk who were still in the square startled and backed away, a hint of fear returned as the dragon moved his bulk around. The children, however, were utterly unfazed, and had all but adopted Thorn as the town pet. They gave his legs a good pat and told him to have a goodnight, and Murtagh had to wade through a gaggle of small people just to climb into his seat.
He lifted a hand in farewell to Roran, his shoulders slumped, looking for all the world like he might topple from the dragon at any moment.
Roran began to load up his own steed, and the one Murtagh had left behind at Horst's, laden with the newly-mended saddle. It would be a long ride in the dark to get back to the farm, but Roran would be glad to find his bed. Before Katrina had pried Ismira away from her friends, a group of the villagers approached Roran, some holding lanterns as the sky darkened.
"Lord Stronghammer," Jaffe said as they approached, "We was hopin' to speak with ye a moment."
"Very well," Roran turned expectantly, finding Jaffe and Gedric and a few others, as well as Earin and Albrecht. Horst saw the group gathered and walked over.
"We was just wondering… well, rumor is the rider is lodging on your estate?" Jaffe questioned, his figure stooped in the half-light.
Roran felt a tension in the crowd, but he nodded.
"Aye, he is."
"And the dragon?"
"Until today he was up in the Spine."
The group muttered uneasily, a few others joining their small circle of light.
"We just, well… we don't mean no disrespect to ye, knowing that they're–he's kin and all, but some of us have our concerns about havin' them linger round these parts."
"They don't plan to linger. As soon as they're mended they are heading to find Shadeslayer, to help him in a desperate situation."
More muttering–Roran knew he was stretching the truth a bit, but he felt a bubbling anger growing in his chest and wanted them convinced. The villagers had just watched Murtagh and Thorn save the lives of six of their own, and now they wanted to run them out of town.
You had the same thought not a week past, Roran reminded himself, but he thought he saw the same annoyance in Earin's expression.
"B–be that as it may… we dunno if it be safe to allow them to stay around here. Surely they have others who can help them?"
"They did not come to others, they came to me. It would be against my honor to kick him out now."
"I'm sorry, Roran," Albrecht spoke up reluctantly, "I know he's been pardoned, and I know he's Eragon's brother and all, but he did serve Galbatorix during the war." Albrecht received a disapproving glance from his father, and Roran bit back a quick retort, thinking quickly.
There were a good few men gathered, most of them expressing disapproval at the idea of Murtagh staying around. He could refuse them, of course; as Earl it was his right. But it would leave a sour taste in everyone's mouth, and he wouldn't hear the end of it for months to come–not to mention, if something did happen–whether through Murtagh's fault or not–Roran would be vilified for having refused to listen.
"What would you have me do? Ask him to leave?
Some seemed to think this was the idea, and shrugged or muttered, but Earin scoffed and shook his head, incredulous.
"Ask him to leave? Jaffe, the man just saved your brother's life and you're wanting to take the mob to 'im?"
"He's a murderer, come on, we all saw him–"
"Aye!" Earin said, passionate now, "We all did. Myself included. I saw that bloody dragon wreaking havoc on the cities just as you did, and I prayed for him to get shot from the sky. But you know what else I saw? Saw him save the bloody Queen, I did! Carry her out of the ruined citadel the day Uru'baen fell. And he's got her confidence, and he's got Shadeslayer's confidence, and he's got Lord Stronghammer's confidence, and by golly now he's got mine!" Earin turned his anger to the group at large. He was a veteran of the war, and one of the new craftsmen who'd taken up trade in the town, and Roran knew he was risking business by standing up for Murtagh so vocally.
"You should all be ashamed of yourselves, after what they done today," Earin continued passionately, "Saving our family, our friends. Whatever happened in the past–that was paid for, far as I'm concerned. And I'd like a single one of you to prove you could've done any better in a state like his." Earin shook his head.
"Maybe you all forgot that he was joined up with the Varden and fighting against the empire–riskin' his life for us all before any one of you even thought of leavin' Palancar! So if you don't like him staying at the Stronghammer place, well just don't look! But as for me, I'll be bringing my daughters over with a pie come tomorrow."
Roran raised his eyebrows, impressed by Earin's tirade. He had been prepared to give his own account on Murtagh's behalf to try and sway them, but it appeared he wouldn't need to. Most of the crowd had been sufficiently abashed by Earin's admonishments, and Jaffe seemed to reconsider, in light of the fact that his brother owed a life-debt to Murtagh now.
"Well," The man murmured, trying to recover his dignity, "Well, I s'pose if he keeps hisself from trouble, and that–that dragon of his–"
"The dragon has a name. It is Thorn," Roran said coolly. "You'd do well to remember it; dragons are easily offended creatures."
Jaffe swallowed nervously.
"Right, well. Just so long as you vouch for 'em…"
"I do," Roran said, and he knew it was true. Whatever secrets Murtagh had–and he suspected they were many–Roran was confident they didn't involve some plot to harm Carvahall. Thorn had showed quite clearly that he could have done that at any time.
The gathering soon went their separate ways, some with changed minds, and some with grudging acceptance, and Roran turned for the long journey home in the dark, wondering what Eragon would say, if he'd been there.
Earin was true to his word, bringing a pie and his daughters by the Stronghammer farm around noon the following day. He wasn't the only one to stop by, either.
Thorn had flown away to the woods after dropping Murtagh off the previous night, apparently quite displeased to leave his rider in such a weakened state, but Murtagh had pleaded with him, and he grudgingly consented. However, after Roran had consulted with Katrina the next morning and gained her permission, he told Murtagh to ask Thorn to come back; he could find a spot in the corn field if he wanted.
Roran thought having the dragon on the property was now the best move, as it would keep anyone from wondering where he might be and what he might be getting up to. It would also show that Roran had meant what he'd said–he had confidence that the pair of newcomers meant well and were not out to harm anyone, so much so that he would let his children play around the dragon.
Thorn's presence drew many visitors that day, and Roran noticed that the road to town was much busier than usual, with people on buggies, horses or on foot, who would walk by and try to gawk surreptitiously. Some made no pretense, and simply stood on the road staring at the bright red dragon amid the whole dull countryside, and the bravest of them walked up to the house and spoke to Roran or Katrina.
Murtagh did not leave his room all day, and Thorn's head hovered around the upstairs bedroom window for much of the time. Katrina worried at first that Thorn would crush her garden bed, but the dragon was remarkably graceful, and no plants or structures were harmed.
When Earin and his family left towards evening and Roran had finished up the chores, they all made for their beds. The night was cold and quiet, with overhanging clouds that promised snow. Roran fell asleep easily now, his arms around Katrina's warm shape, the house creaking around them in the cold.
Sometime in the dark Roran woke abruptly, and his heart was pounding. All was quiet for a brief second, and he held his breath, waiting for his pounding head to calm. Then he felt the house rumble, and a crash from upstairs, and he shot out of bed, grabbing his hammer from the small table at his side. Katrina was up and gripping her own knife before Roran had reached the door.
He heard a deep rumble that he recognized as the growl of a dragon, and his heart continued to thud as he creaked the door open slowly, stepping out into the hallway with Katrina behind him.
There was a hideous shriek of wood rending, and Roran heard a moan of pain, coming from down the hall where Murtagh was sleeping.
"Is the dragon in the house?" Katrina whispered, clutching her knife close. Roran stepped forward wordlessly, and made for the door to the guest room. He heard another rumble as he stepped up to the door and swung it open.
He saw Thorn's head, pushed through the now-destroyed window, appearing for all the world as though someone had mounted it on the wall like a prize buck. Smoke was trailing from his nostrils and he was staring down at Murtagh, who was lying in the bed, sheets twisted around him, drenched in sweat and twitching as though fighting off some fear. Katrina let out a whimper as Roran lowered his hammer and Thorn raised his great gaze to them.
He will not wake, Thorn's voice rumbled suddenly in Roran's mind.
Roran kept his distance–he knew better than to startle a soldier in the midst of a nightmare.
"Murtagh!" Roran called from the doorway. His cousin cried out in pain but didn't wake; Roran glimpsed a glow coming from Murtagh's hand, where his dragon rider mark was sparked to life.
"Is he casting a spell?" Katrina whispered next to him, huddled close to the doorframe. Thorn huffed in frustration, filling the room with a haze of smoke, the wood screeching as he shifted his massive bulk.
Roran took a careful step forward, as Thorn let out a loud roar that vibrated the floorboards.
"Murtagh, you're–"
Suddenly Murtagh shot up and rolled off the bed. Before Roran could blink, Murtagh had snatched a knife from under his pillow and hurled the weapon in Roran's direction.
Just as the blade left his hand, Murtagh let out a shout of alarm, and twitched his wrist, sending the weapon off its course and whipping past Roran's ear. There was a thud as the blade embedded itself in the doorpost, inches from Katrina's face.
She cried out and jumped back, but before Roran could do anything, it was over. Murtagh let out a distressed groan and stumbled back, slumping to the floor and holding onto the bed post as though he were going to faint.
"I'm s–I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," He gasped, holding one hand out as if preparing for a blow, his eyes averted.
Roran's skin was flush with heat and his heart was thudding; his hammer trembled in his grip and he, too fought to catch his breath. He saw Katrina frozen in the hallway with a hand on her chest, and he went to her immediately.
"Are you alright?" He murmured, her face pale with shock. He placed his own trembling hands on her arms, but she was staring forward, at the knife that had just barely avoided impaling her.
"I'm–I'm alright," She managed weakly.
Roran heard the cry of baby Garrow from down the hall. No doubt the noise had startled him awake. Katrina turned at the sound, and she took an unsteady breath.
"I have–I'll go… the baby…" She said distantly, turning down the hall towards the children's rooms.
Roran stood in the doorway trying to catch his breath, and when he turned he held back a wave of rage. Murtagh was still collapsed on the floor gripping the bedpost, but he looked up at Roran through the strings of his damp hair, his expression full of self-loathing.
"Roran–"
"Was that a dream or was somethin' attacking you?" Roran demanded, trying to keep his anger in check. How close had Katrina come to dying? What if Murtagh hadn't adjusted his aim at the last second?
"I d–I don't know, I don't remember…" Murtagh breathed, his eyes wandering as he tried to blink away the fog in his mind.
"You'd best start remembering," Roran spat, "Can't be doin' that–"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry it won't happen–"
"–don't make promises you can't keep," Roran interrupted tightly. Murtagh nodded miserably, looking pathetic, sitting on the bedroom floor in his sleep shirt, barefooted and drenched in sweat.
In his mind Roran knew Murtagh had not been trying to hurt him or Katrina, and he'd experienced his fair share of violent nightmares, had even bruised Katrina's wrist from grabbing it in his sleep once. But it was different when someone else–especially this someone else–was the danger.
Murtagh rose shakily as Roran turned and pried the embedded knife out of the doorframe.
"I'll be holding onto this 'til morning," Roran muttered, and Murtagh just nodded, still leaning heavily against the bed. Roran knew Murtagh probably had plenty of weapons on his person and his dragon, but he felt better knowing there wasn't one under his pillow.
Murtagh met Thorn's gaze and the dragon began to pull his giant head back out through the window, evidently at Murtagh's request. The wood groaned and cracked, and the last of the beautiful glass panes that Roran had bought and carefully set in place crumbled to the ground as Thorn wiggled his neck spikes through the opening. Roran winced at the damage to his new home, but said nothing, as Murtagh pulled on his boots and shuffled to the window.
"Where are you going?" Roran questioned once Thorn's head was outside once more.
"I'll spend the rest of the night outside with Thorn," Murtagh said tiredly, pulling on his outer coat. Roran sighed and rolled his eyes,
"Don't be ridiculous, it's freezing," He said, "And Katrina won't allow it."
"Thorn is very warm, I'll be alright." Murtagh was already swinging one leg over the window frame, and Roran saw Thorn raise his neck high enough for Murtagh to climb onto it. The tired rider clearly wasn't asking.
"At least take a blanket or something," Roran offered, feeling inwardly relieved that Murtagh and the dragon would not be in his house the rest of the night.
Besides, He thought, Whatever caused him to go off like that, the dragon'll be the only one who could help him if it happens again.
Murtagh looked reluctant, but nodded and took the quilt from the bed, before stepping back over the window sill. He looked back at Roran,
"Tell Katrina again, I'm so sorry," He offered, his voice haggard.
Roran nodded, but couldn't think of anything to say. Then Murtagh climbed deftly onto Thorn's neck like a cat on a tree limb, and slid down towards the space in between his spikes where a person could sit comfortably.
Roran let out his pent up breath when Thorn disappeared from view, and he shut the bedroom door behind him, stuffing an old blanket under the crack to keep the cold draft from flowing into the rest of the house.
When Katrina finally came back to bed they both held each other close, finding it difficult to slip back into their easy sleep.
Roran left for the keep the next morning at Katrina's insistence; she said she would be fine, and that the villages needed him to be attentive to them, and he ought not to leave people thinking that he was hiding away on his estate, as though he were up to something nefarious.
"It was an accident, Roran," She said, handing Roran food for his midday meal, "And he's already apologized to me more times than I'd care to hear. We'll be just fine, so long as everyone remains conscious."
Roran grunted uneasily, but he did as his wife suggested and went to attend to his affairs as Earl. The day was full of curious questions from all the town workers and leaders, some of whom clearly did not like the idea of letting a dragon and rider linger in the area. But there were others who seemed amused, even proud, or at least ready to share the story the next time they were in Therinsford.
Roran allowed everyone to express their own opinions, and kept himself to himself. He was uneasy after last night's disaster, but he still held to what he'd said to the villagers–he trusted that Murtagh and Thorn were not up to evil and would cause no intentional harm to anyone in Carvahall.
What about unintentional harm? Roran thought, reliving the moment the knife had whizzed past his head and embedded itself inches from his wife's face.
When Roran returned in the afternoon the sun was bright, but there was a gray mass in the distance that foreboded a storm. He heard the sound of hammering as he came up the road, and when he turned his horse onto the property, he saw Thorn's bright red bulk hunched over by the side of the house where the broken window was, and a ladder leaning up against the sill. On the ladder stood Earin, and on Thorn's neck stood Murtagh, and they were busy at work repairing the destroyed window.
Roran unsaddled his horse and gave her a brush down, before tromping over the ground towards the dragon. He saw Earin's girls playing in the garden with Ismira, and noticed smoke rising from the chimney.
Earin and Murtagh didn't notice Roran at first, as he stood below them looking up at the house, but Thorn did, and he gave his head a little dip, catching Murtagh's attention.
The rider did not look much better than the previous night, his face was gray and his eyes sunken, but he managed a smile in Roran's direction.
"Afternoon."
Earin twisted around on his ladder,
"Lord Stronghammer, hello to you!" He said, lifting a hammer in greeting. "Should've stayed an hour or two more at the keep, we've almost done with the frame. Then it's just a matter of getting panes from in town–I should be able to snag some off Oleg 'fore the week's out."
Except for being a slightly different color than the wood around it, the window looked like it might've never been splintered in the first place. The new frame was of a fine make; Earin knew his craft.
"You didn't have to do all this," Roran said, meeting Murtagh's gaze.
"Ah, nonsense, I'm happy to help. Murtagh said young Thorn here just got a little overeager," Earin laughed goodnaturedly, giving Thorn a little salute, "Happens to the best of us; though most of us aren't the size of a small house."
Thorn snorted a wisp of smoke from his nostrils, but Roran thought he was amused.
"Well. Thank you, I do appreciate it. I'm sure Katrina will be glad to have it replaced."
That evening Katrina insisted that Earin and his daughters stay for dinner, as a thanks for his help in fixing the house. Earin was a lively, warm fellow, and Roran began to take a good liking to the man, whom he'd only known from a distance since he'd moved into town the previous year.
"My wife was the artist when it came to woodworking," Earin explained after Katrina had complimented his fine work on the window, "She'd make it beautiful and functional, truly elegant with her pieces. Me, I just get it done the best way I know how, nothing fancy."
"Your wife… she passed?" Katrina asked softly, feeding the baby with one hand and handing Ismira a cloth to wipe her face with the other. Earin smiled sadly.
"Aye. Aye, she was killed during the war."
Murtagh's eyes were fixed on his plate, and Roran felt suddenly heavy.
"During the battle under Farthen Dur," Earin explained politely. "She was trying to aid the wounded."
"Oh. I'm so sorry," Katrina offered heavily.
"Ah, well. We all lost something. I'm lucky to have my girls," Earin patted the youngest on the head, and looked in Murtagh's direction.
"And that's thanks to you and Thorn," He added, his voice brighter. Then he said, "You know I met you, back in Tronjheim, before the battle."
Murtagh looked up suddenly, and Roran felt his ears prick up.
Before the battle. Before Murtagh's capture. Before Thorn had hatched, before Eragon and he had discovered their connection… Roran tried to imagine that time, before he had even left Carvahall, when Eragon was on the run after losing the man that would turn out to be his father.
And Murtagh–his only friend on the road–joining the Varden in a desperate defense of their stronghold even after they'd shunned him for his parentage. It felt like another world to Roran, and it seemed Murtagh felt the same, the way he was listening now to Earin.
"Likely you wouldn't remember," Earin chuckled good-naturedly, "I was just one of the guards on rotation while you were kept in, uh, in the cell. Brought you a few books, chatted a bit, that's all."
Murtagh looked up at him with a strange expression, and Roran wondered at all that lay behind it. He hadn't heard much of all this–of Eragon's first days in Farthen Dur. By the time he and his cousin had gotten around to catching up, so much else had happened that these small details had slipped through the cracks. He'd only known that Murtagh had been Eragon's friend, and then he was presumed dead, until the Battle of the Burning Plains.
"Well…" Murtagh managed, clearing his throat, "I suppose, thank you," He smiled weakly. "Those few days were… very peaceful for me."
This sounded rather sad to Roran–that being held in a jail cell would be peaceful–but he, too, had lived a life on the road, on the run from the Empire, and he knew what it felt like to be always watching your back.
The evening was surprisingly pleasant, with Earin around, and Roran decided to look into offering the man a position within the town. He was loyal, and personable; a skilled craftsman, and a respectable soldier. He deserved to be recognized for the sacrifices he and his family had made in support of the Varden and the overthrow of Galbatorix. Roran tried to imagine carrying on the fight after losing Katrina–it made him ill just to think it.
When Earin had left for his own home and Katrina had gone to put the children to bed, Roran caught Murtagh stepping out into the night, to sleep by his dragon's side again.
"There's fixin' to be a storm tonight," Roran warned, "You don't have to stay out there."
Murtagh smiled weakly.
"I'll be alright. I sleep better anyway, with him nearby."
Roran sniffed.
"Fair enough. But don't hesitate to come on inside if the snow piles up too heavy."
Murtagh nodded.
"Thank you."
He cleared his throat and looked into the dark blue night around them, light flakes drifting lazily down from the sky.
"We'll try to be getting out of your way soon," He offered, "Now the saddle's fixed."
Roran waved a hand away.
"If I know anything about weather in Palancar Valley, this storm's gonna be the first of a long line, before winter breaks in earnest. It won't do to be flying off into a blizzard only to get yourself hurt again."
"Eragon needs–"
"I know. And you'll get to him soon as you can, but a storm is what caused you all this trouble in the first place, and I'm telling you, winter's not done with us yet. Take it from someone who's learned to watch the weather since before I could walk. Stay here until the frost leaves. Your journey'll be twice as a fast and five times easier."
Murtagh seemed to hesitate, weighing things in his mind, considering the night sky as it began to spill snow towards the earth.
"I'll talk it over with Thorn," He concluded, "But, thank you. For the offer."
Roran nodded, feeling strangely warm and familiar, after the evening with Earin and his family. He wondered if Murtagh had ever had an evening like that–at a table with family, sharing in warm food and good stories, enjoying the crackling fire and the simple joy of good company. He thought perhaps not, and that thought made him feel a tender sadness towards his cousin. How sad life in a castle looked when compared with the beauty of a simple farmhouse.
As Roran had expected, the storm that blew in that night blanketed the world in sheets of white, and did not let up its deluge until late the next day. There was a little rest, and a little time for Roran and Murtagh to dig a path to the barn, before the deluge began again during the next night.
Murtagh relented, and returned to the upstairs bedroom while Thorn slept outside, tamping down the snow around him as it built up and melted under his heat. Katrina offered the dragon blankets, but he merely chuckled–or at least Roran interpreted the rumbling in his chest as a chuckle–and let off a little spurt of flame, melting the snow around him.
This is not cold, He said to them both, amusement in the words of his thought, The world would have to be one large icicle for me to consider it cold.
He seemed entirely comfortable sleeping under the stars as the flakes fell down around him–those that landed on him melted on his warm scales, and the dribbling water left his wings lined with little icicles in the morning, which Roran found to be dazzling in the morning light.
Chores were put on hold and Roran did not go to the keep for several days; no one passed on the road outside and the visitors who had flooded the estate in the days after the tavern collapse did not make the journey through the drifts.
The world was muffled, and quiet with the heaviness of snow, and Roran enjoyed spending the evenings around the hearth, working on his wood carving while Katrina sewed and Murtagh sat on the floor with baby Garrow and Ismira, delighting them with increasingly complex shadow puppets that he formed with his hands, casting them onto the wall from the light of the fire.
Ismira went to the window every few minutes to check on Thorn, opening the pane just a crack and calling out into the night to make sure he wasn't too cold. Thorn kept his head near the living room window then, peeking one large eye in whenever Ismira opened it. He was careful, however, not to push any part of his head into the house, and cause another disaster like the bedroom window.
Roran's daughter was also fascinated by the mark on Murtagh's hand, and she held his palm upward, tracing it with her finger like a fortune teller making a palm reading.
"You get hurt?" She asked of the mark when she first noticed it.
"No, it doesn't hurt," Murtagh said with a small smile as she turned his hand over.
"That's just how people know that Thorn and I are partners," He explained while Ismira ran her small finger in a spiral along the silver-sheened mark.
"Your Uncle Eragon has one, too," He said, and Ismira brightened.
"Unca Ragon has a dwagon like you dwagon!" She exclaimed.
"Yes, I know. A very beautiful dragon."
"You met Unca Ragon?" She asked, poking the Gedwey Ignasia like it was an interesting bug.
"I have, yes," Murtagh said. Then, to Roran's surprise, Katrina spoke up from her chair in the corner,
"Uncle Eragon is Murtagh's brother," She explained to the child, as she flipped over the shirt she was mending.
"He your bwudder?" Ismira exclaimed.
"I–yes. Yes, he is," Murtagh confirmed, glancing thankfully in Katrina's direction.
"I have a bwudder too, that's Gawwow." Ismira pointed to baby Garrow, who was sucking on the end of a wooden spoon that he'd taken to using as a hammer.
"I know," Murtagh confirmed, "You take good care of him, don't you?"
"You take good care of your bwudder?" Ismira asked, and at this Murtagh hesitated.
"Well. I'm trying to. Now."
"You Unca Murta, then," Ismira concluded unceremoniously, jumping to her feet and trotting once again to the window, which she unlatched with her stubby fingers.
"You Unca Thorn!" She called out into the night, standing on her tiptoes as Thorn lifted his head into view. Roran watched him blink his great red eye while Ismira reached out and patted his snout.
"He says he's honored," Murtagh said, as Ismira leaned out the window and gave Thorn a kiss on the nose.
Roran and Katrina met each other's gaze, and his wife hid a small smile; he understood. How outlandish this all was, enjoying a quiet winter's evening with a sorcerer and his dragon. How Roran's father would have shaken his head at the insanity of it all; Roran missed Garrow, and wished for the thousandth time that he and Marian could have lived long enough to see their grandchildren–to see what Eragon had become, what Roran had accomplished–to meet the elder child of Garrow's sister.
And Roran wished Eragon could be there, too. Then he would truly have everything he'd ever wanted.
The storms lasted on and off for a week, with a few hours respite in between. The days sometimes got warm enough to melt away a bit of the snow, but then the melted water would refreeze and cause the path to the barn to become as slippery as a frozen creekbed.
Roran fixed up everything around the house that he could find to fix, and Murtagh managed to finish repairing the window after Earin came by with the glass panes during one of the lulls in the weather.
Physically Murtagh seemed to be improving. His burns were faded and healing over, and he seemed to be recovering his strength after expending it on the tavern fire. But from a magician's perspective he was still struggling.
Roran found him in the barn one day, after having practiced his sword play, levitating a few pieces of straw. This took all his concentration, and seemed to sap his energy to an extreme degree. Roran knew that wasn't normal, even for a weak magician. He had managed to put out the fire at the tavern perhaps from sheer adrenaline, but anything else seemed to be beyond his reach.
He began to worry that Murtagh and Thorn would never make it to Eragon in the far eastern reaches, not in this state. He wondered if Murtagh should just go to the elves for help–they would be closer–but Du Weldenvarden was where they had been attacked in the first place, and Roran knew the Elves might be hostile towards them, after what they'd done to the ancient dragon rider and his partner.
There was also the matter of the danger that might be coming for Eragon–someone had to warn him. If there was a sorcerer out there powerful enough to cripple a dragon rider, Eragon had to know.
When the storms let up, Murtagh began to talk again about leaving, but Roran insisted that winter was not ready to give up just yet, and Katrina forbade him from leaving until she'd finished mending the new shirt and trousers she had started for him.
"Some of Roran's old clothes," She explained, "Got to be taken in, but they'll serve you better than those old things."
Roran knew what she meant–Murtagh's clothes were worn and thin, evidence of long travel and harsh conditions. Murtagh seemed touched by the gift, and agreed not to leave until she'd had time to finish.
This was the right choice, because Roran had once again predicted the weather well, and there was another bout of winter storms before the month was up. After that, the cold was bone-chilling for several days, but the snow had let up, Roran thought for good.
Albrecht came by on horseback and told Roran that the men in the village were planning to help Morn begin the reconstruction of the tavern, weather-permitting, in a few days. He stood uneasily in the yard with one hand holding the bridle of his nervous horse, and declined Roran's offer to come in and sit for a while. Roran had agreed to come by to help, and, when he told Murtagh and Katrina, Murtagh volunteered to come along.
"You don't have to," Roran assured.
"I would like to, if you think it wouldn't cause you too much trouble," He offered. "I'm feeling well enough, physically. And your people have been more than kind in letting Thorn and I stay around these past few weeks. I know they could've been much worse to us."
Roran had to admit this was true–it was lucky that Murtagh had won a few allies in the act of stopping the tavern fire, otherwise Roran might've had an angry mob on his hands. He supposed it couldn't hurt for the townspeople to see Murtagh helping repair one of the important gathering-places in town.
And Thorn?
No, Roran thought it might be better if Thorn stayed back at the farm this time.
Two days later the day dawned bright and surprisingly warm, and the steady trickling of water spoke of snowmelt. The river would be heavy with floodwaters and the ground would be moist; the trip into town was going to be a muddy one.
Murtagh and Roran headed out before full-light, their horses loaded with what tools Roran had chosen to bring along. They'd also brought food for a meal, as the work they were aiming to do would take all of that day, at the very least. Roran admired the way the folk of Carvahall came together to help each other in instances such as this. No payment was required of Morn and Tara for the repairs to their home. When disaster struck, all thought of profit disappeared from their minds.
The gathering in the town square was already goodly-sized when Roran and Murtagh rode up. Some women had brought out tea and biscuits, and most of the able-bodied men of the village had brought their tools and their plow horses or mules, which were all tied to a makeshift hitch-rail, since the tavern rail had been destroyed. If they needed to lift any heavy beams, the horses would help. Roran knew a dragon might help more, but he didn't want to push his luck with the villagers by bringing Thorn back around uninvited.
Some people gave Roran and Murtagh uneasy looks as they pulled up, but Earin greeted them heartily and loudly, clearly sending the message that no one was to cause any trouble. Earin was to be in charge of the process as chief craftsman.
He put them all to work briskly, sending out various teams to find more wood or begin cutting the wood they already had, and dispatching the younger lads into the demolished structure to clean out any remaining debris. The day grew hot before noontime, with the winter sun blasting down its full strength, melting away the snow that had accumulated in the shell of the destroyed building and leaving a muddy mess.
Roran worked alongside the others, and while he tried to keep Murtagh close in case there was any trouble, he soon found this to be unnecessary. Enough of the men had apparently been won over by Earin's enthusiasm that they were able to be friendly, and even make jokes with the rider. He was enveloped in a troupe of men headed to cut down a tree to make a new center beam, and he returned leading one of the mules.
When the frame of the building had begun to rise above their reach, some of the lighter and braver young men climbed onto the structure to hoist and secure the new wood into place. Murtagh followed suit, joining Albrecht in hammering down one of the cross beams.
Roran, who kept himself firmly on the ground, saw Murtagh pass the water skin to Albrecht, who accepted it without protest. If Albrecht was uncomfortable with Murtagh's presence, he kept his peace, but Roran noticed that Baldor was nowhere to be found. Horst was there, though, assisting in the repair of the hinges and knobs and metal bits that had been damaged in the fire.
Everyone grew hot as the sun reached its peak and their work grew more strenuous, and men took to tying sweat cloths around their foreheads, or removing their tunics while they worked. Murtagh did this without concern, which Roran found surprising, and as the day wore on he noticed that his cousin seemed increasingly more relaxed.
Roran heard the older men calling up teases and taunts from below, calling the young men birds for being perched up so high, or saying how dainty they looked, and how the weight of any sturdy man would've broken the beams.
The younger men, in turn, threw good-natured insults at their elders, saying their bones were as creaky as the wood, or that they were too fat to climb a flight of stairs, much less mount a beam. Then Roran was surprised to hear a strange sound as he passed up another cut board to Albrecht.
It was Murtagh, and he was laughing.
He sat straddling one of the secured beams, his legs hanging easily and his scarred back exposed to the air without concern. His eyes were sparkling with laughter at whatever taunt had been thrown from the older men below.
Roran thought he'd never seen him so relaxed, except perhaps around Thorn. But somehow this felt different–Thorn was a good companion, but theirs was a heavy bond, formed from shared hurts and unspeakable horrors, a lifeline to each other with the constant fear of it being torn away.
The way the men of Carvahall seemed around him was light and easy, no shared history to wade through, no knowing each other's darkness and pain. There was an awareness, of course, that the man working alongside them had once been their enemy, but if this continued to bother any of the men, they didn't seem to show it. It seemed Murtagh had won them over.
Roran realized then that he, too, had been won over. Whether it was Murtagh's heroic actions in saving the lives of those in the tavern fire, or the way he played shadow puppets with Ismira on the floor of their living room, Roran realized suddenly that he would be sad when his cousin left for the eastern reaches. He would perhaps even miss Murtagh–miss the chance to get to know him better, to learn more of what connected them as family. He might even miss having Thorn sitting next to his garden bed, peaking through the windows of their house. Roran allowed himself a small smile, thinking again of what his father would've thought of all this, and of how Eragon would react when he learned.
There was a small part of Roran that wanted to leave with Murtagh when he went–to go in search of Eragon and see the place where the dragon riders were being reformed, and face whatever this new danger was.
But he knew his duty as a father and husband, and as Earl of Palancar Valley. And he knew in his heart that danger and adventure was not what he wanted–he'd had plenty of that for three lifetimes.
In all his struggle during the war and on his quest to find Katrina, the adventure had never been the goal. All his work and pain and hardship had been to achieve the very thing he had now–peace, with his family, in his village. A simple life. A beautiful life.
Perhaps that was what he noticed in Murtagh–the change of being able to rest in one place for a little while, to have a taste of the simple life that thousands of people lived but that had always been out of reach for him. Perhaps that was why it didn't bother Murtagh for the other men to see his scars, and why he felt it so easy to laugh, while perched high up on a structure that his own hands had helped to make.
That night, many of the men gathered in Horst's house for an evening meal and a bit of drinking, in celebration of work well done. The tavern was not finished, but the heavy labor of many hands had been mostly completed, and Earin and a few others would be able to continue the rest of it within the next few days. Roran felt the chill of the night air outside, but it smelled like spring, and he expected the next day would be no colder than this one had been.
As was often the case when people gathered to chat in Carvahall, the conversation soon turned to the war, and the battles, and the various feats that the men there had participated in. They steered clear of any talk of death–not mentioning the names of those who were not present with them–and stuck to the boisterous and light-hearted affairs, such as happenings within the camp, or the more ludicrous moments within a battle.
Jaffe told a story of one of the Varden soldiers tripping over his own spear and causing the old thing to break, but refusing to report to his commanding officer, as he didn't want to be reprimanded.
"Went through the whole siege of Dras Leona with half a spear, I tell you, absolute madman! But by golly he made it out. Even ended up gettin' one of those imperials with the splintered end!"
This received the appropriate amount of laughter, as did Waylar's account of how he'd lost the small finger on his left hand, and Albrecht's recounting of the night he woke up to find a confused Varden soldier he had never met before lying asleep in Baldor's cot after a long night of guard duty.
The men were soon comparing battle scars, and many asked Roran to recount his own tale of besting nearly two hundred men in the village of Deldarad. Murtagh kept quiet during most of this storytelling and boasting, but he was clearly impressed and surprised when Roran relayed his own tale.
In part Roran was always reluctant to speak of his feats in battle–he had become well-known for being an adept killer and he didn't like it–but on the other hand he felt bonded to the other men of Carvahall when they shared of their time in the war, and he knew the others appreciated him likening his experiences to their own.
"What about you, there, rider?" Jaffe asked, raising his mug of ale in Murtagh's direction, "Got some scars worth a story, I'm sure. That one on your back, you get that in the war?"
Murtagh put down his own mug very slowly, and Roran kept still, wondering how his cousin would respond.
"No," He said with a reluctant smile, "I'm afraid there's no good story behind that one," He dismissed. But he clearly saw that the gathered group was expecting him to give them some tale or bit of interest, so he cleared his throat and continued,
"This one, though," He stood and lifted his tunic, showing a scar on his abdomen that Roran recognized as a sword stab-wound.
"Received that as a gift from Shadeslayer himself," He offered. This, of course, elicited a huge reaction from the gathered crowd, who was equal parts amazed and impressed, and demanded a detailed account of the duel that had led to Eragon stabbing him.
Roran could tell that Murtagh was skirting around details and making the whole affair seem much more exciting and much less horrifying than it really was, but he understood. War stories were rarely ever as grand as they were made out to be.
"Sakes alive!" Jaffe exclaimed, "I'da payed good coin to be in that room."
"Youda been a dead man if you'd been in that room," Earin interjected with a chuckle, and Jaffe laughed in return.
"It true that you're Garrow's sister's son? That you and Shadeslayer, you're brothers?" Waylar questioned. Horst was quiet in the corner, sipping his mug, and he and Roran met eyes across the room.
"Yes, Selena was my mother," Murtagh answered calmly, taking another sip of ale. Roran wondered if he should rescue his cousin from the onslaught of questioning.
"But Brom's not your father?"
"Wait–" Waylar's son Avin, a boy of about twelve, interjected in surprise, "Brom? The old storyteller Brom? He's Shadeslayer's father?"
"Aye, boy, pay attention, you lout," Waylar reprimanded, thwacking Avin on the back of the head.
"No," Murtagh admitted with a sad smile, "I don't have the honor of calling Brom my father, unfortunately."
"So your mum run off on your dad?" Avin asked bluntly, receiving another smack from his father.
"Who raised ye to ask fool questions like that, boy?" Waylar demanded; then, to Murtagh he said, "I do 'pologize, sir."
"It's alright," Murtagh said to the reprimanded boy. Then, to the rest he said, "My father was a miserable bastard and my mother deserved better. I'm glad to know she found it with Brom."
Murtagh raised his mug of ale and took a drink, and the others followed suit,
"Here here," Earin offered in agreement.
Roran didn't know personally about terrible fathers–he'd had a good one. But Katrina had struggled with hers, and he'd known enough miserable, angry men in Carvahall who mistreated their families.
He wondered what Eragon's life would've been like, if Roran's aunt Selena hadn't escaped Morzan's estate while pregnant with her younger son. Would he have been raised in the same cold, brutal manner that Murtagh had? Was it just a twist of fate that Selena had brought Eragon to her brother and not Murtagh? If she'd been able to get Murtagh away from his father, might Roran have grown up alongside both his cousins?
From battle scars the conversation soon turned, predictably, to another form of conquest; the tales grew more bawdy, and Avin's ears got red. Most of the men, Roran knew, were elaborating falsehoods to spin a good yarn. They were faithful husbands and fathers, and if they'd had any gallivanting days those were long past. The Varden women were appraised for their various merits, although every man avoided giving any opinion on Queen Nasuada, which Roran thought wise.
He kept his own mouth shut and drank his ale quietly during this talk, as did Murtagh, but Jaffe, his tongue loosened by drink, soon gave Murtagh a rap with the back of his hand and said,
"I bet you've had your taste of the fine ladies of Alagaesia, eh? Handsome rogue such as yourself, travelin' 'round all mysterious like, and a dragon rider to boot!"
The others chuckled, and Jaffe continued with a cheeky grin, encouraged by the good response.
"I'd wager you've sampled the wares from here to Feinster!" This received more of a raucous chuckle, but Murtagh did not smile.
"You'd be mistaken. Not many women are interested in a vagabond," Murtagh demurred, drinking his ale with a controlled calm.
"Interested or not, I'm sure you could, eh, persuade them with a little sorcery, eh?" Jaffe insisted, his eyes bright with drunken humor, gesturing with his fingers as if casting a spell.
"That would be reprehensible," Murtagh retorted dully, all humor gone from his face.
Jaffe didn't seem to notice or care that Murtagh was not amused, though, as enough of the other men were willing to laugh.
"Reprehensible, he says!" Jaffe chortled, "We've a man of fine manners in our midst, gents," He got up and bowed ridiculously, which the others ate up. "Of course, I didst not intend to besmirch thy honor, my lord," Jaffe concluded with a grin, "What happens in Feinster is Feinster's business, eh?"
This was considered a fine end to Jaffe's teasing, and the others laughed and applauded raucously, turning the joke on Jaffe next, and saying that he'd never even seen a Feinster woman closer than an archer's range, and he was lucky he'd got a wife as it was. Jaffe took this all in good humor, but Roran saw that Murtagh was not laughing.
The others didn't seem to care that the bawdy jokes were not to the rider's taste, and each man took his turn to be mocked and teased. When the evening had stretched itself thin, most of the men began to stumble home, clapping each other good-naturedly on the back, shaking Murtagh's hand and saying what fine work he'd done, and welcoming him to Carvahall.
"Well, you've got kin here aplenty, rider," Waylar said, his cheeks rosy as he patted Murtagh's shoulder, "Always welcome, you and that dragon. Any cousin of Lord Stronghammer is a cousin of ours!"
"Oh, shut up Waylar," One of the other men called warmly, "You're a Therinsferder at best, quit acting like you came straight from the loins of Mad King Palancar."
Waylar shrugged and released his grip on Murtagh's hand, allowing his son to help him shuffle into the cold night after the others. When Roran and Murtagh got up to leave, Horst watched them return to their steeds in the light from his porch lantern, and waved them goodnight as they turned down the hill.
Roran and Murtagh rode back together in the dark, a clear sky and a bright moon above, and Roran felt fuzzy and at ease from the ale they'd drunk at Horst's.
He knew he'd regret the late night of drinking come morning, but it had been a day of hard work, and too long since he'd shared a drink with the town men. He tried not to let his duties distance himself from the goings-on in the village, but there was a certain dignity he had to maintain, even when sitting around the hearth.
Murtagh was quiet as their horses pattered along, the trees creaking around them.
"You know they don't mean anything by their teasing," Roran informed, trying to guess what his cousin was thinking as they rode in the dark, "If they didn't tease you it'd mean they don't like you."
"I know," Murtagh said, "It's no bother."
Roran nodded, but before the silence stretched on much longer he felt more questions bursting out. It seemed his own tongue was loosened from the ale as well.
"That, uh, that scar you showed them…" He said with a sniff, "I s'pose I'm wonderin' why you didn't heal it over, you know, when your magic was–was working alright."
Murtagh rode quietly for a few seconds, and Roran worried that he wasn't going to answer, but then his voice drifted over through the dark.
"Some scars are reminders," He said quietly, "I don't erase those."
Roran could understand that. He'd kept some of his own scars, though he could've had them healed by Eragon or one of the other spellcasters. They were like a map of where he'd been. But he wondered why Murtagh would want to keep a scar given to him by his brother.
"And what does it remind you of?" Roran questioned. Again Murtagh took a while to answer, but in the dark his expression was unreadable.
"The moment… I realized I was free," He managed, his horse moving steadily beneath him. "It took Eragon nearly killing me to realize that I–I was willing to die. If it meant saving… saving others."
He took a heavy breath.
"I had changed–Thorn and I, both. And the king's bonds could no longer hold us. I don't ever want to forget that."
Roran took that in, the heavy realization that Murtagh had altered his whole being in order to break free. Roran wondered if his own true name had ever changed, or if he could alter himself as completely as Murtagh had. He considered himself a steady, sturdy person, not easily swayed once he'd set his mind to something, and in most cases that trait had served him well; but if someone had chained him in that way? Could he have undone himself in order to break free of his shackles?
"When you were under his thrall," Roran continued, steering clear of the king's name as Murtagh had. It was a curse in his mind–the man who had caused so much suffering, who had caused his father's death, who had torn his village apart and stolen his love and murdered thousands, all from the safe distance of a comfortable throne–and he did not wish to sully the air of Palancar Valley by speaking that name.
"Did you ever consider… ending your life, to escape it? To stop him from using you against your friends?"
Roran tried to keep the judgment from his voice–the righteous indignation that, had he been in Murtagh's shoes, he would've died rather than betray his friends. Again he could not see Murtagh's face clear enough in the scattered moonlight to tell what the man was thinking.
"Before Thorn…" Murtagh said quietly, "...I–I tried."
Roran felt a heat flush his face. The fuzziness of the drink was not enough to shield him from the knowledge that this conversation was too close, too deep, too personal for his comfort.
Murtagh rolled up one sleeve and turned his wrist toward Roran, who caught a slight ridge in the moonlight.
"Cut myself on a rusted nail in the dungeons," He said in a flat voice. "But the magicians healed me before I could bleed out."
Roran suddenly regretted his drink, feeling nauseated as Murtagh rolled his sleeve back down. Murtagh had many reminders on his skin, it seemed. Still, though, Roran's curiosity won over his better sense, and he asked,
"And Thorn? You and he… you never thought about freeing yourselves… in that way?"
This time Murtagh turned his head towards Roran, and he saw the moonlight glinting off the rider's eyes, as they passed into the open fields.
"Could you kill Katrina? If it meant freeing yourself?" Murtagh asked simply, and Roran felt a heat in his chest and his face. A hint of anger, and then a flush of shame. He knew the answer, of course. Sacrifice himself? In an instant. Sacrifice Katrina? Never. Not if the whole of Alagaesia were at stake.
Roran had heard of the bond between riders and their dragons, and had seen a glimpse of it with Eragon and Saphira. But he hadn't thought of it the way he thought of his love for Katrina. It was not romantic, but it was soul-binding in the same way, a connectedness that blurred the lines of personhood, that made it feel like a part of oneself was missing when separated. He felt foolish now for even thinking such a thing–how could he judge Murtagh for being unable to do what he himself would never do?
As it was, Murtagh had risked his and his partner's life in defying the king many times. As it was they'd shown a willingness to sacrifice themselves to save others–that was, as Murtagh had said, the crux of the very change that had freed them. But to take the knife to each other themselves? To deal a killing blow to their very hearts? No. Of course that was impossible.
"Right," Roran murmured finally, unable to voice anything more eloquent.
Their horses clopped steadily along the half-frozen ground as the farmhouse came into sight, one light shivering in the kitchen window, the hulking shadow of Thorn's shape huddled by the garden. Katrina would be in bed with the children, but Roran looked forward to climbing in next to her and holding her close–his heart, the person for whom he would slay a thousand kings, the partner that made his simple life full of joy. He did not now feel the desire to run off and join Murtagh on any dangerous adventures.
The days warmed steadily, and Roran began to ready the farm for spring, which he could smell approaching. Murtagh helped around the house, repairing and planting and doing the farm chores. He had a way with the animals, and even managed to calm the most cantankerous of the goats, which, it turned out, had been suffering from a deformed hoof, though how Murtagh had obtained this knowledge from the goat Roran was not entirely clear.
Ismira followed Murtagh into the woods where he attempted to practice some magic, but when Roran watched he was successful in very little. Physically he seemed well, though, and the day of labor on the tavern had not taken his strength the way casting his magic had.
A few days after they'd rebuilt the destroyed building, Murtagh announced at dinner that he and Thorn would be leaving in the morning.
"I think it's clear the frost has given way for good," He said with a sad smile, when Katrina protested, "And Thorn and I have lingered here far longer than promised."
"You're welcome to stay as long as you need," Katrina assured, patting Ismira, who seemed distraught by the news, if she understood it.
"Thank you," Murtagh inclined his head, "But we really do need to get to Eragon as soon as possible, now winter's past."
Katrina nodded, understanding.
"Well," She said with her own sad smile, "It's been a nice bit of change, having you both around. I hope you'll come back, cousin."
"We will."
Before the sun had fully risen the next day, Murtagh was loading up Thorn's new saddle and strapping it into place. Earin came by from down the road to see them off, and shook Murtagh's hand vigorously, giving Thorn a bow and saying,
"I am always in your debt, both of you. And you are always welcome to my hearth. Though I suspect you'll have your choice of hearths in Palancar from here on."
Murtagh smiled, and shook his hand in return.
"Thank you, Earin, you're very kind. I hope you and your girls have a good year." Then Murtagh said something in the ancient language.
"A blessing, for your woodcraft and your crops," He explained, and Earin had a strange expression on his face, like he'd just taken a deep breath for the first time in years. Roran, too, felt a strange shift in the air, like the words from Murtagh's mouth had moved an invisible power. It was not magic, but it was close. A sort of altering of reality, a sort of shift in the trajectory of the world.
"Thank you," Earin breathed with another bow.
Ismira sat on Thorn's back in the saddle until the last possible moment, only coming down when Murtagh reached up for her. When he put her firmly on the floor, she gave him a fierce hug around his waist, and handed him a flat piece of bark, on which she had scratched a charcoal drawing of what was meant to look like a dragon.
"So you have you ferth, like Unca Ragon," She explained seriously as Murtagh knelt before her in the dirt.
"Ah, it is a fine fairth," He commended, "I shall treasure it always."
Ismira gave Thorn a hug and a kiss on the snout, and patted him between the eyes,
"Bye-bye Unca Thown," She said, and Roran caught Katrina holding back laughter.
Ismira grew very still then, for a moment, and a serious expression crossed her face. Roran thought that Thorn might be speaking to her, and he wondered what the dragon was saying. But then the moment was past, and Ismira gave him one last hug, before trotting back to Garrow and picking up her half-burned charcoal stick.
"Well," Roran said gruffly when Murtagh had thrown the last of his supplies–food and water, and the spare clothes Katrina had mended for him– into Thorn's saddlebags.
"Thank you for what you've done here," Roran managed with a shake of Murtagh's hand.
"Thank you," His cousin returned, meeting Katrina's gaze as well, "Eragon is lucky to have lived among such fine people."
"Well, now…" Roran took a breath, "You've always got family here. Same as Eragon. Anytime."
Murtagh's eyes glistened, but the rider only nodded, and said nothing. Roran, too, said nothing more, for fear his confused feelings would get the better of him.
When Murtagh climbed up Thorn's foreleg and strapped himself into the saddle, Katrina ushered Ismira away, and they stood back to avoid being buffeted by the dragon's wings.
"Tell Horst and his family thank you again for the saddle. If I meet any dragon riders in need, I'll send them his way."
Murtagh's smile was full of good humor and Roran couldn't help but chuckle, imagining a cadre of young riders showing up at Horst's door, asking for custom saddlery.
Roran raised a hand in farewell as Thorn bent to the ground and flared out his magnificent wings. When he took off, the rush of air sent dirt flinging in all directions, and as he crossed above the tops of the trees, the rising sun lit up his wing membranes in a magnificent, fluorescent red, like a hearth fire in the sky.
