Chapter Five: Rubies
Murtagh gasped awake into a scream.
There were figures crowded over him, someone was muttering words of magic, his body was knitting itself back together.
"No!" He howled, writhing as many hands pushed him down, "Stop! Let me go!"
He struggled as one of the Twins bent over him, healing the wound on his wrist, forcing him back into consciousness. He wailed in lament while they coerced the life back into him, keeping him from the release he craved.
"The King isn't finished with you," The Twin hissed, his eyes sparking with anger.
The men in black hauled Murtagh to his feet, and they marched him down the dark corridor once more.
At first he thought they were taking him back to the wooden slab, back to more pain, but they passed the dark doorways and began ascending the many flights of twisting stairs.
The figures of the Twins marched in the lead, and Murtagh tried to hold himself up. Many of his hurts had been lessened–his hands were not quite so disfigured as they had been and his burns did not pain him with every heartbeat. His mind raced, trying to remember where he was, what was happening.
When they reached the ground level and passed by a set of thin windows, Murtagh winced in pain from the light. He wanted to stop for a moment and soak the thin ray of sun into his starved skin, but he was forced on.
Door after door they passed, and they rose on ever higher staircases, and Murtagh began to think they were taking him up to the top of one of the citadel's towers, just to throw him to his death.
But then they approached a heavy set of metal doors that sat open, and the Twins swept into the room ahead of Murtagh, and the guards dragged him through, and there was the King, leaning over a map, his back to them.
As Galbatorix turned, the guards pulled Murtagh's hands behind him and shackled them to the ground by a short chain. Murtagh panted for breath, still trembling, still shocked and terrified to be alive.
He waited as the King approached, his own sweat-drenched hair hanging in front of his eyes, his whole body shuddering.
Galbatorix's voice floated down from above,
"I told you. Your life ends, when I decide."
Murtagh breathed shakily, but he felt a renewed spark of fury in his chest, some kind of strange energy feeding him, a madness that gave him power. He glared up at the King defiantly, but before he formed the words he wanted to say, his eyes caught a spark of color in the background, and his heart flipped. All thought of revenge left him, and his face went slack, as he stared past the King's shoulder at the shining shape of two large eggs.
"Oh, yes," The King said, noticing Murtagh's sudden distraction.
Murtagh's breath was shallow; he began to notice the room now, lined with shelves that contained all manner of trinkets and valuables–swords and armor and jewels and art and chests of gold.
"This is my treasury," The King explained, turning with a satisfied gesture to his collection of things. "I like to do my work here sometimes, to remind myself of all that I've fought for…"
He took careful steps towards the two eggs, which sat on lush pillows on a dais of their own–one green, and one red.
"...and to be near my precious ones," The King said, and he ran a gentle hand along the red egg's shell. Murtagh felt a lurch of anger, like he wanted to jump out and stab the king just for touching it.
Galbatorix lowered an ear to the dragon egg and smiled softly.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" He murmured.
Murtagh noticed that there was a third pillow next to the green egg–empty, as though waiting for Saphira to crawl back into her cage and rejoin her brethren.
He couldn't believe it. Here he was, helpless and weak, staring at the two most valuable items in the world. Men had schemed and plotted for years–died, even–just to get into this room. And he was here, half-dead, chained to the floor.
"I'll tell you what, Murtagh," Galbatorix said with a false warmth, turning his back to the eggs, "I'll give you a chance. I've business to attend to, so I'll leave you here for a while to think on things. Why don't you try and steal one of them? Take them back to your Varden friends?"
Murtagh glared up at Galbatorix, his body weak but his spirit strengthened somehow.
"Maybe then they'll accept you," The King smirked, his voice slow and taunting, "Maybe then they'll forget who you are."
Galbatorix straightened and stared down at him; he reached a hand and touched the side of Murtagh's face. Murtagh flinched away, breathing through his nose, his eye fixed on the eggs behind the King.
The older man smirked.
"You do look like your father," He said with cold humor, "He was stubborn too."
Then he snapped a finger and strolled past Murtagh towards the metal doors, his heavy boots echoing. The room emptied, and the Twins gave Murtagh a last sneer as they passed; then he heard the creak of the hinges as the great gateway closed behind him.
It was so quiet in the treasury room, Murtagh could hear his heart beating. His breaths were loud in the silence, as the dust swirled through shafts of light that drifted down from high, narrow windows.
Murtagh stared at the dragon eggs on the dais, mesmerized by their bright hues and beautiful curves. How Eragon would have loved to see this. What the Varden would have given to be in this room.
It did not once cross his mind to actually try and reach one of the eggs. He knew he was helpless, and Galbatorix knew it too, or he never would have left Murtagh alone with his most prized possessions.
If I could do any magic… Murtagh thought heavily. But he could not, and his hands were chained and his body was weakened and even if he'd somehow broken free, he couldn't have gotten through the bolted metal doors.
He consoled himself by just staring at the eggs for a while, thinking of the dragons sleeping inside, wondering how they might be like Saphira, how they might be different. He allowed himself to indulge in a little hope–that they would be freed, that they could hatch and grow and fly and create a new generation together, away from the darkness of this place.
His body was still in shock from the pain and terror of the last days, and from the close call with death. But now it was quiet, and there was no one trying to hurt him, and many of his wounds had been partially mended, giving him a modicum of relief. He felt himself heavy with exhaustion, and began to drift into blessed unconsciousness.
His hands were shackled so tightly to the ground that he couldn't get his legs out from under him, so his head sagged on his neck as he knelt, and he began to list sideways, slumping into an uneasy sleep on the floor of the King's treasure room.
In the shadows of dream Murtagh began to hear a clicking–a tapping, like a bird pecking on a window pane, or the crackle of twigs in a forest. His breath was heavy and his mind wandering as the tapping continued, uneven but consistent. It drew him from half-remembered dreams and beckoned him back to the waking world, as though the bird were pecking on the back of his neck.
Murtagh breathed deeply and his eyelids fluttered. He felt pain around his wrists where he had sagged forward, pulling on the shackles, but that pain did not catch his attention.
The tapping was loud now, and echoing in the silence of the treasury. Murtagh breathed in again, blinking himself awake, his lungs rattling and his vision blurry.
The cracking noise filled his head, and he squinted in the afternoon light that now drifted through the windows far above. How long had the King left him for? Where was the noise coming from?
Blearily, he looked around at the rows of shelves, ghostly shadows of artifacts disappearing out of sight.
Tap tap tap.
A cough rattled his chest.
Tap tap. Crack.
Murtagh was fully awake now, and he heard the sound bouncing in his ears, and his scanning eyes fell upon the eggs.
Crack. Tap tap.
Murtagh blinked, and his heart flushed with heat.
Tap.
The red egg moved.
His mouth went dry, as the cracking and tapping grew more insistent, like the burble of rapids as a traveler approaches. He was holding his breath, eyes fixed on the egg, trying to convince himself he had imagined it.
Then the egg moved again.
Then he saw a crack.
Then a shard dropped from the surface of the egg, slipped off the cushion, and flipped over onto the floor.
Murtagh followed the shard as it fell, his mind so full it was blank, trying to wade through his own confusion and understand what was happening.
He thought he must still be in a dream, but his mind was sharper right now than it had been in days. He breathed shallowly, as another series of sharp pops and cracks echoed through the empty room.
Then a larger chunk of the egg separated, and fell.
Murtagh gasped.
"No…" He whispered, his spine tingling as his mind raced to catch up with itself.
"N–no, stop," He commanded the egg. "Stop it, don't do that."
Crack pop. Crack.
"Y–" Murtagh looked behind him at the bolted door. There was no one here. What was happening? Surely this was some kind of trick?
Crack crunch.
Then:
Squeak.
"No," Murtagh pleaded, "Y–you can't hatch right now, you have to stay inside. It's not safe. Don't come out."
Squeak squeak. Crack.
"You've got to stay inside," He hissed, feeling that at any moment the King would burst back in.
Then the egg wobbled and shook, and Murtagh's heart was beating so fast he felt like he'd been running.
"Don't–" He began, but at that moment, the egg wobbled forward, tipped off its cushion, and fell to the floor.
Murtagh winced and closed his eyes as the remainder of the egg shattered, sending shards skidding across the ground.
Squeak!
When he cracked open his eyes, he saw the tiny shape of a thin reptile, small enough to sit in his hands, and red like sparkling rubies, with little white spikes running along his spine.
Murtagh's mouth was half-open, his breath held, every inch of his skin flushed with energy, all thought of pain forgotten.
He was staring at a dragon.
The little reptile was weaving its head, trying to shake loose a piece of the shell that stuck to its snout. Its wings–Murtagh knew they must be wings–were still tightly pressed against its side, thick with a membrane from the egg.
The dragon squeaked in triumph when it shook loose the last piece of its old home, and its little legs danced happily, finally prying loose its wings and flaring them out for the first time, as if raising two arms in triumph.
Then it turned, and the dragon met Murtagh's stunned gaze.
It cocked its head in his direction.
Squeak?
Murtagh was trembling, his mouth open to say something, but frozen.
The dragon toddled forward clumsily, its limbs stiff and awkward. It sniffed a piece of the egg shell, then looked back up at Murtagh.
Squeak squeak?
Finally Murtagh's mind caught up with himself, and he remembered to breathe.
"Y–you have to go," He whispered, "Now–now, you have to go before they come back."
He breathed, not quite able to believe what he was seeing.
Squeak, The dragon said, tilting its head again. It lumbered closer to Murtagh, sniffing curiously.
"Y–fly away, you have to fly away now while you can," Murtagh insisted, feeling panic and fear that was not for himself. "Go, go up to the window," He gestured with his head, since his hands were shackled behind him.
The dragon followed his gesture, but looked back at him with an expression he somehow knew to be confusion.
Squeak?
The dragon was mere feet from him, when an understanding finally settled into Murtagh's bones.
It had hatched. For him. The dragon had hatched for him. The dragon wanted to be bonded… to him.
"No," Murtagh said, fear gripping him for the little creature, knowing it would be a seal of doom for the thing to choose Murtagh as his partner.
"No, don't come any closer. You–you have to go find Eragon. Go find the Varden and find Eragon, he can help you. You understand?"
The dragon met his eyes, clearly, sentient, but not grasping. It squeaked and stepped closer.
"No!" Murtagh shouted, shrinking back as much as he could with his bound hands. "You don't want to do that, don't do that. Get away from me. Go find Eragon. Saphira–you know–you know her, you… you were with her in your eggs. She's your friend, she can help you. Fly away."
Murtagh pleaded, trying to get the thing to understand, but the dragon just kept getting closer.
"Please, you don't know what you're doing," Murtagh begged, his voice cracking; he felt such a flood of fear for this poor thing, so innocent and unknowing, unaware of what it had done–hatching here, now.
The dragon looked curiously at his shape as it began to circle around him.
"Please, go away," Murtagh said through tears, "You can't do this, please…"
Squeak squeak.
Murtagh pulled at the shackles, trying to distance himself from the little creature so it couldn't touch him. Isn't that how Eragon said it happened? The dragon had to touch you?
The dragon was sniffing and toddling, and Murtagh felt a great hollow in his chest, wanting more than anything to reach out and hold it close, but also wanting to get it as far away from him as possible.
"Please don't…" Murtagh pleaded as the dragon stepped around near his back, near his bound hands.
"You have to get out of here. You'll be hurt."
Then he felt a soft touch on his left hand, and he gasped as a spark of fire shot up his limb, a rush of energy filled his whole body, a flash of consciousness pressed into his own… and he blacked out.
