The words Murtagh spoke held no meaning for him–he recited them after Galbatorix, in a language he did not understand, his mind clouded with pain, all his energy focused on the box on the floor.
But as the last of the strange words left his mouth, he felt a heaviness all around him, a pressing conscious awareness of what he had done. A shackle over his whole body. It was over. He was a slave.
He'd immediately collapsed when they let him off the stone slab, and had practically crawled over to the heavy crate, leaning onto it and fumbling for the metal latches with shaking, clumsy hands.
"Op–open, open it," He panted, his mind still whirling, unable to think of anything but Thorn.
Your fault your fault your fault.
"Open it!" He shrieked, and one of the black-clad men hurried forward, after receiving a permissive nod from the King.
Murtagh weakly pushed at the lid, but the black-clad men had to do all of the lifting, his limbs had no strength left, and his bare skin shivered in the cold of the room.
When he saw Thorn he thought he might sob and laugh and throw up all at once. The dragon wearily lifted his head and churred at Murtagh, who threw his arms around Thorn's neck and cradled him, shaking and weeping.
The color of Thorn's scales was slightly off–they were pale and dull. He had hideous patches of empty or mottled skin along his underbelly, and his right eye was swollen and discolored. He was bigger than the last time Murtagh had seen him–he'd grown during the span of their days of torture, but he was trembling and weak.
The dragon shifted clumsily, trying to work himself out of the box, which had him crammed in so tightly he could hardly move.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Murtagh thought, burying his face in Thorn's shoulder, his whole body wracked with sobs.
Murtagh… Thorn thought, his voice tenuous.
"Alright, then," The King's voice floated over them soothingly. "Thorn. It is now your turn. I will have your oath, and then we may leave this unpleasant business behind us."
Murtagh felt a lurch in his gut, holding Thorn ever tighter. He couldn't. Not Thorn.
"Please just let him–"
"Murtagh, tell your partner–"
"Please don't—"
"Murtagh!" The King's voice filled the chamber, and Murtagh felt a clamp around his throat. He wanted to take a swing at the king, to lunge for him, to defy him, but he felt the oath in his skull, in his bones, in every sinew of his body.
I will obey your commands. I will recognize your authority. I will refrain from any attack–magical or mundane.
He hadn't known the language, but he knew the meaning of the oath. He was bound to Galbatorix's command; he could not fight back, he could only beg.
"Please…" Murtagh whispered, his head hanging, "I can't ask him… I can't do…i-if I made him…"
He couldn't finish, but the King did not lash out again, an icy silence stretching between them instead.
"I understand," The King finally said, "It would break your bond of trust with him, to demand his submission, after you told him never to submit."
Thorn's head lay heavy on the edge of the crate, his breathing labored, his heartbeat pulsing against Murtagh's skin.
"Very well. I will not require this of you. I respect the bond of rider and dragon."
Galbatorix folded his long hands.
"But you will have to endure, then, a little while longer… until Thorn makes the right decision on his own."
Murtagh swallowed, too exhausted and hurt to think.
"Thorn, will you pledge yourself to me and swear the oaths I command?" Galbatorix asked sternly.
Murtagh squeezed Thorn's neck. He could not ask this of him–though he saw no way out, he still could not tell Thorn to submit. He could not be the cause of his slavery.
Strong… Thorn whimpered in Murtagh's mind, and it was almost a question. Murtagh couldn't speak, he only nodded, his head pressed against the dragon's wounded scales.
Then Thorn lifted his head, his ruby eyes glaring at the King, and he let out a low, venomous growl.
The King sighed. Then he strolled across the room to the brazier that had sat smoldering in the corner, and he removed a metal rod from its depths, the tip glowing with heat.
Murtagh clung to Thorn as the King approached them, and squatted low, the scorching metal held only inches from Murtagh's face.
"Take the rod, Murtagh," The King commanded. Murtagh stared at the heat sizzling off the metal, his body trembling, feeling the pull of his oath on him suddenly. He resisted it, but then Galbatorix repeated the command, this time in the ancient language, and Murtagh felt his hand moving almost against his will, until it clasped the cold end of the rod, and held it, shaking.
Galbatorix stood and looked down at the crumpled pair, his affect utterly calm.
"Burn yourself."
Murtagh tried to resist this as well, but the command dragged on him like the weight of a great crushing rock, and he felt the rod moving.
When the fire touched his torso he grunted, and tried unsuccessfully to stifle his scream, knowing this pain was meant for Thorn. He quickly pulled it away from the blackened patch of skin and tried to remember to breathe.
Thorn was twisting his way frantically from the confining box, but he was weak and hurt, and he was still shackled around his neck. What could he do?
"Do it again," Galbatorix said coldly, and this time Murtagh's hand moved immediately. He heard his flesh sizzle where the hot iron touched it, and he cried out through his gritted teeth. Thorn whimpered and reached out one clumsy foreleg, knocking the rod from Murtagh's grasp, but the King only made him pick it up again.
Five times, Murtagh burned himself with the heated metal, crumpled in pain against the wooden crate, his hand unsteady, so the burn marks looked like uneven scribbles on a scroll.
He told Thorn over and over that it was okay, that he did not have to give in, that he could be strong. But finally Thorn could not stand it anymore, and at last, he, too, submitted.
After that, the world was hazy for a long while, and it felt very quiet all of a sudden, after all the screaming. Murtagh was vaguely aware of hands lifting him off the floor, carrying his limp frame up the stairs and out of the Hall of the Soothsayer.
"Thorn…" He murmured, his eyelids fluttering and his head lolling. He tried to reach out in his mind to find the dragon, but he was slipping in and out of consciousness, and he couldn't maintain a coherent thought long enough to find Thorn and connect to his mind.
He was lying on another slab then, but this one was softer, and a delicate light trickled in through high windows, and there was a pleasant scent in the air.
"Thorn…" He muttered deliriously.
A man bent over him, muttering and prodding, and he felt warm cloths and cooling ointments applied to his many varied wounds. He shuddered with relief as his pain began to drain away.
The healer's touch was gentle, and he murmured reassuringly as he worked his way along Murtagh's mutilated body. Some of the wounds the old man seemed to heal with magic entirely, and some he bandaged, and some he left alone.
Murtagh jolted to full consciousness once, when he felt a strange twinge against his mind. It was Thorn, and he was in pain–no, not pain–was it pain? Aching? Stretching? Murtagh tried to sit up on the healer's cot, groaning, and he found his arms and legs once again shackled.
"It's for your safety, sir," The old man explained, but Murtagh felt a spike of fear from Thorn, and a strange bending sensation in his body.
"What are you doing to him?!" Murtagh demanded, panicking at the renewed pain. What was this? Wasn't it over? Hadn't they given the King what he wanted?
It felt like his bones were pressing out of his skin, his muscles being stretched beyond the breaking, his whole body warping.
"Stop! What are you doing?!" He groaned weakly, pulling at his restraints as he felt Thorn's confusion and fright.
The healer hurried over, and was suddenly waving some sort of smoking bundle of herbs in front of Murtagh's nostrils.
"Breathe in. It's alright, sir. It'll be over soon."
Murtagh tried to pull his face away from the heavy smoke, but his breath was panicked, and as soon as he inhaled he began to feel hazy again.
Then he blacked out.
Murtagh woke with a start, and the first sensation he felt was soft. He hadn't felt anything so soft since… he couldn't remember. He shifted, and blinked, and tried to walk through his haze of terror to remember where he was and what he was doing.
He had sat up, and he was on a bed, and a soft blanket was over his had a clean white tunic that hung loose on his haggard frame, and underneath it he could feel himself covered in bandages and wraps.
His pain was not so loud now, and he could breathe, and he didn't feel like there was a fire in his throat. His hair was damp, but not from sweat, from water, and he no longer felt the grime and dirt from the past horrible weeks caked on his skin. Someone had bathed him. And bandaged him. And given him new clothes. And put him in this bed.
He sat for a long moment on the bed, catching his breath, coughing and trying to calm his hammering heart.
The room was half-dark. A soft candle light flickered next to him, and there was a window that let in the last of the evening light, but shadows had fallen around him.
Murtagh shivered.
"Th–Thorn?" He said to the darkness. And he reached out with his mind shakily.
A frightened presence recoiled from him sharply, and Murtagh gasped. He blinked spots from his eyes.
"Thorn?" He asked again, and he pulled aside the blanket and swung his legs over the soft mattress. Something shifted in the dark corner.
Murtagh stood carefully, not trusting his legs to hold him. He leaned on a nightstand table that held a candle and a tray of cheese and fruit, and he stared into the darkness.
Thorn? He asked again, frowning.
He picked the candle up from the nightstand and stepped forward, the light trembling in his unsteady hand. Then he felt a deep rumble in his chest, a reverberation that came from the darkness, from a creature much bigger than Thorn. Murtagh stopped, fear suddenly gripping him again.
What trick was this? Why was the King still playing games?
Then Murtagh reached out to the presence again, and this time it did not recoil. He felt it, and he recognized the deep thrumming melody of his partner's mind.
"Thorn?" He said again, and he stepped forward with the candle. Then his breath left him.
It was Thorn, and he was curled on a soft cushion in the corner, but this was not the dragon that Murtagh had rescued from the heavy crate–this dragon would not have come close to fitting in a box of any size. It was Thorn, and his scales were back to their usual red, and his underbelly was healed, but he was massive–far larger than he ought've been–at least as big as Saphira had been when Murtagh had last seen her.
Murtagh gasped in horror, and Thorn struggled to lift his giant head, which was as big as half of Murtagh's body. Quickly Murtagh stifled his reaction, as he felt Thorn's mind touch his.
Murtagh? He asked, and his voice still sounded small; it didn't fit with the body Murtagh saw before him. Murtagh felt a boiling rage in his veins. How dare they. How could they? Respect the bond of rider and dragon? This was unconscionable.
But he had to keep calm. He didn't want to scare Thorn.
He took a breath, and stepped forward, ashamed to note that he was afraid for a moment, of how big Thorn was, of how his teeth and claws might end Murtagh with a single swipe.
"It's alright," He managed out loud, not trusting his mind to keep his horror and disgust from his partner. He approached Thorn like a wounded dog, and the dragon tried to meet him, whining as he attempted to stand. But his limbs were too large for him, and he stumbled clumsily, sending a heavy vibration through the floor.
"It's okay. You don't have to move," Murtagh assured, stepping close slowly, until his hand touched Thorn's massive snout. Murtagh let out a shaking breath.
"It's alright," He managed, "I'm here."
He felt Thorn trembling, felt the dragon's confusion and aching, and all Murtagh could do was hold him. He curled up close to Thorn's giant neck and wrapped his arms around him as far as he could, pressing his forehead against the scales.
"I'm here."
Murtagh's body screamed at him when he woke up the next morning, and to his shame he had a moment of startled fear when he felt Thorn's breathing–forgetting how giant he had suddenly gotten.
Thankfully the dragon was still asleep, and Murtagh had a moment to get his emotions under control, stroking the scales along Thorn's neck, amazed and angered at the sudden change. He now understood the aching, stretching sensation that he'd felt while in the healer's room.
When he finally forced his sore legs to rise, he limped over to the plate of fruit and cheese that had sat on the nightstand all evening. He nibbled at the food weakly, his mouth tasting dry and ashy, but his stomach yearning for sustenance.
He was just feeling the rays of morning sun on his pale skin, when a sharp knock on the door startled him and he whipped around, his heart suddenly hammering.
Thorn lifted his great head, a little clumsily, as a voice said,
"My Lord?"
Murtagh swallowed, not sure what to do.
The knock came again, and Thorn looked at him.
"C–come in," Murtagh rasped, his shoulders tense and his back pressed against the nightstand table, ready for an attack.
The man who entered was primly dressed, with shining shoes, neatly pulled back hair, and a slick smile.
He bowed and said,
"Good morning, My Lord, I trust your accommodations were adequate?"
The man gave a toothy smile, and Murtagh blinked, still frozen. When he didn't answer, the man continued,
"Well. Allow me to introduce myself. I am called Falner, my lord, I'm the chief manager of the King's household, and I am here to see to your every need. I've brought your servants here to begin dressing the room…" Falner gestured into the hall behind him, where a row of five or six uniformed servants stood with their eyes to the ground, holding various linens and cleaning items.
Murtagh couldn't speak. His mind was blank. He was so afraid this was a trick, and he felt like he wanted to throw up. But the man just smiled blandly.
"Would that be acceptable, my Lord?" Falner asked.
Murtagh felt a questioning nudge from Thorn.
"Uh…" He could only nod, but Falner seemed to take this fine. He bowed and snapped for the servants to enter and begin their work. They flurried in like butterflies over a field, and immediately began tending to the bedding and the fireplace and the dusting, though the room had seemed immaculate to him.
Murtagh flinched when one of the men came towards him, but the man merely took the wash basin and platter of food away, to refill and replace. Murtagh was standing there in his loose tunic and trousers, bandages covering half his body, shivering, unsure what was even happening, when Falner approached him leading a young red-haired woman at his side.
"My lord, this girl is called Demelza; she's been assigned as your chamber maid; she'll see to all your needs any hour of the day. You've but to ring the bell." Falner gestured with a smile to a bell that sat on the nightstand.
The girl curtsied with her eyes low. Murtagh didn't know what he was supposed to do.
"Okay," He managed weakly, watching as two of the other servants lugged in a gilded metal tub. He noticed none of them were looking at him or Thorn, like they had been instructed not to make eye contact. If he hadn't been so shaken and confused, he might've been impressed that they were managing not to gape at what must have been the first dragon they'd ever laid eyes on.
"Alright," Falner said, pleased, "Now, perhaps my Lord would like a wash and a trim of the hair? Before his audience with the King?"
This snapped Murtagh right out of his fog.
"...what?"
"The King is expecting your presence in the throne room this morning, I left a note under… ah, I see you hadn't the chance to read it. No matter. We'll have you ready soon; a breakfast shall be brought up with haste." Falner snapped and instructed one of the gray-clad servants to fetch food for Murtagh and a platter of meat for "the dragon".
Murtagh didn't like the way he was speaking about Thorn but he couldn't figure out how to use his voice quite yet.
Before he really knew what was happening, Murtagh had been sat in a chair while a middle-aged man was snipping around his hair with scissors, trimming back the stringy locks that had grown out ever-longer since the battle under Farthen Dur–a place and a time which seemed to belong to some other life.
Murtagh didn't like the man's hands on his head, flinched at the sound of the scissors, and shivered as pieces of his hair fell to the ground, but he wasn't sure he was allowed to say no to these people.
He drew the line, however, when the gilded tub was filled with warm water and one of the men stepped behind him to remove his tunic without so much as a word.
"S–stop," Murtagh flinched away sharply. The young man froze, and Murtagh recognized fear in his eyes. "I–I…" Murtagh had to take a few breaths to calm himself. "I can bathe myself," He managed.
"We are happy to serve in whatever way–" Falner began warmly.
"I can do it myself," Murtagh said, more sternly. The half-dozen servants in the room were all completely still, and Murtagh could now see their fear.
A few pieces of understanding fell into place.
"Leave," He commanded, calm but firm. And immediately they began to file out.
Falner bowed, his syrupy smile thick on his face.
"Of course, my Lord. You have only to ring, if you need anything." He gestured to the bell again. "I shall send the girl up when the food is ready."
Finally Falner swept from the room and closed the doors behind him with a flourish, and Murtagh let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
He looked at Thorn, who, throughout all the bustle, had hardly moved. Murtagh sensed he was nervous and uncomfortable, not knowing how to move his giant limbs without toppling over.
Murtagh offered him a weak smile.
You alright?
Thorn moved his head onto his forelegs and blinked.
I am with you, He answered, and Murtagh felt the heaviness. He nodded, swallowing, unsure what he was supposed to do.
He wished they hadn't taken the cheese away; he was deathly hungry, but he also was drawn to the steam coming from the warm tub. He thought it would feel good on his aching muscles. He didn't know how to make decisions, all of a sudden, when he hadn't made a single decision for himself for weeks.
You gave up your right to make any decisions, A dark voice reminded him, and he fought not to be sick, thinking of the oaths that bound him and Thorn now, of the invisible chains that dragged at him.
Thorn pressed a calming thought towards him, seeing that he had begun spiraling into panic. Murtagh was leaning against the bedpost, his legs suddenly weak, his breath uneven.
Murtagh, Thorn said from across the room, rising clumsily and crawling towards Murtagh on his large legs.
Murtagh couldn't breathe, his chest felt tight and he was dizzy all of a sudden. Was this poison? Were they doing something to him? He clutched his chest with one hand, sinking to the floor against the bedpost, shaking as Thorn padded towards him heavily, bringing his great head close to Murtagh.
Here, Thorn said, his warm breaths on Murtagh's skin.
Murtagh shuddered, his skin flushed with panic, his vision blurred. He felt a steadying tendril of comfort from Thorn, and he latched onto it amidst the dark sea of his panic.
Thorn drew him out, and after a few terrible moments, Murtagh could see the room again, and his breath began to slow. He placed a hand against Thorn's large head.
"I'm… it's alright," Murtagh panted, when the spell had passed. He held Thorn's head gratefully.
They sat quietly as the light from the windows grew, until Thorn swung his head over to the steaming gilded tub and sniffed.
Drink?
Murtagh stood.
"Uh…" He smelled it himself, sharp perfume rolling from the water. They'd evidently put some sort of soap in it.
"No, you probably shouldn't."
Murtagh sniffed and shuffled over to the wash basin that sat next to the bed.
"Here, drink this." He removed the pitcher from the bowl and set the bowl on the floor for Thorn.
"I'll… tell them to get you some water," He promised as the dragon quickly downed the small bowl. Murtagh fought back tears, watching Thorn struggle with his body, feeling his aching and confused thoughts.
He decided to take a bath after all, and slowly peeled off his many bandages after removing the white tunic. The wounds were superficial now, all the worst ones having been healed with magic, but it still stung when he stepped into the warm scented water.
He winced as he lowered himself into the tub, but after the smarting wounds had subsided, the heat felt good. He leaned his head back against the edge of the tub, and closed his eyes, trying to keep his mind blank, rather than return to his terror.
After Murtagh had climbed from the tub and dressed himself again, the red-haired girl returned with a platter of fine food, followed by another servant with a tray of meat scraps.
She entered to see Murtagh sitting against Thorn's torso.
"Your breakfast, my lord, shall I place it on the table?" She said with a curtsy, her eyes never rising to meet him.
"Just bring it here," He muttered, too tired to get up and eat.
The girl pattered over and set the tray on the ground next to Murtagh, her hands trembling. The other servant followed suit, leaving immediately. Murtagh supposed he would be trembling too, if he was inches from the jaws of a dragon he didn't know.
"Thorn is thirsty," Murtagh said sternly, testing his authority with these people. "I expect him to have fresh water available at any time."
The young woman curtsied again, her breath tight.
"Yes, my lord, of course, my lord."
She waited, her eyes down, seeming ready for some other instruction.
"Okay, you can go," He muttered.
"Yes, my lord.'
She curtsied, and left the room, clearly trying not to run.
Thorn turned a thought towards Murtagh.
Who?
"She's a servant," Murtagh explained, pushing the tray of meat closer to him.
Servant?
"She does whatever we tell her. Cleans and stuff."
Thorn seemed confused by this.
Friend?
"No. She just has to follow orders, not a friend. No one here is our friend."
Thorn still seemed bothered, but he ate his meal in silence, and received what Murtagh gave him of his leftover food.
Murtagh could hardly taste the well-cooked fare. Everything was bitter to him–the comfortable bed and the warm feeling of the bath water and the taste of fresh-baked bread–it was all poison to him, knowing that it had come only at the cost of his freedom. He was relieved to not be in such pain any more, but he couldn't feel happy about it. He just felt… dead.
Some time later, Falner returned with a bow and said that the King would be ready to see them now. Yet another servant swept into the room with garments for Murtagh to wear. He made them all leave and did not accept their help to dress himself, much to Falner's annoyance.
When he met the reedy man in the hallway, he received another bland smile.
"My Lord, if you and the dragon will follow me," He gestured with a bow, and began walking.
Murtagh wanted to shout at him for speaking about Thorn like that–the dragon–but he wasn't sure how far he could push Falner, who wasn't just one of the servants. He was a man of some prestige in the King's household, and Murtagh had to tread carefully until he figured out his own standing.
They made their way back to the throne room, and Murtagh tried to memorize the path. He had been in the palace before, of course, but never on his own, and never in this wing. Mostly he'd been brought to the castle for banquets and parties and meetings of the court, minded by his caretakers or Tornac. He knew the layout of the city well enough, but not of the inner rings of Galbatorix's stronghold. He didn't want to remain ignorant; it could be useful for… for what?
He stopped that train of thought. What use would it be, knowing secret paths and quick escapes? He could not escape. There was no chance of that. To think of escape was folly. He was bound with shackles wherever he went, and nothing would ever change that. Stupid to make up silly daydreams of breaking out, flying over the battlements with Thorn, leaving the city behind, making for the free wild lands… that future was gone now.
Murtagh steeled himself to face the king, feeling Thorn's own quiet thoughts connected with him. As they walked the dragon tried to figure out the use of his limbs, his gait somewhat awkward. Once, his tail swung too far and knocked over a suit of armor they had passed. Murtagh did not apologize for the damage, as the accompanying guards tried to right things, but he did feel bad for Thorn, from whom he felt embarrassment and shame, as he tried to curl his too-large tail close to himself.
It doesn't matter, Murtagh assured as two servants began putting the armor pieces back together.
Destroy the whole place if you want.
Thorn gave him a sad nudge, but Murtagh felt a smile within it.
They entered the Throne room again, and Galbatorix was sitting on his throne, once more with Shruikan's head at his side. Murtagh felt a shiver of fear, seeing the giant dragon, who still dwarfed Thorn a dozen times over.
The pair stopped near the throne, and remained still, and Galbatorix waved a hand to dismiss all the guards, so it was only the four of them–two men, two dragons–in the vast room.
"Falner's equipped himself well," The King said with a warm smile, "You look like a new man."
Murtagh said nothing.
"He'll be at your beckon call, should you need anything, or should any of the servants displease you–just let him know." The King took a breath, stroking Shruikan's great head.
"Thorn, you look well. Now you truly are a fearsome contender; your enemies shall fear your name," Galbatorix complemented, and Murtagh worked his jaw in anger.
They were both silent.
"Well then. To our business." The King took a breath. "Your training will begin tomorrow, but first I have additional oaths for you to make."
Murtagh tried not to tremble, feeling a clench in his chest.
The oaths were simple, but terrible. He swore not to leave Uru'baen without the King's permission. He swore not to send messages to the enemies of the King. He swore not to use magic or violence against any of the King's servants without permission. He swore to swear whatever oaths the King demanded of him in the future. And he swore not to reveal any of the King's secrets, or any details about his training, to anyone without permission.
Murtagh tried to resist, at first–especially when the King made him swear not to escape–but the draw of his previous oath was inevitable, and he had to. Tears fell reluctantly from his eyes as the words left his mouth, knowing these were the final nails in his and Thorn's coffin.
Then Galbatorix rang for a servant, and he had them bring two chairs in, and he had Murtagh sit in the chair opposite him.
"I will now enter your mind, and I will find your true name, and teach it to you," Galbatorix said calmly
Murtagh gripped the arms of the chair, fearful.
"The less you resist, the sooner this will be done, and the less unpleasant it will be. Thorn will be next."
Murtagh breathed shakily.
"Now, lower your defenses."
Murtagh shifted, every fiber of himself fighting against this order.
"I know it's difficult," The King crooned, "But it will be less painful if I do not have to overpower you."
Murtagh blinked and swallowed, and tried to force the barriers of his mind down–those barriers which he had guarded so long, but which had now been torn to tatters.
When the King entered, he expected it to be painful and sharp, like the Twins probing thoughts, but Galbatorix's presence was more like a heavy blanket of snow settling on him, breezing into his mind as easily as wind through the trees.
His breath trembled as he felt the unwelcome presence surround his thoughts, and he gripped the chair beneath him, straining to get away from it; but he could not fight back. He let the wave of darkness consume him.
For hours, Galbatorix picked through his mind, touching every memory and feeling, every piece of knowledge, every desire, every thought he'd ever had, and tapping it and weighing it like a jeweler testing the nature of a precious stone.
Murtagh saw again moments of his life that had been brought to the forefront by the Twins–he watched with a new understanding his conversations with Eragon, and he looked at the young man with a strange sort of wonder–his brother.
He tried to see if they had any features in common; he couldn't tell, and while Murtagh himself was unfortunately a spitting image of Morzan, he could see that Eragon had taken after their mother far more. Yet another reason to envy Selena's younger son.
Murtagh felt strange, not knowing what to do with Eragon, how to think about him, what he might say to his younger brother, if they were reunited. All his life he'd thought himself alone–an orphan, bereft of family since the age of five–now he had learned that this wasn't true, though he could hardly believe it. He didn't know what to do with the information. What good was it now?
Galbatorix's movements in his mind were not cruel; they were not mean and biting and violent. They were just… inevitable.
Murtagh didn't know how long it was that he sat in the chair, his head hanging back as the king perused his mind, but there came a moment when the presence in his brain spoke a string of words, and Murtagh felt a spark and a shudder run throughout his whole being, like someone had sounded a great cymbal right next to his ear.
He sensed pleasure from the King's consciousness, and the presence withdrew.
Murtagh gasped and his head snapped forward, his eyes blinking away tears as the words rang in his head and he gripped the arms of the chair for support.
The King smiled.
"There. I knew we'd find it–together."
Then Galbatorix said again, outloud, a string of words in the ancient tongue, and they seemed to vibrate in Murtagh's skull and through his spine–all encompassing, complete, a full account of who he was.
His True Name.
The King taught him his true name, then–word by word laying out the meaning of the ancient language, forcing Murtagh to repeat it back to him. It was a terrible thing, knowing himself so fully, feeling a string plucked along his spine as though a great puppet master had called him to life.
He saw all his faults and failures laid out before him like a map to his own inadequacy. His name had many facets, not all of them bad, but among them two stood out above all the others, taunting Murtagh with their truth, calling him to account, staring at him head on, and boring into his soul.
They were the words: Selfish, and Coward.