Chapter Nine: Instruction
The first thing he was taught, was how to kill.
One word; that was all it took. All he needed was one word, and he could fell a hundred men at once, slaughter thousands with a flick of his wrist. And there were a dozen words he could choose from, to vary his killing. Why a person would need more than one word to bring about instant death, he wasn't sure. In case he got bored?
It made him sick.
Galbatorix gave him books to read, lists and lists of words in the ancient language, studies written by elves and translated into the common tongue. Murtagh thought it ironic, that the murderous King relied on the writings and philosophies of the people he'd slaughtered, that he passed on their knowledge as if it was his own. Murtagh might've enjoyed the reading, spending time in the castle library, learning the old tales of the elves–if he knew it wasn't all just preparing him to slaughter the King's enemies.
In his magic training, the King had him practice elevating items of varying sizes, holding them for as long as he could. He was strong enough to lift most of them off the ground, but even the smallest stones would leave him gasping for air after holding the spell a few minutes.
He was taught to control fire, and water, and air; taught to detect poison, taught to create poison, taught to make items invisible and to detect invisible spells. He learned how to set wards about himself for protection, and how to break down the wards of others, how to see things in the dark and deflect blows, and a thousand other ways of fighting.
Every new thing he learned, he kept thinking,
If only I'd known this. I could've freed myself. If only I'd known this I could've fought off the Twins. If only I'd known this, I could've gotten Thorn out; I could've saved him; I could be free, I could've I could've I could've…
The first days were blur, as he tried to keep up with everything that was thrown at him, terrified that if he got something wrong the King would punish him.
Galbatorix was a stern teacher, but when Murtagh failed, he did not receive the punishing blows he expected. When Murtagh dropped the stone on the first day, he flinched for an attack, but none came. The King simply told him to do it again.
The change in his situation was like night and day–all of a sudden he was treated with deference and fear by every servant and guard he passed; all of a sudden he had whatever he wanted within a moment's notice; all of a sudden Galbatorix was gracious and calm and understanding, like a tutor helping him learn his letters. It made Murtagh sick and confused.
His training for mental attack and defense involved the Twins, which he hated, but they, at least, seemed to have held on to their disdain for him. Galbatorix pitted him against one or the other to spar mentally, most likely because he knew Murtagh stood no chance sparring against the King himself.
Murtagh would stand in a courtyard across from the Twins and duel them for hours at a time, and now that Murtagh was well-fed and well-rested, he was more than a match for them. He kept them out of his head, and began to make attacks against them, fueled by his deep-seated loathing, and the knowledge that he couldn't lash out or attack in any other way.
Murtagh returned to his finely-decorated room after the first day of his training, and he found his old hand-and-a-half sword lying on the bed in its sheath. He froze, staring at it, his breath gone for a moment.
He was instantly brought back to that fight under Farthen Dur, the screams, the smell of blood, the clang of metal against metal. If only he'd had this in the cell, if only he could've fought his way out, if only he'd gotten to Ajihad in time, if only–
No. Murtagh closed his eyes. It was useless thinking that way. Nothing could be changed. He was here now. He was in this castle and he as a slave. The world before didn't exist anymore. It was gone. But he didn't have Thorn back then, and now he did. That was what he would hold onto.
Thorn had his own training, sometimes with Shruikan and sometimes with the King, and he and Murtagh were often separated for long portions of the day, which Murtagh hated.
Murtagh grew to understand–both from the King's talk and from snippets of conversation from the servants–that Thorn's existence was still being kept a secret from the general population. Galbatorix did not want to reveal his new weapon until it was ready to use.
To this end, all the servants and guards and attendants and nobles who entered the castle had sworn oaths not to speak of the existence of the red dragon to anyone, and Thorn was not permitted to fly during the day, until, the King said, Murtagh had mastered invisibility spells.
This seemed fine by Thorn, because he still felt so clumsy and ill-at-ease in his new body. He wasn't even sure he could fly, and he didn't seem eager to try again. This made Murtagh sad, as he had felt Thorn's exuberance the first time he had managed to lift into the air, and was angry at Galbatorix for ruining that. Of course he was angry at Galbatorix for a great many things, but he couldn't do a thing about it.
A few days into his training, he walked to one of the inner courtyards with his old sword strapped to his belt, guided by the ever-polite Falner. He found a young man waiting there for him, a sword at his side, his long blonde hair pulled back at the nape of his neck.
"My Lord, I'm called Aberfell," The man bowed, "I've been assigned to help you with your swordsmanship."
The swordsman was older than Murtagh, but only by a few years, and Murtagh wondered how the man would measure up. Murtagh was not pompous, but he knew he was a skilled swordsman, so far as humans were concerned. It had been another thing entirely, watching the elf Arya use a blade, and the dwarves' fighting style was entirely different. The Urgals even–No. He had to stop thinking about that. Those people didn't exist anymore. He had never seen a dwarf in his life. He hadn't fought alongside an elf. He didn't know the fighting styles of Urgals.
As it turned out, Aberfell was highly skilled, and as it also turned out, Murtagh was rusty. Weeks and weeks of sleep deprivation and lack of food, combined with the fact that he had been lying on the floor of a cold cell and hardly walking the whole time, meant that his stamina was depleted and his movements unsure. This was not to mention the physical toll the torture had taken on him, though Galbatorix had seen all his wounds completely healed with magic before he'd started his training,
"Like new," The King had said with a rich smile, but Murtagh didn't feel it.
He was thin, and his bones ached, and the once-familiar sword felt too heavy in his hand, and his feet wouldn't move quickly enough. He tried not to get angry with Aberfell, who bested him nine times out of ten and didn't seem to be breaking a sweat, but he wasn't used to feeling inadequate as a swordsman, and was once again reminded that he was letting Tornac down.
"Well done, my Lord, a good start," Aberfell encouraged, his cheeks flushed with exertion, after he had got past Murtagh's defenses for the dozenth time and halted just before a killing blow.
Murtagh only grunted.
"A drink?" Aberfell gestured to the water barrel that stood on the edge of the stone courtyard, sauntering over to it easily and scooping water out with a ladle. Reluctantly, Murtagh accepted the ladle himself, wondering if Thorn would be back in the room by the time he returned.
"Your technique really is exceptional, my Lord," Aberfell said–he seemed to be the only castle attendant Murtagh had met so far who wasn't either deathly afraid of him or snobbishly cold.
"I would say you are impressive for your age, but really you are impressive for any age," Aberfell continued warmly. "And of course you're only going to get better with time. No limit on how far you can advance."
The man smiled, and Murtagh didn't know what to do with that. No one else in Uru'baen had smiled at him like they meant it–they all just seemed afraid of getting eaten by a dragon.
It also took him a minute to realize what Aberfell meant, about getting better with time.
He felt stupid for not thinking about it earlier, but it struck him just then for the first time that he was now, for all intents and purposes, immortal. He would live forever, like Eragon would, like Galbatorix would, unless he was killed. And if what Eragon said was true, then over time he would become more elf-like, and less human.
This made Murtagh queasy. Once upon a time immortality might've been an interesting day dream; many men would've sacrificed anything for it, no doubt. But now all it meant to him was that his slavery had no end date. He would belong to the King not just for one lifetime, but for a hundred, until Galbatorix decided his life should end. It was a suffocating thought.
At the end of each day when he returned to his quarters–which were always pristinely made up and equipped with a wash basin, tub, and light evening meal–all he wanted to do was curl up beside Thorn and sleep, disappearing into nothingness for a little while. That was one advantage to Thorn being so big now–his warmth and sturdiness was comforting. They would share thoughts together, telling each other about their day, trying to stick to the good parts.
Shruikan shows me the sea–in his mind's eye. He shows me forest, like you said. He shows me mountains. You see mountains?
Yes, I've seen mountains.
They are… beautiful?
Yes. They are. And dangerous. Like you.
Thorn seemed humored at this. His mental thoughts were becoming clearer and more eloquent every day; he picked up on words and expressions quickly, and had begun listening to the servants as they bustled about the room and through the halls, catching onto their patterns of speech.
It was strange, but in a way Murtagh felt like he had never left Uru'baen; he was surrounded by minders and tutors, controlled at every moment, desperate to find time to himself, and helpless to make any real change. It was just like his childhood.
The King saw him occasionally, and would take on Murtagh's training himself for those secrets which none but dragon riders could know, but often he left the tutelage to several of his pet magicians. Aberfell helped Murtagh with swordsmanship; and an old bearded man named Swart was in charge of his study and writing, ensuring that he was keeping up with his learning of the Ancient Language; and he mentally dueled with the Twins.
The King told him after a few days that he was permitted to go about in the city, if he should wish, but this he did not desire at all. Firstly, he didn't want to be apart from Thorn any more than he had to, and secondly, he couldn't stand the thought of running into anyone he knew from his childhood. The third reason was that it felt like a mockery to his captivity; even if he'd been given the chance to stroll through the woods with Thorn, he wasn't sure he could stand to take it, knowing the illusion of freedom might be worse than just sitting in his chains.
So he kept to himself when he wasn't forced to be at training, and the only people he said more than two words to were Thorn, Aberfell, and the King, when he was forced to speak.
The red-haired servant girl was annoyingly diligent, and showed up morning and evening to straighten up whatever mess Murtagh or Thorn had made, curtsying and asking the same question,
"Is there anything else I can do for my lord?" With her eyes down.
The answer was always the same, and Murtagh wished the girl would just leave him alone. He didn't care if the room was a mess.
His time with Thorn was shrunk even more when Galbatorix began requiring his presence at councils and meetings. The first time he was summoned to join the King in his map room, Murtagh was nervous, not knowing who would be there and what he would be expected to do.
But he quickly realized that he was meant to stand to the side, listen, and do nothing. Moreover, he recognized that the two or three royal advisors who would be present were infinitely more afraid of him than he was of them. The older, more decadently-dressed nobles seemed to sneer down at him over their noses–he even thought he recognized a few of them–but none of them dared say a word. It was as though he was a suit of armor stationed in the corner of the room, just to look intimidating.
At first he had been frustrated by these councils; he had no desire to hear of the King's plans for controlling his kingdom and crushing the ever-worsening rebellion, and the meetings only took him away from Thorn for more hours out of the day. However, the third time he was summoned to the map room, the advisor who spoke with the King had come from Feinster, and he gave a report on the recent movements of the Varden.
"They've begun settling in Surda, Your Majesty," The portly man announced, "They've made some sort of alliance with King Orrin, and are, so far as we can tell, completely absent from Farthen Dur."
"It only makes sense," Lord Garshein–a gray-haired, wrinkly man with beady gray eyes–said with an air of authority, "They know we would decimate them with a second assault on their precious little mountain."
He looked at the King, then his eyes flicked to Murtagh with a little gleam of self-satisfaction. Murtagh kept his glare steady.
"And the girl?" Galbatorix asked blandly.
The man from Feinster sighed.
"Yes, we've confirmed Ajihad's daughter has taken up leadership of the Varden–"
Murtagh felt a sudden lurch in his chest.
"–spies report that she is the one who made the decision to move the troops. It's unclear, though, if their Council of Elders is controlling her, or if it's the other way around."
"Make it clear," The King demanded, leaning on the map and glowering down at the sketchings and reports. "I will not remain ignorant of who my enemy is."
"Your Majesty," Lord Garshein interrupted airily, "I think it's quite clear that the girl is a figurehead–a pretty little doll for the council to puppet around as they wish; daughter of their fallen leader and all that, stirs up sympathy for the cause. She's a child–"
"The Shadeslayer was a child as well, Garshein," The King shot back darkly, his voice filling the room, "And he managed to kill my best lieutenant."
Garshein and the Feinster representative were silent, clearly stricken with fear. Murtagh's ears were tingling.
Nasuada was the Varden leader? She had taken them from Farthen Dur? Was Eragon in Surda? What were they doing? What was their plan? Was she okay? Was she safe?
No. Stop it. You don't know her. You don't know any of them. That life does not exist.
Murtagh gripped his hands together tightly, trying to keep himself from betraying emotion.
"Find out who's really in charge," The King ordered, "I want to know everything about this new King Orrin, and about Ajihad's daughter. And make sure the Black Hand is in place when I give the order."'
Murtagh felt a shudder. He had pieced together who the Black Hand was, and if the King pitted them against Nasuada…
He couldn't keep his feelings from Thorn that night, and the dragon inquired into his concern for the girl whose image kept fluttering into Murtagh's mind unwittingly. He had told Thorn about her before, but he didn't like to dwell on it.
Friend Nasuada, hurt? Thorn asked, blinking up at Murtagh, who sat on the floor across from him eating the tray the servant girl had left.
No. I'm just worried for her.
Worried, Thorn agreed, his head resting on his front claws.
Murtagh was in an even worse mood than usual, having lost to Aberfell again that day, having barely prevented the Twins from breaking past his defenses, and having listened to hours of war strategy and spy reports, thinking the whole time how any single piece of that information might go far to help the Varden, and yet he was completely unable to do anything with it.
I will not send messages to enemies of the King.
Murtagh knew now that there were magical ways to get information across long distances. If it hadn't been for his oaths, he might've been able to pass along some of the information, warn the Varden about the spies in their midst, protect Nasuada from the Black Hand… but no. His mouth was gagged as much as his hands were chained. He was impotent. That was the only reason Galbatorix permitted him to listen in–he knew he could do nothing.
The red-haired servant girl returned in the evening time, doing her usual fussing about, taking away Murtagh's day clothes to be washed and folding down the bed even though he mostly slept on the cushion next to Thorn.
He had scowled when she knocked and asked for entry, and ignored her the whole time she was in the room, scanning over a parchment that contained a list of minerals in the Ancient Language until she began to clear up the tray of food.
"Leave it," He commanded harshly, "He'll eat the rest," He jerked his head to Thorn and returned to his reading.
"Y–yes my lord. If… the dragon is hungry, I can have another plate brought up–"
"He has a name," Murtagh snapped angrily. "It's Thorn. He's not a dumb animal."
"Y–yes my lord, my apologies, my lord," She curtsied again, her voice tight and high. "Does–would Thorn like a fresh plate of food?"
"–and you don't have to talk about him like he's not here. He's not stupid. Just talk to him."
Murtagh gestured angrily. The girl swallowed, her cheeks flushed, and she turned to Thorn with a curtsy.
"M-my lord would you like a second plate of food this evening?" She managed, her voice trembling, clearly terrified of the giant beast.
No. Content, Thorn said with a blink.
"He says he's fine," Murtagh muttered, copying down the strange shape of complex letters, his handwriting shakier than it used to be.
"Very well, my lord," The girl curtsied, "Is there anything else I can provide for you this evening?" She asked, her eyes still on the floor and a slight tremble in her breath.
"No."
Murtagh didn't look up as the girl curtsied for the dozenth time and hurried to leave.
When she had quietly closed the door behind her, Murtagh felt Thorn shift and snap up the remainder of the bread that was left uneaten on the tray.
Then Thorn turned his great eye on him.
Servant has name too, He thought at Murtagh, and Murtagh paused in his writing.
"What?"
Two-legs-orange-hair-curls servant. She has name too. Demelza.
Thorn blinked at him, and Murtagh understood his meaning. He felt a twinge of shame, feeling the dragon's disapproval.
"Right. Demelza," He murmured.
After that he tried not to be so brusque with her. He noticed that the girl never referred to Thorn as "the dragon" again, and that she tried her best to look him in the eye when she spoke to him.
The first time Murtagh climbed onto Thorn's back, his heart was beating so loud he was sure it was going to explode. It was night time, and Murtagh had been given approval by the King to fly with Thorn under cover of darkness, with a masking charm cast over his shape to obscure him from any keen eyes.
Murtagh had tried to cast the spell himself, but had been unsuccessful, receiving a scathing look from one of the Twins as he stepped in to perform the magic correctly. Murtagh scowled, but the King said nothing of his failure. He often worried, when the King was so quiet and unperturbed, that a great storm was brewing, waiting to be unleashed on him at unawares.
Tonight, however, the King seemed only concerned with seeing that Thorn and Murtagh could begin their flight training together. Murtagh was not looking forward to it, a fact which he tried to conceal from Thorn. He'd never liked heights or high places, and though in his head he knew Thorn wouldn't let him be hurt, he couldn't forget the fact that his dragon was not supposed to yet be large enough to carry him, and that he was still figuring out the use of his limbs–wings included.
So when they first began to lift off from the cobblestone of the inner courtyard, Murtagh was clinging to Thorn's neck spikes like a man hanging from a cliff edge, despite the fact that his legs were strapped into the leather saddle.
Thorn, for his part, was excited at the prospect. He had begun flying outside at night and in the throne room, learning to navigate the air currents and use his wings at their new size, and once he had shaken off his unease, he'd taken to it joyfully. He loved flying, Murtagh could tell by the way he thought about it, and he was eager to share it with his human partner, so Murtagh did his best to not let his dread seep through.
Once the initial lurch of fear and the strain of getting off the ground was over, Murtagh was able to release his vice-like grip on the spikes in front of him, and breathe more calmly. After a few minutes, he risked a glance down, and gasped.
Stretched below them was the wide circle of Uru'baen, the lights of a thousand lanterns and torches peppering the blackness below, outlining the streets and alleys, gradually thinning out the further the city stretched away from the citadel. It was unlike anything Murtagh had ever seen.
He'd looked down at a city from a hillside before, but never something like this. The world was so small down there, each pinprick of light representing the stoop of someone's home, the lantern hanging from someone's carriage. It was like the stars had descended from the canopy of the sky and laid themselves below Murtagh like a painting, like the earth and heavens had been reversed.
Murtagh had always thought Uru'baen an ugly, unappealing place. But in the darkness, from high above, it could have rivaled the legendary cities of Du Weldenvarden in its beauty. He could see why it had once been called Ilerea, the seat of the dragon rider's power.
After that night, he never dreaded flying with Thorn ever again. He took every opportunity to join his partner, and worked hard to perfect his invisibility spells so that they could take to the air whenever it pleased them.
He preferred to be in the sky with Thorn, away from servants and instructors and lords and advisors, and most especially, away from the King. Though they were no more free in the sky than they were on land–tethered to Uru'baen, fated to return, unable to go farther than a few miles in any direction–among the clouds he could at least pretend he was not a slave.
Several weeks after he'd begun his training, Falner came to his chambers with a servant carrying a new set of fine clothes, and the sickly-sweet man announced that Murtagh and Thorn would be "presented" to the King's court that afternoon.
Murtagh wasn't sure what this meant, but he didn't feel like asking Falner anything further. The man was all around unpleasant; he clearly held disdain for Murtagh, but was too slimy to be straightforward about it and evidently considered himself above the position of "dragon-rider minder", so everything he did had an air of disapproval and annoyance that drove Murtagh mad.
If Murtagh thought he could've gotten away with asking for a different "Chief Attendant" as he learned the man was called, he would've tried, but short of getting Falner executed for treason or something, he wasn't sure he could manage it, and he wasn't yet ready to take such a drastic measure.
He dressed himself in the fine clothes, feeling tight and uncomfortable, and missing the worn tunic and cloak he'd donned when he was traveling with Eragon. They had been the shabbiest things he'd ever owned, but it had felt right. Forcing himself back into the elegant fabrics and tight collars of the high fashion of Uru'baen felt like trying to jam a sword into a scabbard that was too small for it. They didn't fit him anymore.
He was given a red cape, which was elegantly crafted, but which Murtagh only admired because it was a good match to the color of Thorn's scales–though dull by comparison. He donned the outfit–refusing the help of the servant Lord Falner had sent–and stared at himself in the long looking glass, after removing the sheet that he left draped over it most of the time.
The servant girl–Demelza (he was trying to use her name)–had been taking the covering off every morning when she came to clean up, but gradually she seemed to have caught on to the fact that Murtagh did not want the mirror staring at him from across the room, and she'd begun to leave it be.
Now he winced at his own reflection, hating what he saw, his hand on his sword, his long dark hair falling to his shoulders, a deadness in the eyes that he couldn't seem to make go away.
But then Thorn swung his head around and blinked over Murtagh's shoulder into the mirror, tilting his glittering scales this way and that in the morning light. Thorn was endlessly fascinated by the looking glass, and could have sat staring at himself for hours if Murtagh let him.
Murtagh laughed at Thorn's antics.
"You'll get vain if you don't watch yourself," He said, placing his hand on Thorn's large scaly brow. Thorn blinked and gave him a dragon-toothed grin.
When Murtagh looked back in the mirror, he didn't hate what he saw as much– not with Thorn there. It felt right.
He wasn't nervous, per-say, to be presented before the nobles. He didn't care what any of them thought of him; in fact, he would prefer active hatred to any sort of admiration or friendship. But he was aware that many of them would have known him as a boy, would have been around when he and Tornac made their escape, would be aware of his collusion with the Varden, and he didn't like the thought of all those eyes on him.
They stood before the doors of the throne room, where only a few short months before Murtagh had been dragged in chains. Now he wore a fine red cape and polished boots, with a sword on his belt and a dragon at his side. It didn't make him any less sick at the sight of the room.
When they entered to the sound of a bugle blast, he heard the soft murmurs of many voices, and saw from the corner of his eye a gathering of dozens and dozens of nobles.
All of these, of course, were sworn to secrecy where it regarded Thorn's existence–Galbatorix would not suffer any word of the dragon reaching the Varden's ears–but among themselves Murtagh knew the nobles of the King's court had been sharing rumors for weeks.
Those who had been lucky enough to be in the palace, to spot Thorn or be present in a planning meeting with Murtagh, would have spread the word to those other privileged elite–the Son of Morzan had returned to the fold, and taken up his father's mantle as the King's Red Dragon Rider.
Murtagh and Thorn walked their way past the gawking crowd, which was dressed in the finest jewels and fabrics, until they stood before the King's throne and bowed.
"Greetings, Murtagh Morzansson, and greetings Thorn Bloodscales," Galbatorix intoned, loud enough for the whole room to hear. He smiled down at them.
"I welcome you to my court, and present you before my nobles here as my Chief Lieutenants–the hammer with which I will strike the final blow on the rebels who would see this great Kingdom torn apart."
Murtagh kept his face blank, staring at a line in the stone of the King's throne, not wanting to look at any of the gazing eyes.
"Turn and show yourselves," The King gestured, and inevitably, they obeyed.
The nobles were wide eyed and struck with wonder and fear as they all bowed, the ladies curtsying low and peering up through their eyelashes at Murtagh, the men bowing sharply.
Murtagh did nothing; he would not bow unless commanded to; he had no respect for these people, financiers of the King's evil, leeches on the poor of Alagaesia.
"For the Broddring Kingdom," Galbatorix said regally, and there was a round of fervent applause that filled the great room and echoed back into Murtagh's ears like the screams of dying men.
Murtagh kept his gaze fixed on the back doors, and his hand on his sword.