ContentWarning: Violence and Sexual Assault/Sexual Exploitation (not graphic)

CHAPTER ELEVEN: CHOICES

Murtagh reported to the King the next morning, after having scrubbed himself clean in the gilded tub, trying to rid himself of the memory of the woman's hands.

He made the decision not to show any emotion, not to give Galbatorix the satisfaction of seeing his distress. He wasn't sure whether the King had sent him to Lady Calthwaite as a test, a punishment, a reward, or some sort of sick joke, but he was certain that the he had known exactly what Murtagh was walking into.

He left his audience with the King just as unsure, but even more distressed.

When he'd entered the King's private dining hall, Galbatorix looked up from his meal and said,

"Ah, Murtagh, come in," Warmly. Murtagh's stomach soured at the self-satisfied humor coming off him.

You feel nothing. You feel nothing, He said, standing at attention, his eyes fixed in the distance, as always.

"Your Majesty," He said coolly.

"Yes. Your report?"

"The Calthwaites will give their trade contract to Lord Tellenwille," Murtagh said, a recited line that he had practiced over and over all night and all morning. He would say it firmly. He would say it without a quiver in his voice. He would have no intonation whatsoever.

"Excellent," The King said, "Well done, Murtagh," Galbatorix took a bite of his food.

"Come now, don't look so downcast," He said with a warm smirk, as if the two of them were just sharing a pint of ale in a local inn.

"At least she was handsome, wouldn't you agree?"

The question hung in the air, and Murtagh felt the room spinning around him. The King actually expected him to answer.

"Yes, your majesty," Murtagh said emptily, keeping his eyes trained forward.

Galbatorix smirked again.

"You aren't as good a liar as your father was," He said as he sliced his food. Murtagh closed his eyes for just a moment, his hands clenched behind him.

"But it's no matter. I'm sure we will find plenty of other ladies for you to… negotiate with."

Murtagh tried to keep himself from getting dizzy; he had suddenly lost the ability to breathe.

When he left Galbatorix's hall he still wasn't sure whether the King had thought of the whole thing as an amusing divergence or if it was some kind of punishment that Murtagh didn't understand the reason for.

He had to stop in the passageway leading back to his chambers, leaning one hand against an alcove where an old elven statue sat and holding his chest, trying to breathe, feeling like he was drowning, a panic flushing his neck.

He heard footsteps, and straightened, composing himself quickly and forcing his breaths to be silent. The calm chattering of a few servants died as soon as they saw him, and immediately they murmured,

"My lord," And dropped their gaze, trying to hurry past him with a rolling cart of ale bottles.

"Wait," He snapped, and immediately they stopped, holding their breath. One of the women's hands were shaking.

Murtagh turned to the cart, grabbed three of the bottles of ale wordlessly, and stalked off down the stone passageway.

Murtagh trained harder. He fought ferociously against Aberfell, so much that the swordsman commented that he must've been holding back. Murtagh had put a spell on their blades so they would not slice each other to ribbons, just like Eragon had done when they'd sparred together during… No. Eragon didn't exist. That time was dead.

After Murtagh's defeat of the Freckle Twin, though, the two magicians pushed back harder. Galbatorix had him facing them both at once, or he had them mentally battling a Twin while he sparred with Aberfell. The Twins broke through his barriers, sometimes, but the King did not permit them to enter his mind deeply, and they would immediately withdraw.

He flew with Thorn as often as possible, escaping to the skies when he felt like he couldn't breathe on the ground. He studied the ancient texts and absorbed the information like a starving man, hoping that he could find something within the elves' writings and the records of the ancient language that would tell him how to get out of this–how to get Thorn out of this.

So far he'd found nothing.

The King summoned him to the throne room one afternoon, and he expected to continue the work they had been doing on casting wards. Instead, he found a man kneeling at the foot of the King's throne, held on either side by guards, a woman trembling behind him.

Murtagh slowed, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and his feet suddenly less brisk.

"Ah, Murtagh, thank you, come forward," Galbatorix gestured. He was sitting on his throne, swirling a goblet in his right hand, gazing down at the captive man, whose chin was high despite his trembling. Murtagh could tell he'd been beaten.

He approached reluctantly, tense.

"This man is called Devarn…" The King said, "And he was recently discovered smuggling letters and maps into a caravan headed for Feinster."

The woman was sniffling and shaking, held back by one guard, no doubt the man was her husband. Murtagh kept his face blank. On the armrest of the throne sat a stack of parchments, and Galbatorix's long fingers pressed against them thoughtfully.

"...contained in these letters was information… about my defenses, my plans, my troop's movements, and… curiously enough, about you."

Murtagh felt a strange flip in his stomach. Him? How had the man found out? He supposed he might've been seen in the city, and recognized. But did they know about Thorn? Would someone get word to the Varden about Murtagh's plight? He fought between hope and fear, despair that the man had been caught, but a flicker of light, considering there might be other spies sending word to the Varden, telling Nasuada…

No. You don't know her. You feel nothing.

Murtagh gripped the hilt of his sword and remained silent. He hoped the King wouldn't think he was the one who'd passed on the information–somehow figuring a way around his oaths. He immediately felt cowardly for the thought.

"He is a spy for the rebels," Galbatorix concluded coldly, "And as such… he is sentenced to die."

"No, please…" The woman keened, struggling fruitlessly against the guard who held her. "Mercy, Majesty, please, he has a family–"

"–I thought," The King continued over the woman's pleas, "This would be just the opportunity for you to put to use your new skills," Galbatorix smiled coolly.

Murtagh couldn't tear his eyes from the spy–a man maybe ten years older than Murtagh, simply-clothed, strong, unflinching in the face of his fate.

"I'd like you to kill him," Galbatorix said, "In whatever way you choose."

Murtagh's breath was shallow, gazing at the doomed man–Devarn–who had risked his life to aid the Varden, to aid Eragon and Nasuada…

The man raised his gaze to Murtagh; it was not devoid of fear, but there was a certain calm acceptance there, a determination that he had taken on the risk of death, and was now meeting it head on.

Murtagh grimaced. He had killed before, of course. He'd killed uncounted Urgals in the Battle Under Farthen Dur, but he'd killed men, too. He'd killed a man like this… unarmed and helpless… a slave trader who'd tried to kidnap he and Eragon. Eragon had been angry with him, but he felt he'd done what was necessary. Could he do what was necessary now?

Murtagh met the man's eyes, feeling he deserved at least that, for his bravery and mettle.

"Please," The man's wife begged, her pleas directed towards Murtagh now, as if he had any say, as if he could choose to spare the man.

"I am with child, he's to have a baby, please, mercy, let him be imprisoned, only do not kill him, I beg of you," Her voice was pitched and hysterical, sobs shaking her thin frame.

Murtagh felt a sick twist in his stomach. He wasn't sure if she was making up the story about the child–it would be a good trick, if she thought that might move him to show mercy–but even if she was, he couldn't bring himself to end the man.

This brave soldier was fighting for the Varden; he was under Nasuada's rule; he might've been in Farthen Dur, might've fought alongside Murtagh. He was doing everything Murtagh wished he himself could do–using his position to ferry secrets to their allies. How could Murtagh end his life?

"Murtagh…" Galbatorix said, his tone calm but taking on a dangerous edge. The King hadn't actually ordered him to do anything. He said he'd like for Murtagh to kill the spy, but that didn't mean he had to. His oaths did not bind him yet.

The condemned man's breaths were tense but even. Murtagh clenched his jaw.

No.

He would not do it, not if he had the choice to refuse, not if his oaths didn't force him. Murtagh took a breath, and he stepped back from the man, deliberately, slowly. He turned his hateful gaze to the King, but Galbatorix's eyes were sparkling with an amused malice.

The wife let out a shuddering breath.

"Thank you…" She sobbed, her head hanging.

Murtagh was still glaring at the King, when he heard a sharp snap, and a scream. He whipped his head around to see the spy's body crumpling to the ground, his head grotesquely twisted off his body, bones protruding and blood spilling.

Murtagh's breath left him, and he felt a wave of nausea.

The wife's wails echoed around the throne room for only a second more, before he watched her neck snap at a flick of the King's wrist, and she, too, crumpled to the ground, bloodied and deformed.

A groan of horror left Murtagh, and his face contorted in distress, unable to tear his eyes from the broken body of the woman. Even the guards took a few steps back from the grotesque sight.

"You see, Murtagh," Galbatorix intoned heavily, "When you fail to obey me, people get hurt."

Murtagh saw blue spots before his eyes, his hands were trembling and he couldn't breathe. The message settled into his bones: the woman's death was on his hands.

He got very drunk that evening, calling Demelza up to bring whisky and ale, pacing his chambers and drinking until he could forget the sight of the two crumpled bodies, and stop the sound of their cracking necks from ringing in his skull.

Thorn tried to tell him it wasn't his fault–he'd done the right thing, he'd refused to kill, there was no way he could've known what the King would do.

I should've known, Murtagh shot back angrily, the ale bottle swinging from his hand, I should've. It's him. He's cruel. It's what he does. I should've just ended the man with a word and let that be that. His wife could've–and the child–if she–if I had just…

Murtagh started to panic, his whole body growing hot and his breath coming in short gasps as he slid to the ground under the windowsill.

He drowned the panic in more drink.

The next day he fixed his pounding headache with a healing spell, but he could not get rid of the tightness in his chest, nor the ever-returning image of the two bloodied corpses on the throne room floor.

He sparred with Aberfell, and threw all his rage into his bout with the swordmaster. The young man took it in stride, though, and did not seem upset that Murtagh was landing blows that were dangerously hard, even with a dulled blade. He came close to beating Aberfell, that time, but his anger was his downfall, as it caused him to overextend and leave himself vulnerable to attack.

Aberfell was a good sport, though, and he never gloated or taunted.

"Well done, my lord," He said, as they shared a drink of water and sat on the benches on the side of the sparring floor, watching two young noble's sons duel.

"You don't have to call me that," Murtagh muttered, drinking the water and wishing it were whisky.

"Pardon?"

"'My lord'. I'm not a lord, I don't own any land and I don't have any title."

"Ah," Aberfell was quiet for a moment. "Well, is 'sir' alright, then? Think my overseers would have my head if I started to call you 'old pal'."

Despite himself, Murtagh smiled.

"Right, fine," He sniffed, drinking the water quietly.

"I did, uh… I did know an old pal of yours," Aberfell continued quietly. Murtagh frowned.

"Old Tornac, the swordmaster," The young man said, and Murtagh felt a clench of pain in his stomach, "I didn't get the chance to train under him myself, but the man I apprenticed with, they were good friends."

Murtagh's shoulders were hunched, his hair hanging close to his eyes. Images of his old friend and teacher were popping into his mind unbidden, scraps of memory like shadows dancing along the edge of his sight. It hurt, but in a way it also felt good, remembering something decent in his life, something whole and healthy and full of love. Like having a father, it was. Until it wasn't.

"Shame what happened to him," Aberfell said, and Murtagh could tell he meant it. What's more, it was brave–that statement alone could've been seen as treason, seeing how Tornac had died betraying the crown.

"He was a good man."

Murtagh lifted his gaze to the young swordsman, meeting his eyes, passing through silence what he could not say out loud. It was dangerous of Aberfell, to talk like that, but the young man seemed to know this, and he did not flinch away.

Murtagh just nodded, and looked back to the stones.

The King was true to his word, and Murtagh soon found that he was being sent out as a negotiator to several nobles within the city.

Sometimes these meetings were exactly what they seemed–a chance for Murtagh to convince a noble or dignitary to do the King a favor. They would accept bribes of gold, land, title, leverage on their enemies, news of upcoming events, or fine goods. Most of them were simple enough transactions; Murtagh would ride a horse down to the noble's manor, or the inn where they were visiting, share a dinner or a tea, and negotiate on the King's behalf.

Most of the nobles were eager to have a chance to ingratiate themselves with the King, or fearful of Murtagh, and some didn't even ask for payment in return for their favors.

But every time he was sent out, Murtagh had to swear to give these people whatever they wanted, to seal the deal, no matter what. And sometimes what they wanted was more than he could give.

After Lady Calthwaite, the first time it happened was an old widow–a woman who'd inherited her husband's mining business, and was in charge of supplying most of the material for the armor and weapons in the empire's army.

The woman had taken Murtagh for a stroll in her garden, hosted a lavish dinner for just the two of them, and had entertainers brought in to do an acrobatic show, as though any of this would make up for what she made him do later.

Murtagh was plenty drunk by the time it happened, and he hardly remembered the whole thing, but any time he was in a gathering among the nobles and the widow caught his eye, she gave him a little smirk and a curtsy, as though what had happened between them had been some secret, exhilarating tryst, and not a transaction from which he could not back down.

Murtagh could never quite tell when to expect these ambushes–oftentimes he went into a negotiation or meeting anticipating the worst, and nothing happened. Most of the time he really could talk the nobles into accepting gold or land in lieu of these favors, and he realized that there were not many among the Uru'baen elite who were high-ranking enough to even think of demanding such a thing.

Thankfully, the unsavory incidents were few and far-between, but he constantly felt on edge while doing the King's business throughout the city, always afraid that he would be forced to give himself over in order to complete his assigned "mission".

Galbatorix seemed amused by the whole thing–convinced that Murtagh must be enjoying himself in his dalliances with the various noblewomen of the city. The transactions had all involved noblewomen–of varying ages and marital statuses–until one evening when he met with Lord Garshein.

The gray, beady-eyed man had often been in Galbatorix's councils regarding reports from Surda, and Murtagh understood that he was a high-ranking war official, though obviously no warrior himself, aged as he was.

He was aged enough, even, to have known Murtagh's father well, a fact of which he seemed quite proud.

"Great man, Morzan." Garshein said, "Shame the way he was brought down. Shame."

Murtagh had endured a few mentions of his father–most of the nobles seemed to think their stories of Morzan's greatness would ingratiate them with Murtagh, rather than turn him against them. He remained silent and continued his eating, just waiting until he could ask Garshein for the King's favor and be gone.

"I don't suppose you remember me, boy, but I was about the city, when you were just a wee thing, brought here after your father's death," Garshein tutted through a full mouth.

"A shame," He said again.

Murtagh hadn't really tried to make connections with anyone who'd known him before. His old caretaker–Lavetta, her name had been, had either died or moved to Teirm, depending on who you asked, and no one else in his life had ever been good or kind enough to warrant him seeking them out.

"Always a handsome lad, you were," Garshein complemented, "I remember watching you put on a display of swordsmanship when you were no older than twelve; spectacular, I said. Poised and graceful, like a dance."

The old man sniffed.

"No wonder, of course, from the son of Morzan. I suppose you were always destined for great things. And of course here you are now: dragon rider, lieutenant of the King. Would make your father proud."

Murtagh swallowed down bile and kept his gaze focused on his food. He'd learned to tune out the drivel that came out of the noble's mouths most of the time, but any mention of his father brought up a bad feeling. He took another drink.

He was not so on edge that evening, as Garshein had no wife, and had always been a haughty, cold man, but as they were finishing up their meal and Murtagh brought up the business at hand–the favor Galbatorix wanted done–Garshein leaned back with a sigh, wiping his mouth on his cloth napkin.

"Yes, I thought we might come to that," The old man said warmly. He was sat at the head of the long inn table, and Murtagh was immediately to his left.

"Of course I am more than willing to agree with the King's request, happy to serve, as always."

His teeth were white–fake, Murtagh assumed, but clean.

"I won't press a hard bargain, either… make things easy for you."

Murtagh suddenly felt the man's hand on his thigh, and he jerked his leg away under the table, his eyes darting up, instantly tense.

The old man's expression was blank, like nothing had happened.

"I assumed," He said coolly, taking a drink of wine from his goblet while Murtagh's heart hammered, "That the King would be willing to extend a favor, in exchange for my cooperation."

Murtagh was sitting there, his mind buzzing. He hadn't realized… he hadn't expected… he gripped the fork in his hand so tightly his knuckles turned white. His oath. As always, he had given the King an oath. To give the man whatever he wanted.

You feel nothing, Murtagh told himself, as Garshein continued speaking,

"It isn't an easy matter, of course, to convince my constituents…"'

Murtagh didn't hear anything else Garshein said, because his hand had returned to Murtagh's thigh again, and was wandering about, up and down. Murtagh grunted, fighting the urge to knock over the table and stab the man in the neck with the fork.

You feel nothing.

Whether Garshein continued his talking or he fell silent after a while, Murtagh didn't know–his ears were ringing–but he felt the old man's hand creep up the inside of his thigh, and his leg was touching Murtagh's, and he knew Garshein's other hand was on himself.

It was a few, horrid, frozen moments, and Murtagh stared at the tablecloth, telling himself that he felt nothing, and knowing it wasn't true. And when Garshein had finished, he straightened, and his hand dropped from Murtagh's leg, and he continued the conversation as if nothing had happened,

"But yes, you may tell the King I shall acquiesce to his request," The old man said, taking another drink from his goblet.

Murtagh was blinking, trying to swallow the bile in his throat, his breath shuddering.

When Garshein rose to leave, Murtagh didn't move, afraid that his legs wouldn't work. The old man patted Murtagh's shoulder, and he flinched, his chin trembling.

"Such a handsome lad," Garshein said, and then he was gone.

The worst of Murtagh's transactions–the word he had begun to use for them in his mind, just to keep away from the truth of it–was not Garshein, but a young noblewoman by the name of Lady Rathurst.

Murtagh had visited Lord Rathurt's manor to convince him to lend his support to a certain governor seeking rule in Nodringham–a small but significant town that stood near Belatona–and he had expected nothing of the evening, seeing as how Rathurst and his wife were both present, and were hosting other guests.

However, towards the end of the evening, and before Murtagh had been able to pin down an agreement from Lord Rathurst, the other guests began to leave, and Rathurst went to the entry hall to see them out.

Murtagh sat silently in the lounge with his wife–a woman many years Rathurst's junior–who was on the chaise sipping her third or fourth goblet of wine, clearly already dulled by the drink. The young woman was very pretty, with fine eyes and a good figure, but she had a sort of deadness in her gaze that Murtagh had seen before, and her smile was weak, and practiced–no joy behind it.

The young woman turned to him after her husband had been gone for a few moments.

"Would it please you, my lord, to sit closer?" She said, placing her hand on the chaise next to her, swaying from the drink. Murtagh frowned.

"I… am content, my lady," He answered, glancing through the open doorway, where the woman's husband was giving a last farewell to his guests.

"I would be… delighted… if you would come join me," She said dully, sounding not delighted in the least.

Murtagh cleared his throat, unsure, but he stood and moved to the chaise, sitting stiffly a good distance from her, waiting for her husband to come back.

The woman put down her wine goblet, and leaned towards him clumsily.

"I trust the meal was to your liking," She said distantly, but her hands were on his chest and she leaned in to kiss him. He shirked away, eyes darting to the doorway again.

"M–my lady, your husb–"

"You need not worry of my husband's wrath, my lord," The woman slurred, her eyes dull as she began unbuttoning the front of her bodice. Murtagh was reeling in confusion.

"...he desires to observe."

Sure enough, when Murtagh looked back at the doorway, Lord Rathurst was standing, a drink in his hand, leaning against the frame, watching the two of them as though nothing more interesting was happening than a game of chess.

"He says you have a request of him," The man's wife said distantly, as though she wasn't really in the room. Murtagh returned his gaze to the young woman, who had removed her bodice and now leaned in to kiss his neck, stiffly, without feeling–like she was already dead and this was just her ghost, touching him, pulling him close.

"He says he will give you what you ask, and you may… you may do as you wish…"

She tugged Murtagh's tunic, and lay back on the chaise, drawing him after until he was leaning over her, hands on either side of her shoulders, keenly aware of the man in the doorway, watching.

He understood what was happening–understood why the woman was drinking so much, the dull look in her eyes, her stiff affect. This was not the first time her husband had loaned her out to visitors for his enjoyment.

Murtagh grimaced, torn between his binding oath to the King and his revulsion of the situation.

"I do not wish to do anything," He whispered to the woman, wincing as she fumbled with his belt.

She stopped, and her eyes finally met his, dulled with drink and despair. She seemed to understand, and they shared a moment of truth together–two people held by different chains, forced into something neither wanted.

The room was silent but for the crackling of the nearby fireplace.

"...then you may do what you must," She murmured.

And he did.