CHAPTER SIXTEEN: DEFEAT

CW: Violence

Thorn rose from a cove of trees on the banks of the Jiet river, the heavy orange clouds drifting in the distance, filling Murtagh's nostrils with the memories of war.

A cadre of Imperial troops fanned out onto the slope in front of the Varden camp, marching calmly towards their doom as Murtagh gripped Zar'roc and straightened in the saddle, preparing himself.

The King had sent him back to the battlefield, back to Eragon, back to end this once and for all. And this time he had the horrifying company of a legion of soldiers that were unkillable. Murtagh had nearly vomited when he'd stood in the throne room and watched one of Galbatorix's magicians slowly hack pieces of a soldier off while the man stood there proudly, mad laughter escaping from him as his arm fell to the floor.

They couldn't feel pain, and Murtagh envied them, but as the small group of men fanned out onto the stretch of grass below him, he knew that none of them would be returning. They'd volunteered for this, though–promised enough gold to keep their families fed and housed for life if they would only be willing to throw themselves into the meat grinder of war, and take down as many Varden as they could before their bodies gave out.

His own body felt different, this time. The King had worked his spells, trying to make up for the fact that Eragon was half-elven now, that Murtagh was weak, that he had failed. Now his limbs moved faster, his eyes saw farther, his reactions were lighting quick, and his heart was hardened.

He was a match for Eragon in strength, but he knew his brother was no match for him in power. With Murtagh's Eldunari behind him, Eragon stood no chance. He would be defeated, and this time Murtagh's heart didn't quail at the thought. He found Eragon's shape next to Saphira below, and steeled his nerves. He had suffered enough for Eragon's sake. No more.

Murtagh shifted his grip on Zar'roc as his eyes drifted from Eragon to the gray outline of a war horse, and then to the woman riding it–Nasuada. For a moment his resolve wavered, and his breath seemed taken by the wind as Thorn rose.

Nasuada. In his mind he saw the flash of a bright smile on a dark face, the sound of her voice as she read aloud her favorite passage of an old story book, her soft laughter echoing off the walls of the small cell…

Murtagh scowled and shifted in the saddle.

No more, He told himself again, hardening his heart with the memory of his pain.

Then he raised his voice with magic and shouted,

"Eragon!" Across the sky.

Immediately the attention of the whole camp was on him, except for those poor souls who were riding out to meet the undying soldiers.

"I see you there," His voice echoed, "hiding behind Nasuada's skirts. Come fight me, Eragon! It is your destiny. Or are you a coward, Shadeslayer?" Into the last word he poured all his rage, his hurt, his anger at the pain Eragon had caused him.

Saphira's response was quick and startling, a jet of blue flame shooting from her maw as she roared. Murtagh felt Thorn grumble underneath him, and then Saphira was rising to meet them in the sky.

Time to end this, He told Thorn.

But things went horribly awry, very quickly.

First Eragon stalled them for several long, painful minutes, trying to convince Murtagh that he could free himself, as if he hadn't studied, thought, wondered, labored over the idea for hours at a time. Change his true name? Eragon made it sound as simple as learning to swing a sword.

Easy for you to say, Murtagh thought as his brother pleaded with him to try and alter himself, to break himself free of Galbatorix by simply not being himself. Perhaps for Eragon, it seemed simple enough. He'd been changed by the elves, hadn't he? They'd practically handed him a new true name on a platter. If only Murtagh had been so welcomed by the courteous elves; if only anyone had bothered helping him, fixing his scar, protecting his dragon from the Empire.

Murtagh's thoughts were bitter, but despite himself, there was a deep longing that threatened to bubble to the surface. He felt it in Thorn, too. It was why they hung there, suspended in the sky like two great, sparkling clouds, listening to Eragon try to talk his way out of this. Again.

Enough, Murtagh finally said to Thorn. If what Eragon said was true–if there really was a way out of Galbatorix's chains–then they would find it soon enough. But right now, they had work to do.

Once the battle began, though, it clearly became apparent that he was not facing the same foe that he'd faced on the Burning Plains.

Almost at once he felt a great splitting pain from Thorn as Saphira out-maneuvered him in the sky, crushing his wing with her tail. Murtagh's vision went blurry from pain and dizziness as Thorn began to spiral downwards, howling in torment, his blood splattering outward as they fell.

Murtagh started to panic, feeling his partner's agony and the terrible swooping sensation from their precipitous drop. Quickly he scrabbled to find the smallest of the Eldunari and grabbed it from its invisible pouch. With a shaking hand, as the world spun around him, he held it to Thorn's wing and said the necessary words so the dragon's broken membrane began to knit itself together.

Thorn caught himself and began to ascend, whole once more, but this was not the end of their troubles.

First Eragon nearly hacked Thorn's toes off, then Saphira caught Thorn's neck in a vice-like clamp, and Eragon cut a gash into Murtagh's cheek right after he'd received a wound from Zar'roc. The dragons disengaged as the ground came hurtling up beneath them, and Murtagh stemmed the flow of blood from his face, gritting his teeth as he winced through the words of the spell and Thorn labored upwards.

Almost immediately Eragon and Saphira were on them again, and Thorn, struggling to maneuver with his too-large body, was beset by her once more. Murtagh and he screamed together as Saphira clamped him in a vice of razor teeth, and Murtagh saw with a thrill of horror that she was one strong pull from ripping Thorn's wing off completely.

NO! He thought as he felt Thorn's agony. Then he turned his fury onto Eragon, pointing Zar'roc in his direction and launching a mental attack, the power of the Eldunari behind him. He battered against the stronghold of Eragon's mind, like a man beating stone with his fists. But then Thorn twitched underneath him and a shock of pain ran up his wing, and Murtagh's concentration faltered.

Now he was under attack. He battered away Eragon's mental spear, almost frantically, reciting the lines of verse,

Sweet little darling, where have you gone?

Table is ready and supper is on…

Murtagh swore internally, as Eragon and he grappled in their minds and the dragons continued to fall. What was this? Eragon should've been weak from his wound, why was he still holding his own?

Suddenly Eragon was pointing his falchion and shouting a spell that locked Murtagh's limbs in place. Murtagh growled and spat back a counterspell, and then they were engaged.

What does he think he's playing at?

Murtagh thought as their magic began pushing at each other; Murtagh felt the drain on him, the Eldunari lending their strength. Surely Eragon didn't think he could outlast him?

Once, Eragon's concentration faltered, but he recovered himself too quickly for Murtagh to overpower him.

Murtagh grunted as he felt the energy drain, his teeth were gritted, his forehead beading with sweat.

The ground! Thorn cried through his pain, and Murtagh risked a glance to see the horses and tents below growing dangerously in size. Eragon tried to use the moment of distraction to overwhelm him, but he recoiled quickly.

Table is ready and supper is on…

Murtagh felt his sword hand trembling, he was afraid Zar'roc was going to drop from his grip. His breaths came in short gasps and his vision was turning blurry.

How is he doing this? Murtagh thought blearily, his fingers going numb as the wind whistled past them. It was a contest of sheer power, and somehow, Eragon was winning.

Murtagh break the spell! Thorn shouted in his mind, You must! You will lose consciousness!

He can't best us! It's impossible! Murtagh groaned.

But he is! End it now!

Murtagh cried in anguish as he cut off the flow of magic, his breath wheezing.

Eragon's spell held.

Murtagh was close to passing out when Saphira shoved herself away from Thorn and fought to regain altitude. Thorn twisted, blood spraying from his now-opened wounds.

Fly, Murtagh begged as he murmured the spell of healing, struggling to think through his haze of exhaustion. G–get–get us out of here.

Thorn landed hard on the slope of a hill, hurtled down it, and rapidly pumped his wings to take off again as Murtagh sat frozen, still hampered by Eragon's spell.

The moments stretched out endlessly as Thorn labored, and every second Murtagh thought he would see Saphira's shadow descending from above, feel Eragon dragging them to the ground with a spell, or invading his mind, or killing him with a word.

His heart thudded like a deep drum, the wind biting his eyes, and he wondered what they would do, once they caught him. Would they drag him before Nasuada and have him beheaded? Would they sic the Urgals on him? Would they torture him for information on the King?

He almost laughed, in his delirious exhaustion. How ironic, to be tortured for the man who had tortured him. Would they believe him when he told them he could not say a word? That his oaths wouldn't allow him? Would they kill him after they realized he was useless? Would Eragon put the sword to him himself? Use Zar'roc maybe? That would really complete the irony.

Suddenly Murtagh felt a snap as the magic binding him released, and he took a gasp of deep breath, leaning forward and gripping one of Thorn's neck spikes.

There was a moment of deep relief, that he and Thorn were not dead, not grappling on the ground now with a horde of angry Kull.

Then Murtagh screamed in fury and beat a gloved hand against his thigh. How had they done it? How could they keep doing this?

Pathetic, weak, idiot, He cursed himself, knowing that their defeat would bring down the King's wrath once again. Stupid, stupid, you worthless, useless fool.

Murtagh– Thorn's tired voice interrupted, and Murtagh blinked, stopping his spiral into self-hatred.

He growled and reached for the last dregs of energy from the Eldunari, soothing Thorn's aches and then his own.

Then he turned in the saddle, seeing Eragon down below, in Saphira's saddle, surrounded by horsemen and peering up in their direction. He forced his voice to be steady, and amplified it:

"Do not think you have won, Eragon, Saphira!" He shouted, "We shall meet again, I promise, and Thorn and I shall defeat you then, for we shall be even stronger than we are now!"

The threat did not make him feel any better, and already a pit of dread formed in his stomach as Thorn continued his flight away from the Varden camp.

They had failed. Again. What would the King do to him now?

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to panic, clinging to Thorn as they passed through the clouds.

The King's wrath never came.

Murtagh paced outside the treasure room for several long, anxious minutes, until the castle administrator came out to him and said,

"My lord, you're free to go tend to your business. The King will summon you if needed."

Murtagh blinked, and Thorn cocked his head.

"W… did he receive my report?"

"Yes, my lord. He's occupied at the moment, but he's received the report."

Murtagh's frown deepened, suspicion rising, his shoulders hunched.

"He knows Shadeslayer is not in our clutches? He knows they got away?"

"Yes, sir."

"And he doesn't… care?"

"He's occupied," The administrator said again, coolly.

Occupied with what? Murtagh looked back at Thorn. His relief was tampered by the sense that something was very wrong, that the King was toying with him, or that whatever had the King so distracted was certain to be worse than any punishment.

Still confused, Murtagh shuffled down the echoing hall with Thorn, heading for their chambers.

He wasn't able to relax all that day, as he removed his war-soiled clothes and dented armor, wiped down the grime on Thorn's scales and washed himself clean of dirt and sweat. He kept expecting to receive a summons, or for someone to burst through the door and clap him in chains. He was too confused at the King's seeming apathy to be relieved that he wasn't being beaten and tortured.

Demelza brought them food and asked them how the battle had fared. He told her what he could, what his oaths would allow him to reveal.

"I don't know. He shouldn't have been stronger than me, but he was," Murtagh admitted, finishing the mug of ale she'd brought with his meal.

"Are you… upset? That you could not bring him back to the King?" Demelza asked as she tossed his dirtied clothes into a basket.

Murtagh didn't know how to answer. Upset? Yes. He was upset he'd been defeated, that despite his determination to bring Eragon down, he had been unable to complete the task. He was upset that he was still weak and helpless and pathetic. But was he upset that his brother remained free from the King's clutches? He couldn't say for certain. He had hardened himself against all feelings of charity towards Eragon, but still there was that nagging sentiment that made him feel just a little relieved by his failure.

And anyway, the King didn't seem to care very much about it, so why should Murtagh?

"I don't know," He finally answered, his finger tracing the rim of the now-empty mug. Demelza seemed to understand.

After failing to be summoned to the King all that day, Murtagh convinced himself that the crisis had passed–that whatever secret study the King was doing really was more important to him than losing Eragon and Saphira again. If no punishment was going to come, then Murtagh would make use of the time he had.

He made his way down to the library, as he often did when Thorn was busy and he had a moment to spare. This time, however, he had a mission. He couldn't stop thinking about what Eragon had said, about his true name, about his bonds to Galbatorix.

He knew that if the King ever decided to search his mind he would see that conversation, and no doubt punish Murtagh for even considering it. But Galbatorix had not rifled through his thoughts for some time now, and Murtagh supposed that while he had the opportunity, he might as well try to see if Eragon had been telling the truth. If there was even the slightest chance, he owed it to Thorn to try.

In the library he asked the scroll keeper for texts on the ancient language, on names, and on the binding properties of spells, but he also asked for other, benign things, so as to throw off the old man's suspicion.

For hours that day, Murtagh sat rifling through texts, his eyes now accustomed to reading both the common tongue and the ancient language. He carefully pored over each scroll and book, searching for information on true names, trying to see if there was a way out. He found vague mentions of a change to one's person, but nothing that said whether this would release one from a previously-made oath. He found reference to a man who had been a name-slave to a dark sorcerer, and had managed to escape, but this was only done by finding a loophole in the spells that allowed the enslaved man to kill the sorcerer; he did not actually manage to change himself.

Murtagh hunched over the old table with the fading light of the day filtering in through a thin window, his head aching and swimming with the thin lines of scrawling writing. He'd discovered nothing useful for all his hunting, and he slammed the last book closed in anger, after reading of an elf who had discovered the true name of a pet bird and used the animal to spy on his rivals.

Stupid, useless elves with their stupid, useless language. He hated it–The Ancient Language–as if it were something so great; as if it were so honorable and wonderful. It was this language that caused Murtagh's bondage in the first place; without the binding property of its words, he could've left Galbatorix, could've turned against the King, could've gone back on his oaths, could've fought his way out with Thorn. But no, the elves and their stupid language of truth–they had put him in shackles. They had caused his slavery. And they were no good with helping him find a way out.

He left the library in a foul mood, glaring at every attendant he passed so that they scurried away like frightened mice. What was Eragon playing at, getting his hopes up like this? How was he supposed to do anything his brother had suggested, when every second of his life was open for observation by the King whenever it pleased him? Reading those texts was cause for punishment, if the King found out. The very thoughts in his head were not safe.

Still, Eragon's words echoed in his head as he made his way back to his chambers.

Grow into something other than you are.

Eragon had admitted that Murtagh had probably done the best he could, all things considered, and it wouldn't do to make himself worse somehow–to become like Galbatorix in cruelty and evil. He might as well be dead, then. But to grow into something different? What could he change about himself? What could he and Thorn alter in themselves that would be enough to break their chains?

In his mind Murtagh thought over the two things about his True Name that had stung him the most, the two truths that filled him with shame by their undeniable frankness.

Selfish and Coward.

But how could he change either of those? He wasn't a coward–hadn't he fought for the Varden? Hadn't he left the safety of a noble life in Uru'baen to run across the land like a vagabond? Hadn't he aided Eragon at risk to his own life? Hadn't he faced death at the King's hand like a man? Hadn't he tried to end his own life rather than give in to the King? Wasn't that brave? How did that make him a coward?

And as for the selfishness, well, a person had to look after himself when there was no one else to do it, didn't they? It wasn't his fault that his mother had gone and died, and his father, too, and no one had taken care of him his whole life. He had to be selfish, or he'd have been dead a long time ago. And besides, he cared for Thorn more than he cared for himself, and that wasn't selfish at all. He'd give his life up for Thorn in an instant; that was selfless wasn't it? And hadn't he fought for the Varden even after they'd shunned him? Selfless! And hadn't he let Eragon go even though he knew he'd be punished for it? Selfless!

If he hadn't felt in his bones the truth of the Name Galbatorix had taught him, he might have doubted that it was even true. He might've thought the Language had made a mistake.

How could he show he was not a coward? How could he show he was selfless? How could he prove to the universe that he was not what he was? How could he change himself if he didn't understand his own Name?

His mood had not improved by the time he returned to his chambers.

When he received a summons the next day, the old fear settled back over him. But Galbatorix was calm as he stood in the treasury room–where he had been taking his meetings ever since he'd destroyed the map room–and ordered Murtagh out to see to Belatona's preliminary defenses. It was so benign, so unimportant, Murtagh kept expecting for the other shoe to drop, expecting for the King to reveal some nefarious plan, some punishment he had planned.

The trip to Belatona was so strangely uneventful, that the nervous fear kept at him until he and Thorn returned to the citadel, where they were sent out again, this time to fly to Tierm and see that the Governor there was ready to send ships down the coast if called upon. Murtagh began to wonder what game the King was playing.

In the brief interludes he saw Galbatorix, the King seemed almost gleeful, a satisfied spark in his eyes. He shouldn't have been so pleased, after losing his grasp on Eragon for the dozenth time, but he was, and Murtagh couldn't stand it.

Just give me my bloody punishment and have done with it, Murtagh thought with a growl as he stormed out of the treasury after returning from a third seemingly innocuous mission.

"The people need to see you," Galbatorix had said, in an almost jolly mood, "Need to fear you."

If this was the King's intent, he was achieving it marvelously. Murtagh was wound tight with anxiety, taut like a bowstring ready to snap, and every governor, lieutenant and underling he interacted with felt it. He left them stuttering and sweating after every conversation, and anyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way learned never to do it again.

Murtagh and Thorn made themselves known throughout the Kingdom, descending upon town after town to rally the King's forces into readiness. Their message was consistent: the Varden were coming, and the King demanded their loyalty.

Murtagh's constant anxiety was at its peak one day when he was in his chambers, surrounded by the battalion of servants that often descended upon him at unawares.

One of the armorer's assistants was measuring him for a new chainmail shirt, and Demelza was busy changing the linens, and another servant was replacing the burned-out candles in the room, and yet a third was dusting everything from the ceiling down.

The man who'd replaced Falner as Chief Attendant was rattling off a list of the people Murtagh was meant to meet with the next day, and Thorn was chewing on a leg of lamb, and everything in the room suddenly felt loud and overwhelming. Murtagh's shoulders were hunched and his hands were clenched, and he could hear the scratching of the woman's duster on the surface of the nightstand table and the crunch of bones in Thorn's mouth and he felt like he was dragging his nails over a piece of shale.

Suddenly the man taking his measurements placed a hand on the back of Murtagh's neck, and he snapped.

"Get your bloody hands off me!" Murtagh shouted, smacking the man's arm away and shooting out of his chair as the armorer stumbled back, white-faced.

"Touch me again and I'll kill you!" He yelled, hearing a frightened squeak from one of the other servants as the man cowered.

"M–m–my apologies my lord I was only–"

"I don't want your blasted apologies! Get out! All of you get out! Now!"

Thorn's head shot up, his lamb leg forgotten, and instantly the servants scrambled to leave, tripping over themselves in their hurry. Murtagh stood, clenching and unclenching his fists as his chest heaved and the blinding anger whirled.

When the last servant slammed the door closed, Murtagh swallowed, blinking away his sudden fury, and finding his hands trembling.

He heard a step, and turned back to see Demelza, standing calmly by the bed, linens still in her arms.

His brow furrowed with a mix of anger and shame, but her expression was inscrutable.

A few long seconds more he breathed, coming down quickly after the outburst. He felt a thread of questioning thought from Thorn.

"I'm sorry," He muttered to Demelza, leaning over and picking up the duster that one of the servants had dropped.

"S'alright, sir," She returned softly. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to calm the hammering of his heart.

I do not believe the clothes-making man was attempting to harm you, Thorn pointed out, a little confused. Murtagh closed his eyes for a second.

I know.

"Perhaps some tea?" Demelza's voice came through softly as she carried the old linens to her usual basket.

Now the moment had passed, Murtagh felt embarrassed for his outburst. The servants were only doing their jobs, the poor armorer's assistant was only taking measurements. No one in that room was dangerous–except him.

"I'm sorry," He said again, this time looking Demelza in the face.

She nodded and gave him a soft smile.

"I wasn't afraid," She assured. The girl seemed unflappable, and Murtagh wondered how she did it, what steel did she possess that gave her such strength? The Varden might have a chance if they had a thousand soldiers as even-keeled as her.

"Tea?" She asked again, her gaze steady.

Demelza did not meet Murtagh's second outburst with the same easy calm as the first. It happened as he was walking from his chambers to the stables, and passed Demelza and one of the manservants in the stone hallway.

Both the servants muttered,

"My lord," As they passed, and Murtagh nodded in Demelza's direction, but as he strolled by he sensed unease from her, and his ears pricked up.

He heard the young man by her side say something pleadingly, after Murtagh had passed.

"I'm sorry, Arian, I sincerely do not," Demelza murmured, but the man did not seem satisfied with her answer.

"You're just sayin' that; I know what I seen–come on, just give us a chance, eh?"

Murtagh's brisk footsteps slowed and he stretched out his thought behind him to touch the man's mind. Instantly he felt the sickening pull of the man's desire, and he whirled.

"Ain't I nice enough?" The man was saying, and placing a hand on Demelza's waist as she shirked away.

"Please, Arian–"

Murtagh's vision went red, and he held out a hand and barked,

"Jierda!"

Instantly the young man flung backwards and slid onto the stone floor, grunting as the air was knocked from him.

"Sir–" Demelza started, but he was already charging past her as the young man looked up in fear.

"My lo–"

Murtagh swung a kick at the man's face, and blood splattered the stones.

"Sir, please!" Demelza's voice echoed, but Murtagh was deaf to it. He straddled Arian and landed two punches as the young man spluttered and raised feeble hands to defend himself.

"You slick–slimy–bastard–!" Murtagh shouted, landing a punch with each word. The man wheezed and coughed.

"I'll bloody kill you!" Murtagh screamed in his face, grabbing him by his tunic and slamming him back down again.

"You touch her, I'll kill you!"

"Murtagh!" Demelza's voice cut into his blind rage–his name from her mouth, jarring him out of his fury.

He held the whimpering man's shirt in his fists, death-magic dancing on his tongue.

"Murtagh, I'm fine," She said, more softly. His chest was heaving, but he turned to look at her, and he saw anger marring her delicate features.

He looked back at Arian, whose chin was dripping blood and whose eye was half-shut. Then he let go of the shirt, and the man fell back to the floor with a grunt.

Murtagh leaned in, with a soft voice that cut like steel, and he said,

"You're going to speak with the Chief Attendant, and have yourself reassigned," He hissed, "You're going to ask to be put to work on the gutters. If I see you in this castle again, you're a dead man. Understand?"

With a pained groan, Arian nodded, his chin dribbling drool and blood, his whole body shaking.

Murtagh pushed himself to standing, and glared down at the man, still tempted to kill him. He breathed, and straightened his shoulders. Then he stepped off and said,

"Get up. Get out of here."

Arian tried to rise, wincing in pain.

"Get up!" Murtagh screamed at him, and he lurched forward faster, scrambling up and shuffling down the hallway as he limped and swayed.

Murtagh watched him go with clenched fists, and once the man's coughs had disappeared around the next corner, he turned to Demelza.

"Are you alright?" He asked, his voice low.

Demelza's shoulders were squared, and her expression stiff.

"I did not require your intervention, sir," She said coolly, her bright eyes snapping. Murtagh frowned.

"He was hurting you," He insisted.

"He was bothering me," Demelza corrected, her usual demure attitude somewhat sharpened. "Arian is a minor nuisance which I am more than capable of dealing with. I didn't need you sending him to gutter duty…" Her eyes flicked to the blood splatter on the floor, "...or the infirmary."me

Murtagh felt like he wasn't processing her words correctly. What on earth was she saying? That he should've let the man accost her? Watch him make advances that she clearly wasn't reciprocating and just say nothing?

Anger clenched his heart. How dare she. He was trying to help her and this cold dismissal was the thanks he got for it?

"Whatever," Murtagh muttered, hunching his shoulders irritably, "Next time I won't help you then."

He pushed past Demelza and started down the hallway, bitter and confused.

"If you truly wish to be of help–" Demelza's voice stopped him, and he turned. Her chin was straight and her posture unrelenting, but her voice, when it came, was not so hard.

"I have been trying to get a letter to my betrothed, in Tirendal," She said, pulling a piece of parchment out of her pocket, "The castle letterman won't accept it–and I'm not allowed to go outside the bounds of the castle to see the city letterman."

Murtagh frowned.

"Perhaps… you could send it on my behalf?" She asked, her expression pleading. Murtagh wondered if she had been planning to request this of him, before he'd lost his temper on Arian.

Demelza held the letter between them with a tremble in her hand. She suddenly looked very fragile and unsure. Murtagh could see how it pained her, not being able to speak with her betrothed, not being able to let him know how she was faring, especially in a time of war when things were so uncertain.

His previous anger melted.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know who else to ask," She said, as he took the letter and stared down at it.

Murtagh bit his lip, unable to quite meet her gaze. He supposed he had overreacted a bit. Arian was a weasel, but he knew Demelza more than capable of holding her own, and if she said she had it well in hand, oughtn't he to trust her?

"I'll do my best," He murmured. Then he turned and took his echoing steps down the hallway, tucking the letter in his pocket.

"I don't get it," Murtagh muttered later that night as he and Thorn were flying above Uru'baen, enjoying the crisp air of a clear evening as the stars twinkled to life one by one, "He was bothering her, and I stopped him and she's angry with me? Doesn't make any sense."

Did she ask for your help with the man?

"N-no…" Murtagh said, "But clearly he–"

Clearly, you only saw one interaction between the two, hmm? A person who only sees trees in the autumn may claim that all leaves are orange.

Murtagh scoffed. Thorn was getting more eloquent with his metaphors lately, and it was exhausting.

"I was just trying to help her."

But what if you have harmed her by accident? Thorn asked, tipping his weight so they slid to the left on a gentle current,

Surely the other servants will hear about the man's wounds; they may find out why he was injured and by whom, and how do you think they will treat her when they know? They may be frightened even to talk to her, knowing you are looming like a hawk ready to strike at the slightest misstep. She may be… ostracized.

Thorn wriggled a bit, seeming pleased with himself for having recently learned a new word and having finally found an excuse to use it, but Murtagh was too taken aback to congratulate him on his expanding vocabulary.

He hadn't thought of it like that. Even if Arian was a nuisance, even if his thoughts were lustful and improper, it could be that Demelza would choose to endure his advances rather than be shunned by her cohorts. Murtagh hadn't thought of what his protection might do to the friendships she'd made among the castle servants.

He grimaced, berating himself.

Stupid, you should've thought of that. Useless idiot, can't even help–

I find it unnecessary for you to talk to yourself in such a way, Thorn chided, interrupting his self-flagellation, I don't appreciate you speaking ill of my partner.

Murtagh sensed a smile coming through Thorn's thought, but he took the message, and stopped his tirade.

Thorn flapped his wings once, to gain a little altitude, and the breeze felt cool on Murtagh's cheeks.

In any case, you now have a great chance to be of help to her, Thorn carried on, Send this letter for her, that her beloved may know how she fares. I'm sure that will make up for any ill consequences she might suffer because of this incident.

Murtagh winced, touching his chest-pocket, where the letter sat. He hadn't quite figured out how to send it.

He knew he could, technically. His oaths stopped him from sending messages to the enemy, but a letter between lovers? No one could argue that that was spywork; the magic left him free to act in this case. He was afraid, though, of word getting back to the King. He needed to find a way to send Demelza's letter without anyone noticing or caring. He needed someone in the city who could send the letter but was not inclined to report to the King, someone that he could use as a courier.

I'm going to see about getting a visit with Lord Barrow, Murtagh said after a moment, He seemed friendly enough. Perhaps I can enlist his help.

See that you do it quickly, Thorn offered, sniffing the night air and looking to the North,

The Elves are marching on Gil'ead, and I sense it will not be long before the King sends us out to meet them.