CHAPTER TWENTY ONE: PLANS
A disturbance in the lower city called Murtagh out of his bed early the next morning–the wall guards had sounded some kind of alarm. For just a fleeting moment Murtagh wondered if Eragon had arrived to rescue Nasuada, and he was filled with hope.
But it wasn't Eragon.
It was cats.
"What?" Murtagh held Zar'roc's pommel and glowered at a bloodied soldier who sat slumped against the guardhouse wall, holding a cloth to his head, his tunic torn and his neck covered in claw marks.
"S–sir, we–well, there was an attack… one of the men thought… sir, it really is–"
"How many were there?"
"Sir?"
"The cats. How many."
"Uh… at least twenty, but–"
"They escaped?"
"Well… they're cats, sir…"
"And yet you're nearly fainting from your wounds," Murtagh spat, annoyed at the man's denseness.
"Where did the cats go?"
"Well, two of my men were chasing after a group, and they had them cornered, but when they came into sight… poof, they were gone." The man was wide-eyed and his voice moved quickly.
"Gone?"
"Yeah, just a couple street urchins in the alleyway, no sign of em."
"Street urchins." Murtagh repeated, his annoyance growing.
"Kids, I dunno. They said it was just a bunch of–"
"They're werecats, you idiot," He spat, "Those kids gave you that scar."
The guardsman's face seemed to fluctuate between fear that Murtagh was going to kill him, and absolute bewilderment.
After that, Murtagh spent the better part of the morning chasing down what seemed to be a rogue band of Werecat-spies that had been sent ahead of the Varden army.
The King had told him to "deal with the disturbance", and he did, but he didn't kill the werecats, and he didn't capture them. He had sworn no oath to the King and felt no desire to do so, but he made sure they scampered over the city walls and fled into the fields.
He met with real trouble only once. He'd frozen one of the large cats with magic, and was about to grab it by the scruff and haul it to the edge of the city, when seven of them jumped down on him from a nearby roof. If he hadn't been so annoyed about being kept from Nasuada, he might've found it comical.
They scratched and bit and tore at his sleeves, but he allowed their attack to last only seconds, before blasting them away with a single spell and sending them scampering back over the nearest roof.
No doubt they had been dispatched as scouts ahead of the army–to report on the city's defenses and to try and find out where Nasuada was being held. He wished he could help them, wished he could open the citadel doors for them and usher them in to rescue their captured leader. But that his oaths would not allow.
After escaping the surprise attack, he soon found one of them in an alley, in human form–a crouched girl with a shock of yellow hair and razor sharp teeth, a dagger in both hands.
He'd managed to bind her with magic, but then he stood for a second in the alleyway, catching his breath, watching the creature blink at him. He was torn between anger and amusement, his arms bloodied from dozens of scratches, his clothes dusty, but his mind working.
The Werecat woman glared at him and snarled, and Murtagh almost snarled back. Nasuada's words from their last meeting were echoing in his mind–her fierce charge to him, her challenge that he ought to fight. He'd felt so helpless for so long that he'd all but given up fighting. But her words had carved deeply into him, and she was right.
He didn't want to spend the rest of his life feeling helpless and miserable, and though his rebellions against the King had cost him much, they were like anchors to him. The fact that he'd not turned in the spy, Garren, the fact that he'd let Eragon stay free, the fact that, even now, he was aiding Nasuada in her fight against the King's torment–these things all made him feel human, made him feel real, like he wasn't just a puppet, like he stil had a mind of his own.
Now he stared at the Werecat, his mind racing, trying to see how he could help Nasuada, how he could use this situation to his benefit. He couldn't tell the Werecats that Nasuada was alive, or where she was being held, or anything else that might help the Varden. His oaths prevented him from sending messages to the King's enemies.
But if they happen to discover it for themselves…
Murtagh squinted at the Werecat, an idea forming in his mind.
He took a moment to compose his plan, then, with a deep breath, he attacked her with a mental probe.
The backlash was sudden and astonishingly powerful, and Murtagh stumbled back in the dark alleyway.
Her retaliation, however, was part of his plan, and as the Werecat's mind battered itself against him, Murtagh began to recite a line of verse–not the one his mother had taught him, but one of his own making:
Lady Nightstalker lies in the Soothsayer's Hall
She breathes still, but suffers greatly.
Rescue her before the city's fall,
Distract the King and Dragon quickly.
He felt the werecat woman battering against him angrily, and continued reciting the lines of his new poem, fighting her off only barely, hoping she would hear the words and take their meaning.
It wasn't much–he certainly didn't have a plan on how the Varden were supposed to help Nasuada–but if they knew she was alive and in the city, that was a start; one of the Elves among them had to know what the Hall of the Soothsayer was.
They would have to keep Galbatorix distracted, he knew, in order to have a shot at it. And they would have to rescue her before the assault on the city began. Murtagh had the sinking feeling that Galbatorix would kill Nasuada, if he grew bored of trying to convince her. It wasn't like with him and Eragon–who, because of their dragons, were irreplaceable. Nasuada's life was at the mercy of King's moods, and Murtagh knew from experience how quickly they could change. The Varden had to get her out soon.
As he recited the lines, he felt the fringes of his oaths tugging at him–as though he were dancing along the razor edge of betraying them, one false word and his voice would be stopped. But he was able to continue his verse as he defended his mind from attack.
After a long moment, he felt the angry Werecat's presence retreat abruptly, and he opened his eyes. The girl was staring at him strangely now, her bulbous eyes deep and farseeing. He did not blink away.
With an uttered word, he released the binding spell on her, and they stood facing each other for a long minute more. The girl straightened, flashed her teeth at him in something between a growl and a smile, and then quickly whirled away, clambering up the nearest wall and disappearing over the next rooftop.
Murtagh followed her with his gaze, wondering if his effort would be any help.
Small rebellions, He thought, and he turned back to the street.
Nasuada was relentless.
Murtagh had hoped that their last conversation would've driven home to her the futility of trying any dangerous attempts at escape. But apparently his words had not hit their target.
He returned from his wrangling of the Werecats to find Demelza waiting with a summons for him,
"The other servants are saying a prisoner killed some guards–tried to escape," Demelza offered, her tone worried, as Murtagh quickly scanned the summons. He felt a twist of fear for Nasuada, knowing the wrath she had just brought down on herself. She'd killed her jailer and two guards with a sharpened spoon, before being cornered in one of the hallways–exactly what he said would happen.
Murtagh had to give her points for ingenuity, but as he hurried back towards the Hall of the Soothsayer, he knew that she would pay for her insolence.
"Ah, thank you," Galbatorix said to a pale-faced castle attendant, who hurried up and handed him a small wooden box. Murtagh frowned.
"I thought we'd try a different approach to our persuasion today," Galbatorix said with a soft smile, lifting the lid to the box. Murtagh couldn't resist looking in, and the sight nearly made him gag.
It was some kind of bug–some huge maggot, and it was squeaking in a horrible, squelching way.
"...since our guest is proving…obstinate." Galbatorix admired the creature for a long moment, and Murtagh felt a sick plunge in his stomach as the King tucked the maggot away and headed for Nasuada's cell.
He hurried after with feet like lead, not knowing what the maggot-like thing was meant to do, but remebering the red bugs crawling down his throat, chewing on his insides.
He tried to keep his expression calm when he walked into the Hall of the Soothsayer and stood against the wall; for Nasuada's sake he tried not to look too worried, but he could tell she knew something was coming–something bad.
It was so much worse than he could have imagined.
King Galbatorix placed the plump maggot on Nasuada's skin, and Murtagh fought the urge to shout Brisingr! And incinerate the thing.
Don't make it worse, He told himself, Your wards will protect her. She can get through it.
But his wards did not protect her. Stupid failure that he was, they didn't stop the pain from the burrow grub at all. Whatever the thing was, wherever Galbatorix had dug it up from, it was outside of Murtagh's magic.
He gripped his hands together until he felt like he might break his own fingers, as she screamed and writhed in pain, and blubbered and cried out for mercy. It felt like someone was twisting a knife in his gut, like someone had taken hold of his spine and was shaking him.
He came close to throwing up, he came close to passing out, but he knew he had to stay awake for her. Eventually the sound of her screams grew weak and breathless, and then, to Murtagh's horror, there was silence.
He looked up, having clenched his arms together and stared at the floor for the past five minutes. The only sound in the chamber was the revolting, faint skree skree of the creatures that were burrowing in Nasuada's skin. Her body was still.
Murtagh's heart stopped, and without thinking he lurched forward.
"Wait–" Galbatorix interrupted dully with a slight raise of his hand. Murtagh's heart was pounding.
"She's going to–"
"–wait," Galbatorix repeated.
Murtagh's feet were stuck to the floor, the command holding him fast.
But he paused only for a few seconds–Galbatorix hadn't specified how long he had to wait–before rushing forward and lifting his gedwey ignasia to her frantically. He would get those things out of her if it killed him.
Murtagh felt a sharp blast of magic as the King hurled him across the room. He slammed his head against the stone and sank to the floor on his hands and knees, his vision flickering.
"I said wait," The King's voice echoed menacingly.
Murtagh wheezed sharply, steadying himself with one hand against the cold wall.
But when he managed to lift his head, the King was standing over Nasuada, and he was murmuring a spell, and then he was holding the Burrow Grub between his fingers and placing it back in the box.
He turned to Murtagh darkly.
"I don't expect you would like to have another lesson in obedience," The King said with a voice like coal. Murtagh was blinking spots from his eyes.
"No, sir, I'm sorry, sir," He managed. He'd messed up, he shouldn't have done that, he shouldn't have reacted so strongly.
There was a stretch of quiet, as Murtagh knelt, his shoulders hard as he waited for the King to punish him. But when he risked a glance up, the King was regarding him with a bit of a smile.
"Would you like to have her?" Galbatorix asked then, and Murtagh squinted, confused.
"W—sir?"
"The girl," He gestured with his head to Nasuada on the slab. "Would you like to have her?"
Murtagh felt his throat tighten, he looked from the King, to Nasuada's unconscious form on the slab. This was some test. Some game.
"...she isn't mine to have," He said, forcing the words out.
"Aye. But she is mine. And if it should please me, I could give her to you."
Murtagh grimaced, hearing the King talk about Nasuada like she were a piece of property. Apparently this reaction was only confirmation for Galbatorix, whose low chuckle filled the room.
"Well, I suppose you're like your father in that way–you know how to choose the fiery ones."
Murtagh didn't have anything to say to this, so he remained silent, staring over at Nasuada, just hoping she would wake up.
"If you comport yourself well in the upcoming conflict," The King was continuing in his usual, superior voice, "Perhaps I will consider letting you have her. Would you like that?"
Murtagh's mind flipped through a dozen possibilities. No, of course. The answer was no. How dare the King. He wouldn't take Nasuada like she was a gift for Galbatorix to give. She wouldn't have him and and he wouldn't want her… not like that, anyway.
But in that moment it was dawning on him for the first time–or perhaps he was just allowing himself to see for the first time–just how much he did want her. How much he cared for her. Not in the same way he cared for Eragon, or Tornac, or Thorn… this was different, this was an energy between skin, a hitch of breath every time he touched her, an aching in his heart when he thought of her pain, a flood of relief when he looked into her eyes.
The King was perceptive, perhaps more perceptive than he had been of himself. Did he want her? It was a crude way to phrase it, but yes. He wanted to be near her, he wanted to know her, he wanted to hold her close, he wanted to be trusted by her, he wanted to be admired by her, he wanted… to be loved by her.
But could he ever, ever hope to be with her in that way? No. Of course not. That future–if it had ever existed–had been snuffed out the minute her father was killed and Murtagh taken captive. And what the King was offering now was not love–it was a transaction–Murtagh would have no part in that.
Nevertheless, if she was promised to him… if he was able to please the King enough to keep her alive…
"Yes, sir," He answered, swallowing through a lump in his throat, his eyes on the floor, "I would, sir."
That made Galbatorix smile more.
"Well. We'll see then, won't we."
He found his way back to her as soon as he could, stopping only to tell Thorn briefly what had happened, and frantically search through the castle library for some mention of how to heal the wounds that the disgusting creature had given Nasuada. None of the books and scrolls he searched seemed to know what it was, and he wasn't sure he would be able to do anything for Nasuada–his guarding magic had done nothing to prevent the pain the first place.
His cape brushed across the stone work as he pushed into the room, his brow furrowed.
She looked even worse.
Murtagh tried to control his expression–Nasuada was awake now, and looking at him, and he knew she would be scared. He was scared too–lines spanned her skin like cracks in stone, with bruises and blood spreading out from them.
She managed to give him a grimace that was meant to be a smile, but the gray pallor of her skin and her bloodshot eyes made the effort look more terrifying than comforting.
"Try not to move," He murmured, as he began to whisper every spell of healing he could think of. It worked, somewhat; he could feel Nasuada's shuddering lessen as the pain trickled away. But to heal her completely, without revealing his work to the King, he didn't know how.
"Your spell didn't stop the pain," She almost whispered when he had finished, and it felt like someone was squeezing around his heart.
"I'm sorry," He said, when she had painfully stood up after he undid her restraints. He held his hands out to catch her if she fell, but Nasuada closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself, shivering.
"Here."
He took off his cape and gave it to her, and she wrapped it around her scarred body. With wincing steps she shuffled over to the nearby wall, and Murtagh followed, making sure she would not stumble.
He joined her, his heart heavy with her hurt, trying to think of what to say to her, how to help her. His arms rested on his knees and his back was against the stone wall, and they were silent together for a long time, her labored breathing filling the quiet.
Then Murtagh heard her choke out a sob, and she began to cry. Her breath hitched, and he felt a heat in his own throat. He wanted to hold her, to touch her, to comfort her, but he wasn't sure if she would want that.
He remembered, though, the desperate desire to just feel a friendly touch, after so much pain. He remembered what it was like to hurt that much. He reached out one careful hand and touched her shoulder, and she winced.
Immediately he snatched his hand back and looked down at the floor.
Stupid, don't touch her, she hates you.
But then he felt Nasuada's trembling hand on his, and a chill ran up his arm. He grasped her palm and gave it a squeeze, watching her face as she cried. He couldn't stand it anymore, he had to help her, he had to hold her.
He put his arm around her, waiting for her to recoil, but she didn't.
Shuddering, she sank into his embrace and huddled against his chest, as her tears continued to fall.
Murtagh closed his eyes, and held back his own tears, holding her firmly, feeling like she might break apart in his arms and drift away. Her sobs echoed off the stone walls, and Murtagh's determination to save her solidified like ice in his veins. He couldn't let this be her life–he wouldn't. He would get her out of this place if it killed him.
"I'll find a way to free you, I swear," He whispered, his chin resting on her head, trying to feed her his warmth as she shivered.
"It's too late for Thorn and me," He managed, "But not for you. As long as you don't pledge fealty to Galbatorix, there's still–still a chance I can spirit you out of Uru'baen."
It hurt to speak these truths–he and Thorn had given up hope on themselves a long time ago, but to say it out loud was hard. Still, he knew if he had any chance of saving Nasuada, he would have to risk himself and Thorn. He'd already risked the King's wrath by helping her, but he was determined not to let fear of punishment stop him now.
I know you're not a coward, Murtagh.
He didn't know how, but he would do everything he could to prove her right.
He told her of Galbatorix's plans to disturb her mind–as he had done to Murtagh–and he asked for her permission to let his mind touch hers, so he could act as an anchor in the storm that was about to hit her.
The King could not fake the feeling of someone's mind–Murtagh had discovered that when he'd used images of Thorn to torment him–and he hoped he could help Nasuada in the same way.
When their minds touched, Murtagh felt an initial recoil, the instinct to protect herself kicking in. But then her mind calmed, and the heartbeats passed between them as he tried to stretch out his consciousness to hers, so she would know his touch when the King began playing his tricks.
Her mind was rich, and deep, and full of breath and life, humming like a great heartbeat, shimmering like the sun off a lake. Murtagh's eyes were closed, and their faces were inches apart, but their consciousnesses were pressed against each other.
He felt the desire to go deeper, to press in, to know more about her, to be enveloped in the folds of her mind, but he resisted the pull, and soon retreated from her.
When he opened his eyes, he couldn't believe how close he was to her, how her dark eyes shimmered in the torchlight, looking at him with something approaching affection.
He wanted to kiss her–he didn't.
"There now," He said instead, "Will you be able to recognize me if I reach out to you again?"
She nodded, her hand still clasping his. He promised to warn her before and after the King began his tricks, so she would be able to resist them.
"Thank you," She whispered, and he got the feeling that the words carried much more than they let on.
After that he told her what he knew about the King's plans–before he'd left, Galbatorix had said he would be conferring with Lord Barst on the defense of the city. What Murtagh was meant to do in the upcoming battle, he wasn't sure, but he was content for now to have a day where he knew the King would not be returning to hurt Nasuada further.
"Now I have a question for you," He said, "Why did you kill those men? You knew you wouldn't make it out of the citadel. Was it just to spite Galbatorix, as he said?"
He feared he'd said the wrong thing, when Nasuada sat up straight and broke his hold of her, but he didn't resist her movements, and placed his arms back in his lap.
Then she looked at him with an old spark of determination, and said,
"I couldn't just lie there and let him do whatever he wanted to me. I had to fight back; I had to show him that he hadn't broken me, and I wanted to hurt him however I could."
Murtagh felt a grim amusement bubbling up in him–by Angvar, he admired her.
"So it was spite."
"In part. What of it?"
Murtagh smiled, then, at her proud chin and her defensive tone. To still have such fight left in her–after what she'd endured–it gave him hope for her.
"Then I say well done," He concluded with a nod, and in return she granted him her own smile–not a grimace this time, but a proud, defiant smirk.
This small moment of levity was soon brought down, when Nasuada looked at him with a fathomless expression, and said the one thing he realized he'd been fearing to hear from her since the moment she was brought to Uru'baen:
"Murtagh, if it's not possible to free me from here, then I want your promise that you'll help me escape by… other means."
His lips tightened and he felt an angry flush on his neck.
"Whatever happens, I won't allow myself to become a plaything for Galbatorix to order about as he will."
Like you, Murtagh imagined she was thinking, and his hands clenched.
"I'll do anything at all to avoid that fate," She murmured softly, "Can you understand that?"
No, He wanted to spit. I won't do this for you. You can't ask it of me. To live as a slave without hope of freedom is bad enough–but to endure that life while having your blood on my hands…
But of course he did understand. His eyes fell on the thin, jagged scar that ran up his wrist. Before Thorn had come along, he'd tried the same thing–to keep his freedom the only way he knew how. To spite the King.
He nodded once, short and terse.
"Then do I have your word?" She asked, and he grimaced. She wouldn't let him go on half a promise. She would make him do this.
His chin trembled. How could she ask this of him? Didn't she know? Didn't she know it would break all the pieces in him that weren't already broken? Didn't she know he–he loved her?
If you really love her, A voice said to him, Then you'll do whatever it takes to help her. Unless she was wrong about you–and you really are a coward.
"You do," He said heavily. And she touched his hand again.
After that they sat together for a long time–longer, perhaps than was wise, and though Murtagh was caught in a swirl of terrible thought, he tried to put on a brave front, for her sake.
They tried to talk about things of little importance–memories that could not be touched by the darkness wherein they now sat.
He loved to listen to her talk about her home in Surda, and the people she knew there, and the adventures she'd had growing up; before the Varden, before the war, before all this.
Her head was leaned back against the stone and she spoke with her eyes raised to the ceiling as though she were watching a canopy of stars on a clear night sky. And as she gazed at the stars, Murtagh gazed at her, filled with such a painful mix of fear and love and longing that he thought he might burst.
When at last he forced himself to leave, she stopped him with a word from her position on the block of stone.
"Murtagh," Her voice came from behind him, and he paused. She seemed to hesitate for moment, and then all she said was,
"Why?"
And he knew the meaning in her eyes. He understood the weight of the question as it left her lips. And the unfairness of it all felt like iron in his limbs–that he should have found her, only to be snatched away, and now to be reunited in the worst place and the worst situation imaginable.
Why help her? Why save her? Why risk himself for her? Because he had to. Because he was drawn to her like water to the sea, because she was for him the representation of everything good in the world, the hope for his lost soul, the bandage to his wounds. Why? He couldn't say it. He didn't deserve to say it to her, and she wouldn't want to hear it. This wasn't about him anymore. He knew his doom was sealed. He knew he had no future with her, but if he could ensure that she had a future at all, then that would be enough.
His eyes were glistening when he answered,
"You know why."
When he returned to his chambers, he was exhausted, but he also was buzzing with energy. He paced the room as he told Thorn of what had transpired, of the terrible promise Nasuada had forced him to make, and of his promise to help her.
It was rashly done, Thorn worried, But I agree with you. If we must do one thing before meeting our doom, then we must do this.
Murtagh looked at the dragon, whose red eyes sparked with determination. He didn't like the way Thorn talked of meeting a doom, but he understood. The Varden were mere days away, the conflict that had been simmering up to this point was about to come to a rolling boil, and soon their fates–and those of Eragon, Saphira, Nasuada, Roran, and the entire land of Alagaesia, would be sealed. If they could do one good thing before the world turned to ashes, they had to try.
Murtagh wondered if the strength of his feeling for Nasuada was beginning to leak over to Thorn through their connection. He had expected Thorn to chastise him, but the dragon seemed ready to fight as much as he.
The two of them paced the room, brainstorming, reckless with their plans to rebel against the King.
His oaths prevented him from doing several vital things:
Firstly, he could not pass messages to the King's enemies. He had managed to do something of the kind with the Werecat woman, but couldn't think of how to do that again.
Secondly, he could not leave Uru'baen without Galbatorix's permission–meaning he could not spirit Nasuada away before the battle began. Someone else would have to do it.
He could, as he had discovered, undo her shackles and let her walk about freely. He could also, he imagined, leave the cell door open as he left.
He could not, though, attack any of the King's guards and leave the path clear for her.
But is anything to stop you from luring the guards away at the opportune time? Thorn suggested. Murtagh thought, trying to sift through the magic bonds that held him. It was possible–if he did it correctly.
But someone had to help her, someone from the outside, someone had to sneak into Uru'baen, to hide her, and to get her out of the city before the King was aware.
Murtagh's list of allies was thin.
Demelza, He thought, She's kind enough, but I can't exactly ask her to risk her life…
Lord Barrow seems to be a trustworthy man, Thorn suggested as Murtagh paced.
Trustworthy enough to betray the King? Murtagh questioned. He thought the same of Barrow–kind, for a nobleman, and seemingly against the King's cruelty. But the man had a family to think of.
Still, though, an ally was an ally.
What about the spy? Thorn asked.
Garren? What about him?
Clearly he considers himself indebted to you.
Sure, but how would I even get a message to him, and besides he's in Tirenda–
Murtagh stopped, and his eyes fell to the wooden box underneath his bed–the gift from Garren, containing a fine goblet from Old Chestnut Goblet Makers.
Murtagh's heart started beating faster, an idea forming in his mind.
Suddenly he hurried over to a chest in the corner, where gold pieces had been given to him for his personal use–an exorbitant amount of money,
But is it enough?
Enough for what? Thorn asked, his head swinging around to Murtagh as he carried the box of gold over to the small table.
"I… I need… a piece of paper."
He rushed to the writing desk that sat in the corner, on which he'd done much of his practice and study of the ancient language.
With shaking hands, he dipped the quill in ink, and started to write.
He addressed this letter to no one. It was not a message, after all–he could not send messages. He simply wrote, as though it were a strange scrap of poetry that he was penning for himself. No hidden meaning. No destination.
This goblet does not meet my expectations. I've kindly returned it to you, and suggest in its place, a far better prize. If you go to the Old Chestnut, you may find that which your friends would deem worthy above all else–a treasure that was lost in the night. Your feline companions may know of what I speak. The prize will be ready in three day's time.
Was three days enough? Could she get the message there in time? No. It wasn't a message. No message. Just a silly scrap of verse. Meaningless.
Murtagh folded the paper with shaking hands, and hurried to snatch the the goblet box from under the bed. He rang the bell to call Demelza, and lifted the lid, looking at the inscription on the bottom.
With thanks, Old Chestnut Goblet Makers.
Would it be enough? Would she understand? He closed his eyes.
It will not work, Thorn worried, The Varden are too close.
"I have to do something!" Murtagh panted desperately. Then there was a knock at the door and Demelza said,
"Sir?"
Murtagh steadied himself, the piece of paper in his hand. He set the goblet down on the table and closed the lid.
"Come in," He said.
The red-haired woman entered and curtsied.
"What can I do for you?" She asked kindly, giving Thorn a smile.
Murtagh stood next to the table, his whole body tense, his hand on the chest of gold. He chose his words carefully, stiffly, dancing around the edge of his oaths, meeting Demelza's gaze as if he could send the message through his eyes.
"Demelza…" He stared, "You have to get out of the city. The Varden are coming."
His voice was dry, and he saw Demelza frown, possibly hurt from his cruel ignorance; she was trapped, she could not leave.
"I… I cannot–"
"There's gold in this chest," He interrupted, swallowing through his pounding heart. He placed a hand on the lid and opened it.
"I want you to have it. Pay off the men your father owes money to. Free yourself."
Demelza's eyes widened, but still there was a frown.
"Is it enough?" He breathed.
"Sir…"
"Is the gold enough? To pay your debt?"
"It–I—I mean, yes, but–"
"Good. I want you to have it."
"Sir, you can't–"
"I can, Demelza, and I am. I want you to take this gold… and pay off your debt, and be free."
His voice trembled at the word. Free. How he envied her this chance–the idea that a simple payment of gold would free her from her servanthood.
Control yourself, He chided, as he continued. Demelza was still shocked, and he needed her to understand this part. She had to understand.
"Demelza," He said, and her astonished eyes rose to him. "...your fiance, he lives in Tirendall, yes?"
Demelza nodded, her mouth half-open, her eyes blinking.
Murtagh swallowed, feeling every thump of his heart in his chest.
"...I…also know a man, in Tirendall," He said. He felt the fringes of magic pulling on him. What he wanted to say was: Take this letter to Garren at Old Chestnut Goblet Makers, tell him I'm going to get Nasuada out of the citadel, and he needs to meet her at the Old Chestnut Tavern with Eragon or some Elven spellcasters, to spirit her away from the city while I distract the King.
But he couldn't say that. He couldn't give any message. His lips were sealed. He had gone as far as his oaths would allow him to.
Instead, Murtagh lifted up the letter, in between two fingers.
He held it up for Demelza to see, meeting her confused gaze, and he placed it down slowly on the lid of the goblet box, never breaking eye contact with her.
He could not give her the letter directly. He could not tell her his plan directly. But he could try and get her to understand.
Please understand, He begged silently.
"Free yourself," He said aloud, "Regardless of what you choose to do…" He raised a significant eyebrow, "The gold is yours."
Demelza's shock still showed, but there was a suspicion to her look now–she could see what was happening, she could see that there was something he was not saying. Her eyes flicked from the goblet box, and the letter, and back to him.
"Are you certain, my lord?" She questioned with a whisper. He wondered what that meant, exactly–are you certain you want to give me this gold? Are you certain you can let me go? Are you certain you want to risk the wrath of the King?
"I am," Murtagh responded, and he stepped away from the table where the boxes sat.
She shuffled forward slowly, eyeing him, moving deliberately, tucking the letter into an apron pocket and lifting both boxes into her arms.
Murtagh nodded to her, and tried to give her an encouraging smile. He knew this was it. He knew he would never see her again. She would be free, and that was as it should be, and perhaps along the way she could help Nasuada.
If she wasn't able to get the message to Garren, his plan would fail, and Nasuada would be found, and both of them would be punished. But he had promised Nasuada that he would try, and this was the best he could do.
As Demelza went to leave, she stopped at the door, and she turned back, and her eyes were glistening. She looked at Murtagh with a face glowing with gratitude and sorrow; then she gave Thorn a melancholy smile.
"Thank you," She whispered, "Both of you."
Her chest rose and her chin quivered. Murtagh nodded, and Thorn nudged Demelza's shoulder with his snout.
"Thank you," They both said at the same time.
Then Demelza took a breath, and she slipped silently from his chambers, carrying Murtagh's hope with her.
The King returned from his council with Lord Barst and called Murtagh to join him in the Hall of the Soothsayer. As soon as their footsteps breached the hallway, Murtagh reached his mind out to Nasuada and said,
It's me. It's happening.
He felt the briefest acknowledgement, before he severed the connection and checked to see that the King hadn't noticed anything amiss.
Murtagh didn't know what she was seeing–he stood against the wall while the King sat with his eyes closed, creating phantom images to torment Nasuada with, to wheedle his way into her thoughts.
It wasn't as bad as the iron or the burrow grubs–Nasuada seemed to be asleep, lying there on the stone slab, her disheveled hair splayed out behind her, eyes closed in an almost peaceful way. But Murtagh worried for her sanity.
He didn't know how long the passing of time seemed to her, but for him it was only an hour or two, before the King gave up his meddlings for the night and stormed from the room angrily. Murtagh touched her mind to let her know it was alright to believe her senses again, before following after Galbatorix.
He visited her at night when he knew the King was occupied, and again they sat by the wall, and she held his hand.
"The Varden are close," He encouraged, though now their speed worried him. He had sent Demelza off to Tirendal, to hopefully get a message to Garren, but it would have to be quick if Garren was to make it back here in three days.
There was another part of his plan, too, that needed working out. He had to get Nasuada to The Old Chestnut, to meet whoever Garren would bring. But he couldn't be the one to lead her there. He had to distract Galbatorix to give her time to escape, and to keep him from noticing the wards that would be triggered when Nasuada left the Hall of the Soothsayer.
We will have to trigger another ward at the same time, Thorn had thought to him, To confuse him.
Like what?
Perhaps… an intruder in the treasury room… or in the hall of the Eldunari?
Murtagh had thought this over.
He had to undo Nasuada's shackles, and leave the door open for her, and get the guards away, and trigger a ward that would cover up Nasuada's escape, and lead her through the streets of Uru'baen to the tavern… all at the same time. He would need to be in four places at once.
His mind had begun to work, and he'd spent every spare moment in the library, researching. He thought back to the battle over Dras Leona–how it had appeared that Eragon was riding Saphira as they fought, while all the while he had been running amok underneath the city. One of the elves had been sitting in Eragon's place, with a mask of magic overtop him, but in theory, Murtagh thought he could produce an image of himself out of nothing, and let that vision draw the guards away. Technically he wouldn't be using magic against them…
As he sat with Nasuada, part of his mind was still on the plan. He promised her he had an idea, but he couldn't give her more detail–for one, it would be dangerous if she knew, and Galbatorix accidentally saw it in her mind–for another, he didn't want to give her false hope. His plan was growing more insane by the minute.
"I need another day or two to see if it will work," He breathed, "But there is a way, Nasuada. Take heart in that."
She gripped his hand more tightly then, and gave him a bolstering look of courage. The King had not broken her yet.
Murtagh stood in Lord Barrow's entry hall, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting as the man's footsteps echoed down the hallway.
He'd warned Nasuada that the King was going to begin his manipulations again, but this time Galbatorix had not asked him to join him, a fact with both relieved and disturbed Murtagh. He knew the King was growing frustrated with Nasuada… he knew her endurance might be pushing him beyond the limits of his patience, and he hoped the King hadn't changed his mind about keeping her alive.
But he focused himself on Lord Barrow, as the bald man approached with a smile.
"My lord Murtagh, good to see you again," Barrow said with a swift bow.
"Lord Barrow."
"I take it you and your dragon are well?"
"Yes, sir, thank you," Murtagh responded, his mind buzzing with energy.
He was about to take a great risk. Of his list of exactly three allies, Barrow was the one he was least sure of. The man was nice enough, but being nice and being willing to commit treason were two very different things.
No other option, Murtagh reminded himself. He would have to make the gamble.
"What is it I can do for you?" Barrow asked; Murtagh had appeared suddenly at his home about mid-day, unannounced, and asked his household manager to speak to him. He could tell Barrow was already suspicious.
"I've a request of you, my lord," Murtagh said coolly.
"Another letter for, uh… your servant?" Barrow offered with a bit of a cheeky smile.
"...something like that," Murtagh returned, swallowing. He now had to tread carefully around his oaths.
"I've… a friend… who would like to visit a tavern in the lower city, called The Old Chestnut. Only… her presence would attract far too much attention, if she were to walk herself down there. I was hoping you might be willing to lend her one of your carriages and drivers… to take her there, a day from now in the evening."
Barrow frowned, confused, but Murtagh put on a smile.
"I'd do it myself, but I'll be otherwise occupied."
Barrow's eyes were squinting, calculating, trying to see the meaning behind Murtagh's words.
"If you were able to help me in this… I would consider myself deeply in your debt."
Barrow raised an eyebrow. Murtagh was already in his debt, for Demelza's letter and for his assistance after Murtagh had been nearly choked to death by the King. The man was not dim, and could see that more was at play.
"This… friend of yours. Is she a friend of the King as well?"
Murtagh kept his face expressionless. He could lie to the man; he could make it seem like all of this was just some secret dalliance that Murtagh was orchestrating, not a treasonous plot. But it felt wrong, to rope him into something that could get him killed, if the King found out. Barrow was not one of the King's "enemies" technically–not yet, anyway. So Murtagh found that his oaths were not restricting him as much as with the Werecat, or with Garren.
"...let's say that they don't always see eye to eye," Murtagh answered, and he thought Lord Barrow understood.
The older man worked his jaw, and seemed uncertain.
"I ask you, Lord Barrow," Murtagh continued, hoping to stir the man to action, "Because I have seen in you a goodness that is rare among the elite of this city."
Barrow's expression was bracing, but not angered.
"...and because you once told me you hoped someone would help your son or your daughter… if they needed it."
Barrow's gaze was full of emotion.
"...my friend is in need, and she lost her father because I could not save him. I'm trying to honor him, by helping her."
Barrow said nothing. The two men stood across from each other, and Murtagh waited, to see if the risk he'd taken would pay off.
Barrow looked back into the hall, as though considering his family, and what he might bring down upon them by doing this. He didn't know the extent of what Murtagh was requesting, but clearly he could sense that it was a risk.
"...I have taught my children to act with honor, in all things," Barrow said, his voice low, "And to do what they know is right… no matter the risk."
He met Murtagh's eye.
"...I suppose I would be ashamed if I did not back up my words with action."
Murtagh felt a flood of relief.
"...you'll have your carriage."
"Thank–"
In the distance, Murtagh heard a horn blast echo through the walls. He and Lord barrow stopped.
Then another horn blast, and another.
Murtagh!
Thorn shouted in his mind, and Murtagh turned, his heart suddenly pounding. Lord Barrow had blanched.
"What is–"
The Varden, Thorn said, They're here.
Murtagh hurtled down the stonework hallway.
Blast it, blast it, damn them, idiots, blast it,
His feet pounded along the stone as he took the turns at a breakneck speed. Galbatorix had summoned him back to the citadel the moment the Varden army was spotted on the horizon, and every passing minute Murtagh's panic had grown, and he'd wanted more than anything to get back to Nasuada, to find a way to help her.
His plan was in shambles. The Varden were here, and the gates were closing, and no one was going to be let into the city. So even if Demelza got the message to Garren, and even if the Werecat woman had relayed his cryptic words, and even if they got here before the attack began, they would have no chance to meet Nasuada at The Old Chestnut.
He had tried for the rest of that whole day and night to extricate himself from the frantic city preparations, but the King kept him busy–it seemed almost intentional–and by the time he was flying down the corridors, it was pitch dark.
Murtagh's heart was hammering and he felt frantic. He had given up all pretense at subtlety–now all he could hope to manage would be smuggling Nasuada into the city, using the chaos as a cover.
If he could get her out of the citadel and find a place for her to hunker down, then maybe she could rejoin the Varden once they passed the city gates, maybe they could get her away before the King captured Eragon, maybe she could run far from here and hide in Surda, maybe the dwarves would be able to take in refugees, maybe, maybe, maybe…
Murtagh ran past the guards, knowing he would have to draw them away before he brought Nasuada back out, and he didn't hesitate even a moment when he came to the door of the Hall of the Soothsayer. The wooden door banged open and he hurtled himself down the stairs,
"We have to–" He stopped, panting.
The stone was bare.
Nasuada's shackles lay there, and the room was quiet, and the lantern's glow emanated to an empty room.
"No!" He shouted, looking around, as if he might find Nasuada in one of the shadows, as if she were hiding from him, as if this nightmare wasn't coming true.
"No! No! No!"
He drew Zar'roc and swung the sword down in a fury at the stone slab, screaming his frustration as he brought it down again and again, deep gouges carving themselves into the slab where he and Nasuada had suffered.
He took his rage out on the Hall of the Soothsayer. He blasted the room with magic, and fire, and he brought the ceiling tiles shattering down around him, and he destroyed the dwarven lantern and he charred the stone slab until it was black.
Then he sank to his knees on the stones, Zar'roc hanging from his hand limply, suddenly weak, swaying, his stomach clenching. He had failed her.
She can't be dead she can't be dead she can't be dead.
He breathed, trying to clear his mind, which was clogged with sudden despair.
No, she can't be dead, He tried to assure himself. The King wouldn't kill her–not now–not when he could still use her against the Varden, against Eragon. He had taken her somewhere. That was it. He had moved her somewhere, to be a part of his game.
But Murtagh had lost his chance to get her out. She would be under Galbatorix's watch now. And he could not help her escape. The only thing to do now, would be to win her life by pleasing the King. Galbatorix had offered Nasuada to him as a prize, if he did well enough in the battle. So that was what he would have to do.
Murtagh stood, his chest heaving, blinking back the angry tears that had fallen. He would save her, and if he had to take down Eragon to do it, so be it. His brother's fate was sealed, there was nothing he could do for him. But Nasuada's life hung in the balance, and he would not fail her again.