Randomcat23: I like thick plots, although they can be a little confusing to get a hold of :)
Oblivion Blade: I personally like Salem…you really think so? I'll make her less idiot-y, then.
Emerald Tiara: S'okay. Keep on reviewing!
Gewher: I love Murtagh too, and I hope we see a LOT of him in the third book.
Zero the fallen: ARGH! Are you SURE? Seven months really will screw me up. How do you know? Are you positive about this?
Mistress-of-Misery: Yes! That was the idea I was trying to get. Thx!
Mrs Pierre Bouvier: That was a cliffhanger? Well, I guess so. Hmm.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
4/2/101
There was an uncomfortable pause as they watched Salem vanish into the distance. Finally, Thorn snapped, Well? Say something!
Murtagh kept silent, one hand on Thorn's side. He waited patiently for Thorn's restraint to break. It didn't take long.
Fine, the dragon snarled. If you won't say anything, I will. I know what you're thinking, anyhow. You think I'm being stupid, irrational, and acting my five months. You think that I'm an ungrateful brat, don't you? The words were bitter accusations, pent-up fury released in a single tirade. You think that maybe Salem's right, and I should go apologize, because whatever she does is right. She was right to tell some random soldier something, who by the way is her brother. Hah! Yeah, right! What a coincidence; he's her brother and I'm a rabbit. No way her brother's guarding the gate the same time we try to go through. But you know what? I don't care what you think of me. I—Thorn continued in this vein for a while, twitching furiously with frustration and anger but not moving from his spot. Murtagh listened thoughtfully, eyes gazing at the point where Salem had disappeared into a blur.
It took about twenty minutes before Thorn finally cooled. He simmered slightly, snorting occasionally with annoyance. Finally, Murtagh spoke. Are you done?
Thorn growled sullenly, digging his claws into the dirt. I guess, he said, sounding grumpy.
Good. Murtagh sighed and slid down to sit heavily on the floor. While his leg wasn't bleeding or hurting anymore, it was still weak enough that he didn't want to stand on it for too long. I'm not blaming you, Thorn.
Yeah, right. The dragon's tone was cynical.
Why would I lie? Murtagh cocked his head, gazing up at Thorn. Thorn, we're practically joined at the waist, and that's a good thing. I've never had anyone as close to me as you are, and no matter what, I will be grateful that you hatched for me. He swallowed, then continued, feeling hot and uncomfortable. No matter what.
Thorn sighed. Well, I am sorry, he said gruffly. I just don't like Salem, that's all.
All right, Murtagh said quietly. You can have your feelings.
Eh, Thorn grunted. That's a relief. He lay down, head resting glumly on the dirt floor. I'm glad I hatched for you too, he said as an afterthought. Really. Not sarcastic. Even though we're trapped with Galbatorix and company… Red eyes flicked to Murtagh, and a giant leathery wing draped around him. I'm glad you're here, he said in a rush.
Murtagh smiled and wearily rest his head against Thorn's side. They sat that way for a while, watching the setting sun drop into darkness. Then, suddenly, Thorn jumped up. Oh, my! he yelped. Martaila!
Martaila? It took Murtagh a few minutes to remember the name. Martaila…the woman in the woods?
No, she's Shruikan's mate, Thorn said mockingly before snapping, no dip, genius! Martaila and Neal and that wussy maid—ah, we were supposed to go there! That was the whole point!
We can still go, Murtagh said reasonably. Just because it's dark doesn't mean we're lost forever.
Yeah, I guess, Thorn said, though he still sounded worried. Let's go let's go let's go—Thorn wriggled impatiently as Murtagh clambered painstakingly on, careful of his bad leg. Come on hurry up let's GO!
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Martaila sa DeVann was forty-five years old and had lived every single year of her life according to her motto—work with it. It had served her well over the numerous years as the things she had to work with grew fewer and fewer. An alcoholic father and a wastefully splendid mother had reduced the DeVann fortune and estates to a pitiful house with a single maid. Heavy taxes did not help, either. But Martaila did not spend time mourning—she was the sole remainder of the DeVann line, and if anyone were to clean the mess up, it would be her.
Or so she thought.
It was a terrible rainy day when a ragged old man appeared on her doorstep carrying a child. Martaila answered the door, and when he begged for shelter, acquiesced. He had stepped into her doorway carrying the babe, then inquired quite calmly if his sister was still alive.
She, of course, had had absolutely no idea who he was talking about. It wasn't until much later after a hasty dinner and four cups of tea that she fully understood. The old man was Brom se DeVann, sister to Shalia sa DeVann, and he was her uncle. Martaila, a sensible woman, had demanded proof.
They brought out the Varden Kvaehí DeVann, or the family chronicles that dated each DeVann and the fortune that had been cast for them at birth. Brom had shown her his. It was cryptic, as all the fortunes were, a strange mix of the ancient language and runes, but confirmed his story at least a little:
Brom se
Ageless oér
1 Five ue three
Finiarel, new birth regrowth
D R A Y AWyrd foriel
Cloudmate sheer wrown, shine ilian slytha
Praise fall risa
Martaila wasn't fully convinced, but if the Varden Kvaehí DeVann stated his name, he was at least a DeVann. He told her many things that night, some of which she wished he had not. Yet, Martaila also got the feeling he was holding back much more than he told. She held her peace and listened, waiting for the catch. After all, missing uncles didn't pop up on your doorstep to say hello.
It had come soon enough. She still remembered that night, even though it was fourteen and some years ago. He had looked up at her, face calm and solemn. "I need you to raise him," he said quietly, brushing the child's dark locks. "I need you to take care of him."
She'd agreed. Reluctantly, but she agreed. Brom had departed early the next morning after swearing the maid to secrecy. She never saw him again, and it was only the day after his departure when she realized she didn't know who the mother was. Nor did she have a name for the child. After some hesitation and frantic flipping through the Varden Kvaehí DeVann, she named him Neal after an abbreviated version of her several-times-great-grandfather, Nealvin al Coranc se DeVann (this was in the days when the DeVann house was at its full glory and long names were fashionable). Then, she carefully clipped out the page containing Brom's name and burned it.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
A shriek from outside jolted Martaila from her reminiscing. Neal popped his head into the cave, his face ghostly in the dying light. "Dragon and man," he said cheerfully. "Reya's having a fit, I can't convince her it's just Thorn." With that, he popped back out.
With a scowl, Martaila clambered out of the cave, swiping a torch on her way out and holding it up to show a red dragon landing. On its back she could vaguely make out the figure of a man.
Thorn landed delicately on the ground, a breeze wafting gently as he did so. "Reya," Martaila said tiredly as the maid dropped to the ground, still keening. "It's all right."
I don't bite, the dragon added in a burst of rhyme. At least, not humans, anyhow. He bent his head to sniff Reya and snorted. The maid looked up at him, uttered a small whimper, and fled into the cave.
"Well? What do you want?" Martaila snapped bad-temperedly after watching Reya vanish into the shadows. "Who is he?" she demanded, jabbing a finger at the figure.
The man slid down Thorn's back with a bit of trouble, stumbling and wavering as he touched the ground. 'He' would be my Rider, Murtagh. That's Martaila sa DeVann. The maid was Rahrah or something like that. And that's Neal. There, introductions.
"It's Reya," Martaila reminded him for the umpteenth time. "And I'd thank you to call her that. Reya, not Rahrah or Renni or anything else." She eyed the Rider skeptically. "Well."
The Rider drew nearer, his face coming into view. He was perhaps twenty five or so, his eyes the sharp, wary ones of a warrior. There was a sword at his side, rough hand-and-a-half and finely made. Also finely used, she observed. He was limping, and his breeches showed a slit that was stained with blood. Yet there was no wound. Martaila frowned slightly, cocking her head.
I think she's displeased with your appearance, Thorn said dryly. What's up, Marta?
"Martaila," she said distractedly, still frowning. She looked at Murtagh. "You're not loyal to the king." It wasn't a question.
He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe," he said. "Obviously, neither are you."
She gave him a cursory nod, bringing the torch up higher. "Thorn had told me that you can be trusted," she said, hazel eyes cool and direct. "Of course, I don't know if I trust Thorn either, but I have no choice." Martaila sighed. "Neal?"
The boy appeared at her side, gazing curiously at Murtagh. "Yes?"
"Where's Reya?"
He grinned slightly. "In the cave. She's crossing herself frantically and muttering prayers to Orcane (A/N: Orcane's a god, by the way, a god that Reya worships). It's kind of funny, actually, but I don't think bringing him in would be the best idea. Reya'd go nuts."
Martaila sighed tiredly. "Then we shall have to do it here," she said finally. Martaila handed the torch to Neal, who took it with a puzzled expression. "There are things that must be explained, things that cannot be hidden for much longer. Neal, I owe you an explanation. You—" Martaila hesitated, looking at the Rider. "I have no choice whether to trust you or not. We cannot hide out here forever, and already events have been set into motion that cannot be undone. There is something you must do for us…I will ask it of you later."
"I understand," the Rider said quietly.
Martaila nodded. "Atra nosu waíse vardo fra eld hórnya!" she declared powerfully, and began.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
End of Chapter Fifteen
I won't tell you what Martaila tells them that night. That's for later in the story, so keep hanging off the edge of your seats. Salem will come back, though, within the next two or three chapters if I can handle it.
Besides, Martaila does keep back quite a lot in the narration she gives to Thorn, Neal, and Murtagh—some things are for Neal alone. Not that you can tell :)
Short chapter…next one will be short, too. I've got it all typed up and ready—that's how I know. Next week, then:)