Coffee Grounds: Well, you can't really blame Murtagh for being a little rough, can you? After all, she did pull a knife on him…
Mrs Pierre Bouvier: My muses finally decided to return to me; they had pulled off a fake kidnapping so that they could get some vacation time in the Bahamas. growls And after all that worrying and sleepless nights I had!
Fallonaiya Sedai: Thanks! I worked pretty hard on this chapter too…tell me if it's convincing or not when you read it!
Mistress-of-Misery: Yep, and the day is officially done in this chapter! I just hope that 4/4/101 doesn't drag as this one does because I will go seriously nuts if I keep on spinning out the plot like that.
Gewher: Hmm? What's that you say? Your hints have magically sunk into my subconscious mind, because somehow this chapter has incorporated your ideas…
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4/3/101
Murtagh's hand automatically dropped to his sword, his heart pounding. The soldier smiled, cold and mocking. "You can come peacefully with us, or we will take you by force," he said, his hand dropping to his own sword. Behind him, the three soldiers he had called drew closer, their own weapons already out.
Murtagh gritted his teeth. "What merits a charge of treason?" he snapped.
"Attempted trespassing, wounding of a royal soldier without declarations of war, and a bounty on her—" the soldier stabbed a finger at Salem—"head. Will you come peacefully, or will we take you by force?"
"I don't have time for this!" Murtagh yelled, his temper truly snapping this time. "Can't you see—"
The soldier grinned, pulled his fist back, and punched Murtagh across the face. He fell to the floor, stunned, struggling to get back onto his feet. A swift kick to the head put him into muzzy unconsciousness.
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Sergeant Evyn Chandler let out a satisfied hiss of laughter, staring down at the fallen man. "That's for Brial," he said softly. With a sudden violence, he kicked again. The man groaned slightly, his eyelids fluttering.
"And that's for Timas."
He turned to the girl, who was staring at him with an appalled expression. "Would you like to go out the same way as he did, lass?" he inquired. "Or would you prefer to come peaceably?"
Her eyes widened. "I—I—"
"I'll take that as a yes," he told her quietly. Without taking her eyes off her, Chandler called, "Dyros?"
"Yes, sir," the soldier said from behind him.
"You, Risan, and Parson—please take our guests back to our headquarters, please. Lock them up very carefully." His eyes narrowed. "And inform the emperor when he returns."
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Salem's numbed brain was hearing the words as if from a distance as she watched the hardened soldiers narrow in on her, their weapons still at hand. She couldn't fight all of these—not three trained soldiers of the royal army. Murtagh couldn't help her and wouldn't even if he were conscious, and the crowd was already thinning, the fire dying down.
I can't, she though, panicked. I can't let them do this—I can't—
"No!"
The sound escaped from her as a mewl, a mere squeak. It was enough, however, to make one of them stop, a strangely sympathetic expression on his face. He turned back to the other man, the one who seemed to be in charge. They spoke quietly to each other, a soft debate going on. Finally, the soldier turned back to her.
"Sorry, lass," he said quietly, extending a hand to her. She stared at it, her mind blank. Trembling, she took it as if in a daze.
His hand flashed, smacking her smartly in the temples. She staggered, almost dropping. He hit her again, and she fell to the ground next to Murtagh, just as unconscious.
"There," Dyros said, kneeling down. "She's unconscious, sir."
"Yes." Chandler cleared his throat. "Take them to headquarters."
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I feel that something is appropriate here…something nice and distracting with flashy neon signs. Guess what! We are outta 4/3/101! Yee hah! All or most of the main characters are in prison, isn't that nice of me?
So…next time the font stops being all big and boldy, it will be 4/4/101. I think we should celebrate, don't you? Have some cookies, won't you? And punch. Nice sweet sugary fruit punch that rots your teeth. hands out cookies amd punch
Okay, now that the celebrations are done with…
BACK TO THE CHAPTER!
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4/4/101
Night fell down softly, a calm hush over the city. The curfew came and lamps were doused, and the midnight watch did their nightly rounds. It was quiet and peaceful in the city of Uru'baen.
Most of it, anyway.
There were scattered pockets of unrest in the city—in a lavish room, a man named Teleus Gerilson paced the lush carpet, sick with guilt at his own betrayal. Sweeping northwest, Connac Blackfire gazed restlessly out the window at the empty army barracks, still undressed after leading the midnight patrol, his mind on his sister. A couple miles away, in a sheltered cove, Martaila and Nealan DeVann slept, with Reya Karisdatir huddling unhappily behind them.
Moving deeper to the bowels of the city, in the dank areas where pain is commonplace, Henrides Miyan and Rina Onadatir slept uneasily in their filthy cell, chains binding them to the walls—guards stood outside, always watching. A weary young dragon also slept in the grip of his elder, his red flanks stained with blood and grime, whimpering faintly in his sleep for his Rider.
His Rider, unfortunately, had troubles of his own.
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Salem woke up with a start, a dull pain throbbing in her head. Her vision swam with dozens of tiny blinding dots as she sat up slowly, blinking. What…?
The dots faded away slowly, leaving her with a picture of her surroundings in the dim moonlight. Blanket. Hay bale. Dirt. Barred window. Sleeping man. Barred door. Bucket of—
Pause.
Her gaze slid back a few feet, back to the sleeping man part. Memory came back in a rush, along with a huge, overwhelming sense of anger.
She threw off the grubby blanket, noticing with faint relief that she was not chained. He was, however—a single heavy loop around his right ankle. Salem grinned with cold pleasure, also noting that he was weaponless.
She bent down and poked him in the ribs.
He grunted softly and twisted away. Salem's eyes narrowed, watching as he fumbled his way to a sitting position, holding his head gingerly. He didn't seem to see her as he rubbed his temples, fingering a bruise on his cheek with a pained expression on his face.
She cleared her throat, and his head snapped around, his eyes widening as he saw her. His mouth worked, and finally, he managed—"Oh."
"Yes. Oh." Salem crossed her arms, watching him intently. "Any other pearls of wisdom, o Intelligent One?"
He opened his mouth then shut it again. "You needn't be so bad-tempered," he said finally. "You knew I was going to take you to the emperor, and now I'm in the same situation as you are." He looked up, his eyes dark and grave. "Whatever happens to you will likely happen to me."
The lines around his mouth tightened, and he looked away.
Salem sighed, her anger leeching away. "Will you stop looking so—so damn pitiful? I want to be pissed at you. I want to yell and rant and bash your head in, and just as I'm getting all worked up, you turn those puppy eyes on me. Will you stop that!"
"I don't have puppy eyes," Murtagh commented in the silence that followed.
"No, you just have that little mournful expression that says, 'Oh, gods, I'm so sad and stoic and heroic, blah blah blah.'" Salem made a face. "See? Now I'm getting it again—"
"You must be seeing things," he said with a sigh.
"Am not," she retorted. "Look, what the hell happened back there? I thought you were oh-so-high-and-mighty in Galbatorix's lap. What was with all the—" she waved a hand vaguely, looking for the proper word. "The hostility? I would've thought they'd bow down and kiss your boots or something, instead of punching your face in." She nodded at the bruise on his cheek.
Murtagh shrugged slightly and didn't answer.
Salem made a face. "I could get better conversation out of a rock."
This time, he gave her a long, steady glare. "Why don't you shut up, Salem? Sometimes people don't want to talk, has that occurred to you? Sometimes people have better things to do that to listen to nonstop, idiot chatter."
"Oh?" she said sweetly. Too sweetly. "And what pressing things do you have to do, hmmm? Polishing your boots? Lighting a fire? Sawing through the window?"
Murtagh gritted his teeth. "No," he snapped tightly. "You might like try sitting and savoring the last night of peace that you'll get, Miss Blackfire. Once he gets something, he'll never let it go—" With an effort, he bit off the flow of words, forcing himself to gain a hold on his temper. Anger flooded the steadily growing fear, taking his mind off what he knew Galbatorix would do to him. In a strangled voice, he continued, "But this won't be real peace, either, because you'll just wonder and wait as a bag of nerves, dreading for it yet hoping that it'll be over…that it'll be over soon."
He bit his lip and closed his eyes. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and solemn. He chanced a quick look at her; in the dim moonlight, her expression was shadowy, cloaked. But his words had switched something on within her—fear. Not panic, not hysteria, not the kind of fear that triggers screaming fits and is over as soon as the crisis is over. It was the steady, dull ache that rang through one's bones, the kind of fear that never truly fades. The kind of fear that he knew well. Murtagh's fist clenched, and another emotion flooded him—guilt.
I shouldn't have told her, he thought wearily. Now we'll both end up insane.
When Salem spoke next, her voice was soft, almost gentle. "You speak with experience," she said quietly. "Aren't Riders esteemed? Mystical? Why would he hurt you, after all? You're his most loyal vassal…aren't you?" She glanced at him, her eyes shadowed. "The Forsworn were."
"Forget it," Murtagh muttered. "It's none of your business, anyhow."
She laughed quietly. "I guess not."
He heard the rustling of hay as she leaned back against the wall.
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Salem let out a lengthy sigh, closing her eyes. Well, she thought dully, I suppose the torture will start anytime now. Maybe they'll drag me out, and—what instruments would he use? The rack? The iron maiden? The—the—
Okay. Don't think about that. Salem wrenched her mind away from the images her mind presented her. Yes, of course—don't think about chains or blood or the whip or pain or any of that. Of course not. Think of something else…
She sat up, frowning. Finally, she asked slowly, "Murtagh?"
"What?"
"What…what does he want me for? Why am I so important?"
A sigh. "Haven't got a clue," was the brusque reply.
Salem groaned. "You're not much for conversation, are you?" she groused.
He gave her an exasperated look. "Why do you want to talk so much? Are all girls this way, or is it just you? Can't you leave a man in peace for once?"
"Oh, and you're a man?" she inquired wickedly. "And I'm a girl. Right. How old are you?"
He tried to hide it, but she saw a tiny grin quirk his mouth. "Twenty six," he said, propping himself up on his elbows. "What are you, twenty…twenty two? Twenty three?"
"Nineteen," she said gently in the voice usually reserved for the mentally ill. "I am nineteen years old. You look about my age, maybe one or two years older. I am not a girl, thank you very much, no more than you are a boy."
"I think the difference lies in the maturity level, Salem," he said just as gently. "You see, one makes the transition from 'girl' to 'woman' or 'boy' to 'man' when one is deemed to be sufficiently capable of existing in the real world."
"You should talk," she said dryly. "What with burning up two buildings and all and getting us thrown into jail."
He sighed, leaning back. "I didn't mean to burn up the buildings," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I was just looking for a distraction."
"Yes," she murmured. "And you got one."
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The uncomfortable silence fell again. Finally, Salem sat up and crawled over to him, sitting a few feet away. Murtagh watched her shadowy form, knowing what was going to come next—questions, most likely. Questions and questions until his ears fell off or worse. Questions until he punched her in the nose to shut her up.
There were none. He sat up, still waiting for the silence to break.
Salem looked away, then down. Finally, in a low voice, she said, "Are you scared?"
He smiled ruefully and looked down at his hands, twisting them slowly. "A little," he said slowly.
She let out a shaky sigh. "I am." These last words were spoken in a whisper, a broken sound. "I don't know what'll happen…I don't know what anything will happen. And…" she glanced at him quickly. "Why don't you freak out? Why aren't you frightened?"
"I said I was frightened," Murtagh pointed out lightly.
"You said a little. That's hardly the same thing."
"Would you like a gibbering breakdown? Tears, to add for effect?" he asked wryly. "Perhaps I can summon them up, but it's a waste of time and energy.'
She let out a small hiss of laughter, then looked up. "Nothing like that," she said quietly. "But it's good to know I'm in prison with somebody human. Not a statue or somebody who doesn't feel…a ruthless killing machine. But somebody real."
"I'm not," he protested. "Salem, you can't go jumping to assumptions like that based on what you've seen. I never had reason to appear human to you before, because you were a prisoner! And before that—"
"Before that your dragon cursed me from one side of Alagaesia to another, yes," she said, then paused. "Speaking of which, where is your dragon?"
Murtagh groaned, slumping. "I don't know," he muttered. "Galbatorix took him from me…gods know what he's suffering through. I can't even contact him anymore…"
Salem's touch startled him. It was like a butterfly, touching lightly and quickly, so fast that he wasn't even sure it was there. He glanced at her, frowning. She looked back at him quizzically.
"Did you…?"
"Did I what?" she asked, giving him an odd look.
"Never mind." Murtagh shook his head and glanced down at his arm, then to the moonlight filtering through the window. "Maybe I am…more than a little frightened," he conceded. "But, you know, Thorn's not too bad. You've just never seen his good side."
"Thorn?"
"Oh. Sorry. My dragon, his name is Thorn. He…" Murtagh played with the links of his chain, letting them clink slowly through his fingers. "One day, if there is a one day, you two need to seriously get acquainted. I'm sure you'd like each other."
"That's been tried," she pointed out. "We had plenty of time to get acquainted. Instead, he—"
"Oh, stop whining," he said. "I was there, too. I know perfectly well what went on."
He saw her smile in the gloom, raising an eyebrow. "Then you'll know just how mortally injured I was," she said. "My pain, my sorrow."
"You didn't seem very sorrowful when Thorn chased you off," he pointed out.
"Of course you wouldn't. I'm very good at hiding my emotions, stoic that I am." Salem sighed and relaxed, leaning against the wall a few feet away. She was quiet for a moment longer, then asked abruptly, "Do you have any siblings, Murtagh?"
Murtagh blinked, taken aback at this question. A surge of emotion rose up inside him, emotion that he thought he had dampened, erased. "A…brother," he said carefully, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Why do you ask?"
She turned, giving him a calm, thoughtful look. "Just wondering," she said quietly. "You sound…hesitant."
"Do I," Murtagh responded neutrally.
"Yes," she replied, soft-voiced. He swallowed, acutely uncomfortable.
"Is he all right?" she probed softly.
He turned his face away, feeling his flat shield of coolness rise up again within him. "It's none of your business how he is," he said coldly. "You don't know him."
She didn't answer.
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Salem closed her eyes, memories washing over her. She was eight when her eldest brother died, but even eight was old enough to remember him, to remember how he had time for the baby of the family when no one else did, to remember how he used to take her for walks and even showed her how to raise an orphaned baby bird. When he was killed by a stray arrow, she'd remembered how her mother had screamed for days, crying out for Eian, wanting her son back again. The rest of the family couldn't mourn openly for fear of making her sickness worse, and had to hide their tears and put on strong faces for her.
And then Connac had joined the army a couple months later as soon as he hit the eighteen mark, angrily breaking off all contact with his family. Salem's mother attempted suicide twice; she succeeded the second time. Her father had quietly mourned and buried her, turning his attention to raising his two remaining daughters, Beltane and Salem.
Now Beltane was married, packed off to some distant city that Salem had never heard of, never seen, and her father was dead. Charis had vanished to gods-know-where, and Reynold was dead.
Salem swallowed and shook her head, berating herself. A pity party, she thought scathingly. Why don't you just burst into tears while you're at it? Will tears do you any good? No…
It took her a while to realize Murtagh was saying something. Wiping some stray moisture (not tears) from her eyes, Salem glanced at him. "Sorry?" Her voice was too hoarse for her liking. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I didn't hear what you said."
"It's not like you," he said, "to start a question then not reply while you're at it."
"I was thinking," she replied scathingly. "You might like to try it sometime."
To her surprise, he laughed. "I suppose. But I've found that thinking usually leads to nightmares and self-brooded hysteria." He gave her a small smile. "I'm sure you've discovered some of this already."
Salem's mind remembered her panicky thoughts of only a few moments before, and she conceded the point with a nod. "Just memories," she said quietly. "Memories you'd thought you'd buried, but they rise up again…"
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Murtagh gave a start when he heard these soft, wistful words. It was almost as if she was reading his mind, pulling out his thoughts of only a moment before. It took him a moment to get his voice properly under control. "You…you have these, too?"
She gave him a look. "Who doesn't?" she inquired. "I'm sure yours, no matter what they are, are not all that tragic if you put them in perspective. It's just that we hug them close, unwilling to let them spill. We don't share them, and so to us they seem to be the scar upon the earth. But they're not, not when compared to all else out there." She shrugged. "And now I've made a speech."
"It's quite a nice one," he said absently, turning her words over and over in his mind. What're my troubles? he thought suddenly. I'm cut off from Thorn, the Varden, Eragon, and everyone else, I'm under the grip of a powerful madman…I'm scheduled for bloody pain tomorrow and…well, isn't that enough to be going on with?
"It could be worse," Salem said suddenly. He glanced at her, startled. "We could be put in separate cells," she pointed out. "Then we'd be going stark raving mad with no one to talk to. Thinking broods hysteria, remember?"
Murtagh stared, then grinned, a laugh breaking its way unexpectedly out of him.
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They stayed up that night and talked, weaving the conversation into all sorts of topics—some painful, some not. It kept both their minds off tomorrow and what it would bring, and even then it was comforting to know that they would share the fate. "Misery loves company, after all," Salem added reflectively during a pause.
Both of them were careful with each other, never forgetting that once something was said, it could not be unsaid. A feeling of unease still hung in the air, the unease of two strangers who were thrown together by circumstance.
But sometimes, that was all you needed. Before they knew it, the silver moonlight faded away, replaced by the brightening light of dawn.
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End of Chapter Thirty
This was a hard chapter to write. Very, extremely difficult. I struggled with it for AGES, I swear…but I hope the result is passable. Better than passable, maybe…I hope it's convincing, anyhow. I've read and reread it so many times there's absolutely no way I can be unbiased, but the point here was to make this flow smoothly.
I've already started work on the last chapter…:)
So. Look, peeps, please review. I got five reviews for the last chapter, and how many hits? Where have all you people been hiding? Please review! Anonymous reviews are fine, just give me some response. Thanks!
Note: I went back and changed Salem/Murtagh's age to fit more closely with Eldest.