Once again, reviewer responses are at the back! That's where they're going permanently so I don't have to keep on typing this reminder out. :P
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4/4/101
Connac tapped his fingers against his desk, staring fixedly at a sheaf of thick reports. They bore lists of names, the roster of new recruits for the Royal Army.
He sighed, shaking his head as he redid his calculations. The number of recruits was increasing steadily, jumping about two hundred percent over the last two months.
Why the sudden increase? he wondered, shaking his head. For all the years I've been in the army, it's never grown this much. And yet, the cost of basic training for each recruit is dropping…if they get any lower, then these recruits won't even know how to use a pitchfork, for gods' sake!
There were a dozen reasons, but all of them basically boiled down to one term—war. War with the Varden.
Not that I'm against that, he added fervently, but this—this is ridiculous. These recruits might as well just kill themselves now rather than go out onto a battlefield and die there. They're not prepared
A knock on the door made him jump. Connac looked up at the messenger, frowning slightly. "Ah. Private..." he squinted for the soldier's dog tag. "Private Adern. What is it?"
The soldier stood stiffly at attention, staring at a point above Connac's head. "Duty rosters, informational updates, and blueprints, sir!" he shouted. "Captain Healey wishes to update you on this garrison's news, sir!"
Connac nodded absently, taking the tightly rolled bunch of papers in Adern's hands. "At ease, private," he said. "Does Captain Healey want a response?"
"No, sir!" the soldier yelled.
"Dismissed," Connac said, already rifling idly through the papers. The soldier snapped a smart salute and trotted off down the stairs.
Connac barely noticed, pausing at the page containing the garrison's log. It was written in concise, crisp shorthand, containing notes of the city patrol's innings and outings. Back at the gate guard, Connac, as the leading captain there, had kept such a log himself.
Kretz/Blackfire transfer…noon patrol…disturbance near Yelder Street…gray seal reported, emperor admitted, Cpt. Blackfire gone…Connac lifted an eyebrow, seeing that it was updated up-to-the-minute. They even got in what Chandler's and Stason's troops did near the fire last evening.
His finger paused near one listing in miniscule print. 18:30. prsnr cptrd 2, m/f. No. 113 c, night. b. E/N
Connac closed his eyes. Two prisoners captured, one male and one female in cell 113, to keep there overnight. Both of them worthy of notice and investigation by royal decree…Any mention of names?
He was being paranoid. What were the chances it could possibly be Salem? It was absurd; he had no proof…but yet, his instincts screamed that it was his sister.
Praying fervently that he was wrong, his gaze flicked down the list. There were the mentionings of the midnight patrol, another brawl, several drunkards stowed away. He frowned, stopping at one of the most recent listings. What is this?
07:00, mgr. w/ prdn, 4/3/101 20:34 M. Ord rl, Sgt. D. Gyn prsd. File Prdn arch. 3/4, 13.
and a few entries underneath—
08:45, 4/3/101 20:34 M Rl, wpn rtrnd. Sgt. D. Gyn prsd.
A messenger with a pardon had arrived for the male prisoner taken yesterday. An order of release, with Sergeant Daryus Gyn presiding. At 8:45, the prisoner had been released. All right, but what about the female? What happened to her?
He frowned, looking at the hourglass above his desk. It was just after the thirty-seventh mark, signaling that it was somewhere around 09:15, roughly half an hour after the release of the male.
Connac dived back into the mass of papers, searching for the blueprints of the garrison. Cell 113...ah, there we go.
The layout of this particular garrison was surprisingly similar to the gate barracks, with only a few minor alterations here and there. He located Cell 113 after a few minutes of searching. Standing, Connac folded the blueprints up and stowed it in his pocket.
He stretched with a slow groan, shaking his head. If that's you in cell 113, Salem…well, I hope to all the gods it's not.
He closed the door quietly behind him and trotted down the stairs, emerging into the bright sunshine of the garrison training grounds.
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The soldiers politely but firmly deposited Murtagh just outside the garrison, dumping into a part of the city with which he was utterly unfamiliar. He paced outside for a while, his thoughts and emotions seething with disquiet.
What was he supposed to do now? Galbatorix had left no instructions on how to proceed afterwards, and he certainly hadn't left anything resembling a map. During his adolescence, Murtagh had never strayed far from the palace and the woods surrounding it.
He wandered uncertainly in front of the entrance, staring inside. Salem didn't deserve to be left to the mercy of Galbatorix, not anymore than Eragon or anybody else did. I broke Eragon out of Gil'ead, he thought, struck by a sudden ray of inspiration. Why can't I free Salem here?
Even as he thought it he knew it was hopeless. The army was rigidly divided, and it was usually the most elite and loyal soldiers that were transferred to defend Uru'baen itself. Outlying cities like Gil'ead and Teirm got soldiers who were drunkards on their days off, and could be bribed for the price of a bucket of ale. In Uru'baen, that kind of soldier didn't exist.
Murtagh sighed and resumed pacing, staring at the great iron gates before him. The soldiers guarding it stared back at him impassively, faultless in their military discipline. Another example of Uru'baen perfectness, he thought sourly.
The easiest thing to do would be just to turn around and leave. Go on with what miserable life he had. Try to find Thorn. There were lots of things he could do with his time, but he couldn't convince himself to leave.
And just why is that? Murtagh frowned.
He knew the answer. Salem, for all her idiocies, reminded him just faintly of Eragon—she was stubborn, curious, dedicated—
—insane— a corner of his mind interjected.
Sanity is only a state of mind, Murtagh retorted, hiding a faint smile inside. As he thought that, Murtagh grimaced, shaking his head at his own folly. And now I'm talking to myself.
Honestly, though, if he couldn't abandon Eragon, then the principles he had held his entire life—protect yourself and what you cherish—held him to Salem in the same way.
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Connac was waylaid halfway across the training ground by a couple of his men concerning leave of absences and regimental orders. He sorted them out, stowing away a mental note in his mind to issue new training schedules the next day. That cleared, he continued towards the winding staircase that led to the lower levels of the barracks.
It took him a while to realize that somebody was shouting his name. Connac turned, half-startled, searching for the source of the voice. He relaxed as Captain Healey ran up to him, his dark face flushed. "Blackfire!" he panted. "Did you get my files?"
Connac grinned. "Yes, I did, and thank you."
"Good," Healey said, straightening himself. "I've been looking all over for you. Adern only just came back a few minutes ago, and I sent him out with the files at least fifteen minutes before. I don't know what took him so long. Anyway, I want to start reorganizing the patrols to incorporate your men, now that Kretz has gone for good. There's a morning patrol due at noon, and I've only got five men on the duty roster right now."
He stopped, noting the hesitation on Connac's face. "Is something wrong, Blackfire?"
Connac paused, studying Adrian Healey's face. Connac knew very little about the other captain, but he was known to be a fair, methodical man who didn't play favorites. Still, Connac sensed instinctively that telling him about Salem and/or the prisoner in cell 113 would be unwise.
"Nothing," Connac replied belatedly, offering an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. I can work up the schedules now, yes."
Healey eyed him a moment longer, then nodded. "My office is right above the entrance gate. Come with me."
Connac followed him, both of them walking in companionable silence. Healey's office wasn't much bigger than Connac's, but the view was better, opening out into the sprawling middle-class sections of the city. Connac took a moment to appreciate the view, grinning sociably at Healey. "It's beautiful."
"One of the best things about this job," Healey nodded, pulling up a chair. "Every time I start to get a headache, I just look out that window and remember who I'm doing this for—Uru'baen, and her people. There's a difference between hearing about it and knowing it." He paused for a moment, then shrugged.
Connac took in the sweeping city with approval, watching the citizens go about their daily business. He was about to pull back when he caught sight of a man hanging around the barrack entrance, a strangely familiar man. He leaned forward with a frown.
"Blackfire?" Healey's voice drifted out from behind him.
Connac blinked, then looked again. That man, what was he doing here? The man who came looking for Salem…what was his name again? Or had he never said?
"Blackfire?"
Connac pulled his head hastily from the window, turning to Healey. "Um…nothing," he said quickly. "Just—Healey, will you excuse me? I need to take care of something."
Healey gave him an odd look. "How long do you need?"
"Uh…" Connac glanced quickly at the hourglass on the wall. "Um, when the sand reaches the forty-oneth mark." It was right before the thirty-eighth mark—09:30.
Healey nodded slowly, a puzzled frown on his face. "All right. Do you need help, Blackfire?"
"No," called Connac over his shoulder, already sprinting for the door. He twisted the handle and was gone.
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Murtagh was glaring a hole into the iron tracery of the gate when a man approached out of the corner of his eye. The man paused to speak with one of the soldiers, who nodded after a moment. Moving forward, the soldier opened a smaller gate to the side, letting the man out.
"Captain Blackfire," Murtagh said warily in recognition.
Blackfire nodded in a weary sort of way. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice low and urgent. "Where is she?"
Murtagh stared at him, taken aback. "Where is who?"
Blackfire took a step forward, his expression sharp and angry. "Don't play coy with me. You went out to find Salem, and now I find you pacing before these gates. The logs spoke of two prisoners apprehended, and one was released. What is going on?"
Murtagh stared back for a moment, and his voice hardened. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Captain."
Their eyes locked, engaging in a silent test of the wills. Still glaring at Murtagh, Blackfire said heatedly, "Did you find her or not?"
"Why do you care to know? She's a fugitive, on run from the law," Murtagh said coldly. "You on the other hand, you're a captain of the royal army, command of a hundred of the king's men. An upstanding citizen like you should be glad of evil family influences."
Blackfire flinched at this statement and looked away. Murtagh exhaled a slow breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Finally, Blackfire shook his head.
"It was a long time ago…look, I don't even know your name, or who you are, or anything. Just tell me…what are you doing here? Have you succeeded in finding her? Is—is she all right?"
His gaze flicked back to Murtagh's, somber gray eyes meeting Murtagh's own hazel squarely.
Murtagh wavered. He didn't know if he could trust Blackfire, and it went along with the rules of logic that he shouldn't tell him a single thing. Blackfire could be a spy or fanatically loyal to Galbatorix. He could ruin what fragile plans Murtagh had constructed and whisk Salem off to a premature and painful death.
Siblings, the thought struck him suddenly. It all comes down to what loyalty blood can hold. Salem and this man are on different sides of this silent war, just like…just like Eragon and I. Would Eragon destroy me when the time comes? Could I bring myself to destroy him?
A sharp pain welled up in his heart suddenly at the thought of his brother. Could I?
With a sigh, he turned his thoughts back to the captain. Blackfire stood there patiently, a look of hope, struggle, and uncertainty written in his face.
"I managed to find Salem." Murtagh spoke the words quickly and bluntly, spitting them out before he could change his mind. "She's all right, just a little battered. I was released this morning by royal decree, but she's still back in the jail cell. They said they wouldn't release her until further notice…" he trailed off.
Blackfire let out a long, slow breath before finally nodding. "I see."
"And what will you now, Captain?" Murtagh inquired quietly.
Blackfire shrugged. "I don't know. I—I don't want to see her die, or suffer the torture she's sure to get. It's never a good sign when a sentence is postponed indefinitely; almost always, it ends in questioning and death. But to release her would be to break my oaths to the Emperor, and I…" He shook his head slowly, his eyes searching Murtagh's face.
Whatever Blackfire found, it lifted some of his black mood. The captain smiled ruefully. "I wish you better luck than Salem and I did," he said softly.
"What?" Murtagh asked, startled.
"I know where Salem is held, and I can get you access," Blackfire said, his gaze fixed on Murtagh's. "They will not question you if you are with me."
How did he know? Murtagh wondered, taken aback. Did I show it that much? Was I truly that obvious?
There was no lie in Blackfire's face, none that he could detect. Murtagh studied him a moment longer. Even though it felt like cheating, he touched the captain's mind lightly with his own, and was surprised to find that it was solidly blocked.
A faint smile brushed Blackfire's lips. "All officers above lieutenant learn that trick," he said. "Otherwise, there's too much top-secret information in the air. Any magicker could discover everything with an errant poke in an officer's mind."
Murtagh flushed, slightly red with embarrassment. He nodded apologetically. "Sorry."
Blackfire nodded wordlessly, accepting the apology. "I won't lose Salem. Not again," he said quietly.
Murtagh opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded. "All right," he said. "Lead on, Captain."
"It's Connac," the captain said.
Murtagh hesitated, then nodded his acceptance. "Murtagh."
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Salem was lost in depressing, musing thought, her imagination beginning to conjure up the most gristly images. Now that Murtagh was gone, her mind was free to invent as many painful daymares as it wished.
When not filled with images of brands and cat-o-nine-tails and whatnot, her thoughts continually drifted back to Murtagh. Who was he, really? During their companionable conversations of the night before, they had talked very little about their histories or pasts or anything like that, but the way he acted and talked told her more than enough. He'd been with the Varden, she thought, leaning against the wall. And I bet he had the time of his life there.
Salem grinned despite herself, then shook her head at her own idiocy. It's past, now, she thought, suddenly somber. Past is past is past is past…
And now I'm going insane. Great. Just great.
Her hand brushed something on her neck, and Salem looked down in shock. She was touching the leather cords that were still looped around her neck, and more to the point the crystals hanging on their ends. You're still here? she thought in shock, pulling them both off. Silica! Ides and Gen and Rina and Matiel—maybe I can talk to them, who knows? And maybe they can fish me out of this hellpit.
She rubbed them between her palms, trying to look nonchalant should a soldier pass her by. Leaning close to the crystal, she whispered, "Eka shakel sa Galbatorix…atra iet rinyi elha hórnya."
She leaned back, examining the crystal hopefully. It clouded with a maelstrom of colors, darkening and pulsing. When it cleared, there was—nothing.
"What?" Salem whispered, staring at it. "Why?"
If there was a single magicker left in the ranks of Silica, the crystal by all reason should work. If it didn't, there was only one possible explanation.
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A clink of heavy iron on another made her jump. Instantly, Salem's hands flew up to her neck, stashing the necklace back into her shirt. She jumped up, staring fiercely at the door. If she was being hauled off to torture, she would face it on her feet.
The door creaked open. Salem edged farther away, looking for an entrance in which to bolt. Then the man came into the light, and Salem felt her heart drop into her stomach. Of all the people—Connac?
"Salem," he breathed, stepping forward. "It is you."
They stood looking at each other awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Before, danger and urgency had driven their brief conversations, but now…now, there was a lull, an uncomfortable silence in which neither could put words to. In that moment, Salem could remember with painful clarity the fight that had driven the two of them apart for so many years—it had been violent, with vicious blows by both sides, angry insults that struck deeply. It was something she couldn't forget or forgive easily even after so many years, and she saw that Connac felt the same.
A second man entered the cell during their hesitation, and Salem made a small sound of disbelief. "Murtagh? But you—and—how did you meet? I thought you hated Connac or distrusted him or—"
"There isn't any time," Connac said softly, holding up a hand to stop her. "We have to get you out of here."
Salem blinked. "I see," she murmured. She didn't move.
"Hurry," Murtagh said not unkindly, aware of the tension but firm despite it. "There's no time to lose."
The sound of his rough voice helped them both focus. Connac coughed slightly, then dug in his pockets, revealing a length of crumpled parchment. "You'll go out the same way we went in, Murtagh—only, here's an alternate branch that will lead you out of Uru'baen." He spread the paper out, tracing out a sketchwork of inked lines. "I'll double back and enter back into the barracks through the main gate. I'll make up some excuse and go back in. Both of you, take this route out of the city." He glanced at Murtagh and hesitated. "Salem—"
"I will," she said hurriedly, before both of them got sentimental.
Connac swallowed, then sighed. "Murtagh, I assume you have a duty at the palace—this road will take you back in."
He stood, handing the map to Murtagh. The other man took it, glancing at Salem. "We have to hurry, Salem."
Salem nodded, her gaze fixed on her brother. "Connac—" she began, then broke off.
"Go," he whispered. "Take care of yourself, Salem."
Her hand brushed his tentatively, and finally she managed to control her emotions long enough to reply. "I'm sorry, Connac."
"Me, too," he said, a soft sigh of regret.
Their hands broke away, and Salem followed Murtagh out of the cell.
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Salem was quiet as they walked. Murtagh watched her concernedly but didn't say anything as he led them into a narrow room, down a rickety and mildewed stairway, and finally lifting a manhole cover to drop them into a section of dark sewer. He gripped her hand, as much as to give her comfort as it was to prevent her from getting lost in the dark gutter.
He brought forth a small light, and it hovered before them, shedding a tiny glow that didn't extend farther than a few feet in every direction. It was enough to keep them from getting lost, provided that Murtagh didn't take a wrong turn anywhere.
They walked on in slow silence, before Salem finally broke it. "You never answered my question yesterday," she said quietly, her voice slightly hoarse. "Your brother…who is he? What's his name?"
Murtagh was silent for a while, never loosening his grip on her hand. "He's…well, all right. His name, it's Eragon. He's…well, he's a rebel too. I don't know where he is now, or what he's doing." He glanced at Salem, then looked away. "Connac…"
"He'll be fine," she said, deliberately overriding his words.
Murtagh nodded and reapplied himself to the map, his eyes scanning the lines of dark ink. Then he heard Salem say in a quieter voice, "I hope."
A soft sound, almost like a moan, drifted down the sewer. "What?" Murtagh muttered, his hand trailing to his belt knife, which had been returned to him that morning when he was released. His eyes swept the darkness, and with a flick of his hand he sent the weirlight forward. It bobbed gently ahead, showing nothing more than empty sewer.
"Must be a pipe or something," Salem said, touching his shoulder lightly. "Keep moving."
Murtagh hesitated, replaying the sound in his mind. There was something animal about it, closer to a dying creature than a creaky pipe. "Either way," he muttered, "be careful."
They continued down the sewer. Murtagh led them right, down the way that should branch out of the city. Down about sixty paces, then take another right…
The air grew staler and colder, the walls frosted with damp and mildew. Murtagh took the right turn, but then paused. "Something's wrong."
He traced the route with his finger. He could see a tunnel to his left, but according to the map there was supposed to be nothing there… And why is the air getting colder? We should be rising now, going uphill.
Salem's face appeared to his left, pale and ghostly in the magicked light. Her eyes dropped down to the map, following the road set by his finger. "We're lost." It wasn't a question.
Murtagh closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind for any living presence, any hint that might tell him where the surface was. To his surprise, he realized that Thorn was close, very close. The barrier that blocked communication between them was no longer icy and impenetratable; there were holes beginning to appear in the fabric of the block. Thorn?
There was no response. Not yet.
"Come on," he whispered to Salem. "Thorn's near, he'll help us—"
"Thorn?" Salem hissed, digging in her heels. "Thorn as in Thorn the dragon? Have you remembered how much he hates my guts?"
Murtagh grinned, flushed and excited. "He doesn't hate you," he said quickly, casting with his thoughts. "Just…um…"
"Hates my guts," she said dryly.
Murtagh sighed, then turned to her. His left hand reached up, clasping hers tightly. "Salem, you have to trust me…Thorn is like me, an unwilling prisoner of Galbatorix. We were separated earlier, and each sent to our own respective tasks. Galbatorix put up a wall between us, and we couldn't communicate…but he's here now. And once I explain it to him, we can work on finding a way out of Uru'baen."
By a quirk of hereditary nature, Salem had hazel eyes in contrast to Connac's gray. Both of them, though, had the same penetrating stare that seemed to stare right through Murtagh, flaying him bare of all deception and lies.
And then she blinked, and Murtagh looked away with a sigh. "All right," she said quietly.
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Murtagh closed his eyes, scrutinizing the mental wall between him and Thorn, teasing at the weak holes in it, and loosening the connection open bit by bit. Thorn? he called. Thorn, where are you?
Their footsteps echoed slightly as they padded down the sewer. Take a left…down the passageway…past two tunnels…take a right…
Murtagh stopped dead as the low moan sounded again, a cry of an animal in pain. Salem was right behind him as he jerked to a halt, his eyes scanning the darkness uncertainly.
Thorn! he cried. Thorn, where are you?
"There!" Salem hissed. "Look at that—"
Up in the darkness ahead there was a strange glittering cloud, like a thousand tiny black opals shimmering faintly together. Murtagh's breath caught in his throat, and he dimmed his light. "What is that?"
His hand jerked convulsively, tightening on Salem's as he caught a glimpse of a smaller red gleam in the corner of the black one. Thorn? They're scales, they must be—but the black cloud—
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End of Chapter Thirty-Three
Hahaha, a cliffie for you! That was a fun chapter to write; I guess the week off spurred my muse to happy heights. Say hello to my reviewers, muses!
Muses: Yo.
Well, I had a lovely fun vacation, and it had the unfortunate effect of sucking a couple bazillion dollars out of our family budget. But we did go to lots of awesome places, including the Taipei 101 that is the tallest building in the world with (what else?) 101 stories. Erm, what else? Oh yeah, the Kenting Aquatic Museum was AWESOME, and there was this cool evolution exhibit and a deep sea exhibit and a sunken ship exhibit! What fun! Of course, I forgot everything mildly educational about the trip, but I have to say the puffins were REALLY cute.
Read and review!
And let me stop rambling and give you your REVIEW RESPONSES!
Zer0Gravity: Aw, don't worry. :p For a more concise response, check your email!
Ariel32: Hey, how was your vacation? Did you have fun visiting this lovely island? I'm glad you remembered to pop back in and review; I would've been broken hearted if you left me for good:grins:
Silver sliver: Yeah…I honestly didn't feel too guilty about writing Martaila and Neal off; they were only getting in the way. I mean, it was impossible for them to live because there's not the least mention of a third rider anywhere at the end of Eldest, so I couldn't let them live. I guess I probably killed off my best chance at a sequel to the story when I did that…but hey, no regrets.
You know, you are the positively only person who gave me an opinion on whether I should post an explainer chappie or not. :glares at everyone else: But yeah, even I get mixed up when it comes to organizing characters. I forgot specifics about them…you know, eye-color, hair color, last names, yak yak yak. And I'm the one who wrote them into existence in the first place. :kicks self in head:
Amantine: Thankees:tosses cookie: Oh, now everybody else wants a cookie too. OO
Gewher: There, there, don't cry. :pat pat: At risk of sounding cold-hearted and nasty, Neal was just getting in the way of the whole evil-plot-dictator thing. He had to be written out. :insert evil laugh here:
And as for Salem…
She won't die. But on that same note, she won't be seen past the end of this fanfic. On that happily enigmatic statement, I shall skip onto the next reviewer…
The Keeper of the Key: Well hey hey hey, what's the rush? I know, very few fics reach twenty or even thirty chappies, but believe me there are longer ones…the longest one I've ever seen was 70-some, I think. So, no rush. Don't worry. Be happy. :starts humming the song from that talking fish thing:
Aurora: It is to my extreme regret to say that Neal and Silica have gone bye-bye permanently. See, I plan to end this story at the Burning Plains, and I can't let anything that's in this fanfic to live past that time. So bye, Neal, ciao, adios.
Coffee Grounds: I know. I mean, if I had a broader timeline to work with, I just MIGHT have left poor Nealy-poo alive. Meh. But as circumstances go…
Mistress-of-Misery: Yes, I do plan to do something about Murtagh's bitterness/evil factor, which needs cranking. :pulls magic wand out of sleeve with dramatic flourish: And of course, this lousy piece of trash has nothing to do with it. :tosses wand into bin:
Your morbid imagination might just be right…but I do hope to surprise you again with the last few chapters. Well hey, who knows?
K.A.T. Hiwatari: Hey, have you forgotten all about your question ages ago about what Murtagh says in the English version of Eldest? Here—I quote directly—
"You cannot help me, Eragon. No one but Galbatorix can release us from our oaths, and he will never do that…He knows our true names, Eragon…we are his slaves forever."
Waaah:sniffles: I hope this matches up with your Portugese version…honestly, there's nothing like reading a book in another language to make you cry all over again. I have the Chinese version of Eldest as well as the English one, and I swear it has more impact.
Alsdssg: Yes, she did…well, put yourself in her shoes; I mean, honestly, what would you have done? She couldn't let another Rider grow up under Galbytorix's dictatorship…