I do not own Inheritance. However I will not remove this story no matter what you ask me, come what may. Should you try I will allow you to sue me, do everything in my power to slander your good name while in court and make sure I put every cent I can scrape together towards the case. You'll lose tens of thousands in a meaningless battle, and I'll declare bankruptcy at the end to ensure you never see the money again. Yes, I'm very petty.

Chapter 2

Murtagh sat alone in his featureless room, reading a scroll Tarascus had assigned him. There was usually nothing to fill his time, he had no duties or responsibilities beyond the kings latest order or whim. Occasionally he would be taken aside by Tarascus or Zakath, and taught details of magic or swordplay that he had never considered before, or give him something like this scroll to memorize, but usually he was left alone to do as he wished.

In theory his room was sumptuously appointed, but there were no signs of habitation, nothing to distinguish it from the seemingly endless supply stretching both ways. It wasn't his home, wasn't even somewhere that he lived. He had been more at home in his cell at Tronjheim.

The scroll he was trying to concentrate on dated back to before the rider's days, detailing a philosophy on why some people could access magic with ease and do things using less power then others. No doubt the subject was interesting enough, but the writer seemed to have taken pains to remove anything of interest his subject matter may once of contained.

At last he put own the scroll in disgust and left his room, making his way back to the caverns beneath the citadel where Thorn was housed, the Dragons Cavern. He wondered why a being of the sky would choose to live underground. Thorn hated it, but Shuriken felt more at ease in the dark, and had taken them for his own when the castle had been completed, and as such Thorn had been placed with the larger dragon by default.

Leaving the corridors he made his way into the cellars beneath the citadel, then further until he came to the prisons, where they kept those whose crime was too heinous to warrant a clean death, or even a messy one. In theory, at least. Murtagh wondered how many of these people's only crime was simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or for trying to do something that the king disapproved off.

Murtagh made his way through the dungeons carefully, not looking into the cells. He had made the mistake of doing so last time he came down here, and had felt physically ill. At last he came to the iron grate that led below. Slipping through he came cautiously though the narrow tunnel that opened up into a cavern the size of a townhall, with a great crimson dragon curled up in the centre..

Thorn's tail was a scarred stump. The dragon seemed extremely conscious of this mutilation, overly compensating for it in every movement, as though fearing to loose his balance. The majority of his wounds had faded through judicious application of magic, but there were a few exceptions that had closed into scars. A soft growl rumbled from deep in his chest with each breath, sounding like to rocks banging together. Thorn was pleased.

How went it, brother?

Murtagh shrugged. He seemed pleased. Of course it's nearly impossible to tell what he is thinking.

Thorn nodded, a slow and ponderous motion, showing his lack of familiarity with his new body. He had grown another nine feet since his last confrontation with Saphira, and would continue to grow at such a rate until the king ended the spell.

Did he hurt you, brother?

No. He didn't seem angry. He wasn't pleased, but he didn't seem angry either.

Why is he making us do this? Thorn thought softly, the childlike innocence of his actual age belying his immense size and fearsome appearance.

Murtagh walked loser and ran his hand over his dragon's immense jaw, the pebbly scales sharp edges prickling at his skin. That's what he does. He uses people until they stop serving his purpose, then discards them.

Thorn shook his head slightly at the attention, but continued his tangent. As long as I have been aware I have been trapped, forced into being nothing more then a tool. When you came along was the happiest moment I can remember. I met someone like me, trapped by heritage and enforced loyalty, wanting nothing more to escape, to be free. A kindred spirit.

Murtagh continued stroking his dragon, making his way to the bony ridges beneath his eye. I know.

Thorn's growls intensified. I harbor those I am forced to kill no anger. They have done nothing to deserve my ire. And yet I can bring only destruction. The only one who deserves death is the one who commands me. But I do not seek vengeance. I only wish to be my own master, to sore the winds with you on my back, to find a place in this world where we may determine our own destiny.

Murtagh nodded. It sounded good. No, it sounded perfect. Perhaps we will find that place one day.

Thorn's dark thoughts did not abate at his reply. If anything they intensified. But what am I? Nothing more then a weapon? A tool for killing those who have never wronged me?

You are my friend. My closest friend.

Thorn rumbled, smoke puffing out of his jaw. Perhaps. But I like this not. I have no wish to spend our lives here, do you? Thorn asked, than pushed on without making a reply. Nor should you. Perhaps it would have been better to die then live as slaves.

Murtagh shook his head. How is death any different? Isn't it better to live and hope? For the millionth time since Eragon had confided in him abut changing identity, he thought about attempting it, and as usual dismissed it. He had read up on relevant scrolls, and knew there would be no help from that quarter. Not only was the purpose totally uncontrollable and dangerous, it could lead to ends he didn't even want to consider. Besides, what was to stop the king from forcing him to swear the oaths again? There had to be a way that offered hope, not just fleeting chance.

Their conversation was interrupted by a great thundering footfall that made the entire cavern tremble. Another followed, then another, until Murtagh feared the cavern would collapse. A head the size of a wagon snaked through a cave at the western edge, it's horns like ship staves scraping either side of the walls. Fangs as long as spears glistened even in the underground, lightless murk, contrasting with the scales as dark as an assassins heart, and it's dark eyes like depthless pools glared at them, filled with immeasurable wisdom and sadness, and a terrible, festering hate.

It continued forward until it stood before Murtagh, it's vast bulk was larger then seemed possible. Being confronted by it was vaguely surreal, as though a tower had been somehow animated and given limbs. It's head swept the cavern that was not already taken up by it's own massive form, until it fixed on Murtagh. A deep growl of displeasure rumbled up from it's throat, and a small jet of white hot flame jetted from it's nostrils, so bright it made spots dance before his eyes.

Why are you here? The voice was so soothing, so refined, that for a moment Murtagh had trouble believing it came from the monstrous beast that loomed above him.

I only wished to speak to Thorn. Murtagh replied hastily, looking up but not quite daring to meet the dragons eyes. He had been confronted by Shuriken before, but each time was terrifying anew.

Shuriken inclined his head slightly, somehow contriving to seem all the more menacing doing so. And why are you really here?

It's the truth! Murtagh protested desperately, unconsciously taking a step back.

Shuriken's deep eyes the size of wagon wheels narrowed, and he took another thundering step forward. Dust trickled from the ceiling. This is my world, and you are trespassing without reason. Leave, or suffer. Shuriken replied, growling slightly as he did, so low it hurt Murtagh's ears. This is a world for dragons.

Murtagh nodded unsteadily, backing away. Thorn took a step forward shakily, and inclined his head. Murtagh didn't hear what Thorn said, but the bigger dragon lashed forward, his teeth snapping a few inches from Thorns snout, making the crimson dragon recoil. SILENCE PUP! Shuriken's mind roared, nearly knocking Murtagh of his feet from the sheer overwhelming rage. Gone was the refined tone present before, now he was nothing less then a feral animal. Do not presume to lecture your betters.

Thorn hurriedly backed away, but Shuriken seemed slightly mollified. Leave. Now. He said to Murtagh, then began to withdraw.

Murtagh let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding, relieved that the dragon was leaving.

That one terrifies me, brother. Thorn said shakily, once the bigger dragon was out of sight. He had been shuddering throughout the entire exchange, cowed by the bigger dragon. Murtagh understood his feelings completely.

Me too. Murtagh replied wholeheartedly, shivering despite the heat Thorn radiated. But I thought he was your teacher.

Yes and no. Thorn replied. Your king has made him teach me what it is to be a dragon. Teach me who I am, what I am, what I am capable of, everything he knows. But he doesn't like it. I feel he would kill me if the king didn't want us. Thorn nudged Murtagh softly with his head. It would be best if you went, time has already run out. But come back soon.

I will. Murtagh promised as he left. I will.

*****

Murtagh made his way back to the room, not in any particular hurry. He had resolved to finish the scroll Tarascus had given him. Making his way back out of the maze off cells and rooms that made up the dungeons, he thought about what Thorn had said. Part of him felt guilty for not finding out sooner, whenever he'd tried to ask about the training Thorn had gotten curiously tight lipped, but Murtagh had just assumed it was hard to explain. Besides, he'd had his own problems.

Suddenly he felt like running back down and begging Thorn to forgive him. He knew it was unnecessary, that Thorn didn't need or want his pity, but it was himself he was mad at. He had neglected his one and only friend, not bothered to see things from his perspective, and knew even if Thorn forgave him then and there it would take him years to forgive himself.

The corridors, twists and turns of the catacombs had him stumbling around in the dark, the corridors seeming to blend into each other. Twice he was forced to backtrack, following his path back until he found something he recognized and began his trek again. He hadn't met anyone in the dungeon, but he'd seen the prisoners. Revulsion settled in his stomach, congealing into a hot bile that mingled with his rage against the king. Was there no end to his atrocities?

Murtagh kept his eyes focused ahead at the path before him, refusing to let them waver to either side, and ignoring the brief glimpses he got in his peripheral vision, through the bars on each door. But try as he might he could not block out the susurrus of screams, heartbreaking sobs, and worst of all the terrible, cold silence of those who had given up any hope. Occasionally he would catch glimpses of bowed, hooded figures in long robes, flitting from cell to cell, but he gave them a wide berth, and they ignored him. They had eyes only for their victims.

Part of Murtagh wanted to do something for them, even if it was just a comforting word or a clean death, but he couldn't. He was as much a prisoner as them, his cell his own mind, his torture the gradual erosion of his identity through the king's machinations. He had nothing to offer them, much as he hated himself for it.

After what could have been an hour and could have been an eternity, Murtagh pushed back the door that led to the citadel, and took a deep lungful of air that didn't stink of copper and salt and human suffering. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to savor it, then took the staircase up towards his room. Part of him wanted to try and run, to go back to Thorn and try and escape, or to make a break for it himself and let Thorn follow. But he dismissed it. He couldn't, physically couldn't. Besides, where would he run? The King would hunt him down, and make him pay. He didn't know if it was the oaths he'd been forced to swear, or simply his own realism, but he wouldn't try.

Making his way up the staircase one step at a time, he stopped observing his surroundings, casting his mind back to the conversation he had with Eragon when his brother had told him it would be possible to escape. He had thought about it several times, but each time he had dismissed it, if leaving the kings service meant compromising everything he was anyway, then he may as well stay where he was. But for the first time he began to consider the possible consequences of doing nothing. He was nervous around the king, you'd have to be insane not to be, but he'd never realized how narrow the line he walked was. He was alive at the king's sufferance, and the king did not actually need him. Suddenly defiance didn't feel so good.

He came at last to his own room, and opened the door slowly, still deep in thought. Duncan Halec turned from his chair to stare at him, making him start. Halec was a big man, his jerkin tight across his barrel of a chest, his arms crossed to reveal the boulders of his biceps. At nearly fifty, he still maintained the heavily muscled build that had served him well in the dozen brutal professions that he had followed through the Empire.

His face bore testament to this. It was battered and misshapen, distorted by the scars of years of hard living and hundreds of fights. He was missing roughly a third of his teeth, and at some point he'd lost an eye, which was now covered by a black silk patch. It was the face of a man who had spent the majority of his life inflicting or receiving pain. It should have looked brutal, but somehow the easy relaxed smile and laughter lines creasing his mouth prevented that, and instead it simply looked battered.

Halec inclined his head respectfully, then got up, towering over the rider. "Murtagh, I have been instructed to escort you to tonight's meal, where I shall act as your retainer." Halec said slowly, his gravely voice lengthening the words.

Noticing the flash of sullen panic that appeared on the riders face, he gave an exasperated, long suffering sigh, and handed him some neatly folded clothes. "I prepared these for you, and you have an hour to get ready."

Murtagh nodded gratefully. He had attended functions a few times in his life, mostly after his father died, and had hated every second of them. People simpered at each other, and complained about ludicrous things. He would rather flying back into battle. But then, if he had his way he wouldn't be here at all. Accepting the clothes grudgingly, he closed the door behind the big man and began to change.

Half an hour later, Halec reappeared, changed and freshly scrubbed. He had exchanged his usual leathers for a surcoat of black silk and a velvet doublet of the same shade. On anyone else this would have been frippery, but Halec still looked like a thug. A beatific smile shone on his scarred face. Walking over he assisted the young rider with the straps and buckles that held his suit together.

"Why has he ordered this?" Murtagh asked sullenly, but politely. He could see no logical reason for the king to do give this particular order, and had decided it was purely for the purpose of humiliating his toy.

Hallec shrugged, then pulled a buckle tight. "Far be it for a mere servant like me to guess the goals and plans of the king of Alagaësia, but if I were to give my opinion, I'd guess that he wants to know what else he can use you for. You're a good killer, but he can get them by the hundreds, and he's pretty handy with a blade himself. Now he wants to see how far he can trust you, and learn your other uses to him."

Murtagh bristled at the implication he was nothing but a killer, but then felt a cold, twisting feeling in his gut as he considered what the old servant was saying. He felt like laughing at the word 'trust,' but it all seemed true. He didn't know whether to be afraid or pathetically grateful to the king for giving him this small modicum of trust. Halec seemed not to notice, continuing as he pulled another strap tight. "Of course, Galbatorix hates to waste resources, and politics always annoyed him, or so he complains. He's going to use you to keep all the nobles in balance, so he can do whatever it is he does when he's not on the Throne or playing Ruler at court."

"So he's making me his steward?" Murtagh asked incredulously. Everyone said the king was crazy, but he'd never seen any such evidence, until hearing this. The king knew he couldn't trust Murtagh, that he'd do whatever he could to bring the king down. Trusting him with all this…

Halec gave out a short chuckle, like a dog barking. "Not on your life. But being a king isn't about making the big decisions. It's about keeping things balanced. He wants to see how you cope with that. And that's what he'll be doing tonight. Don't mess it up." With that, Halec pulled the last strap tight and slapped him on the shoulders. Dragging him over to a mirror, he made a few minute adjustments, like a jeweler straightening his tools, then showed Murtagh his reflection.

Murtagh nodded. He looked good, the expert cut of the clothes emphasizing the hard lines of his build and his razor sharp good looks. "Why is everything black?" He asked, keeping what he really thought to himself. These clothes were comfortable, but didn't keep him warm, wouldn't keep the rain of his back, hampered his movement and wouldn't stop a sword thrust. His practical soul rebelled against them, but it seemed to small a thing to be tortured over for disobedience.

"It's the king's color. Your representing him. Why do you think?" Halec replied, turning and picking up Zar'roc, which he handed to Murtagh along with a fine quality belt.

"I've never seen him dressed like this." Murtagh replied, belting the sword to his hip, then adjusting it so it wouldn't bang against his leg when he walked.

"He never bothers with it. Wears his armor everywhere. He says he's king by word, deed and strength, and none of his subjects care how he dresses." Halec replied, leading him down a hallway towards the great hall. He said nothing else, not bothering to reply to the Rider's attempts to find out more information. At last they came to a long hallway that ended in a pair of majestic double doors that led to the greathall. A constant stream of servants bustled through the corridor, towards the smaller door at the left. Halec followed the corridor halfway, then turned off into an adjoining room, to give the rest of the guests time to arrive.

"I suggest you do not try to undermine the king. It won't do any good, and it might get people killed."

Murtagh looked at him oddly, in clear surprise. "What?"

Halec stared at him, his brown eye seeming unusually piercing. "You might sit in the kings chair, but you don't have any of his power. If you try to work against him, the king will eliminate those involved, one way or another, and try again."

Murtagh gaped. "But they're nobles!"

"Your point? If they did anything useful they would be out doing it. They're here because they have nothing important to do with their time. And the king only bothers with them because they have powerful relatives. He can use them as hostages, or as leverage."

"But… he wouldn't dare…"

"Who's going to stop him? He can do whatever he wants. Just because he doesn't like to be brutal doesn't mean he can't. Don't forget that. So do as he says, and don't try to be brave, or people could die."

Murtagh glared at the servant. He'd wondered why the man had been so forthright with him, and now it was clear. Because Galbatorix had ordered him to be. The king wanted him to understand his position, to realize this was a test, to ensure he acted as the king wished. He growled slightly under his breath. "He knows I will. It's not like I have a choice."

"Oh, you would anyway."

Murtagh glared at the man, his dark eyes burning with anger. "Don't ever say that again. I serve because he forces me to. I would die before serving him willingly."

"Now, now. Don't lie to an old man. If you really thought that, you'd be dead."

With that, he led Murtagh out of the room, to the double doors.

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