Chapter 3
I do not own Inheritance, yet. Bear with me, it will all be over soon. I also do not own the poems written by Robert E Howard, yet I ripped off part of 'The Road Of Kings' for the song Sanasta sings. Oh what a tangled web we weave…
Murtagh was escorted with little ceremony to the great hall, where the entirety of Galbatorix's court were housed, along with visiting dignitaries and an endless stream of toadies, flatterers, nobles and other aristocrats, all seeking the king's favor. Almost none of them received it, but politics was never an easy game, and while most wasted their time, occasionally one would, and it led to the opportunity to make alliances and agreements with each other, and
Halec pulled Murtagh aside to a small antechamber as the last arrivals made their way through the doors, then waited another minute to give them time to be seated. At last he led him through, to the great hall. Descending a broad, curved stairway lined with candles that had been designed purely for the purpose of facilitating grand entrances, Murtagh marveled at the size of the room. It was as big as the dragons cavern, and even the entirety of the guests did not fill it. Murtagh suspected that everyone in the castle could fit in this room with ease.
Each arrival was boomed out by a short, stocky, dark man, who wore more gold then a decently sized village would earn in a decade. He favored a long, luxurious beard a dwarf might envy, and held a long oaken staff with steel caps, which he rapped on the floorboards as he announced each arrival.
"Murtagh Morzansson, Dragon rider." He announced, after a moments agonizing over how to address him. There were quite a few murmurs of interest, and Murtagh saw ripples in the crowd as they turned from their meals to observe him. These murmurs intensified to a storm of protest when Halec sat him down at the head of the table in the king's chair, but when Galbatorix failed to materialize and slay this young upstart for his temerity, they became subdued and eventually stopped altogether.
Three seats to his right sat a man whose broad shoulders and sun browned skin seemed out of place in the luxurious surroundings. He seemed more a part of the mountains and forests of the world then anything that belonged here. His slightest movement spoke of steel-spring muscles knit to the keen intellect of a born swordsman. There was nothing deliberate or measured about his actions, either he was at rest, in which he was still as a statue, or he was in motion, with the slow deliberate movements of a lion stalking prey.
His garments were simple, well-cut cotton and a wool undershirt, both dyed forest green. He wore no ring or ornaments, no crest to indentify himself, and his black mane was wild and untamed. He was not eating, but resting his chin on his fist, surveying the room with his smoldering green eyes, like an ancient god passing judgment.
Sensing Murtagh's scrutiny, he turned to stare back, a fierce expression on his face. Murtagh signaled to Halec, who leaned down next to him.
"Yes?" Halec asked, in a way that seemed far to casual for a man being addressed by his lord.
"Who is that?" Murtagh asked, genuinely curious. The man didn't fit in here, and had attracted Murtagh's attention. Halec blinked at him. "That's Lord Meric. He owns an estate north of Urû'baen. He's the kings best general, and strongest supporter. Has a few other titles that don't mean much anymore, like The King's Champion. He's also Kialandí's son."
Murtagh started, nearly dropping his goblet. Gapping like a landed fish, he stared at the man, mentally assessing him against a picture of a man he'd once seen. The strong jaw and heavy brow were the same, as were the eyes and hair, but Kialandí was bigger, had stronger cheekbones and a dark, feral look around him that Meric lacked. Just the same, the resemblance was uncanny.
"But… but I thought none of the forsworn had children." Murtagh spluttered, still staring at the bigger man.
Halec shrugged. "Well, you're the only official one, but Kialandí was a lusty bastard. He had about twenty illegitimate children with assorted servants and mistresses on his estate, and refused to recognize any of them. However, those that impressed him he favored, making them compete for his attention. By the time he was twenty, Meric was the only one left, and he got everything except the name and titles when Kialandí died. He's a bad one. Some of the things they say…" He trailed of. Murtagh was staring at the man his face a mix of pity and sorrow, both for the other man and himself.
Halec disappeared, and returned bearing meat and wine, which Murtagh picked at, eager to be gone. The food looked delicious and exotic, several dishes he didn't know the name of, and a dozen he didn't even know how to eat, but he took small servings of the simple fare, which he stared at on his plate. He knew that he should be hungry, having missed lunch as well, but some how he didn't seem able to work up an appetite.
Around him everyone was locked in conversation. It drifted from subject to subject, but the point of focus seemed to be the war. Opinions and understanding of the process varied from person to person, but the consensus was that the Varden were living on borrowed time, and the war would soon be over. The loss of Feinster, Ceunon and Gil'ead were attributed to luck, or ignored totally, and the talk of the new rider was not even brought up, for which Murtagh was profoundly grateful.
Despite this, he didn't no whether to be amused or afraid by the consensus the nobles seemed to be reaching. Their assumptions were laughable, as was their confidence. If the Varden won he had little doubt he'd be seeing the same men in the hall, saying the exact same thing about the other side. But despite this, Murtagh suspected they were right. The empire had near limitless resources to call on, while the Varden were under equipped and had limited reserves. Eragon was no match for the king. He was only a match for Murtagh when he was backed up by thirteen elves. These were facts, and all the righteousness and bravery in the world couldn't change them. Perhaps these sycophants were all right.
A steady thrumming interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see musicians, three men and a women, had taken the centre of the hall, and were readying a variety of instruments, most of them stringed. They wore simple clothing, but their manner and appearance were enough to set them off as strangers to the city at a glance. Murtagh watched, enraptured, as they each played a cord, forming a soothing sound. The women then stepped forward and began to sing, as behind them the musicians picked up the tempo.
It was a sad, haunting song, that made Murtagh think of things he'd rather forget. He didn't recognize the language, and the words were lost on him, but the meaning was clear. It made Murtagh want to cry, and most of all want to go and sit next to Thorn and share the company of the being closest to him.
The girl was perfectly formed. Her skin was flawlessly white, the autumnal fire of her hair glistened in the torchlight like a cascade of living embers, and her bright green eyes were wide and deep. And her voice was beautiful, changing in caderence to match the words, now deep and husky, now light and trilling as birdsong. Too soon, the song was over, and she bowed to the polite applause. Smiling radiantly, she waited until it was over, then said in a northern accented voice "Now I will sing 'The Road of Kings.' It is credited to Palancar, first king of Alagaësia."
The musicians took up a steady beat, reminiscent of marching drums, and for a second Murtagh fancied he could hear the tramping of feet, the sounds of blades cleaving flesh and the screams of the fallen. Closing her eyes, the girl said in a clear, expressionless voice:
"When I was a fighting-man, the kettle drums they beat
The people scattered gold-dust before my horses feet.
But now I am a Great king, the people hound my track
With poison in my wine cup, and daggers at my back."
Murtagh blinked at the words. They were recited beautifully, and given that the court was built on regicide perhaps it was not such a strange choice. But truth be told, he found the song deeply unsettling. He could, however, see why the king liked it.
"Gleaming shell of an long dead lie, fable of right divine,
You gained your thrones by heritage, but blood was the price of mine.
I, who have been a great king, I, who have been a slave,
I who have been a warrior, a madman, a knave."
Looking around, Murtagh noted the frown on the faces of those watching. He supposed it made sense; they were the very people the verse was so depreciating of. Across the room, Murtagh saw a red faced bearded man grinding his teeth as the girl continued.
"I remember when Palancar said this. He'd just brought all the nobles to his court who disagreed with him to what they thought were negotiations. He killed them all himself." Said a odd voice behind Mutagh's left shoulder. Murtagh started and turned, to find an albino dwarf squatting behind him. He was bald as an egg, though the rest of him was exceedingly hairy, and dressed in only a loincloth and red belt from which a bell hung. His legs were bowed and shoulders hunched, making him appear even shorter, and he favored a scraggly beard, as pale as his skin. His fingernails were black claws, which he was compulsively scratching himself with.
Murtagh looked around, but no one else seemed to have noticed the stunted figure. Turning back he thought he'd vanished for a second until he realized that he'd ghosted forward and was helping himself to the meat on Murtagh's plate.
"Of course, the king wasn't so poetic himself. He was a savage man. Basically what he said was, 'Your all in my way, I've killed more men then I can count, try and stop me.' One of his ancestors who could hold a pen without breaking it wrote the verse. Though he wasn't nearly so interesting as Palancar. I left about then."
"Who are you?" Murtagh asked, still wondering who, or what, this was. He didn't act like a dwarf, and he certainly wasn't human.
The small figure shrugged. "What does it matter? I'll still be me whatever you call me. I'll still do the same things, act the same way. I'll always be me. What's the difference? If you insist on referring to me, call me Morgost."
"Who… What are you?" Murtagh said, trying to get his head around Morgost's verbal trickery.
"I'm a werecat. I like to be where important things are. We all do. And at the moment, this is the centre of the universe." He grinned, showing needle sharp teeth. "Besides, you are going to be important later. Tell me, what's more important to you, honor and duty, or freedom and happiness?"
"I… what?" Murtagh asked, now deeply confused. He felt like he was only hearing half a conversation, that depended on the listener having prior knowledge, and understanding of the subject matter.
"And who are you, the person you know you are, or the person everyone else says you are?" Morgost continued, leaping onto the table to stare down at him, his face inches from Murtagh's, his yellow eyes bring into Murtagh's dark ones with inhuman intensity.
Seeing Murtagh's mystified expression, Morgost grinned an unsettlingly wide smile, showing needle pointed teeth again, in a long, unnaturally wide row that looked surprisingly deadly. "Nevermind. I'll ask you again in a few months." he said, and darted away. Murtagh tried to keep his eye on him, but he vanished among the crowd, none of who seemed to notice him, even when he was inches away from their faces. Shaking his head in mystification, Murtagh considered the words again, but they still didn't make much sense. Wishing the citadel wasn't warded so he could ask Thorn about them he sighed, then shrugged.
At last, he turned his head back to the girl, just in time to hear the last words of the song.
"What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie?
I, who was born on uncharted seas beneath the open sky.
The subtle tongue, the written word, they fail when broadswords sing;
So come and die like the dogs you are, I was a man before I was king!"
With that she concluded, with another bow. This time the applause was a lot more subdued, with many of the men around the room looking ready to commit murder. Murtagh buried an urge to laugh. She left the stage and the musicians took up a ditty, the sort you felt an instinctive wish to dance to. The meal had ended, and the entertainment was beginning. Soon servants would replace the wine with whisky and the musicians with dancing girls. Now was the time for politics.
"It begins, my lord." Halec commented dryly, as a gaggle of assorted brightly clad celebrants made their way towards him. Bracing himself for a few hours boredom, Murtagh got up and went to meet them, Halec in tow.
The first to arrive was a brown-robed women, with her head completely shaven and missing an arm and leg. Three interlocking triangles decorated a solid gold pendant around her neck. She might once have been pretty, but years of deliberate self -harm and enforced misery had leached any beauty from her. She staggered with the aid of a crutch, yet this did no seem to overly inconvenience her.
"I am Archprelate Loresta. I am honored to meet you. How is the king, my lord?" She croaked, her voice seemingly parched, as though badly dehydrated. Murtagh had an urge to push past her and leave, but he forced himself to suppress it. He didn't like the Dras-Leonan clergy, in fact he hated them,
"Quite well." Murtagh replied, doing his best to seem disinterested in the hope she would get the hint and move on. She did not.
"Good to hear. His majesty would be well advised to return to Helgrind soon, after the good it did him in his last visitation. He has rarely appeared so well." She continued, her unnaturally deep voice growing even gravlier.
"Really." Murtagh said, backing away slightly.
"Has he mentioned his plans for our city recently?" She asked, and Murtagh felt like giving thanks.
"Yes. He says he has finally settled on a replacement for Tabar. She will be given the authority soon."
"Thank you." She croaked, in what was meant to be a thankful tone. "Did he mention anything about her?"
"I am afraid not." Murtagh lied, moving on to the next petitioner. Then the next one, and the next, until Murtagh began to loose track of them. The time that followed would have been insufferable if Halec was not there to give advice and give a succinct and pointed briefing about each of the people he met. Many of them seemed not to want anything more then a chance to meet him, whether to assess him or simply out of idle curiosity. A few wanted information about the king or the war, but he avoided the questions, remembering what Galbatorix had said about spies. He could not on good conscious let any of them find th
emselves in the dungeons because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
"This is Gurney." Halec said at last, as a plump count finally departed, chortling to himself. "He's likeable enough in a boisterous kind of way, but he's a simple man. All he cares about in life is wine, women and the occasional hunt." Halec said as Murtagh met the next man.
He was big, nearly as big as Meric, (who, Murtagh noticed, still hadn't left his chair). Gurney was fit after a lifetime sent in the saddle, and his clothes were of good make, but clashed horribly due to his carelessness selecting them. A well-worn sabre graced his left hip, and he favored long, drooping moustaches, that gave his angular face a sad quality.
"Hello, lad." He said openly, clapping Murtagh on the back with a fatherly gesture. "Not bored stupid yet?"
Murtagh grinned slightly, glad to see a friendly face. "Give them a few minutes."
Lord Gurney gave a deep, rolling laugh, infectious in it's unashamed caderence, and clapped him again. "Oh, you'll do just fine there lad. Say, I don't suppose I could get a look at your dragon?"
"I'm afraid not." Murtagh replied, then inwardly winced. Gurney didn't seem bothered in the slightest.
"Pity that. Say, what's the old king up to?"
Seeing his chance, Murtagh adopted his best open expression, that wouldn't have convinced anyone with the slightest amount of guile in his or her make up, and said "Well, last I heard he was giving his mistress Dras-Leona."
Gurney let out another booming laugh, which seemed to contain shock and genuine amusement in equal measure. "Really? I wouldn't have wagered a copper he had any hot blood running in his veins. Don't suppose any of us really know him, eh?" With that he wandered off, still laughing to himself. With that a bald man very big ears and a haunted expression took his place, and the drudgery resumed.
Murtagh began to loose track of those he spoke to, and was about ready to snap when rescue came from an unexpected source. Sliding through the throng of people like a shark through a school of fish, Meric came up to him. "A word, if you please." He said, his voice deceptively quiet, and led Murtagh back to the table. A few of the petitioners stared after him longingly, but left it at that.
Meric was seated at the table with the singer he recognized from before. Gesturing beside him to an empty chair, Murtagh sat, and they surveyed each other, like to chess grandmasters waiting for the other to make a move.
"I wondered what you'd be like." Meric said at last. "I thought perhaps another version of myself. Younger. Perhaps more at peace with the world."
Murtagh glared at him. "Sorry I don't live up to your expectations."
Meric didn't deign that with a reply. Instead he looked over Murtagh again, than met his eyes. "It's not my expectations you should be worried about." He said, his eyes boring into Murtaghs with a terrifying passion.
Murtagh did not lower his eyes. The man was intimidating, but he was not the king. "Did you have something you wanted to say?" He practically snarled.
"I have been asked to lead our defence of Belatona. The king has told me I can have any resources I like. I want you to come with me." Meric replied, his tone carefully blank.
Murtagh blinked, but otherwise remained perfectly still. He'd weathered enough surprises today, this was nothing special. "I'm afraid I can't. My dragon is… hurt."
Meric shook his head. "You can accept now, or you can wait until tomorrow, at which point the king will summon you and you can try petty insolence with him. But don't waste my time. I don't suffer fools."
Murtagh glared at him. "Even if I wanted to help you, Thorn is physically unable to fly."
Meric didn't deign to give an answer. Instead he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. The girl smiled shyly at Murtagh, then turned and followed him.
Murtagh glared at his back, overcome with a desire to curse, then strode up the stairs and out of the hall instead, unable to bear another second in there. He'd done enough of the king's dirty work for one night.
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