Chapter 8

I don't own Inheritance. I suppose I'll have to make up my own series then. Where's the fun in that?

As usual, the walk to the king's keep was deserted. Murtagh had been still, staring at the silent corridor for nearly an hour, waiting for the inevitable meeting. Part of him was furious that he was being made to wait, but a colder, more rational part of his brain told him to stop complaining. He should be glad the king was ignoring him.

It was close to midnight when he had been awoken by a presence in his mind. He had franticly raised defenses, but he shouldn't have bothered. The king swept them aside with contemptuous ease, then continued his inspection. Finally he said curtly Come to the tower, and ended the link, leaving Murtagh gasping in a cold sweat.

He had dressed silently but quickly, and walked through the halls towards the keep, his mind awhirl with trepidation and fear. He spotted the occasional servant running errands for their master, and a man sneaking out in a suspicious-looking hooded cloak. At first he took the man for one of the king's assassins or magicians, but soon realized that wasn't the case. They were probably quite good at sneaking, where this figure had managed to step on every creaking floorboard and rubbed his back so close to the stonework it le out a dull scrape. Probably just a lord or noble out to see his mistress.

He had come to the hallway that led to the keep, then stopped as he had sensed the defensive spells were still active. So he waited, expecting to be allowed in any moment. He was still waiting an hour later.

A slim figure glided up behind him. When he was next to Murtagh a pale hand reached up and pulled back his hood, exposing a long pale face, softly handsome, if a bit worn and hardened, and long ears tapering into points. His almond eyes slanted up, and his chin was pointed like a knife. Long blond hair like spun gold framed his face. Murtagh gaped.

"You're… You're an elf!" Mutagh said.

The figure turned to stare at him, his slanted eyes narrowing slightly. Beneath the cloak, the elf was dressed in a formless tunic and simple breeches, which he wore like an emperor's robes. A simple band of beaten gold held back his hair, and his pale skin seemed to glow in the murk. Murtah had seen a few elves, Oromis most recently, and had come to know Arya during his time with the Varden, though she had remained fairly mysterious and secretive about her emotions. But they were still a mystery to him, and to see one here seemed faintly unreal.

The elf finished his assessment and returned his gaze to the hallway ahead, leaving Murtagh even more confused. Lowering his mental defenses reluctantly, he let out a slight probe of his conscious that sought out Thorn's mind. To his surprise he was unable to find anything, even a shielded conscious. For a moment he mentally flailed desperately, like a man who has just realized he is missing an arm, then he withdrew back into the safety of his own mind, worrying. He had wanted Thorn's advice and opinion, but his absence was far more worrying then the silent presence beside him.

Murtagh suddenly remembered Shuriken snapping at the smaller dragon, and shuddered, feeling more afraid then he had ever been in his life. He would know, wouldn't he? Surely he would. But… No. Thorn would be fine. He had to believe that, like he had to continue breathing.

Trying to take his mind off the dark thoughts and worry that had risen to dominate his conscious, Murtagh turned to stare at the figure beside him.

"Who are you?" He asked, but got no reply. The elf didn't so much as twitch, as Murtagh stared at him, expectant. His face was serene, his eyes slightly clouded, and his thin fingers clutching his belt. Murtagh noticed they were in easy reach of the curved blades on either hip.

"Who are-" Murtagh tried again, but the elf cut over the top of him. "I am Evendir." He said, his voice curiously deep and rolling, seeming at odds with his delicate build. He turned to stare at Murtagh again, seemingly tired of ignoring him, keeping his face totally blank.

"How did an elf come to serve Galbatorix? I thought your people were his sworn enemies." Murtagh asked, his natural curiosity overcoming his anger at being ignored.

Evendir gave a small, secretive smile. "I am not an elf."

"Really," Murtagh said, taking in Evendir's long blond hair, slanting almond eyes, inhuman build and long ears tapering into points. "How do you figure that?"

Evaendir let go of his belt and held out his arms, holding himself open. "I am a Sûndavar Vinr, a dark one. I have been renounced by my people, and I have done the same to them. I am forsaken, unable to return to my homeland or speak to my people. To ensure this would remain the case, they entered my mind and removed some of my memories. I have no loyalty or sympathy to them. Indeed, quite the opposite." Evendir replied simply.

Murtagh was shocked. The matter-of–fact way he described the event added an extra dimension of horror to them.

"What did you do?"

Evendir shrugged letting his arms fall limply to his sides. "That is one of the memories they stole. All I know is I am an outcast. I do not know why. But I do know that my king has made use of me, has given me the purpose and home they stole." He turned back to survey the hall, leaving Murtagh intensely confused.

He heard a tapping noise ahead long before he saw anything. A shadow detached itself from the murk around the door that led to the keep, gliding towards them until it stopped at last, and began to adjust itself into a figure. Tarascus stared at the two of them, then limped past, his right leg dragging behind, leaning heavily on a staff of oak topped with a uncut ruby.

The gem looked about the size of a man's head, and appeared quite real and unflawed. In contrast, Tarascus was clad in a simple woolen tunic, breeches and hose that would have looked just as well placed on a beggar or peasant, rather then his usual velvet robes. His grey hair hung lank and untidy, and his eyes smoldered like a dormant volcano. Staring at the elf for a second, his eyes widening alarmingly, he said softly "The king wishes your company. Leave us." As the elf glided away, he turned his unsettling gaze on Murtagh. "Come." He said at last, turning and made his way up the stairs that led towards the throne room, his right leg twisted to the side and seeming fleshless and far too short, the deformity painfullynoticeable. With some trepidation, Murtagh followed.

At first the rider assumed they were following the path he always did, the long winding way that led to the towers peak. But at the third floor the magician paused, then turned off, leading Murtagh past the king's library and then through a baffling series of corridors he that at last led to a heavy door.

It was the sort of door that belongs on a battlement, that requires a batting ram to force open, and yet it swung it noiselessly at Tarascus's slightest touch. Stepping through he beckoned once to Murtagh then turned.

Tarascus's room was a curious mix of order and chaos. Neat shelving lined the walls, filled with tomes, scrolls and manuscripts. Some were new and well preserved, some were old and crumbling, several were bound in leather with clasps of silver, and one in what was either poor quality vellum or cured human skin.

A heavy table of rough, unrefined wood, cluttered with clay bowls filled with everything from crystal clear water to nuggets of gold to a squirming mass of insects. On every available surface papers strewed haphazardly, covered with scrawlings in some alien language, short and spiky. Next to the bookcases shelves filled all available space, crowded with bundles of herbs and flasks and jars. Nothing was labeled; either Tarascus had memorized where everything was or he could identify herbs at a glance.. At the end of the room was a door that was slightly ajar. Murtagh got a sense of something beyond that portal, and shuddered, unwilling or unable to dwell on it.

"Take a seat." Tarascus hissed, indicating to one of the three chairs. Murtagh sat, brushing aside a few open scrolls, one of which looked like a crudely drawn map of Alagaësia. Tarascus did the same, seating himself on an armchair next to the shelves. Steepling his fingers he looked over them at Murtagh, shaking his head slightly. His right leg didn't seem to bend very well, Murtagh noticed.

"What is the first law of magic?" He asked, his voice a dry croak. Murtagh wondered at the man. His face was prematurely aged, lean and emaciated, and generically unhealthy. He looked like he'd caught the wasting sickness, but somehow survived. His hair was grey, and shot with silver at the temples, and despite his thin, wasted build, he carried himself like a man who bestrides the world. He could be thirty or seventy, or anywhere in between.

"A magician is limited by his knowledge of the ancient language, and the energy in his body. If he oversteps this line he dies." Murtagh replied confidently. "Unless he has Eldunari, or the knowledge to draw power from other sources." He amended, still watching Tarascus. The magician terrified him, in way even the king was incapable of.

"Really? And how is the energy determined?" Tarascus asked emotionlessly, still watching the Rider, his lined face inscrutable. "By the strength of his body. One cannot perform feats with magic he couldn't perform through hard labor."

At this Tarascus lowered his arms. "Then explain the Elundari. They each possess a well of power, that recharges over time as though they were alive, and yet their bodies are long gone. Burned to ash." Murtagh opened his mouth to reply, but Tarascus continued on. "What of Spirits, beings with no corporeal form, who may only affect the world through magic? Why is it many magicians struggle to cast a single spell, yet men frailer then them bring about the same effect with ease? The last, in part can be explained by the forces they work with, A greater understanding of the forces at work, or even a simple understanding of leverage. And yet in identical positions the same forces come to some easier. Why?"

Murtagh shrugged. Some of these questions had occurred to him before, but he'd never questioned it. Magic was unknowable by its very definition. It followed laws of its own, to use it was to bend reality. When Tarascus continued staring at him, Murtagh licked his lips. "I don't know." He said.

"Few do. The answer is more obvious then many expect. Magic has nothing to do with physical power. Rather it is an act of will, harnessing your energy, your life-force if you like. Living beings can no more harness magic as a force then stop breathing. We can simply work through it. Magic itself is as intangible as smoke, yet through waving our hands we can create ripple that form shapes. Or at least, we can't through the ancient language."

Murtagh blinked slowly. "So what?" He asked. "What difference does it make knowing this?"

"Everything. It is not simply about what you can do, it is what you can force yourself to do. I have seen men claw through stone if given the right motivations. Magic is how much pain you can accept, what you can force yourself to give up." Spreading his arms wide, he chuckled. "Look at me! This shell is weak, pathetic, broken. And yet it is my strength, for I have lived with pain every second of my life, I have struggled to do things that you found easy. And I can make myself suffer with ease." He said, passion shining in his eyes, his pained face twisted by a look of almost sexual ecstasy as he ranted.

"It is through suffering that we find power, through pain and dedication. Spend your power freely, for it shall be replenished." He said, his fingers turning white as he gripped the sides of his chair.

Murtah felt like backing away, but a small part of him was swept up in Tarascus's words. "Do you understand?" He asked, his eyes boring into Murtaghs. The rider nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "Good. Then you are ready." Tarascus said with inhuman passion, standing up in a sudden, jerky movement, and moving over to the table. Picking up a bowl, he muttered "Brisingr," and it erupted with a blue flame. Turning back he returned to his chair. "The king wants you ready. You have survived battles, but now war looms around us. You will face spell weavers with more experience then you can hope to have. I am to teach you unconventional means in which to overcome them. What do you wish to know?"

Murtagh moved uncomfortably. "I don't know." He said, though as he did a multitude of possible questions arose in his mind.

Tarascus grunted. "Good. That is the first step to wisdom, admit you do not know, and then search for the answer. How many Elundari has the king given you?" He said, his passion overcome by a strange tone Murtagh couldn't place and wasn't sure he liked. He was always wary when Tarascus got in one of these moods. Normally he would simply give Murtagh a list or a scroll to memorize, mock him mercilessly in a jaded, cynical voice and send him on his way, but occasionally a strange passion would overcome him that made Murtagh feel he should be running away.

Once he had given the Rider two minutes to prepare his wards and then hit him with a range of death spells, the results leaving Murtagh gasping on the ground with a burning pain in his neck unable to feel the left side of his body. Another time he had forced Murtagh to think his way around a number of hypothetical attacks, most of which were fatal, and the forced him to put his strategies into action, one at a time then all at once. He dreaded these occurrences even more then the occasional bout with the king, because at least Galbatorix would hold back enough to keep him alive.

But Tarascus was not stable, not by any stretch of the word. If Murtagh was ever unable to summon up an at least adequate defense, the magician would leave him dead. To Tarascus he wasn't valuable, he wasn't even useful. He was just another apprentice, and even talented magicians had a habit of dying horribly in the magicians classes. And yet the king kept him. Because as dangerous as he was, there was no one else who could get the same results.

He had a hand in training most of the Empire's magicians, and it was doubtless his influence that instilled the fanaticism in them. Galbatorix could twist people around his little finger, but Tarrascus was an artist, priding himself of finding the breaking-strain of people, chipping away at identity's and personalities until they were as mad as he was.

"Three." Murtagh replied. Tarascus nodded. "And can you control them all at once, or must you draw on them separately?"

"One or two at a time." Murtagh replied, not liking this line of questioning.

Tarascus pursed his lips. "And yet you can still be overcome by your brother and his pet spellcasters."

A retort died on Murtagh's lips as he gazed into the burning intensity of Tarascus's eyes. Instead he nodded mutely.

"So to rectify this you must find alternative means of power. You can of course draw upon the life-force of your soldiers, but so can he. That road leads nowhere. You could store power in gems, but that too is far to limiting. Oh, it works alright if you have a centuary to prepare, but how often is that? You must be ready to fight at a moments notice. So what other means are there?" Tarascus asked rhetorically, then continued before Murtagh could answer. "They have advantages in both experience and preparation. But ultimately what wins magic duels is raw power. No matter how cunningly you prepare your wards, or how efficient you make your spell, you must still have the strength to use it, to overcome your opponents defenses or to protect yourself."

"So what is there?" Tarascus continued, his eyes lighting up again. "You can artificially increase your strength or endurance. But that serves no purpose, it does not increase your power, simply how much strain you feel." Murtagh winced. He was far stronger and faster then he had any right to be thanks to Galbatorix's tampering. The changes still caught him off guard, as he underestimated his own speed.

"Or you can learn to take power from alternative sources." Tarascus concluded, then muttered "Du Brisingr rísa audr tauthr." The bowl left his hand and drifted over to Murtagh. The Rider caught it. The bowl was filled with a white, powdery chalk-like substance, that seemed to be burning quite easily, and the fire was so hot it burned even from two feet away.

"How much energy is in that?" Tarascus asked. Murtagh looked at him, uncertain what to say. "What does it matter?"

"Enough to kill a man? Several? One hundred? An entire army? How much energy?"

Murtagh stared at him. Reaching out with his mind, he tried to find some essence, something of the fire, the same way he had been taught to touch the minds of living things. But there was nothing. Not even the faintest trace. "I don't know." He admitted.

"You seem to be saying that a lot, don't you? There is rather less energy in there then you have in your body, but no matter how much you take, the fire will recover. Effectively infinite, given time, but that is useless to you, isn't it? A sword means nothing to someone who's never held one before, and less to someone who doesn't know how."

Murtagh bristled. "So how do I use it?" He growled, wanting nothing more then to smack the sickly mage across the room. Tarascus shook his head mockingly. "You don't. As it is it is totally useless to you. If any spell weaver could do this, we would all bestride the world like gods." Something in his tone suggested he might not be so adverse to the idea. Murtagh shuddered. Tarascus was a madman, one gifted with great power who was responsible for training anyone with the talent to be a spell-weaver for the kings armies. He was exactly the sort of man who should never have such power.

"It is useless as it is. So change it. Give it life." Dropping a hand into another of the clay bowls he removed a small seed. "Eldhimmner." He said curtly. At first nothing happened, then slowly a tiny green shoot sprung forth. Tarascus held it, totally emotionlessly, as the shot sprung up, then forked and stretched out two leaves. Murtagh watched mesmerized as in barely a minute the sickly mage was holding an orange tree almost as long as his arm. "Did I create the life, or did I simply stir what was already there?" He asked.

"Stir, I think." Murtagh said uncertainly, watching as the mage dropped his creation to the ground. "Is that so?" He said. "Well then, I simply used the same principal that The King is doing to your dragon. But then, if life is the only source of energy, how does it grow? Every day your well is replenished, is rest and food the source of magic?"

Murtagh shook his head. "I should think not." Tarascus continued, letting the plant drop to the floor. As he did so, it crumbled to ash. "So then, life is infinite, ever replenishing. Or is it just that through rest, through replenishing your life force it returns. Simply convert that energy in the fire into life force, as easily as changing water into wine. My master searched for the answer for years, and I am the only person he ever told how taught how to do it. The answer is simpler then he could have believed, " Tarascus said, a faraway look on his face. "It is something beyond most spellcasters. But you're strong enough to learn." He said, the closest thing to a compliment he'd ever given the young rider.

"So then it is possible to use other forms of energy for magic?" Murtagh asked, then pushed on. "Would be possible to convert energy from anywhere into power? Could you convert power from the sun?"

"Some travel might be involved." Tarascus replied sarcastically. "If you were powerful enough to send your mind so far adrift, then you would already be more then powerful enough to remake creation itself. Distance is a factor. It always is. Why else do you suppose Galbatorix has not killed all the elves, if he could simply sit down and summon his will? You are only human, start with that." Tarascus, said, gesturing at the fire. The dark wizard looked at him for a few more moments, then pulled himself up and returned to the desk, where he began scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment.

Murtagh glared at the flame, then tentatively opened his mind. The task he had been given seemed impossible, and had he been more widely schooled in magic's application he likely would not have even tried. "What should I say?" He asked, but Tarascus didn't so much as look up. At last Murtagh gathered his will and said in a clear voice "Unin Brinsingr Un Faefathan du raudhr Leben."

For a second the flame flared, but that was all. But Murtagh let out a slight gasp as he fell from his chair, unable to even raise his arm to ward himself as he hit the stones face first. Spot's danced before his eyes, and he felt his vision fading, thickening around the edges and blurring. The drop on his strength was immense, as though he had us tried to lift a mountain. He couldn't even find the energy to breathe.

A claw-like hand grasped his hair and forced him to look upright with a surprising amount of strength. "You are stronger." Tarascus hissed, his face alight with a terrible passion. "Work through the pain. Make yourself get up. Make yourself breathe. It's only a matter of will. Only a matter of…"

Murtagh came to, slumped back in his chair. Tarascus was watching him with a curious mixture of interest and disgust. "Nearly an hour wasted." He said as Murtagh opened his eyes. "You just gave in. You chose to die." Tarascus said condescendingly. "But the king wants you alive, so I saved you. How do you feel?"

Murtagh shrugged. He felt tired, but nowhere near as tired as he should. By all rights he should still be on the ground, unable to so much as move. "What you just tried to do was impossible. As I explained, the ancient language has clearly defined limits." Tarascus sneered. "To do the impossible, work without it. The magic is part of you. It is yours to shape, to control. There are no limits except those you place on yourself. Master it. Exist through it." He said, his eyes shining with a hellish light. "Again."

Murtagh stared at the bowl a moment then shook his head. He remembered all to well the feeling after his last try. "I can't do it." He said softly.

The words seemed to infuriate the magician. "Yes you can! You have no limits!" He snapped. Stopping for a second he breathed deeply, then continued, sounding far calmer. "If you do not learn this, you will die. Pure and simple. You consider yourself a swordsman. And so you strive to improve, to always be better then any opponent, because if you aren't, then he will cut you down. But there is a range of other factors. The length of your blade, sheer luck, conditions, height. In magic no such factors apply. You pit the strength of your will against each other, and whoever's faith is stronger wins. So you ensure you have more power to work with then the other person, or you die."

Murtagh was glaring at him, but Tarascus did not relent. "No matter how well you prepare your spell, all a magician has to do is say 'Atra Un Grammyre ' and a battle of wills will ensure. You yourself have some talent with the craft, and with the aid of your dragon and Elundari to overcome any one foe, with the exception of the king and myself, but you will not have enough power to defeat your brother and his elven friends. So you will either resign yourself to die in a week, or you will do what I tell you." Tarascus snarled.

Murtagh opened his mouth, but Tarascus made a cutting gesture with his hand. "Hljödhr maela." No noise came out when Murtagh tried to reply. He couldn't even move his jaw. Tarascus got up and began pacing, occasionally pausing to stare at Murtagh disdainfully. "To those willing to look, there are many means of strengthening yourself. Any magician can simply invest the power in gems, but that is not strengthening, merely moving it around. Some elementary Wizardry can be useful, I can give you potions that would make you quite formidable indeed, but they interfere with your thinking and leave you drained. I could teach you how to summon spirits, but I am unconvinced you would be able to control them in such a way to give yourself an advantage. And even the basics of Necromancy are beyond you. So I will teach you to harness other forces to use your magic, and how to manipulate it at an instinctive level, beyond the need for Grammyre. Nod if you understand." Murtagh nodded, although Tarascus may as well have been speaking another language for all the sense it made to the Rider.

"Good. Now, as I have already said, Grammyre simply gives you a way to manipulate forces using your own will and life-force. But there is another type of magic. Consider your dragon. He may effect the world at no cost to himself by using magic instinctively."

"Thorn is a dragon." Murtagh tried to say, but no sound passed through his lips.

"You'll have to speak up, I didn't quite catch that." The magician mocked, then resumed his tangent. "What is it that allows him to do this? Certainly nothing that can be determined through logical application of facts. They have no organ, no extremity for this. As I said before, magic is as intangible as smoke, surrounding us like air, but beyond our ability to touch. Yet dragons, in the right circumstances can. So it is simply a mindset, something in their souls that allows them to be a part of magic. But this is unique to neither dragons nor spirits. Shades can. Elves can, but with less competency. And you can, Rider. And it is time you learned. I have crafted the spell I just cast so it drains on your energy, not my own. If you are unable to speak you are unable to cast magic, and must end the spell some other way. Either free yourself from it, or never speak again." He executed a mocking half-bow, then left the room. "Call me when you're ready." He sneered as he vanished through the door, his limp painfully obvious.

Panic began to flutter in Murtaghs stomach. He quashed it angrily, but it refused to completely go away, threatening to flare up again. Murtagh's mind raced desperately, but he had no idea where to even begin. Gingerly he lowered the wards around his mind, ready to replace them at the first sign of attack, and sent out a slight mental probe. As he suspected, the wards around the room prevented any mental contact with the outside world. For a moment he considered trying to break through, but dismissed it. He was little more then a novice when it came to magic, despite all the secrets he'd been, and was still being, taught, while Tarascus was the kings favorite spellcaster, and knew things that Murtagh was still having trouble comprehending the basic descriptions of. With Thorns help he might have a chance, but he couldn't even contact the dragon.

Quickly he reviewed the lessons in magic he had received, but he couldn't think of anything that seemed so much as relevant. Everything the king and Tarascus had taught him involved the Ancient Language or Elundari. Thorn's capabilities were taught to Thorn by Shuriken, and Murtagh was told only a little and understood even less.

Magic had once seemed so simple. But the more he learned, the less he knew. He doubted anyone could even begin to know everything about it. Suddenly he stopped. Maybe that, then, was the secret. After all, Thorn claimed not to know how he used his power, claimed it just came when he needed it.

Inexorably, Murtagh brought his considerable will to bear against the spell. But it was like trying to sense fire, there was no pull, nothing to latch his will against. It was like punching the air, no resistance, nothing to feel. So what else? He thought back to before Thorn had hatched, back when the king had kept him in the court. He'd known the basics of magic, but couldn't use it. Magic wasn't simply an extension of will, there was also a feeling, a feeling he had the first time he used it, to save himself from drowning in the caverns under Urû'baen. A feeling he had all but forgotten as magic had become more familiar.

Time seemed to slow, and he felt a surge build up within him. Then he was free, and he felt like roaring in victory. He didn't feel tired. Quite the opposite, every nerve sang with life and power. The lethargy and fatigue in his heavy limbs was gone, replaced with a vibrant intensity, more energy then he'd ever felt, more then he knew his body could hold. When Tarascus found him passed out half an hour later, Murtagh still had a wide smile on his lips.

Hope you enjoyed that. As usual I'm begging you to review. Even if it's just a few words of encouragement, or a minor point of contrition. Plus, you know, encourages me to write.