Thorn and Misery - Chapter 3
Murtagh lay in silence on his bed, in a place between sleeping and waking. His thoughts were a mixture of distant memories and waking dreams, but above all there was an overwhelming feeling of intrusion. Murtagh was filled with a mind that was not his own, as if there was a foreign energy inside him that observed and judged his every thought. He did not sleep that night.
Murtagh lay in this trance-like state for several hours before he realized that the sun was shining brightly through his still open window. He stood and stretched, his internal clock telling him it was already after noon. He entered the privy that was attached to his suite, drawing some icy water from the jug and splashing it on his face.
Feeling somewhat himself again, Murtagh sat down on one of the high-backed wooden chairs in the main room of his suite and contemplated what had transpired the day before. He knew his true name, but that was hardly a relief to him. The words carried with them an devastating sense of power, though they seemed volatile somehow. It was as if the knowledge of his true name could serve him or betray him at a single turn.
Then Murtagh felt the unfamiliar presence inside him flare. It tugged him forward and out of his rooms, down the dark, empty halls and back to the throne room. He strode into the hall, stopping at the black throne. Murtagh stopped and looked sullenly up at Galbatorix.
"Good morning, Murtagh," said the mad king, a mocking grimace twisting his face. "You slept well, I hope?"
"I'm sure you know the answer to that, Galbatorix," spat Murtagh.
Galbatorix tutted in an infuriatingly condescending manner, shaking his head. "You are impudent in the face of your king. I had hoped you would not forget your previous lesson, but it seems I was mistaken. You will bow before addressing me, if you please."
Murtagh remained perfectly still, glaring into Galbatorix's cruel black eyes.
"Before I die of old age, please, Murtagh," said Galbatorix, the ghost of a laugh behind his eyes. Galbatorix was a Dragon Rider, albeit a false one. His dragon, Shruikan, and his magic had brought to Galbatorix unnatural longevity. He was over a hundred years old, and in no danger of dying soon.
"I tire of this," said Galbatorix suddenly. "Bow to me!"
It was a direct order; Murgagh could not ignore it. He felt his spine curl as he was forced into a deep bow. Bolts of sharp pain raced along his back, tracing the long, knotted scar that ran from Murtagh's shoulder to his hip. The scar was a relic of one of his father Morzan's fits of rage – he had thrown his sword, Zar'roc, at him. Murtagh gritted his teeth and tried not to cry out.
Galbatorix held him in this position for several long moments before releasing him. "That's better," he said, smiling grimly.
Murtagh's eyes still burned with hate. "You may force me, Galbatorix, but know this: I will never follow you willingly. I fell for your childish tricks before, but now I know better. No fantasy of yours will be able to draw me in."
Galbatorix, for the first time that Murtagh had yet seen, descended from his gleaming black throne to stand beside him. Putting an almost fatherly arm around his shoulders, Galbatorix led him to one of the high windows beside the throne. This one faced the open fields that led away from Uru'baen, to the rest of the Empire. Atop the bluff on which the castle stood, Murtagh could see for miles. He remained wary, despite Galbatorix's casual air. He knew he could never be too cautious around the mad king.
"Oh, Murtagh, how I only wish you could see it as I do!" he said. With his free hand, he gestured outward, across the countryside. Galbatorix's deep black eyes took on a dreamy cast. "Once I have eradicated the Varden and established my new Riders, there will be no more need for war! My Empire will thrive. You can help me rebuild Alagaesia, and the Dragon Riders."
Murtagh swallowed heavily. "Have I not said?" he growled, his fury making him reckless. He had nothing to lose, after all. He stepped back, his eyes filled with loathing. "I will never join you!"
Without warning, Galbatorix reached down and slapped Murtagh viciously across the face. Murtagh reeled, stunned by the force of the blow.
"Watch your tongue!" Galbatorix snapped. "You don't have a choice! The old Riders were useless. They were lazy and arrogant, and their arrogance made them weak. They were unable to do their job properly. I have no wish to destroy them, only to see them rebuilt and reborn, under the direction of an Empire than must survive."
The king chuckled again before continuing. "Now, if we may move on to the reason I requested your presence." Galbatorix snapped his fingers, and two servants appeared, each carrying a black silk cushion swathed in velvet cloth. One cloth was a deep, ruby red hue, and the other vivid green. Another snap from Galbatorix and the servants departed. Galbatorix slowly drew back the cloths, one in each hand. His long, spidery fingers twitched with anticipation. Murtagh gaped at what lay underneath.
Two dragon's eggs.
The eggs were quite large, about a foot in length. One was a deep scarlet, the colour of freshly spilled blood, the other a shining emerald green. Both matched the colour of their respective velvet cloths almost exactly. Veins of lighter colour, so pale they were almost white, ran through the eggs' surfaces in untraceable webs. Murtagh let out a low gasp.
"Impressive, are they not?" Galbatorix said with a smirk. "Yes, these eggs have been my most prized possessions for many years. They have yet to hatch, but it is my hope that that will be rectified today."
Murtagh stared at him, wide-eyed.
"You understand me, Murtagh. Touch the egg, please."
Though Galbatorix had not told him which egg to touch, Murtagh was instantly drawn to the scarlet one, which seemed to radiate a power that the green egg lacked. He reached out a hand, knowing the power a dragon hatchling would bring him. He would have magical strength to surpass Eragon's by far. The people of the Empire would remember him forever as the greatest Dragon Rider that had ever lived.
He knew without a doubt that Galbatorix would force him into subservience should the egg hatch for him, but the promise of a dragon was impossible to resist. And besides, he had a nasty feeling that, should the egg not hatch for him, he was as good as dead anyway. Gritting his teeth, Murtagh thrust his hand forward and laid it on the egg.
The egg trembled slightly. It was all the warning Murtagh was given before he heard a sound like a soft chirp echo out of the egg. Stepping back, Murtagh was astonished to see a thin but definite line make its way across the egg's surface. More cracks appeared, growing steadily broader. Large pieces of the shell began to break away, falling to the ground. Finally, the last of the eggshell broke apart and a ruby dragon hatchling tumbled gracelessly out of the egg.
The dragon was roughly the size of a small cat. It coughed lightly then shook itself off. It unfurled scarlet wings that were several times larger than its body, appraising them with an intelligent eye. Seeming satisfied, it curled up on the floor and began licking a forepaw. Murtagh sank to his knees, oblivious to Galbatorix's cries of happiness. The chick stopped preening and peered at Murtagh. There was a hidden wisdom in its intense gaze that awed Murtagh. It was as if the dragon, though newly hatched, possessed the knowledge of centuries.
Hesitantly, Murtagh stretched his left hand forward. The dragon seemed to have no objection, so Murtagh gently began to caress its small head, braced for what he knew was about to happen.
As if on cue, a blast of white-hot energy shone around the hand he had laid on the dragon. It pulsed out of the dragon and up Murtagh's left arm, knocking his breath away. He swayed, fighting to remain upright as his whole arm went numb. The burning, flame-like energy smouldered painfully for several long moments, and then finally died down. When he removed his hand, he was greeted with a glittering, silvery mark on his palm: the gedwey ignasia.
"This is indeed glorious." Galbatorix's voice was suddenly much gentler. "I shall have you moved to new quarters at once – those suitable for a Dragon Rider."
Murtagh wondered at Galbatorix's words. He was indeed a Dragon Rider, and the scarlet dragon chick seemed to recognize it. It nuzzled Murtagh affectionately, butting him in fun. Somehow Murtagh knew the dragon was male.
"Return to your suite and pack your belongings, Murtagh," said Galbatorix. "A servant will be along shortly to show you to your new rooms. You will awaken at dawn tomorrow, and your training will begin."
Murtagh nodded and did as he was bid. He scooped the tiny dragon into his arms and carried it down the twisting halls to his suite, stroking it absentmindedly. When he entered his rooms, Murtagh flopped down onto the four-poster bed while the dragon settled himself on the writing desk.
"I suppose you need a name," he said to the dragon.
The dragon simply stared.
Murtagh continued. "The ancient names hold no attraction for me. Since you are to be part of a new era of dragons and Dragon Riders, I shall have to think of a modern name for you."
The dragon only blinked; Murtagh took his silence as agreement. He crossed to the open window and looked out. Though the cave-like recess that protected the castle forbade much natural light, bright flameless lanterns illuminated the courtyard. A narrow cobblestone paths twisted between clumps of rose bushes. One such bush was directly below Murtagh's window. Absently, he reached down to pluck one of the wine-coloured flowers, but his hand closed instead on a thorny stem.
Murtagh pulled his hand back with a cry of shock. The cuts that rent his palm were small, but he had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had not expected the pain. Blood trickled slowly out of the gashes, collecting to run down his wrist and stain the edge of his sleeve. The infant dragon looked up, startled by the Murtagh's cry.
"It's fine," Murtagh told the dragon, proffering his injured hand for inspection. "It's just a scratch."
Then, to Murtagh's great surprise, the hatchling began licking the blood off his hand. His rough tongue darted out, gently cleaning Murtagh's wound. Within moments, all the blood was gone.
"Thank you," Murtagh told the dragon. "Well, I think I have a name for you. Thorn seems fitting, don't you think?"
The dragon sat still for a moment, pondering the name. He nodded once, then curled up on the writing desk and went to sleep.
A/N: This is the chapter that is likely going to take the most work. As we learn in Inheritance, Murtagh was the first to survive several "tests," the nature of which are unknown, before he was exposed to Thorn's egg. I'd like to figure out a way to get this in here eventually, but it's not my most immediate problem. As with the previous chapter, this will stay how it is for now. I've been gradually chaging the smaller descriptions (Galbatorix's appearance, the throne room, the doors), but something this big is going to take longer.
UPDATE (August 2012): Okay, I know I said I wanted to make this Inheritance-compliant, but I think I'm going to omit the tests, at least for the foreseeable future. It just means too much re-writing of stuff that I'm already satisfied with. If I find myself facing a considerable amount of free time, that may be subject to change.
- Miss Maddie