Thorn and Misery - Chapter 12
Murtagh and Galbatorix walked in silence for what seemed like ages. They passed no one; for once the halls were empty.
Murtagh could hardly believe that Galbatorix had divulged such a secret to him. This was a weakness that his enemies would kill to find out, something the Varden could use against him. Why would he tell Murtagh, someone he barely trusted to begin with?
"Do you really want to know why I told you this, Murtagh?" asked Galbatorix finally. "Something I have told no one before you?" Pulling him over to a small, torch-lit niche in the wall, Galbatorix looked him dead in the eye, and Murtagh was ashamed to discover that he could not meet his gaze. He turned his head and glared at the flagstone floor.
Galbatorix took Murtagh's chin in his hand and gently lifted it. "Look at me, please," he said. Murtagh found himself obeying. "I told you my history because I want you to trust me – trust that I mean you no harm and that I only want what is best for everyone." Galbatorix paused, and for a moment there was something akin to a smile on his face. "I have no desire for your friendship, nor any reason to expect I will get it, but want you to enjoy your time here, enjoy the power I have given you. I don't want you to feel that you are a prisoner." Galbatorix's smile grew wider, and his black eyes glinted in the torchlight. "I do not want my allies to suffer unduly on my account."
"Then give me my freedom."
"You know why I can't do that. I need you, Murtagh. Alagaesia needs you."
That is the problem with Galbatorix, thought Murtagh. He does not think himself a tyrant. He truly believes what he is doing is right.
Murtagh did not want to trust Galbatorix. He did not want to pity him, and yet he found himself doing just that. There was some quality in his black eyes, something about the way he spoke that made Murtagh want desperately to believe him. It did not help that his system of imperial rule was perfectly sound. It was the man, and not the leadership that was corrupt.
Finally forcing himself to meet Galbatorix's penetrating black stare, Murtagh knew he had no need to voice his thoughts. Why speak, when Galbatorix knew everything that crossed his mind?
"You must try again, Murtagh," continued Galbatorix, and it took Murtagh a moment to realize what he meant. "You must succeed. For the good of the Empire, you must master magic. If not for the Empire, then do it for yourself. Think of what you will be able to accomplish, if only you could master this simple task."
Murtagh nodded slowly. "I want to try again."
"Excellent," replied Galbatorix with another genuine smile. "Follow me, Murtagh."
Murtagh did as he was bid, and Galbatorix led him further down the halls to the small door that was rapidly becoming familiar.
Galbatorix seemed to be steering him along. Murtagh's legs moved, but his mind was still on the staggering things Galbatorix had told him that day. Murtagh supposed that the king really wanted to be trusted if he would dare tell Murtagh all that he had.
Murtagh let Galbatorix guide him down the hall until they arrived once again at the stone staicase that entered onto the wide, grassy field. The rock he had been trying to lift the previous day was still exactly where it had been, as if it had been waiting for Murtagh to return. He stood over the stone, left hand at the ready.
"Clear your mind," instructed Galbatorix, "and focus your attention on the task at hand. There is nothing in the world except you and that stone."
Murtagh felt his mind empty, forcing himself to put aside the things he had been told. He let his thoughts become a dark, calm void. He ignored even Galbatorix's presence in his mind. There was only Murtagh, and he was doing solely this for his own benefit. Not the king's, and not anyone else's. In that moment, Galbatorix did not exist.
Murtagh's outstretched hand began to glow as he reached inside himself and found the glowing well that was his newfound power, his inner essence. Calling on the magic, Murtagh let it fill his entire being. His hand glowed brighter still, until it was almost painful to look at.
"Say it," ordered Galbatorix.
"Stenr reisa."
There was no pause this time; it happened almost instantaneously. It was painfully slow at first, but then the stone rose faster, until it was hovering at Murtagh's eye level.
"Move it around in a circle."
Galbatorix barely had time to say the words before the stone was circling Murtagh's head at a dizzying speed. It seemed to obey Murtagh's sheer force of will rather than his direct command.
"Stop."
The stone came to an abrupt halt in front of Murtagh's face. He savoured the feeling of magic flowing out of him for one last moment before letting the stone fall to the ground, where it still quivered slightly.
"I knew you could do it, Murtagh," exclaimed Galbatorix. "I so hoped that you would have the strength. However, there are a few more things I would like to teach you."
Murtagh nodded, still slightly overwhelmed at what he had accomplished. The magic still thrummed through his body, waiting to be unleashed once again.
"For the most part, magic is not nearly as complex as people seem to think," said Galbatorix. "There are only two rules that, however basic, are the most important parts of the entire concept. The first is that magic is controlled through the use of the ancient language, as you already know. Though it is not absolutely necessary when casting the spell, it simplifies the matter a great deal. Every single thing in the world has a true name in the ancient language. If the name is known, the thing can be controlled."
Murtagh knew only too well how that part of the magic worked; both he and Thorn were enslaved through the knowledge of their true names.
"The second and most important rule of magic is that it takes the same toll on your body as would doing the task without magic," continued Galbatorix. "For example, I had to rest after growing Thorn because of the difficulty of the spell. Magic could leave you weakened, like that, or unconscious. It can even kill you if you attempt certain spells before you are ready."
"You mean, the spell I did the other day, brisingr, and this just now – those could have killed me?" Murtagh gaped.
"Highly unlikely," replied Galbatorix, in a disturbingly offhand manner. "Both of those spells are extremely simple. Even a novice can do them without suffering any adverse effects.
"Now that you know the rules, let us move on," said Galbatorix, and the two of them sat down on the soft grass. "The mastery of practical magic will doubtless take you some time, especially since you are not yet fluent in the ancient language. Have you been reading those books I set out for you?"
"A little."
"Well, you should continue to read, especially in the ancient language. No doubt the Compendium I gave you will help as well."
"The what?"
"Did you not see the book? It contained thousands of words and phrases in the ancient language, translated into the common speech."
"Oh, that," said Murtagh, recalling what he had first taken to be a dictionary. "Yes, it was very helpful."
"That was a Compendium of Language," said Galbatorix. "Compendia are written on many different subjects, but the ones pertaining to the ancient language are particularly rare."
For the next few hours, Murtagh and Galbatorix practiced spells of every variety imaginable. Murtagh conjured fire and water, he moved rocks and other small objects, and he even learned one of the twelve words of death. Murtagh caught on especially quickly to the art of healing with magic, the cut Galbatorix had given him scarring over almost in the same instant he said the words.
There was so much take in, he doubted he would remember it all, but he was happy simply to be using his power. Even with these simple spells, the magic building up inside of him was released.
The power was exhilarating. It was a relief to know that he could do what he set his mind to, and that his first attempt at 'brisingr' hadn't been a fluke after all. Murtagh hated feeling inadequate, and relished in his current success.
Murtagh found that as the time wore on, the spells became easier to learn, but he was also getting tired. So much magic in so little time had sapped his energy. Murtagh's limbs were growing heavy and stiff, and it was not until Galbatorix offered him another sip of faelnirv, the elven liquor, that he felt like himself again.
The sun was getting lower in the sky when Galbatorix suggested they try something else. "Scrying," he said, "Is an extremely useful branch of magic, that enables the user to see the current state of something he has seen in the past. There is, however, a drawback, as one cannot scry something he has not seen before. If you were to scry your sword, for example, you would see it sitting on the weapons rack in your suite. But, if scried Thorn and Shruikan, you would see only them, but not their surroundings, as you have never before seen where they are. Do you understand?"
"I think so," said Murtagh. "What do I have to do?"
"Scrying usually requires something reflective, such as a pool of water or a mirror. Since we have neither, I will hold the water in place while you attempt to scry in it. You must simply concentrate on what you wish to see, and then say the words 'draumr kopa,' which mean 'dream stare.'
"What should I scry?"
"Can you think of nothing? No one you wish to see?"
Murtagh gulped. Of course there was one person he wanted to see more than anything, but how could he do that to Eragon, when Murtagh had already done so much to betray him?
"Do it, Murtagh," Galbatorix encouraged. "I, too, would like to see what your brother is up to."
Knowing there was nothing he could do to avoid scrying Eragon, Murtagh collected his thoughts as Galbatorix conjured a small pool of water. Focusing only on his memories of his brother, Murtagh slowly whispered, "Draumr kopa."
He stared intently at the pool of water, as it changed from clear to inky black. He expected there to be more, but there was only absolute darkness. Ceasing the flow of magic, Murtagh asked, "Did I do something wrong?"
"Hardly," replied Galbatorix. "I should have known he would have some sort of protection against magical observation. The rebels would not be as careless as to leave their Rider without wards. You, too, are shielded from the effects of scrying."
"I am?" asked Murtagh, surprised.
Galbatorix nodded. "The Twins cast a spell on you before they brought you here."
"So if Eragon were to scry me, he would see only…"
"Darkness, just as you have seen."
Murtagh was unsure as to whether that was good or bad. He wanted to know if Eragon was all right, but did not wish to give Galbatorix that information as well. On the other hand, if Eragon could not scry him, what would he assume?
"I think that is enough for today, Murtagh," said Galbatorix as he stood and stretched. Shruikan and Thorn should return at any moment, and then you may return to your rooms after we eat. Your body needs rest after this much magic."
As if on cue, Shruikan and Thorn appeared over the crest of land at the horizon, an immense black form followed by a smaller red one. They swooped down on Galbatorix and Murtagh, Thorn stumbling somewhat as he banked on the grass.
I am pleased to report that my student is progressing to my satisfaction, said Shruikan, his deep voice rumbling through Murtagh's consciousness. He demonstrates a natural talent for flight that I found surprising given his…disability.
"Well done, Thorn," exclaimed Galbatorix. "I know Shruikan would never give you undue praise."
With a snort that sent a jet of sparks billowing into the air, Shruikan launched himself skyward. As he winged his way east toward the hills, Murtagh and Thorn left Galbatorix and set off northward towards their meadow. Thorn glided low overhead; he seemed to find flying easier than walking in his new body. His great, slightly transparent wings seemed to glow scarlet in the light of the setting sun.
Thorn was beautiful when he flew. Murtagh could not wait to join him.