Thorn and Misery - Chapter 14
"What am I going to do with you, Murtagh?" asked Galbatorix, kneading his temples with his fingertips. Murtagh said nothing, gazing sullenly at the marble floor of the throne room. Now that they were back in the dark, forbidding chamber, Murtagh knew he was in trouble. He kept silent as Galbatorix continued.
"You killed a man, Murtagh. A man that had done nothing to harm you. What I am supposed to tell you? Did I not say to stay out of trouble? Did I not say to leave the citymen to themselves?" Staring down at Murtagh from his black throne, Galbatorix's voice was heavy as he asked, "What have you to say for yourself?"
But Murtagh could think of nothing in reply. Of course he didn't know why he had killed the man back at the tavern. It had simply been a reflex, a knee-jerk reaction in the interest of self-defence. He had overreacted, he knew that now, but if an instant's pause could cost him his life in a similar situation, then why hesitate?
Kill first, ask questions later.
It was all rather amusing, in a sick, backwards sort of way.
Murtagh had long since lost count of the number of men he had killed, lives he had ended. It was only a number; Murtagh had forced himself not to give meaning to the faces behind that number. Living the way he had for the past few years, Murtagh had become well-acquainted with the simplest law of life: kill or be killed, take no chances, do what you must to survive. That was the way of the world, and there was nothing he could do to change it.
It was not as though Murtagh enjoyed killing. He had tried to ignore the battle-loving monster in himself, but he knew there was really no point if he needed to protect himself. When Murtagh's own safety was in jeopardy, there was no question as to whose life was more important.
When he did not respond, Galbatorix sent yet another burst of pain into him, something akin to a vicious blow to the face, but Murtagh hardly noticed. There had been so much physical pain lately that he had learned to block it out almost entirely.
Fishing numbly around for an answer to Galbatorix's question, Murtagh finally said, without much conviction, "He insulted me. Insulted my mother. I was simply protecting myself."
"So you killed him?" demanded Galbatorix incredulously. "Murtagh, how can I say this so that you will understand? It was murder. You are only lucky that no one knew who you were - that would have been calamitous.
"You are more violent than I could have ever imagined," continued Galbatorix, a lazy half-smile now playing on his lips. "Whatever happened to all those peaceful ideals you once held so dear? You refused to exterminate a city of dangerous rebels, and yet you would kill a man simply because he insulted you? And what's this I hear about beheading an innocent man, whose only crime was that he was unfortunate enough to get in your way?" Galbatorix's smile grew wider as he said, "I wonder what your brother to say to all of this. From what I can gather, you two were quite close."
Murtagh, too, wondered how Eragon would react if he knew. For the most part, they had had an amiable relationship as travelling companions; Murtagh would even go so far as to consider them friends. However, their friendship had suffered a blow on their journey to the Varden when Murtagh had beheaded the slaver, Torkenbrand. Though Eragon had seen this as an unjust and murderous act, Murtagh had killed the man simply to protect himself. Though he had been weaponless, and had died on his knees begging Murtagh for mercy, Torkenbrand's mere existence had been a danger. Murtagh had known he would have reported their presence to higher authorities if he had stayed his hand. I didn't help that Murtagh had always loathed slavers.
"You surprise me, Murtagh." Galbatorix's voice was low, almost a whisper.
"I'm very glad I amused you," snapped Murtagh sharply, his voice heavy with sarcasm. If he was going to be stuck in this place for the rest of his life, he may as well have some fun with it. He wished Galbatorix would get out of his head, though. "Now, if I am not to be punished, may I go? Thorn will be back by now."
"You think you are not to be punished?" gaped Galbatorix. "Murtagh, you broke my rules. What you did demands retribution. I thought I had made it obvious that anger and hate are tools to be used to your advantage, but that hardly means you have leave to so blatantly disobey your overlord." He gestured towards himself with a sickeningly superior sort of flourish. Murtagh had to work to keep from retching.
"You are not to enter the city of Uru'baen again, Murtagh, is that clear?"
Murtagh nodded sullenly. He had expected as much.
"Swear it!" barked Galbatorix. "I want your word, in the ancient language, that you will never leave the palace again without my consent. You will not go anywhere without the express permission of Shruikan or myself." Galbatorix looked down at Murtagh, his lips pressed so tightly together that they were almost invisible. "I thought I could trust your judgement. It seems I was mistaken."
"Very well," muttered Murtagh. He made the oath, feeling the binding power of the words settle over him as he completed the phrase.
"Good," said Galbatorix with a dour grin. "It is better this way, Murtagh. Think of the trouble it would cause if those men were to recognize you after you killed one of their comrades. And next month, they will know that you belong to me."
Galbatorix let that statement hang in the air, and Murtagh couldn't help but ask, "What happens then?"
"On the night of the full moon, the Empire's young nobles are to be formally presented to my court. I had hoped I would be able to introduce you to the realm on that occasion. After all, the people will want to meet their champion."
Murtagh blanched. He had always hated the court social functions. The stuffy nobles were constantly looking down their noses at him, as if he, the son of their king's greatest ally, was some filthy thing they had scraped off their expensive boots. Murtagh loathed the excessive formality, the dancing and the plastered smiles. Not to mention the waste such a grand party provided, feeding, housing and entertaining a few nobles while so much of the Empire starved.
Could Galbatorix have thought of a better way to torture him?
Though Murtagh had hated the nobles and done their best to avoid them, he had kept his ears open. He had been interested in the politics and power struggles of Galbatorix's court, and had learned a lot from the servants, messengers and slaves – those people whom greater men deemed unworthy of notice, but whom Murtagh knew paid close attention to everything they saw and heard. He learned more about the court of Uru'baen from the gossiping servants than he ever did from his teachers.
"The nobles have been arriving for weeks now," continued Galbatorix. "You must have seen them arriving when you left this evening."
Murtagh remembered the long line of carriages he had seen earlier. At first, he had been a little surprised that Galbatorix had not insisted in showing him off to as many people as he could. It seemed like something the king would do. But, he supposed that that was what this ball was for – to show him off. To parade him around like some prize donkey at a fair.
"They have been waiting for this for quite some time now, the young nobles and their families. Spring presentation days are always something of a party. There is a grand feast, and of course dancing. I quite enjoy it, actually.
"I will expect you to attend," said Galbatorix sternly, noting Murtagh's look of severe distaste, "and to present the very best possible face in front of my court. I'll not have you ruining my party."
At this point, Murtagh had decided it was wiser not to say anything. There was nothing he could do to change his circumstances, in any case.
"And now," continued Galbatorix, all traces of amusement lost from his voice. "In the matter of your punishment – don't think I forgot, Murtagh. You seem to have left me in quite the dilemma. I obviously can't kill you, as I would any other who disobeyed my orders. On the other hand, I can't just let you off, either.
"I have decided that you will spend some time with the Twins. Perhaps that will keep your temper in check.
Murtagh glared up at Galbatorix. "The Twins?" he spluttered.
"Yes, Murtagh, the Twins. I will hear no excuses; you thoroughly deserve whatever they do to you." Galbatorix smirked. "You are a murderer, after all. Now, ganga."
To his fury, but not to his surprise, Murtagh found himself walking swiftly back up the throne room, his legs moving of their own accord. He sped past the black stone benches, the torch-brackets and the high glass windows, and was almost at the door when Galbatorix called, "A warning, Murtagh: do not presume to take my orders so lightly in the future. I will not be so lenient with your freedom again."
Murtagh ignored Galbatorix's threat as the king's spell carried him further down the corridor. He had hardly had any freedom thus far; it was not as if revoking what little there was would make any difference.
Murtagh paid little attention to the stone halls around him as he let his legs carry him where they would. It was a disconcerting feeling; Galbatorix rarely forced Murtagh's body to act without his consent. Most of the time, he simply ordered Murtagh to do what he wished, sometimes through the invocation of his true name.
Murtagh was used to being in control of himself, completely independent. He had survived on his own for longer than he could remember, even before he had fled Uru'baen. As a boy he had been ignored by most, and had learned to amuse himself without the help of close friends or companions. As he grew older, Murtagh had let even fewer people get close to him. He had been quiet and withdrawn. When Murtagh finally left Galbatorix's palace, there had been no question: trust, even in someone he had previously counted among his allies, was a luxury Murtagh could not afford.
It was not long before Murtagh was jolted back to the present. He had arrived in the same antechamber in which he had been forced to swear allegiance to Galbatorix.
The Twins were waiting for him there.
They looked exactly the same as always, though this time their faces were twisted into what could only be frustrated frowns.
"We have some interesting news for you, Murtagh," they announced as he approached. The moment he stepped into the antechamber, Murtagh felt the effects of Galbatorix's spell lift, and he was free to move on his own. What good did it do him, though, when he had nowhere to go?
Murtagh had a chance to offer a smirk of his own as he replied, voice heavy with sour sarcasm. "Not another long-lost sibling, I hope?"
"Not at all." The Twins shook their heads, masking their frustration with simpering smiles that were marred with the usual dark tenor of contempt. "We meant only to inform you of a…regime change among your friends in the Varden."
Murtagh froze. The Twins' false smiles grew only wider.
"Our spies have informed us that they have elected a new leader. Nasuada is her name, the daughter of Ajihad. We must admit this surprised us, and Galbatorix as well. He expected your brother to be chosen as the Varden's leader, as did we. We all wonder what the Varden are trying to accomplish."
Murtagh wondered, too. Though he had given little thought to the matter of Ajihad's successor, he had expected the obvious choice to be Eragon. The Varden would want to rally around a Dragon Rider, the only real hope for their survival.
That Nasuada was a young woman was immaterial. Murtagh knew that she would make a fine leader. She was, after all, her father's daughter. Ajihad would have taught her everything he knew about weapons and their use. Nasuada had grown up under the heel of strife and combat. She knew the perils of war all too well, having stayed behind, against her father's wishes, during the battle under Farthen Dur when the rest of the Varden's women and children had been sent to Surda for their own safety. Nasuada was no green girl, but Murtagh knew there were some, the conservatives among the Varden, who would object to her leadership. He silently wished her luck.
The Twins dismissed the matter quickly. "Galbatorix has given us orders to punish you for your actions earlier this evening," said one of them. "Though we do not think you were mistaken in killing that man – "
"You don't?" interrupted Murtagh, stunned. The Twins were taking his side?
"No, of course not," the man continued, brushing the interruption aside. "He was a direct threat to your personal safety. Why shouldn't you protect yourself?"
The other Twin nodded as well. "We disagree with the king on this matter."
"So I am free to go?" Murtagh asked, knowing it was too good to be true.
"Hardly," the Twins scoffed. "We don't like you, Murtagh. Have you not noticed? You are an arrogant little pup, with no respect for your betters. Whether or not we believe what you did tonight was wrong, Galbatorix has given us orders to punish you. We will do as he commands."
The Twins advanced upon him, devilish grins on their identical faces.
When the Twins finally let Murtagh go several hours later, he ached so fiercely that he could barely walk. His body was rent with numerous bleeding gashes, and a spectacular purple bruise had bloomed over his right eye. His dark hair was slick with his own blood. Murtagh's injuries would have to be tended to when he returned to his rooms.
Despite the torture, Murtagh had forced himself not to cry out and give the Twins further satisfaction.
Murtagh had never understood the Twins' outright animosity towards him. Why did they hate him so, when he had had next to no contact with them? After he had refused their entry into his mind, Murtagh had not spoken to them at all until their company had been brought together for the scourge of the tunnels under the Beor Mountains. Murtagh had never done anything to harm or even annoy them during their stay with the Varden, and yet the Twins despised him with a passion akin to nothing he had ever seen.
The only explanation Murtagh could yet glean was that the Twins were angry that they had been unable to see into his thoughts. They had tried, that day when he, Eragon and Saphira had finally reached the Varden. They had tried to the fullest extent of their power. Murtagh had felt the pressure on his mental barriers, but it had caused him no pain. The only thing he could compare it to was an itch he couldn't scratch: irritating, but nothing really worth bothering with.
But no, even the Twins could never be that petty. Had they not proven that they were strong enough to break him, albeit with Galbatorix's assistance? Murtagh's mental walls had been powerful; he had spent the better part of his life perfecting them, but his protection was nothing compared to their combined force. The day he had learned Murtagh's true name, it had been practically nothing, not effort whatsoever, for Galbatorix to rip his mental barriers apart. Murtagh may once have been able to resist the Twins on his own, but now, after all that had happened, Murtagh's walls were like shattered windows, the bare, jagged edges all that were left. He wondered if he could ever rebuild them as strong as they had been.
Murtagh also wondered if it even mattered. There was no use in having exceptional mental protection if he served a master that knew his true name. Galbatorix would protect Murtagh's mind from any outside influence, but his absolute knowledge of every thought that passed through Murtagh's mind could only be to the king's advantage.
As he dragged himself back to his suite, Murtagh contemplated what the Twins had said earlier. Though they had not faulted him in his killing the man in the tavern, Murtagh was beginning to wonder if it had been rash of him. His anger had long since receded, and he was now able to think more clearly. Even if the man had succeeded in landing a blow, it was not as if the drunken swine could have done much damage. Murtagh easily could have dodged him and left the Cracked Keg without spilling a drop of blood.
He sighed. He had let his temper, and his pride, get the better of him yet again. Killing the man, Conner, had not been necessary, but Murtagh's instincts had guided him to what had seemed then to be the only solution: eliminate the problem.
That was the way it had always been, for Murtagh. It was the art of staying alive. He could hardly be expected to change his ways now, not when his safety depended more than ever on his quick reflexes and unwavering resolve in protecting himself.
Murtagh was too sore and too exhausted to put much thought in the matter. He wanted nothing more than to curl up beside Thorn in the soft, sweet-smelling hay and sleep. There were still several hours yet before dawn, when he knew Galbatorix still expected Murtagh to rise and join him for breakfast, but a few hours' sleep were exactly what he needed to replenish his strength.
Murtagh knew he should be hungry; the last food he had had been the meat pie in the market. But the Twin's torture, and the taste of his own blood in his mouth, had quelled his appetite and left him only with the desire to sleep until the sun woke him for another gruelling day.
Murtagh let himself into his suite and removed the brace of wrist-knives he still wore, placing it on the weapons-rack alongside his sword, dagger and bow. He was tempted to ignore his injuries, the pain from which was just starting to recede, but he knew he would regret it in the morning.
He didn't have time for a full bath; a quick wash was going to have to suffice. Removing his ripped and bloodstained shirt, Murtagh tossed into the fire. He knew he probably could have repaired it with magic, but found he simply couldn't be bothered at the moment.
Murtagh stepped into the privy adjacent to his bedroom, appraising his injuries in the large mirror. The cuts and bruises, though intensely painful, would heal soon enough. Mercifully, nothing was broken. He doubted he had strength left in him enough to heal such a grievous wound.
Drawing some water from the stone ewer, Murtagh set it on the rack above the fire to heat while he concentrated the very last reserves of his strength into healing his injuries. Over the last weeks of his training, Murtagh had quickly become adept at magical healing. It was something he was good at, better than scrying or the conjuring of fire. That satisfied him, in a small way. He found it so easy to kill that he was glad healing came just as quickly. It struck a balance in his life, albeit a small one.
Centring himself, Murtagh pressed his fingers to the bleeding gashes on his arms and chest. The cuts were deep but uninfected, and the skin sealed over neatly after a quiet, "Waise heill." The newly formed scars were brightly pale, and stood out against his tanned skin. Moving next to the bruises, Murtagh barely had to touch them before they faded away. The purple lump above his eye took slightly longer, but was soon replaced with a cool, relaxed feeling. A few more minutes, and Murtagh would be asleep. He couldn't wait.
Hearing the water behind him start to bubble, Murtagh removed it from the fire. Pouring some on a washcloth, he tried first to gently scrub his face, but then gave up and poured the warm, but not boiling water over himself, rinsing the congealed blood from his hair and body.
Donning a fresh shirt, Murtagh continued through the double doors to the meadow. The night was cool and exceptionally dark, the pale moon just showing from behind a thick layer of cloud. There was a hushed silence throughout the meadow, but it was a comforting quiet. Murtagh loved being awake when no one else was, as if he had the entire world to himself.
By the scant light of the moon and the stars, Murtagh made his way across the clearing to where Thorn slept. Despite the darkness, Murtagh's sharp eyes could easily pick out the dragon's distinct outline against the metal shelter.
He settled himself along Thorn's scaly flank. Though a warm, soft bed waited not a hundred paces away, Murtagh could not bring himself to leave the sleeping dragon. He preferred to sleep outside anyway.
He had found a comfortable position was almost asleep when Murtagh rolled over, jabbing himself in the back with something very sharp. Cursing, he remembered the little dragon statue he had purchased at the market, the one that looked so like Thorn.
The dragon awoke when he heard Murtagh's curses. Hello, Murtagh, he said, his mental voice thick and heavy with exhaustion. Murtagh was not surprised to see that he looked more tired than usual. A fierce wind had assaulted the land for the better part of that day. This had pleased both Galbatorix and Shruikan, who had wanted Thorn to have a chance to practice flying in adverse weather conditions. Murtagh knew that Thorn's enormous wings would act like sails, pulling his body skyward whether he wanted to or not. He could tell that Thorn had had a difficult time of it.
You've been long in coming, haven't you? said the dragon.
"It's been a very long day, Thorn," grumbled Murtagh, "I think I'd just like to go to sleep, if you don't mind." It came out more irritably than Murtagh had intended, so he then said, "But I have something for you." Pulling the dragon statuette from his pocket, Murtagh laid it in the hay beside Thorn's head.
Thorn was enthralled with the little figure. Would you look at that, he said, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. The sculptor must have had a very handsome model.
"And a modest one," replied Murtagh, yawning hugely.
You should sleep now, Murtagh, said Thorn gently, nuzzling him. You have had a trying day. But I have some good news.
"Oh?"
Master Shruikan said to tell you that we're going to start flying tomorrow.
A/N:Major condensing here - this used to be two full chapters, but looking back on it, I don't know why I split them up.
- Miss Maddie