Thorn and Misery - Chapter 15
Murtagh had had precious little reason to be excited over anything as of late. He surprised even himself as he woke early the next morning, all traces of the previous night's pain and exhaustion leaving him as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It took him a moment to remember what Thorn had said the night before.
Today was the day. After three weeks of anticipation, months of bitter jealousy and a lifetime of wishing, Murtagh was finally going to fly.
Murtagh had often envied Eragon and Saphira, who had patrolled the skies together while he had been left on the ground to guard the packhorses. They had regarded him as little more than a horse himself, really. A beast of burden fit for nothing more than carrying the packs. How appropriate it was that he, Murtagh, would no longer be confined to the ground.
Thorn shook himself awake only moments after Murtagh. Well? he asked, yawning.
Let's go.
They set off together, arriving quickly at the field where their usual breakfast table awaited them. Galbatorix sat in the chair opposite Murtagh's. He was fiddling with something in his hands, but stowed it beneath his robes before Murtagh could get a clear look at what it was.
"Good morning, Murtagh, Thorn," he said, looking them over. "I am glad to see that you both are well-rested. We have much to accomplish today." He frowned. "The timing is less than ideal, of course – it seems more of a reward than your actions last night merit, Murtagh. However, Shruikan has informed me that Thorn is ready, and I haven't a moment to spare." He stood, revealing a tray full of fruit and hot buttered rolls. A pitcher of milk stood beside it, and, on the ground, what looked to be an entire deer carcass. "But first, eat. I am sure you are anxious to proceed, but you both will need your strength today."
Murtagh practically inhaled his food. Within minutes he and Thorn had finished and Shruikan had joined them, appearing suddenly from behind the crest of a distant hill.
When they finished eating, Galbatorix snapped his fingers and a brawny servant appeared, carrying a wrapped, bulky package in his arms. He deposited the bundle on the ground without saying a word, retreating after a low bow.
Galbatorix unwrapped the package, and its use quickly became apparent.
With Murtagh's help, the king strapped the dragon saddle across Thorn's back, cinching the straps tight. The restraints for Murtagh's legs hung loose at Thorn's sides.
"This is only a prototype, of course," said Galbatorix. "The tanners worked through the night to finish it, but I will have to have another made, one that is better for flying over long distances." He rubbed his thumb over the smooth leather. "This will have to do, for now."
Thorn ambled over to Shruikan, and the two of them stood to one side, their heads together, talking. Galbatorix and Murtagh watched the two dragons from a few paces away.
"You should consider yourself lucky, Murtagh," the king pointed out. "I was worried, at first, that I would have to grow Thorn again before you could fly him. I am intensely pleased that my powers were not required to further accelerate Thorn's growth."
Galbatorix was right. Even after the effects of his spell had long since subsided, Thorn seemed longer and broader in the legs and shoulders. Though somewhat barrel-chested, his intense training with Shruikan had left him a heavily muscled, if stocky frame, and his fierce eyes and glittering ruby scales perfectly complimented his snow-white teeth and claws. Thorn was a handsome beast, Murtagh had to admit.
At last, Thorn left Shruikan's side and crossed over to Murtagh. He was still somewhat unsteady on his feet; Murtagh hoped he would be less precarious in the air.
Are you ready? Thorn asked.
If you are.
Climb aboard, then, and let us be off.
Murtagh was unsure as to how to proceed. Finding a relatively stable foothold on Thorn's foreleg, he clambered awkwardly onto his back and settled into the saddle while Galbatorix helped him secure the leg restraints.
Murtagh prepared himself as he listened to Galbatorix's murmured instruction. "There are magical barriers that will keep you from going too far without an escort," he explained. "You will feel them, and Thorn will be unable to cross them."
Murtagh sighed. He had expected as much.
Despite himself, Murtagh felt a bit nervous as Galbatorix stepped back and looked up at them, shielding his eyes with a hand. His stomach felt queasy, and he suddenly wished he had not eaten quite so quickly.
Calm down, Murtagh, said Thorn gently, his soothing voice washing over him like a wave of cool water. I will not let you fall.
"Good luck, both of you," said Galbatorix. He reached forward and slapped Thorn's hindquarters. "Now fly!"
Murtagh felt Thorn's powerful muscles bulge under him for a fraction of a second, and then they were off. Thorn's talons ripped chunks of sod from the ground as he launched himself skyward so fast that Murtagh was nearly thrown off, despite being secured by the straps on the saddle. Murtagh squeezed his arms tightly around the base of Thorn's neck as he accelerated, and within seconds Shruikan and Galbatorix were far behind them.
The wind whipped Murtagh's hair back from his face, and it was only now, after the initial exhilaration of the take-off had passed, that he remembered to open his eyes. He had not even realized until that moment that they had been closed.
The countryside stretched on for countless leagues around him. Peeking over the side of Thorn's flank, Murtagh was clutched by a sudden, paralysing vertigo as ten feet of shiny red scales gave way to three hundred feet or more of open, empty air. The grass was a smooth emerald carpet far beneath them, disrupted here and there with clumps of darker green that were the trees. A patchwork quilt of farmer's crops coloured the ground to the north and east with squares of yellow, pale green and dusty brown, adding a touch of texture to the serene landscape. Shining silver streams snaked this way and that, twisting around the grand estates that surrounded the capital in every direction. In the distance, the ground turned a muddy yellow-brown as scrub brush gave way to the edges of the Hadarac Desert. The endless sky around them was a clear, cerulean blue as far as Murtagh could see.
It was rapture. Surely there could be nothing in the world as wonderful as this.
Remembering the pure ecstasy he had felt for the few moments he had been in a dragon saddle before, when Saphira had once ferried him across a river, Murtagh laughed out loud – that paled in comparison to what he was doing now.
Despite himself, Murtagh let out a whoop of joy and yelled, over the deafening rush of wind in his ears, "Can you go any faster?"
Speed, you say? asked Thorn. Brace yourself, then, my friend.
Murtagh had less then a second to react as Thorn tucked in his wings and shot forwards. The landscape raced past them, their speed exhilarating. Murtagh let out a real laugh then, for the first time in weeks.
The only damper on this perfect feeling was that Galbatorix was still in his mind. Murtagh felt a slight prod as the king said, Well? How is it?
It's wonderful, Murtagh responded, in absolute truthfulness.
In time you will learn to fight from Thorn's back with both sword and bow, said Galbatorix. For now, however, just take note of how it feels as he moves beneath you. It will take some time to get used to flying. I hope you aren't afraid of heights.
Then Shruikan chimed in. Show him that barrel roll, hatchling.
Hold on, said Thorn.
To what? Wondered Murtagh wryly.
There was a moment of stillness before Thorn twisted his body sharply to the left, and Murtagh saw the world around him spin, the land and sky blurring together into one incomprehensible blue-green mass. Before another thought could even register in his mind, Thorn had righted himself and they were flying once more.
Then, Murtagh felt a tingling sensation in the back of his mind. Time seemed to slow, and he found it difficult to move, as if the air itself had thickened. He realized that they must be approaching the barrier Galbatorix had set.
Without even slowing, Thorn curved suddenly and rocketed upwards. The motion, though lightning fast, was completely smooth, and Murtagh felt nothing but a slight wrenching sensation in his gut as he pressed himself against Thorn's body. The bright morning sun glared into Murtagh's face, but the saddle secured his arms tightly, and he could not lift a hand and shield his eyes. He ducked behind Thorn's thick neck as the dragon climbed higher and higher, until the air around them grew so thin that Murtagh's already unsteady breath grew even more ragged. It froze as it came in contact with the chilly air, hanging in thin, wispy clouds.
Murtagh squeezed his eyes shut against the buffeting wind. His fingers near to froze as they were, clenched into tight fists and pressed against Thorn's neck, before the dragon's climb finally ceased. He seemed to hang motionless, supported by the air alone.
Unable to subdue his curiosity, Murtagh opened his eyes. For a moment he was confused, and realized only then that the world was upside-down.
Murtagh knew he would never be able to look directly at the ground, what would be up from his position, without losing his nerve entirely. Instead, he chanced a split-second glace to his right.
For the tiniest instant, Murtagh forgot where he was and what he was doing, conscious only of the great beauty around him. He could see everything. He found himself just north of the great stone prominence that provided shelter for the citadel. The black guard towers perched atop the tor looked much less forbidding when the morning sun cast its light upon them.
Even the Uru'baen itself seemed brighter. The sunlight danced and flashed as it glinted off the six spindly, fluted spires of malachite green at the heart of the city, the last remnants of the elves' glorious city of Ilirea. They looked so delicate, as if the slightest breath of wind could send them toppling to the ground, but Murtagh knew that they were much stronger than any structure that could be crafted by human means.
In that brief moment, it was a place of absolute calm.
Looking beyond the castle, on this clear day and at this staggering height, Murtagh thought he could just see the purplish tips of the highest peaks of the Beor Mountains, jutting up into the sky far to the south.
Murtagh savoured the sight for as long as he could before he Thorn furled his outstretched wings to his sides and, with dizzying speed, dropped out of the sky.
Murtagh was wrenched with the sickening sensation of leaving his stomach behind, at the top of their climb. The ground that had seemed so impossibly far away a moment ago was now hurtling towards them, coming closer and closer still, until Murtagh knew they were going to collide. He panicked, grasping frantically for reins on the saddle, as he would on a horse, but his calloused fingers felt nothing but scales.
And then, Murtagh felt Thorn's presence in his mind, for the first time since the start of their ascent. Two small words he heard, and two small words were what it took to comfort him: trust me.
They were a mere fifty feet from impact when Thorn turned swiftly away and spiralled upwards once more. The momentum of the drop spurned Thorn's flight, and at three hundred feet he released his wings. They filled with air almost immediately, and they continued on, at a considerably slower and less nauseating pace.
You're green, Murtagh, chuckled Thorn
I'm not surprised, responded Murtagh with his mind, not trusting himself to open his mouth. I feel green. You could have warned me.
And what would you have done if I had warned you?
Murtagh conceded the point as curved gracefully around, so that they were heading east, away from Uru'baen. There was a still silence for a few moments; neither Murtagh nor Thorn felt the need to fill the comfortable quiet with chatter. They were both content simply to enjoy this moment of happiness together, until Thorn said, I want to show you something.
The dragon slowed for a moment, gliding on the air currents alone, and did something Murtagh never would have expected.
Taking a deep breath, he loosed a ball of sparkling red-orange fire into the sky.
It hung in the air for a few seconds, a great glittering mass, before dissipating. Thorn glanced back at Murtagh with what could only be described as a smug expression.
Murtagh was completely dumbfounded. How did you do that?
I did it the first time yesterday, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Thorn's voice swelled with pride. This is the first time I've done it while flying.
Murtagh knew he should be happy for Thorn, but he couldn't shake the apprehensive feeling inside him. This is wrong, he said slowly.
Thorn's spirits fell. What is?
All of this, replied Murtagh.
I don't understand.
You're three weeksold, Thorn, of course you don't understand! Murtagh's mental voice rose, nearly to a shout. You shouldn't be this size yet. You shouldn't be able to carry me, or breathe fire or any of this. It's just wrong. Your life is progressing too quickly. You never even got a chance to be young!
It was almost a relief for Murtagh to bring to voice everything that had so troubled him since Galbatorix and Shruikan had grown Thorn to his immense and unnatural size. Though he was intensely relieved that Thorn had managed to recover from the initial physical incapacitation, Murtagh now felt a slightly different tenor in the dragon's mind his than before magical growth. He could not place what it was, or if it would even prove to be harmful, but it was different, and it worried him.
Are you not proud of me? asked Thorn. His voice was low, and he sounded hurt. Of what I have accomplished?
But that's the problem, Murtagh said. They aren't your accomplishments at all! You're just a baby, Thorn. Your advanced skill is only the result of whatever dark magic Galbatorix used on you.
Thorn snorted and, in a short, sudden motion, reversed his direction and sped back to the castle. The sharp turn jerked Murtagh roughly, and he and the leather saddle slid forward a few terrifying inches.
I think that is enough for one day, Thorn said coldly.
Neither Thorn nor Murtagh said another word during the flight back to the castle. The journey was short, but for the first time, the stony silence between them was awkward.
Galbatorix and Shruikan were waiting for them. Mercifully, the king said nothing, though Murtagh was sure he had heard every word of their tense exchange.
When Thorn banked on the grass, Murtagh unbuckled the straps on his saddle and slid smoothly down his flank. The moment Murtagh's feet touched the ground, Thorn took off without so much as a backward glance. The gust of wind he created knocked Murtagh off-balance, and he let himself fall to his knees as he watched Thorn's hulking form glide off to the northeast.
Murtagh stood, brushing the dirt from his clothes. Galbatorix approached him, and said, his voice cool and distant, "Your lessons are cancelled for the remainder of the day. Go now, and pass the time in whatever way you see fit."
Murtagh was grateful for that. He doubted he could concentrate in his current state.
This had been he and Thorn's first real disagreement. In retrospect, Murtagh supposed it was mostly his fault. He had forgotten how proud dragons could be.
I should have just kept my mouth shut, he thought ruefully, watching as Thorn disappeared.
Do not mind him, a voice said suddenly. To Murtagh's surprise, it was Shruikan, and not Galbatorix, who spoke. His head pounded with the sheer force of the immense dragon's voice. Thorn is extremely stubborn, even for a dragon. You must move first if you wish to apologize.
Murtagh nodded. Shruikan's counsel made sense, though he hated to admit it. Advice from a dragon, he grumbled to himself. What next?
I heard that, little human, snorted Shruikan. Now shoo, before I burn you to cinders.
Murtagh didn't need to telling twice. He shooed, making for the door back into the castle. Shruikan leaped into the air, his enormous wings creating billowing clouds of dust, and followed Thorn.
As he wandered down the halls, Murtagh realized that he was faced with an entire afternoon in which to whatever he wanted. Having been stuck to such a tight schedule for so long, the prospect was daunting.
Remembering that he had finally finished reading the books Galbatorix had chosen for him, Murtagh decided he would go to library and return them.
Each night before he went to sleep, Murtagh spent at least an hour, if not more, poring over the thick tomes and scrolls. Most of them were about the history of the Riders and the Empire, though there were several places that Murtagh knew the authors had embellished in Galbatorix's favour, brushing over the more gruesome parts of his rise to power. The only truly complete account of Alagaesia's history was Domia abr Wyrda, or The Dominance of Fate, which was kept in its glass case in the library.
Many of the books, particularly the ones that pertained to the magical arts, were written in the ancient language. Murtagh was becoming steadily more proficient at speaking and reading the elven tongue. Though he still had to think about each phrase before he said it, it was getting to the point that Galbatorix had only to correct his grammar or give him the translation of a difficult word.
Murtagh was even starting to pick up some of the Urgal language from the tedious war reports Galbatorix had him read, though he hated the ugly, guttural language. It was discouraging, reading about the Empire's war efforts, but Murtagh knew he had no choice. Galbatorix often tested him on the contents of the reports so as to ensure that he had actually read them.
Hurrying to his rooms, Murtagh gathered up the towering stack of books, keeping only Galbatorix's prized Compendium of Language. He glanced outside the glassed double doors to Thorn's meadow, and was not surprised to see that the dragon had not yet returned. He would speak to him later.
Murtagh retraced his path of two weeks before, passing through numerous halls and grand chambers as well as two flights of stairs, until he arrived at the great double doors that led to the library.
Sebastian sat at his desk, as usual. Galbatorix's intensely irritating head librarian did nothing to conceal his grimace of distaste as Murtagh approached. Sebastian and Murtagh's mutual dislike was no secret.
"Oh, good, you brought my books back," said Sebastian before Murtagh could even open him mouth. His high, nasal whine grated like sandpaper over Murtagh's ears. "I sincerely hope, for your sake, that you have not defiled them in any way."
Murtagh set the books down on the scroll of parchment on which Sebastian had been writing, smudging the wet ink. "Rest assured, they are as un-defiled as ever, O master of all librarians," replied Murtagh with a sarcastic smirk. "I came back to choose some more, but seeing your face is an added bonus, so thank you."
Sebastian scowled and pushed his spectacles up a little higher on his nose. "Despite my advice to the contrary, King Galbatorix has instructed me to let you choose any books you want. Apparently I'm to 'extend my every hospitality.'"
Resisting the urge to knock the pompous expression from Sebastian's face, Murtagh gave the librarian a mocking salute with one hand before setting off down the long rows of shelves. Galbatorix had not specifically said which books to read, so Murtagh idly perused the titles, taking a few here and there, in various languages and mostly from the history section.
When he had accumulated a sizeable stack, Murtagh headed back to the main doors. As he did, he passed the glass case that held Domia abr Wyrda, The Dominance of Fate. Eyeing it curiously, he began to wonder. Galbatorix had said he could take any book…
Suddenly, Sebastian appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, at his side. "Except that one," he said, almost reading Murtagh's mind. "No one touches it."
"Not even you," Murtagh pointed out, and Sebastian scowled yet again in response.
"Get out," he said shortly, his severe tone somewhat marred by the sound of his nasal voice. "And if there is so much as a single fingerprint on that case, I'll have your head."
Murtagh grinned and stepped easily around Sebastian. He waited until he was nearly back at the oak doors before he turned back to librarian who was still carefully inspecting Domia abr Wyrda's glass case.
"Good luck with that!" Murtagh called loudly, his voice echoing around the cavernous library.
Sebastian jumped, his long nose bumping the surface of the case. He glared up at Murtagh, his thin face bright red and livid.
With a smile and a wave, Murtagh ducked out of the double doors. Whatever else he was, Sebastian was always good for a laugh.
Murtagh was still sniggering to himself when he got back to his rooms. Depositing the books on his bedside table, he stepped outside and let the cool early evening air envelop him. The meadow was quiet, its many day-going inhabitants just starting to bed down for the night, while the nocturnal creatures prepared themselves for a night of activity. Bats fluttered about here and there, feeding on moths and flies. Mice scurried around in the tall grass, avoiding the watchful eyes of the owls overhead. A wolf howled in the distance, but his mournful call went unheeded.
Thorn was already in his metal shelter, stretched out on the hay. It must have been replaced earlier in the day; Murtagh had noted that morning that it was beginning to smell rather rank. This was clean and fresh and smelled of sunshine.
Murtagh approached the dragon cautiously. His eyes were half-closed, gazing idly at the mice he knew he could kill instantly, were he in the mood. Thorn's great wings were furled at his sides, creating a tent of warmth around him. He looked at ease, but Murtagh was still careful.
Are you still angry with me? He asked as he drew near.
Thorn sat in silence for a moment, considering Murtagh's question. No, he said finally. I'm not angry. I never really was, I suppose.
Murtagh sat in the hay beside Thorn's head. I'm sorry, he said. I know you've been working hard. Harder than me, probably. You deserve credit for what you've accomplished.
It's all right, Murtagh, replied Thorn gently. You worry about me. I can understand that.
You're sure you're all right? Murtagh asked earnestly, looking Thorn in the eye. You seem…different than before.
I've never felt better, he answered. And as for never being young, bah! This body can be cumbersome, on the ground at least, but that is far outweighed by the benefits. It is too much more powerful than my last body for me to miss it so terribly. I can fly, I can fight, and I can breathe fire – what more could a dragon want?
What indeed? wondered Murtagh. Leaning against Thorn's flank, he said. Shruikan seems pleased with your progress, at least. How is he – I mean, as a teacher? Do you like him? Having had so little direct contact with the old dragon, Murtagh was curious about Thorn's impression of him.
Thorn paused, and then said, There is a great sadness in him, and much anger. He never wanted to serve Galbatorix – you know that he was stolen from his real Rider, a long time ago. But he has learned to accept his lot in life, just as we must do. If one cannot change his situation, then he must do the best he can with his limited options.
Thorn gazed up at the sky, the twinkling ghosts of stars reflected in his ruby eyes. It's a glorious feeling, isn't it? Being up there.
Murtagh nodded. Like being free.