Thorn and Misery - Chapter 16
Days passed, and as April slid into May, the weather became steadily warmer. The many animals in Murtagh and Thorn's meadow were giddy with springtime fever, the first fawns of the season having appeared at the beginning of the week. They crept out of the trees, blinking in the bright sunlight, their spindly legs awkward and unsure.
The end of Murtagh's first month in Uru'baen came and went, though he paid little heed to the passage of time. A sense of time when he lived the way he did, his every waking minute controlled by Galbatorix, was little more than wishful thinking.
Murtagh thoroughly enjoyed his time spent away from the king. The solitary moments were few and far between, but when they came, he relished them. During the rare times that Murtagh and Thorn were not training with Galbatorix and Shruikan, they took to flying alone around the vast, lonely countryside surrounding Uru'baen. They were grateful to be rid of their hostile instructors, both of whom favoured mental lashings to kind words of encouragement. They could not go as far as they wished, being unable to extend past the barriers Galbatorix had set for them, but still the pair flew for hours, speaking little, enjoying one another's company.
It was on one of these forays that they saw a girl sitting solitary on a grassy knoll, surrounded by hundreds of horses that were grazing in the wide pasture. Several small spruce trees around her provided shade from the heat of the mid-afternoon sun. Thorn swooped silently down, landing a hundred yards behind her.
Stay here, Murtagh told Thorn, I think your presence may frighten her.
Thorn snorted indignantly but agreed.
Murtagh walked the rest of the distance to the girl. It was not until he was quite close to her that he realized how young she was. She was small and very thin; Murtagh guessed that she could not have been more than ten or eleven years old. Remembering how much he disliked children, Murtagh turned to leave, but in his haste, trod on a fallen branch. The girl jumped at the noise, stumbling as she rose to curtsy. Her patched dress was smeared with grime, her long, dark hair pulled into a messy knot at the nape of her neck. A few strands had escaped their leather ties, the inky tresses partially concealing her blue-grey eyes.
"Good afternoon, sir. How may I assist you?" She spoke not in a commoner's rough speech, but in a smooth, polished tone that was ill suited to her youth.
"I sought only to greet you." Murtagh replied, though inwardly cursing his clumsiness. Motioning to her charges, Murtagh asked, "Are you an ostler?"
"I am in training," replied the girl. "My name is Clare, if it please you, sir."
It seemed that was to be the end of their short-lived conversation, until a lean, lanky youth in mud-stained trousers and little else came sprinting across the pasture, dodging between the horses' bites and kicks with practiced ease.
"Hey, you! What're you doing talking to my sister? What's your business here?" The youth panted heavily as he approached Murtagh and Clare. Though he too had coal-black hair and blue eyes, his countenance was somewhat less distinguished than Clare's. He appeared to be several years older than she, though still a few years younger than Murtagh.
"I wished to speak with her," said Murtagh, affronted by the boy's rudeness.
"Well you have, so be on your way."
Clare stepped in, a blush staining her fair cheeks. "I am ashamed for my brother, my lord."
"What is your name?" asked Murtagh, addressing the boy.
"Corrin Tornacsson, not that it's any of your business."
Murtagh stared. "Tornac…not – not the Tornac who instructed me in swordplay all those years ago?"
Corrin's cold eyes widened. "You are Murtagh?"
"Yes. I was not aware that Tornac had any children."
Corrin's gaze fell, and he spoke so quietly that Murtagh could barely distinguish his next words. "Nor was he."
"Excuse me?"
The boy's tone changed, becoming accusatory. "He was so busy training you, he neglected his own family. Then he ran off with you that night, and got himself stabbed."
Murtagh felt his gut twist in some inexplicable feeling. "I am truly sorry to have been that cause of your father's death, but I hold no quarrel with you. May we at least be civil to each other?" he extended a hand, inadvertently exposing the gedwey ignasia. Clare caught a glimpse of the silvery mark, and her eyes widened.
"You're a Dragon Rider!" she exclaimed, for a moment forgetting her manners.
Corrin withdrew his hand sharply, as though afraid of being burned. He eyed Murtagh warily and ducked his head in a strange motion that was halfway between a nod and a bow. " I might've known," he said, his voice riddled with sarcasm. Mimicking a noble's formal speech, he drawled, "I heard that our glorious ruler had acquired a new lapdog."
Murtagh glared at Corrin, his voice deadly calm. "You should not speak so ill of your king," he said quietly. "He can hear you right now, you know." Murtagh wasn't actually sure if Galbatorix was listening to their conversation, but he still smirked at Corrin's involuntary twitch as he looked over his shoulder, as if expecting Galbatorix to jump out from behind one of the scraggly trees.
Corrin flushed scarlet with fury and, beneath it, fear. "He's in your head, isn't he?" he demanded suddenly.
Clare stepped forward and laid a hand on her brother's shoulder. "Corrin, hush!" she pleaded fervently. "You should not show disrespect – "
But Corrin cut her off. "My mother knows about magic," He said loudly, recklessly. "She's told me some of the things he can do - to his slaves." He spat, drawing the word out horribly.
Clare gripped Corrin's arm tightly. "Corrin, please!" she begged, but Corrin did not even acknowledge her. He shoved her aside and she too flushed bright red, not with anger, but with fear and embarrassment at her brother's foolishness.
"I may be a commoner," said Corrin, his voice now rising to a shout, and stepped forward so that he was face to face with Murtagh. Murtagh was surprised to see that they were within an inch of the same height. "But at least I'm free!"
Corrin had now exceeded the limits of Murtagh's patience. He rounded on the boy, temper blazing. "You dare speak to me like that? Thrysta vindr!" Compressing a ball of air as he had been taught to do, Murtagh hurled it into Corrin's stomach. The youth was thrown onto his back, all the wind knocked out of him. He rolled awkwardly to his hands and knees, winded.
Clare gasped and knelt at her brother's side, staring in horror at Murtagh.
Murtagh opened his mind to Thorn, who was still sitting a hundred yards away, observing the verbal sparring with interest.
Thorn! called Murtagh.
Yes?
Let's show these commoners why the Riders are still to be feared!
With pleasure!
Thorn leaped into the air, his enormous scarlet body blotting out the sun for a moment. He shot towards them, loosing a jet of flame that scorched the countryside and sent the horses into a panicked frenzy. Thorn banked on the hillside, and Murtagh hopped nimbly from his foreleg to the leather saddle on his scaly back.
Murtagh looked back to where Clare and Corrin were still standing, their mouths hanging open in astonishment. "Be on your guard, boy!" he called, as Thorn launched himself into the sky, roaring thunderously and blasting another ball of fire that hung motionless in the air before fading out of existence.
As Murtagh and Thorn winged their way back to Uru'baen, Murtagh felt the heat of his anger start to recede.
We overreacted, I think, chided Thorn lightly.
Ah, well. The boy angered me.
Even so, we would do well not to engage in showy antics like that in the future. It is not becoming to a dragon, or a Dragon Rider.
Perhaps you're right, admitted Murtagh, but you can't tell me you didn't enjoy that, even just a little.
Maybe just a little, replied Thorn with a dragon's deep, throaty chuckle. The pair of them sped back to Uru'baen, a hazy black spot on the distant horizon.