Thorn and Misery - Chapter 20
Murtagh's next several days in Uru'baen seemed to fly by. Galbatorix continued his instruction in dark magic. After practice, accessing the shadows in the back of his mind that were the fuel to his power became easier. Murtagh barely needed to think before the voices rose in volume and the rage that was not his thundered through his body.
After he had mastered the art of banishment, Galbatorix taught Murtagh other forms of dark magic as well. He learned how to condense a crackling shaft of energy that was useful for piercing magical wards. The king told Murtagh words in the ancient language that no one had used before him, phrases that had been forgotten for hundreds of years.
Galbatorix's invented spells astounded Murtagh, with their simplicity as well as by their raw power. It had taken him several attempts to master his spells. Even though the majority of them were one- or two-word phrases, the amount of energy requires to use them correctly was enormous.
Murtagh also learned, to his mixed horror and fascination, what had become of Drac'ner. After seeing the blank black eyes of the slave Galbatorix had interrogated, Murtagh had felt mildly nauseated. It disgusted him that he had carried such an evil weapon, one he had seen as a memento of Tornac, his teacher, for so long.
Between practicing dark magic, Murtagh began learning to fight from Thorn's back. At first it had been more terrifying than exhilarating to hang upside down a hundred feet from the ground, his only support being his legs, which were secured tightly to the saddle. Murtagh had had to practice many aerial stunts on dragonback before he was comfortable enough to try to manage a sword at the same time. He had dropped his hand-and-a-half sword several times before he could maintain his grip, and Thorn had to swoop low to retrieve it before it hit the ground.
After a time, Murtagh found that, however difficult it was, he enjoyed fighting from Thorn's back. The thrill it gave him was worth the fear.
The same was true for much that Galbatorix taught him. The use of dark magic, for example, which Murtagh saw as horrific and wonderful at the same time, gave him such a high that he forgot what he was actually doing. He forgot that he was learning things that went against everything that he had ever been taught. He forgot that he was manipulating energy in ways that were shunned by most magic users for their foulness. All Murtagh felt was the ecstasy of power.
Nearly a week of this had passed before Galbatorix reminded Murtagh of something he had shoved to the back of his mind and tried to forget for nearly three weeks.
"You will need to go to the tailor's today," said Galbatorix as the rested between spells.
"What for?"
"Don't you remember? You need to get your dress clothes sized for the ball tomorrow."
It was with an ominous sinking sensation in his stomach that Murtagh remembered the court ball. Of course he had forgotten; Murtagh hated parties. He had spent most of his youth avoiding them.
Galbatorix glanced upwards to check the position of the sun. It was already mid-afternoon. "In fact," he said, "You should go now. It's getting late."
Murtagh nodded sullenly and trudged off towards the tailor's shop. He had only been there a few times before, to get his ripped clothes patched or to buy new clothes when he outgrew his own. It was in the northwestern part of the castle on the ground floor, surrounded by other tradesmen's shops: the milliners, the tanners and the cobblers were also here.
On his way to the tailor's he passed a door on the right of the row over which hung a sign that read "open" in ornate cast iron letters wrought to look like vines: the blacksmith's shop was just where Murtagh remembered it. Peering inside, he saw tall a man standing behind a worktable, rubbing what looked to be a small knife with a polishing cloth.
It was Jacob, one of Murtagh's closest friends.
Murtagh stepped silently inside the shop. Pretending not to see Jacob, Murtagh browsed idly through a row of tiny belt knives. Selecting one of them, Murtagh brought it to the worktable and asked, "How much for this?"
"Three silvers," Jacob said without looking up.
"How much for me?"
Jacob glanced up, the annoyed expression on his face breaking into a smile when he saw who it was. "Murtagh!" he exclaimed. He set down the knife and polishing cloth and stepped around the table, embracing his old friend warmly. "It's been ages! Where've you been?"
"Around." Murtagh cast around for a change of subject. "What about you? You were just an apprentice when I last saw you."
Jacob shrugged, his curly brown hair flopping into his blue-grey eyes. His olive skin was well tanned and his body muscular. "I took over the business when Frederick died. I guess you could say I own this place now."
Murtagh gazed around the shop. In addition to the fine weaponry that Jacob was famous for, he saw other metal ornaments. Delicate ladies' brooches and hair clips adorned the shelves, as well as small, pretty trinkets of no discernable use. "I didn't know you had such a talent for finery."
"I don't. Sylvia made those."
"Sylvia?"
"My apprentice," Jacob responded. "She's about thirteen years old and one of the best metal-workers I've ever seen. Very skilled when it comes to baubles and such like. It's a good thing, too - I'd just make a botch of it. Weapons are my work."
Murtagh gestured to the belt knife that still lay on the worktable. "Speaking of weapons, you didn't answer my question. How much?"
Jacob laughed. "For you? Four silvers."
"I'll take it," said Murtagh with a grin. "Bill the price to the king."
Jacob raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Once again eager to change the subject, Murtagh said. "You'd better go the coffin-maker and order me a box."
"Why?"
"I'm supposed to visit the tailor and get my clothes for the ball tomorrow."
Jacob made a face. "Don't tell me you're actually going to that!"
"I don't have a choice. I've been issued a royal command."
Jacob grasped Murtagh's shoulder. "It's been nice knowing you," he said soberly.
"If I don't make it, you can have my sword." Murtagh replied, equally serious. "I really should be going, though."
The two friends clasped hands. Murtagh stuck the knife in his belt and turned for the door as Jacob took up the cloth and continued polishing the dagger.
A bell chimed when Murtagh pushed open the door of the tailor's shop. An older woman looked up from her desk. "Can I help you, sir?"
"I'm here to pick up some dress clothes. Special order from the king."
"Ah, yes. Right this way, please." The led them to the back of the shop, where there was a raised platform, a mirror and several curtained dressing rooms. Handing Murtagh a bundle of black cloth, the brusque seamstress shooed him behind a curtain and left him to change.
When he finished, Murtagh stepped up onto the platform and appraised himself in the full-length tailor's mirror. He wore a black velvet tunic with silver brocade detailing along the collar and cuffs over a wool shirt of the same colour. The shirt had full, billowing sleeves and tightened at the wrists. Sable velvet hose were tucked into calf-high leather boots with ornate silver buckles.
The seamstress bustled around him, pinning the garment to the appropriate length and fiddling with places that were too loose. Galbatorix had obviously given the seamstress his approximate size.
Murtagh sighed. He had to admit that he looked very elegant, but the outfit itched like mad! He tried to hike up his shirt so that he could give his ribs a good scratch, and promptly stuck himself with a pin.
Murtagh winced as the seamstress concealed a smile. "Better let me do that," she said, and carefully removed the tunic and shirt and hung them both on the mannequin. "I'll change the shirt material to silk. It's not as hot and it won't itch as much." She sighed. "Darned if I know why his Majesty wanted velvet at this time of year."
Murtagh thanked her and headed behind the curtain to change back into his cotton shirt, leather jerkin, breeches and his boots.
With a nod to the seamstress, Murtagh left the shop and traipsed off to his rooms. Galbatorix had not told him that he needed to report back to him, so Murtagh assumed he had the rest of the day to do as he liked.
When he reached his suite, Murtagh let himself, removed his boots and sat down on his bed. Even as he sat, he felt his eyelids begin to droop. It had been a long week, and he would be glad for a short nap. For the first time since Galbatorix had grown Thorn to full size, Murtagh slept in his own bed.
The sun was just beginning to set when the screeching of the birds outside jarred him awake. Murtagh yawned. He could definitely have done with a bit more sleep. Glancing outside to find out what had scared the birds, Murtagh saw that Thorn had just swooped in as was settling himself in his shelter.
Deciding to greet his friend, Murtagh swung himself off the bed and reached for his boots. He sat on the stair outside the double doors leading to the meadow.
As Murtagh bent to lace his boots, his dark hair fell into his eyes. Brushing it aside with an annoyed sigh, he realized that his hair fell past his shoulders. He had not cut it for months. How had he not noticed before now?
Murtagh supposed he should go the palace barber to have it cut, but then a thought struck him: could he not simply use magic to remove the unwanted hair? He was sure enough of his skill, and he didn't feel like walking all the way to the barber.
Gathering himself, Murtagh condensed a razor-thin edge of air with a quiet "Thrysta." Guiding the spell with his mind, he passed the blade of air an three inches above where his hair fell, slicing it neatly off, until it was just below his chin. He had but a finger's breadth of hair left to cut when the sudden shriek of a bird jarred his concentration. His hand twitched.
Grumbling a curse on birds, Murtagh reached up to feel at his hair. Sure enough, a piece on the left side of his face was a good two inches to short.
Murtagh could hear Thorn's low chuckle in his mind. The dragon was laughing at him.
Murtagh contemplated what to do next. Finally, he muttered, "Eldhrimner," concentrating all his attention on the too-short piece of hair. He held the spell for about five seconds. The feeling of his hair shooting out of his scalp was extremely strange, and he was glad to end the spell.
Checking his reflection in the window, Murtagh smiled. His hair was now perfectly normal.
If Murtagh hadn't known better, he could have sworn that Thorn was smirking at him when he reached the metal structure.
Don't say a word, Murtagh ordered silently. He lay down in the soft, sweet-smelling hay beside Thorn.
I wasn't going to.
A/N: Jacob is based on my little brother, who asked if he could show up as a blacksmith. He thinks, if we lived in a time when such things were common, that's what he would have been.
- Miss Maddie