Thorn and Misery - Chapter 24
Why?
That was the only thought Murtagh had the strength to ponder as the battered convoy rolled into the village of Evin's Mill. The sun had set, and the sky was growing dark. Why would the Varden do it?
Murtagh couldn't understand what the Varden could possibly have to gain by attacking a convoy of nobles. They were not soldiers. They did not fight – the most they could do was provide funds for the Empire, and killing them wouldn't have changed that – Galbatorix would simply have made his other nobles pay more to cover the difference. The convoy hadn't been carrying supplies or riches; the most valuable items were the ladies' wardrobes. No one of real importance rode with them. These were helpless civilians. There was no reason for them to die.
And many of them had died. Less than half of their armed guard still lived. Many of the carriage drivers had been shot. Even a few of the nobles had been killed - they had done as Murtagh, rushing out of their carriages in a foolish attempt to be of some help. Most hadn't even carried weapons, and had been slaughtered in mere moments. Their lifeless bodies had been thrown with the others onto the hastily built funeral pyre. There had been no time for a proper burial.
The same had been done for the enemy dead, though many of the surviving people had wanted the bodies left to rot in the spring sun, devoured by the carrion crows. Though he, too, wished they could have left them, Murtagh knew that even enemy corpses must be disposed of properly. Rotting flesh bred disease, and in a tightly packed group of people, disease spread quickly.
As they piled the bodies to be burned, Murtagh had searched carefully for any faces he recognized, but could find none. As the dead burned, Murtagh noticed that their armour sported no insignia, and no flags smouldered alongside them. There could only be one reason for that: these were renegades, not the regular army. They were men of the Varden, there was no doubt of that, but Murtagh took heart in knowing that the mindless thievery of innocent life had not been ordered by their leader. Murtagh refused to believe that Nasuada had played any part in it.
Though Murtagh had escaped the attack without serious injury, he had received several small cuts, and one nasty gash along his left bicep. Too exhausted to heal himself by magic after the fight, Murtagh had allowed his arm to bandaged with a strip from someone's tunic.
He was not the only one. Several guards had been wounded, and required medical attention. It had taken the convoy several hours to regroup after the attack. Some carriages, like Murtagh's, had collided and broken. Many of the horses had been shot, rendering a great number of the carriages useless. The frazzled head clerk had hastily tried to fit people into new carriages, unpacking and re-packing the huge amount of luggage the nobles had brought with them. The nobles hardly made it easier, complaining about being over-crowded, some flat-out refusing to sit next to each other. In the end, the clerk had gone off on a furious tirade against one portly older man, telling him that, if he was unsatisfied with the seating arrangements, he could walk the rest of the way to Evin's Mill. The heavyset man had shut up after that, as had many of the others.
Due to the re-organization of the carriages, Murtagh did not sit with Teresa for the remainder of the voyage. She was up at the front of the convoy with several other noble ladies, while Murtagh had been stuffed into a carriage between a stick-thin older man so deaf that the head clerk had had to shout in his ear, and a young woman with an infant child clutched in her arms. The baby had squalled the entire way to Evin's Mill, leaving Murtagh with a pounding headache and no desire whatsoever to speak to anyone.
When they finally reached the village, it was plain from the first glance that it had been hit hard by the war. The women's plain, dirty dresses fell limp around frames that were far too thin. A few hollow-eyed children ran underfoot, but not nearly as many as there should have been. The village was almost entirely without men, the vast majority having been conscripted into Galbatorix's army. Every inhabitant had the hardened look of those who were living through a constant battle for survival.
Most of the nobles had been housed in the inn, the largest building in the village. Because it was situated on the main road leading from the capital to the southern reaches of the Empire, Evin's Mill was well used to travellers, though certainly not so many at once. The sturdy construction had a wood-shingled roof as opposed to the thatching of the rest of the village, and was reasonably well-furnished. Even the pickiest of nobles found nothing to complain about – they were all too exhausted to want anything but sleep.
The attic room that Murtagh had been given was tiny, hardly bigger than a closet, but he was pleased to discover that he shared it with no one else. A plate with two crusty rolls and a wedge of cheese waited for him on the bed. Lovelier still was the tub of steaming water that sat in one corner. Leaving his pack and his weapons on the straw mattress, Murtagh undressed and slid into the hot water with a contented sigh. He sat, his eyes half-closed, soaking the day's grime from his weary flesh.
The water had cooled considerably before Murtagh dragged himself from the bath and dressed for bed. As he slid between the cotton sheets, something caught his eye: the opal pommel of Argedauth, protruding from his right boot. After a moment's hesitation, Murtagh grabbed the dagger and slid it, blade-first, under his pillow.
It had been a long time since Murtagh had slept with a knife concealed somewhere in the bedclothes – not since he had been taken to Uru'baen. He had thought he was safe.
Well, Murtagh thought as his heavy eyelids drooped closed. Out of the capital not even a day and already more has gone wrong than you could ever have imagined.
Murtagh fell asleep almost immediately, Argedauth clutched in his fist.
When Murtagh awoke to a sharp prod in his shoulder the next morning, he did the only natural thing. Quick as a flash he rolled out of bed, pulling Argedauth out from beneath his pillow in the same motion. In less time than it took for him to draw a breath, Murtagh had the intruder by his straw-coloured hair, Argedauth pressed to his pale throat.
Damned habits, he thought to himself when he saw who it was. They never die. To the serving-boy, he demanded, "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's bad luck to wake a sleeping man?"
The serving-boy trembled in fear and alarm. "Don't got no mother, Lordship," he said in a rush, stumbling over the words in an attempt to get them out as fast as possible. "Only I reckon she would've, if she'd lived, so please, Lordship, don't be mad. Elias, the innkeeper, he said to wake all the noble folk. That clerk said you're to leave in an hour. And I brought you your breakfast, sir." Finally, the boy took a breath, and pointed to the buttered roll and apple on the bedside table. "Please, sir, don't be mad. I don't need no more bad luck."
Murtagh released the boy, who tumbled away from him and was at the door in an instant. "Go," he ordered.
Yawning, Murtagh pulled on fresh clothes and sat on the bed to eat his breakfast. Though he was sorry to have given the serving-boy such a scare, he was also relieved to know that his reflexes remained as sharp as ever, even after over a month of relative security.
When he finished the food, Murtagh packed his few belongings and descended the stairs to the common room. Halfway down the stairs, he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror. It gave him a start before he realized that the black-haired, blue-eyed man in the mirror was himself.
When Murtagh reached the common room, he found it empty except for the large, balding innkeeper, who was wiping the counter with a rag.
Murtagh took a seat in a corner booth, and as the minutes wore on, he realized he could have taken much more time getting ready. None of the other travellers were ready to leave. Murtagh sighed. He had forgotten how cursed long nobles took to get anything done.
It was a full half an hour before someone else entered the common room. Murtagh gulped when he saw who it was.
Teresa didn't see him as she stepped into the common room, wearing a travelling gown of russet red. Her gaze was set on the large window by the door. She took a seat next to it and stared outside, where the village of Evin's Mill was already bustling with activity.
Murtagh didn't know whether to go and greet her. In the end, he decided that it would be better simply to stay where he was. The less he actually spoke to Teresa, the less chance there would be of him revealing his secret before it was time.
A few minutes after Teresa arrived, the other nobles started to trickle in. It wasn't long before the steady drone of chatter filled the common room. The head clerk stood on a stool at the front of the room, trying to get them organized.
Seizing an opportunity to be of use, Murtagh helped the few guards that remained to load luggage onto the tops of the carriages. The head clerk had managed to barter a few more, and several horses, from the innkeeper, so their convoy wasn't as heavily laden as it had been.
Thankfully, the nobles were more cooperative than they had been the day before, and were ready to leave in record time. It was apparent that all they wanted was to get off the roads, away from the danger.
Murtagh didn't know whether to be grateful when he found himself once again alone with Teresa.
She greeted him cordially when he stepped into the carriage, though now that he saw her close-up, Teresa looked tired, as if she hadn't slept well. Murtagh returned her greeting. Remembering what she had said about her travelling sickness, he took the vacant seat by the window.
Neither Murtagh nor Teresa was keen to talk as the convoy rolled out of Evin's Mill and down the dusty road. Thankfully, the ride to Furnost would be much shorter than the one to the village had been. By late morning, the plain had already given way to grassy pastures, and Murtagh could see the pale grey-green of trees in the distance.
"That's the Silverwood Forest," said Teresa, speaking for the first time. She was pointing out the window in the direction of his gaze. "My home."
"It's beautiful," said Murtagh.
They sat together and watched for a moment as the forest approached. Then Teresa sat back in her seat, and looked fixedly at Murtagh. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you," she said finally.
"My lady?"
"Just before you locked me in the carriage" – she raised an eyebrow, but Murtagh refused to feel remorse. It had been for her own safety – "you called me by my name, which I don't remember ever telling you."
Murtagh's heart leaped into his mouth. He remembered it too, now: in the frenzy of impending battle, he had let her name slip out.
Teresa continued. "And while I was locked in the carriage, I saw you do something rather strange. You were surrounded by enemy men. I was terrified. Just when I thought I was going to have to watch you be killed, you raised your hand and said something. All the men around you just…died. Just like that." Teresa looked as if she still had trouble believing it. "It was the oddest thing I've ever seen, and I know what it was." She looked Murtagh dead in the eye, and he squirmed under her penetrating stare. "It was magic."
Murtagh sighed heavily. I suppose now's as good a time as any, he thought. Swallowing hard, he said, "My lady – Teresa, there is something I need to tell you. I'm not a fur-trader." He grinned humourlessly. "I've never even been to Ceunon. Galbatorix sent me to retrieve your Rider's sword."
Teresa didn't even blink. When she spoke, it was not a question. "Murtagh."
Unable to say anything else, Murtagh nodded. To his intense astonishment, Teresa reached forward smacked him hard on the shoulder.
"You – are – an – idiot!" she exclaimed, punctuating each word with a blow. Murtagh winced. They actually hurt. "I knew it! Why did you lie to me? Did you think I was stupid –?"
"Teresa –!"
" - That I wouldn't guess?"
"Teresa!" He said firmly, catching his slim wrist and holding her hand where it could not cause him bodily harm. "I told you before that the king would find out. He changed my appearance so I could travel without being recognized. I'm sorry for lying to you, but it needed to be done. There would be…" he swallowed, choosing his words carefully, "complications if I was discovered by the wrong people."
Still frowning, Teresa said, "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now. You were going to tell me eventually?"
"When we got to Furnost, yes. I really am sorry." Murtagh ducked his head awkwardly. He had always been terrible at apologies.
Teresa's expression softened a little. Suddenly, she leaned forward. Murtagh flinched, think wildly that perhaps she was going to hit him again, but she only gazed at him intently.
"Er, Teresa?" he said, a little uncomfortably. "What are you doing?"
"Be quiet for a second, please," she replied, still staring at him. "I'm looking for something." Teresa's eyes raked over Murtagh's face little by little, finally coming to meet his.
"There you are," Teresa said finally. "They're a different colour, but they're still yours."