A/N: Okay, Murtagh's 'ailment' could have something to do with Galbatorix, but it could also be something else…or maybe a combination of both? It does serve a purpose, though, and all will be revealed later. For now, let's just deal with that pesky elfin 'relic.'

Thanks reviewers!

Fifteen

The Truth of Vrîend'dräco

It was late in the night when Murtagh woke. His head hurt a little, but other than that and the lack of his usual energy, he was feeling much better. He sat up and surveyed the cave. Everyone but Eragon was asleep. He shuddered, feeling the cool air against his brow.

"You feel that? The cold?" Eragon asked, taking his eyes off the fire at last.

"Yes," Murtagh said.

Eragon reached for the pot boiling over the dying embers. "Good. That means it worked."

"What worked?" Then it dawned on him. He scowled at himself, slumping against Thorn's ribcage. "You fixed the spell."

Eragon shrugged and handed him a bowl of bubbling broth. The smell made Murtagh's stomach shudder uneasily; he took it reluctantly. The bowl shook weakly in his hands. "It's fine. I need all the practice I can get," Eragon said quietly.

"Why's that?"

Eragon stared at the dirt with a sullen expression. "Do you remember that baby I blessed?"

"Yes."

"I…I got the wording wrong. And instead of shielding her from danger, I made her the shield."

Murtagh tapped his finger on the bowl's wooden rim, choosing his words carefully. A part of him wanted to thump his brother over the head for being such an idiot (since he could relate to being unwilling bound), but then there was the other part that said he was in no real position to ridicule Eragon either. So, he improvised. "Well, you shouldn't feel too guilty. You're too much of a golden boy to have done it on purpose."

"It doesn't matter if I did it on purpose," said Eragon. "I did it."

"Still, you could have done a lot worse. Just fix the problem and get it over with. Learn from your mistakes and move on." He set the bowl aside; his appetite was gone for good. "Do you want me to take over the watch?"

Eragon half laughed. "No," he said. "You were out cold when we finally landed, and that was only hours ago. Were we in Surda, I think Nasuada would have restrained you to the sick ward. No, I think you're better off sleeping the rest of the night."

Murtagh shrugged. "Suite yourself," he said and lay back down. Thorn curled up around him.

Feel better?

Murtagh rubbed his eyes sorely. Yes.

But not completely?

Murtagh said nothing, for Thorn already knew the answer.


Nasuada and I were very worried about you. He poked Murtagh gently in the belly with a scaly nose. The water in that sinkhole tasted funny, and you swallowed quite a bit of it. I think that is why you're feeling ill.


There's nothing I can do about now.

You can always see a healer when we return to Surda.

Murtagh grunted dubiously. And have them bleed me to death? Ha! Those leaches would suck me dry in half a heartbeat, trying to get rid of my 'poisoned' blood.

Thorn snort dubiously. Only a fool would try that. But hopefully you will be well against soon.

Hopefully, Murtagh agree, feeling each of his tendons stiffen. His sight became distorted and fuzzy again. The images of his surroundings twisted and ground against one another. With pools of misty colors bleeding together into a single perverse painting.

And so it went over the course of the next few days. At night, he dreamed of the Galbatorix's cruelty and cackling jester in his jingling motley and ass ears, and of horrible things— half rotten things with parts of the bone exposed, and writhing worms hanging out of hollowed eye sockets. On more than occasion, Thorn had to drag his conscience out of the nightmare and away from the nightmare. His physical ailments remained in tact as well, refusing to dissipate. He could keep nothing down, his energy was on the minimal, and it seemed that everything hurt all the time. And the most frustrating part was that there was nothing anyone could do about it. There was nothing to heal, inside or out.

On the morning of the third day, however, when Thorn was out hunting, it was Nasuada who woke him up with a shrill, terrified scream. Murtagh bolted upright to find her frantically struggling out of her dress, striping herself down to finely laced underclothes. She threw it onto the ground with a disgusted shudder and stepped back; as if afraid the dress might reach up and snatch her up with toothy jaws.

"What are you doing?" Murtagh cried, struggling to his feet.

Nasuada pointed to the heap of soft brown cloth. The dark hue in her skin had paled. "It moved!"

"The dress?"

"No! Vrîend'dräco, it moved!"

He glanced at the dress, which had begun to squirm vigorously. When he said nothing, she cried, "Well, do something! I'm in stranded in my underwear!"

Murtagh groaned and searched the campsite. Where was Eragon he needed him? There was a loud squeak, followed by a crack. He frowned. It can't be. Murtagh knelt down and dug out the elfin relic. It trembled vigorously there on the ground. It was very obvious to him what it was, but he doubted Nasuada did. He knew Nasuada should be the open it.

Nasuada leaned took a step closer. "What do we do?"

"I don't know," he said. "It's your relic."

"Yes, but you know more about these things than I do."

"I think you should open it."

Nasuada stared at Vrîend'dräco uneasily. "Arya said not to, unless it was necessary."

"It's necessary."

She looked at him, and then back at the fidgeting bundle of ribbons and silk. "What if it bites?"

For a minuet, Murtagh wondered if she knew what is was. "You can fight Urgals and Ra'zac, but you can't be bothered with a wiggling package?"

"I don't delve into potential danger without knowing what the danger is, Murtagh." She straightened up, crossing her arms over lace swathed breasts. "And if you're such a high and mighty warrior, then why don't you open it up."

"Because it's not my responsibility, your Ladyship"

"A likely excuse," Nasuada said with a sudden distressed sigh. She turned her back to him and walked to the edge of the camp. "Just what I'd expect from a coward."

Murtagh was on his feet instantly, furious. "You think I'm a coward!"

"Unless there is a good reason why you shouldn't open it, then yes."

Murtagh glared at her. Your beloved plays with you, Murtagh, said Thorn from far away. She's suspicious and wants you to tell her the truth of Arya's lie.

I know, Murtagh answered. But I can play too.

Are you going to tell her?

No. She can find out for herself. He held up his hands, his fingers shaking slightly. "I can't," he told her with an innocent voice. "My hands hurt, and my fingers just won't do what I tell them."

"Don't fool with me, Murtagh," Nasuada said sharply.

"It's the truth!"

But Nasuada was clever than that. "Yes, the sky is purple and the grass is blue."

"Well, you can't just stand around in your underwear all day."

"I will if I must." Her eyes ran over him narrowly. "And you don't have to stare!"

"You're the one who won't put your cloths back on!"

"That's funny coming from you, Mr. 'Will You Be Pleased?'"

"I wasn't myself that day."

"Then tell me the truth. What is it?"

He glanced at Vrîend'dräco. The silk began to burn. Tiny, scaly green claws poked through the burning cloth, clawing at the smoldering ribbons and tearing it open. "I think it's self explanatory," he said, stepping back as a jade hatchling crawled out of the silk-wrapped egg.

"This is terrible," Nasuada whispered, shivering. Then she exploded. "She lied to me!"

"This is good thing," Murtagh said. Where was Eragon? And Roran? He hadn't left Katrina's side since they left Helgrind. "You should be proud."

"Proud? Proud of what? That the Empire still awaits my invasion? That I seem to lack the ability of keeping my allies— those stupid rock-brained dwarves—at my side because they are terrified of dragons? Oh yes, lucky me, the elves promise to help liberate Alagaësia of our imperial plague, and yet instead of an army, those tree-hugging imps decide that literally scaring the clothing off my back is much more beneficial!"

"It's not as bad as you think."

"You don't understand. I will now have to double my efforts to prove that I am fit, not only as Varden chief, but now I must prove that I am worthy to call that—"she thrust a slender finger at the hatchling, "—mine."

Careful not to touch the hatchling, he picked up the dress. "He chose well, Nasuada. You are hard as iron, and your heart is very kind. There is no one in Alagaësia who deserves to bear leadership over the Varden. No one is brainless enough to say that you do not deserve to call him your dragon," he said gently, kneeling beside her. "Now, will you please put your dress back on?"

The smoldering glaze in her eyes softened to a rapt sparkle. "Do I not please you?"

"Well—"

She stopped him with a kiss. It made his skin quiver with burning delight.

"How about now?"

Even though Murtagh wanted to let this continue, he was increasingly ware of the disaster that might occur if the Varden became aware of his growing romantic interests. And in her underwear! He managed to summon a weak smile. "Pleasing, indeed. But as gratifying as you are, whether in dress or lace, I am not sure if this is the appropriate time."

"Of course not," Nasuada said with some disappointment. She backed away from him slightly, a reclusive expression contorting her smooth features. "You speak honestly. I was a fool to think otherwise. Ad there may never be time for it, less the Varden succeeds. I will not forget again." Her words were soft but cold, and they lashed against his heart like a barbed whip.

"That is not what I meant," he said quickly.

Nasuada shrugged. "Still, it is the truth. I've no time to waste for romantics. I have an invasion to execute, an army to lead, allies to rally, nor can I allow even the most negligible bit of …soil upon my reputation."

Murtagh swallowed and closed eyes, suppressing a storm of frustration and heartache. Why did I open my big mouth? There was a long silence, in which Murtagh thought the stillness might crush his eardrums. "Very well," he said at last. "I am going to find Eragon. You can discuss your duties as a Rider with someone less muddy."

He turned towards the forest.

"Wait—"

"Dirt has no place upon a white cloth," Murtagh said with a sudden, pointed harshness. He somehow found a terrible satisfaction at the wounded expression on her face.

A/N: If you want to know the truth, I don't think Nasuada will be Rider #3. Mr. P and his crew of evil moviemakers have a tendency to give my favorite characters the shaft. I also think the reason why he hasn't released the title of his book yet is because it will totally blow the big secret on Rider/Dragon #3.

I will also bet big money that Mr. P named his book after the third rider (look at Eldest and Eragon, they're both named after the new riders, and their dragons both made cover art), which again, is probably why he won't tell us the name of Book 3.

Anyways, I will explain why the egg hatched without Nasuada touching soon.

Today is the Vernal Equinox, so happy Oestara and Blessed Be!

And keep reviewing!