The rest of their travel that day was without incident; the men from Carvahall strode in front of the two dragons—doing very well to conceal their own unease if they had any—and Roran rode next to Eragon and Murtagh.
The two of them made conversation to pass the dull hours, though Roran very clearly steered away from mention of Katrina or the baby. This would have been unusual, except Eragon understood that he was keeping that information from Murtagh on purpose. Roran may have seemed relaxed enough, but he did not trust Murtagh by any means, especially not with the safety of his wife and unborn child.
Murtagh kept silent and rode along as close to Thorn as Tornac would go, clearly uninterested in being a part of their conversations.
Eragon respected Roran's avoidance and kept to strictly benign topics, like the weather and the food and the various complaints from the Carvahall villagers, for whom his cousin had become the de-facto representative and leader–a reality which still amazed Eragon. Roran was leading a squadron that included Carvahall villagers, some human Varden, a handful of dwarves and some Urgals. He had lost a good friend in the Siege of Aroughs—the magician who had been assigned to his company—Carn. But as with most of their losses, Roran hadn't really been given time to grieve, and Eragon wasn't sure if he should bring that up in front of Murtagh either. If Roran felt turmoil about how the Siege of Aroughs had gone, he didn't say so to Eragon, and stuck to only the most casual of war-stories
"Stubborn as rocks those Kull," Roran said with a grim smile, "But bloody good fighters, and intensely loyal–once you've earned it."
Eragon had been informed of how Roran had had to earn his company's loyalty by wrestling with one of the biggest kull–and winning. He had been equal parts concerned and impressed at the news. Despite his own growing power and the fact that his abilities would make most men quiver with fear, he knew he was no match for Roran when it came to brute strength and sheer guts.
When Eragon glanced over at his Murtagh, he saw a dark look on his brother's face–a glare which said exactly just what he thought of the Varden allying themselves with the Urgals. Eragon found it hard to continue the conversation after that, knowing that Murtagh was listening.
"Roran didn't mean anything by it," He said to Murtagh that night, when they had made camp and were sitting around the fire with Thorn and Saphira on either side. His brother said nothing.
"I understand it must be hard, with the Urgals and all," Eragon tried, "It took me a while to—"
"—I didn't say anything," Murtagh muttered.
"You didn't have to," Eragon returned softly. Murtagh's eyes flicked to him, a dull look as he twisted a blade of grass in between his fingers. Then he looked away.
The fire crackled silently for a moment before he muttered,
"Just don't get how Nasuada could do that. After what they did to her father."
Eragon watched him carefully for a second, and he heard the unspoken sentiment:
After what they did to me.
"I think…" Eragon started carefully, "She understands that the Twins orchestrated that attack; they were responsible for it. The Urgals may have dealt the blow, but they were under the Twins' control, just like they were under Durza's control. Just like you and Thorn—"
"—don't you dare compare us to them," Murtagh snapped, and Eragon kept his expression cool. There was a moment of silence, and he could feel both Thorn and Saphira watching with cautious attentiveness.
"I only mean to say," Eragon began again in a quiet voice, "That there's a difference between a sworn enemy, and a people who were deceived and manipulated into fighting us. Nasuada understands that."
"Oh, and I don't?" Murtagh bit back.
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to," He echoed spitefully, and Eragon sighed.
This is not an argument I think you can win, Saphira put in, You yourself could not be convinced of the Urgal's sincerity, until you became acquainted with Nar Garzhvog, and saw their loyalty with your own eyes.
Yeah, well I don't think Murtagh is going to be open to the idea of breaking bread with any Kull in the near future.
Saphira rumbled.
It may be best to let it lie, then.
Eragon followed her advice, and didn't push the matter any further, though he thought Murtagh of all people could understand the King's control and manipulation. The Urgals had not been a peaceful people by any means—their culture was built around fighting and domination—but they had not set themselves up against the Varden willingly, and neither had Murtagh. No doubt he would wish to receive Nasuada's pardon for himself and Thorn, so why couldn't he understand it being given to someone else?
It will take time, I think, for him to be able to see the world in shades of gray, Saphira offered, I imagine it seems very black from where he and Thorn sit.
"I meant what I said," Eragon started then, heeding Saphira's thoughts, "About Nasuada believing in you. She told me herself; she wants to help you and Thorn—just like I do. We're on your side."
Murtagh's glare was guarded.
"Yeah, well your help looks a lot like hurting," He muttered, glaring at the ground.
"I'm sorry for invading your mind; you must know it brought me no pleasure or satisfaction to hurt you."
"Piss off."
"I mean it, Murtagh," Eragon said firmly, "I hated every bit of it."
"But you'd do it again, if you had to," Murtagh said coldly, and Eragon inhaled, meeting his brother's eyes across the flames. Instead of answering, he said:
"And you? What would you do, if you were me? If you were facing an impossible enemy, and my mind held the information that could help you win—help you set me free. Would you leave me alone? Would you spare me?"
Murtagh squinted at him, his jaw twisting, but then his gaze dropped and he looked away.
"Was it worth it?" He asked sullenly. Eragon sighed.
"No, not really."
Murtagh let out a humorless scoff, his boot scuffing the earth.
"What we saw in there," Eragon started, "What he did to you—I know you didn't want me to see it, and I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make it worse. I know it might feel like—"
"—you don't know," Murtagh interrupted sharply, his shoulders hunching, defenses coming up, "Stop saying that. 'You know'; you don't know anything. Have you ever been tortured?"
He leaned in with an angry defiance, his words sharp with fury and thick with pain.
"Have you ever been beaten past the edge of death and then dragged back just to start over again? Have you ever had bugs poured down your throat, gnawing on your insides? Or–or irons branded into your skin like you're a bloody animal?"
Murtagh pulled up the side of his shirt roughly, revealing the rows of dark scars that Eragon had glimpsed before.
"Have you ever listened to Saphira's screams, and felt her pain, and been powerless to help her?" He asked, his voice hoarse, "Have you ever had someone invade your mind and use your hand to kill? Take over your body like you're a puppet? Or do whatever—do whatever he wanted and then leave you vomiting in the gutter?"
Murtagh's eyes glinted with venom and the heat of unshed tears.
"No, you haven't," He stated thickly, "Because you got to grow up in your quiet little town, with your nice family, and your father watching over you like some bloody guardian, taking care of you and keeping you safe when you were too stupid to look after yourself."
Murtagh sniffed through a scowl, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.
"And then when you did get yourself captured, guess who came and got you out before they did anything to you? Me. So don't go telling me that you know—you don't. I went through hell, and you act like you and–and–and Arya and all them can just walk in and take what you want from me and then tell me you understand. You don't understand. You don't know. You watched it happen, I lived it."
Eragon blinked, letting the anger wash over him and accepting it without complaint, knowing he was not here to argue with his brother's pain. He would wade through it to get to where he needed, to tear down the remaining walls between them. Murtagh seemed to have spent all his words now, because he simply sat breathing hard, trying to keep his pain from showing through the anger.
"I'm sorry," Eragon said finally, "You're right. I don't know."
He took a steadying breath.
"What the King did to you was horrific," Eragon said in a low voice, "No one should ever have to endure what you and Thorn have. And if I'd known… or if there was anything we could've done—"
"—bloody tell that to–to what–to the elves?" Murtagh gestured to him with a scowl, "Or whoever it was that fixed your scar and made you strong and kept you safe. You're telling me that that old rider could bloody do all that but he didn't know that we—that Thorn was suffering? He couldn't lift a finger to help us?"
Murtagh's indignation was cracked by despair, the pathetic voice of an angry child, demanding an explanation where there was none. He scowled and looked away, clearly angry at himself for feeling again. The dam that had burst once had been fighting to gather its waters back in, but the walls were weakened, and Murtagh no longer had the icy control he'd been using as a shield for so long.
"Oromis didn't fix my back," Eragon corrected quietly after a moment, "He didn't even have the power to cure his own ailment, you know that."
Murtagh's look darkened, no doubt remembering those moments above Gil'ead—Oromis's downfall; the blood and the smoke and the ear-splitting roars of agony.
"Yeah well," Murtagh spat into the fire, "Then the Elves have some bloody explaining to do."
"It wasn't–" Eragon sighed, rubbing his hands along his face, forgetting where he had meant the conversation to go, "Look, I don't know exactly what happened, but it wasn't the elves. They were just as surprised as I was when it–when I was… changed. It was the—the dragon spirits, I guess."
Eragon gestured vaguely.
"Old magic. Not the kind of thing that a person could will to happen."
Murtagh looked at him dubiously for a moment, before poking a stick at the fire and causing sparks to flurry up from the embers. His outburst had now left him flat and sullen, like a heavy layer of clouds on a gray day, unable to summon the energy to make lightning.
"You'd think if the dragon spirits were so powerful they might've done something to help Thorn, seeing how he's damn near the only chance they've got to keep from going extinct," He muttered as he stared into the coals.
"You'd think he might've mattered to them too."
Thorn's head lay on the ground, his red eyes blinking, silently echoing the question.
Why wouldn't they help me?
Eragon stayed quiet, because in truth he didn't have an answer for this. Why had he and Saphira been helped, and guided, and protected, and fought for by every race in Alagaesia, while Thorn and Murtagh had seemingly been left to their doom, abandoned and tortured, with no great power intervening on their behalf?
"Yeah. You'd think," Eragon said finally, and his brother looked at him for a long moment, as though surprised that he had agreed with him for once. Eragon was then surprised to hear Thorn's voice in his mind, low and melancholy.
If the long-dead spirits of my kind are able to move and act in this world, He said, Can they not tear down the Tyrant in his stronghold? Or free me and my rider from the bonds we have been set in?
Thorn's great eyes blinked at Eragon pitifully, aching for answers, and Eragon sighed.
"What did he say?" Murtagh demanded, and Eragon swallowed, forgetting that his brother could not hear.
He repeated the question, and answered it in the same breath,
"I don't know. I don't know what powers are at work—I don't understand how I became like I am, I just know it happened. And I'm sorry that the same thing didn't happen for you. Truly."
Eragon sighed heavily and leaned his head against Saphira's scales.
"I'm the first to admit that it isn't fair," He said, "That I've been given every help and afforded every protection and opportunity, and aided by so many people. Don't think I don't understand what I owe… t–to Brom, to you, to Ajihad and Hrothgar, to the Elves and Oromis. To everyone who's put their faith in me, who's given up their lives for me."
He sighed, looking up at Murtagh with open hands, pleading.
"But I'm trying here. I'm trying to free you, and I'm trying to set things right, and I'm trying to pay back all that I owe, and I'm trying to give us a fighting chance—"
Murtagh scoffed, rolling his eyes and curling his legs up.
"I know you think it's impossible," Eragon said before Murtagh could object, "I know you think me and Nasuada and everyone should just run to the wilderness and hide—and sure, maybe some of them could make it for a while. Maybe the dwarves could burrow deep enough and the Elves could hide themselves long enough, and Nasuada could run far enough to live out her life in some desert somewhere, always running, always looking over her shoulder," Eragon gestured.
"But me? Saphira?" He shook his head, "You know that's not an option for us. No matter where we go, he will come for us. A month, a year, maybe ten if we're lucky—but Galbatorix will find us, and he will do to us what he did to you."
Murtagh was looking down, but Thorn's eyes were fixed on Eragon, and he could see they were both listening.
"So if our life is going to end one way or the other, then we're going to go down fighting—not fleeing. Because that's what you deserve from us. Because that's what you did."
Eragon's fists clenched, feeling the boil of determination under his skin, picturing his brother, raising his sword with a feral shout and charging towards the Urgals, towards Ajihad, towards death—maybe the last decision he'd ever made out of his own free will. And he'd chosen to fight.
"You can't do anything to stop us from facing him," Eragon said with finality, "We are marching on Uru'baen one way or the other. So help us."
"I already told y—"
"I know. I know you are bound by your oaths," Eragon said quickly, "But you and I both know the ancient language is a puzzle with a thousand pieces. The elves use it everyday, to lie while telling the truth. You may be bound to keep his secrets, but there are ways you can tell us… ways you can help us, give us the tools to free you… if you would only try. We can't pry it from your mind, that much has been made clear. It has to come from you; I'm sorry, it shouldn't be like this, but it is. You have to find a way. Or no one will."
Murtagh stared across the fire from him, his ever-guarded expression searching carefully. The coals smoldered between them and the cool night wind blew across the grasses.
"Why should I trust you?" He murmured finally, "Why should I believe you're not just using me? Like he does? Trying to get what you want, and then leave us behind like always?"
Eragon kept his expression still, and in the ancient language he said,
"Murtagh, on Saphira's life I promise you I will not abandon you and Thorn. If I cannot free you—I will die trying."
Saphira rumbled in agreement, her own eyes glinting with the same determination that Eragon felt. Murtagh remained glaring at him from across the fire, but Eragon saw the words settle on him—the truth of them, the finality.
The fields were silent except for the wind. Then Murtagh said:
"Give me a piece of parchment."
Eragon frowned.
"Wh—"
"Just do it," Murtagh snapped, and Eragon, confused, rose and went to Saphira's saddlebags, pulling from them a blank roll of parchment and a charcoal piece.
He handed both to Murtagh, who took them wordlessly, and tromped over to the edge of the firelight. He sat with Thorn's tail around him, his back to Eragon as he hunched over the parchment while Eragon and Saphira watched.
What's he doing? Eragon said to Saphira, unsure if his words had sunk in, or if Murtagh was just brooding. But he waited in silence, harkening back to his lessons with Oromis, when he had to learn patience. He sat for a long time as the night grew chill and the fire burned down to embers, and he waited.
Just when he thought Murtagh had fallen asleep sitting over there cross legged in the dark, his brother rose to his feet, every movement deliberate. Murtagh crossed back over to the fire, and stood above it, staring down at Eragon with a blank look.
Silently, Murtagh held up the paper. Then, not breaking eye contact, he crumpled it up and tossed it on the flames as if it were rubbish. Eragon frowned, as his brother turned around and tromped back towards Thorn, curling up on his side with his back to him, ready for sleep.
Then Eragon dropped his eyes to the balled up piece of parchment, which had begun to catch fire around the edges. Quickly he leaned forward and snatched it out of the flames, saving it before it could burn itself to ash.
His heart beating and his mind unsure, Eragon unfurled the parchment and flattened it out on the ground in front of him, brightening the fire so he could see.
On it were scribbled neat lines in precise arrangements; no words, no pictures—just a maze of scratches that had no apparent significance… until Eragon looked at them closely, and he began to see the shapes of walls, and windows, and streets, and balconies, and rooms…
Eragon turned the parchment, his breath suddenly held, as his mind worked to catch up with what he was seeing—just lines, meaningless lines, no hidden message, no betrayal of secrets.
Murtagh had just drawn lines on a piece of parchment, and then tossed that parchment in the fire. He had not passed information to anyone. But as Eragon held the parchment out before him, he recognized the shape of those lines, and what they revealed.
It's a map, He said to Saphira, his heart beating hard, as he raised his gaze to Murtagh's still form.
It's a map of the citadel at Uru'baen.