Diamond Cut Diamond

Chapter 8: Unwanted Nostalgia

Things were…quieting down?"

"Couldn't be," thought Murtagh wryly.

"It seems so," countered Thorn. "Although after our journey to Helgrind, nearly anything would seem calm."

"You have a point. But things seem to be falling into place."

If they were, you could certainly see it from Murtagh's vantage point. High above Uru'baen, slowly circling the city, occasionally drifting through the cold of a cloud, dragon and rider could see that life was being picked up and gone on with in the city.

Even the street markets were starting up again, and while the city wasn't rebuilt at least it was cleared. The Black Hand was, for the time being, lying low. The same was true for nearly all the cities, though Eragon was having some difficulties in Dras'leona eliminating the slave trade. Murtagh viewed it was a futile quest, but then again, he'd thought the same thing about the war. Or he'd said so, convinced himself he believed so, so fully that he almost had. But Murtagh had hoped.

"Of course you did," said Thorn.

"Of course," said Murtagh in a resigned tone.

Because thoughts did have tones. Murtagh's mental tone was usually calmer and less rough than his actual voice. It seemed more natural. Eragon's mental voice was deeper, older, and yet at the same time softer. And of course, Morzan's…my father's, thought Murtagh. As he had become an adolescent, he had begun to mentally refer to his father by his name. It made it easier to think of Morzan as some random man, an evil man that Murtagh didn't know personally. People you don't know are easier to hate. Easier to brush off.

When you know them, they start to do all sorts of nasty things like praise you when you do well at the things they're teaching you, take you out riding on a gorgeous gray stallion, weave you stories about their adventures, tell you that you have their face, but your mother's eyes.

And then when they do something else, when they shout at you or even hit you, you decide that it really is your fault, and you're so angry with them, but deep down you just want it to be better and maybe you can forget the bad times and the good ones will come back.

Murtagh attempted to shake these thoughts like a dog would wet fur. "Don't we have a job to do?" he asked Thorn.

"Yes…"

"I see you're looking forward to it about as much as I am."


The closer they got to Morzan's castle, the more out-of-temper Murtagh got.

"I would have given Nasuada the damn place. Given it to her! With everything inside it."

"I doubt she'd want it," said Thorn, reasonably.
"I don't! I'd rather you set it on fire."

"That can be arranged."

"I'm tempted. But one needn't look more like a raging lunatic than one must."

"Murtagh, you're going to sell it, and then you don't ever have to come back. Let's get this over with quickly."

"Hmm."

Thorn alighted on the long lawn. There had been a huge area set aside for draconian take-off and landings, but the gardens had not been well-maintained, and Murtagh found himself wading through knee-deep weeds.

"The terrifying dragon rider, covered in burrs. Lovely."

Thorn did not distain to respond to Murtagh's sarcasm.

Murtagh made his way through the once grand gardens.

"Mother loved flowers and why didn't I ever save those roses she loved so much, the ones I ripped my skin up picking when I was three, roses are so damn cliché and yet she melted every time he gave them to her. I wonder if Brom ever gave her roses.

I shouldn't have come here, no I should have come here a long time ago, before it got to be so long, before time quit moving here while it moved everywhere else. I'm young again here and I don't like it, I'm a stupid kid, who's probably done something wrong.

Galbatorix didn't lie about keeping the castle in order but the grounds have been neglected. He offered this place to me so many times but I was just too afraid and I was right to be afraid because—"

"Murtagh, you are going to walk into a tree if you do not stop that."

"Right as always," thought Murtagh sourly.

Murtagh made his way up to the grand front doors. He leaned against them, and then when the feeling that someone was behind him grew too much to bear, leaned against the wall.

"Go in. I'll come," ordered Thorn.

"I'll go in when I'm showing the place. What the hell's this man's name, anyway?"

"No idea. Have a look around, Murtagh."

Murtagh sighed and then, before he could reconsider, yanked on the big, oaken doors, throwing all his body weight into making the rusty hinges move.

The castle had been maintained, but minimally. There were no actual architectural flaws, but there were several inches of dust, and a squeaking noise that belied rats.

Murtagh glanced around or something to prop open the door with. Nothing.

"And I sure as hell want some light if I'm going in there."

Thorn lumbered over, and with a plaintive "Why are you using me this way?" look, he settled himself leaning against the door.

"Thanks, that'll be fine."

Thorn blew a smoke ring into Murtagh's face.

Coughing and swearing, Murtagh made his way into the castle. It wasn't in disrepair, but it was definitely dirty and disused. He left footprints in the dust as he moved through entrance hall. Ignoring the front rooms which were mostly for entertaining anyway, and too big and ostentatious for Murtagh to have spent much time in.

So up the stairs, one hand gracing the rail (just like Morzan) and down the hall, down the exact center, commanding the entire corridor so if anyone, a ghost maybe, passed they'd have to detour around him (just like Morzan) and then into the long corridor with only one room on it, the room where peace and quiet was an absolute necessity that Morzan had gone to extreme lengths to get.

"If I'm going to do this, I might as well do it properly."

Murtagh still felt a surge of unease opening the door, maybe he was intruding again, and it was a gamble whether or not he'd get something thrown at him, or a welcome, and maybe a history lesson.

The room was dust-covered, and all the books and valuables were gone, the huge globe with Morzan's own notations on it, all the books, the beautiful books that had entranced Murtagh from the first time he saw them. The book shelves were still there, though, and the desk and chair.

Murtagh strode across the room (just like Morzan) and stood in the window, ripped off the shutter, and surveyed the territory. There was no one coming, and Murtagh suppressed annoyance. The buyer was late.

"If he's more than an hour late, torch the place, all right, Thorn?"

Murtagh walked over to the desk, and sat down on the dusty chair, appreciating the view his father had had, the view he'd had once as he'd played in his father's office.

"And wasn't that disaster?"

Murtagh sighed, rose, and walked around the room, absent-mindedly running his hands over the empty bookshelves.

"Murtagh, someone's coming."

"Right. Thank you."

Murtagh took his time making his way downstairs and back into the sunlight. He blinked, disoriented. Thorn had taken off, letting the door bang behind him, and was riding an updraft created by the baking stone of the castle. Murtagh's buyer was rapidly approaching by horse.

He reached the steps in front of the castle and dismounted, and then practically bounced up the stairs. He appeared wealthy but it was in the way of someone who would rather hunt than buy meat, and who felt finery was an obligation to get out of the way. His hair was about half gray, and he was thin and wiry.

"Still, he's buying a castle."

"Good morning."

Murtagh nodded in greeting. "Good morning. Do you want a look around?"

"I'd be pleased. I'm Karth Katarsson, and in case you were wondering, I'm not buying the place for myself."

"Ah. " Murtagh led him into the entrance hall. "There isn't any major damage. Just dirt from disuse."

They walked down the entrance hall and into the dining room, where the large table still stood.

"I understand. Now, this is really inspired! Huge dining hall, exactly what I need!" Karth seemed to be suffused with joy.

"Eccentric," commented Thorn.

"A bit."

"You see," said Karth, turning to Murtagh, his ice-blue eyes like quicksilver, "I'm turning it into an orphanage. The wife and I can finally give up this dreadful shipping business, we've got money put away, and this place, after it's tidied, will be absolutely perfect."

"I suppose it would be," said Murtagh, the thought of children running around here wrong-footing him completely. "It's large enough."

"Of course, we use a new methodology of teaching. Our own. But that's neither here nor there. It'll do perfectly; I don't need to see any more."

"That fast?"
"I'm not complaining, Thorn."

"And you're willing to pay full price?"

Karth's lips crinkled into a smile. "You won't be able to amuse yourself haggling with me, Mr—Lord—whatever the hell they call you these days. What would you prefer?"

"Murtagh. Just Murtagh."

Karth clapped him on the back. "Yes, I can agree. A man needs a name, not a slew of titles. And yes, I brought you cash. Credits have been unreliable ever since the war ended.

"That's fine. There's the matter of the deed…" Murtagh realized belatedly that the piece of paperwork was in his saddlebags, which were currently circling several hundred feet above his head. "Wait a moment."

"Thorn! Come down here a minute, will you?"

Grumbling, Thorn prepared to land. Karth shaded his eyes and watched.

"Beautiful…" he murmured under his breath. "I never thought I'd live to see the day—but you've heard that one before?"

Murtagh actually chuckled. "A few times."

"While we wait…" Karth retrieved his own saddlebag, comically stuffed full of coins. "As I said, it looks a little ridiculous, but seeing as the banking system's going through hell… Besides, I doubt he'll have any trouble with it." Karth nodded toward Thorn, who had landed somewhat less than smoothly and was making his way across the lawn.

In spite of himself, Murtagh chuckled again. He half-ran-half-walked out to meet Thorn, and retrieved the necessary papers, along with an inkwell and badly bent quill.

The railing were smooth enough to write non, and Murtagh didn't want to go back in the castle, so he set everything out on the stone sidewalls that led up to the door, and the signing commenced, Murtagh's own elegant handwriting contrasting with Karth's spidery scrawl. Karth barely glanced over the taxation information, muttering about how it would all be different now anyway. Murtagh's head was still spinning over how fast it all had gone.

"I've never sold a castle before. I thought it would entail more. I an't believe he's going to pay in cash. He's got to be phenomenally rich."

"At least you're rid of it. And it'll be used for something good."

"There!" he said, signing a last flourish and handing Murtagh back the pen, "Pleasure doing business with you, Murtagh."

"He said my name, just like she did. What's been all the fuss about names lately, anyway? She did though."

And they shook hands, and then they parted, Karth on his horse and Murtagh on Thorn, even though he would have liked to have one last look at the gardens.

But it wasn't his house anymore.


He had only been back an hour or so when Nasuada summoned him.

As soon as he passed the Nighthawks and entered the door, all pretense of formality dropped. Nasuada was alone, buried in papers, and when she saw Murtagh, she smiled.

"And isn't that odd, how it all just faded away, and neither of us minds?" thought Murtagh, distractedly. "Not that she doesn't fall under the category of friend…well…maybe…but categorizing Nasuada is always a mistake."

"Murtagh! It's good to see you."

"And you, Lady Nasuada."

Nasuada stood, and stretched slightly. "I want you to go to Ellesmera."

Murtagh had to restrain himself from saying "yes" before he even knew why he was going.

"Someone's got to represent the riders (and the Republic) while Arya's getting…I don't know, elected? Whatever term they use. I know she's on our side, but I want someone on hand. Blood's thicker than water. Besides, she'll be faster on dragonback, and we really can't spare Eragon, no offense intended."

"It's not a problem, Lady Nasuada. When are we leaving, and what exactly am I supposed to do?"

"It has," said Thorn, "turned into a very good day, after all."

A/n I know everyone's done Morzan's castle, but I wanted to re-characterize him.

It's so damn hard to keep Thorn in character. How'm I doing at it?

Oh, and to ...Inheritance. That is all.

Speaking which, Inheritance is basically assumed to have happened in this fic. I had to really crunch the MxN (Bless me father, for I have sinned) but seeing as this is MxA…Yeah. I might screw with it a little. Sort of. This fic is pretty half-assed as it is.