Author's note: Sorry to everyone who has been waiting for an update. I seriously got caught up on the roller coaster of life this past half a year, with work, relationship crap and school. But its finally here, chapter 7 I mean. And I assure you all, I fully intend to finish this story. This story will span at the very least the first book of the Inheritance cycle; I will consider a sequel when we EVENTUALLY get to that part.
I am having to read some parts of Brisingr and Eldest over for the next chapter, since we are meeting some quite notable characters. Getting into the bigger scope of things, you know. I'm leaving for Lapland tomorrow, so I will promise you the next chapter by the time I get back, that is the 10th of January. Most probably it will be up before then.
Merry late Christmas to everyone and a happy New Year!
Chapter 7 – Shadows
A mixture of roasted ham smothered with honey and almonds and baked vegetables clung to the air. The room was filled with steam and warmth, making the atmosphere almost stifling. Eryana went mostly unnoticed amongst the controlled, somewhat frantic chaos that swelled around her, filling her ears with roared orders and the clang of pans and pots. Cautiously, she snuck further in, skirting along the walls, all the while keeping an eye out for the head cook and her many aiding pairs of eyes. The woman did not like unwanted visitors in her realm of power, neither did any of her minions want to face the short woman's even shorter temper.
She crouched low to avoid being clubbed on the head with a massive pot of gravy, ducking under a nearby table to get out of the sea of scurrying feet. She continued on her hands and knees, crawling towards guiding, tell-tale smell of cinnamon. She waited giddily, yet quietly for the stove to be left untended, before swooping in to collect her bounty. The roll felt fluffy and hot in her fingers, the caramelized juice from the raisins and dates making it stick to her fingers. She stuffed two of the treats into her pockets, before wiping her hands clean on the dirt and flour covered hem of her dress. Perhaps Murtagh would like the other… she hoped not.
Turning around to make her escape, she spotted an innocent jar of apple sauce open on a nearby countertop. She swiped some onto her finger, popping it into her mouth to savour the overwhelming sweet taste. The painful swipe of a wooden ladle on her wrist did little to lessen the taste. She looked up innocently into the affronted face of the head cook. The woman grabbed Eryana's wrist, yanking the girl's fingers out of her mouth. "Hands off my cooking, girl! What have I told you about rats in my kitchen?" The woman questioned sternly, punctuating the accusation with a stroke of the ladle to the shoulder.
"What rats?" The girl pretended to look around as if trying to spot such a creature. "I see no rats. Didn't you have a ratter look this place over just last month?" Her brashness was rewarded with a slap on the ear. "Ouch!" Eryana exclaimed in exaggeration, rubbing the sore spot for added drama. The woman just huffed, folding her arms over her chest.
"Out! And hands where I can see them, or I swear by the gods. Children these days…" The cook muttered darkly. She shooed the girl off, swirling Eryana around by the shoulders before forcefully guiding her out the door. Regardless, the girl succeeded in swiping a clump of sugar into her already bloated pocket on the way out. "What are you looking at?!" The woman suddenly roared, making her minions flinch; apparently, their spectacle had garnered unwanted attention. "Back to work, the lot of you!" The frantic reaction that swept through the kitchen almost made Eryana cackle in mirth. The fuming cook dumped her into the outside corridor ungracefully, slamming the kitchen door shut with unneeded force.
The castle of Urû'baen was a mess of small dingy rooms, tall and grand halls and long, winding corridors that had accumulated over the centuries, each occupant and royal architect adding their own touch to the stronghold. The older parts of elvish architecture melded seamlessly into the newer parts constructed over the last century. Navigation was a challenge; it was through sheer curiosity and getting lost multiple times, that Eryana had some sense of direction. The kitchens were located in the northern most wing, near the stables, at ground level. Eryana dug out one of the rolls from her pocket. The freshly baked bread warmed her freezing fingers; the stone hallways were cold, especially during the winter months. Digging her teeth into the sweet and sticky dough, she sauntered down the narrow corridor. The passage was cramped and dimly lit, yet empty. It was part of the network mainly frequented only by the serving staff of the castle; the dark nooks also offered perfect places to hide for someone small. The passage turned and branched off many times, and after a while Eryana though she had once again succeeded in getting lost. That was until light started spilling in, accompanied by voices.
"—been no reports, sire. We lost track of the ambassador months ago." The voice was high and sharp, yet definitely male. Bright and sharp and dangerous like the clang of blades in battle. It was not a voice that Eryana recognized, yet it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
"And you tell me this now? Your incompetence astounds me, shade." Remarked Galbatorix with his hushed, yet thick and velvety tone. Eryana would recognize the King's voice anywhere; it was one of a kind. Flowing yet muddy, soft as velvet and slippery as a snake, she had once described at Murtagh's behest. Something else caught her interest. 'Shade? What kind of a name is that' She mused, her curiosity suddenly peaked.
"We tracked the carrier and her party to right up to the borders of Du Weldenvarden. Lost them once they entered the blasted forest." The first voice explained, Eryana sensed not a small degree of bitterness in the tone. "None of my scouts have seen the carrier since. My men and I camped out until winter set in." The voice was getting fainter. Eryana cursed, stepping into the wider hallway to follow the flow of conversation. The pair had their backs to her. Galbatorix was easy enough to make out, with his head weighed down by a golden crown, heavy with glinting precious stones. His companion was far more intriguing; Eryana had never seen hair of such a shade of red before. Red like fresh blood drawn from an open wound. Where Galbatorix was of wide shoulders and tall stature, this "Shade" was on the slightly shorter side, with thin, spindly limbs and narrow girth. Both were clad in black, with torch light glinting from the King's dragonhide cloak.
"We did capture the elf, sire." Eryana nearly tripped over herself in excitement and awe. Her nervousness was replaced by giddiness as she fought down an exited grin. 'An elf! A real elf, here!?' What followed was confusion; weren't elves supposed to live far up north in the great forest? Du Weldenvarden, wasn't it? Sure, there were some with the Varden down south; Grenn had once told her so. 'But what is one doing here in Urû'baen? Unheard of.' Eryana mentally scoffed. 'Does Murtagh know?' She silently wondered.
Galbatorix appeared unimpressed. The king gave a loud scoff and Eryana watched him fold his hands behind his back, rubbing his wrists. "And still you have yet to provide me with anything useful." The King's tone came out bland, mixed with disappointment and a hint of disinterest. "Your methods are either ineffective, or you're losing your touch." Galbatorix drawled.
"Shade" stiffened, making Eryana pause in mid-step. She held her breath, thinking the pair had heard her. To her relief, the pair did not turn around, continuing on without a misstep. Eryana scrambled closer silently, pressing her body into an alcove just in time to catch the next snippet of conversation. The crimson haired man's voice was stiff as he spoke. "I assure you, my lord, I will have what you seek eventually. The elf is weak; it has been somewhat limiting."
"The elf is a woodland scout, nothing more, Durza. Unless you can decipher the location of Ellesméra from him, or information about the wards… the elf is next to useless."
Silence reigned for a moment. Eryana feared she had strayed too far from the pair. "A reason. For them to suddenly stop…. Something has happened. Something unexpected." The king spoke in a hushed tone, as if addressing himself alone. "…No, it should not have hatched. There would have been word if it had. Has not for six years, and not for lack of trying. Why would it now…." Eryana strained her ears to catch the tail end of the conversation, daring to take a glimpse at the two. She caught them disappearing around the corner. Cursing mentally, she hurried after. Her steps made a slight shuffle upon the carpet that spanned the entire hall. Torchlight made the shadows on the walls grow long. She rounded the corner.
And ran straight into a black robed chest. Eryana stumbled back in alarm. She didn't get far as spider like hands grabbed her around the shoulders. The torches lining the corridor seemed to flare violently for a moment. She looked up into a skull-like face framed with blood red hair. Galbatorix's companion stared back at her with cold maroon eyes, aflame with tempered curiosity. Thin lips curled into a wicked smile, revealing a row of sharp teeth. Eryana tried to pry herself free from the man grasp, yet his grip was iron. She didn't like the look the man was giving her, not one bit. It was a look of appraisal, like a cat eyeing its prey… or perhaps a hungry dragon would be more appropriate. A shiver rocked her frame as the man released her other shoulder to run a finger down her flushed cheek, tilting her chin up. The touch felt like ice, the long nails dragged against her skin. "How curious…" The man mused. His high voice was wheezy like the wind to her. She felt queasy.
The man's eyes grew unfocused for a moment. Eryana took this as a chance to run. Yet before she could move, a splitting pain stabbed at her head making her wince violently. The reaction was enough to loosen the man's grasp. A violent gust of wind tore through the hall, putting further distance between the two. Marron eyes, now back in focus, widened in surprise. Eryana ran without looking back. The man did not follow.
The sick feeling in the bottom of her stomach had still to subside by the time she reached the fresh air of the court yard. Eryana sat down on a low stone bench, catching her breath. Her hands grasped the edge of the bench tightly and her hearth thundered fleetingly. The bare branches of a lifeless apple tree creaked softly in the slight breeze making her jump. It was still too early to be called spring, and despite her woollen dress she started to shiver slightly from the cold. Eryana kicked up her legs as she scoured the training field for her brother. The methodical clang of steel on steel was heavy in the air as Murtagh and Tornac exchanged blow after blow. Eryana found herself lulled by the surprisingly calming sound.
Her brother was still recovering; she could tell from the way he favoured his left side rather than the still tender right. After two weeks of bed rest and a nasty tonic regime which left her brother smelling strongly of anise, master Gudwinn had still strongly objected to Murtagh leaving the confines of his chambers; her brother claimed the walls were slowly driving him mad. Murtagh could be as stubborn as a mule when he wanted to: a trait that seemed to run in the family.
Eryana picked at a loose string that had come undone from her cuff as she gazed up at the steely sky above threatening rainfall. In her dreams, the skies were always a deep azure blue, cloudless and embraced by bright golden sunlight. A sea of emerald green stretched far below her feet. Her small wings carried her up, aided by strong gusts of wind. She was a princess of the blue, unbound by the laws that shackled the little two legged creatures to walk the earth. The forest below gave way to a shimmering lake that seemed to glimmer in the sun light like diamonds. The surface was as smooth as a mirror and Eryana could not help but look down to admire her wavering reflection. Scales as blue as the most precious of sapphires and wide wings still small yet powerful. She flew lower now, her long tail trailing behind splashing against the surface -
Eryana startled, blinking her eyes in an attempt to bring herself back to the present. Her eyelids felt heavy from the lack of sleep that still plagued her some nights. Strange and unexplainable things tended to happen whenever she had a particularly memorable dream or was shaken awake by unwelcome nightmares. Broken vases and washbasins, curtains set aflame that couldn't be explained away by an untended candle, windows flung wide open when Arla had made sure to lock them tightly before turning in for the night. And now she had a red-head to add to her collection of nightmares. She used to hole away in the castle library, trying to keep herself awake in the silent company of musty tomes and the smell of parchment. Despite her best efforts, she would wake up the next morning, bundled up in a warm blanket, to Grenn's gentle prodding. She had been too afraid to return after the time she had set the curtains on fire, unwilling to risk the ancient collections both she and the librarian cherished so much.
A bout of giggling drew her anxious eyes away from the muddy field to the edge of the yard by the pillars. There, a group of older girls stood gathered, huddled in fine fabrics rich with embroidery and fur-lining to herd off the cold. Powder-covered faces, proud statures and honeyed voices; Eryana thought them not unlike a flock of sparrows frolicking and chirping obtusely after spilled bread crumbs. As expected, she caught sight of a particular red-head. Of course the Lady Eveline would decide now to enjoy the brisk winter air, breaking away from her meticulous poetry and sewing sessions.
The bastard of Torenwood they called her behind her back, as the girl looked nothing like her Lady mother and only had her Lord father's chin and cheeks in appearance. Her copper-red hair and green eyes seemed so out of place amongst her family of brown hair and greyish-blue eyes. Still, Eryana had to admit she found herself feeling somewhat envious. The Lady Eveline was beautiful; always dressed in fair silks and satins of rich greens and soft greys with her long, thick mane of hair tamed and braided so that not a single lock was out of place. Unconsciously Eryana ran a hand through her own much shorter hair, which hung limp and free in windswept tangles reaching barely past her shoulders. She spared a glance at her flour splattered grey dress. 'Oh, crap.'
She knew that her brother was quite smitten with the northern girl and suspected the feelings were reciprocal. Eryana had told him as much. Even now, in mid-conversation, the girl was shooting not so subtle looks towards her brother. When Eryana had voiced her suspicions to her brother, Murtagh had simply laughed, the sound turning out quite strained.
"Her father would not stand for it, the noble Lord Triston. I have but one name, meagre lands to inherit and no titles to speak of." Murtagh had explained, his spirit downtrodden and grim.
However, it appeared Lord Torenwood held no such qualms; apparently, the man had done nothing to deter his daughter's infatuation. Somehow it made Eryana feel both anxious and happy at the same time. She would be the first to admit she knew nothing about love… Well, outside of the bond between her and Murtagh – but that was a totally different matter – and the fatherly adoration from Tornac. And she severely doubted the tales of true love at first sight told in Arla's fairy tales translated well into reality. The adoring looks that her brother was currently ever so slyly giving the red-head made her however question the latter. Eryana winced as a rather forceful blow from Tornac caused the younger man to stumble. Murtagh managed to break his fall, falling onto one knee and wincing painfully either from the scraped skin or the humiliation. Tornac was obviously giving him some leeway, his strikes a bit slower and lighter than what was normal.
"Mind your centre. It's all about the footwork. Keep your knees bent, feet wide. I have told you this many times, Murtagh." Tornac chided as he waited for the younger man to regain his bearings, yet the boy didn't seem to be listening. Tornac sighted, snapping his fingers to regain his pupil's attention. "And eyes on my feet; my face and arms lie but my feet scream the truth!" Murtagh made a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a sigh as he raised his blade back into a ready stance. The next couple of exchanges resulted in skilful parries and sidesteps after which the boy stepped in for retaliation.
"It appears we have an audience" Tornac quipped suddenly. Both Eryana and Murtagh looked up at his words. Sure enough, a man stood by the edge of the court yard staring. Eryana felt a wave of relief wash over her when she saw now red hair or pale skin. This man was squat with a thick neck, bearing the plate armour of a high-ranking officer, judging by the amount of ornamentation. Her brother seemed to recognize the man based on the scowl that marred his face.
Tornac too seemed familiar with the man. "Know why he's suddenly so interested in you, boy?" He questioned Murtagh in a quiet voice that Eryana barely heard. His tone was far from pleased, with an undercurrent of seriousness.
Murtagh's face twisted into an ugly sneer. "I've told you not to call me-"
"And I will tell you that after today's performance I feel well within in my rights to call you a stubborn, blubbering child." Tornac cut across his charge tersely. The man jabbed Murtagh's arm with the flat edge of the training sword. "Now, tell me what's going on with you and the General."
Murtagh lowered his eyes to fiddle with his blade. Tornac jabbed at him once more making him look up in annoyance. "Galbatorix wants me to squire for the man." Murtagh finally revealed, the distain and bitterness thinly veiled by his tone. "From what I have heard, the man is an utter nutjob." Tornac's lack of comment made Murtagh stare at the man wide eyed. "You knew?"
The older man sighted deeply, his many years now clearly evident upon his lined face. "Expected it. To be fair, it's a bit later that I imagined." He stated wearily. Murtagh's disbelieving stare made him further elaborate. "The King wants you to learn to lead. I suspect he already sees you as one of his future generals. He sees the potential. Wants you to lead armies and strategize, not waste that little head of yours in thoughtless paper pushing and two-faced politics."
"And to think all I ever wanted was a simple life. With you and Eryana… Perhaps a wife and some children." Murtagh muttered. He kicked up some dirt in frustration. His grip around his sword tightened. Pinning his upper lip between his teeth, Murtagh looked up at Tornac with a furrowed brow and a scrunched forehead. "I am not Him." He stated gruffly.
Tornac offered him a half-hearted grin. It did little to console Murtagh. "Well, the best we can do is put on a show. Care for another round?" Tornac quipped, trying to salvage the mood. The man raised his blade to the ready, motioning his student to do the same. The sound of running footsteps made them both look up. Murtagh cursed.
The doors of the stables banged open with far more force than necessary. She staggered down the aisle up to Beren's stall. Eryana leaned heavily against the wall in an attempt to ground herself, willing the world to stop spinning. The gelding nuzzled the girl's hand gently and she obliged, scratching the horse behind the ear. The methodical action made her release the breath she was unknowingly holding and some of the tension in her shoulders shifted. The boiling feeling still burned at the bottom of her stomach. She didn't miss the approach of faint footsteps upon the straw covered dirt floor.
"You are leaving." Her voice was faith, quivering with uncertainty or perhaps from disbelief and denial. She hunched her shoulders, clenched her fists tightly till her knuckles shone white. "You are leaving, and you didn't tell me." She failed to see Murtagh flinch at the accusation; Eryana still had her back to him.
"Era…" Murtagh tried laying a hand upon his sister's shoulder but she ripped forcefully out of his reach. Beren shied away from the sudden movement, finding more interest in sticking his head in the feeding bucket and munching heartily on the oats inside. Murtagh stared into Eryana's puffy, red eyes guiltily.
The monster in Eryana's chest reared its ugly head as the heat in her stomach grew overbearing. "What were you going to do? Just up and disappear? Leave me to rot in this hellhole?!" Her voice broke at the shouting and suddenly her eyes stung and her cheeks felt warm. Her head pounded and there was an audible crash to her left as a pile of tools balanced against the wall toppled over.
Her brother looked at her wide eyed. Murtagh could feel a tenseness in the air; it did nothing to lull the brewing anxiousness and guild in his chest. "Just let me explain. Please." He saw the tears threatening to fall before they did. "It's not what you think… Whenever did I say I was leaving? You know how he is; I said I would consider it. And we both know what that means." Murtagh found himself pleading desperately. "Are you alright?" For the first time Murtagh truly looked at the girl, taking in his sister's suddenly pale complexion, the reddened cheeks and sweat kissed brow. The child looked sick, about ready to topple over. "Era, talk to me! Are you ill?"
Eryana wasn't listening. The deep drums beneath her temples grew louder and the world shook and spun. Her skin was precipitated in cold sweat, her eyes scrunched shut. Murtagh watched the anger slowly morph into fear as the child started to shiver uncontrollably. The heat of worry filled his stomach and he carefully wrapped his arms around Eryana's shoulders to keep her grounded. "Make it stop." The soft whimper caused the worry to grow in to full blown panic. 'What is happening?' The unseen pressure in the air spiked suddenly. An unseen wind raced through the building, ripping harshly at his clothes. The panicked whinnying of spooked horses filled the air. He had to get Tornac. They needed help. He went to hoist the girl up, already plotting the fastest route to the physician's quarters; hopefully the man was done with his rounds by now. He found himself unable to move, locked to the spot by an invisible force. Blue eyes stared up at him, dilated and watery. The urge to retreat was nearly overpowering; the pressure made his feet tremble and his iron grip feel numb. 'Coward!' He chastised himself.
Then, all of a sudden, everything was still and quiet.
Warily, arms trembling, the brother wrapped his arms around his still hyperventilating sibling. The adrenalin still coursing wild in Murtagh's veins made his voice tremble. "It's going to be okay. It's going to be alright." The assurance sounded weak even to his own ears. Slowly, he rubbed calming circles against Eryana's back; a gesture he dimly remembered. He did not care for the dampness of his tunic, nor the heavy weight of the exhausted child in his arms. "It's going to be alright." He repeated the promise softly.
"Everything is so confusing. So wrong" The voice came soft and muffled against his tunic. Eryana hiccupped and snot smeared her face from her running nose. "It's all wrong." The blue in her eyes slowly faded away, leaving behind puffy, tear stained hazel.
Murtagh felt a shiver run down his spine as he trekked deeper down into the dungeons. The air down here was cold, frosting his breath and making his toes and fingers feel numb. Here, the shadows had hollow eyes and the light was pale, cracked skin white as bone. The sparse row of torches on one side of the corridor cast flickering, laughing shadows on the grimy grey stone walls. In an older time, these halls had housed the chambers of both squires and knights. Urû'baen was a city foolishly build on the banks of the Ramr, where the ground was wet and moory. The regions surrounding the capital were heavily populated as the soil was rich for farming. Yet the city itself was ever so slowly being swallowed up by the earth.
Murtagh had to peer into each of cells as he passed by. Most he found empty; apparently down here, starvation and the cold were a swift mercy. Passing the evening guard had been of little trouble; Tornac had cajoled the man off for a round of drinks without being asked too many questions. Apparently the men were old friends, at least on some level. And if the man showed up a couple hours late for his shift… well, that wasn't Murtagh's problem. Murtagh found himself feeling gracious for the King's lack of trust in his staff; even Murtagh could feel the intricate, tight web of spells and enchantments running through the walls.
The air became stale and rotten with his decent. It stuck to the back of Murtagh's throat and made him want to gag. Winter frost made his breath steam and he regretted not bringing a thicker cloak. A sudden high-pithed squeak startled him, making him jump and almost trip over the cobblestones; the floor was slippery from grime and the water that dripped steadily down the walls. "Bloody hell…" He cursed, trying to calm down the thumping of blood in his ears. He watched a big, fat rat scutter down the hall.
"You frightened him away. Pity." The rasping voice from behind the flickering shadows just ahead almost made him trip over his feet once more. Taking a few more steps forward, he came upon yet another cell, thought this one appeared to be occupied. The old wooden chamber door, probably thoroughly rotten, had been replaced by thick iron bars, allowing him a fairly unrestricted view of the room's occupant. A pale complexion and faded grey eyes met his cautious inquiry. The face was long and thin, not unlike that of a cat's, and the stark angular features and high-set cheek bones were further pronounced by undernourishment. The skin was pale, although Murtagh couldn't make out much from underneath a mask of grime and dirt. The elf reeked of excrement, mould and infection; the smell made bile rise up in Murtagh's throat. It took a moment for him to find his voice.
"I… What do you mean?" He cursed himself for the slight stutter. 'Intimidated by a cripple… Pull yourself together, Murtagh!' The elf shushed him harshly, thin eyebrows angling and parched lips thinning into a stern expression. Bony hands reached out to pick up an untouched bowl of broth from the floor; only then did Murtagh take note of what appeared to be the leftovers of a sparse meal judging by the chunk of bread and the half-empty cup of water lying abandoned on the floor.
The elf clambered onto his knees with what Murtagh noted was a great effort. Chains clinking harshly, the elf shuffled slowly towards the bars. Warily, Murtagh tightened his grip on the dagger kept hidden in the folds of his cloak. "Eka weohnata néiat haina ono. Fricai onr eka eddyr." The elf whispered liltingly; to Murtagh the foreign words sounded not unlike verses from a poem or a song. Murtagh startled at the sudden sight of two rats scurrying towards the elf's outstretched arm. "Wiol ono." Bony hands brought forward the bowl. Some of the broth spilled onto the floor from the trembling grasp. Bewildered and a bit disgusted by the sight, Murtagh watched the pair of rodents dig into the meaty meal with gusto.
It was only after the last bit of stringy meat was gone from the bowl that the elf turned to finally acknowledge Murtagh's presence. "One has to wonder, what brings the son of Morzan down into my humble quarters." To Murtagh's surprise, he could detect no animosity in the tone; only genuine curiosity, if not a tinge of wariness. Murtagh scrambled to hold his guard; this very same elf had tried to murder him after all.
"Someone once told me your people, the elves, are experts in matters of magic." He chose his words carefully, having though them over many times on his way down. "I need help. Or rather, a friend of mine needs help." Murtagh winced, though it was barely noticeable. He hoped the desperation didn't seep through into his tone.
The elf took a moment to mull over his words. Thin eyebrows arched high. "And why not go to another? I'm sure the Black King has many magicians in his service. Why come to me?"
"The lesser of two evils." Murtagh replied. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, hoping to appear nonchalant; he could feel his nervous stomach throwing cartwheels. "I would rather no word of this matter reached the king." Murtagh cursed himself just as he had uttered those words. He surely hoped he had not given the elf too much leverage to use against him.
An unnatural smirk marked the elf's bruised face. "Feeling a little rebellious, are we… Most curious." The elf tilted his head as if seeing the son of Morzan in an entirely new light. The elf raised the cup to his lips, taking a deep sip. A parched tongue licked the remnants of water from his cracked lips. "I might be able to help your friend." He finally concurred.
Murtagh chewed on his lip with rising suspicion, fighting down the hope that flared inside him. "And what would you want in return? I doubt you would help the spawn of a Forsworn out of pure benevolence." For any favour, there was always a price to be paid. Murtagh had learned this at an early age. 'What will the elf ask for? Food? Information? Help in escaping?'
The parched lips turned upwards into a pale, amused smile. "Nothing. I would ask for absolutely nothing. Although those are all quite alluring options, young human."
Murtahg stood back flabbergasted. 'Did he just…?' He had heard rumours of magicians being able to read minds, with Galbatorix being a master of the art. To have someone actually invade his thoughts without his consent, left him feeling violated and angry. He fought down his temper; it was apparent the elf had meant no harm by it. Still more than slightly unnerved, he managed to stutter a coherent response. "…Thank you."
Murtagh turned to leave, his mind begging to escape the loaded atmosphere. Any moment now a guard could round the corner. And he needed some space to sort out his turbulent thoughts. A sudden realization, however, made him stop. "You know who I am, yet I know not what to call you." He inquired curiously.
"You may call me Tarhen…. In confidence of course." Suddenly, the elf raised two of his fingers to his lips in a peculiar gesture. Panicked, Murtagh glanced hurriedly down both lengths of the corridor. Straining his ears, the only sound he could hear was the steady dripping of water; neither could he spy the faint glow of an approaching torch. Furrowing his brow, he turned back to the elf. An amused, knowing grin ghosted the elf's lips briefly. "May word of our meeting not reach unwanted ears, and we shall be allies under a truce."
Recognizing the weird gesture as some form of a greeting, Murtagh awkwardly brought his two fingers to his own lips. "My name's Murtagh." This time there was no stutter. Tarhen's smile only widened.
Murtagh spared no haste on his way back to his rooms. Once the darkness of the corridors grew dim with the spilling moonlight from the windows, he smothered his torch.