Chapter 6

The long, pearl-coloured curtains brushed the sunlit floor of the room, twisting around the tall columns supporting the ceiling. The gentle breeze carried a light scent unfamiliar to the girl standing by the open window. She squinted at the endless sands below, at the snake-like emerald line of the river in the distance, at the people, many of whom she knew and waved to when they looked up. Not for the first time, she tugged at her long, flowing dress in distaste, wishing she could wear something more comfortable. She was not used to wearing dresses.

She moved away from the window and slipped out of the door quietly. She walked along the exquisitely decorated corridors towards the gardens, passing maids and menservants who curtsied and bowed when they noticed her. As she laid her hand on the glass door leading to the gardens, she heard a polite cough behind her. She turned around.

'Going somewhere?' Sared asked curiously. She didn't know how he followed her without her noticing. The man's sneaky habits irritated her enormously, yet she was bound to him, like a tree to the ground. There was nothing she could do about that.

She found the question idiotic. 'Obviously.'

'I thought we agreed that you would be escorted outside,' Sared said softly, clearly choosing his words with care. He reminded her of a crouching panther, luring its victim into a false sense of security while it gets ready to attack.

'We decided nothing. I told you then, and I'll tell you again, that I don't see the point of me being escorted on the grounds. I am only going to the gardens, not to Ellesmera.'

She saw his piercing blue eyes narrow ever so slightly. For a moment she thought he was going to shout at her. Hit her across the face. But he didn't. He never did. She waited for him to speak, but when he remained silent, she slid the door open and entered the gardens, leaving him standing alone, looking at the place where she had just been.

She breathed in the humid afternoon air so unfamiliar to her, sitting down on a bench by the small marble fountain in the middle of the garden. Looking around to make sure that she was alone, she opened her palm to reveal a piece of folded paper.

Medea stared blankly at the two words scribbled in clumsy handwriting on the piece of paper, not knowing how to continue.

'Dear Murtagh...'

Murtagh stretched out his long legs and leaned back on Thorn's front leg, a little smile of satisfaction on his face. This was one of the few moments of rest that he got, the rest of his time being taken up by endless training and errands which Galbatorix sent him on. Even after making him swear an oath of loyalty, it seemed that the King still didn't trust Murtagh, remembering his betrayal.

'He doesn't need to worry,' Murtagh thought bitterly, plucking blades of grass absentmindedly and chucking them away. 'An oath sworn in the Ancient Language can't be broken. I can't betray the Empire again even if I wanted to.' He preferred to tell himself that he had no interest in running away again. Not only would Eragon and the Varden never forgive him, the Empire would always be his enemy. And Murtagh preferred to be on the stronger side. By now he knew very well what Galbatorix was capable of.

'Eragon understands that you have no choice but to obey Galbatorix.'

Murtagh frowned when his thoughts were interrupted. He tended to forget that Thorn could hear his mind, which sometimes annoyed him. He enjoyed Thorn's presence, yet he often yearned for privacy, wishing that he could only share what he wanted with his dragon. 'Judging by his reaction when he saw me, no, he doesn't understand.'

Thorn lowered his head and rubbed his nose against Murtagh's shoulder in encouragement. 'It's not your fault that you are the one to be captured by Galbatorix and not Eragon. If it was him in your place, would you consider him a traitor? Would you hate him?'

After a moment's thought Murtagh shook his head. 'What you say is true, but... I don't know, Thorn. I have so much on my mind right now that I can't think straight...' As if on cue, a dark-eyed girl's smiling face came up from the bottom of his memory, and with a little difficulty he pushed it back down. He didn't want to remember that face.

Thorn, of course, noticed, but said nothing. He had learned to avoid the subject so as not to cause his Rider any more pain. For this Murtagh was grateful.

Sared watched Medea from a distance, trying to keep in the shade so she wouldn't notice his presence. She was sitting alone, leaning her elbows on her knees, looking straight ahead. Her eyebrows were met in a slight frown. Sared would pay dearly to know what she was thinking. He knew so little about her.

Sared was the ruler of Geoulnaresque, a city in the Hadarac Desert. After receiving Medea's hand in marriage, he became Galbatorix's ally – a great fortune and honour. He refused Medea nothing, though she rarely asked anything of him. Yet she still wasn't happy here. He could not understand why. She lived in a beautiful palace; she was free to spend her time as she pleased; she had dozens of servants waiting on her. What more could she possibly want?

Medea truly fascinated and puzzled Sared, and he had no idea how to act around her. She made him feel as if he was infinitely less important than her: partly because of her heritage, and partly because of her defiance towards Sared. She made it clear from the start that he was her husband only by law, and refused to share his bed. Sared didn't try to force her yet. He had to be careful around her - his alliance with the Empire was still fragile.

After a few minutes she stood up and walked towards the door leading back to the corridors. Just as Sared turned around to follow her, something caught his eye. Moving swiftly towards the place where Medea had been sitting, he looked underneath the bench. There was a folded piece of paper under one of its legs.

Galbatorix observed the young man before him thoughtfully, wondering if he was right to entrust such an important task to him. He still didn't trust Murtagh completely, although the oath he swore would prevent him from disobeying the King again.

'You sent for me, Majesty?'

'How well do you know the Hadarac Desert, Murtagh?' Galbatorix inquired.

Murtagh's gaze stayed fixed to the ground, but his face hardened. 'Not very well, I regret to say.'

'You will have plenty of time to get to know it better.' The King paused, wondering at Murtagh's surprising lack of curiosity when he said nothing in reply. 'I am an old man, Murtagh. I do not have all my life ahead of me anymore, yet there is so much I still need to do. There is a way, however, to stay in this world for a little bit longer, and I intend to use it – with your help.'

Murtagh waited politely, his face expressionless. He already knew what this meant. Another so-called "mission for the greater good". Meanwhile Galbatorix continued, 'Somewhere in the Hadarac Desert lies what I need. Seleara, the flower of immortality. Its seeds grant everlasting life. No one knows exactly where it is, but one man may still be able to help you. His family had been the guardians of the flower until it was lost. If anyone has any idea of Seleara's location, it is him.'

'And where can I find this man, Majesty?'

'He is the prince of Geoulnaresque, in the Hadarac. Perhaps you have heard of him? His name is Sared.'

Murtagh felt as if the ground had disappeared from underneath his feet.

'Who is Murtagh?'

Medea whirled around, staring at Sared in alarm and suspicion. Noticing a crumpled piece of paper he was clutching in his hand, she understood. 'A friend,' she replied curtly.

'Really?' He stepped forward until his face was inches away from hers. He could see the fear in her eyes, the fear that she was desperately trying and failing to hide. 'You write letters to a friend and then hide them? Perhaps you meant a secret friend. A lover, I presume.'

'That's ridiculous.'

He could see she was lying. Her face was flushed, and her eyes darted around the room, avoiding his gaze. So he was right. The thought filled him with unexpected anger. 'You are ridiculous, thinking you could keep secrets from me. You may write a goodbye letter to him, if you wish. Soon he won't be receiving any more from you. Or anyone, for that matter.'

With a smirk, he threw the unfinished letter at her and walked out of the chamber.