Chapter 7

'I see it,' Thorn told Murtagh, who was almost lying on the dragon's rough back, watching the horizon with tired eyes. For the past few hours he was trying desperately not to fall asleep, reciting in his mind all the words of the ancient language that he knew: however, that seemed to tire him even more. At Thorn's words, glad of a distraction, he sat up straight, immediately awake. Murtagh watched Geoulnaresque Palace growing larger as they approached it, barely noticing its unusual beauty. He felt like asking Thorn to turn around and flee.

'It's too late now,' Thorn said, hearing his thoughts.

Murtagh could see people waiting for them, pointing and talking excitedly. Living in a secluded place like this, they couldn't have seen a dragon before. Thorn let out a loud, menacing roar, looking for a place big enough to land; the people watching pulled back, terrified.

'Stop showing off.'

'Sorry,' Thorn replied smugly. 'Couldn't resist.'

Murtagh felt Thorn's strong front legs hit the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. He slid off easily and slowly untied his travelling bag, hoping to delay meeting the master of Geoulnaresque Palace as long as possible. Thorn grunted impatiently. It was true that he knew Murtagh better than anyone else, yet he could not understand how his Rider was feeling at that moment, having never experienced love, loss or jealousy before. For this Murtagh envied him.

'Come on,' Thorn nudged him gently. 'I'm here. It'll be fine.'

I'm here. The words had a calming effect on Murtagh, giving him new strength. With Thorn by his side, he was ready.

'It'll be fine,' he repeated quietly to himself and turned around.

A tall, lean young man was approaching him, followed by two servants and a slim woman whose face was covered with a thin veil to protect it from the sun. The villagers were looking on with awe, not daring to come closer – evidently frightened of Thorn. Murtagh assumed that the young man was Prince Sared, for he had a haughty, aristocratic air about him, and walked slightly ahead of his companions. He was good-looking, Murtagh admitted reluctantly, with dark hair and deep navy blue eyes; his skin was tanned from being exposed to the violent sun all year round. He wore a long, embroidered robe and light sandals, which meant he didn't feel the humidity of the desert as much as Murtagh in his heavy armour.

'He looks like a girl,' Murtagh remarked vengefully to Thorn.

Meanwhile, Sared had reached them and stopped a respectful distance away. 'Greetings, Shur'tugal,' after a moment's pause, clearly remembering that Thorn could understand what he was saying as well, he addressed him too, 'Greetings, Skulblaka. It is a pleasure to have you both here.'

'Thorn and I thank you, Prince.'

'I must confess, we were not expecting you until tomorrow evening,' Sared said conversationally, gesturing to his servants to take Murtagh's bag, which they did at once, bowing deeply to the Rider in respect. Immediately, Murtagh felt uncomfortable.

'Thorn is a swift flyer,' he replied coldly, noticing that his own voice sounded strange to him.

'Be polite.'

Apparently Thorn had noticed, too.

'But forgive my rudeness,' Sared continued, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Murtagh's hostile tone. 'I have not invited you inside. Come, you both must be exhausted. Unfortunately, the corridors of the palace are not quite wide enough for a dragon,' he glanced at Thorn apologetically, 'but we have prepared another space for you, Skulblaka, which I hope you will find comfortable.'

'Thorn wishes me to thank you, Prince.'

Sared was silent for a few moments, as if considering something. When he looked up at Murtagh there was no smile on his face. 'I believe you have already met my wife?' he turned to the woman behind him and, stretching out his arm, pulled the veil off her face. She looked down, hiding her eyes, but that did not stop Murtagh from recognising her.

He knew she would be there, he knew he would see her; he was preparing himself for this moment throughout the whole journey. He imagined how he would look at her with cold dignity and turn away, and she would see that he'd forgotten her, and she would regret leaving him for this prince, who'd never even held a sword in his delicate hands. When Murtagh was feeling particularly vengeful, he'd imagine Medea kneeling before him and begging for forgiveness, while he walked proudly away, refusing to listen to her sobs and words of love.

But when he saw her, he simply stared, unable to utter a word, until Thorn nudged him again. Looking up, he saw that Sared was watching him intently all this time and quickly forced a polite smile. 'We have met.'

The Prince smirked. Murtagh wondered briefly if he was a telepath. 'She will be present at the feast tonight, so you will have some time to... catch up.'

Out of the corner of his eyes Murtagh saw Medea glare at Sared, which the Prince pretended not to notice. Without a word she turned around and stormed off, closely followed by the two servants. Sared's face was a stony mask as his eyes followed her.

Medea picked at her food moodily, listening to the conversation around her. Every time Sared spoke she tensed, expecting another snide remark about her and Murtagh, but, surprisingly, none came. Occasionally she stole quick glances at Murtagh, who, on the contrary, seemed too absorbed in conversation with Sared to notice her – or perhaps he ignored her on purpose. Medea couldn't blame him. Murtagh was proud, she knew it, and she didn't expect him to have forgiven her betrayal. How could he have known that it was involuntary? She didn't have time to explain anything in the short note she left him before leaving for Geoulnaresque. For all he knew, marriage to Sared was Medea's wish, not her father's command. For all he knew, she didn't want him anymore.

She even started writing a letter of apology to him, knowing, however, that sending it would be practically impossible. Sared controlled her every move through the palace servants, and this would not go unnoticed. Still, she hoped that an opportunity would present itself some day. And, now that it did, she was going to take it.

'So, Shur'tugal, to business,' Sared's tone suddenly became detached and formal. 'The King has told me of the purpose of your visit.'

Medea froze, listening intently but still looking down at her lap to keep Sared from noticing her interest. He told her about Murtagh's arrival the day before, and, seeing his derisive smile and the strange triumph in his eyes, she didn't give him the satisfaction of asking why Murtagh was coming. Her eyes darted involuntarily towards the Rider, who nodded silently as an answer to Sared.

The Prince leaned forward, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers, his eyes scrutinising Murtagh's face. 'I'm afraid I cannot help you.'

'His Majesty said that our family had been the guardians of Seleara,' Murtagh's expression was incredulous, 'and that if anyone knows where it is, it's you. Surely...'

Sared shook his head apologetically, 'It has been lost for years. There is a possibility that it's still somewhere in the Hadarac, but searching for it, when it could be buried under the sand, would be madness.' He paused, evidently choosing his next words carefully. 'It is not my place to advise His Majesty, but I think that it is best to abandon this idea. Even immortality is not worth the effort, especially when one does not even know where to search.'

'So it's immortality he wants this time. Good luck with that, father,' Medea thought sarcastically, losing interest in the conversation at once. Another mad idea of her father's. She was not surprised – she knew he desired immortality even more than power, although one without the other would not make him content.

So this was why Murtagh came. She was foolish to think he may be coming not on another task from Galbatorix, but, maybe, because he wanted to. He was a Dragon Rider, after all, and it would be an honour for anyone to have him in their home. But then, why would he want to see her? She didn't mean anything to him anymore.

Suddenly she couldn't wait for the feast to be over.

Murtagh sensed someone else's presence immediately after entering the dark room and cursed himself for leaving his sword in there before the feast, so as not to offend Sared. Thorn was not with him – Sared had prepared another space for him to stay in, as the rooms were not big enough for him. The only option now was depending on his bare hands, which would be a disadvantage in a fight.

The figure was lingering by the bedside table; he could hear the quiet rustle of paper. Noiselessly he closed the distance between them and, with one swift movement, pushed the mystery person into a wall, unceremoniously turning them around to see their face. As he murmured Brisingr to light the torch on the wall, he saw the familiar eyes open wide with fear and, astonished, let go.