Chapter 8

'Murtagh, what's going on? Why've you gone quiet? Murtagh! I'm coming down!'

'False alarm, Thorn, I'm fine. Stay where you are.'

Barbale was looking at Murtagh uncertainly and almost guiltily, holding her hands behind her back. Hiding something? 'Medea sent me,' the old woman spoke before he even opened his mouth.

Murtagh continued to eye her suspiciously, concealing his surprise and curiosity. He'd told himself he didn't care about Medea so many times for so long, that he almost started believing it. Why not? It was so much easier than torturing himself with foolish hopes that could never happen. After all, why should he pine for someone who didn't want him when he could have any woman in Alagaësia?

'I always knew you were a modest one, hatchling.'

'Shut up, Thorn.'

'Murtagh?' Barbale whispered again, distracting him from his chaotic thoughts. She glanced nervously at the open door behind him.

He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. 'What does she want?' the words came out softer than he'd intended.

Barbale held out a small, folded piece of paper and, when Murtagh didn't make a move to take it, she put it on the bedside table. 'Just read it. That's all she asks for.'

He nodded silently, staring at the floor until the door closed quietly and the soft sound of Barbale's footsteps faded away. He fingered the piece of paper warily, his pride and months of mounting anger preventing him from reading it. Why should he? What's the use? More excuses that are supposed to make him feel better, more stupid explanations that he didn't want to hear?

He ripped the note apart decisively, feeling instant relief come over him. No note, no temptation to read it. He sat in silence for a while.

Then, reluctantly, he knelt on the floor and started putting the pieces together.

Sared let the delicate curtain drop back in its place and turned away from the window, leaning back against the wall. His eyebrows met together in a deep frown as he stared straight ahead absentmindedly. A minute ago he saw Barbale crossing the yard between the east and west wings – normally he would not have considered that suspicious, if not for two factors. Firstly, the normally incredibly dignified, composed woman walked swiftly, looking around anxiously like a thief. Secondly, the east wing had been assigned to the Dragon Rider for the duration of his stay, and the west wing... Sared clenched his jaw in anger. Medea lived in the west wing.

A thousand thoughts went through his head at once. Were they communicating through Barbale? Sneaking around behind Sared's back, laughing at him? The idea was infuriating. Not only did that fool, Galbatorix's slave, come to claim something his small brain would never comprehend, something that didn't belong neither to him nor his master; he also came to make a fool out of Sared in his own house by taking something – or someone, for that matter - else that was not his.

Pushing himself away from the wall sharply, Sared crossed the room in two long strides and knelt down on the floor. Lifting the edge of the intricately woven rug, he pushed down on one of the floorboards under it. It moved aside, revealing a small niche, from which he carefully lifted a transparent box with a single, pure white flower inside it, and brought it to his eye level. Its centre was a light, soft gold, as were the edges of the delicate petals. Right at the centre, tiny, lightly glowing seeds were just visible. Smiling contentedly to himself, Sared returned the box to its place and, after readjusting the rug, stood up.

'It's mine,' he whispered to himself almost reassuringly. 'And no one can take it away from me.'

Walking towards the door, he thought darkly that it was about time he paid his wife a visit.

'Is that really all he said?' Medea asked for the fifth time, pacing the room nervously.

Barbale sat perfectly still in an armchair by the large bed, watching her progress patiently. For the fifth time, she replied, 'Yes.'

'And he didn't even take the note?'

'No. He deserves to be angry, Medea. You have no idea how much your marriage to Sared hurt him.'

'It wasn't my fault!' Medea interrupted exasperatedly.

'He doesn't know that,' Barbale reminded her. 'You didn't explain anything.'

'If he believed that I married Sared because I wished to, he doesn't know me,' Medea muttered. 'I just thought...' she stared at the floor, biting her lip. 'I just hoped that he still had feelings for me.'

'He's a proud man. Even if his feelings are the same, he will not show it.'

'And what if they aren't?'

'Then you will have to learn how to live without him, as you should in any case,' Barbale said calmly. Medea looked up in astonishment. 'Oh, don't give me that look. You know that chasing after Murtagh is no way for you to behave – you are married, and a princess!' She sighed. 'I don't know why I go along with your mad ideas. You take advantage of your poor old Barbale, who loves you too much to say no to anything you ask.'

Medea sat down in front of Barbale, resting her chin on the old woman's knees while she stroked her favourite's hair gently. 'It wasn't my choice to marry Sared,' she said quietly. 'It's not fair that I should spend the rest of my life with a man I don't love.'

'But what other choice do you have?'

Before Medea could answer, the door opened silently and a familiar voice spoke, 'Am I interrupting?'

She looked up to see Sared standing in the doorway, smirking derisively, and felt Barbale tense, evidently wondering how much he heard. 'Yes you are,' Medea replied moodily, irritated at Sared's bad timing yet at the same time relieved that he didn't give her a chance to answer Barbale's question. After all, she didn't know the answer herself. What choice did she have, in truth?

'Weren't you just leaving, Barbale?' Sared continued in the same smooth, slightly amused tone. Barbale stood up instantly, as did Medea.

'She wasn't,' Medea said sharply, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at Sared with disdain. 'We were actually in the middle of something, so if you don't mind...?' She gestured towards the door. Barbale touched her arm warningly.

An amused smile played on Sared's lips. He seemed to refuse to take Medea seriously, and that frustrated her most of all. 'Barbale,' he addressed the old woman, keeping his eyes on Medea. 'Leave us please.'

Shooting Medea an apprehensive glance, Barbale reluctantly slipped out the door.

Slowly, without saying a word, Sared walked towards Medea. She noted automatically that he moved with an easy grace, like a wild animal stalking its prey. The comparison made her take an involuntary step back as she watched him warily.

'How did you find the feast tonight?' Sared inquired, his expression unreadable.

The question took her by surprise. She searched her head for a suitable – and unsuspicious - description. 'Dull.'

'It was nice to see Murtagh again, I presume.' When Medea didn't reply, he added, 'Although you didn't talk to him. I was under the impression that you two were close friends.'

He was standing too close to her for her comfort, his piercing eyes staring her down. Then he twisted his mouth in a cruel smirk. 'Too bad you'll never be anything more.' He backed her into a wall roughly, gripping her elbows with his hands to stop her fierce protest. His face inches away from hers, he whispered, 'You're mine... And you'll truly become mine... tonight...'

Medea's eyelids felt heavy, as if something was pressing on them. Her limbs refused to obey her as she struggled to break Sared's hold on her. She was aware of him loosening the straps of her dress. She could sense it slipping off her shoulders and falling into a shimmering pile of silk at her feet. She could feel Sared placing her carefully on the bed. She could see his eyes above her; she could hear his voice as if it was coming from every corner of the room. But she could not move.

'Did you like the wine at the feast? Yours was a bit more... special than the other's.' He took a small vial out of the folds of his tunic for her to see. There was a bit of dark liquid still left in the vial.

She had no energy to respond. She only hoped that whatever the liquid was, it would dull her senses completely that night.

Perhaps her prayer was granted, for she was only vaguely aware of the piercing sound of smashing glass; of Sared's grip on her breaking abruptly; of shouting all around her; of someone shaking her urgently...

Then her mind drifted into blackness.