Chapter 15

The ground shook as Thorn's colossal paws touched it. The men he carried in the rigging strapped to his sides scattered across the camp, attacking the soldiers of the Varden. Those men who were unarmed dashed to their tents, hastily retrieving their weapons; some were killed right there, as the enemy soldiers stabbed them through the fabric of the tents. Medea automatically reached for her left hip, before remembering that she didn't carry a sword anymore. She hadn't intended to fight Murtagh and Thorn, she would have been no match for them anyway. But she would have had a fair chance of defending herself against the soldiers who came with them; she didn't count on all of them to recognise her as the daughter of their king, and thus not to attack her. They seemed crazed, mindless, indifferent about whom they killed.

Medea quickly moved out of the centre of the commotion. From her new position, she saw Murtagh dismounting and heading towards Nasuada's pavilion, just before Eragon and Saphira swooped down on Thorn. No one stopped Murtagh – the lifeless bodies of several Nighthawks lay sprawled across the blood-stained ground in front of the pavilion, and the rest were probably inside with Nasuada. She must have been the red Rider's target, and the chance that her guards could protect her seemed slim. Medea looked around for Eragon, and, although she easily spotted Saphira high up in the air, her Rider was not on her back anymore - she was fighting Thorn on her own.

There was no time to try to find Eragon. Following an impulse, Medea ran towards the pavilion, driven by the faint hope that she could somehow use Murtagh's inability to hurt her to prevent him from killing Nasuada, or anyone else. However unlikely the idea seemed, she could not merely stand by and watch without even attempting to help.

She had almost reached the entrance to the pavilion when Murtagh emerged from it, dragging Nasuada through the dirt. He knocked her unconscious with the pommel of his sword, ending her attempts to twist herself free. He looked up, directly at Medea, and took a step towards her, letting go of Nasuada; but Medea reached him first.

'Don't do this! You are better than that!' She shouted over the clamour that surrounded them.

'I can't disobey a direct order!' He retorted, his voice betraying both anger and regret. When he looked at her, his expression was almost pleading. As if he was willing her to understand. She did understand. But she could not accept it.

He started lifting his sword – to finish Nasuada off, Medea assumed. She gripped his arm. 'Please,' she implored. Concurrently, she heard Eragon's voice behind her, yelling at her to get away from Murtagh; but she stayed stubbornly where she was. For a second, Murtagh did not move either. Then, unexpectedly gently, he removed her hand from his arm, without letting it go. 'I'm sorry,' he said. And, before she could react, he brought his sword down on her.

And darkness enveloped her.

Medea was vaguely aware of being carefully lifted up and carried somewhere, then being lowered onto a bed and covered with something warm. She sensed another person's presence near her but she could not quite shake off her slumber completely to see who it was, and soon she drifted back into sleep.

Murtagh hesitated before leaving Medea's chamber. He touched her temple, where he had struck her with the pommel of the Zar'roc, checking if it left a bruise, and felt some relief after discovering that it didn't. He hadn't wanted to hurt her, but since she wouldn't come quietly, he had no other choice.

During the journey to Uru'baen, Murtagh's thoughts were occupied by her words. You are better than that. She said that, having seen the blood on his clothes, none of which was his, the coldness of his eyes as his sword cut short someone's life, as he dragged Nasuada behind him; she said that despite the cruel indifference with which he had spoken to her the last time they met, aiming to push her away. Murtagh could tell that she was angry at him, and yet she still believed that he was better than that. And perhaps he was. It was true that his actions were the result of his inability to defy Galbatorix's orders.

Murtagh had almost accepted the idea that he would never be free from Galbatorix, blocking out the glimmers of hope that he still had, unwilling to encourage himself pointlessly only to be disappointed time after time. Medea's words crushed his efforts. She sought to shame him, to remind him why he loathed his servitude so much - she succeeded, making it all the more harder for Murtagh to face reality once again: there was no way out for him and Thorn. At least, none that they could see.

With a last glance at Medea, Murtagh left the room. He was expected in the Hall of the Soothsayer.

Medea awoke to a piercing scream. Confused and disorientated, she lay still, trying to remember where she was, before a second scream made her sit up and fumble around for a candle to light up the dark room. Finding nothing, she crawled out of bed and moved towards the visible strip of light under the door, bumping into furniture along the way. After discovering that she slept while being fully dressed, – but barefoot, - she tiptoed out into the corridor and stood still, waiting for the noise to recommence in order to determine where it was coming from. Concurrently, Medea recognised her surroundings and realised that she was in her father's castle at Uru'baen. Before she had time to consider why she was brought there and not to Geoulnaresque, a long, pitiful wail followed, and she walked quickly in the direction from which it seemed to come. Until a painfully familiar voice made her whirl around.

'Hello, Medea,' Sared said.

Did he only just emerge from the maze of corridors, seeing Medea by chance, or had he been watching her all this time, following her silently? Was she imagining the sadistic pleasure on his face as he saw the combination of bewilderment and fury on hers? Once again, Medea regretted not having a weapon.

'Surprised to see me?' Sared enquired with a sly smirk.

She was. She didn't expect to encounter him at Uru'baen. She had guessed that he was alive after she saw that his servants stayed at Geoulnaresque, but she thought that he would do the same. She hoped he would.

'What are you doing here?' Medea said out loud, her voice hard.

'Well, since your friend Murtagh destroyed my palace, I am living here until it is rebuilt. Once it is, we,' he stretched out the word, emphasizing it, 'will go back there. And before you say you won't go, let me remind you that you don't have a choice.'

The fact that he was right angered Medea even more. She crossed the short distance between them and peered up at him. 'I'll go. But believe me, the second I get a chance, I will kill you,' she spit out. 'And that's not an empty threat.'

'Oh, I'm sure you mean it,' Sared replied condescendingly. Medea almost expected him to pat her on the head.

That was how little threat he thought she posed to him, and it threw her for a second. But only for a second.

Only after she had stormed off, marching back to her room and locking the door behind her, Medea suddenly remembered a change in Sared's appearance that she didn't focus on in the heat of the moment. Now, with his face cemented in her mind, she recalled the lines around his eyes that weren't there before and realized what changed about him. It was as if he had aged by several years.

A.N.: I just realized that I structured the early chapters in a really dumb way because I didn't plan the story in advance, so Murtagh never reached the Varden or met Nasuada. Obviously they've seen and heard of each other, but that seems to be it. So I guess we'll have to assume that they meet each other for the first time in this chapter. Anyway, thank you for your reviews, and thank you to the huge number of people who added this story to their favourites, this always makes my day!