Eragon's face was pensive once Murtagh finished recounting their year of adventures. It took him the better part of the afternoon to do it, and he was grateful that the servants had dropped in a late luncheon halfway, though now he was only picking at the food halfheartedly. He had skirted around the finer points of his and Thorn's imprisonment, only mentioning it in passing, but the raise of one slanted eyebrow let him know that his evasion was noticed and filed away for later questioning.
His brother had not interrupted him as he spoke, nor did Thorn and Saphira, even though he saw the blue scales on the majestic female bristling when he reached some of the more harrowing parts of his tale. Thorn's approval was palpable once he finished and took a sip of the watered wine included in his meal, waiting for Eragon's reaction.
"These Draumar…" Eragon said after a few heartbeats, frowning, "You say they have infiltrated all the structures of Nasuada's kingdom."
"Aye, that seems so. I still didn't manage to view the court to identify the minister I saw in Nal Gorgoth." Murtagh sighed heavily. "Though by the looks of it, he's not the only one."
"Indeed. I believe we are in agreement that this is most worrying." Eragon sighed in turn, pinching the bridge of his nose. For a second, he looked as tired and haggard as a man twice his age. "Was it too much to ask that we get some peace after toppling Galbatorix? Did we not earn some less interesting times?"
"It doesn't look like it. At the very least, now we're forewarned."
"That we are. I will warn Arya of it too-" Murtagh caught the flash of something in his half brother's gaze at the mention of her name- "but we need to discuss what you plan to do. All in all, I am not comfortable with having you risk your life the way you did without any assistance, despite the early warning it brought us."
"Thorn and I are-"
Eragon raised a hand to stop his automatic protest. "You both are capable warriors on your own and, having experienced it on mine own hide multiple times, you will never hear me deny it. Quite the opposite, in fact. That doesn't mean we were not worried about your well-being, and by what you told me, that we were right to do so."
Murtagh stifled the urge to swear in frustration, ignoring the warm feeling in his chest at the praise and the free admittance that his brother and his dragon partner had spared him more than the cursory thought since their parting. Don't be stupid, Morzansson, he chided himself, hearing Thorn's approval echo in the back of his mind when he squashed his anger. They needed all the help they could get and Murtagh would not – could not – ever let his closest friend take the brunt of his pride-driven stupidity again.
"Fine," he ground out through gritted teeth. "What do you propose?"
Eragon paused again for a few heartbeats, and his far away look indicated that he was either conversing with Saphira or with the Eldunarí in his mind.
"It's about a week's flight, maybe more, for a dragon of Thorn's size to Mount Arngor from Ilirea," he said when he emerged from his inaudible conversation. "Before you object, I have no way of sending you the assistance you need by magic, nor would I trust others who are not riders to bring them to you. I know you said you are loath to leave the land without protection to fly here, but if we notify Arya she will assist while you make the journey."
"What of Nasuada?" Murtagh asked, frowning. "Knowing what I know now, she's even less safe than ever."
Eragon's toothy grin was entirely reminiscent of Saphira's.
"I might have an idea about that too."
Convincing Nasuada to agree to Eragon's plan took him, Murtagh and the dragons until almost midnight, and the help of Arya and Fírnen too. In essence, it was simple: Nasuada's absence would raise too many questions to even think about spiriting her away from Ilirea. If anything, it would be an open invitation for anyone to attack or try to insidiously gain control of the court. As such, Arya and Fírnen would travel to the capital under the pretext of a state visit between the two kingdoms, along with a contingent of magicians. The two queens would tour the realm, while the magicians would work in the shadows to ferret out any Draumar or other conspirators they could find.
Arya had been equally concerned about Murtagh's tidings from the north, and as such eager to assist in his and Eragon's plan. Eragon altered the spell on his own end to include the elven queen, the image on Murtagh's mirror splitting into his brother's study on the right and the sunlight filtering though the leafy canopy of a garden. It didn't take long for Arya to join them, resplendent in a crimson tunic and with a bejeweled circlet on her brow. It struck Murtagh that she looked far more at peace than the last time he saw her in Ilirea.
Once formalities were observed and his return was commented upon, Eragon gave the elven queen a quick rundown of their findings, glossing over most of the details of how he ended up discovering them. Arya did not debate or question her fellow riders, only nodded and surprised Murtagh by murmuring, "I sense there is more, but I will not pry. What part would you have us play? Fírnen and I can join you in the capital shortly, if need be."
Had someone told me five winters ago that I would end up in what amounts to a conclave of kings with the queen of the elves, my brother, the leader of the Riders and that I myself would be bonded with a dragon, I'd have called him an addled fool, Murtagh mused as said queen and brother hammered out the details of their plan.
Not to mention beloved of another queen, Thorn hummed. It seems to run in the blood of your family to run towards danger and intrigue.
A spark of mischief tugged at his lips. Eragon seemed a lot more comfortable conversing with Arya than he remembered.
Ah, yes. Remind me to question Saphira when we next meet whether her Rider still acts like a bumbling lovestruck fool around Arya.
A plume of smoke from Thorn tickled his nostrils when the dragon hummed in amusement. As if you're not a lovestruck fool.
I am most certainly not!
You veer into a different sort of dramatics, but if memory serves, you share the same tendencies as your clutchmate. How Saphira and I put up with the pair of you, I do not know.
I'll have you know-
The end of his retort was lost when Eragon called his name, pulling his attention back to the scrying mirror. Both his brother and Arya bore similar knowing smiles, probably interpreting his indignant expression as the result of whatever he and Thorn were discussing. Thankfully, neither of them pursued that.
"Will you summon Nasuada? I think we are decided," Arya said.
Nasuada was not surprised to find the improvised council they had assembled, but was adamant that she would not leave Ilirea. It took all the arguments the trio of Riders could muster, Murtagh almost resorting to begging and finally, Thorn and Saphira's intervention to convince the queen to the soundness of their plan. Even then, the stiff set of her shoulders told Murtagh louder than any words that she was unhappy at the prospect of him leaving.
He himself was of two minds with regard to the trip. Thorn, he knew, was eager to see the new home of the Riders and to finally be able to converse with the elders of his race. He had expressed as much a year ago when they had found out about Eragon's departure, and since then the idea had taken root in the dragon's mind. There had ever been a sense of longing echoing through in the rare occasions when they spoke about their future plans. Murtagh, on the other hand, still struggled with his resentment at the mere twist of fate that left his brother in charge of their order. If only Selena had taken him to Palancar Valley instead of his half brother, maybe their roles would have been reversed. The unfairness of it all tasted like ashes in his mouth even now, but in the recesses of his own mind he knew that he wasn't fair about it either. It wasn't like Eragon had meddled with the whims of Fate itself to pile on his misfortunes. He could lay most, if not all of the blame for those on his bastard of a father and the Mad King.
Some days, that awareness was enough. Other days, the bitterness of seemingly being Fate's favorite chew toy threatened to choke the life out of him.
It took another fortnight for Arya to arrive on dragonback to Ilirea. Murtagh and Thorn spent most of that time resting, preparing and, in Murtagh's case, soaking in as much of Nasuada's presence as he could. They fell into a routine of sorts: she glided in at the tail of the plume of servants bringing a morning repast for both of them in his chambers and they broke fast together while Thorn sunned his glittery scales in a patch of light by the large dragon window. As they ate, Nasuada told him of her plans for the day. Sometimes they were endless audiences with the nobles of the land. Other times, she spoke of the movement of the troops she had discreetly deployed to investigate what he had found up north. When time came that she had to attend her own duties, she left, always with a promise to see him in the evening once there were no more demands of her presence.
Murtagh then took to the citadel bailey through the servant corridors, as to not be recognized by some passing noble. Despite the changed glyph on the scabbard, both he and Ithring were recognizable by anyone. The elf ambassador, Vanir, had been apprised of his presence in the court by his own queen and would be waiting for him every mid morning on the training grounds, where they would spar for an hour.
Murtagh knew his mettle with a sword and knew he would normally keep pace even with an elf. Galbatorix' enchantments had seen to that. Even Eragon, who was also an uncommonly good swordsman apart from his enhanced strength, had only won their duel with a trick. However, his injuries had taken their toll along with the exhaustion and lack of proper food on his travels, and so Vanir managed to pummel him to the ground the first time they crossed blades.
Once he stopped seeing stars and his breath no longer caught in his throat from a cut over his stomach that would have gutted him like a fish, Murtagh felt the familiar stir of anger boiling in his veins. He glared up, only to see Vanir's extended hand and the elf smiling easily at him. Swallowing his pride, he took the proffered hand and the other pulled him to his feet.
"You fight well, Kingkiller," Vanir murmured, bowing to Murtagh. "I have had the pleasure of crossing blades with only one other as skilled as you."
Curiosity got the better of the Rider's anger and he asked, "Who?"
"Your brother, Eragon Shadeslayer."
"Oh."
Vanir led him to a bench and they both sat, drinking from their wineskins. Murtagh felt Thorn's curiosity through their bond and it spurred him on to question further, "When was that, if I may?"
"It was while Shadeslayer was in training in Ellesmera. I had been assigned to aid him in the art of the sword."
"Was it before he got…"
"Aye, Kingkiller, before the aspect of the dragons gave him the strength of my people." A shadow passed over Vanir's smooth face. "I'm afraid I did not behave as befits both our stations back then."
"What do you mean?"
Vanir took another sip from his wineskin. "I am young by the standards of my race, born after the Fall of the Riders. I grew up in the shadow of the sorrow the Mad King left in his wake, and to see another human Rider… I thought him as weak and flawed as Galbatorix." The elf looked at Murtagh with a surprisingly piercing gaze. "Understand this, Kingkiller: all my people's hopes, along with the Varden's, were upon Saphira's hatching. That she did not deign any of our own worthy to join her and instead chose a human farmer rankled. In light of this…"
"You took it out on Eragon," Murtagh finished, understanding where this was going.
"That I did," Vanir nodded. "We met every morning, much as you and I will do, and crossed blades with him not with the intention that he may improve – though he did – but to prove him that he was not strong enough to defeat the Black King. Looking back, I am… displeased with how I have comported myself."
Murtagh hid a wince at the idea of crossing swords with an irate elf without his present enhanced strength. That aside from your flaws being shoved in your face constantly while an entire nation prays breathlessly that you can succeed…
"What changed?" He murmured.
Vanir gave a tinkling laugh, and for a short moment the world sparkled in return. "In my petulance, I had failed to look that barring the disparity of strength between us your half brother was as skilled a swordsman as any elf to walk in the shadows of our trees. Maybe even better. After the Blood Oath Celebration and the incredible magic of the dragons, he broke my sword arm in our first duel."
Murtagh laughed as well, Vanir joining him. "Serves you right, Vanir-vodhr. The whelp was always good at swordplay, Brom saw to that."
"That it does, Kingkiller. Now, shall we continue?"
Arya's arrival sent the whole citadel into a frenzy. Murtagh heard it in the hushed voices of the servants in the hallway, but he and Thorn paid it no mind. Seizing the occasion of their trip to Mount Arngor, Nasuada had loaded them with many artifacts, books and supplies to be sent across Alagaesia, enough that Murtagh worried it would slow Thorn down. The dragon sniffed the overstuffed saddlebags while Murtagh attended to his armor. The fine rings of his mail shirt had been cleaned from the gore caking them after their escape from the Draumar, but he had been lax in oiling the metal since then and rust caught hold.
Sensing Murtagh's concern at the added burden, Thorn sniffed, a plume of smoke floating out of his nostrils. I do not expect a fight on the way, so while I do not appreciate being used as a mule, I do not mind the weight. It's better than to be ill equipped, no?
"Are you certain?"
Yes, little one.
"If you say so," Murtagh muttered, the candlelight glinting off the chainmail he was oiling.
They had decided to leave long after dark, closer to midnight than the previous day. Fírnen's arrival was most welcome, for the younger dragon's presence would provide a handy excuse for the noise of Thorn taking off. He knew he and Arya were somewhere in the citadel, but had not sought them out. His wish to see the newest members of his order was overshadowed by the awkwardness of it all; he and Arya had barely exchanged a few sentences and a mental contact in the courtyard of Ilirea, and he hated small talk on the best of days.
What he did not expect was for the elven queen and her scaly companion to visit him instead.
An hour before midnight, Murtagh was stirred from reading the spell compendium he had appropriated – stolen, his mind provided – by a soft knock on his door. He straightened where he sat leaning against Thorn's warm belly and called for whoever it was to enter. His jaw all but dropped like a gawking farmer's at the sight of Arya slipping in silently into his chambers, still garbed in sturdy riding leathers. Devoid of the frippery of court, she looked much like he recalled from Farthen Dur and then the battlefields apart from the gold circlet on her brow. The long ingrained courtesy that had been drilled into him since he was in swaddling clothes took over and he scrambled to his feet, bowing to the elven queen.
"Your majesty," he murmured, but Arya ignored his attempt at courtly manners.
His fellow rider strode across the room to him and grasped his forearm, raising him from his bow. A heartbeat later he followed suit, grasping her own forearm in turn. Thorn hummed a happy tune, expelling a plume of smoke that enveloped both Riders.
"None of that, Shur'tugal," Arya's melodious voice seemed to fill the room. "I am glad to be met outside of battle. And you, Thorn, I am overjoyed to see you free and whole."
Same to you, Arya Shadeslayer, Thorn replied within both their minds. And to partner-of-your-heart-Fírnen.
"You may greet him yourself in but a moment, Skulblaka, for he also wants to meet you." She twisted her hand on her chest in the elves' gesture of fealty. "He said he is joining us now."
A gale of wind and a roar heralded the arrival of a green dragon on the terrace of Murtagh's chambers. Though smaller than both Thorn and Saphira, he was no less magnificent. The glow of the candles glinted off the mass of forest green scales, shimmering like emeralds when Fírnen shook himself and trodded to where Thorn lay. The two males sniffed each other curiously, before the younger dragon bent his head down to touch Murtagh on his brow with the tip of his snout.
Greetings, Murtagh-rider. I am Fírnen, bonded to Arya.
The dragon's unusually deep voice echoed across their shared mental conversation, for he had allowed all to hear his words. Murtagh felt oddly choked up; he and Thorn had known for almost a year that the last egg had hatched, but to hear and to be in the presence of a dragon was something else entirely. He raised a hand and patted at the warm scales of Fírnen's jaw, eliciting a content purr from the young dragon.
"Greetings," he said aloud. "I am glad to see you hatched and free, Fírnen."
You and blood-scale-brother-Thorn have lost much to Egg-breaker-mad-king, but I sense you have won your freedom with tooth and claw. Better than when you last spoke to me.
Arya's eyebrows just about met her hairline in surprise, and Murtagh staggered as if he was struck by an invisible mace. His voice was but a whisper when he spoke. "You… You remember?"
Aye. Scaly eyelids closed over grass green eyes with a soft snick. Thorn uttered a half mournful, half elated keen where he sat coiled, and the smaller emerald dragon turned to him, nuzzling his head into Thorn's massive jaw. Murtagh felt his knees buckle at the realization, but he mastered himself. With a wave of his hand, he ushered Arya to the wooden table across his chamber, and they both sat in silence gazing at the glimmering pile of red and green scales by the window.
It was a long moment before Arya spoke, her voice soft as if not to disturb the sight in front of them. "You… spoke to Fírnen in his egg?"
"Aye. When Thorn hatched for me, I was equal parts elated and terrified. Elated that he deigned me worthy, that I would never be alone again… But when reality came crashing down, I saw clearly that we would be each other's undoing. After…" Murtagh drew himself up and continued, "After… the rest, whenever we had spare time but we could not fly we sat with the egg in Galbatorix' treasure room. We begged it – him – not to hatch, to wait until it was safe. I read to him, told him stories of my own travels and the war… The last time I went was the night after Nasuada's capture."
Please don't ask, please don't ask…
And thank Angvard, Gûntera and all the gods of the known people of Alagaesia, she didn't. He could feel the torrent of information flowing between the two dragons, images and sensations and impressions. He caught glimpses of Thorn proudly showing Fírnen the Battle of the Burning Plains and his clash against Saphira. Despite the bitter undertone of the memory, his dragon's exhilaration at pitting himself against an opponent as worthy as Saphira shone through the brightest. Another memory in turn from the smaller male sent a pang of jealousy through Thorn, and Murtagh turned a thread of questioning thought to his partner at that.
They are mated, were the only words he got from Thorn, but the dragon's longing was clear.
Arya, evidently privy to the exchange on the part of her dragon, winced slightly. "I am sorry for Thorn." Murtagh tried to wave off her concern, despite the second hand hurt he felt on behalf of his dragon, but she continued, "It's not easy being one of the last of an endangered race, and with Saphira being the last female... I am happy for Fírnen, but that doesn't lessen my grief for Thorn."
Murtagh eyed the forlorn look on Arya's face. By the sight of it, she understood better than he expected his dragon's plight, at least in a way. Much to his surprise, he pitied Eragon, the fool, whose heart had been set on the elf woman in front of him ever since they had rescued her from Gil'ead. "What of you, your majesty?"
"What of me?"
"What of you and Eragon?" Her face cleared of all emotion, but he couldn't help but prod further in a fit of protectiveness over his little brother. "If I were a betting man, I would bet that the lovelorn oaf curses at the heavens still for plucking him away from the realm."
"Duty is a harsh mistress," Arya murmured.
"Yours, or his?"
A few heartbeats passed in silence, then she sighed. "Both, I believe. He is the Leader of the Riders, and while I fall under the purview of his order I am, as well, bearing the weight of a kingdom."
"That doesn't mean you can't visit."
"I thought of it often, I will not deny it." She steepled her fingers and watched him levelly. "But it was never the right time and I…"
"Yes?" Murtagh encouraged, his curiosity still unsatisfied.
Something flitted behind her green gaze before she looked away at the coiled dragons. "I dread the departure that inevitably follows."
Murtagh leaned back in his seat, recognizing that her words rang true for him and Nasuada as well. "Aye, don't I know it. But you didn't come to me to discuss the intricacies of how Fate toys with our lives."
That brought a small smile to Arya's face, and she reached into the sleeve of her leather jerkin for a pair of sealed scrolls. "This one-" she tapped a smooth fingernail on the red seal with an elven glyph stamped in the wax – "is the official letter from my kingdom to the Order of the Riders. This other one – " her finger moved over the green blob of wax, tracing the imprint of a dragon in flight – "is from Arya of Evandar, Rider of Fírnen, to Eragon Shadeslayer, bonded to Saphira Brightscales."
Ah. She handed him both scrolls, and he secured them in a pouch on his sword belt, murmuring a couple of spells to protect them from the weather and other damage. "I will ensure that he gets them – and reads them too," he added on a whim. "Otherwise, he may stare at the scrolls for a fortnight before plucking up the courage to open them."
Arya bowed her regal head, thanking him softly in the Ancient Language, which he returned. They spoke for a brief span of nothing of consequence while Murtagh ran a final check over his gear and Thorn's saddlebags, but when midnight struck, the ruby dragon shook himself up from his nook and walked to the edge of the terrace. Murtagh joined him, climbing up in the saddle with nimbler fingers than he remembered for more than six moons. He patted the pouch where he had put the letters, glad that his and Nasuada's goodbyes had been spoken in the privacy of his chambers in the morning. He did not think he could have departed if he saw her there, sending him off.
He bowed to Arya, who stood by Fírnen in what had been his chambers, and the elf queen waved in return. The younger green trumpeted his own farewell, concealed by the onlookers by his Rider's silencing spell just the same as Thorn was.
Shall we go, partner-of-my-heart?, Thorn snorted, eager to take flight.
Let us be off, Murtagh replied, patting his friend's glimmering neck.
With a strong roar that jarred Murtagh in the saddle and set his teeth clattering, Thorn unfurled his ruby wings and launched in the cool night air.
