The Dragons' Eggs
He would take morning walks from the hermit's hut to the edge of the plateau. There, a vast plain unfolded beneath his feet, reaching the roots of the solitary mountain that embodied his seclusion. He would stand motionless for a while, observing from afar the winding, silver curves of the distant river. Before freely flowing into the lake, the river's abundant waters meandered through the lush, grassy land.
Striving to emulate the rhythm and power of the distant waters, he began to practice diligently with his sword. Even before the sun's disc appeared on the horizon, he tirelessly performed stances, guards, cuts, successive parries against an imaginary opponent's blade, and complex movements resembling pieces of choreography. Body and blade erupted into sudden turns, side strikes, and flanking attacks against a hypothetical adversary.
With each new dawn, he felt a force rising from the depths of his soul and body, infusing his veins with fresh vigor.
"You'll have to settle for me as your opponent for now," said the woman's melodious voice. "But I must warn you, I am not an easy adversary."
.*.*.*.
Each morning, before reporting to Ajihad's office to undertake her numerous duties, Nasuada would visit the Varden's shooting range. At the edge of the shooting field, where she had practiced months before with Murtagh, she would begin her routine, firing arrows at the targets. As time passed in the shadows of the dwarf mountain, her skill and accuracy with the bow increased significantly.
Ajihad's daughter believed that as the likelihood of armed confrontation with the Empire's forces increased, she too must be ready to aid their army in the impending conflict. Through her steadfast adherence to this daily routine, Nasuada had transformed into an exceptional archer.
She longed to practice swordplay with a partner, as she once did at Castle Borromeo. However, her beloved teacher Tornac was lost, and Murtagh had left Farthen Dûr nearly a year ago. Additionally, Ajihad was always troubled by what he considered her excessive exposure at the training field, among the men of the Varden, and any potential—however improbable—dangers that might lie in her future.
Nasuada understood that since the attempt on her life, Ajihad had never fully overcome his deep-seated fear for her safety. Despite meticulously arranging for her protection and declaring his faith in her ability to defend herself, he preferred to keep her close. Though they sometimes sparred together during their limited free time, the Varden leader's demanding schedule made these moments rare.
Nasuada completed her archery practice for the day and entrusted her bow and quiver of arrows to Jarsha, the boy who always accompanied her. He would return them to the armory while she changed into more suitable attire in her quarters for her duties alongside the Varden leader. Then, she briskly walked the half-mile distance from the training field to the city of Tronjheim.
In those moments, Nasuada allowed her thoughts to drift away from mundane duties and beyond the trivial concerns she shared with Ajihad. Her mind swiftly left the dwarven stone tunnels, traveled over the wastelands, and lingered on memories of the market in Aberon. She remembered the vibrant colors and scents of exotic goods, the diverse people with their various races and dialects, her friend Taganna with his daggers, and Mama-Assafa's prophecies about the scarred man in her future.
Once, this memory would have brought a faint smile to her lips. But ever since she had seen Murtagh's scar with her own eyes and heard the story of how he got it, a tightening in her heart and a bitterness on her lips returned with that particular memory. It wasn't certain that the prophecy referred to him, and Nasuada had no intention of altering her future alongside Ajihad for the Varden's cause for anyone, but...
...scarred... and from a great lineage...
What kind of man could do such a thing to his own child? The reputation of the dragon rider was well-known, and Nasuada had heard countless stories, recounted by the women of the Varden and the dwarf warriors—some true, others exaggerated by the terror that even the memory of Morzan evoked. But still, no matter what was said... to his own child? To the flesh of his flesh? To someone who shared his blood? It was something Nasuada could not accept, something beyond the comprehension of the human mind. The worst beast might violate and desecrate another species' nest, even slaughter its young to satisfy its hunger. But its own offspring and their survival were a sacred purpose, protected at all costs. Could Morzan be worse than the worst beast?
From the moment Nasuada learned the truth about Murtagh, the memory of her weapon master, Tornac, became even more precious to her. She often imagined him much younger than when she knew him, with the calm smile that always graced his lips, the gentle tone of his voice, and his confident, familiar movements. In her mind's eye, she saw him as he must have been that fateful night, when he made the great decision to take someone else's child, whom he loved as his own, away from his predetermined fate.
Nasuada was deeply saddened when she learned of Tornac's untimely death. He was still young to be struck by illness and pass away so unexpectedly. Honest men like him had much to offer with their presence in the world, even though Tornac had avoided participating in the fight for the Varden. In the early days when Murtagh arrived in Tronjheim, they spent much time together discussing their beloved weapon master. From all of Murtagh's words, Nasuada understood how much he admired his 'father'. Through these stories, she too came to know and appreciate Tornac better.
Murtagh... Her mind drifted further, deep into the forest north of Aberon, where the two had their first unplanned meeting. She fondly remembered the fun they had that afternoon. Her memory also revived the positive impressions from their conversations—not only from that day but also from their more recent encounters in Farthen Dûr. It would be a lie to say she didn't miss her good companion and friend.
As the young woman changed dresses with the help of her maid, her thoughts drifted over the desolate plains of Alagaësia, reaching the unknown and distant capital, to Galbatorix's castle, where Murtagh now resided. What was his life like in the palace? The fleeting fear—almost nonexistent—of whether he had arrived safely in Urû'baen or if the dangers of the road had ended his mission prematurely, did not concern her.
Nasuada found that Murtagh's psyche mirrored Ajihad's. His courage and determination, his ingenuity and perseverance had surely borne fruit. Her friend belonged to the kind of people who succeed, or at least survive to try again and again. His entire life, his morality, and the confidence he inspired attested to this. Surely, he was now living in the capital, dedicated to the Varden's cause. Nasuada could swear to it, even put her hand in the fire for it.
As Nasuada walked towards Ajihad's office, she wondered if Murtagh had managed to get close to the king, as he had aimed. If so, why hadn't he been able to communicate with them for so many months? It was impossible that he had forgotten them... forgotten her... It was unlikely that he had been swayed by a life of power and grandeur, like that of the palace in Urû'baen. Not him, not the Murtagh Nasuada knew...
...not her own Murtagh...
With a deep sigh that she carefully stifled, Nasuada opened the door connecting the side room—where she usually busied herself—to Ajihad's office and entered. "Oh, Murtagh... Murtagh! I hope you are in good health and that today is the day we hear from you." Her heart beat loudly. She missed him! She might not have wanted to admit it even to herself, but the strong emotion his thought evoked was far greater than what a young woman would feel for just a friend.
She found Ajihad already absorbed in his papers. As soon as the rustle of a woman's dress was heard, the Varden leader momentarily lifted his gaze from the document he was reading and turned it upon her. "Ah, you're here, daughter. You seem a bit late this morning, and there are many things that should have already been done." His expression grew serious. "Were you at the training field again?" His tone was stern, but deep within his eyes, the love and tenderness he felt for his daughter shimmered.
Nasuada nodded. "It makes me feel alive, Father. I could never live hidden away from the sunlight without some form of exercise." She did not dare express that her archery skills would be valuable to the Varden's archers on the battlefield. She knew very well that Ajihad would never allow such a thing. So she limited herself to looking at him with adoration, smiling, confident that her father would not deny his daughter's modest joy.
"Hmm, if that's the case, very well then." Ajihad's gaze dropped back to the document in front of him. Nasuada stood beside him, ready to assist her father in whatever he needed. Ajihad then assigned some tasks to his daughter.
Later that same morning, as soon as she got the chance, Nasuada decided to ask the question that had been troubling her since earlier. "Is there any news from Urû'baen, Father?" She always asked the same routine question, carefully avoiding mentioning Murtagh's name.
Ajihad ran his hand over his closely cropped hair. "Nothing yet." His tone was harsh, somewhat abrupt. He might never have openly admitted it, but the months that had passed since Murtagh's departure were many. The Varden leader had doubted from the beginning the outcome that the man he had chosen could achieve. Without lifting his eyes from his desk, he wrote a note on the document in front of him.
Nasuada decided to be bolder. "Perhaps... if our magicians tried to get in touch with him? There may be no way for him to..."
Ajihad abruptly slapped his palm on the walnut surface of his desk, cutting her off mid-sentence. Abandoning his papers for a moment, he stood up and began pacing nervously up and down the granite floor. From his body language, Nasuada, who knew him well, understood that similar thoughts and doubts had been troubling him for quite some time.
"No!" he finally replied. "It is too risky for us to attempt an approach. The castle of Urû'baen is well guarded by Galbatorix and the magicians in his service. An infiltration by our own could jeopardize the entire mission, not to mention the dangers it would entail. We will wait for a signal from our man, as he is the only one qualified to judge when the potential damage to his mission is minimal." He turned towards her, looking decisively into her eyes. Nasuada recognized the same look, filled with justice and wisdom, that she so loved in her father. "We will give this young man the opportunity to prove his worth, his loyalty, and his usefulness to our cause," he continued. "After that, few among the Varden would dare oppose his superior contribution due to his lineage."
.*.*.*.
Life at the palace of Urû'baen had passed quickly, and as summer came to an end, Murtagh's eighteenth birthday arrived. Most of the information he had managed to gather so far concerned the king's feverish armaments and the strengthening of the forces at Gil'ead. The fear of possible elven raids was widespread among the courtiers, but it was unfounded by the facts.
No verified information had reached the capital indicating that the ancient elves had mobilized, intending to leave the safety of their forests and risk their precious lives by attacking the Empire's lands. The lesson they had learned more than a hundred years ago had taught them that if they wanted peace, they would do well to remain hidden in the tranquility of their woodlands.
There were also rumors about the king's contacts with the barbaric tribes of the Urgals and his supposed alliance with them. Few, however, paid attention to such rumors. According to the little that people knew about the Ram-headed ones, nothing and no one could unite them in trust and honor in an alliance. It would be foolish for anyone to expect that, after giving credence to the word of such monsters, they would then obey his call. And Galbatorix was anything but foolish to trust that mindless beasts would act for his benefit.
What had made the greatest impression, not only on Murtagh but on the entire court of Galbatorix, was the presence of a Shade in the palace. Buried for hours in the libraries, the young man read everything he could find about Shades in the ancient manuscripts stored there. He learned with horror that a Shade was rarely considered an ally or friend, as the spirits that formed its existence were unpredictable.
Despite this information, it seemed that Galbatorix had succeeded in doing so. He had isolated himself with the Shade in his private chambers for hours, conversing with him about who knows what. Murtagh would have given anything to know, but none of Galbatorix's officials, lawmakers, or aides had been informed of anything afterward. Whatever the king was planning in alliance with the Shade remained a closely guarded secret from everyone.
The time Murtagh had spent living in the castle of Urû'baen and his secret research for the Varden's contacts had left him completely convinced that none of the spies had survived. He had ways to collect information, but no means to send it to Ajihad. Driven by his intense desire to communicate with the Varden leader, he even reached a point where he considered seeking out the boy he had met before, the son of the murdered agent, one night.
Would the boy have followed his advice? Would he have stayed loyal to his family, protecting his siblings and helping his mother? Or would he have already set out in search of the revolution? And if Murtagh managed to meet him again, wouldn't it be unethical to ask a child to risk his life? What if he was caught, interrogated, and confessed out of fear or pain? Murtagh dismissed the thought completely.
The idea of turning to an unknown magician who could communicate with the resistance had crossed his mind many times. However, the fear of revealing his mission at the palace made him hesitant. He knew very well that all the mages in the capital were in Galbatorix's service. Could there be someone, somewhere in the lower city, secretly using their powers without the king's knowledge?
The search for such a person alone entailed many dangers. The young man didn't feel confident enough to take that risk. Perhaps in another city... Such a search, however, required trusted acquaintances and travel privileges. Murtagh had access to neither. So he decided to gather information, bide his time, and wait.
The night before, piercing screams echoed through the palace, startling its residents and sending the guards into a frenzy. Over the ramparts, two dark, dragon-like creatures suddenly emerged, each carrying a rider clad in black.
From his windows, Murtagh observed the two creatures landing in the middle of the courtyard. The riders dismounted and were quickly escorted by the soldiers into the inner parts of the castle. By dawn, the creatures remained in the courtyard, where the servants had informed Murtagh that they had been fed raw meat and given blood to drink.
Murtagh dared to approach them closely, while everyone else kept their distance. The creatures' bodies were black and gaunt, covered in hairless, tough skin. Their wing membranes resembled those of a bat, stretched over thin bones. Their hind legs were thicker, stronger, and larger than their front ones. They had beaks as long as five feet, sharp as well-honed blades. Their eyes, the size of an adult man's fist, showed no discernible iris or pupil when they blinked.
The soldiers called the creatures 'dragons-Lethrblaka' and the two riders 'Ra'zac,' but Murtagh thought these beings were nowhere near the grandeur and beauty of a dragon with its radiant scales. Murtagh had seen the king's dragon, Shruikan, many times, flying over the castle as he left the dragonhold. Shruikan would spread his huge wings and vanish towards the barren plains east of the capital, presumably to hunt. Although his black color absorbed the light, his tough scales gleamed like steel armor under the sun. The enormous horns sparkled on his proud head, and his wingspan could cover the broad side of a large building. The Lethrblaka species were far inferior in comparison.
Murtagh had occasionally read reports about this species, but he never imagined he would see them alive, especially in the courtyard of the palace of Urû'baen. According to the soldiers, who spoke with disgust, the two Ra'zac and their steeds had been serving Galbatorix for many years. Their sudden appearances over the capital's skies were not a new occurrence, nor would they be the last. As long as the king allowed them to feast on their favorite food—human flesh—they would remain loyal to him. Some claimed that they had chosen Helgrind, the solitary mountain near Dras-Leona, as their abode, where a dreadful cult also thrived.
Before the sun rose high, the Ra'zac left the halls of the palace, mounted their steeds again, and disappeared toward the horizon, following the same route they had come. Murtagh hurried back to his rooms, where he zealously began to record the impressions they had made on him.
At that moment, the servant brought his breakfast tray along with a personal invitation from the king. It was the day of his eighteenth birthday, and Galbatorix had decided to honor him with a special dinner.
.*.*.*.
"The boy must have been at the palace for quite some time now, and we haven't attempted any of the things we had planned."
"Patience, my brother, patience. There is a right time and place for everything. Let this boy continue to serve our interests a little longer."
"What sense does that make? Even if he learns some of the king's secrets, he has no way to report them to the Varden. Do you think he would risk seeking help from an unknown magician?"
"We shall see... When the right time comes, we shall see..."
"And what if in the meantime Galbatorix decides to attack Farthen Dûr? I thought our ultimate purpose was to serve him."
"Patience, my brother. Your excessive worry might arouse suspicions about us, suspicions detrimental to our cause. Galbatorix is neither ready nor intending to attack yet. At least not before he informs us."
"If he ever learned that the son of Selena, the Black Hand of Morzan, had been sent by Ajihad to be close to him, and we knew about it but did not inform him, I shudder to think of our fate."
"Do you think we should risk such information with the king just because of a fleeting image you stole from the boy's mind? How can you be certain the woman you saw is the Black Hand herself? And if she is, what assurance do you have that this boy is indeed her son? Never forget that our purpose is not to serve the Varden or the king. Our ultimate goal is to serve ourselves and ourselves only."
"Do you think the boy would work for us?"
"Ha! The son of Morzan's murderess—if he really is her son—has a very high opinion of himself and his abilities. He will willingly offer us his services without even knowing it. If he tries to contact the rebels, any information will pass through us first. Even if he does not succeed, we will be the ones to contact him, knowing his presence near Galbatorix. Do you think, in his attempt to avoid revealing his identity as a double agent to the king, he wouldn't do everything to serve us?"
.*.*.*.
Knowing it would be unwise to keep the king waiting, Murtagh hurried to comply with the invitation. Dressed in his best attire, he presented himself at Galbatorix's private quarters, where, as stated in the invitation, the private dinner was to be held in the king's personal dining room.
The guards stationed outside the doors, having been notified in advance, immediately allowed him entry. However, the young man saw that the inner lounge was empty, except for a single servant who led him to the dining room.
Murtagh had often noticed that the king avoided many official events where crowds of courtiers and other dignitaries were present. Despite the plethora of protective spells everyone knew he had woven around himself, he remained doubly and triply cautious in crowds. However, in this particular dining room, which Murtagh was visiting for the first time, a small group of people could dine comfortably.
The silent servant bowed and, leaving him alone, disappeared behind an adjoining door. The room was already illuminated by numerous candelabras, and despite the season, a crimson flame flickered in the fireplace. The dining room seemed modest for a royal chamber. The wooden table was dressed in an embroidered tablecloth and set with two pairs of silver cutlery, each at one end. Apart from the comfortable chairs around it and a sideboard against the opposite wall, the room was empty.
Murtagh stood upright before the large, open balcony doors of the terrace, from which the cool breeze of late summer flowed into the room, accompanied by the golden light of the setting sun. He had spent the entire day preparing for this long-awaited meeting. Had the time finally come for the king to show the promised favor to the son of Morzan? Was the moment approaching when he would be assigned duties that matched his knowledge and heritage? When he would always be by the king's side, entrusted with his secret plans and decisions? This highly significant night had fueled his hopes. After the long months of waiting, perhaps the opportunity he had been longing for would now be given.
The king appeared a little later, dressed in his usual manner, oddly heavy for a private meeting. He wore a breastplate beneath his leather tunic and protective greaves extending to his hips. Despite the spells that surrounded him, Galbatorix was always prepared for an unexpected attack from his enemies, even with conventional weapons.
After the required courtesies and etiquette around greeting, the meal began with rich delicacies on luxurious plates served by the servant. Throughout it, Murtagh attempted to maintain polite conversation but failed. The king, apart from monosyllabic mutterings, remained unexpectedly silent, observing him closely with his dark eyes. Murtagh had the impression that Galbatorix was trying to fathom and interpret his thoughts and intentions, but he never noticed any attempt to penetrate his mind.
The meal was nearing its end. The servant was pouring red sweet wine into the glasses and serving honey cakes from the tray when the king unexpectedly spoke up. He suddenly raised his glass—during the meal, Galbatorix had tasted the wine sparingly, and Murtagh, wanting to make a good impression, had followed suit—and addressed the young man.
"Oh, son of Our friend and companion, it is Our wish to once again express Our pleasure at your coming to stand beside Us and Our complete support for you and your deeds. All these months that you have spent under Our protection, your developmental progress has not gone unnoticed by Us. With great satisfaction, We have observed your abilities and acumen in not just one, but many areas. We judge that the time has come for Us to seek your loyalty and services in Our cause."
The king drank the sweet grape juice from his cup, then placed the silver goblet on the table and signaled his servant to leave. Once they were alone, his deep gaze fixed on Murtagh. "We seek your services, as We said, in Our cause, to which only the best are capable of contributing. But first, We wish you to hear directly from Us all We believe you should know."
Murtagh's heart began to pound more forcefully than before. Finally, the time had come for his long-anticipated wait to bear fruit. However, for the safety of his mission, he cleared his mind of hopeful thoughts and focused on the king's speech.
Galbatorix began to describe the ancient world of the Dragon Riders. He succinctly explained that the elven masters oppressed the order, gaining privileges for themselves and leaving humans to face an unfair fate predetermined by some nobles. Instead of remaining guardians of peace, as they were meant to be, the elders of the Dragon Riders' order had been corrupted by their own powers. They isolated themselves in their luxurious castles, living lavishly and maintaining a select group of their chosen courtiers around the former king, essentially abandoning the people of the country. The end of this corruption came with the help of Morzan, in whose memory Galbatorix owed the continuation of his efforts to improve the state.
After Murtagh was obliged to listen to some of the exploits of his biological father in connection with Galbatorix's works, the king began to describe his vision for a new world, which, it seemed, was ready to unfold over the plains of Alagaësia.
New and splendid cities would be built, worthy of the grandeur of their king, filled with brave warriors who would fight in his name. Great teachers would instruct in the city's schools, and scholars would spread their vast knowledge. The inhabitants would prosper from free trade, and goods would be transported everywhere to everyone, as peace would reign throughout the land of Alagaësia. Bards would sing of the deeds of the new Dragon Riders, who would be reborn under the care and guidance of Galbatorix himself.
The king finished his speech and focused his expectant eyes on the young man. "Tell Us then, oh son of Morzan, who would not consider himself fortunate to serve such a cause?"
Murtagh took a deep breath. Galbatorix's mellifluous speech could easily convince anyone. The dreamlike world he described was certainly a sufficient goal for any sensible citizen of this land. However, the reality of living was quite different from these honeyed words...
"Your Majesty, the depiction of this future world from your own lips deeply honors me," Murtagh replied to the king's expectant gaze. "However, permit me one question: how can the order of Dragon Riders be reborn without the dragons?"
The king smiled enigmatically and picked up a piece of honey cake with his fork, which had been left uneaten on the silver plates. "Finish your dessert first, son of Morzan, then the time will come to answer all your questions."
It must have been a mental summons from the king to his servant, as the man reappeared silently and began to clear the empty dishes from the table. The king opened the adjacent door that connected the dining room to his other quarters and allowed Murtagh to enter the inner chambers.
They crossed a cold space that Murtagh assumed was an office, given the bulky mahogany furniture dominating one end and the walls lined with shelves full of parchments. At the opposite end of the office, the silver gleam of a full-length mirror with a hammered silver frame shimmered in the dim light.
The next room was larger than the others, warm and discreetly lit. The valuable furniture was draped in precious fabrics, and fur rugs covered the stone floors. It must have been the royal bedchamber, as a huge bed enclosed with velvet curtains and a gold-embroidered canopy occupied an entire wall.
Murtagh was struck by the contrast between this room and the austerity of the previous ones—the dining room and the study with their strict utility. The luxury that was absent there was abundant here. At the same time, he felt an uncomfortable uneasiness about being in such a place. He stood near the entrance, hesitant to proceed, and awaited Galbatorix's intentions.
The king moved toward a heavy curtain that separated his chamber from an adjacent room. He drew it aside, revealing the interior, and signaled the young man to approach. Warm air flowed from the archway of the small room's entrance, spreading into the rest of the chamber, and Murtagh could feel it. Two words of magic from Galbatorix caused a bright glow near the arches of the ceiling, brightly illuminating the interior of the antechamber. The king stood aside, allowing the young man to see what was inside this small room.
A broad, waist-high pedestal carved from stone stood covered with black velvet cloth, thick furs, and woolen weavings. In the center, a set of tangled black, golden, and silvery braids, resembling long, shiny hair, formed an elongated cushion. Resting comfortably on it were two large oval objects, one in the deep green color of forest leaves and the other in the scarlet of fire.
"Behold, son of Morzan, the greatest and most precious of Our treasures," said Galbatorix. "The future of the new world, the beginning of the Order of the new generation of Dragon Riders—the Dragon Eggs!"
One egg resembled a large emerald with its precious facets polished, surrounded by bright veins the color of amber. The glow from its deep green surface wasn't overshadowed by the abundant light, the magical creation of Galbatorix.
Murtagh remained staring at it, breathless. So this is how dragon eggs were naturally made? In some of the ancient manuscripts he had read in the palace libraries, there were decorative illustrations in the margins of the codices depicting ancient representatives of the species. However, none of the colors with which the hard scales had been drawn had prepared him for what he was seeing. If, from what he knew, the colors of the hatchlings matched the shades of the shell, how splendid would this emerald creature appear in the outside world?
Beside it, the other egg looked like a gigantic ruby. Like the flame of a lit torch, it illuminated the silver and golden braids upon which it rested, the little dragon inside waiting—who knows for how many years—for its chosen one.
Murtagh had never seen, nor imagined, a more fiery, brilliant red color. It appeared even more vibrant compared to the blazing sunrise and the crimson sunset. A web of ivory veins, like designs carved on marble, encircled its intensely warm surface. The glows emanating from it were like fiery tongues of flame, giving the impression that they could reach out and burn his heart.
At this strange thought, he felt a stir within him. The dragon egg seemed to call out to him. He felt an overwhelming need for it. He longed to be close to it immediately. He yearned to touch it, to hold it in his palms, to press its precious weight to his chest in a strong embrace.
As if enchanted by the fiery glow, Murtagh moved to enter the small room, drawn to the red egg that called to him with its flaming beauty. However, Galbatorix extended his hand, placing it on the young man's chest to stop him.
"Let us not rush, son of Our ally and friend. Those who will be granted the honor of this supreme gift must be faithful followers and proven worthy to serve Us. Whoever unites with the hatchling of the egg, accepting the mark of the dragons, must be absolutely worthy of Our trust for this honor."
"Your Majesty," protested Murtagh. "As you well know, I am your faithful subject and devote all my powers to you and to the service of your cause."
The king smiled enigmatically. "Do We truly know? Is the assurance of loyalty enough to be tested with one of the highest honors?" His gaze moved to the young man's face. The son of Morzan, despite his intelligence and skill with the sword, seemed so vulnerable. In just a moment, it would be possible for him to penetrate the barriers of Murtagh's mind, which were strongly raised to protect his thoughts and secrets. However, his longing and need to approach the egg could not be hidden.
The king smiled with satisfaction. The more weaknesses humans had, the easier it was for him to subdue their minds. He extended his hand, gripping the young man's shoulder encouragingly. "We do not wish to question your loyalty in the slightest, Murtagh. However, this, dear child, remains to be proven in action. When the right time comes, you will then prove your loyalty to Us in practice. Until then, there is no hurry. The egg will always be here... waiting..."
The king gazed affectionately at the red dragon egg. The hatchling inside, which had been asleep for over a hundred years waiting for its chosen one, had awakened for the first time. Galbatorix's magic allowed him to sense the turmoil within the hard shell. He perceived the curiosity of the hatchling toward Morzan's son, a primal and fierce yearning that called him near. Simultaneously, the fervor in the young man's gaze and his spontaneous movement to approach spoke of the mutual attraction and immediate charm they exerted on each other.
The king hurried to remove Morzan's son. When the new pair was to be born from the magic of the union between dragon and rider, Galbatorix had to be certain of their loyalty to him. What better way than discovering their true names? It wasn't the first time he had accomplished such a feat. "When the right time comes, a mission will be asked of you. Only in this way will you prove your worth and loyalty to your king. Until then, patience."
Galbatorix pushed Murtagh out of the room, simultaneously sensing the obvious displeasure of the red hatchling, which matched the young man's disappointment. As hesitant as Morzan's son had seemed when approaching, he now appeared equally troubled at having to leave. His disappointment was evident in all his movements and clearly displayed on his face.
With his heightened senses, Galbatorix perceived the red egg moving restlessly on its furs and cushions. Light taps and faint shrieks echoed from within its hard shell. Confident that the red egg would soon calm down again, the king drew the curtain in front of the opening. He then led Morzan's son out of the room, locking the door with magic.
All this while, the green egg remained calm, asleep.
.*.*.*.
Galbatorix's speech about a new Alagaësia and a new generation of Dragon Riders had greatly influenced Murtagh, captivating his thoughts. Yet, it wasn't enough to shake his steady resolve to serve the interests of the Varden. Only with someone like Ajihad, an honest and just leader, could the country be transformed into what Galbatorix had dreamed of—someone who felt compassion and mercy for others.
The king had had his opportunities in the past hundred years. For nearly a century, his enemies had either disappeared from the face of the earth or were hiding, fearing his wrath—the elves tucked away in their deep forests, and the dwarves in their burrows and underground cities, where the Varden had also recently taken refuge. Galbatorix was not in danger from anyone; on the contrary, everyone else was in danger from his hatred, malice, and fury.
Murtagh never forgot that it was the king himself who had once ordered Nasuada's death. What honorable man would choose to strike his opponent in such a dishonorable way? If he were truly committed to the high goals he described to Murtagh, shouldn't he have already achieved them? Instead, the land was filled with spies, informants, and assassins, all acting against others in his name.
After their meeting, a magical influence seemed to envelop the young man. The memory of the red egg never left his mind, persisting day and night. The influence was so strong that he lived in an almost dreamlike state, feeling a profound, unfulfilled need. The thought that he might be the one to unite with the hatchling had not yet crossed his mind, nor the consequences such an outcome could have on his life. However, his desire to be close to it was so strong that, since he couldn't be, he spent most of his time in the library, searching for information about the particular dragon egg.
It was mid-afternoon when he was poring over an old manuscript, seated on the sunlit, wide window ledge. Usually, the library at that hour was empty, as the scholars and students had abandoned their intellectual pursuits to satisfy their gastronomic needs in the great hall of the castle. Therefore, the sound of heavy footsteps and spurs clanking on the stone floors made him lift his head, annoyed.
The man, stocky and broad-shouldered, draped in a cape with an ermine collar, approached and stood in front of him. "Morzansson?"
Murtagh let the parchment roll between his fingers. He knew the man by sight and his notorious name. Despite the fact that most courtiers avoided his company due to his violent—almost uncouth—manners, Galbatorix held his services in such high esteem that he had appointed him as his general.
Murtagh stood up and slightly inclined his head in a minimal salute. "I am Murtagh, son of Morzan, General."
The man tilted his thick, muscular neck to the side. His intelligent eyes scrutinized the young man from head to toe. "I am Barst, son of Berengar, Lord of Gil'ead," he introduced himself with his childlike, small mouth that deceived everyone, hiding his cunning. "I seek you on the orders of our most gracious king," he declared. "His Majesty deems that you have spent enough time with those fat, scholarly professors of yours. So, no more general lessons for you. From tomorrow morning, you will be taught war tactics and all else you need to know to defeat the mole-like enemies of our king. I only hope you won't waste my time in vain. Meet me as soon as the sun rises. I'll be in the west hall on the first floor, next to the map room."
Without waiting for a response, Lord Barst turned his muscular back and walked away, his spurs clinking again. Murtagh wondered if Barst's curiosity to meet Morzan's son in person was so great that he took the trouble to inform him himself. He could easily have sent a servant.
Murtagh took a deep breath, putting the manuscript back in its place. His true father's name still held a strong influence over Galbatorix's courtiers.
During the following weeks, Murtagh got to know Lord Barst better. Although he didn't particularly like him, it turned out that Barst was intelligent, resourceful, and very methodical in everything he undertook. Murtagh had to admit that Barst taught him well, especially the tactics of open-field battles, which he found very interesting. The young man made sure to focus all his efforts in that direction. Since the king had ordered him to be trained in such tactics, it could only mean one thing: the time was approaching when he would be accepted into the king's councils and become a trusted confidant.
.*.*.*.
A new winter had spread over the land of Alagaësia, scattering cold, strong winds and sleet generously. Murtagh had spent a whole year living in Urû'baen Castle, far from Nasuada and the Varden. Sometimes he wondered if his old allies and friends still remembered him. Perhaps Ajihad had in the meantime decided to send other spies to the capital, and Murtagh often wished that were the case. However, no one came to look for him at the citadel castle, nor did he hear any other rumors about rebel agents in the city. Thus, the information he had been gathering for a year remained unused in his possession.
He had not noticed any major changes in the palace, neither from the courtiers' whispers nor from the chatter of Galbatorix's guards on the training field. Even Barst, who was in direct contact with the king, had not confided anything more than what Murtagh already knew. The preparations and armaments continued intensively. Entire armies of men were being sent to Gil'ead, so many that the city would soon look like a barracks. The Shade had appeared once more at the palace, and a few days earlier, the two Ra'zac had arrived, riding their repulsive steeds.
This was the situation when Murtagh received the second invitation for a direct meeting with Galbatorix.
The guard who accompanied him handed him over to those guarding outside the royal chambers, who then passed him to the silent, gray-clad servant. The man led Murtagh to the royal office, knocked gently, and opened the door, ready to announce Murtagh's arrival to the king.
At that moment, Galbatorix stood upright in front of his silver mirror, conversing magically through it with two people simultaneously. He turned abruptly toward them, nodding nervously to the servant, indicating they had to wait outside until he finished.
The man bowed humbly and backed away, closing the door again, but Murtagh had already managed to see over the lackey's shoulder two hairless heads, joined together. The voice that came through the mirror sounded familiar. He also managed to glimpse the edges of a crimson robe.
He leaned his back against the wall, closing his eyes in shock at what he had just witnessed. In the next two heartbeats, he felt his heart freeze. The terror of danger pierced his stomach like a heated blade. Had his eyes deceived him? Or was the worry that tormented him for the Varden causing delusions? Was it possible? Could they be behind the mirror? The Twins? The mages of the Varden? If that was indeed the case, then... The need to inform Ajihad became immediate.
He swallowed hard, trying to regain control of his senses. The king's voice could already be heard calling the servant, commanding him to enter. Murtagh took a deep breath, clearing his mind of doubts. Such fears and thoughts were very dangerous in front of Galbatorix.
He entered with a confident step and an erect posture into the office, then decisively bowed his knee before the king, remaining that way until he was granted permission to stand. Galbatorix was still standing next to the full-length mirror, its surface now gleaming empty, reflecting only the images of the surrounding objects.
With slow steps, the king approached his desk and sat down on the plain wooden chair, placing both his hands on the polished surface of the furniture. "Ah, Murtagh!"
The king's black eyes observed him carefully. Since the end of summer, the birthday dinner, and the display of dragon eggs, Murtagh had not had the opportunity to meet Galbatorix in person again. However, he was sure that the king was informed about his progress directly by Lord Barst and learned all his movements from the other courtiers and servants. Murtagh kept his face calm, like an impassive mask, emptying his mind completely while waiting.
Galbatorix tapped his fingers rhythmically on the surface of the wood for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, and then spoke. "Oh, son of Morzan. There is a mission suitable for you—to finally prove your worth and your absolute loyalty to your king."
In the small pause that followed, he might have been weighing the impression his words had made on the young man, or perhaps he was waiting for a renewal of the oaths that the latter had once taken before his throne when he first arrived. However, Murtagh remained silent, calm, waiting for the king to continue.
"There is a boy traveling from north to south. With him, he carries a beloved treasure that was stolen from Us long ago." The rhythmic tapping of fingers on the desk continued. "This treasure is very precious to Us, and it is Our desire that it be returned immediately to Our custody."
Galbatorix crossed his hands on the wooden surface and leaned forward, always looking Murtagh in the eyes. "Our information indicates that this boy is currently moving somewhere between Teirm and Dras-Leona. Loyal servants have been sent to find him. Their orders are to capture the boy and bring him before Us, and to return Our precious treasure to Our protection."
"However, the loyalty of these servants does not meet Our complete trust. We have reasons to suspect that there is a great danger that, once they acquire Our treasure, they might attempt to use it for their own benefit. And this is where your valuable participation comes in, which We deem necessary."
The king drummed his fingers on the table one last time, more forcefully than before, then stood up. Approaching the large window that let in the pale light of the winter day, he stood in front of it, looking at the gray clouds on the horizon. "Move parallel to Our servants, son of Morzan, without making any contact with them, always remaining unseen and away from them. If you follow their course, you will surely find the boy. Perhaps Our intuition is wrong, and Our loyal servants will obey the command to deliver the pursued to Us. But if you see any behavior from them that goes against Our interests, then you have the freedom to intervene."
Galbatorix turned abruptly towards Murtagh. "The one We seek is about your age, perhaps a little younger. Find the boy, Murtagh, gain his trust, and stay by his side no matter what. When you judge that the conditions and circumstances are right, lead him to Dras-Leona. Deliver him safely, along with the treasure he carries untouched, to your king, who will be there, waiting."
"How will I recognize your servants, Your Majesty, so that I can follow a parallel course to theirs?" Murtagh asked.
"The two Ra'zac are Our servants. They and their mounts move quickly, but are anything but unseen," Galbatorix replied. "It won't be difficult for you to spot them."
"And... the treasure? If I may ask, what is it?" Murtagh inquired.
The king approached him with a smile, placing his heavy hand on his shoulder. "That, son of Our ally and friend, will be easy to ascertain once you see it." He then brought his face close to the young man's. "Return the treasure to Us, Murtagh. Prove your boundless loyalty to your king. And We, in response to your expectations, will lead you to the dragon's egg; the one you so desire to be near. That will be the reward for your loyalty and good services to Us."
Enchanted by Galbatorix's promise, feeling the presence of the red egg so close that it called to him, fueling his burning desire for it, Murtagh gladly accepted the mission.
Knowing also that the Twin mages were traitors, he understood that he had to leave the palace immediately if he did not want to fail the mission assigned to him by the leader of the Varden. The opportunity to leave Urû'baen unaccompanied had been given by the king himself. On the way to Dras-Leona, he hoped that he would be able to hire the services of a sorcerer. He could inform Ajihad of the imminent danger that threatened him more quickly in this way, rather than traveling to Farthen Dûr himself. Moreover, he believed he would not be at risk, as no one in Dras-Leona would be able to recognize him. This way, the king wouldn't find out that he hired a sorcerer to send information to the Varden, unlike in the capital where he was more well-known.
As for the sought-after boy… Could he be a servant of the palace or a favorite of Galbatorix, who had access to his treasures? Had he perhaps inherited the treasure from someone else? This was the most likely scenario, since the treasure was stolen years before, and the boy was slightly younger than himself. However, since the king had demanded the boy be delivered absolutely unharmed, Murtagh had little hesitation in leading the thief to Dras-Leona. Especially if the boy could be convinced and willingly followed him, acknowledging the mistake of possessing someone else's treasure.
It was late December when he found himself on the road again, riding his gray warhorse—a brave companion—with the leather saddlebags filled with supplies for the journey. Despite having taken care to dress in leathers, woolen clothes, and cover himself with his thick, felt overcoat, the cold still bit to the bone.
He followed the carriage road, which wound between Urû'baen and Dras-Leona, galloping swiftly. The farther he moved from the capital, the more deserted the road became. Who would choose this time of year for their journey, anyway? Nature around him was asleep, numbed by the cold; the deserted fields were covered with frost, and the waters crystallized in the thickets and forests. However, the memory of the fiery glow of the scarlet egg warmed his heart.