The Fencing Master - Chapter 18
Escape
Stepping into the open courtyard, Eragon let the cool night air wash over him, carrying the scent of damp earth, stone, and the burning resin of torches scattered around the fortress. He paused, his gaze drifting across the courtyard in quiet contemplation. Beside the guards' barracks stood the armory—a solid, unadorned stone structure, its strength lying in its simplicity.
Eragon slipped into the shadows with the silent dexterity of a seasoned Spine hunter. The waning moon cast faint light, and the flickering braziers along the courtyard's perimeter were too dim to expose anyone deliberately concealed. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, his body utterly still as he focused on the two sentries guarding the armory gate.
The two men looked drowsy, their movements sluggish and unsteady. Sensing the pulse of their consciousness, Eragon deepened their fatigue. Within minutes, both sentries slumped, their heads resting against the gate's pillars as they sank into an irresistible sleep. Wasting no time, Eragon moved swiftly. Slipping between the heavy wooden doors of the armory, he slid inside unnoticed.
Hours earlier, Eragon had stood in this very place, accompanied by the officer assigned to equip him. The man had informed him that, beyond the guards' weapons, the same space—hidden behind heavy iron doors—held the armor of the king's personal guard. Now, alone in the armory's silence, Eragon's mind returned to those words. If he needed to navigate the castle's inner chambers, disguising himself as one of Galbatorix's guards would offer the best chance of going unnoticed. Risky, yes—but no more than his presence here. Moving decisively, he headed toward the back room where the armor was stored.
He found the iron door locked, but for Eragon, that was no obstacle.
"Ma'mor!" he whispered, the word flowing from his lips like an invisible current through the air. It was the same spell he had used to unlock the iron-clad carriage that had imprisoned the elf. The lock released with a barely audible sound—an echo resonating deep within the darkness—as the heavy door swung open.
Eragon stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping over the surroundings, filled with admiration and curiosity. A single torch burned on the wall, its dim light casting elongated shadows across the suits of armor—striking in their presence. Forged from durable, dark-toned metal, they gleamed not from the meager light, but from the aura of power they carried. Upon the breastplates, the twisted red flame—engraved and enameled—stood out, the king's emblem, seeming almost alive.
Mounted on sturdy frames along the walls, the suits of armor stood like petrified sentinels, their hollow visors fixed on Eragon, menacing in the dim light as if observing his every move. He noticed that many of the mounting stations were empty—evidence that these armors were worn by those who remained vigilant, guarding the king's slumber. At the center of the room, neatly arranged, lay the guards' weapons—sharp, lethal, and brimming with silent menace.
Eragon inspected the suits of armor one by one, his fingers gliding over the sturdy metal as his gaze lingered on the intricate breastplates and hollow visors. The dim torchlight cast a muted glow, making the metal gleam amid the shadows. Each suit looked more imposing than the last, and as time passed, his hope of finding one suited to his build began to fade.
Disheartened, he sighed, realizing the captain who had shared his table had been absolutely right. The men who donned this armor were far from ordinary—towering figures, almost like legendary heroes. None of these breastplates would fit him without exaggerating his frame to a ridiculous degree. The illusion of passing as one of the king's personal guards was slipping away, and Eragon felt his disappointment settle over him, heavy as the armor itself.
As he turned away in disappointment, his gaze landed on a niche set apart from the others, half-hidden in the hall's dim glow. There, shrouded in shadows, lay a suit of armor unlike the rest. His eyes fixed on it, a spark of hope flickering to life. Perhaps this one would fit him. He stepped forward cautiously, each stride weighted with anticipation, and reached for the breastplate that had caught his attention.
It was forged from the same dark metal, yet something about it set it apart. Beneath the twisted red flame lay another emblem—golden and intricate—its surface catching the torchlight, glimmering as if it had a life of its own.
Eragon stood mesmerized, his gaze locked onto the golden crest as torchlight sent shimmering reflections dancing across the metal's surface. A banner adorned with four rhombus-shaped squares—white and gold—sat above two crossed, curved swords, seamlessly embedded in golden paint. The same emblem, engraved in miniature, was meticulously colored on the forehead of the helmet's visor. The precision of its craftsmanship felt almost magical, and a wave of awe washed over Eragon.
He judged the armor to be the right size and swiftly set about putting it on. Dressing in such heavy equipment alone, without assistance, was no easy task, and Eragon struggled to fasten some of its components properly. Yet, for his first time wearing anything of the sort, he felt he had managed a fairly decent job.
As he slid his hands into the gauntlets, he made an unexpected discovery—one of them was not real, but a meticulously crafted false hand. Eragon stared at it, realization settling in: the armor's previous wearer must have been one-handed. A shiver ran down his spine—this armor bore the history and battles of an unknown warrior. Acting swiftly, he removed the artificial limb and concealed it in a shadowed corner of the room. He then replaced the gauntlet with one from a different suit of armor, silently noting that he would need to be mindful of that wrist's movements.
He strode toward the exit with measured steps, having already probed the minds of the two sentries, hoping they remained lost in sleep. To his disappointment, however, they were fully alert, their thoughts sharp and focused on their duty. In the time he had taken to don the armor, either they had awakened on their own—or something else had stirred them.
He chose not to attempt influencing their minds again—his instinct warned him it would be futile. Instead, he steeled himself and prepared to play his part. Mustering confidence he did not truly feel, he stepped through the door with a firm stride, his gaze locked onto the two sentries. In his mind, he had already composed the reprimand he would deliver—pretending he had caught them sleeping when he entered.
His surprise was immense as the two soldiers jolted upright, snapping to attention with a crisp salute. One of them took half a step forward, his voice steady yet edged with respect.
"My lord, I thought you were still in Gil'ead."
Realizing the armor he wore belonged to someone of great importance within the palace, Eragon felt the weight of responsibility settle heavier on his shoulders. The slightest misstep could draw unwanted attention. He resolved to be doubly cautious from here on. Unsure whether the guards expected him to speak, he simply gave a nod and strode away, his steps brisk and commanding. The time had come to begin his investigation.
He moved along the perimeter, keeping to the shadows and avoiding the glow of torches and braziers that illuminated the courtyard. Guards patrolled the castle grounds in significant numbers, but Eragon remained unseen, slipping from cover to cover. Struggling to orient himself, he emerged from the grand courtyard and, weaving through both guarded and darkened structures, pressed on toward the northern tower, where he believed his destination lay. At times, he became lost in the citadel's twisting passages; at others, he was forced to take detours to evade patrols and clusters of sentries. His heart pounded, each step a test, as the castle's towering dark walls closed in around him.
He became suddenly aware of a presence pressing against the edges of his mind, like an invisible wind coiling around him. He should have sensed it earlier—this feeling had not emerged abruptly. Yet, consumed by the need to avoid unwanted encounters and navigate the citadel's labyrinthine corridors, he had ignored the delicate, lingering touch. A surge of fear overtook him, and he swiftly raised his mental defenses, shielding his mind with all his strength. But the sensation was not hostile. That gentle touch could mean only one thing—one person.
"Arya?"
The mental barriers eased, allowing the elf's presence to flow into him—gentle and deliberate, like a silent shadow at his side, careful not to disturb the stillness. Her mind felt so different now from that first, urgent conversation they had shared. Perhaps she was reaching him discreetly, wary of the king's ever-watchful eyes and ears—or those of his lurking sorcerers. Relief washed over him. Warmth surrounded him. He was no longer alone.
Her consciousness enveloped his mind, reminiscent of the way he once communicated with Saphira—when she was just a tiny hatchling, speaking to him only through emotions and images. Eragon recognized her inquisitive curiosity, the silent urgency to understand where he was and whether he was safe. It was undoubtedly her—his elven companion, carefully striving to keep their connection as discreet as possible.
He projected an image of the northern turret—of himself making his way there—alongside the plan he had assembled from scattered fragments of information gathered from the soldiers. Yet instead of the expected response, Arya's consciousness struck like a sudden storm, unfurling within him with raw fury. The force of her anger was impossible to misinterpret; her displeasure ran deep—and was entirely justified.
Eragon felt the weight of her disapproval settle on his chest like a heavy stone. Arya's frustration was unmistakable—he had failed to inform her of his plans, and now she was making her disappointment known with sharp, unrelenting clarity, like a blade cutting into his mind. She had followed him into the city—a dangerous risk for them both—not simply out of duty, but to watch over him, to shield his steps with her magic. And yet, here she was, learning that he had been acting alone, disregarding the fact that she was his comrade. How could they truly be allies if he kept her at arm's length, shutting her out of his plans?
Recognizing the fairness of Arya's demand, Eragon felt a wave of shame crash over him. He sent her apologetic thoughts, laced with a sincere urge to make amends, and marked the base of the turret—his intended destination—as their meeting point, if he could find it.
As he advanced through the dark citadel, he kept their mental connection open—a thin, invisible thread binding them together. It wasn't long before a growing disappointment settled over him; there was no viable path to the turret from here. His way forward seemed to close in on itself, the hope for a solution dissolving into the night.
The images surfaced in Eragon's mind one after another, like fragments of a dream unraveling in the darkness. A deserted, shadowed courtyard at the rear of the castle; a low, unguarded inner wall; spiraling stairs plunging into underground chambers; a simple door leading to the depths below. Each vision illuminated his path with perfect clarity as he followed Arya's unseen guidance through their mental connection.
He followed the elf's guidance, though the path was anything but easy. Time and again, the dark corners and narrow alleyways of the citadel seemed to swallow him whole. Every whisper of movement within the shadows threatened to betray his presence. Yet with each step, his resolve hardened. Every stride drew him closer to Arya—closer to his goal.
At last, after countless detours and tense moments, he stood before the small, unassuming servants' door—the very place Arya had led him to. A wave of anticipation and quiet relief washed over him as he paused, just in time to see the door creak open from within. Slowly, it revealed her graceful figure, silhouetted against the dim light.
He beheld her—vivid, real—her long, dark hair concealed beneath the deep violet scarf, where the faint glimmer of silver beads barely caught the night's light. The human garments draped over her slender, ethereal figure, granting her an air of simplicity that did little to mask her natural grace. Her altered eyes, intense and perceptive, studied him with quiet precision, as if attempting to unravel his every thought. Eragon let a sigh escape from the depths of his chest. There was no turning back now. He stood within the palace of Urû'baen, at the heart of a hostile and treacherous world, where every step demanded unwavering caution and courage.
.*.*.*.
Arya welcomed him in silence, her gaze carefully tracing his armored form, its dark metal hiding his true appearance. In her hands, she carried a large laundry hamper, overflowing with unwashed clothing—a mere pretext for her presence in the upper floors. She was supposedly collecting laundry for the next day's wash. With a faint nod, she beckoned him to follow, moving with effortless grace, like a shadow slipping through the night.
Eragon followed the elf without hesitation as she navigated dark, labyrinthine corridors and deserted, winding staircases. Upon reaching a higher level, she set down her burden and turned to him, her demeanor shifting—an air of quiet conspiracy settling between them.
"Shur'tugal!" Her voice was softer than a whisper, barely stirring the air around him. "The path you've chosen has no access from the castle's exterior—only from the upper floors." Her eyes locked onto his, scrutinizing him with piercing intensity. "Are you certain you wish to begin your search there?" She didn't need to remind him—their proximity to Galbatorix meant the danger had only sharpened.
"Arya, beyond the guards' vague whispers of a 'special' prisoner in the northern turret, it is my instinct that speaks. I am certain—there is a strong possibility that the person they speak of is my companion."
Arya tilted her head with effortless grace. "As you wish, then." She lifted the laundry hamper with effortless ease, ready to follow his lead. Since Eragon had chosen to present himself as one of the king's guards, the responsibility fell to him—he had to take the lead. She, in turn, remained just a step behind, adhering to their plan.
As Eragon moved to assist with the hamper, Arya refused. They had already left the servants' quarters, and now, with the castle's corridors stretching before them, they would inevitably cross paths with others. How would it look if a royal guard aided a mere servant? He had to walk ahead, and she would follow—always a step behind him. They didn't know their exact destination, but Arya's sharpened senses would guide them ever northward.
They traversed dimly lit, desolate corridors and ascended more winding staircases. No matter how carefully they moved, certain areas remained guarded, and in others, they encountered patrols of soldiers. Yet no one questioned them—no voice called out, no blade was drawn. Their presence remained uncontested.
In the areas where the sparse torchlight burned brighter, casting crimson halos upon the walls and stone floors, soldiers who spotted Eragon clad in dark armor snapped to attention, saluting him. Once, a patrol captain even addressed him as "Lord Yarek." The man's wary gaze flickered toward Arya, lingering in the shadows. Yet, seeing her follow in his wake, he made no move to stop her.
Eragon felt justified in his choice to wear the armor of a royal guard. Even the specific, ornate set—with its golden embellishments—worked in his favor, reinforcing his assumed status. Yet he quickened his pace. He had to act swiftly—before word of Lord Yarek's supposed presence, though he should still be in Gil'ead, rippled through the castle.
Arya whispered discreetly behind him each time he turned or ascended a staircase. She refrained from reaching into his mind again, perhaps wary of the unseen dangers concealed within the castle's oppressive silence. Neither of them knew the upper reaches of the fortress, but her uncanny sense of direction proved invaluable.
The corridors they passed through plunged once more into darkness and desolation. The air felt heavy with age, the space unfrequented and long abandoned. Behind him, Arya's whisper broke the silence.
"We are in the northern part of the castle, Shur'tugal. I sense men ahead."
Eragon turned to her. The elf-woman had already set her hamper aside, her gaze locked onto the dark depths of the corridor, her lips—whispering an incantation for the first time—barely stirring the air. The Dragon Rider prepared to extend his own consciousness in that direction, but she gently pressed her palm against his breastplate, halting him. In a single image, she sent a vision into his mind—they had reached the end of their path. Below, the castle's northern exterior wall came to an abrupt stop. The entrance to the northern turret was close.
"I will teach you a spell, Shur'tugal," she said with firm resolve. "With it, you will incapacitate the guards ahead. There are two of them, and you will appear before them alone."
The elf-woman began teaching him the spell, and Eragon repeated her words with careful precision. Once he was certain he had mastered them, he squared his shoulders, steeling himself. Then, leaving the shadows behind, he strode forward down the center of the corridor.
The space around him was steeped in the silence of abandonment. Mold and moisture clung to the walls, lingering like forgotten traces of time. Wild roots thrust through cracked stone, staking their claim upon the ruins. Shattered plaster lay scattered, as if the walls themselves had grown weary of holding the weight of memory. Amid the desolation, a faint latrine stench drifted through the air as he passed a sealed chamber, leaving him to wonder.
He felt Arya's presence just behind him, moving slowly, shrouded in shadows to avoid detection. Ahead, the dim glow of a torch flickered, illuminating the base of a spiral staircase winding upward. Two figures stood beneath it, clad in the armor of the citadel guards. A quiet resolve settled within him—Arya had been right. They had reached the entrance to the northern turret. And if fate was on his side, Murtagh was near.
As soon as they spotted him approaching, the two guards snapped to attention. But Eragon wasted no time. Without hesitation, he spoke the magic Arya had taught him, letting the spell flow from his lips. The soldiers crumpled where they stood, their armor clattering as their weapons struck the floor with a dull thud. He swiftly lifted his helmet and crouched beside them—both were lost to a deep slumber, showing no signs of waking anytime soon.
"Don't worry, Shur'tugal," Arya said as she emerged behind him. "The spell I taught you will keep them asleep for many hours—far longer than they could resist."
The elf-woman approached the spiral staircase, her gaze following its winding ascent as it vanished into the depths of darkness. No figures lingered nearby, yet deep within her mind, she felt it—an immense presence, vast and unwavering.
Eragon hastily unhooked the lit torch from its metal bracket, casting its glow over the slick steps ahead. He steadied himself, ready to ascend—but Arya stopped him.
"Let me go first. There may be protective spells in the area." The elf-woman ascended the narrow staircase with deliberate care, each step measured. All the while, the persistent sensation of an unseen presence pressed against her senses.
Eragon followed close behind, his torch raised high to light her path. The stairs bore the scars of time, cracks running deep like old wounds. Moisture clung to the air, a cold breath from the past whispering against his skin. With every turn, the shadows tightened around him, hiding secrets unseen.
After countless turns of the staircase, they emerged into the antechamber of the silent turret's room. A heavy wooden door barred the entrance, its surface reinforced with metal braces and iron studs. Beyond it, absolute silence pressed against the air—nothing stirred from within.
Doubt crept into the Dragon Rider's heart, curling its fingers around his resolve. Had he wasted precious time? Had he miscalculated so badly that Murtagh lay imprisoned in the dungeons beneath the citadel? Was the 'special' captive someone else—another prisoner of Galbatorix? Had his instincts betrayed him, leading him astray? Or was the captive merely lost in a deep, dreamless sleep, drained by his confinement and the torment he had endured?"
He watched as Arya raised her right palm, her fingertips barely grazing the ancient wood. A faint smile curved her sculpted lips—serene, knowing. Then, almost imperceptibly, they parted, shaping the sound of a language older than time. Her striking eyes fluttered shut in quiet focus as the incantation deepened, each word weaving through the air, rising in power.
Curiosity swelled within Eragon, rising like a well on the verge of overflowing. Arya had been right—there were magical protections at play. He lifted his torch, edging closer, but before he could ask what was happening, a plume of black smoke billowed from the enchanted door, curling into the air. Arya's chant carried on, unwavering, until the last traces of smoke dissipated. Then, as Eragon's astonishment deepened, he saw it—a glowing sphere, hovering at eye level, pulsing with an eerie radiance.
"What... is this?" he breathed, his voice laced with wonder.
"This, Shur'tugal, is a spirit," Arya said, her voice steady yet heavy with reverence. "A being of pure energy—brimming with life, yet bound by a fate it never chose." She turned to face him, holding his gaze. "Enslaved by the king. Shackled to this place, forced to guard the door. An impenetrable sentinel of Galbatorix, condemned to servitude." Her fingertips brushed the air, as if feeling the weight of its presence. "But no spirit was meant to be caged. So, I set it free."
The glowing sphere lingered between them a moment longer before turning toward Arya—its liberator. A pulse of joy rippled through its form, suffusing the space with a melody that resonated beyond the realm of mortals. Light and sound intertwined, a luminous rhythm flooding their senses. The spirit drifted closer still, enfolding the elf in its radiant embrace.
Smiling, Arya lifted her hand once more, elation bright in her eyes. Light poured from her fingertips as a surge of invigorating energy swirled around her. The spirit expanded its radiant embrace, wrapping her in its glow. Pulsing with life-giving strength, it infused her being with warmth. Then, as if completing its purpose, the luminous ring receded, shrinking back into its small, glowing sphere. It hovered for an instant, offering a final, gentle touch to the elf's forehead—then, with a whisper of light, it soared away, free at last, vanishing into the unseen.
Arya's gaze lingered for a moment, dreamlike, following the spirit's luminous path. "May you always be free and happy, pure light," she whispered.
Eragon stood before the sealed door, his breath steady. "Ma'mor," he whispered—the spell he had relied on many times before. The ancient wood shuddered, its worn frame groaning in protest before the latch gave way. With a slow, deliberate creak, the door swung open, unveiling the darkness beyond—the chamber of the northern turret, heavy with secrets yet untold.
.*.*.*.
He pressed his body gently against his chosen one, purring, but his warmth failed to rouse him. Night lay deep and unbroken, and Murtagh-heart-brother remained upon the hard-stone-that-freezes, lost in the weight of exhaustion—his body stiff from cold, his stillness stretched across long and restless hours. He himself had slept enough, and now, the stirring beyond the wooden-door-that-imprisons pulled him from his slumber, calling him fully into wakefulness.
The time when the two-legs-grey-clothes servants, sent by the king, usually entered was still far off. Yet unease coiled within him. Careful not to make the slightest sound, he slipped behind the battered bed, pressing into its shadows—watchful, waiting. If Murtagh-chosen-one faced danger, he would strike without hesitation. With sharp tooth and curved claw, he would defend him.
The heavy door groaned as it swung open, and a two-legs-metal-breastplate stepped inside, lifting high a long wood-flame-on-top. Crimson light bled across the dark walls, its sudden glow striking his eyes—too sharp, too harsh against the comforting shroud of shadows. He narrowed them suspiciously, wary of the intrusion. Careful to remain concealed, he lurked in the darkness, his clawed foot tensing, his body coiled for action.
"Murtagh!" The guard's voice rang sharp, calling the name-of-chosen-one.
The two-legs-metal-breastplate loomed over the sleeping brother-of-soul-and-mind, shoving his shoulder with firm insistence. The wood-flame flickered as it drew closer to his face, casting restless shadows across his unmoving features.
Within the circle of searing light, the body of Murtagh-soul-brother stirred. From the depths of the shadows, he readied himself. A strange heat coiled in his belly, rising with purpose, sending a thin wisp of smoke curling toward his nostrils. Without hesitation, he slipped into motion—silent, unseen.
.*.*.*.
Murtagh's body jolted awake. Instinct drove his eyes open, only for the searing brightness to force them shut again. A sharp breath hitched in his throat as he raised a hand, shielding his face from the torchlight. The iron-clad guard loomed above him, his grip firm, his shake insistent.
"Murtagh! Wake up, Murtagh!"
The lowered visor hid the man's face, shrouding his features in cold anonymity—the one clad in the dark armor of Galbatorix's guard. Yet the voice that reached Murtagh's ears carried an unsettling familiarity. The torchlight flared against the metal breastplate, the twisting flame catching and gleaming, as if breathing with its own restless life.
"At last, I've found you!" The guard's voice rang with conviction as he dropped to one knee beside Murtagh's half-reclined form. With his free hand—the one not clutching the torch—he lifted his visor first, unveiling his eyes, part of his face. Then, in a single motion, he removed his helmet entirely. "My instincts led me to you, my friend," he murmured. "Somehow, I just knew you'd be here."
As Murtagh drifted from the depths of sleep, the bright light carved through the haze, revealing the guard's face—and in that instant, recognition struck. Eragon. His breath caught, stunned. "I must be dreaming…" he murmured, unwilling to accept what lay before him. At the same time, he turned away, his features twisting in discomfort. "Put that torch down already. It's blinding me."
Eragon seized his arm, pulling firmly. "Come with me! We need to leave—now."
"Eragon?" His voice was thick with disbelief, his breath shallow. Was his mind playing tricks on him?
"Yes, it's me," the other young man said, his tone brimming with relief. "I'm with…"
"Eragon!" Murtagh's eyes burned with fury, his voice thick with anger. "What are you doing here?"
He tore his arm free from the other's grasp, shoving himself up onto his knees. "You should be as far from Urû'baen as possible right now! You were supposed to put leagues between you and this cursed place."
A sharp wave of panic crashed over him, cold as melted ice spilling down his spine. His breath came fast, unsteady. "The information I entrusted to you…"
Murtagh barely had time to finish his sentence before a crimson arrow sliced through the air between them. With a snarl and clear intent, the hatchling lunged—claws raking at the leather joint between breastplate and armpit, its talons digging deep. Eragon barely had time to react, raising his arm on instinct to shield his face. In the same breath, the hatchling's jaws snapped shut, crushing his gloved fingers with all the strength it could muster.
"No!" Murtagh's voice cracked with panic as he lunged to stop the attack. "Friend! Friend… Comrade!"
At the same time, he seized the hatchling, gripping its large horns while pressing a steady hand beneath its belly, holding it firmly. "Friend," he repeated, his voice gentler now, measured. "Comrade."
The hatchling loosened its grip, reluctantly parting its jaws and releasing the fingers of the enemy-that-was-not. Its half-lidded ruby eyes still gleamed with suspicion, watching, weighing. The fierce growl in its throat softened, yet did not vanish entirely, a lingering warning beneath the surface. Deep in its belly, heat curled once more, birthing a thin wisp of black smoke that rose to its nostrils.
Murtagh unhooked the creature from the leather joint of the armor, cradling it carefully in his arms. His grip was firm but kind, a quiet reassurance. "Friend," he murmured, his voice laced with tenderness. "Comrade. You must not attack him."
Eragon froze, his gaze locked onto the crimson hatchling nestled in Murtagh's arms—a miniature reflection of Saphira, yet wholly its own. "Murtagh! What in the world…"
He barely had time to process before the sting of pain reached his fingers. Thankfully, the armored gloves held firm, their metal plating shielding him from what would have been a savage bite.
"What in the world are you doing here?" Murtagh snapped, his voice sharp with disbelief. "You swore—you gave me your word—that you would go straight to those I sent you to, that you would deliver the information I entrusted to you! At least, that's how I remember it."
His hands burned where the hatchling's sharp horns had torn into his skin. Blood pooled between his fingers, trailing in slow rivulets before he flicked them toward the floor in frustration. "Yet instead of doing what we agreed, you walked straight into the lion's den?"
"Murtagh…"
Eragon's gaze remained locked on the red hatchling, cradled securely in his friend's arms. It had turned toward him now, its narrowed, suspicious eyes gleaming beneath the torchlight. Murtagh's fury had stirred its anger once more—the growl in its throat deepened, rising, louder this time.
Eragon drew in a breath, the words escaping before he could stop them. "Murtagh… you found Galbatorix's eggs."
Arya stepped forward, cutting through the rising tension with quiet authority. Her gaze swept over them before she spoke—firm, measured.
"Skulblaka, eka celöbra ono un malabra ono un onr Shur'tugal né haina. Atra nosu waíse fricai."
The ancient words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.
The elf's melodic voice rang through the room, its unfamiliar cadence drawing the two young men's startled gazes. Yet, as if understanding her words, the small dragon let out a soft, rumbling purr in Murtagh's arms. He coiled his tail around his rider's arm, his body pressing closer. Slowly, he stretched his neck toward Arya, his forked tongue flicking out, tasting the scent that lingered in the air around her.
"The elf maiden!" Murtagh breathed, his astonishment eclipsing even the shock of Eragon's presence. As she stepped into the circle of light, recognition struck—sharp, undeniable.
Arya stepped forward with quiet purpose, bowing before the hatchling, whose steady purring did not falter. "Dragon, I honor you and mean you and your Rider no harm. Let us be friends." Her voice remained calm, measured, as she echoed the words in the common tongue.
Despite his astonishment—and the quiet sting of humiliation over his dire state, unwashed and clad in the same tattered, blood-stained garments for weeks—Murtagh chose to act with dignity. "Noble elf, I am glad you have endured your enemies and your wounds. May you always remain as you are now—fair and in good health," he said, inclining his head as he returned the bow with practiced grace.
Arya inclined her head in quiet acknowledgment. "And I remain indebted to you for your role in my liberation," she said, her voice steady, unwavering. "I will never forget it."
Eragon, eyes bright with curiosity, grasped his friend's hand. "You have the same mark as me," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the center of Murtagh's right palm.
There, unmistakable, lay the gedwëy ignasia—the silver imprint of a dragon's bond, still veiled beneath the cracked crust of a fresh burn. Eragon's breath hitched as he lifted his eyes, searching Murtagh's face.
"You've become a Dragon Rider too."
Murtagh's gaze flickered between Eragon and Arya, uncertainty tightening in his chest. "Did you reach… where I sent you? Did you meet those you were meant to? Did they provide the remedy?"
He deliberately avoided mentioning locations or names—for the sake of security. In Urû'baen's palace, whether free or imprisoned, he had taught himself to erase identities, to cast away names before they could become a liability. Even thinking of them was a risk—one he had refused to take.
Eragon smiled, his gaze steady with reassurance. "Don't worry, my friend. Everything has unfolded as it should, and the information you entrusted to me has already reached its destination." He paused, his expression softening. "We came back for you."
Murtagh exhaled, relief spilling through him in waves. "Did you deliver my letter as well?" he asked, referring to the message meant for Nasuada. His voice was steady, but his fingers betrayed him, tightening instinctively around the wooden talisman hanging from the open collar of his shirt—a gesture so familiar, it had become second nature. He clenched it hard, as if drawing strength from it. For a fleeting heartbeat, hope surged in his chest. He could escape. He could return to her. He could be with her forever.
Swiftly, anxiety sharpened his voice once more. "Regardless, Eragon, you should never have come so close to the king. The danger you face is immense." His breath hitched, urgency clawing at his throat. "Galbatorix may be watching even now. He knew everything we did to free the elf. I don't know how—but he knew."
"If I hadn't come back for you," Eragon said, his brow furrowing, "you'd still be locked away in the northern turret." His voice hardened. "Tell me—did you want the new Dragon Rider to belong to Galbatorix? Is that what you wanted?"
"Shur'tugalar, Dragon Riders, please," Arya interjected, her voice firm yet measured. "There is much that must be said, but neither this place nor this moment is right. We must leave."
Then, without hesitation, she reached for Murtagh's wounded hand—the one Eragon still held—and brushed her fingertips lightly over his torn skin. "Waíse heill."
Murtagh stared at his hand, disbelief flickering in his eyes. A faint tingling pulsed through his flesh, and in an instant, the bleeding ceased—the wound was simply gone.
Nestled securely in his arms, the red hatchling stirred, sensing the surge of magic that had swept over its Rider. Its tail coiled tighter around his arm as it nestled its muzzle against his shoulder, just beside his neck.
"Yes, we must hurry and leave," Eragon agreed, his voice firm. He tilted the torch, its flickering glow spilling across the ancient, reinforced door—their way out.
Murtagh studied him, his brow knitting ever so slightly. "Where did you find the armor you're wearing?" His voice was measured, but beneath it lay a quiet demand for answers.
"In the guard's armory," Eragon said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. His choice had served them well—no barriers, no suspicion. The armor had become their unspoken key, leading them here without obstruction. And now, at last, they stood at the brink of their goal.
"Of all the armor in the armory, you chose this one?" Murtagh couldn't quite hide the ironic edge in his voice.
"I know," Eragon admitted, his tone edged with apology. "It belongs to some Lord Yarek."
"Yes—Galbatorix's chief spymaster," Murtagh continued, his voice laced with dry sarcasm. "Perhaps the most dangerous person in the castle, second only to the king himself." He exhaled sharply, his gaze flicking to the armor. "Get rid of it. As soon as you can."
"It will be done," Arya cut through their exchange with quiet finality. Then, turning to Murtagh, she asked, "But tell me, Shur'tugal, do you truly believe the king can still watch you?"
Murtagh cast a sidelong glance at Eragon. "Shur'tugal?" he murmured, the foreign word shaping his confusion.
Eragon gave a small, knowing nod. "I'll explain later," he replied, his voice just as low.
Murtagh shrugged, uncertainty flickering in his gaze. "He's probably not watching right now," he said to Arya, though even as he spoke, doubt gnawed at the edges of his certainty. "He's either sleeping or indulging one of his many concubines." His lips pressed into a thin line. "But if he wills it, he can see everything. Anywhere within his domain."
The elf woman nodded. "We'll take care of that." Her voice was calm, resolute. Then, with a measured motion, she gestured toward his chest, indicating the partially open collar of his shirt. "May I?"
Arya reached out, fingers brushing against the cord at Murtagh's neck. With deliberate care, she pulled it free, revealing the carved wooden owl—the talisman Nasuada had given him, the one he had never once removed.
She cradled it in her palm, eyes closing as a melody of ancient words slipped from her lips—notes woven from the same language she had used before, when she had quelled the young dragon's fury. The air trembled in response, alive with magic, pulsing in quiet resonance.
Then, as effortlessly as she had taken it, Arya returned the talisman to its rightful place, slipping it once more around Murtagh's neck.
"I've enchanted your pendant," Arya declared, certainty anchoring her tone. "Now, the king won't be able to track your movements—or your dragon's—as long as you keep the hatchling close." She exhaled softly, her gaze steady. "By the time he realizes something is amiss, I trust we'll be far, far away."
The elf turned toward the floor—the very spot where Murtagh had rested moments before. "And should he attempt to scry your movements through the water's surface, he must see you both still here—fast asleep."
As the words left her lips, the elf summoned her magic once more. The instant her incantation took shape, energy coursed from her hands like liquid fire, alive and untamed. Sparks of emerald light flared from the void, casting an eerie glow that pulsed with ancient power. Around her, dust whirled in twisting currents, stirred to life by forces unseen—shaped by her will alone.
Murtagh held his breath, eyes fixed on the dust as it twisted, thickened, and merged—defying nature itself. The air pressed in around him, heavy with something ancient, something unseen. Then, the frozen stones flickered, their surfaces shifting like reflections in a warped mirror. And in that fractured moment, the figure emerged.
A human form materialized in the very spot where, just minutes before, he himself had lain—mirroring his posture exactly, with the dragon curled in his embrace. His heart slammed against his ribs. It was as if he were staring into a distorted reflection, a dream given flesh and bone.
"It is called 'Fairth'—a magical image," the elf explained, her voice steady with unshakable certainty. Her eyes gleamed, as if unlocking a fragment of long-lost knowledge.
"Even if the king turns his gaze upon this cell, he will see only this—never you. Even if he searches, doubt will cloud his vision. Confusion will take hold. And while he wastes his time chasing shadows, we will be long gone."
Silence stretched between them as Murtagh stared at the figure on the floor—his mirror image, unmoving yet eerily lifelike, even its hand wrapped around the dragon in perfect mimicry. It was a reflection, a shadow of his own existence, conjured yet tangible.
Then, with a slow exhale, he tore his gaze away and followed Eragon toward the exit.
With his heart hammering, Murtagh took a step in the opposite direction, toward the ancient, iron-studded door—the very threshold that had bound him in captivity, sealing him within the frozen walls of the turret.
The crimson hatchling curled against him, its tiny body a steady pulse of warmth and certainty. Its eyes—familiar, filled with quiet devotion—met his, offering silent assurance.
They were ready.
One step. Then another.
If they could reach the gate—if they could slip beyond the castle's towering walls—then everything they had long yearned for would finally be within their grasp.
The hatchling, forged for the skies, would never again feel the weight of chains, nor the suffocating grip of captivity. From this moment forward, they would carve their own path, unbound.
And one day, together, they would rise—higher than ever before. Higher than the heavens.
.*.*.*.
Arya was the last to step out of the cell, pausing for a final glance over her shoulder. The sight gnawed at her—a dragon and his rider, forced to exist, even for a moment, within such a cramped, filthy prison.
What elf could ever stomach such disgrace?
With a measured breath, the elf raised her hand, ancient words slipping from her lips like threads of unseen power. Invisible seals wove themselves into the air, tracing patterns only magic could read.
The door eased shut, its movement nearly imperceptible, no more than a whisper against stone. A shudder passed through the walls, the enchantment settling into place. To any outsider, it would seem as if the door had never opened at all.
She drew in a steady breath, letting the moment settle deep within her. Until now, her duty had been singular—to ensure the survival and freedom of one Dragon Rider. But that duty had just doubled, reshaped into something greater, heavier.
The weight of it pressed against her, almost too much for her slender frame. And yet, she did not resist it.
She embraced it.
She began her descent, slow and measured, the dimly lit steps stretching before her. Ahead, Eragon and Murtagh moved swiftly, the hatchling cradled in Murtagh's arms. Their figures melted into the spiraling darkness, swallowed whole by the staircase's embrace.
The torch in Eragon's grip wavered, its flame casting fleeting shimmers against the cold stone walls. The light clung to the passage for an instant before vanishing around the bend. No matter how much they delayed their pursuers, the truth could not be hidden forever. The moment the guard changed shifts, all would be revealed.
At the foot of the staircase, the two young men worked swiftly, lifting the slumbering guards and setting them upright. Arya raised a hand, murmuring a quiet incantation, and the armor shifted, settling against the stone walls as if untouched.
It would take a long time for the men to wake, their minds sluggish, their limbs heavy with sleep. But from a distance, they would appear unchanged—silent, motionless, steadfast in their duty.
"Quickly—into the hamper!"
They found it exactly where they had left it, abandoned in the deep shadows of the corridor that bridged the ruined wing to the rest of the castle. Murtagh slid inside, the hatchling curled tightly against him. Eragon wasted no time, burying them under the pile of unwashed clothes, pressing the fabric down until no trace of them remained.
Then, he and Arya took hold of the burden and lifted.
They slipped back into the shadowed, labyrinthine corridors used by the castle's servants. As before, they trusted the elf's unerring sense of direction. Step by step, she led them, each turn deliberate, each stride carrying them toward the same door—the very threshold Eragon had crossed to descend below. They moved swiftly, soundlessly, shadows navigating the dark as if it belonged to them.
.*.*.*.
The servants always woke long before dawn, their footsteps and murmurs threading through the underground corridors, weaving the rhythm of routine. But for now, the night still held its grip, time suspended in its shadowed embrace. Shrouded in darkness, the castle breathed in slow, silent waves—a vast, unmoving creature, unaware of the momentous shift unfurling within its walls.
That was why the sight unsettled them—a faint, yellowish glow flickering in the depths of the corridor, seeping through the darkness from a carefully shielded oil lamp. Someone was awake down there. Moving swiftly. Heading straight toward them.
Arya barely flinched—battle and survival had long taught her to master surprise, to never let it take hold. Her gaze remained steady, unyielding, and even as the shadowed figure drew near.
But Eragon tensed. The stranger's footsteps rang in his ears—cold, deliberate, striking the stone with an ominous rhythm. The oil lamp wavered in the darkness, its glow licking across the embroidered flame twisting over the man's tunic.
A member of Galbatorix's personal guard!
The moment the guard registered their presence, his grip tightened around the lamp. His fingers slid over the metal, shielding the flame, smothering its glow until the shadows spilled outward, swallowing the corridor once more. With careful precision—intent clear in every step—he advanced. Slowly. Cautiously.
Darkness stretched its reach once more, nearly consuming the figures in its grasp. Yet the royal guard had no difficulty picking out Eragon—his movements, the quiet precision with which he assisted the servant in carrying the heavy hamper. His gaze locked onto him. Cold. Unyielding.
"Tell me, then—what business does a royal guard have in the underground while on duty?" His voice was slick with arrogance, each word deliberate, sharpened by suspicion.
The Dragon Rider didn't waver. "Exactly the same as yours."
The guard's presence here—outside his duty hours—could only mean one thing: a secret rendezvous with a palace servant. He had no rightful business in these corridors. And just as he had no claim to his own presence, he had no authority to question others.
The blatant arrogance in the man's voice had curdled into something worse—irony, thick and unmistakable. "Since when does a royal guard stoop to carrying a servant's burden? That weight is hers alone. You should be ashamed."
Without hesitation, Eragon met the challenge head-on. "Not if my effort is repaid later," he shot back, his tone edged with the same unyielding force.
The man barked out a crude laugh. "I see. You may be carrying her burden now, but soon enough, she'll be the one carrying yours."
The remark was brazen, uncouth—offensive in every possible way. Arya felt the sharp bite of fury, the urge to strip him of his insolence with a single, decisive blow. But the mission mattered more than her wrath. With controlled precision, she swallowed her anger, smoothing it beneath the mask the moment required. She became exactly what the others expected—a mere servant, inconsequential in the presence of her masters. Lowering her gaze, she remained silent. Waiting.
However, the guard of Galbatorix grew bolder. With measured intent, he brightened the lamp once more, its glow unfurling across the shadows, reaching her face. Perhaps, in the dim light before, her rare beauty had not gone unnoticed—a detail he now wished to study, to linger upon, unchallenged.
The flame's glow spilled from the oil lamp, licking across Eragon's armor. The metal gleamed, betraying what the shadows had so carefully concealed. Until now, the golden crest had gone unnoticed. Now, it was laid bare.
The guard hesitated, his gaze darkening with realization. "That is Lord Yarek's armor," he said, his voice low, clipped—each word deliberate, edged with suspicion. His hand moved, slow and measured, toward the hilt of the dagger at his belt. "But not his voice."
His words sliced through the silence, sharp as steel—like the blade he now grasped. "Who are you? Reveal yourself."
With a swift motion, he raised the lamp higher, letting its flame spill over the visor of Eragon's helmet—the pretender to Lord Yarek's station. He was ready to sound the alarm if necessary.
Eragon set the hamper down beside him, steadying his breath as he prepared to utter the spell Arya had taught him. His intent was unwavering—to send the guard into a deep, unshakable sleep before he could fully grasp the truth.
But the moment slipped away. He never had the chance.
Before the first syllable could form on his lips, the elf woman moved. Faster than thought, she lashed out—a strike clean, precise, driving her fist into the man's jaw. He flew, weightless in the storm of her power, like a leaf caught in a tempest. No human could match such strength. She was unstoppable. A force worthy of the legends whispered in the halls of her people.
The body sailed through the air, weightless as an empty sack, crashing against the far end of the corridor with brutal force.
Eragon stood motionless, breath caught, his mouth slightly open. His gaze was locked onto Arya—grappling with the sheer, unimaginable power she had just unleashed.
Even Murtagh and the hatchling peeked out from the hamper—two pairs of wide, bewildered eyes, momentarily unburdened by the danger they had just escaped.
The hatchling stirred, its small wings fluttering—tentative, testing, as if wondering whether it, too, could be part of what had just unfolded. Murtagh, meanwhile, straightened, his grip tightening around the rim of the hamper. Disbelief flickered in his eyes, clashing with the undeniable exhilaration that coursed through him. A low whistle slipped past his lips—sharp with awe, edged with something close to admiration.
Surprised at herself—at how much she had relished that strike—Arya flexed her fingers, shaking off the lingering stiffness. The force of the blow still hummed in her joints, a raw echo of the moment. Since morning, frustration had simmered beneath the surface—a quiet, restless discontent. Now, it had found the perfect excuse to break free.
"Magic always leaves a trace," she murmured, her voice composed—more an echo of reason than conviction. Perhaps she was justifying the impulse to herself. "We should avoid it."
The guard lay before them, unmoving, his body slack in unconscious defeat. But the danger had not faded. Every passing second tightened the noose—one misstep, one breath too loud, and discovery would come.
Arya gripped the hamper once more, her fingers pressing into the woven reeds until the wood groaned under the strain. The strength coiled within her had not yet faded—an unconscious force, a quiet echo of the moment before. "We must hurry."
Retracing Eragon's path, they slipped through the same entrance, rising from the castle's underground into the rear courtyard. At this hour, it lay still, deserted, the deep shadows wrapping around them like a protective shroud.
Murtagh, still cradling the hatchling, scrambled out of the hamper, his movements swift, threaded with quiet urgency. His hands worked through the pile of unwashed clothes, fumbling, searching—until his fingers closed around a large military cloak. Without hesitation, he wrapped himself in its heavy folds, drawing the fabric close, ensuring the hatchling was hidden beneath it. The young dragon stirred, its nose twitching as it sniffed at its new refuge, but it made no sound.
"And now?" Eragon asked, his voice low, thick with worry. "It's still night. The side gates will be locked—and guarded."
"No side gate," Murtagh said, his tone firm, unwavering. "We'll leave through a secret exit—one I know well. Follow me." Without another word, he strode ahead, his movements swift and sure, vanishing into the shadows.
Their footsteps were silent, gliding over the worn stone slabs as they moved toward the ancient barracks—steeped in legend, where whispers spoke of specters stirring in the dead of night. Beneath the underground cells, the hidden exit lay untouched—a long-forgotten passage, buried beneath the weight of time.
Among the grimy alleyways dividing the ancient, abandoned buildings, Eragon stripped off his armor, tucking it behind the cornerstones of a yawning entrance. That way, no trace would remain—no sign of where they had vanished. No one would find the hidden tunnel, the passage threading beyond the walls.
Perhaps only the few who truly knew the place would have any idea. But they had many reasons to keep that knowledge hidden.
They vanished into the pre-dawn darkness, their shadows gliding noiselessly through the winding, impoverished streets of the lower city—still slumbering, unaware. But the night would not shield them forever. Every step that carried them farther from the castle also drew them closer to danger—a danger that, come sunrise, would take on a new form in the light of a hostile city.