Under the Shelter of the Mountains
"You can safeguard your mind by using a repetitive pattern; a poem, for example, or the repetition of some text. If you knew music, I would suggest focusing on a musical motif which you could use as is or in variations. Indeed, I must admit, those who know how to use musical instruments have been my best students in practicing mind protection."
The professor had developed his theories, and Murtagh trying to grasp them...
"The way and type of routine vary according to the temperament of the individual. You can choose what you prefer and what suits you best. Mind protection is ultimately a personal matter."
Days... weeks... months passed, and Murtagh continued trying. Beyond the initial clumsy attempts, he had to admit that he had made significant progress recently.
"I am a fighter," he had replied to his professor's theories. "I know swords, bows, and arrows well."
His first successful attempt was when he imagined using the repetitive movements of a fencing lesson. He and Tornac had spent endless hours repeating similar routines.
"You can also try to build a mental wall around your mind. I would say it is a rather common method," the professor had said. "However, in this case, a powerful magician could break down that wall, find an unguarded opening, or even create one."
Murtagh was optimistic. The wall method seemed to be bearing fruit. The truth is, the professor had never before tried to breach the young man's defenses. As a professional—and one of the best in his field—he had taught members of Surda's royal family, offspring of the aristocracy, and people in powerful positions in both state and economic authority. His purpose was not to violate their minds to extract secrets they wished to keep, but to teach them ways to repel any aspiring enchanter who might try to control or influence their actions. The tuition fees he charged his students were more than enough to maintain an appropriate level of discretion. Murtagh created walls around his mind, and the professor gently touched them, correcting mistakes, suggesting improvements, and emphasizing what needed more attention and focus.
For months, Murtagh practiced daily, either alone or under his professor's supervision. He now felt so confident that he invited his instructor to attempt an intrusion into his mind.
They sat facing each other as they usually did, and the elderly wizard placed the tips of his aged fingers on the cool forehead of his young student. He knew firsthand that Murtagh's progress was remarkable. The young man's mind was rich and strong. His studies in all academic subjects, as well as his speed and skill with weapons, had trained his mind so that with guided practice, he had become excellent among his peers. The professor was now pleased to witness the successful results. In all his attempts to breach Murtagh's mental walls, the young man successfully defended himself.
"There are other methods for a magician to bypass the mind's barriers," the professor began, starting to mentally climb over the wall, aiming for its top. Since he hadn't managed to find or create an opening, he would bypass the process by entering from above. The young man reacted by continuously raising the walls. "It is not advantageous to endlessly extend your walls upward," advised the professor. "The higher you lead me, the weaker the base and strength of your walls become. Be careful!"
The professor was right. Murtagh realized that as he raised his mental walls, the foundations indeed weakened. A little more and they would collapse into ruins. However, the young man was inventive. He had noticed this throughout the time he repeated similar exercises. He might not be able to use magic, but his ingenuity had helped him. "I am not only capable of building a wall around my mind. I can also defend it with my sword."
As the professor climbed upward, he encountered a deadly blade that constantly prevented him from advancing, forcing him into a mandatory descent. Murtagh had successfully resisted his professor's first real attack.
The old man opened his eyes, smiling with satisfaction. "I must admit, you are now ready to safeguard your mind, your ideas, and your innermost thoughts. In a short time, you have achieved more than others have in much longer periods. Some people take years to achieve less satisfactory results than yours." The young man across from him opened his eyes, looking at him with satisfaction. The professor regretted that he had to disappoint him. "There is still a significant problem, which lies in your very purpose."
Seeing Murtagh's questioning look, the professor hastened to explain. "Do you remember what you asked me when you first came seeking my assistance? Your purpose, you told me, was to join the rebels, and you wanted to protect some of your secrets from their magicians." Murtagh nodded, acknowledging it, and the professor continued. "Therefore, what you need from me is not only to learn how to protect your mind from attacks or intrusions—something in which you have succeeded. What you truly aim for is to allow the examination of your mind while simultaneously hiding from the intruder whatever elements you wish. To lead him—without him realizing it—along paths in your mind that he will believe to be the truth."
Murtagh stared thoughtfully at his professor. The man was absolutely right. If he appeared in Farthen Dûr before the magicians with his mind fully shielded, they would dismiss him immediately, claiming he was refusing to be examined. He couldn't bear to face the same situation again—coming so close to Nasuada without being able to meet her.
The professor patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Do not be discouraged, young man," he said, smiling and encouraging him. "This is the next thing we need to practice. But you will have to trust me."
It took more time. Murtagh now allowed the old man to penetrate his mind. The initial feeling was unpleasant—he could even say repulsive. He was fully aware of the foreign intelligence when he reluctantly opened the gates of his mind to it, allowing it to pass through his senses and take a glance—even if discreet—into his daily life. Since Murtagh had reasons to hide his feelings for Nasuada, it was to his professor's credit that he never tried to push him toward any emotional directions, nor did he ever comment on the young man's innermost thoughts.
"Your success depends on who, and how powerful the magician conducting the examination is," the professor had said. The old man knew some of those recruited for the needs of the Varden. He had spent countless years in the palace and was aware of the powers of those who had followed them to Farthen Dûr. "If it is the woman you called Trianna, she is quite capable. I knew her mother, perhaps much better than I would have liked, and she taught her daughter the ways of magic. Trianna's abilities are unquestionable, but you can manage."
"And the twin magicians, master?"
The professor nodded meaningfully. "Of the magicians who left Surda to join the rebels, believe me, Trianna is the best. If you manage to get through the process she will subject you to—as I believe you will—you will have achieved your goal. As for the 'twins' you mentioned, they may have joined the Varden during the time of their previous leader, Deynor, but while they resided in Aberon, they stubbornly kept their knowledge secret, only looking out for their own interests. I do not know them well enough to inform you of their true capabilities. They always spoke highly of themselves and boasted about their powers. What I can certainly advise is that you should be cautious around them."
That was exactly what Murtagh intended to do.
"And now, young man, focus on your goal! I am about to delve into your past for the first time. Make sure to conceal whatever you think is appropriate."
The professor entered his mind once more. He bypassed the recent events of Murtagh's daily life and persistently searched for significant parts of his past. He saw Murtagh's great desire to join the rebels, for reasons that, fortunately, were not apparent. "At this point, you need to work even harder," he said. "It is important for the Varden to understand why you are aligning with them." He then bypassed the traumatic experience of Tornac's illness and death and Murtagh's sorrow. "Emphasize this," he advised. "The fact that someone has lost their father is already shocking. Someone examining you might halt their intrusion into your past, influenced by this pain alone. Although I do not want to reassure you that they will not try to look further back."
Life within the fencing school passed in a few images… Murtagh as a boy with a young swordsman, his father, arriving in Aberon… the worry… his anxiety… a journey in a carriage along with unknown people. Soldiers of the Empire chasing them around swamps… a dramatic, nighttime escape...
Murtagh didn't mind if these events he had lived through were revealed. The Varden knew that he and Tornac were fugitives from the Empire's territories. But that's as far as it went! He had no intention of revealing anything more about his past life. The impenetrable wall appeared in an instant.
"You must reveal, even if vaguely, more details from your distant past. The Varden magicians will realize that you have much to hide. Beyond your escape, it's impossible for you not to remember more. You were old enough back then. Try harder!"
Murtagh tried to provide events that had impressed him while managing to hide others. The image of Tornac as a young warrior, holding him on his shoulders… climbing to the top of a stone staircase together… the view of the forest from the battlements…
...no… no more!... the location must not be revealed… nor any other detail…
Murtagh lived in a castle with his father; that was enough. However, the professor insisted on going even further back. Suddenly, the sensation shattered him...
...unimaginable pain in his back… the sight of the fire burning in the fireplace… fire resembling the flame from… no… no more… only pain… unimaginable terror…
"This sensation is overwhelming. As a young child, it must have been incredibly distressing for you," the professor said, withdrawing slightly from his mind. "Focus on learning to overcome it, or, if that's not possible, at least learn to conceal it."
...a blade behind the fire… and the image of 'her,' leaning affectionately over him…
Then, complete blank...
"I saw the image of a beautiful, brown-haired woman," the professor said. "She must have been important to you, because, I confess, I have often caught her presence briefly returning to your mind. I won't ask who she was, although I imagine the Varden magicians might."
The old professor exited his mind, leaving Murtagh panting and sweating in his seat. Murtagh was disappointed. He had not managed to hide significant events from his past during the examination. He had utterly failed!
"You have at least recognized your weaknesses and seen where you need to focus your attention. All the traumatic events that affected someone's past are the ones that most often surface during mind probes. Someone can easily conceal situations that didn't affect them. But the things that have deeply shaken them can never be completely bypassed. This woman was important to you. It may have been many years, but even today, she influences your thoughts. If you want to hide her, cast veils of mist between you. The woman will always be there, but no one will be able to clearly see her face. As I have already told you, the issue is not so much to block events from your mind, but to lead the invader down misleading paths—paths you choose. As for the rest, what the magicians might discover—all the traumatic things that affected you—there was a wound on your back and the fire. Even if you manage to hide the woman's presence, it seems impossible to me that you could ever cover the pain of a wound like that… or the terror that the fire causes you."
The old instructor stood up, offering the young man a cup of wine. "Here, drink this," he encouraged him. "I think you need it." He placed his hand kindly on Murtagh's shoulder, right where the deep wound started under the clothing. That wound, which had forever marked his childhood, continued to influence the deepest parts of his mind to this day. "You can practice alone, but I doubt it," he said. "We need to work on these memories together, as long as you trust me."
Murtagh drank all the wine, emptying his cup with small, slow sips. How could he trust anyone with this matter? Tornac had advised him… But the old professor was not just anyone. And Tornac had never imagined that Murtagh would ever need to allow someone to penetrate his mind.
"Go now! Rest!" the old man suggested. "Come back tomorrow. You'll see, you'll be better. Then we can start again."
.*.*.*.
...The deadly blade was wielded by a man... The man was covered by the fire, and his form was indistinguishable... The fire no longer burned in the fireplace, as it had before, but sprang from an unseen source behind the man... It painted his blade red, making it also indistinguishable among the flames... The pain of the wound was sudden and intense, taking his breath away... The flames filled him with terror... A lake of red... the color of blood... and he was floating in it... The blood was spilled on a cold, hard floor... he felt its metallic taste on his lips... The man was always there, holding the blade... he was in danger... the fire covered everything around him...
"I believe you are ready. All anyone will see is that you were once wounded by a blade and fire. You can now begin your perilous journey. I hope that day never comes when you will regret it."
Murtagh arranged his last affairs in Aberon. The fencing school closed for good. A buyer for the two-story house was easily found, and it was soon sold. He would take only a few items with him in a backpack. The rest, mementos from so many years of living in Surda, fit into just two boxes, which he entrusted to the care of Gietwald. The man accepted him once again for one last journey to Farthen Dûr.
It was only on the last night before he departed that he realized the wall covering his mind and his innermost thoughts was nothing more than a wall built with gray stones—identical to the one that had once imprisoned him.
.*.*.*.
The tall and completely bald magician, who had taken upon himself to examine him, had tiny eyes set unnervingly close together, gleaming with a sharp, cunning light. Clad in long, flowing crimson robes, his thin fingers sent an involuntary shiver through Murtagh's spine the moment they brushed against his forehead.
Despite all of Murtagh's preparations and the countless hours he had spent letting his teacher invade his mind, he was utterly unprepared for the sheer brutality of this magician's assault. The magician's mind stormed into his with brutal force, as if to underline the supreme control he could exert over another's mind, intentionally causing Murtagh excruciating pain. With malice, he explored Murtagh's intentions and recent past, then, with voracious greed, delved into the darkest corners of his childhood memories.
Murtagh skillfully concealed all his feelings for Nasuada. He emphasized the loneliness that had plagued him since the death of his father, Tornac. He stressed his need to join the rebels to contribute to the cause of freedom. His portrayal of their escape from the empire was entirely convincing. He even navigated the sadistic insistence of the magician on the incident of the wound and the terror he had experienced. When the magician finally withdrew from his mind, a malicious expression was etched on his colorless face
"He's alright," the magician had said to the Varden captain and his men, who were supporting Murtagh to prevent him from collapsing onto the cold, stone floor of the hall. "I see nothing suspicious in his past, nor is he capable of harming you with magic. We will report to Ajihad ourselves immediately."
The magician had left, and the captain of the Varden welcomed him to Farthen Dûr. "Welcome, Murtagh, son of Tornac! May your blade be sharp against all the enemies of the Varden. "
Murtagh had faintly smiled, stating that indeed his blade was sharp and he was ready to defend the revolution. The captain had patted him kindly on the shoulder and had ordered his men to take him to a room with a bed, to offer him food, and to let him rest and recover from the ordeal. His journey to Tronjheim and the new life awaiting him would begin the following morning.
Later, lying in his bed, Murtagh tried to recall step by step the thorough examination the magician had subjected him to – it was only days later that he realized this magician was one of the twins. He found no errors in his actions, and despite the pain it had caused him, he was satisfied with himself. He had successfully managed to conceal the true reason he was in Farthen Dûr: Nasuada. Nothing had been revealed about his feelings for Ajihad's daughter, nor his plans for his future with her. He had emphasized his love for his father, Tornac, and the great pain his loss had caused him.
The other persons, those that sometimes escaped from his nightmares, remained successfully hidden behind the shadows. Even though the magician had meticulously searched his past, Murtagh had managed to conceal his origins. If the magician reported to Ajihad, the leader of the Varden would learn that the young man was once wounded in an attack by imperial forces and that his father became a deserter to save him. The headache caused by the examination of the malicious magician was nothing like the delicate, surgical intrusions of his old professor. It was a great relief when sleep finally came, enveloping him and guiding Nasuada's footsteps into his dream.
The giant carved statues and the treasures of precious gems hidden within the city of the dwarves were impressive. But nothing compared to the fact that he was once again close to his beloved. Days might have passed and he still hadn't met her, but he felt her presence constantly beside him. Nasuada had walked the same corridors, and Murtagh now stepped in her footsteps. Her beautiful eyes had gazed at the same statues of the marble city, which stretched within the extinct cone of the volcano. She, like him, had admired the Isidar Mithrim, the sapphire star, the gigantic gem that adorned the ceiling of Tronjheim's main hall. Perhaps Nasuada had also been captivated by the stone griffins guarding the gates. Maybe she, too, had marveled at the blue light emitted by the lamps, which burned without flame.
When the Varden soldiers led him into the city through the tunnels, they brought him to a long corridor lined with small cavernous rooms carved into the rock on both sides. This area had been allocated by the dwarves to the unmarried human soldiers who lived alone. Those with families resided in another part of the city with their wives and children. He was given one of these rooms and provided instructions for the common kitchen and the meal schedule. Deep within the rock, there were also baths carved into the stone, filled with the warm waters of an underground spring, where the men bathed or cleaned their clothes. They left him three days to settle in and familiarize himself with the surroundings.
Despite not feeling alone and always having someone nearby to inform and guide him, there were many times he got lost among the labyrinthine corridors. In the end, he decided that until he learned his surroundings, it would be better to stay close to his room and visit the dining hall with company.
The one place he always made sure to go alone was the communal baths at the end of the corridor. When night had fully fallen and the pale rays that reached from the top to the depths of the mountain had vanished, Murtagh waited for the corridor's residents to go to bed. Then he took his clean clothes and went alone to the baths. In the darkness that prevailed in the carved tubs under the mountain, perhaps no one could discern the old wound that marked him. Nevertheless, he wanted to avoid explaining or receiving intrusive and persistent questions about the terrible scar that disfigured his back. He immersed himself in the lukewarm, brackish water and let his mind drift to the beloved one of his dreams.
Where could Nasuada be at that moment? What was she engaged in? Was there a chance their paths would cross in the training field he would soon come to know? Did she remember the meeting and the afternoon they had spent together in the forest beyond Aberon? The conversations and the meal they had shared? How could he be near her again? When he had subtly inquired about her whereabouts at the dining table, no one had responded with details. Either they didn't know about her activities, or none of them were interested in them. Some looked at him curiously. He decided to be discreet and not ask them again.
When he finished his bath, he would return to his tiny room, where the only furniture was a narrow bed and a small table with a single chair. He would lie down on his bedding, letting his mind wander to the new faces and experiences the day had brought. The thought that countless tons of rock were above him had not yet crossed his mind. Despite the enclosed atmosphere, there was a ventilation system that he had yet to understand. The temperature was always constant, which was very fortunate, because if he lit a fire for heating, the tiny space would become unlivable. Finally, sleep would take him with thoughts of Nasuada and the hope that he would soon meet her.
On the fourth day after settling under Farthen Dûr, the soldiers took Murtagh to the training field to deliver him to their instructor. The man was named Fredric, and according to the soldiers, he knew every weapon that existed. In their tone, Murtagh recognized the respect and faith they had for their weapons master. Fredric, they said, was capable of deciding which type of weapon would best suit each person's physique, weight, and temperament just by looking at them. He could also provide someone with the appropriate defensive equipment that would save them in battle. Everyone spoke with awe about the massive sword he had chosen to fight with, a blade that extended the length of two arms, with which he filled his opponents with cuts and bruises. Nevertheless, Fredric was beloved by all, bringing out the pleasant side of each one, always making them laugh.
It turned out that the training field was about half a mile from Tronjheim, behind the marble cone of the city. It was a wide area filled with dwarves and humans practicing alike. The loud clanging of weapons reached Murtagh's ears from a distance. A line of archers was targeting straw-filled dummies, while others were mimicking group attacks, shouting against their mock opponents. At the edges of the field, hundreds of individual warriors and pairs were training with swords, spears, clubs, and axes, as well as all kinds and sizes of defensive shields. Almost all were covered in chainmail and helmets. The noise was deafening and was nothing like the hall at the fencing school. Memories from the past awakened in Murtagh's mind…
..a training yard full of men, within the high walls of an isolated castle... walls built of dark stone...
...memories he quickly tried to suppress back where they belonged, in his past.
His companions pointed out an exceptionally muscular man with an untidy beard; a pointed, metal cap covered his head. He wore a long sword in a sheath strapped to his back, and a set of ox-hide armor, which looked to have been taken directly from the beast itself, covered his chest and bulky shoulders.
"This is Fredric, our trainer," said one of them. "Hey, Fredric, we brought you the new guy." The companions handed him over to the weapons master and went off to their posts.
Fredric quickly sized him up, as if evaluating him, then nodded sharply. "Show me what you fight with," he said in his rough voice. He examined for a moment the blade Murtagh presented, then squeezed the young man's arm, testing the muscles hidden beneath the clothing. "Hmm… You can keep your own weapon if you're used to it. I'd like to see what you can do first, then I'll give you my opinion."
It didn't take long for Fredric to be convinced that he was facing a skilled swordsman. The weapons master of the Varden wasn't impressed by a name or reputation—Tornac's name meant nothing to him, nor had he heard of the school of Aberon—for him, what mattered were the skills someone displayed in front of him. He liked Murtagh a lot.
"For your age, you're doing very well," he said. "Much better than others who are older. Later on, you might learn to handle heavier swords or spears, but for now, you're good as you are."
Fredric made him fight against opponents of different ages, body weights, and heights. Murtagh defeated them all. When Fredric heard that he was also an experienced archer, he was thrilled. Murtagh's accuracy made him rub his hands in satisfaction. Later in the dining hall, he invited him to dine with him at his own table. He asked for details about his settlement in Farthen Dûr, if he needed anything, and about his examination by the magicians. When he heard about one of the twin magicians who had examined him, he couldn't hide the dislike he felt towards them.
"Be careful with them, Murtagh," he said to the young man. "They are arrogant, malevolent, and boastful. Never in my whole life have I met anyone else who craves power more than they do." In Fredric's opinion, everyone involved in magic was greedy; those two even more so. He trusted none of them and advised his young protege to do the same.
Murtagh found Fredric pleasant. He might have been rough and abrupt, but he had a sense of humor and extensive knowledge about all kinds of weapons. That same evening, he heard him talk about the curse of the Named Blade. In response to his curious question, the weapons master explained that a famous warrior must name his blade; otherwise, someone else—like the bards—would do it for him. After that, he is obliged to use only that blade because people like to see it. And the Named Blade wasn't always a favorable companion to a warrior; sometimes it proved to be a curse. Fortunately, his young friend was not at risk of such a fate.
A few weeks had passed, and it was Fredric himself who asked Murtagh to work by his side as his assistant. He had appreciated his sword skills, had made sure to gather information about him, and had noticed that when Murtagh trained with someone else, he was more often the teacher than the student. There would be more work and responsibilities for Murtagh, but there would also be prospects for advancement in the Varden army.
Murtagh accepted. Anything that could make his name known among the rebels and bring him closer to Nasuada, he would accept. Nasuada, whom he still had not managed to meet or learn anything about.
.*.*.*.
There should have been around four thousand Varden fighting men living under Farthen Dûr. A sufficiently strong army was being created to defend against the forces of the Empire if Galbatorix decided to attack Surda. There were still many members of the revolutionaries, mostly elderly and women with children, who had remained in the lands of the new king, Orrin, who had succeeded his father, Larkin. Some others avoided separation by moving to the safety of the dwarves' mountains.
Once a month, Jörmundur, Ajihad's right-hand man in military matters, received the report on the state of weapons, supplies, and the progress of the men's training from all the instructors within the Varden army. Murtagh, too, was among those who gave their reports.
The meeting took place in a vast underground hall of Tronjheim, adorned with stone columns, whose intricately carved capitals supported the ceiling. Flanking each column were carved recesses, housing statues of numerous giant mythological creatures on their pedestals, glaring at the people with their stone eyes. The floor was paved with granite slabs, and the walls were adorned with semi-precious stones of exquisite beauty. The sight was mesmerizing, and Murtagh could clearly see the stark contrast between the public halls of the Varden elders and the private dwellings of ordinary people. Indeed, Tronjheim, despite lacking sunlight, was a magnificent city.
When the report was over, Jörmundur held him back for a private interview, away from the rest. Ajihad's second-in-command initially expressed his sorrow for the death of Tornac, which he had learned from his leader, but he couldn't hide his joy that a skilled swordsman like Murtagh had joined their cause. He was also pleased that Murtagh had attracted the attention of Fredric, so he could become a sword instructor alongside him. The weapons master always spoke highly of him. Jörmundur also reassured him that the leader was aware of his deeds on the training field, which might aid in his rapid progression in the army despite his young age.
From Jörmundur's words, Murtagh understood that Ajihad had also been informed of everything concerning the examination of his mind and its findings. When he asked about Nasuada, Jörmundur replied curtly that the leader's daughter was in excellent health and always active in their cause. He let Murtagh go with the sense that he had been wrong to ask about her and the realization that, despite his efforts, it would be difficult to meet her.
Murtagh stepped into the corridor and stood outside the granite doors for a few moments, trying to orient himself. They had previously descended a double staircase, walked straight for a while, and turned right after two corridors… or was it to his left?
The young man followed the length of the corridor, dimly lit by sparse lamps, trying to recall the route the group had taken earlier. The places looked identical to his eyes; he would do well to ask the first dwarf he encountered to avoid getting lost. He wandered for a while, then retraced his steps and took a different path at a spot that seemed more familiar. No one was around to guide him, but he was sure that at the end of this corridor he would find the previous descending staircase. He continued further into the depths, beginning to feel discouraged. His steps were leading nowhere. He didn't remember covering so much distance with the group.
He looked around without seeing a soul to ask. In his mind, he decided to walk a bit further, up to a hundred steps at most, then turn back. At that moment, he was surprised to hear voices echoing from the vaulted ceiling of the corridor—a strange phenomenon he had not yet gotten used to and always startled him. But if some people's voices were so close, then they would soon reveal themselves to his eyes. He could ask for directions and stop wandering aimlessly in the underground.
Indeed, soon a group of women appeared, coming from the opposite direction and hurrying toward him. Murtagh froze in his tracks. Under the pale, blue light of the dim lamps, he recognized Nasuada as one of them. He immediately stood aside, waiting for the women to approach. Nasuada walked between two Varden elders and was the one speaking at that moment.
Murtagh bowed respectfully as she passed by, feeling his heart pounding, as if it aimed to escape from his chest and fly toward her. "Lady Nasuada!"
The three women also paused, and Nasuada gracefully inclined her head, acknowledging his greeting. "Murtagh!" She was dressed in a velvety, elegant dress the color of red wine and wore her signature dagger, which she now openly carried at her waist as usual. She did not seem surprised by his presence.
The young man moved to approach her, his excitement at the unexpected meeting barely concealed. However, one of the two women pulled the maiden by the arm, urging her to continue their hurried pace. As they moved away, Murtagh heard the other woman ask how she knew his name. He distinguished Nasuada's voice, whispering that he was the young man who had come to her aid when she was in danger on the walls of Aberon. She surely didn't intend for it to be heard, but the vaulted corridor helped her voice reach his ears.
The other woman momentarily turned her head back, observing him with her beady eyes, wrinkling her nose in displeasure. The striking rouge on her face was unpleasantly noticeable. "How many times have I told you to avoid places where men gather? If you had listened to me, you wouldn't have been in danger," she replied in her shrill voice.
Nasuada continued to walk upright as always, paying no further attention to the incident, nor did she look back in his direction again. As her footsteps faded away, his heart sank into the darkness of the corridor.
It took him a while to find the right direction, returning again to the granite doors of the hall where Jörmundur had received them. No matter how much he walked, he saw no sign of Nasuada. By the time he finally reached his room, it was too late, and he had missed his evening meal. In any case, he had no appetite and could not have swallowed even a bite of bread at that moment.
He spent the following hours with mixed emotions, at times elated by the unexpected meeting, at other times plunged into the depths of despair. Nasuada might still remember his name, as she had called him by it when greeting him, but had she perhaps forgotten their personal moments in the time that had passed? Had she forgotten the eternal friendship she had promised?
He sat on the only chair in his room, in front of the small table. On it lay a small mirror that he had brought along with his few belongings from Aberon. Tornac had used this mirror when shaving. All soldiers in Morzan's service were required to meticulously shave their beards. Morzan would never tolerate his men offering the enemy the disabling grip of beard-grabbing in battle. None of them had a beard. Thus, Tornac, after many years of habit, carefully shaved his cheeks. For months now, Murtagh had been using one of Tornac's razors.
He drew the small mirror closer, examining his face carefully. Could Nasuada's coldness be due to the fact that he looked young in her eyes? He wondered if he should grow a bit of a beard... Murtagh had a few hairs sprouting on the sides of his cheeks and temples, with a sparse growth on his upper lip and chin. If he stayed unshaven for a few days, perhaps his appearance would match her prematurely matured beauty. But then again, the sight he would present would likely be rather amusing. His facial hair was not yet thick enough to form a respectable beard that would make him look a bit older.
He lay on his bed, trying to bring to mind the positive images of her presence. She was just as beautiful as always, just as kind... Her eyes—oh, those sweet almond-shaped eyes—had looked at him seriously when her lips spoke his name. No, there was no way she had forgotten him. How could such a thought have crossed his mind? Perhaps her position in the Varden hierarchy kept her distant from him. Yes, that must be it... But... did that mean that she never...
He spent several more hours tossing and turning on the mattress. Unpleasant thoughts intruded into his daydreams, and sleep eluded him. Finally, he fell asleep with tears in his eyes and a lump tightening his throat. How could he live under the shadows of the world without her love?
He woke the next morning with a strange sense of anticipation. He was hungry, as many hours had passed since his last meal, but he was even more thirsty. He quickly prepared for a swift visit to the kitchens before heading to the training grounds. As he hastily made his bed, there was a loud knock on the door. Murtagh opened it to find a boy standing there, wearing the familiar leather vest adorned with red epaulettes that marked him as a Varden messenger.
The boy stepped back as soon as he saw him, bowed, and with a serious demeanor began to speak. "Noble warrior, my name is Jarsha, son of Jarod, and I bring a message from my lady. Would you like to hear it?"
Murtagh was agitated. "And who is your lady, Jarsha son of Jarod?" His heart began to pound rapidly in his chest.
"My lady is Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, the leader of the Varden," the boy replied with utmost seriousness.
"Tell me your message!"
"My lady Nasuada sends her greetings and wishes you good health," the child began with the formal tone he was accustomed to using when delivering messages. "She would like to have a private meeting with you, should you accept to meet her."
Murtagh took a deep breath. He could barely contain himself from hugging the child and lifting him into the air out of excitement. "Tell your lady to set a time and place. Of course, I accept to meet her."
"My lady says that if you are available to meet her right now, it is the most suitable time for a meeting."
Murtagh rushed out of the room, looking up and down the corridor. It was very early in the morning, and none of his neighbors had yet appeared on their way to the training grounds. Suddenly, amidst the shadows, he spotted a female silhouette.
"Murtagh!"
The young man bowed deeply before her and gestured with his hand, inviting her. Nasuada rested her hand on the boy's shoulder, gently pushing Jarsha into the room. Once the door closed behind them, the young woman turned to the child.
"Thank you, Jarsha, for showing me the way. You delivered your message correctly. Now, please stand aside and wait to guide me back to my father's office when I am done with what I need to do."
With flushed cheeks, the boy withdrew to a corner to wait, pleased with the praise. Murtagh offered the only chair in the room to Nasuada. His heart was agitated by her unexpected visit.
"I won't stay long," the young woman said, gesturing to the child that he could use the chair.
Murtagh hurried to push it as far aside as he could, secretly pressing a small coin into the boy's palm as Jarsha sat, waiting patiently.
They both stood upright at a short distance, facing each other. Today, she wasn't wearing the beautiful velvet dress he had seen her in the previous day, but a pair of the wide pants she usually wore during her fencing lessons. A white, cross-front shirt, cinched with a wide leather belt, accentuated her curved chest, while the familiar dagger was sheathed at her side.
With a smile, Murtagh's eyes were filled with her beauty as her delicate fragrance permeated the small room. "Nasuada..." he said, agitatedly reaching out his hand toward her, only to withdraw it at the last moment, realizing how inappropriate it would be to touch her.
"Murtagh," the young woman began in a serious tone, "I would like to express my sincere condolences for the death of your father and my dear weapons instructor. It was with deep sorrow that I learned, months ago, that my fencing master is no longer among us." Her eyes closed briefly, and a clear image of grief spread across her beautiful face. "I understand how great a blow this must have been for you."
Murtagh nodded his thanks for her sincere expression of sympathy. Just as he was about to respond, Nasuada spoke again.
"Nevertheless, I am sincerely glad to have you with us. I have not forgotten that you are my friend and savior, nor the unforgettable experience of learning archery from you. I admit how interesting and useful this skill seemed to me back then. Unfortunately, in the meantime, I was unable to practice as much as I should have, even though I really wanted to." The maiden smiled kindly at him. "I know that your time is limited, and I also recognize the contributions you make to the Varden army." She paused, trying to discern from his eyes what impression her words had made on him. "However, I was hoping that, since you are among us, you might be willing to take on the task of teaching me archery."
A broad, unintentional smile lit up his face. Twelve hours ago, he had been engulfed in despair, thinking he might never see her again. But now, not only did she remember him, she valued him and offered her friendship once more. She asked for some of his time—time they would spend together. "It would be a great honor for me, Nasuada, to resume our archery lessons together," said Murtagh. "Every hour and moment of mine is at your disposal."
The young woman laughed pleasantly. At the same time, she nodded to Jarsha to indicate that it was time to get up. "I could never imagine depriving a worthy sword master of his time with the men of the Varden," she replied. "However, if you agree, we could meet in the mornings before the day's activities begin… There is a small hill on the edge of the training field where we could practice. There, we wouldn't bother anyone, nor would anyone bother us."
Murtagh nodded, filled with emotion, while his heart was about to burst with longing. "It will be as you wish, Nasuada," he said. "I will be there early tomorrow morning, eagerly awaiting the time for practice."
The maiden kept her sweetest smile for him. "Why not now?"
.*.*.*.
Jarsha was munching on an apple while sitting on a piece of rock that had once broken off from the crater walls and now lay discarded at the side of the small hillside. The boy avoided being in the potential path that Nasuada's arrows might travel, even though the daughter of the Varden's leader was a skilled archer. At least, that's what he had heard her young instructor repeatedly say.
The boy was bored. Every day, very early in the morning and before all the other members of the Varden woke up, before the activity of a typical day began, he had to follow his lady, Nasuada, to the hill next to the training field. There, her instructor would be waiting for her to start the usual daily training. Not without first giving Jarsha a small coin or a treat from the kitchens, like today's apple. Then, while Jarsha would settle somewhere to wait, they would go farther and farther from the target, with his lady holding the bow with the string drawn and her arrows in the ornate quiver hanging from her shoulder. The young instructor usually stood behind her. The boy would see him correcting the movements of her hands and shoulders by gently touching her; giving instructions on how her elbows should be held in the air; examining each arrow before she placed it on the string.
Lady Nasuada was almost always accurate, and as the days passed, she kept improving. Nonetheless, her instructor continuously whispered instructions close to her ear, sometimes repeating something over and over, words that never reached Jarsha's ears. Lady Nasuada would often smile, occasionally turning towards him and responding to his remarks, saving the most charming smiles for him. When the training session ended, they would stand facing each other, exchange a few more words—making sure they weren't overheard—perhaps walking together for a bit towards the hill and back again. Then the instructor would hurry off to his duties, and Jarsha would accompany his lady back to the halls of Tronjheim.
The boy threw away the remains of the apple with the seeds. Looking bored towards the training field, he saw the men starting to gather in groups. It seemed that today's archery lesson had lasted longer. Without meaning to, a sigh escaped his chest. It was very early, and sleep still weighed heavily on his eyes, but he had many duties to perform before it was time to rest. It would be good if his lady hurried. The leader of the Varden would have already arrived at his office and would soon be looking for her.
Jarsha saw the young instructor gathering his lady's bow and arrows into the ornate quiver. Standing close to her for a moment, they exchanged some whispered words as always. But how strange! He also saw him take her hand in his... and kiss it...
Jarsha thought it must be boring to grow up. All those manners and courtesies... His lady lingered for a moment, allowing the instructor to hold her hand. Fortunately, they soon parted, and she signaled for him to follow her as she left the training field without looking back. The instructor remained in the same spot, watching them walk away.
.*.*.*.
Ajihad was aware of Nasuada's archery lessons. Without being opposed, he hadn't officially consented to them. He observed from a distance the relationship that was beginning to form between his daughter and the young swordsman, and he maintained reservations about it. Despite hearing the best things about Murtagh, his instincts continued to influence him against the young man. He never prevented his daughter from associating with him—Nasuada was a girl with a mature character and unwavering certainty about what she desired for the future, so she certainly wouldn't allow herself any impropriety—but he intended to speak to her very soon, drawing her attention to some matters.
The twin magicians had informed Ajihad about the findings in Murtagh's mind immediately after he was examined. Using the mental connection they shared, one magician examined while the other reported what the probe into the young man's mind had revealed. Despite the assurances from Du Vrangr Gata that Murtagh possessed no magical abilities to harm them and that he was an ardent supporter of the Varden, there were shadows in his past. Shadows that added to Ajihad's instinctive dislike for Murtagh. What was the castle beyond the forest where he had lived with Tornac? Who was the man with the sword who appeared covered behind the flames? Who was the woman in the shadows who tended to his pain? All these strange elements, along with memories that Murtagh's appearance brought to the surface, left Ajihad suspicious.
It was an ordinary morning, just as Nasuada had presented herself in his office, that the leader of the Varden brought up the subject of Murtagh immediately.
"I would like to draw your attention, daughter, to the contacts you have with the young weapons instructor. It would be wise not to appear to favor any young man. You are the daughter of the leader of the Varden; I am sure you never forget that, and it would be appropriate to keep equal distances from everyone. I do not say this out of fear that you might be gossiped about for the few moments of your day that you spend near him. I am absolutely convinced that you maintain the appropriate position and that he has the required courtesy never to put a lady in a difficult position. This, as you understand, is a matter of prestige. As my daughter, your dignity and reputation must not only be, but also appear to be, impeccable."
Nasuada looked at Ajihad seriously with her bright, velvety eyes. In the years she had lived close to him, not just as a daughter but also as an assistant working beside him, she knew him so well that she could easily understand the changes in his mood. Ajihad was not angry. If he were, he would have outright forbidden the archery lessons. He seemed more anxious, not upset, nor with the agitation that unpleasant news always caused, but as if his harmony with the world had been disturbed. Her father was afraid of something; and since Ajihad was not a man who succumbed to his fears, what he feared might not have a tangible form.
"Murtagh is my friend, father," the girl replied. "He is my savior, who saved my life in Aberon. The debt we owe him is great." Nasuada looked carefully into Ajihad's eyes, hoping to see what impression her words had made on him. He sat at his desk silently, waiting for her to continue. The leader of the Varden was sure his daughter had more to say. "He is also the son of Tornac, my weapons master, whose teaching you know I valued highly."
Ajihad nodded in acknowledgment of Nasuada's words. "You know well, daughter, how much I valued your fencing master. If not, I would never have asked him to join our cause. However, he refused." He returned her gaze, measuring the impression his words had made on her. "Yes, it is true," he continued, seeing her surprise. "He may have had serious reasons to refuse back then, and I should not complain, since we now have his son with us. Despite the gratitude I owe him, there remain suspicions that do not, of course, concern Tornac, but the boy himself. His overall appearance brings back unpleasant memories from the past."
Nasuada looked at her father, puzzled. "How is that possible? Murtagh is only a year, at most a year and a half, older than me."
Ajihad opened a drawer of his desk silently, determined that the time had come to share with Nasuada the instinctive reasons for his disliking Murtagh. He took out a small wooden plaque and held it in his hands for a few moments. On the wood, a man's face had been magically imprinted years ago. "This portrait belongs to someone who was once the second most powerful man in the empire, after Galbatorix," he said to Nasuada. "Some would consider him more of a beast than a man, not only for what he chose to do but for the pleasure he took in doing it." Ajihad handed the portrait to Nasuada. "You know him by name. In life, he was known as Morzan, the first and last of the Forsworn. I doubt, however, if you have seen his face before. Or perhaps you have? Look and tell me if he reminds you of anyone."
Nasuada carefully took the small plaque in her hands. The portrait she held depicted a man with long black hair and a handsome face. Two mismatched eyes—one dark as night and the other blue—gazed at her with intense hardness from the wooden surface.
Contrary to what her father had implied, she found no resemblance to Murtagh, except perhaps for their black hair. Despite his masculine beauty, the arrogant demeanor and the harshness of Morzan's face were something she had never seen in her friend's face. Or had she? Nasuada remembered Murtagh's eyes, his fierce expression, the vein throbbing with rage on his forehead when they were both atop the walls of Aberon, and he was ready to kill the second of the sent assassins without mercy. But still... No, it was impossible! Nasuada returned the portrait to Ajihad, stubbornly refusing to admit the thought. "I find no resemblance to Murtagh at all, father," she said.
Ajihad nodded and locked the portrait back in the drawer. It was a Fairth created by a magician, a member of Du Vrangr Gata, who had once known the Dragon Rider. There were other portraits of Morzan circulating, but Ajihad found this one to be the most authentic. It depicted him with all the ferocity and harshness he had, just as Ajihad remembered him. His purpose was not to influence his daughter against Murtagh, but merely to warn her. He himself had spent many hours troubled by the reasons why such dislike tainted his heart against a young man who was also his benefactor. Was it because he was influenced by his own past? Nasuada had been unable to discern any resemblance between Morzan and Murtagh. But Nasuada had never seen Morzan move, nor had she heard his voice when he spoke. If she had, perhaps she would not be so opposed to the resemblance to Murtagh. Ajihad would continue to rely on the instinct that warned him against this young man.
"It's not that I'm accusing our friend of anything," he said to his daughter. "But if, I say, if... it turned out one in a thousand that I was right? A good politician takes care of all situations in advance, daughter. All I ask is that you keep an eye on him."
Not wanting to displease the father she loved so dearly, Nasuada agreed with him. "I will keep an eye on him, father. Rest assured."
Ajihad and the Varden cause were her very life. Her goal was to contribute as much as possible so that his ideas could become actions. She certainly had some feelings for Murtagh and appreciated him, whether as a friend who shared interesting conversations or as a savior. Perhaps, deep down, her girlish vanity was flattered when she saw him struggling to hide his love for her. However, her father remained the man who influenced her life. Besides, according to the words of the seer, the beloved with whom she would share many years would be scarred. But Murtagh could not be the one scarred by the prophecy, especially if he was related in some way with Morzan.