Murtagh

Spent, Murtagh collapsed onto the broken stones and buried his face in a fold of his cloak.

The wind clawed at the sides of the tower.

Thorn’s mind was a warm presence against his own, but the dragon said nothing, only watched and waited.

After a long while, Murtagh lifted his head and pushed himself back onto his knees. His cloak pooled around him in ripples of dark wool, and the sharp edges of the cracked stones cut into his shins.

He wiped his eyes with the back of a gloved hand.

“All this,” he said, his voice harsh and stark in the thin air. He coughed. “All this because the Riders didn’t kill Galbatorix when they had the chance. If they had—”

You would not have been born.

“Then maybe someone else would have had a better opportunity at life.”

Thorn snarled and leaned forward, as if to crawl into the courtyard, but a tremor racked him, and he sank back on his haunches. Do not say that. Never say that! Do you not want to be joined with me?

The question cut through Murtagh’s grim introspection like a razor through silk. “Of course I do. That’s not what I meant.”

Then say what you mean. I chose to hatch for you, Murtagh. I do not wish for another.

The dragon’s fierce earnestness sobered Murtagh. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I spoke without thinking. I was feeling bad for myself. It’s an unfortunate habit.”

Very.

“Why did you hatch for me?” In all their time together, Murtagh had never thought to ask.

Thorn blinked. I was tired of waiting to emerge, and I could feel that we were a proper fit. That, and you had none of Galbatorix’s madness.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you better.”

Now you are feeling bad for yourself again. You did as well as anyone could have and better than most.

“Mmh.” Murtagh slowly got to his feet and gave Thorn a rub on his snout.

Thorn hummed and pressed against Murtagh’s hand. We survived. That is what matters.

“I still wish we could fly back through the years and help Vrael.”

Then everyone everywhere would do the same with their own regrets, and the world would be unmade.

“I suppose that’s true.” He eyed the cracked stones with some ruefulness. He hoped the tower wouldn’t fall. “I’m going to look inside. I’ll be quick.”

Watch for traps. Thorn retracted his head and neck from the yard and turned to look upon the valley.

Murtagh cautiously stepped through the doorway at the base of the tower. A short, dark hall lay before him, the stone floor crusted with dirt and twigs and leaves and withered grass gathered in tangles along the corners.

From there, he made a pass through the interior of the tower—what he could access of it, that was. Fallen stone blocked several of the doorways. The rooms were dry, dead, and deserted. Some of the furniture remained: wooden chairs brittle to the touch, an iron poker leaning against the kitchen fireplace, the rotted frame of a narrow bed.

Down a flight of narrow stairs, on the floor of what he guessed had been a storage room, he found a dented brass goblet decorated with fine tracery that could only have been the work of an elven artisan. The metal was frigid against Murtagh’s gloved fingers as he picked it up. He turned the goblet in his hand, studying it, wondering whom it had belonged to and what things it had seen through the long years.

On an impulse, he kept the goblet as he climbed the narrow staircase back up to the courtyard.

Thorn’s tail whipped from side to side as Murtagh joined him on the flat-topped roof.

“A relic from another age,” Murtagh said as he held up the goblet for Thorn to sniff. “I think I’ll keep it. This cup can be the first treasure of House Murtagh. How does that sound?”

Thorn gave him a dubious look. What about Zar’roc?

“A curse, not a treasure.” Murtagh bounced the goblet in his hand and then went to the saddlebags and unbuckled one.

Perhaps you can forge a new history for the blade, said Thorn.

Murtagh tucked the goblet beneath his bedroll and closed up the saddlebag. “It would take an era and a half to balance out all the misdeeds done with Zar’roc.” He walked back around to face Thorn.

Then I will have to make sure you live a long, long while, said Thorn, a twinkle in his ruby eyes.

“Are you sure? That sounds like a burdensome task.”

Thorn huffed, and the twinkle brightened. Very sure.