Murtagh

“Mmh,” said Murtagh, but he was touched. He turned and looked out over the valley. “So this is where they came from.” Palancar Valley: home to Eragon…and their mother. The place where she had returned to give birth to Eragon, far from Morzan and the Empire.

It looks like a good place to hunt.

Some distance from Ristvak’baen, a small town was visible next to the Anora River. Therinsford, Murtagh guessed, if his memories of what Eragon had told him about the valley were accurate.

He climbed back onto Thorn and secured his legs. “Ready.”

Hold on!

With a mighty leap, Thorn launched himself into the air. Then he climbed several hundred feet above the mountain peaks, where the air was thin and it was unlikely anyone below would hear the beat of his wings.

Murtagh watched with a fixed gaze as the valley unfolded beneath them. It was as much family history as geography. If events had played out only a little differently, Palancar Valley would have been his home, same as for Eragon. He wondered what it had been like to grow up in such an isolated place.

It made him wish he could talk to his mother, ask her about her childhood and her reasons for abandoning Palancar Valley to follow Morzan into the wider world. And also why, why, she had chosen to save Eragon from Morzan but not him, her eldest son. Had it been a matter of ability and opportunity or one of preference? The question had tormented him from the moment he’d learned of his relation to Eragon. How could a mother sacrifice one child for another?

How? It was true that Eragon had been in mortal danger. He was not Morzan’s son, and had Morzan discovered the truth…Murtagh shuddered to imagine his wrath. So there was that. Still, Murtagh couldn’t help but wonder if it had been choice rather than necessity that kept his mother from bringing him to Palancar Valley.

What was worse, to see Eragon hailed as the hero of the age made Murtagh fear that she’d been right to choose Eragon, and that there was some irreparable wrongness or inadequacy in himself, some flaw that their mother had perceived in him.

Perhaps it was the scar on his back. He was marked by Morzan’s darkness in a manner that Eragon never had been.

Gently, Thorn said, You do not know her reasons or situation. And regardless, I chose you.

The words softened Murtagh’s mood and dispelled some of his bitterness, though it lingered like a poisonous pool at the back of his mind. He scratched the scales along Thorn’s spine and leaned forward to give the dragon a quick embrace.

Then he sat tall in the saddle and strove to bury his dark contemplations.

Halfway through the valley, Murtagh saw what he was looking for: a burnt husk of a farmhouse standing near the river, perhaps a day’s walk from Therinsford. A chill crept down his back, for he knew he was looking at the house where Eragon had lived and that the Ra’zac had burned after questioning—or rather, torturing—his uncle Garrow.

So much from so little, said Thorn.

Indeed.

Murtagh was surprised the farm was still abandoned. He’d thought that Roran or one of the other villagers from Carvahall would have rebuilt it.

Lifting his gaze, he saw Carvahall itself, nestled between river and foothills at the northern end of Palancar Valley. The village looked different than Murtagh expected. A thick wood palisade surrounded a cluster of thatched cottages, rustic and newly raised amid the sooty outlines of what Murtagh realized must have been the original village, before Galbatorix’s forces had razed it. The thought was an uncomfortable reminder of his and Thorn’s actions in Gil’ead. The western flank of Carvahall butted against the Anora, and a sturdy bridge extended across the rushing water. On the far side, a wide, rutted path led to a tall hill that overlooked the rest of the valley, and upon the crown of the hill were the stone foundations and partially built walls of what appeared to be a small castle.

With his mind, Murtagh drew Thorn’s attention to the unfinished castle. It seems Eragon’s cousin has been busy. He learned the hard way that safety can only be ensured through force of arms.

Roran is your cousin as well.

Mmm. I wonder how similar we really are.

Thorn angled downward slightly. Do you wish to land?

Murtagh nearly said yes. He did want to talk with Roran and meet his family—he had a baby daughter, or so Murtagh had heard—for they were Murtagh’s only remaining relatives, aside from Eragon. But if they did, there would be shouting and pointing of weapons and all sorts of difficult emotions. Even imagining it was exhausting.