Murtagh

A faint spark of amusement appeared in Bachel’s hooded eyes. “I very much doubt that, Kingkiller.”

Murtagh tensed even more. “You know of me.”

“Of you and Thorn both. Word of your deeds has traveled far, Kingkiller, even to this, our sacred redoubt.” There was an archaic quality to her speech that reminded Murtagh of how the eldest of the Eldunarí had spoken: a remnant of past eras.

“And what is this?” Murtagh gestured with Zar’roc at the temple and the village.

“A place of many dreams.” Bachel smiled again, seemingly without guile. “You have come to Nal Gorgoth, Kingkiller, as I foretold. Long have we waited for you and Thorn, and your arrival is most propitious.”

Again, Murtagh felt lost. “Waited for us? Why?”

The witch’s smile widened, and she spread her arms as if to embrace the whole of existence. “Because you are to be the saviors of the world.”

***

A profound silence reigned in the courtyard.

Thorn’s confusion matched Murtagh’s. But before either of them could demand an explanation, Bachel laughed, a low, throaty sound, and said, “You do not believe me. I see it in your eyes. That is of no matter. Soon you shall come to understand the truth of things. Answers you shall have, both to the questions you yearn to ask and those you have yet to conceive. But not here, and not now. It has been many an age since a Rider and dragon graced our court. We shall have a feast to celebrate your arrival, and you shall be my honored guests, you and brilliant Thorn both!”

She sat then, and snapped her fingers, and the litter-bearers marched to a stone dais on the northern side of the courtyard. The warriors followed and placed themselves on either side of the dais. The bearers continued to stand, the litter resting across their shoulders, while Bachel reclined against her carved, throne-like seat.

“Grieve,” she said, “see to the arrangements. Let us have food and wine and music. Let the Vale of Dreams ring with joyful revelry, on this most fateful of days.”

The goateed man bowed. “Your wish is our command, Speaker.”

He clapped his hands, and the white-robed bell-shakers retreated into the temple while a rush of men and women emerged from the surrounding buildings. They seemed to need no instruction; with hardly a spoken word, the villagers brought out heavy wooden tables, and copper braziers filled with blazing coals, and iron sticks that held tapers of greasy tallow, and deer and goat hides to cover the mossy flagstones. All sorts Murtagh observed among the folk: they appeared to share no common origin. Nor were they human only. He saw two dwarves, both female, and what he thought might have been an Urgal youngling—though Murtagh only had a brief glimpse of his face. The dwarves gave no sign of hostility, but their presence heightened his wariness.

Nal Gorgoth. His brow furrowed. The name sounded Dwarvish, at least in part. As he had learned during his stay in Farthen Dûr, goroth meant place in the dwarves’ tongue. Was the name of the village related to that word? Or had it another origin entirely? It also reminded him of Du Fells Nángoröth, which was what the elves called the mountains in the center of the Hadarac Desert—where the wild dragons used to live—and which was translated as the Blasted Mountains. Since fells meant mountains, then nángoröth meant blasted.

His thoughts were interrupted by the return of several of the bell-shakers carrying a heavy carved chair that they placed before the dais.

“Come, sit with me, Kingkiller,” said Bachel. “And you as well, Dragon. Join me.” She held out a hand, and a young, white-robed woman with flaxen hair and a devoted expression scurried up, placed a stone chalice in Bachel’s grip, and filled it with wine from an earthenware pitcher. “Thank you, my child,” murmured Bachel.

The young woman curtsied and withdrew.

Murtagh debated with himself for a moment. Then he slung his leg over the ridge of Thorn’s back and slid to the ground, Zar’roc and shield still in hand.

Are you sure? Thorn asked.

No, but I don’t see a choice. Stay close.

She cannot believe what she said.

What? About us being the saviors of the world?

Yes.

Murtagh agreed. Yet the straightforward assurance with which Bachel had spoken left him with a lingering doubt. Lies of all sorts he was accustomed to from his life at court, but he sensed no falsehood in the witch’s speech or bearing. She seemed utterly convinced of the rightness of her words, and that more than anything made him uncertain.

Murtagh slowly approached the dais. Thorn followed a pace behind, claws tapping against the flagstones. The fourteen warriors attending Bachel shifted slightly. Murtagh ignored them.

With a gracious gesture, Bachel extended a hand toward the carved chair.