Murtagh

Bachel’s mouth twisted further askew with an enigmatic smile. “We shall speak of that anon and more besides. This also I promise. But it is late, and you must be tired from your travels. For now, you should rest. My people will see to it that you are well cared for. If there is anything you need, you have but to ask. Grieve!”

The goateed man shambled over. “Speaker?”

“Escort our guest to the chambers overlooking the Tower of Flint. Sleep well, Kingkiller, and may your dreams bring you understanding. Tomorrow we shall talk of the new age that is dawning.”

Then Bachel gave word to her armor-clad servants, who lifted her litter and carried her from the courtyard back into the temple. Once she had left, the players ceased plucking the lyres, and the drums fell silent too. Soon the crackling of the fires was the loudest sound in the square.

Grieve approached Murtagh and bowed. In a condescending tone, he said, “This way, Rider.”

His mind full of thoughts, Murtagh stood, stiff and unsteady. He didn’t want to sleep indoors, alone and isolated from Thorn, but he feared it would be unwise to refuse Bachel’s offer of hospitality.

Go, said Thorn, sensing his deliberation.

Murtagh put a hand on the dragon’s neck. I’ll sneak back out once they’ve left me. And then maybe we can look around a bit and see what we can discover.

Thorn hummed with agreement, but Murtagh could tell the dragon wasn’t entirely happy with the plan. They’d talk more later, when there was less of a chance their thoughts might be overheard.

“After you,” said Murtagh, gesturing at Grieve.

The goateed man turned and, with his heavy, flat-footed tread, led Murtagh beneath the arcade of faceted columns and through a small side door along the northern wing of the temple. The hallway inside was cool and dark; no torches or lanterns were lit, but Grieve moved with surety, and Murtagh followed the sound of his steps while probing for the minds of any who might be lying in wait to attack.

Up a flight of stairs they went, to a landing where the temple’s narrow windows let through enough moonlight to see along the wall flat carvings of…of what, Murtagh did not know. His eyes refused to settle on the confusion of figures that adorned the stone. Bodies, human or beast, distorted structures, strange honeycomb patterns that melted one into the next…It felt as if the sculpture were an attempt to physically depict madness. The frenzied, half-formed shapes reminded him of the twisted mindscapes of the Eldunarí whom Galbatorix had enslaved, as well as the disjointed logic of nightmares. Malevolence emanated in great waves from the wall. The sensation was so tangible, it made him recoil. The sculpture was a grotesquerie—a mockery of grace and art and all things beautiful. He felt a strong urge to break it. If he were to look at the carvings for too long, Murtagh feared they would infect him with whatever insanity had inspired such a malformed creation.

“Who made this thing?” he asked. In the night air, his voice sounded as an unlovely croak.

Grieve did not pause as he lurched down the landing. “The First Ones made it when they discovered the sacred well.”

“You mean the Grey Folk?” asked Murtagh. The long-dead race had been the ones to bind the ancient language and magic in the first place. He could easily imagine them building Nal Gorgoth, although he had never heard of their kind having set foot in Alagaësia. But then, there was much he did not know, and much that was hidden by the passage of years.

Grieve snorted. “I mean the First Ones. The first of the Dreamers to find this place. Many races they were, but all of them of a single mind.”

“I see. And the well you mentioned? What makes it sacred?”

“That is not for me to say, Rider.”

“What is for you to say?”

With a stiff-legged step, Grieve stopped, his shoulders and neck hunched like those of a bear readying himself to charge. “Do not expect me to provide you with aid, Rider. You are an outsider, an unbeliever, and your kind are neither needed nor wanted in Nal Gorgoth.”

He turned on Murtagh. His moonlit eyes were silvered chips of ice, hard and full of hate, and Murtagh—despite all his wards and skill at arms—felt threatened enough that he put a hand on Zar’roc’s hilt.

“But,” Grieve continued, “in her wisdom, Bachel has chosen to tolerate your presence. That is her right.”

“She tolerates my presence, does she?” said Murtagh, his voice deadly calm. “What other choice does she have, servant?”

Grieve’s mouth split apart to show the yellow stakes of his teeth. “That you shall learn, Rider, and you will wish you hadn’t. Your power holds no sway here. If Bachel wishes, she will use the Breath on you, and then we will see who is servant and who is master.”

“I don’t think I like you, Grieve.”

“The words of unbelievers are as dirt beneath my feet.”