Murtagh

He decided to risk it. As with all magic, intent mattered, so he concentrated on the fact that both of the men appeared tired. It was late, and they ought to be in bed. It would be best if they slept, for their own good.

With that firmly in mind, Murtagh cast the same spell he’d used on the guard in the catacombs under Gil’ead: “Slytha.” Sleep.

He released the energy for the spell in a carefully controlled trickle over the course of half a minute or more. It was a gentle piece of magic, subtle enough that if a ward did stop it, the warriors might not notice.

The guards slumped over, and one of them dropped his spear. It clattered on the flagstones with startling loudness, and then the village was again quiet.

When no one came to investigate, Murtagh allowed himself a pleased chuckle. As much as he hated to admit it, the way Eragon had used magic on Galbatorix had been a stroke of inspiration. No one seemed to think of guarding themselves against the good, only the bad.

It wouldn’t last, of course. Over the years, word would spread from magician to magician, and eventually no capable spellcaster would leave themselves open to well-meaning attacks. A contradiction, that! But a reality all the same. Regardless, Murtagh wasn’t about to lament Bachel’s ignorance. As long as the technique continued to work, he’d use it and be grateful for it too.

Of course, he still didn’t know for sure if the guards had wards, but he would have been shocked if they didn’t.

How long will they sleep? Thorn asked.

As long as needed. Help me down, said Murtagh, climbing through the window onto the skirt-roof below.

Thorn snorted and lifted his head. Murtagh stepped onto it, careful not to put a heel in the dragon’s eyes. Then Thorn lowered him to the flagstones, and Murtagh straightened his sword belt and looked around.

“Thanks,” he murmured, suddenly gleeful, like a fox that had broken into a henhouse while the hounds were away.

Bachel is very dangerous, I think, said Thorn.

“I agree.”

Perhaps we should leave. We know where this place is now. Let Nasuada or Arya or even Eragon deal with it. This isn’t our responsibility.

“Don’t you want to find out the truth behind Bachel and this Dreamer of Dreams? Not to mention this supposed prophecy regarding the two of us. Aren’t you curious?”

Thorn sniffed the night air and was slow to answer. I am…but I am also wary. I feel as if we’re sticking our paws into a dark burrow. We do not know what we might find. We might end up bitten.

“And if we do?” asked Murtagh, serious. “Would it not be better to know if there’s something here that can bite us?”

Is that even a question? The only mystery is, how large of a bite?

Murtagh cocked an eyebrow. “So far, Bachel and her people have shown us nothing but hospitality. Even if Grieve is a surly malcontent.”

Yet you do not trust the faces they show you, else we would not be having this discussion.

“No. You’re right.”

Thorn released a very human-sounding sigh. You will not sleep well unless you sniff about, will you?

He grinned. “You know me too well.”

After a moment, the dragon lowered his head, and the soft warmth of his breath enveloped Murtagh. All right. But if you get caught again, I’ll grab you and fly out of here, as I did at Gil’ead.

“And if it comes to that, I’ll be happy for you to grab me.” He rubbed Thorn behind one of his neck spikes, and the dragon’s sides vibrated with a low hum of satisfaction.

Where do you want to search?

Murtagh glanced at the tiered temple. The mountains rose high behind it, the peaks pale as the finest pearl beneath the twinkling stars. There, but I think it would be too risky. Too many people in the building.

Then where?

Murtagh pointed at the Tower of Flint. It must be important for the Dreamers to have named it. And I want to see the grounds behind the temple. He cast a critical eye over Thorn. Some of the villagers may still be up, and you’re a bit big to be sneaking around these days.