Murtagh

“It is the mark of Saerlith.”

A similar shock passed through Thorn. How came it to this place?

“I don’t know.” Saerlith had been a lesser name among the Forsworn; he’d done little to distinguish himself from his fellow traitors, although he had shared in their general infamy. All Murtagh knew of him was that he was human and had come from somewhere around the city of Teirm. That, and his dragon was unfortunate enough to have puce-colored scales. Like the other dragons of the Forsworn, the name of Saerlith’s dragon had been lost, erased by the collective will of their species. Dragons did not forgive those they considered betrayers. A fault of theirs, perhaps, but when it came to the Forsworn, an understandable one.

Murtagh tried to recall how Saerlith had died. Not in Nal Gorgoth, that much he knew. Accounts were mixed, but supposedly Galbatorix had dispatched Saerlith to Alagaësia’s southern coast, where the Rider and dragon had been ambushed and killed. By whom, Murtagh had never heard, although he assumed the Varden or their allies had been responsible.

Regardless, Saerlith had perished long before Murtagh’s time.

Thorn said, If Saerlith and his dragon discovered Nal Gorgoth—

“Then maybe Galbatorix knew about this place.” Murtagh bounced the clasp in his hand. “Or maybe Saerlith was working with the Dreamers for his own gain.”

Galbatorix would have killed him for that.

“If he knew of it.” Murtagh placed the clasp in the pouch on his belt. Again he felt as if the village were a living thing that was waiting and watching with unknown intent. He grimaced, knelt, and used the ground to scrape more of the crow dung off his fingers. “I don’t like this,” he said, straightening back up. “I don’t like this at all. There’s more at work here than Bachel is willing to admit.”

Thorn nodded toward the pouch. A strange people to leave makings of the Forsworn lying about.

“It’s careless, all right. Or arrogant.” He paused to consider, and his skin prickled with gooseflesh as an unsettling thought occurred to him. “What if…what if Galbatorix found Nal Gorgoth when he was traveling back through the Spine, after Urgals killed his dragon? Or what if this is where he and my father fled after they betrayed the Riders? I’ve always heard it said that Galbatorix hid in an evil place, where the Riders dared not follow. What if Nal Gorgoth is that place? What if this is where Galbatorix met Durza and…where they trained my father?”

Thorn hissed, snakelike. Murtagh shared the sentiment.

If the Riders were familiar with Nal Gorgoth, why would they suffer it to endure?

“I don’t know. Maybe they thought it was abandoned. Maybe they set fire to the place and drove out the original inhabitants. We don’t know how long Bachel or her people have been here. The buildings are older than any I’ve seen. Who knows who made them.”

Thorn’s gaze grew more intent. Umaroth knew enough to warn us against coming here. What if the dragons of old and their Riders—his tongue flicked across his teeth—were afraid?

CHAPTER IV Dreams and Portents

Murtagh and Thorn stared at each other, an unspoken question hanging between them. What or whom would dragons or Riders fear?

“If Galbatorix and Morzan came here,” said Murtagh, “perhaps all of the Forsworn did.” He looked at the silhouettes of the dark rooftops and at the moonlit tip of the Tower of Flint. His discovery of the clasp put everything Bachel had said during the banquet into a new light. And yet he remained uncertain. Was he making unfounded assumptions? His gut told him there was something to Bachel’s claims of fate and prophecy. He just didn’t know what or to what degree. Perhaps his desire to learn more about her and the blackened land was a foolish one.

He turned back to Thorn. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should leave. What say you?”

Thorn blinked, his surprise evident. In all their time together, Murtagh had never before suggested abandoning whatever goal they were pursuing. Thorn dug the tips of his claws into the cracks between the flagstones. If this is the place that Riders feared to tread—

“Which it might not be.”