Murtagh

She bowed slightly—which Murtagh found odd; the maids in Urû’baen had always curtsied—and carried the tray to the side table by the bed. “Breakfast, my Lord.”

It gave Murtagh a discomfiting feeling to be addressed as my Lord again. It was his due, of course, but only because of his father’s treachery. Technically, he no longer held claim to any title but that of Rider…and Kingkiller. And traitor.

He feigned a relaxed smile as he strode over to inspect the contents of the tray. Half a loaf of dense rye bread, three kippered bergenhed, and a tankard of watered wine. Standard fare, as such things went, but he didn’t trust the food. The feast last night had been a spontaneous event, and he’d watched as the meal was prepared. However, the breakfast could easily have been tampered with. It wasn’t worth the risk. He still had a bit of cooked hare in his saddlebags, and that would hold him for a time.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite,” he said in a mild tone.

The woman seemed uncomfortable in his presence. She stiffened as he approached, and then ducked her head and twisted the tips of the blue ribbon tied around her waist. “Of course, my Lord. I’ll remove the tray.”

When she started to reach for it, he said, “Your name is Alín, yes?”

Softly: “Yes.”

He nodded. “Would you be so kind as to guide me back to the courtyard, Alín? I can’t say I remember the way.” A lie, but he wanted the opportunity to question her.

She bowed again and, subdued, said, “Yes, sir. After me, sir.”

With brisk steps, Alín led him out of the room. Murtagh followed, but at a slower pace—slow enough that she was forced to halve her stride.

“Tell me, Alín,” said Murtagh, “for I much desire to know: How long has Bachel ruled in Nal Gorgoth?”

She gave him a quick, shy glance from under her pale lashes. “A very long time, my Lord. Far longer than I have winters.”

Murtagh let his eyebrows rise. If Alín was telling the truth, then Bachel was half elf, as that was the only obvious explanation for why the witch lacked any obvious sign of age. “Would you say she has been a fair ruler, Alín?”

“Of course, Kingkiller,” she answered in a reproachful tone. “Bachel is the Speaker. How could she be anything but just?”

“How indeed? I imagine being able to foretell the future might help avoid such a misstep. Would you say she is adept at prophecy?”

The woman nodded quickly. “Oh yes, my Lord. It is her duty to guide us, and we are fortunate she has been blessed with such great skill in augury.”

“I see.” Murtagh paused before the panel of stone carvings along the landing. In the morning light, they appeared no less disturbing.

Alín stopped as well. She had no choice.

“You wear white, not grey,” Murtagh observed.

The woman folded her hands in front of her, and her long sleeves covered them. “I am one of the temple chosen. These robes represent our purity. So long as I serve in the temple, at Bachel’s will, no man may touch me on pain of losing the hands he sinned with.” She lifted her gaze to meet his, and Murtagh saw a challenge in her eyes, as if she were daring him to break the prohibition.

“And likewise, you may not touch a man.”

“No, my Lord.”

He nodded. Then, more gently, he said, “What is the purpose of Nal Gorgoth, Alín? What is it Bachel seeks to accomplish?”

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he’d overreached. Alín’s back straightened, and her shoulders squared, and a spark of defiant fire animated her expression. “You could not possibly understand if I told you, outsider. Such understanding can only come from Bachel herself, for she is the—”

“The Speaker. Yes, you said.” Even though it was more than likely fruitless, he decided to press on. “But I wonder, for whom does Bachel speak, Alín? Who is the Dreamer of Dreams?”

The color drained from Alín’s cheeks. “Please, my Lord. You should not ask me such a thing.”

“But I do.”

She shook her head. “I cannot say. I beg you—”

“Cannot or will not?”

She shook her head again, all defiance vanished, and turned her back to him. “You do not understand. You cannot. Please, my Lord, this way.”

Thoughtful, Murtagh followed her across the landing—away from the maddening carvings—down the stairs, and through the hallways that led to the courtyard.

When they arrived at the door to the outside, Alín surprised him by stopping with her hand on the frame. In a small voice, she said, “What is it like, Kingkiller?”

“What do you mean?”

She looked back at him, her face lost in the shadows of the unlit hallway. “Out there…beyond. What is the rest of Alagaësia like?”

“What is the farthest you have been from Nal Gorgoth?”

A hint of defensive sorrow colored her voice. “I have never left this valley, Kingkiller.”

It was not an unexpected answer for one of her station, yet Murtagh found it difficult to imagine having such a limited perspective. To be so blinkered in place could only lead to being similarly blinkered in mind.