Murtagh

Then Thorn uncoiled his neck and Murtagh retrieved the haunch of roasted hare from Thorn’s saddlebags. He ate quickly, not knowing how long it would be until Bachel summoned them.

Voices sounded from within the streets leading off the courtyard: rhythmic chanting that seemed more ceremonial than musical.

Curious, Murtagh wiped his fingers and wandered down the nearest street, Thorn at his back.

He didn’t have to go far before he saw a group of twenty or so Dreamers gathered around an alcove built within the outer wall of a house. In the alcove was a small altar—not dissimilar to the one he’d found last night—with fruits and cuts of meat piled in the center.

Another white-robed Dreamer, a man, stood facing the rest of the villagers, and it was to him the people directed their voices. The chanting was so fast, so practiced, that at first Murtagh couldn’t distinguish one word from the next, but as he listened, he began to pick out repeated phrases, such as “With our hands, so we serve,” “As it is dreamt, so it shall be,” and “Given our earthly reward, praise be.”

Between the repeated phrases, he realized the villagers were describing their dreams from that night: something to do with blood and fire and ancient wrongs. The specifics escaped him, but he caught words here and there, like silver fish flashing through a stream. Some of it reminded him of the visions he and Thorn had shared, but only in part; the rest seemed to vary wildly from what they had seen.

It was clear the villagers were well accustomed to their dreams, as Alín had claimed. The chanting was rote, ritualistic, nearly unconscious, with a trance-inducing quality, as if the drumming of their voices numbed their minds. The villagers’ eyes glazed over as they swayed along with the rhythm of their words.

As he stood watching, he found himself struck by the cohesion of the group. The villagers appeared more like a single, many-faced entity than a collection of individuals. The cause that bound them—whatever it was—seemed so strong as to erase their differences. The result was intimidating.

Even with Thorn by his side, a hollow sense of envy formed within Murtagh. He missed the moments, rare as they’d been, when he’d felt joined in common purpose with the soldiers of Galbatorix’s army. The camaraderie had brought with it a certain confidence—a fortification of self, even as his definition of self had expanded to include his brothers-in-arms. He had recaptured the sense, all too briefly, while drilling with the guards in Gil’ead. And looking even further back, he had shared a similar feeling during his travels with Eragon.

But those days were long since passed.

Thorn touched his elbow, and Murtagh smiled sadly.

The chanting continued with numerous repetitions of “As it is dreamt, so it shall be,” and the repetitions were so perfectly uniform, so perfectly matched in intonation and mindless recitation, that the sameness of it suddenly seemed repulsive. It felt as if he were watching a group of sleepwalking half-wits who moved without thinking, their blind, unblinking, cataractal eyes fixed upon a vague point in the distance, while their mouths hinged open and closed with synchronized precision. His envy evaporated, like mist before dragonfire, as he realized something else about the Dreamers: they were neither a conspiratorial group nor a political organization, nor even a martial one. In actuality, they were a cult, devoted to their dreams and to their Speaker above all else.

The chanting stopped.

For a moment, silence reigned in the street. Then the temple acolyte said, “Say now what differences you beheld, if any you did.”

And a man with a birthmark as dark as a splash of wine across his nose said, “I saw a flight of dragons, only there was a crimson dragon in the middle. Before, there was none.”

The acolyte nodded wisely. “Bachel’s Ears have heard you. What else?”

A girl—no more than ten, with tresses like spun gold—said, “An obelisk of stone with a black tip and gilded carving. The carving glowed, and I heard a voice speaking words I did not understand.”

The acolyte nodded again. “You will present yourself to Bachel at the morning hearing, and she will speak to you the meaning of your vision.”

“As it is dreamt, so it shall be.”

Murtagh continued to listen while the cultists confessed their dreams. He wondered how many of them spoke the truth and how many were inventing details for a chance to impress their neighbors or please Bachel. But perhaps that was unkind of him. The villagers seemed entirely sincere and convinced of their experiences.

They would be, he thought. He tried to imagine what it was like to grow up in Nal Gorgoth, being constantly questioned about your dreams, and if the dreams were of a like with what he and Thorn had experienced the past night…He shuddered.