Murtagh

Then a woman emerged from within the group. She was of middling age, with hair that hung in tangled skeins, and her face was drawn and dolorous, as if she’d been up the whole night fretting. She wrung her hands, the fingers twisted like roots.

“Hear me!” she cried.

The white-robed acolyte eyed her with something akin to disgust. “Speak and be heard, O Dethra.”

The woman sobbed and shook her head before continuing. “I did not dream as was right and proper. My mind was empty all the night until just before waking. Then an image filled my mind, and I saw the white mountain with—”

The faces of those listening hardened, and Murtagh saw no charity in their expressions.

“Enough!” cried the acolyte. “Do not poison our minds with your false visions. You are unclean, Dethra.”

“I am unclean!” she shouted, tears streaking down her cheeks.

“You are unworthy!”

“I am unworthy! Punish me! Let me atone!”

With a thunderous scowl, the acolyte pointed at her. “Dethra! You cannot regain favor in the Eyes of Bachel until you purge this heresy from your being. Go to the temple and confine yourself to the Azurite Room until such time as Bachel sees fit to bring you to the realm of the Dreamer.”

The woman cried out with terror and collapsed onto the ground, where she shook and gibbered incomprehensibilities.

The white-robed acolyte stormed forward. He grabbed Dethra by the arm and dragged her toward the temple.

The crowd parted before them, men and women alike watching in stony silence. At the front of the group, the golden-haired girl chewed on her thumb, her eyes round and solemn.

In an undertone, Murtagh said to Thorn, “Is that woman most afraid of confinement or atonement?”

Or Bachel?

It was an unsettling thought. With Thorn close behind, Murtagh followed the acolyte back to the temple and watched as the man hauled Dethra into the building.

CHAPTER VI The Court of Crows

“There you are, Rider,” said Grieve with heavy disapproval as he strode with a hurried pace toward Murtagh and Thorn. He made a bow so slight, it was more of a nod. “Dragon Thorn. Bachel will grant you audience now. The both of you.”

Murtagh gestured at the temple. “Do you mean for us to go in there?”

“Of course. Bachel awaits you in her presence chamber.”

Murtagh raised his eyebrows. “Alas, Goodman Grieve, I’m sorry to inform you that the doors of your temple are far too small for Thorn to pass through. Unless you mean for him to break them apart.”

The flicker of irritation that crossed Grieve’s face was satisfying. “I do not,” he said stiffly. “Dragon Thorn, an atrium exists behind that will suffice if you will fly to it. Thence you may access the presence chamber.”

Murtagh hesitated, glancing at Thorn. Do you want to chance it?

The dragon growled and, to both Murtagh and Grieve, said, I will go so far as the atrium, but no farther. If Bachel wishes to speak with me, then she may come to me.

Grieve’s scowl deepened. “You risk offending the Speaker, Dragon Thorn.”

Thorn sniffed. So be it. With a sweep of his wings, the dragon jumped into the air. His body blotted out the sky for a moment, and then he was above the temple, and there he hung, like a great crimson bat, before folding his wings and dropping out of sight behind the peak of the building.

In a mild tone, Murtagh said, “I’m afraid that no one can tell a dragon what to do, not even a Rider.”

A grunt from Grieve, and he turned and walked with his lurching stride toward the temple’s shadowed entrance.

Alert and curious, Murtagh followed, hand on hilt.

Deep between the faceted pillars, a pair of blackened oak doors stood open. The wood was chiseled with runes and inlaid with threads of gold that traced the same branching pattern carved into the face of the temple. The air within was noticeably warmer and thick with the smell of brimstone. Murtagh felt moisture collecting on his skin, tiny droplets of sulfurous dew.

They moved through a short passage lit by oil lamps. Then the way opened upon the atrium. It was large and square, with four raised pools—overgrown with reeds and floating moss—at the corners, while in the center stood a giant sculpture, nearly as tall as the surrounding roofline. The statue was made of black stone, and it was all angles and shards and misjoined edges, but when taken as a whole, there was a shape amid the chaos. He felt as if he ought to recognize it, but the truth eluded him, like a name or a face that he couldn’t place.

Thorn had landed next to the statue and was looking at it as if he meant to knock it over with a swipe of his tail.

“What is that?” Murtagh asked.

Grieve continued trudging on and didn’t turn to look. “A depiction of dream.”

Unease made Murtagh pull his cloak tighter. What do you think? he asked Thorn.

An abomination.

It’s a nightmare, that’s for sure.