Murtagh

Forcing an expression of polite blandness, he turned his gaze upward while also extending outward with his consciousness. Scores of tiny minds immediately appeared above him, as rings of candles set about a ritual space. Crows. A whole flock of them perched along the underside of the ceiling, on cornices and carvings and beams of stone. Now that he knew what to listen for, he could hear the noises as they clucked and muttered and moved about on their tapping claws. And yet none of them cawed, and he saw no droppings on the mosaic below.

He raised an eyebrow. “The floor is very clean.”

Bachel’s smile grew mysterious. “The crows are my kin. I speak to them, and they answer. I command them, and they obey, as do all of my children.” Then she raised a hand and said, “Come,” and he heard magic in the word: a compulsion that nearly caused him to step forward before he mastered himself.

With a soft gale of flapping wings, the crows descended in a black cloud and settled upon the back and arms of Bachel’s throne and on the dais surrounding her. As one, the dire flock fixed their ghostly eyes upon Murtagh—white irises stark and staring in the chamber’s gloom.

Bachel chuckled and clucked fondly at the birds. One of them hopped close to her, and she scratched it on the head and under the beak while the bird closed its eyes in apparent bliss.

“You see, Kingkiller,” she said, “Speaker I am, but also am I the Queen of Crows.”

There was an unreality to the image of her sitting regnant amid the murmuring multitude, a specter-like quality that made Murtagh feel as if the world had shifted sideways and he was no longer in a place where the familiar rules of nature held sway, but rather an older, wilder sort of reasoning.

He heard Thorn release a low hiss at the front of the chamber.

Murtagh made a small bow. “The extent of your power is truly impressive, Lady Bachel. It seems even the common crow recognizes your authority.”

“Crows are far from common,” said Bachel. She cooed at the bird she was scratching. “Did you know, my son, that the Urgals believe crows carry the souls of the dead to their afterlife?”

“I did not.”

She nodded. “The sight of the crow fills an Urgal with immense dread, but an Urgal will also go to great lengths to help a crow in need or to avoid hurting one, for they think that if they anger the crows, the birds will refuse to carry them to the fields of their ancestors once they die.”

“And what do you believe, my Lady?”

Bachel lifted an eyebrow. Then she said, “Go,” and her voice rang with power. The birds took off in a flurry into the shadows above. “I believe that crows are hungry and they have no scruples as to how they sate their appetite, which is why you will always find them gathered on the field of battle to feast on the fallen.”

Murtagh’s lip curled with revulsion. “A grim reckoning and an unpleasant habit, my Lady.”

The witch sipped from her cup, unconcerned. “You cannot fault them for their nature.”

“Neither do I have to praise them for it.”

Bachel inclined her head. “That is true.” Then her eyes narrowed, and the amber in them darkened. “Tell me, my child, did you rest well last night?”

“Well enough.”

Her gaze further sharpened. “And did you and Thorn dream? You must have. All creatures in this vale dream, even crows.”

She asks most eagerly, said Thorn.

That she does. Murtagh toyed with the ruby set in Zar’roc’s pommel as he considered. He didn’t want to tell Bachel anything too personal, but he was curious how she would interpret their visions. Whatever she said could reveal more about the Dreamers than he would reveal about himself.

So he told her, leaving out but one detail: Nasuada’s appearance in his dream. That was too personal, and Murtagh had no intention of dissecting its meaning with a stranger.

“And what of you, Thorn?” asked Bachel. “What saw you?”

Thorn growled softly. I saw much the same.

Then the witch tilted her face to catch the beam of light that broke upon her brow, and she let out a long sigh. “Ah, such beautiful visions, Kingkiller. I can feel their promise, like the warm touch of dawn’s first rays.”

“I would hardly call them beautiful.”

She lowered her gaze to him. “That is because your sight is blinkered, my son, limited by your senses and the confines of your mind. As is true of all of us, even you, Thorn.”

“But you can see the truth?” Murtagh asked, not hiding his disbelief.

A shake of her head swayed her headpiece. “No. I do not claim such wisdom. I am merely a conduit for understanding. An interpreter, if you will.”

“Then interpret.”