Murtagh

The corners of Bachel’s mouth curved. “Very well, Kingkiller. I shall.” She closed her eyes, and the acolytes bowed in rhythmic fashion and began to chant in an unfamiliar tongue, and Grieve lowered his head until only his widow’s peak showed. Sparks flared in the brazier as Bachel uttered several low words in the strange language, words that lingered in the air longer than was right. For a moment, the chamber seemed to dim as if a shadow pressed in on them from without.

A chill crept into the heated air.

Murtagh held his place, but all the hair on his body stood on end. He felt as if he were in an open field during a heavy thunderstorm while lightning threatened. How very theatric, he commented to Thorn. Nevertheless, he couldn’t deny the effect the ceremony had on him.

When Bachel spoke, her voice had an eerie, hollow timbre: “Behold…as it was, so it shall be. See you now the center of all things, the king on his throne, the snake in his lair. See you now past sorrows—injustices unrevenged—and future triumphs. The cleansing sword, the son freed of his father. See you this now, and know it to be true. As it is dreamt, so it shall be.”

Icy dread coiled within Murtagh’s core, and his whole body tensed at the word father, the response as instinctual as pain.

Bachel slumped slightly. Then she opened her eyes and, in a tired manner, gestured at the acolytes. They ceased bowing and chanting, and the chamber again fell silent.

Murtagh fought to remain impassive, though his muscles were as taut as so many weighted cables.

The witch straightened upon her throne. “There now, Kingkiller. I have said my piece.”

“The Speaker has spoken,” Grieve murmured.

“And yet,” said Murtagh, “I understand no more than when you started.”

Bachel replied: “That is because I have yet to explain the explanation. Be not so bound by convention, my fair princeling. You must learn to see with more than your mortal vision.”

Murtagh’s frown deepened. “What is it you want, Bachel? Why have you seeded your servants throughout Alagaësia? To what end? And why is it you say Thorn and I are to be the saviors of the land? How? And from what?”

“Do you recognize the shape of this sanctum, my child?” Bachel asked, indicating the chamber about them.

Caught off-guard, Murtagh fumbled his reply. “No. I don’t.”

“You should. It has a sister beneath Urû’baen: the Hall of the Soothsayer. I believe you are well familiar with it.”

For a moment, Murtagh grew weak, and he nearly sat. He trembled slightly.

He glanced around. The witch was right. If he ignored the arcade and the pillars and the open pavilion, the general layout of the space was similar, if not identical, to the Hall of the Soothsayer. And the ashen altar, that hateful slab of stone, was no different from the one where Galbatorix had kept Nasuada chained….

Bachel leaned forward, hawklike. “The sacred vapors that emanate from the ground here likewise once emanated from the rocks and stones beneath Urû’baen. Then too a Speaker dwelt in that hall and breathed of them and dispensed the wisdom of dream to those wise enough to consult her.”

Had Galbatorix known the truth about the Soothsayer? He had claimed ignorance regarding her origin, but if there was one thing Murtagh had learned over the years, it was that the king lied, and he lied well.

Perhaps Bachel also lies, said Thorn.

With some difficulty, Murtagh found his voice. “You claim the same mantle as the Soothsayer?”

“We are of the same lineage, in beliefs and observance, if not blood.”

Murtagh glanced back at Thorn, feeling lost. Everything he had heard of the Soothsayer of old had spoken of her uncanny foresight, and there were more than a few stories of people who had ignored her advice—or sought to contravene it—to their inevitable sorrow.

Murtagh had never been able to bring himself to believe that the future was set. Like Thorn, he hated the idea that some impersonal force dictated the shape of his life. The very concept sapped all motive and responsibility from his choices. And yet…if Bachel were an oracle in truth, then he needed to know what she predicted for him and Thorn, if only that they might take a stand against it.

The witch seemed to read his thoughts, though he felt no touch upon his mind. “I will say this to start, my son: it was Fate that brought you here. You could no more have resisted the urge to find Nal Gorgoth—and me within it—than a moth may resist the lure of a nighttime flame. The threads of destiny may be plucked by those who know how. Plucked, and severed. Nal Gorgoth and places like it have endured for longer than you can imagine. No dragon or Rider or elf or any other creature in all the history of the land has ever succeeded in clearing our redoubts or snuffing our faith.”

“Not even Galbatorix?” said Murtagh in a flat tone.