Murtagh

Bachel’s smile widened, showing more teeth than was normal for a human. “Not even the dread dragonkiller himself, Rider. He tried, once, and soon realized the magnitude of his mistake.”

Fear and frustration broke Murtagh’s control. “Who are you?” he cried, allowing some of his power to enter his voice. He could use words to control and command just as easily as Bachel—and he had a dragon backing him to boot.

His voice resounded off the walls of the chamber, and Grieve and the white-robed acolytes stiffened. “Speaker!” said Grieve, the word coming from between clenched teeth.

Bachel seemed unaffected. She waved a hand at Grieve. “Peace, my child. You are as nervous as a spring rabbit. Our guest means us no harm.” The muscles along Grieve’s jaw bunched, yet he held his peace.

Murtagh was not about to do the same. “But my patience grows thin. You promised me answers, Bachel, but so far, all I have are more questions.”

Her nails tapped against the arm of her throne. “Do you doubt my word?”

“No, my Lady, only the timing of its fulfillment.”

She eyed him with a hooded gaze, her headpiece and shoulders haloed with pale radiance from above. “Walk among us for a day and a night, you and Thorn both. See what we are and how we live, ere you seek to pass judgment on us. Dream once more in Nal Gorgoth, and let your mind wander wide and deep.”

She was being evasive. That much was obvious, but at the same time, the offer was tempting. So much about Bachel and the Dreamers was difficult to explain, and Murtagh felt it was desperately important to have a better idea of what they were and what they wanted. Especially if Bachel had the same powers of prophecy as the Soothsayer. They had to learn more. For himself. For Thorn. And for Nasuada.

What say you? he asked Thorn.

One day more is no great price.

Lifting his chin, Murtagh said, “If we do, will you forgo your riddles for plainer speech?”

The witch made a gracious gesture with her hand, as if inviting him to bow. “If you do, and you strive to see but truly, then yes, Kingkiller, I will explain my prophecy and more besides. I will lay bare the threads of fate, and you will understand both the role you have played and the role you shall yet play. A great storm is coming, Kingkiller, one that shall shake the very foundations of Alagaësia, and we must all choose where to cast our lots.”

“A storm has already ravaged the land. Another might destroy it.”

Fire replaced the honey in Bachel’s eyes. “Then destroyed it shall be, and a new and better world will rise from the ashes!” Fast as flowing quicksilver, her expression softened. “But not today, Kingkiller.” She stood then and descended from the throne, and the acolytes parted before her. “Come now. If you are to stay with us, Kingkiller, I have arranged a most amusing diversion.”

Wary, Murtagh said, “And what would that be, my Lady?”

She swept past him, the train of her dress trailing across the floor. “The sport of kings, my fair princeling. A boar hunt!”

CHAPTER VII Tusk and Blade

A boar hunt would have thrilled and daunted Murtagh when he was younger. Boars were dangerous animals, and he’d known of at least four earls who had been maimed or killed by a wild hog. The danger was part of the appeal; it was an opportunity to prove your mettle, sharpen your martial skills, and—for many a man—win favor with the women at court. The first time Murtagh had gone boar hunting had been with a group of nobles, headed up by Lord Barst. It had been…a less-than-enjoyable experience. He’d missed his chance at a boar and ended up smeared in mud from crown to sole. Lyreth and his peers had relentlessly made fun of him on the ride back. He’d had better luck on future expeditions, but they’d always been colored by his memories of that initial humiliation.

Now, though, Murtagh found no thrill in the prospect of a hunt. His wards removed any possible danger, and with it any sense of challenge or accomplishment, leaving only slaughter for the sake of meat. It was a dour thought. There was a significant difference between a hunter and a butcher, and he had no desire to be a butcher.

Along with Bachel and her retinue, he departed the temple and returned to the front courtyard.

Dust shook from the building as Thorn landed beside them.

Bachel spread her arms in a welcoming manner and said, “A hunt, noble dragon! Join us on our venture, and you may slake your thirst for blood and hunger for flesh.”

Thorn snorted and looked at Murtagh. She enjoys making lots of noise, like a magpie in the morning.

Do you want to come?

The dragon licked his chops. I’ll not let you wander off with her alone. Besides, she is not wrong; I do hunger.