Murtagh

Are they, though? The world is old; even dragons do not know everything of note that has happened.

It is strange, said Thorn, lifting his head above the rooftops to sniff the air.

Murtagh moved on.

The longer he walked, the more agitated he became. Between the pummeling he’d taken during the hunt and the subsequent vision, he had been in no way prepared for Rauden’s killing. No matter what Bachel or Alín or anyone else says, that was wrong. He snorted. Eragon had said much the same to him after Murtagh had killed the defenseless slaver, Torkenbrand. But that had been different. Torkenbrand had been a threat. Rauden was no threat at all. Certainly not to Bachel.

The memory of the slaver turned his thoughts back to the cultists’ prisoners. Their thralls.

A hard certainty began to form within Murtagh.

He stopped again and looked at Thorn. The dragon lowered his head until they were staring eye to eye. Murtagh could feel the same hard certainty within Thorn.

I don’t care about whatever future Bachel sees for us, said Murtagh.

Nor I.

I just want to know what she and the Draumar are trying to do. It can’t be good.

Thorn’s hot breath washed over him, a comforting sensation. You mean to press the point with Bachel?

He nodded. When we sup this evening. Either she’ll answer us and answer well or—

We fight?

If it comes to that. Only…Murtagh shivered. The children. We have to protect the children.

Thorn licked his teeth. It is hard to fight in a nest without crushing eggs.

Then we’ll have to find a way to empty the nest first. It’s a big enough valley. There’s plenty of room to run and hide.

What if the younglings refuse to run? Thorn cocked his head. They might stand and fight, same as their elders, and then what?

Murtagh shook his head. I don’t know. We do our best. He put his hands on either side of Thorn’s head. We are decided?

We are.

And yet doubt gnawed at Murtagh. Confronting the witch seemed an increasingly chancy prospect, even if he couldn’t reasonably explain why. But he was determined, as was Thorn. There was no turning aside now.

CHAPTER X Upheaval

As Murtagh and Thorn retraced their steps through the village, they came upon a toothless old man sitting by a well. The man was dressed in rags, with eyes blue white with blindness and a crude crutch cut from a forked branch. He rocked on his narrow haunches and stared sightless at the mountains while he grinned and gummed.

When Murtagh passed by, the man cocked his head and said, “Aha! The crownless prince, afoot in a foreign land. Son of sorrow, bastard of fate, sing of sorry treachery. Red dragon, black dragon, white dragon…White sun, black sun, dead sun.”

Murtagh stopped and crouched by the man. “What do you know about a black sun?”

The man turned his face toward Murtagh. His skin was so deeply wrinkled, it hung in folds like loose leather draped over his bones. He cackled. “Dreamt it, I did. Ahahaha. Sun eaten, earth eaten, the old blood avenged and the new enslaved. Did you dream, princeling? Do you see? What? Speaker got your tongue? Ahahaha.”

“No one has my tongue,” Murtagh said darkly.

The man ignored him and twisted in the direction of Thorn. “Proudback, bentneck, choose, choose, choose, but can’t wake from life, oh no. Serve the sire or sleep forever. What deathless lies may in eons rise, ahahaha!”

And the man said nothing more that resembled coherent speech.

Frustrated, Murtagh stood and continued back through the village. This is pointless, he said to Thorn. They’re all mad. This should be called the village of riddles.

Maybe that is what trapped Galbatorix and the Forsworn.

What? Endless riddles?

Can you think of a better snare for a well-honed mind?

Murtagh couldn’t. I wonder if that addled greybeard is what everyone turns into if they stay in this accursed valley long enough.