Murtagh

Upon returning to the temple courtyard, he and Thorn found the cultists preparing another feast. Tables and chairs and hides had again been placed around the defunct fountain, with braziers of burning coals between and bedded fires laden with spitted meat.

The food was far from ready, so Murtagh retired to his chambers for a time. He tried to nap, but his mind was too agitated for sleep. Instead, as he lay on the bed with his eyes closed, he risked reaching out with his thoughts and lightly searching the village and the area beneath it, looking to see if there were large numbers of people hidden nearby. He found a few bright sparks of consciousness where he didn’t expect—one beneath the temple, and several clustered atop its highest tower—but no great hordes hidden away, no army lying in wait to storm south and overrun Alagaësia.

It should have been a relief, but he remained as tense as ever.

At last he rolled back to his feet, returned to the courtyard, and went to sit with Thorn. There, at least, he felt somewhat more at ease.

As the sun crept downward, Grieve emerged from the temple and began to oversee the proceedings. Then too came Bachel.

No longer in her hunting garb, the witch wore a dress of fine wool dyed a purple so dark as to be nearly black, and a new headpiece adorned her brow, this of gold and silver studded with ruby cabochons. A heavy woolen cloak, red as autumn leaves, wrapped about her shoulders.

She greeted Murtagh and Thorn and proceeded to her dais. There a group of white-robed acolytes gathered in a circle about her, and they began to sway while they chanted and hummed. Murtagh did not see Alín among their ranks.

Bachel stood head and shoulders above the acolytes, her height augmented by the platform beneath her. She swayed in time with her acolytes, eyes half closed, arms raised toward the sky as if to beseech an unseen god for favor.

A strange people, Thorn commented.

Murtagh grunted.

After a few minutes, Alín scurried over. She avoided his gaze and said, “How may I serve you and Thorn, my Lord? May I bring you something to drink?”

Murtagh waved away the suggestion. “What is she doing?” he asked, motioning toward Bachel.

“She is praying for warm weather through the winter, my Lord. And she is calling forth dreams to free the minds of the thralls our warriors have brought us.”

Something about Alín’s phrasing bothered Murtagh, but he wasn’t sure why. “And to whom does Bachel pray?”

Alín backed away. “I will bring you wine and cheese, my Lord, to tide you over until the feast.”

“Wait, that’s not—”

But the young woman was already hurrying off, her head down and her hood up.

Murtagh let out a soft growl and settled back against Thorn. What do dreams have to do with convincing prisoners to join their cause? he said. If the dreams are anything like the ones we had, they’ll just want to leave.

A small puff of smoke rose from Thorn’s nostrils. Perhaps they dream differently than we do. The witch said not everyone here has such visions.

“Mmm.” Murtagh wasn’t persuaded.

Bachel continued to sway and chant with her followers until Grieve struck a brass gong, whereupon she clapped her hands and cried, “Let us eat! Kingkiller, join me.” Then she sank back to her litter on the dais.

He reluctantly went to join her.

***

Murtagh bided his time throughout the feast, waiting for the right moment to confront the witch. Hungry though he was, he ate but little, preferring not to weigh down his stomach before whatever was to come. It was a pity; the few bites he took of the boar he had killed were delicious. In that, Bachel had told the truth. The fungus-fed meat was remarkably good, better than any he’d had, even in Galbatorix’s court. It was moist and savory and sweet and had an intensely nutty flavor. Whatever their other flaws, the cultists knew how to cook pork to perfection.

As they ate, he posed a number of questions to Bachel, casual inquiries that she deflected at every turn. He might as well have been trying to extract information from a stone. In a way, he was grateful. The witch’s refusal confirmed that he and Thorn were doing the right thing by choosing to confront her.

Murtagh kept a tight leash on his temper, but he felt it rising as he readied himself for action. He had never been one to sit by idly, and always restrictions and impositions had rankled. Bachel’s evasions were both of those and more: she was disrespecting him in front of her people.