Murtagh

Bachel lowered her arms. She looked at him and Thorn with a distant expression, as if they were of little consequence. When she spoke, her voice was hollow and void of emotion. “Do not try my patience again, Murtagh son of Morzan. I will share the truth with you when I deem fit. Until such time, partake of my hospitality, and be thou not so impertinent.” Then she bent and took Saerlith’s clasp and closed her hand around it. Whereas before Murtagh had felt no magic, no force or impetus radiating from the witch, now he did, and a flash of golden light rayed from between her fingers. She opened her hand to reveal the clasp crushed into a rough orb.

She dropped the orb into the brazier next to the dais, sat upon her litter, and again took up her cup. “Come, my son,” she said. “Sit, and let us forget this unpleasantness and enjoy the remainder of the evening.”

There were, Murtagh had learned, times when the wiser thing was to bide one’s time rather than to rush headlong into battle.

This, he decided, was one of them.

He relaxed his hold on Zar’roc’s hilt and warily lowered himself back into the chair where he’d been sitting. His arms were damp with sweat, and he could barely hear over the blood coursing in his ears.

Then Bachel clapped her hands and said, “Players, again.”

And the musicians resumed plucking at their lyres and singing in their hidden tongue, and throughout the courtyard, the Draumar picked themselves up and began to collect the scattered contents of the feast. Behind the dais, Alín stood cowed and hunched. Her hands trembled as she clenched the front of her white robe.

Thorn settled close behind Murtagh’s back, and he was well glad of the companionship. The dragon’s concern mirrored his own.

We should be gone from here, Thorn said.

I agree.

Then why do we wait? A few seconds, and I can have us in the air.

And the witch can cast her magic as fast as she can think. A cultist offered Murtagh a selection of sweetmeats, and Murtagh feigned a smile and declined. Do you want to fight her right now?

…No.

A moment of grim understanding passed between them. The witch was more capable than either of them had expected, and Murtagh did not want to test their magic against hers, for fear they would fall far short. What she did shouldn’t be possible. No one is strong enough to move that much dirt and rock at once. Not even Shruikan.

If all the Eldunarí worked together, they could.

Maybe. But I’ve already looked with my mind. So have you. There are no Eldunarí here.

Thorn’s breath was hot against the nape of his neck. She could have used a store of energy hidden in gems.

Why waste it on such a demonstration, though? That much energy would be a treasure beyond reckoning. It would take years upon years to acquire. Murtagh resisted the urge to grip Zar’roc again. He wanted the sword in hand, blade drawn, and a shield upon his off arm. And yet he knew now none of it would protect him against Bachel’s power. No, she must have a source of energy that renews itself, and it can’t be that far away.

He looked up as Alín approached with a pitcher of wine and offered him a stone cup. He accepted, and she filled the cup, though she refused to meet his gaze. Then she bowed, said, “My Lord,” and departed.

Still unsettled, Murtagh took a larger drink than was his wont. The wine did little to soothe his nerves. He took another sip, and a thought occurred to him that caused him to lower the cup and stare at the coals in the nearby brazier while he worked out the implications. I think I know why Bachel keeps delaying. She wants us to sleep again. To dream. That’s what she’s waiting for. She said as much earlier, didn’t she? That’s why she asked us to stay through the night. She must believe that the dreams here will somehow convince us to join their cause. Same as with their prisoners.

A soft growl sounded behind him. Then we must not sleep.