Murtagh

Still, it was hard to gauge the passage of time without a view of the sky, and he wasn’t sure how long to wait before leaving his quarters. He lit a small fire on the bedroom hearth and watched the flames consume the wood.

His mind refused to rest. Images of the black sun and looming dragon kept intruding, and he found himself planning and overplanning what might happen if he and Thorn had to fight Bachel and the rest of the Draumar.

Whatever happened, he wanted to protect the children. But it would be difficult, very difficult, given the witch’s abilities.

He fished out one of the gold crowns from the pouch on his belt and held it up before the fire. The metal gleamed with an almost mirror-smooth polish. There was a spell on it, he guessed, to preserve the coin from wear.

Nasuada’s sculpted profile remained as mysterious as ever. He brushed a thumb across her cheek and then stopped, feeling as if he’d taken an unwarranted liberty.

She was in danger—he was sure of it—and in no small part from Bachel. And he was determined to help protect her. “If only…,” he murmured, then stopped. Was there a more useless phrase than that? If only he hadn’t convinced Galbatorix to have Nasuada abducted. But if he hadn’t, the king would have killed her instead. As had happened so often in Murtagh’s life, he’d been forced to choose between a pair of evils, and though he tried to pick the lesser of the two, it was evil all the same.

Moody, he put away the coin and stared into the depths of the fire.

He wished he had thought to take the compendium from Thorn’s saddlebags and bring it with him. Reading would have been a welcome distraction. Instead, he turned to composing another poem.

The words came in fits and starts, with little grace, and the lines seemed broken and unpleasant to hear. Still, he kept trying to hammer them smooth, and in the end, he recited to himself:

Fragile is the flower that grows in darkness.

Precious is the flower that blossoms at night.

Their gardeners absent, blind, or uncaring.

But bent and broken petals still have beauty

All their own. Have care where you tread, lest you

Trample the treasures scattered before your feet.

When the fire had burned for what seemed like an hour, Murtagh ground out the embers with the heel of his boot, went to the east-facing windows, and looked down at the men standing guard in the courtyard.

He swore. Instead of two, there were now seven warriors, all of them awake. And upon their mailed chests, he saw the familiar shape of the cultists’ enchanted bird-skull amulet. Bachel was sending him a message. She knew he’d snuck out of his room the previous night, and now she was taking precautions to keep him from doing so again. Seven men or two—the exact numbers didn’t matter. What mattered were the amulets, which might be able to block the spell he had used before.

There was only one way to find out.

“Slytha,” he murmured.

Murtagh felt the slightest decrease of strength, but the men seemed entirely unaffected. “Blast it,” he said between clenched teeth.

Thorn eyed him from where he lay curled upon the flagstones. Do you wish me to remove the men?

The idea was tempting. Not yet. Let me think a moment.

A puff of grey smoke rose from Thorn’s nostrils. The warriors gave him nervous looks.

Murtagh retreated from the windows and paced the room while he considered options. It was his memory of the tangle box that gave him the first hint of a solution. The box had been designed to catch and hold spellcasters who were likewise protected against magic. It had done so through a combination of brute force and by altering the things around an unlucky captive, but not the captive themselves.

We’ll have to be quick, said Murtagh, moving back to the windows.

They won’t escape, replied Thorn.

Murtagh flexed his hands, readying himself. Then he drew in his will and whispered, “Thrysta vindr.” The spell was simple enough, but it was the intent that mattered.

At first the seven warriors didn’t notice that anything was amiss. Then one of them made a curious face and motioned in a panicked way toward the man opposite him. His companion frowned.

Murtagh was already moving. He leapt through the window, slid across the skirt-roof below—barely bothering to slow himself—and dropped to the courtyard.

His sudden appearance startled the men, caused them to seize their spears and train them on Murtagh. But when they attempted to shout and raise the alarm, no sound came from their mouths. For, as Murtagh knew, the spell had hardened the air about their faces so that they could neither inhale nor exhale.