Murtagh

CHAPTER XVI Waking Dreams

The witch tormented him for hours. Always she kept asking him to break or bend.

Always he refused.

But he gave her everything else she demanded. When she ordered him to agree, he agreed. When she told him to turn his head or say that the Varden’s cause had been wrong and misguided, he obeyed. It was a trick he’d learned in Urû’baen. If he agreed, it bought him a slight reprieve, physically and mentally. If he was cooperative, that mollified Bachel to a certain extent. But on the core issue, he never budged, and as much as he could, he deflected and dissembled and otherwise tried to frustrate the witch’s efforts.

Had he not been drugged, he would have attempted to seize Bachel’s mind and make her his own servant. As it was, he could only endure.

Nor was the witch solely interested in his compliance. She questioned him about Eragon and Saphira, Arya and Fírnen, and specifically the state of Nasuada’s realm, including the dispersion of the magicians of Du Vrangr Gata, the postings of the realm’s armies, and many other useful pieces of intelligence. Much of what she asked, Murtagh had no special knowledge of, though Bachel did not always believe him and pressed him hard on every point.

Her questions taught him two things in return. First was that Bachel seemed to think a full-scale attack on Nasuada’s realm was not only desirable but an actual possibility. With what army? And second, that Bachel and the Draumar were far better informed than their numbers or location seemed to indicate. How many sympathizers have they?

Such coherent thoughts appeared only in the brief respites between Bachel’s attentions. Most of the time, Murtagh drifted amid a haze of pain, unable to make sense of anything but his need to escape the witch’s clutches.

And…he was scared.

The fear did not cause him to turn coward, but the more he saw of Bachel’s distorted visage, and the more he felt of her red-tipped claws, and the more her intruding consciousness pulled at the most intimate parts of his self, the greater his terror grew.

Many difficult things Murtagh had done in his life, many shameful, bloody things, some forced upon him, some born of his own weakness, but there and then was the greatest challenge he had faced. Because unlike with Galbatorix, he could not—would not—allow himself to give in. He knew what torments lay down that path, and they were worse than any physical pain.

Or so he told himself. But because of it, there was no end in sight, and that made it difficult to sustain hope.

He tried not to think, only do what had to be done in the unfounded, perhaps futile expectation that, at some point, at some time, Bachel would tire of him and direct her cruelty elsewhere.

Nasuada’s face often filled his mind, her expression sometimes soft with sympathy, other times contorted with pain and fear, and Murtagh found himself forced to remember what he had done to her in the Hall of the Soothsayer. The suffering he had inflicted was no less than what he now endured, and the knowledge made his stomach turn. There was a part of him that welcomed his torture as penance for his crimes. But no matter how great the agony, the mistakes of the past remained a testament to his failures.

Bachel noticed, for as he struggled with his memories, she brought her face close to his and studied him with cold amusement. “What would your queen think of you now?” she murmured. “Would she pity you? No, I think she would be disgusted by your weakness, my helpless little princeling. ’Tis a fatal weakness, one you will never recover from, unless you swear fealty to me and Azlagûr.”

“…no.”

Her claws descended, and he screamed again.

After an endless while, the witch grew bored with him. She drew forth another crystal vial from her bodice, unstoppered it, and blew a fresh cloud of vapor upon his face.

Murtagh held his breath, but as with Thorn, the cloud clung to him, and when at last his lungs gave out, the putrid stench of brimstone clogged his nose and mouth, and the room tilted beneath him, and everything that was solid seemed insubstantial.

Save for Bachel. She retained her sense of substance. Her face grew impossibly large as she leaned over him and said, “We shall try again tomorrow, Kingkiller. Let that knowledge fill your thoughts. In the meantime, may the Breath of Azlagûr bring you wisdom through dream, and dreaming shall you find your way.”

Her face receded. “Take him to the well before you return him to his chamber. His smell offends me.”

“As you wish, Speaker,” replied a man from beyond Murtagh’s vision.

Then the witch swept out of the room, and unseen hands removed the manacles from Murtagh’s wrists and ankles. They dragged him through the building, and for a time, all Murtagh was aware of were the bumping of his legs across the stone floor, the strain in his arms and shoulders, and the bobbing of his head, which made him queasy.