Murtagh

Once Lyreth came to Murtagh and stood before him while gnawing on a leg of lamb. The young nobleman was fever-eyed and disheveled, and his movements had a sharp, birdlike quality, as if he were overly excited. “Did you enjoy those dreams last night, Murtagh? Eh?” And he poked Murtagh in the chest with the end of the leg. The meat left a grease stain on his woolen jerkin. Lyreth took another bite, his eyes wandering across the courtyard. “It was a singular experience. That’s why I wanted to stay, to see if what Bachel said is true. I dreamt of my father and…” A strange smile lifted one corner of his mouth, and he looked back at Murtagh. “Enough of that. How do you like this, Murtagh? Here you are, a faithful servant to the throne again. Even if you sit upon the throne in Urû’baen, yours is ever to be the slave and not the master. You and your dragon both.” He laughed in a most unpleasant way. “How do you like seeing the foundations of the future, Murtagh? These Draumar may be inauspicious material from which to alter the course of history, but from small seeds may tall trees grow.” He poked Murtagh in the chest again and then, with a smirk, returned to his seat.

For his part, Murtagh stood. He stood and he kept trying to force his mind to access the energy in the yellow diamond. Surely the vorgethan couldn’t still be in his body!

The dull disk of the sun arced across the sky. The smoke never lessened, and no breath of wind arose to give them relief. Beneath the stifling blanket of haze, it grew increasingly warm—as if the earth itself were heated—and the whole village seemed to labor beneath an obsessive presence. Murtagh could not shake the feeling he’d had in his dream, of cowering on the blasted plain before the rising abomination, far in the distance….

The ceremonies went on. Endless rites, obscure and meaningless to Murtagh, but clearly of deep value to the cultists. Bachel spoke at times, in the same manner she often did, of the riches and rewards destined to those who followed their faith. The discordant music continued, and between that and the smoke, a pounding headache formed at the base of Murtagh’s skull. His eyeballs throbbed with every beat of a drum or crash of a cymbal.

Then the observances came to an end, and the villagers fell to feasting. That, at least, Murtagh was familiar with. Great servings of food were brought forth from the temple kitchens and from dwellings throughout Nal Gorgoth. Boar meat and venison and mushrooms prepared in a dizzying variety of dishes. Wine too, and mead, and bergenhed, and aspic, and loaves of fresh-baked bread, and more besides. Pies, savory and sweet. Deep dishes of creamy soup, wedges of hard and soft cheeses, berry tarts. All manner of sumptuous food.

Bachel’s servants filled her dented brass goblet with wine, and with his thoughts now clearer, Murtagh recognized the goblet as that which he had found in the tower of Ristvak’baen. His neck stiffened, and he clenched his jaw. The witch continued to pile presumption upon presumption.

Throughout the evening, Murtagh ate when ordered to. He knew it would help keep up his strength, but he had no stomach for food.

He saw Alín on occasion, moving about the courtyard, tending to the guests, helping with the serving, rushing to obey Bachel’s orders. As with the other Draumar, she wore a scaled outfit, and it gave the acolyte a darker, more serious appearance than Murtagh was used to.

***

The feasting continued for hours. The flock of crows remained for the duration, white eyes fixed on the bounty laid out before them. Bachel appeared to have no interest in feeding the birds, but they did not defy her and take flight. As she ordered, so they obeyed.

Lyreth and his companions consumed cup after cup of wine. They seemed to view the entire festival as a lighthearted affair, no different from the themed parties so common among the nobles of Galbatorix’s court. Murtagh knew better, but he would not have warned them even if he could. Some wisdom, he thought, was best acquired through experience.

As the orange smoke-darkened disk of the sun approached the peaks of the western mountains—which were visible only as dusky silhouettes beneath the sinking orb—the villagers cleared the food from the courtyard and lit the braziers.

Then Bachel did say, “Bring in the offerings!”

A parade of gifts followed. Wooden carvings, small and large, plain and painted, simple and complicated. It seemed as if the villagers had spent the entire year chiseling away at a piece of hardwood in their spare time. The sculptures would have horrified most any artist in Alagaësia, no matter their race, for they were the shape of dreams: distorted, angular, structured according to flawed, uncomfortable logic. In them, Murtagh recognized fragments of his own brimstone-born nightmares.

Each sculpture, Bachel accepted with grace and thanks. She made no distinction in quality; simply creating a piece seemed sufficient to satisfy the traditions of the Draumar.