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As she withdrew, Alín bobbed to Murtagh and murmured, seemingly out of habit, “Kingkiller.” Murtagh winced, and her cheeks paled as she realized what she’d said. She ducked her head and hurried away.

Once Alín was departed, and the doors closed, Nasuada turned her gaze on Murtagh. He found it difficult to meet her eyes, but meet them he did. “Was it well done?” she asked.

“It was,” he said. Of her own and with no standing to her name, Alín would have found it difficult to make her way outside Nal Gorgoth without patronage or protection of a sort Murtagh was in no position to supply. Elevating her to a royal maid was an act of charity on the part of Nasuada, but he knew there was more to it than that. Kings and queens could not afford to think of charity alone. Alín was their strongest link to the Draumar, and their best source of information on the cult. It was wise of Nasuada to keep her close, and to earn her loyalty that others might not turn Alín against them. Very well done indeed, he thought.

“She holds you in high regard,” said Nasuada, and there was no mistaking the slight edge to her voice.

In an unaffected manner, Murtagh replied, “And I hold her in high regard. If not for Alín, Thorn and I would still be at Bachel’s mercy.”

“Mmm.”

“And because of that, I thank you for the kindness you have shown her.”

After a moment, Nasuada relented. “It was only right.”

“Alín was most devoted to Bachel, but Bachel betrayed her trust. She will not give her loyalty again so easily, I think, but once she sees your fairness and honor and goodness of character, I am confident she will be likewise devoted to you. She needs someone whom she can respect and believe in.”

“Are you that person?”

He turned to face her square on, his expression frank. “I have neither the reason nor the desire to command her or anyone else. Those days are long since behind me.”

“Is that so?” Nasuada picked up one of the chalices resting on the sill and sipped from it. “Kingkiller. I’ve not heard that title before.”

“I never aspired to be called so.”

“Didn’t you? You wished Galbatorix dead many a time. And you chose to kill Hrothgar.”

Before her bluntness, he had no defense. “I did. I was…angry.”

She nodded. “My father and Hrothgar were friends. Did you know that? Even when they were at odds, they respected each other, and they often found time to talk on subjects unrelated to the responsibilities of rule. I knew Hrothgar nearly all my life. In many ways, he was the closest thing I had to an uncle.”

There was no accusation in her voice, only a straightforward statement of fact underlaid with sadness.

Murtagh looked down at Ithring and Niernen. “Do you blame me for killing Hrothgar?”

She was slow to answer, but her voice was firm when she spoke. “Yes. I do.” His heart sank, and he looked up to see her facing him with the same level of frankness he had displayed. “But I understand.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond.

To his relief, she shifted her attention to the sword and reached out to touch the crimson sheath. “The crest here is different than I remember.”

“It changed when I renamed it.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Zar’roc? You can do that?”

“I can. I did.” And he told her the new name.

Her expression softened then, and she murmured: “Ithring. Freedom…It is a good name. Better than Zar’roc.”

Murtagh was surprised by how much her approval meant to him. Pensive, he slid a hand across the smooth coolness of the sheath, still unaccustomed to the new meaning associated with the weapon. Then he placed the sword, Glaedr’s scale, and the brass goblet on the floor next to his chair and held up Niernen, so the tip pointed toward the ceiling. “I fear we may need the Dauthdaert more than my sword.”

Nasuada gazed up at the lance’s glowing blade. “Will you carry it?”

“I think so. Along with Ithring.”

“A Rider wielding a spear meant for killing a dragon. The elves will not approve, I think.”

“Why shouldn’t they? As long as it does not bother Thorn—”

Carry as many teeth or claws as you need, the dragon said.

Murtagh tipped Niernen toward Thorn in acknowledgment. “Then so I shall.”

A frown drew together Nasuada’s brows. “You did not explain how this weapon ended up in the clutches of the Draumar.”

“If I knew, I would have— Ah!” Murtagh made a face as another memory rose to the front of his mind. “Wait.” He carefully placed the lance on the floor, next to Ithring. “I saw someone among the visitors who came to Nal Gorgoth. Someone I recognized from among the Varden. Someone in your circle of advisers.”

Nasuada’s frown deepened. “Who?”

“I don’t know. I don’t. I’ve tried to remember, but I can’t. The effects of the Breath were too strong. Thorn, do you—”

The dragon shook his long head. No. I know the one you speak of, but I can no more name him than can you.

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