Murtagh

“Barzûl,” said Nasuada. She stood and paced before the sill, forearms crossed, picking at the lace cuffs on her shortened sleeves.

“Has anyone in your court gone traveling in the past month?”

Nasuada stopped by her chair. “Far too many, I’m afraid. And I can hardly go around accusing my most trusted ministers without an ironclad reason. Are you sure you can’t remember?”

Murtagh spread his hands. “If I could, I would.”

She tapped the sill. “Were you to see this man again, do you think you could point him out?”

Murtagh considered. “I think I might.”

Nasuada nodded. “Then I will see about finding a place of concealment from which you can view my court.”

He stood as well and joined her at the window. His legs felt stronger than before. “There’s no telling who might be working against you.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” said Nasuada. “These Draumar seem to have infiltrated my entire kingdom. Some number of Du Vrangr Gata have allied themselves with the cult, and now I do not even know if I can trust the captains of my army. At every turn, I see plots and schemes and knives lurking in shadows.”

She remained as controlled as ever, but her distress was palpable. Murtagh was not sure how to respond. Unable to think of anything to say, he dared to put a hand on her shoulder.

A quick intake of breath from Nasuada, and she unfolded her arms and looked at him with such an expression, he was not sure whether she found the gesture comforting or whether she was about to call the guards to have him dragged away.

He dropped his hand.

“Stay,” she said in a calm, quiet voice.

“What do you—”

“Don’t go searching for Azlagûr. Not for the time being. Let me send my men instead. Stay here, in Ilirea.”

His throat tightened. “As what?”

“Not as what. For what. For me.” Her gaze burrowed into him, as if searching for some hint of his reaction. “You are the only one I can rely on in these matters. The only person whom I don’t have to worry about being corrupted by gold or magic or promises of power.”

He found it as hard to breathe as in Oth Orum. “Nasuada…How would that work? Your people hate me, especially after what Thorn and I did in Gil’ead.”

“No one need know you are in Ilirea. There are ways. Trust me.”

A harsh laugh escaped him. “Shall I be your secret shame, then? Your pet spellcaster kept locked away in a tower, hidden from all? And what of Thorn? He can’t—”

She stopped him with a hand on the center of his chest. Her skin was warm through his shirt. “I have no desire to cage you, Murtagh. Neither you nor Thorn. I only suggested concealing your presence because I thought it was your desire. If you wish to make yourself known, I will vouch for you before the whole of Alagaësia.”

“Would you?” His question brought her up short. “Have you told your people how we helped kill Galbatorix?”

Speaking carefully, she said, “I have made it clear you are not our enemy, but it takes time for word to spread, and people tend to believe what is easiest. Stay in the shadows if you wish, but if, or when, you are comfortable stepping into the light, you may, and no one—least of all I—will stop you. The choice is yours. Likewise, if you wish to leave, leave. But for now, stay.”

A moment’s pause, and then, in a softer voice still, she added, “I do not ask for reasons of state alone.”

The words were formal, but he recognized their intent, and his heart raced beneath her hand. He placed his own hand atop hers. “I will not swear fealty to Du Vrangr Gata.”

“I know.”

“Nor to the crown. Not yours, not anyone’s.”

She stepped closer. “That too I know.”

He shook his head but did not push her away. “You ask me to trust you, but how can you trust me after what I did to you?” He made no attempt to hide his anguish.

She tipped her head back. Her eyes gleamed with tears. “Because I can. I do.”

He pressed his lips together, every muscle in his body tense, as if to flee. A slight tremor ran through him, and he felt a similar quiver through the back of Nasuada’s hand.

They stared into each other’s eyes, not speaking. A new understanding came to Murtagh then, unfolding within him layers of revelation.

He looked at Thorn, and in response to his questioning thought, the dragon hummed. Yes.

Trepidation gave Murtagh pause. He feared to speak, to step into the unknown. But it was necessary, so he put aside his concerns, though he felt raw and defenseless, vulnerable to the slightest scratch.

“What is it, Murtagh?” she asked in a gentle tone.

He nearly laughed, his pain was so great. “Murtagh. Son of Morzan. So the world knows me and curses me because of it.”

“That is because they do not know you as I do.”

“And yet it is who I am. That is who you want to st—”

Her fingers tightened against his chest. “It is not all you are.”

“No.” He took a shuddering breath. “No, you are right.”

She nodded. “It is a good name. Murtagh. I like it.”