Murtagh

He stopped next to the road and waited until an oxen-pulled wagon came up alongside him. The man holding the reins was rawboned, sun-darkened, and had a stalk of green grass hanging from the corner of his mouth. Next to him sat a pair of boys who couldn’t have been older than ten or twelve.

“Pardon me, neighbor,” said Murtagh, putting on a northern accent. “What might be happening over at that there tree?”

The farmer glanced at him sideways and twitched the stalk between his lips. “Tha’s where the dragon’s buried.”

A knot formed in Murtagh’s stomach. “A dragon?”

“Ayuh. An’ an elf too, if’n you believe it.” The two boys peered curiously around the farmer at Murtagh, and the oxen lowed. “Th’ elves burned th’ dragon’s body, an’ grew that tree over th’ ashes.”

Then the wagon rolled past, leaving Murtagh standing alone.

With heavy steps, he resumed walking. He didn’t look at the tree again, and he tried not to think about it. But when he reached the intersection, where the path diverged from the road, he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

He could still see Glaedr’s battered body falling from on high, a burning meteor plummeting toward the bloody mire that footed the world, wings fluttering like wind-torn flags.

Thorn’s mind touched his, and the dragon said, Their fate was not our fault.

Murtagh tensed as he recalled the feeling of Galbatorix entering and seizing control of his mind. The king had used him to kill Oromis, and Thorn to kill Glaedr, although Glaedr still lived on in his Eldunarí. No, but Galbatorix wouldn’t have succeeded without us. Not then. Not there.

A sense of reluctant agreement came from Thorn. I would have liked to have known Glaedr as a friend, not a foe.

And I Oromis. It’s possible we might still have a chance with Glaedr, if ever he allows it.

The memories of dragons run as long and deep as the roots of the mountains. He will not forgive us for killing his Rider.

I suppose not. Murtagh sighed. He couldn’t help but resent Eragon and Saphira for having the chance to study under Oromis and Glaedr. If only we’d had the same opportunities, what could we have become? A useless line of thought, and he knew it, but the sentiment weighed on him all the same.

We have become strong, said Thorn. No one has survived what we have.

Which was true. But despite what Murtagh had told Essie, he believed that some wounds, some scars, were too great to overcome and did nothing to make a person stronger. Quite the opposite. A truly severe injury only left you weakened, imperfect, and there was no fixing most of it.

He kept the feeling to himself. He didn’t want Thorn to ever believe that he viewed the dragon as irrevocably damaged. If anything, Murtagh thought the dragon had a better chance of becoming whole than he did. By the standards of both humans and dragons, Thorn was hardly more than a hatchling, despite how Galbatorix had accelerated his physical growth. He was young, and like magic, youth meant potential. But it would take time for Thorn to heal. Years and years, if not the entire span of their existence.

The pattern of our lives is set so early, he thought. If ever he did have children—and the thought filled him with the deepest trepidation—he knew he would do everything within his power to ensure that their first few years were full of love and joy. If nothing else, then, the children would have those first bright memories to sustain them during the darkness. What better gift from a parent?

Soft as a shadow came words that he felt almost more than heard: “…beautiful boy. What a strong boy. You make me so proud.” His mother’s voice, half remembered, as she’d spoken to him in the hall of Morzan’s castle.

Murtagh’s steps faltered. He leaned on his staff for real then, and stared at the net of cracks in the bare dirt as he waited for the surge of emotion to pass. Was it grief, anger, longing for what he never had?…He couldn’t tell.

Setting aside his feelings, he continued forward. It was all he could do.

***

Gil’ead didn’t have a proper city wall, as did Ceunon and Dras-Leona—in the event of an attack, the commoners were expected to shelter inside the central fortress—but there was still a gatehouse along the main road.

The guards, Murtagh was relieved to see, were just keeping a general watch and made no effort to inspect those who entered.

He lowered his head and hurried past, trying to blend in with the caravan he’d followed.