Murtagh

Carabel shook her head. “No. I want you to find the youngling who was taken. All of the younglings, if possible, but I fear only the one may yet be saved. Silna is her name. We tracked her through the city—a werecat’s nose is hard to fool—and we know where she might be.”

“But you can’t get to her.”

The werecat blinked. Her lashes were as long and fine as the silk atop summer grass. “There is a certain captain of the city guard. Captain Wren. In the barracks he has command over, there is a set of stairs that lead underground to a room where he and his officers meet once every sevenday. Past that room are certain other chambers, and at the end of them is a door that never opens. We suspect Silna might be found therein.”

Murtagh frowned. A captain of the city guard…The implications were unpleasant. “Do you think this Captain Wren is responsible for taking Silna?”

“We do not know.”

“And just how many werecats are in Gil’ead?”

The tips of her ears twitched. “More than you might think, human.”

He let that pass. “Who else has access to those chambers?”

“Again, we do not know. There may be an entrance from the other side, some secret tunnel we have yet to discover.”

His frown deepened. “Have you spoken to Lord Relgin about this? I assume not.”

Carabel let out a sharp breath. “We are werecats, but still, at heart, we are cats. We are the ones who walk through doors. Always and ever. But we cannot walk through the door beneath the barracks, which means there is magic at work, and none there are in Relgin’s service fit to deal with such things. It is a task for a Rider. Besides…there is always a chance that Wren or someone in his command was given orders from above.”

The more she spoke, the more troubled Murtagh felt. He turned the staff in his hand. “What about Du Vrangr Gata? Surely they could help.”

A low coughing, spitting sound issued from Carabel. “I would not trust them to catch a mouse with three broken legs. Pah!”

“And you need someone you can trust.”

She met his gaze and held it. “Yes.”

Murtagh wondered about the elves. That Carabel had not mentioned them was answer enough, but he was curious as to the reason. Elves and werecats did not seem entirely dissimilar, and if bad blood lay between them—or even just a basic dislike—he was interested in knowing why. A question for another time.

His thoughts returned to Silna. In his mind, he pictured a child huddled alone in a bare stone cell. He could imagine all too well the cold, the pain, the anger, and the despair she might be feeling. Had he not shared those same torments when the Twins had deposited him in the dungeon beneath the citadel at Urû’baen? Worst of all had been the uncertainty, not knowing what fresh outrages one moment or the next might bring.

Nor had that been his only experience in such a helpless, dire situation. He still remembered with painful vividness when, at fourteen, he’d snuck out of Urû’baen without permission or accompaniment. That evening, he’d tried to slip back in through the main gates, and the soldiers standing watch had caught him. Not recognizing him, they threw him into one of the cells buried beneath the guard tower. Galbatorix had been absent from the city at the time, along with his entire retinue. No one remained whom Murtagh could call upon to confirm his identity. So there he had languished for a week and three days, convinced he would die in sunless confinement and that no one would know or care.

In the end, Galbatorix returned, and word of Murtagh’s plight somehow reached the court, for the king’s then chamberlain had come to see to his release. After which the chamberlain promptly had Murtagh soundly beaten for the trouble he had caused.

Murtagh suppressed a shiver. He could still smell the dampness of the cell and feel the cold of the stones seeping into his bones. And yet, despite his familiarity with the distressing realities of Silna’s likely plight—and his compassion for her—he resented Carabel using the youngling to secure his help. Doubly so because he knew he would hate himself if he walked away.

“Fine,” he ground out from between his teeth. “I’ll do it. But not for you, nor even for myself. For Silna.”

Carabel nodded. “Whatever you find behind that door, the race of werecats will be grateful and count you as a friend, Murtagh son of Morzan.”

Stop calling me that! “Where are the barracks?”

Her hair bristled slightly. “It is not that simple.”

“Why shouldn’t it be? I’ll walk in and open the door, magic or no, and if anyone dares stop me, I’ll—”

“No!” She dug her claws into the arms of her chair, and for a moment, Murtagh thought she might leap across the desk. “If you rouse the alarm, Silna might be spirited away before you can reach her. Or worse, killed. The risk is too great. And you do not know what spells may have been deployed in that place.”

Murtagh inclined his head. “So how am I supposed to gain entrance without attracting unwanted attention?”