Murtagh

A wry smile formed on Murtagh’s face. “You’re wiser than you look, for a big lizard.”

Thorn nudged him with his snout. And you’re as stubborn as you look.

“You’re right. But not tonight. Tonight I’ll bend my knee to your learned advice.”

Thorn snorted.

The night cold returned Murtagh’s attention to the task at hand. He submerged his clothes in the creek and left them soaking there, weighted down with stones. Then he wrapped himself in his blanket and sat huddled against Thorn’s warm belly while he ate one of his few remaining dried apples. His teeth chattered between bites.

When he finished, he and Thorn went to speak their true names, as was their nightly ritual. Thorn named himself first and without difficulty, but when Murtagh tried to do likewise, he found himself unable. Something felt amiss with his name as it had been, and thus he could not speak it, for to speak it would have been a falsehood in the ancient language.

Thorn waited patiently. It was not the first time this had happened. On occasion, one or the other of them—or both—had changed, and that change was reflected in their names. Were it a small difference, new understanding was often quick to come. But when a fundamental part of their selves shifted—as it had in Urû’baen, when they broke free of Galbatorix—then understanding could be elusive and hard-fought.

Tired as he was, Murtagh had little stomach for introspection. All the same, he persisted. It was important to the two of them that they maintained a full sense of their selves.

So he thought. He had a suspicion as to the cause of his difficulty, and when he noticed he was reluctant to pursue a certain line of inquiry, he knew then he was on the right path. The change had to do with Glaedr’s death, and the battle for Gil’ead, and all the lives that had been lost therein. For them, he felt a greater sense of remorse, and for himself, a greater sense of grief and shame. The realization left him diminished and far less certain about his past choices. Even though he and Thorn hadn’t been in control of their own actions at the time—even though they’d been Galbatorix’s oath-bound thralls—Murtagh realized he still felt responsible for what they’d done. At a certain point, the reasons didn’t matter. The deeds remained, and the consequences thereof, and their reality was a pain greater than any wound.

The emotions were enough to alter the fabric of his character, if however slightly, and as a result, his true name. He gave voice to his newfound knowledge, and the sound of it was even more stark and discomfiting than before.

Yet as always, Thorn listened and accepted without judgment, and for that, Murtagh was deeply grateful. Then he lay beside Thorn, and they rested close together as the cold of the night pressed in about them.

***

Fleshless fingers reached toward him through flickering water. They closed around his ankles with an icy touch. He struggled to break free, but his strength had deserted him and the bones that bound him were as hard as iron.

He couldn’t breathe…couldn’t escape….

The skeletons of the fallen soldiers rose from the torn lakebed, an army of accusers, pointing at him, reaching for him, desperate to take his warmth, his breath, his life—to tear him apart and seize what they had lost and he still possessed.

Murtagh woke with a start, heart pounding. It was pitch-black beneath Thorn’s wing. His skin was coated with sweat, and he felt both chilled and hot, and the back of his throat was raw and swollen. No, not now, he thought. Of all the times to get sick…And, of course, it happened as soon as he’d entered cities and spent time around other people.

Thorn was watching him through a slitted eye. If we stayed away from others, you would not have to worry about such things.

“I had the same thought,” said Murtagh. “But what kind of life would that be?”

A peaceful one.

“Mmh.” He lay still for a moment and tried to decide whether it was worth closing his eyes again. It felt as if he had only gotten three or four hours of sleep. Maybe less.

He sat up and rubbed his face, conscious of every bump and bruise he’d taken the day before.

The sun will not show for some time, said Thorn.

“I know.” Murtagh crawled out from under the dragon’s wing and looked to the east. The faintest hint of grey lightened the horizon, the first presage of far-off dawn.