Murtagh

“I wonder who it was.” But Murtagh knew: Brom. The old man had lost his dragon during the fall of the Riders, but he had still been a clever spellcaster. Not clever enough to ward off the Ra’zac’s dagger, though.

Esvar shrugged. “Probably one of the Varden. Or maybe a sorcerer from th’ plains. Captain Wren says nomads know all sorts of magic.”

The yellow-haired youth kept chattering as he ushered Murtagh into the storehouse and gathered equipment for him. It wasn’t long before Murtagh found himself fitted into a new set of clothes, with a red tabard over his mail corselet and a warm woolen cloak clasped about his throat. He quite liked the uniform. It was neat and clean, and there was something appealing about the fact that folks would no longer see him as a person apart but as just another member of the guard. There was safety in numbers, after all, and he had never before felt joined to a larger group of like-minded people.

Yet he knew the truth was otherwise, and his disquiet remained.

Along with the clothes, Esvar presented him with a spear, an arming sword—complete with belt and sheath—and a deftly painted kite shield.

“You’ll have t’ talk with Gert about being issued a pike,” said Esvar. “He won’t let new recruits have one till he’s gotten to train ’em.” He made a face. “I’m still stuck with a spear myself.”

As Esvar showed Murtagh around the rest of the compound—the privy, the stables, the mess hall, the smithy, and the small garden where they grew crabapples for cider—he continued to shower him with questions. Murtagh kept his answers short, but when it came out that he had participated in the battles of the Burning Plains and Ilirea, Esvar grew visibly excited, and his questions redoubled.

Murtagh fended them off as best he could while they went to the mess hall for the company’s midday meal. The food was nothing special—half a loaf of dark-brown bread, a bowl of stew, and a mug of small beer—but Murtagh enjoyed what he now knew was the not-so-insignificant luxury of having someone cook for him. Still, it was a muted pleasure. He could not forget his purpose for being there: Silna. Frustration burned within him and dulled his appetite. He wanted nothing more than to act, but until the moment was right, all he could do was bite his cheek and wait.

So he ate and pretended at niceties.

Esvar sat on the other side of one of two long wooden tables that filled the mess hall, still talking. “Did y’ see Eragon, then? And the dragon Saphira?”

“I saw them,” said Murtagh.

“Were you close to them? Did you get to talk with them?”

He shook his head. “No. I only saw them at a distance.”

“Ah,” said Esvar, disappointed. “But still, you were awful lucky to see ’em! I’d love to have th’ chance someday. Can you believe how brave they were t’ face the king and Shruikan, and they killed ’em too!”

Not without my help. Murtagh bit back his annoyance and, in a mild tone, said, “I’m sure they were very brave.”

Esvar didn’t seem to notice. “Supposedly Eragon is only a year older’n me! How strange is that?! Can you imagine being a Dragon Rider? Can you imagine having a dragon! Why, I don’t know what I’d do. Fly to the top of the sky and fight every bandit and traitor I could find.”

Murtagh smiled into his mug and then tipped it toward Esvar. “You know, I believe you would.”

Esvar leaned in toward him, face shining, cheeks reddened with excitement. “Did y’ fight any Urgals at th’ Burning Plains, or had they already joined with the Varden?”

“They’d already joined.”

“That’s too bad. I always wanted to fight an Urgal. But surely you saw some up closelike, yes?”

Sitting at the other table, Gert looked over from the food he was busy shoveling into his mouth with the practiced haste of a man who had been a soldier for most of his life. “Don’t bother Task with so many questions. The man must be half dead from ’em.”

A flush turned the tips of Esvar’s ears bright red. “Yessir. Sorry, sir.” And he bent over his own food.

Murtagh gave the weaponmaster a thankful nod, but Gert looked away without acknowledging it.

At the far end of the tables, several of the guards were talking amongst themselves. With Esvar quieted, Murtagh took the opportunity to eavesdrop.

“—as you will, but th’ queen is still young,” said one man.

“Ah. ’S never too early,” said another. “Till she has an heir, the kingdom won’t be settled. She’d best marry King Orrin, and—”

“That mewler?” broke in a third guard. “Lord Risthart o’ Teirm would be a far better match. Or even our own Lord Relgin. At least he—”

“Old Relgin’s wife might have something t’ say ’bout that,” said the first man, followed by a rather crude suggestion.

As the guards laughed, Murtagh stared into his bowl, his fist tight around the handle of the spoon. The thought of Nasuada marrying any of those men, much less some faceless stranger, filled him with an inexpressible rage.