Murtagh

How difficult her position is. The men were right. If Nasuada didn’t produce an heir in the next few years, the crown would rest uneasy upon her head, and the continuity of her lineage and the peace the Varden had fought so hard for would be in jeopardy.

Murtagh didn’t want to think about whom Nasuada might have to choose as her consort. The demands of statehood and diplomacy made no allowances for personal feelings. Nasuada would do what was best for her realm, and as for him…if he could work from the shadows and help keep Alagaësia stable, perhaps he could buy her some more time to consolidate her rule.

He forced himself to keep eating, even though his appetite had deserted him.

It wasn’t long before Esvar started talking again. He didn’t ask so many questions as earlier but instead went on about the guards, Captain Wren, and his own experience in the company (all two months of it), as well as his life in general. Murtagh was happy to listen; he’d spent so long with only Thorn for conversation, the sound of another human’s voice was in itself rewarding. But he also found interesting the things that Esvar considered important.

Only a handful of years separated the two of them, and yet Murtagh felt as if he were decades older. Esvar’s mind was full of dreams of daring, adventure, and honor. He nearly worshipped Captain Wren and others he considered to be shining examples of heroic accomplishment, including, of course, Eragon. And he was devoted to the guards with the fevered conviction of youth or the newly converted.

Over the course of his talking, it came out that Esvar’s father had died in a storm, out on Isenstar Lake, when Esvar was only seven. At that, Murtagh felt a sympathetic pang; he understood Esvar’s need to find guidance and a sense of purpose. It was an almost physical longing.

Esvar had an additional motivation for joining the guards, one Murtagh had never experienced: a need to provide. As he said, “An’ this ways I can give coin to my ma, and she doesn’t have to spend so much of th’ day at the market. I’m able t’ put bread an’ meat on the table, and my sisters can get a new dress each year, both of ’em.”

“That must make you proud,” said Murtagh.

Esvar nodded, but his expression was serious. “It’s an awful responsibility, though. If something were to happen to me while on duty…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“No,” said Murtagh. None of them had any shield against the vagaries of fate. Not even Dragon Riders were safe from tragedy.

After they ate, Murtagh attempted to return to the barracks while the rest of the men were still in the mess hall, but Esvar forestalled him, saying, “What for? Y’ have everything y’ need, Task. ’Sides, Gert’ll be wanting us on th’ field.”

Murtagh clenched a fist even as he forced a smile. “Of course. After you.”

With Esvar, he joined the guards who weren’t stationed on watch in drilling with spear and pike in the yard. It was an odd experience. Murtagh had always trained alone or with a single instructor, such as Tornac, and he had never fought as part of a massed formation, not even in Farthen Dûr. Moving in unison with the other men, shouting as they shouted, stamping his feet against the ground as they lunged and stabbed, advanced and retreated…there was a comfort to the experience. Murtagh found himself relaxing, feeling as if he could stop the run of his thoughts and simply exist.

For the first time, he realized how appealing it was to follow instead of lead. The guards could trust Gert and Captain Wren to think for them. All they had to do in turn was obey. Which, admittedly, was sometimes easier said than done. Even so, the effort of drilling or standing watch paled in comparison to the responsibilities of command.

As the sun descended, and their boots kicked up a haze of golden dust in the yard, Murtagh felt a sudden and strong regret that he couldn’t stay. That he had to break his oath to Captain Wren and—yet again—prove himself a liar and betrayer.

Murtagh’s enjoyment of the moment turned to bitter ashes, and his mood remained dark and dour throughout the rest of the drilling.

Afterward, as he and Esvar replaced their weapons on the racks along the yard, the yellow-haired guard said, “It wears y’ down some, but it always feels good t’ practice, don’tcha think?”

Murtagh grunted.

Esvar misunderstood. “Ah, don’t let it get t’ you. Few days of it, an’ you won’t even notice th’ weight of a spear.”

Once more, Murtagh attempted to return to the barracks, only for Gert to quickly remind him of the downside of belonging to the company: the lack of personal freedom. The weaponmaster set them to drawing water for the scullery, and then there were shirts of mail to oil and stables to muck and stocks and stores to organize.

Captain Wren, Murtagh soon came to understand, did not believe in letting his men stand idle when not on watch.