Murtagh

Perhaps you should seek her out, if you feel so strongly about whom she chooses as her mate, said Thorn.

It’s not that simple.

It is as simple as you make it.

If I were a dragon, maybe.

Slight amusement colored Thorn’s response: You are as close to a dragon in human form as I have ever met.

Coming from Thorn, that was no small compliment, and Murtagh knew it. If only I could breathe fire like you.

That’s what magic is for. Then, changing the topic, Thorn said, What do you make of Captain Wren’s intentions?

Murtagh opened his eyes and looked at the first few stars appearing in the orange and pink sky. I don’t know. Politics? Personal ambition? He seems intelligent and devoted to his men, but I have a feeling…

The wood face masks.

Yes. Anyone who has masks like that has an interest in secrets, in hiding themselves, and in magic. It’s a dangerous combination.

An image of the masks passed through Murtagh’s mind as Thorn returned the memory to him for notice. Which mask would you choose?

A short laugh escaped him. None. I wear too many already.

Not with me.

No, not with you.

Then Thorn wished him luck, and they said their farewells, and—with a strange feeling in his heart—Murtagh headed back to the barracks.

***

As Murtagh sat on his cot and started to unlace his boots, Esvar came over and, in a somewhat subdued voice, said, “Look, ah, Task, I’m sorry if I were bothering you earlier.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” said Murtagh. He pulled off his right boot.

“Well, that’s kind of you to say. I just got excited t’ have someone new in our ranks, ’specially one as fought with Eragon and Saphira.”

“Again, it’s fine.” He pulled off his left boot.

Esvar shifted uncomfortably. “Well…I know ’tisn’t easy settling in thisways. It’s a big change joining the guard. Least, it were for me. But…anyways, I wanted you t’ know you’re welcome, an’ I’ll be glad t’ stand watch with you any day, even if’n it is raining.”

The words struck Murtagh to the bone. He stared at the boot in his hand for a moment, and then looked up at Esvar. “That’s very kind of you, Esvar.”

Esvar bobbed his head, embarrassed, and was about to leave when Murtagh said, “Are you standing watch tonight?”

“Me? No, no. I get t’ sleep tonight.”

Good. Murtagh watched Esvar walk back to his own cot. Then he shook his head, undid the clasp of his new cloak, and pulled off his red tabard.

As did the other men, Murtagh stored his clothes and belongings in the chest at the bottom of his cot. To his displeasure, the hinges of the chest made an annoying squeal loud enough to wake anyone who heard it.

It was night then, and Gert stood at the front of the barracks, looking them over with a half-shuttered lantern in his hand. He gave a satisfied grunt. “Right. Turn in. First call is two bells before dawn.” Then he closed the lantern and left through the front door.

The interior of the barracks was profoundly dark, even after Murtagh’s eyes adjusted to the absence of light. The only hint of illumination was a thin beam—pale and indistinct—that slipped through a crack in the shutters facing the stone tower of the officers.

Murtagh lay on his back with his eyes open, listening to the breathing of the other men. The black underside of the curved ceiling was deadly dull, but he was afraid to close his eyes, lest he nod off and lose his chance.

It probably wasn’t much of a risk—the thought of sneaking into the catacombs filled his veins with too much fire for sleep to be a likely prospect—but it was best to be cautious. Any mistakes in the barracks could prove fatal. If not for him, then for the men around him, and Murtagh preferred to avoid fighting them.

As long as he did everything right, no one should know what he had done or where he had gone. He felt sorry about Esvar—the youth’s optimism and enthusiasm were bright spots of positivity in the day, but some things couldn’t be helped.

Time passed with creeping slowness. Murtagh tried counting the beats of his heart, but that only made the minutes seem even longer.

He was determined to wait until at least an hour past midnight before he chanced the catacombs. That would allow the guards plenty of time to fall asleep, and it might even be long enough for the man standing watch underground to nod off.

At least Murtagh hoped so.