Murtagh

Words in the ancient language.

Words with definitions.

Excitement shot through him as he realized what he was holding. A dictionary! His lips moved as he sounded out several of the entries: “Flauga, flautja, flautr…” Of all the valuables in the chamber, a compendium of the ancient language was by far the most precious.

The book released a small puff of dust as he closed it. Hardly able to believe his good luck, Murtagh carefully placed it in the pouch on his belt and continued forward.

Two steps farther, he found a small ornate box full of faceted gems. He picked up a teardrop-shaped yellow diamond nearly as big as his thumbnail and, on a hunch, attempted to touch it with his mind. A torrent of coiled energy twisted and turned before his inner eye, constrained by the substance of the gem.

He withdrew his mind and smiled a crooked smile, bouncing the gem on his palm. After a moment’s thought, he tucked the diamond into the hem of his cloak, where no one was likely to find it. Having extra equipment was always a good idea, whether it was a weapon, armor, or—in this case—energy to fuel his spells.

The more Murtagh looked, the more questions he had. The room seemed to be devoted to the study of all things magical. On a shelf was a line of bottled liquids labeled with such words as Health, Strength, Fire, and so forth. Potions, he guessed, enchanted to achieve certain effects.

Deep disquiet stirred within Murtagh. Was Wren the magician who used the room? Or was there another? Some unknown spellcaster who lurked in Gil’ead while engaged in arcane study? And what invidious need could they possibly have for werecat younglings?

He touched one of the ribs along the walls. The bone was cool and smooth against his hand, and he felt a pang imagining it was Thorn’s. But he was not sure how much sorrow he felt for Morzan’s dragon. The creature had chosen to serve Galbatorix as much as Morzan had himself; they were both culpable for their sins. As are we all, he thought.

He hurried through the rest of the room. Surely he couldn’t be far from Silna now, though he feared what he might discover when he found her. If she was even there.

Yet another door met him at the far end, and it too differed from those that came before. The lancet structure was made of a single piece of yellowed dragon bone. Perhaps a shoulder blade or a section of enormous skull. An iron ring hung from the center of the door. Embedded above it was a decorative pattern of gems of all different colors: rubies and emeralds and rainbowed diamonds. Tourmaline, star sapphires, and banded chrysoberyl.

Wary, Murtagh touched one of the stones. As he suspected, it contained a notable amount of energy.

He lowered his hand. The door was trapped. That seemed obvious. And if he triggered the trap, there was a good chance it would alert the magician who had made the door. At least, that was how Murtagh would have done it.

Or was it? What if the magician were on the other side of Alagaësia? Alerting them might take a prohibitive amount of energy.

Murtagh scratched his chin, thinking. He could just trigger the trap and trust his wards to protect him, but…that was hardly the smartest path forward. The question was, what would it take to outthink the magician who had enchanted the door? If the spellcaster were clever enough, doing anything to meddle with the door or its surroundings would set off an alarm. Even the Name of Names was no guarantee that Murtagh could completely subvert someone else’s spells, as his experience with Muckmaw had taught him.

Blast it. I can’t waste time.

He paced back and forth, debating. What if he tunneled around the door? That would take a lot of energy; he’d be exhausted by the time he broke through into the room on the other side. And there was a good chance that the walls surrounding the next room were enchanted with some sort of warning spell as well. Again, it was what he would do.

Murtagh squatted and rested his head in his hands. To subvert a ward, you had to think in a sideways fashion. Which was hard—very hard—but in a way, that was the point. The difficulty of imagining a new approach was what protected the person or thing behind the ward.

He imagined inverting a sphere without breaking it. He imagined moving in a straight line down a right angle. Every impossible action that his mind could conceive, he thought of.

A small smile formed on his lips. Perhaps…Eragon had defeated Galbatorix not by trying to hurt him but by trying to help him understand the consequences of his own actions—an approach that neither the king nor his many enemies over the years had thought of. It was possible that a similar indirect approach might work on the door.