Murtagh

Rider, now? She must be truly concerned. Murtagh seated himself, and he and the werecat exchanged a long, grim stare. For the first time, he felt as if they understood each other. “I think,” he said with deliberate care, “that you had best tell me what exactly you know.”

Carabel frowned as she again looked at the amulet. “I suppose you’re right.” She leaned back on her cushion. “Where shall I start?”

***

A faint pop came from the bed of coals in the fireplace, and Silna flicked her ears with annoyance. Outside, in the bailey of the fortress, loud voices sounded. Murtagh kept his gaze fixed on Carabel.

“Start with the witch-woman Bachel,” he said.

The werecat hissed. “Yesss. That one. Very well. For some years now, we have heard rumors—no more than whispers—of strange folk moving through the land. Dreamers, they call themselves, and the few that have been questioned claim to serve this Bachel. Who she is and what she wants remain…uncertain, but it is known that she is capable of weird magics.” The werecat indicated the amulet. “We have sought this secret, human, in our own careful way. We are curious by nature, and unanswered questions attract us as moths to the flame. Five of our kind have ventured into the wilds in search of Bachel, and of those five, none have returned.”

Murtagh listened with growing unease. “Where did they go?”

“Here and there,” said Carabel with an unpleasant smile. “But I suspect…Well, you shall hear. You should know that the Dreamers have become more common. When captured and questioned, they kill themselves without hesitation, but this much seems certain: their influence spreads throughout Alagaësia like roots creeping through the soil. Their kind has been seen dealing with all the races, including the elves and Urgals, and we have scented their meddling in many a dark affair. But again, we know nothing of their goals or causes—only that their pawprints appear ever more frequently, and rarely absent blood or death.”

Another pop sounded in the fireplace.

The werecat continued. “The amulet you found on Arven proves as much. As for where Bachel might be…Every few weeks, ships depart Ceunon and sail north in the Bay of Fundor. Even in the winter, when ice rims the bay and the waves grow steep and dangerous, even then you will find ships that take this journey. They are never gone very long. A few weeks at most, and then they return with their crew grim-faced and closemouthed. The passengers on these ships vary. Often they hide their faces and their minds, but we have seen many a notable merchant and many a scion of a titled family venture forth into the bay, and when they again alight in Ceunon, they often associate with the Dreamers, or else act in ways that seem to aid them.”

Carabel pushed the amulet farther away and then licked her finger, as if to clean it. “Last year, we spoke with one of the sailors who made the journey.”

“And?” asked Murtagh. His voice sounded unusually loud in the room.

The werecat lifted her chin. “He told us of a village set against the Spine. A village where the ground smells of rotten eggs and smoke rises from blackened vents. He told us of these things…and then he died. If your mind is set on finding the witch Bachel, seek you there, O Murtagh son of Morzan.”

Rotten eggs. Brimstone. Exactly what Umaroth had warned him of. Murtagh was glad of the confirmation, and yet it left him with a deep disquiet. But he’d asked for answers, and now he had a start on them. “So the stone Sarros brought me comes from the same place as Bachel?”

Carabel shrugged. “It seems likely, but I cannot say for sure.”

“And what do you think these Dreamers want with werecat younglings?”

Red fire lit her eyes, and she showed her fangs. “Sss. I do not know. Maybe nothing. Maybe this is solely the work of Du Vrangr Gata. Maybe it is a private villainy of Arven. Or Captain Wren. I do not know, but I swear this to you, Rider: I shall not rest until I discover the truth and either rescue or avenge all of our lost children.”

“Good,” said Murtagh in a flat tone. And he meant it. Whoever was responsible deserved the worst possible punishment. If it had been Arven alone, then justice had already been delivered, but he doubted it.

The more Murtagh thought about the situation, the worse he felt. If the Dreamers had infiltrated Du Vrangr Gata—or recruited sympathizers therein—without arousing suspicion, that was alarming enough. But if what the cat said was true, they were operating upon a larger scale, and with a larger goal in mind, and they had already amassed a dangerous amount of influence. The realization made his skin crawl. How could they have escaped notice for so long? What hold did they have upon those they enlisted?

They have to be stopped, he thought. “Have you informed Nasuada of this?”

“Not as yet.”

“Eragon or Arya?”

She shook her head.

“Why not?”