Murtagh

Carabel gave him a withering look. “Whispers and suspicions are not enough to raise a force, rouse a queen, or recall the leader of the Riders. We must have a clear understanding of the threat first.”

“You mean someone needs to go to the village.”

“Go. And return.”

“Maybe. But I would say this”—he poked the amulet—“is proof enough that concern is warranted. That, and the kidnapping of your younglings.”

Carabel’s expression soured. “Again, we do not know if the Dreamers are responsible. Still…perhaps you are right, and this unfortunate trinket is proof enough. Certainly it would be if you were to bring it to Nasuada along with an accounting of what we have learned.”

Murtagh looked at the fireplace, uncomfortable. “You know I cannot.”

“Can’t you? It is said that the queen has some special fondness for you, and—”

Anger dragged his attention back to Carabel’s smirking face. “It is said? Said by whom? You had best watch your words, cat.”

Carabel shrugged, seemingly impervious to his tone. “By those with ears to hear and eyes to see.”

“Well, they know not what they say, and I’ll please you not to insult the queen or me with such slander.”

After a moment, Carabel inclined her angled face. “Of course, Rider. Very well, I shall compose a message for Nasuada directly, but I do not pretend to know how she will respond. It would be best were you to pen a few words of corroboration. Will you agree to this?”

He grunted. “Fine. Yes.”

As the cat collected her writing instruments, Murtagh sank back in his chair, brooding. Captain Wren’s insubordination, the potential undermining of Du Vrangr Gata, the activities of the Dreamers, and the blasted Ra’zac egg—each was a serious matter. Taken together, they might represent a credible threat to Nasuada’s crown.

What if…For a moment, he considered flying to Ilirea, but then he put the idea from his mind. As tempting as it was, doing so would be a mistake for everyone involved, including Nasuada. Her subjects wouldn’t take kindly to their queen publicly treating with the traitor Murtagh.

And besides, whom would she end up sending to investigate the village? Whom could she send? Du Vrangr Gata was not to be trusted, and at any rate, none of its spellcasters were skilled or strong enough to deal with the sort of wordless magic he had encountered. Few were. Eragon, for one, but he was busy protecting the Eldunarí and the dragon eggs, and he would not lightly leave them. Arya and the more accomplished of the elven mages were certainly capable, but Murtagh knew Nasuada would be reluctant to request help from magicians—much less a Rider—who were neither her subjects nor human.

Which left him. Him and Thorn.

The conclusion did not displease Murtagh, even if the unknown was, as always, unsettling. To have a clear and righteous cause to pursue was a rare treasure. By it, they could do good, and not just in a general sense, but for Nasuada specifically. She whom he had so badly hurt.

He roused himself from his brooding as Carabel gave him a sheet of parchment, a pot of ink, and a freshly cut goose-feather quill. Murtagh hesitated, unsure how to start, for he felt a weight of expectations and experiences and feelings unsaid. He shook himself then and focused on what needed saying. Wants would have to wait.

For a few minutes, the scratching of the quill was the only sound aside from the fire. He ended with:

Thorn and I will depart directly to find this village. What we might discover, I cannot say, but if it is a danger to you, your realm, or Alagaësia as a whole, we shall deal with it as need be. On this, you have my word. In any account, you may expect to hear from us upon our return.

He frowned as he stared at the last few lines. He was committing both himself and Thorn to this cause without asking Thorn. He hoped the dragon would not mind.

There was another problem besides. Nasuada did not know his hand, so how could she be sure the letter was from him? He could enchant the parchment, but to what end? She wouldn’t trust a spell from an unknown source. And he didn’t have a signet ring or other token on his person that she might recognize. Which left him with only his words.

He dipped the quill anew into the inkpot. Then, with special care, he wrote:

If you question the hand that scribes these runes, if you suspect my motive and wonder why, then I can only answer by saying—you know why.

Murtagh