Murtagh

The final sentence was a temerity. He knew that. But he couldn’t think of anything else to write that he was confident Nasuada would believe was from him. He’d uttered those last three words to her—and her alone—in the dark grimness of the Hall of the Soothsayer. It was the closest he had ever come to confessing his feelings for her, and while it felt like an imposition to mention them now, when the situation was so much changed, he had no other choice.

He felt older than his years as he blotted the letter and wiped dry the quill. He folded the sheet and then melted a few drops of Carabel’s red sealing wax onto the seam of the parchment.

“There,” he said, feeling a sense of resolution.

“My thanks,” said Carabel. “I am in your debt, human, as are werecats everywhere.”

He inclined his head. “No thanks are required.”

A small smile appeared on Carabel’s face. “Perhaps not, but they’re still polite. How do you plan to proceed, then?”

Murtagh rubbed his right elbow as he thought; the joint still hurt from the thrashing Muckmaw had given him. “I realize this is another question, cat, but perhaps you’ll humor me and answer.”

Her expression grew wicked. “Perhaps I shall,” she said.

“How do you think I should proceed?”

The cat wiggled on her cushion, tufted ears perking up. The corner of her shift slid off to bare one shoulder. “Sssah. Very well, but I will warn you, human. Advice serves those giving it as much or more than those receiving it.”

“I’ll take that risk.”

“Then I say this: it is better to open doors than to wait for them to be opened. And it is better to know what is on the other side of a door before it opens.”

Murtagh understood. He rose and gave her a small bow and a smaller smile. “I thank you for your advice, werecat Carabel.”

She sniffed and examined her fingernails again. “You are welcome, human.”

Outside, in the bailey, shouts sounded—captains rallying their troops. To Murtagh’s ear, it seemed as if the entire city garrison was being assembled in the yard.

Carabel noticed as well. She turned her head, and the thin morning light entering through the loophole window made the tufts on her ears glow. “I think you had best be off, human, lest Lord Relgin get the idea to search the keep. He’s annoyingly imaginative sometimes.”

“I’ll bid you farewell, then, and take my leave, fair C—” Behind him, Murtagh heard a faint sifting sound, as of falling cloth. He turned to see Silna standing on two feet next to the hearth, a small wool blanket wrapped about her spare frame. She was no taller than the poker and tongs that hung nearby. Her skin was pale as snow, the veins smoke blue beneath the surface, and there was a translucence to her, as if she were not entirely substantial. Eyelids like polished shells, hair still brindled and in disordered shocks, and all about her a wild alertness, as if she had stepped from a glade within the deepest, darkest forest.

She walked to Murtagh and stood before him. He looked down into her enormous emerald eyes, clear and innocent, and knew not what to say.

He knelt before her, even as he would have knelt before a queen.

With a single bare arm, Silna hugged him about the neck. Her skin was cold against his. In a small, feather-soft voice, she said, “Thank you.” Then she kissed him upon the brow, and the touch of her lips burned long after she pulled away.

She left him blinking back a film of tears. When he mastered himself well enough to lift his gaze, he saw her lying by the hearth, again in her cattish form, eyes closed, tail wrapped about her paws and nose.

His legs were unsteady beneath him as he stood. He looked to Carabel and opened his mouth and then closed it again.

For the first time, Carabel’s expression softened, and her voice was husky with emotion. “I meant what I said, Rider. I am in your debt, as are all werecats. You may count yourself as a friend of our kind, and should you ever need help, you may seek us out.”

He nodded and swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I am glad I could help.” He drew himself up and gave her a courtly bow. “My thanks for your answers, Carabel. May your claws stay sharp, O most estimable of cats.”

She bared her teeth in an appreciative smile. “Be careful where you tread, Rider. This witch is like a spider lurking at the center of a great web, and she has venom in her bite.”

“Then it’s good I’m not scared of spiders.”

***

Murtagh straightened as he exited the low tunnel that led under the fortress’s curtain wall. He rolled his neck, hoisted his bedroll higher on his back, and checked the position of the sun: still low in the sky. He should be able to leave Gil’ead before most of the city was up and about.