Murtagh

He rubbed his brow. It felt as if he’d been branded. The memory of Silna’s eyes lingered in his mind, and he felt as if she had seen to his very center, every flaw laid bare before her guileless gaze. It was an intimacy he was only used to sharing with Thorn, and it left him with an uncomfortable sense of vulnerability. And yet, to be seen as he was, and accepted…was there any greater grace?

Troubled, he started away from the fortress. I’m on my way, he said, sending the thought to where Thorn was waiting. A faint sense of acknowledgment was his reply.

As Murtagh padded between the buildings, he continued to gnaw over what Carabel had said. Bachel, Wren, the Ra’zac…the world was out of sorts, and in ways he didn’t really understand. The fact made his gut tense, as if he were about to receive a blow.

Again, Silna’s eyes filled Murtagh’s mind, cool and clear and full of promise. And again, he felt her kiss upon his brow.

He stopped at the side of a street, and every part of his skin prickled. His thoughts raced as he tried to solve the puzzle before him, tried to find the path of safety through a perilous maze. Had he been wrong? Bachel needed attending to, yes, but Nasuada was in danger, and his letter was hardly a proper means of protection.

He opened the pouch on his belt and dug through it until his fingers found cold metal: the coins Captain Wren had given him. He pulled one out and looked at Nasuada’s embossed visage.

As perfect as the likeness was, he could not decipher her expression. She wore a mask of her own, the impassive regality that custom—and necessity—imposed. He found no encouragement in her golden features, and yet their very familiarity helped settle his mind.

He decided.

They would go to Ilirea. Despite everything he had thought and said, it was the right thing to do. He would explain himself to Nasuada and face whatever approbation came from her subjects. Difficult though it would be, he would have the satisfaction of knowing Nasuada was safe. And once she was, only then would he and Thorn hunt down Bachel.

With the decision came a sense of relief. Murtagh nodded, put away the coin, and hurried on his way, feeling fit to face the trials of an uncertain future.

Would Thorn agree? Murtagh felt sure he would, once he shared his mind with the dragon. Unless, of course—

Someone collided with him from the side. He shoved the person away, ready to kick and punch and fight.

“Murtagh!” exclaimed a low, urgent voice.

Dismay gripped Murtagh as he saw the same unpleasantly familiar face he had spotted outside the citadel not two days past: pale Lyreth in his drab finery. And surrounding them were Lyreth’s guards: six burly men with necks like bulls, the faint whiff of rotting flesh clinging to them. Ex-soldiers of the Empire, spell-warped to feel no pain.

“Murtagh, it is you,” said Lyreth, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Murtagh clenched his teeth. Thorn’s alarm was a rising note of anxiety at the back of his mind. He considered bolting, but there were other people on the street, and he saw a squad of soldiers two houses away, marching toward them….

Lyreth drew closer, his eyes darting about, the whites showing with some combination of fear and concern. “I thought I saw you a few days ago, but I wasn’t certain. What are you doing here? Don’t you know what they’ll do to you if they catch you?”

“I need to go,” said Murtagh, and started to pull back.

Lyreth caught him by the sleeve and held him with a surprisingly strong grip. His breath smelled of lavender and peach liqueur, but it wasn’t enough to conceal the sharp stench of nervous sweat from under his arms. “You can’t stay out here. The magicians of Du Vrangr Gata are everywhere, and there are elves in the city. Elves! Come, come, hurry. You’ll be safe at my house. Hurry!”

Murtagh! growled Thorn.

I know!

The guards closed in around Murtagh, preventing him from stepping away as Lyreth pulled him up the street. And Murtagh had no choice but to accompany his unexpected and thoroughly unwelcome companions.

CHAPTER XIV Duel of Wits

Murtagh kept careful track of the streets as Lyreth hurried him through the city. If he had to run, he wanted to know exactly where he was.

Lyreth brought him to a small stone house—one of the few all-stone structures in Gil’ead—tucked away in the corner of a square that was surrounded by cramped log-built dwellings jammed cheek by jowl. The ground was dirt, and there was a watering trough in the center for horses. The whole place felt dark, sheltered, and somewhat decrepit, and the only other living creature to be seen was a bedraggled rooster pecking at the dried mud outside what looked to be a candlemaker’s shop.

Lyreth used an iron key to unlock the front door of the stone house, and then he waved Murtagh in. “Quickly, quickly now.”