Murtagh

Wary—and somewhat curious—Murtagh entered. As dangerous as the situation was, his desire to know was stronger than his sense of self-preservation. How were the former members of Galbatorix’s nobility surviving? In a different set of circumstances, he knew he would have been the one hiding like a rabbit trying to escape a hungry hawk.

The building’s shabby face belied its luxurious interior. Dwarven rugs covered the tiled floor. Carved balustrades lined a marble staircase that climbed to a second story. Dramatic portraits hung on the walls—portraits that were too detailed, too lifelike, to have been created without the help of magic. A gold and silver chandelier hung from the wood-braced ceiling, and cut gems dangled from the chandelier in a rainbow of tears.

“This way,” said Lyreth, leading Murtagh past the anteroom into a modestly sized but beautifully decorated dining hall. Silken tapestries depicting battles between dragons, elves, and humans adorned the walls, and the candlesticks on the long table looked to be solid gold.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Lyreth gestured at a velvet-backed chair at one end of the table.

Murtagh counted thirteen chairs around the table, including his own. The number gave him a cold chill of realization.

He took off his bedroll and set it down by the table, close at hand. Then he gathered his cloak and sat. “What is this place?” he asked. He suspected he already knew the answer.

“A place of safety,” Lyreth said, seating himself. He waved at the guards, and two of them took up posts by the entrance while the others filed out of the hall. “Formora had it built as a sanctuary from Galbatorix if ever the need arose. Also”—he indicated the chairs—“as a location where the Forsworn could meet in private, away from the king’s prying eyes.”

Formora. She had been an elf, and one of Galbatorix’s favorites among the Forsworn. By all accounts, she had been cunning, cruel, and capricious to the extreme, even as measured by the standards of her fellow traitors. Murtagh remembered Lord Varis telling him that, when she was provoked, her habit had been to cut her foes apart with magic, piece by piece…while keeping them alive for as long as possible. That, and she had been overly fond of candied fruits.

Murtagh glanced around the room. He’d heard of such places before. Secret hiding holes where the Forsworn could protect themselves, if not from the king, then at least from the king’s other servants. Galbatorix’s followers—willing or otherwise—were hardly known for their cooperative nature, and the king had encouraged their backstabbing and bloody machinations with often undisguised glee. The walls of the house would be laced with powerful wards, and more than wards: traps that would far exceed the strength and complexity of those he had encountered in the catacombs. The whole structure was probably riddled with charged gems.

“Were they ever truly free of Galbatorix’s gaze?” Murtagh said.

Lyreth shrugged. “Were any of us?” He clicked his fingers, and a manservant in a fine woolen coat hurried into the hall, his polished bootheels tapping a precise tempo against the hard floor. The man placed a silver platter on the table and offloaded a decanter of cut crystal, a bottle of wine, two gold goblets, and a tiered tray of assorted delicacies: sweetmeats, aspic with candied fruit, bite-sized berry pies, and what looked to Murtagh like honey-glazed pastries.

His mouth watered. It had been well over a year since he’d tasted anything resembling proper fine food, and he found himself suddenly nostalgic for the flavors of his childhood.

The servant poured the wine, and then brought Murtagh one of the goblets as well as the tray of delicacies so that he might make his own selection.

Murtagh took some of the aspic, a berry pie, and two honey-glazed pastries. The servant then attended to Lyreth, who selected a sweetmeat and nothing more.

“You may go,” said Lyreth, and the servant bowed and retired from the room.

A honey-glazed pastry was halfway to Murtagh’s mouth when thoughts of poison and spells stayed his hand. Lyreth noticed and, in an offhand manner, said, “The food is safe, if you’re wondering. The wine too.” And he gave Murtagh a crooked smile before taking a sip from his own goblet.

Murtagh deliberated for a moment and then popped the pastry into his mouth. It melted with sweet, buttered deliciousness, and he fought to keep his pleasure from showing.

“My family acquired this place some years ago,” said Lyreth, nibbling at the sweetmeat on his plate. “We kept it as a safeguard against exactly this sort of eventuality.”

“Mmm.” Murtagh tasted the wine; he recognized the vintage. A red grown in the vineyards of the south, near Aroughs, bottled near fifty years ago. He doubted more than a few dozen bottles remained in the land. “You honor me,” he said, raising the goblet.

Lyreth shrugged. “What good does it do to hoard fine wine in these trying times? We might all be dead tomorrow.”