Murtagh

“As you say.” Murtagh took another carefully controlled sip as he studied Lyreth. The man appeared to have been under considerable stress (and understandably so); he was thinner than Murtagh remembered, and his skin had the unhealthy pallor of an invalid confined to bed. Seeing him the worse for wear was the source of some satisfaction for Murtagh, although, despite himself, he empathized with Lyreth and the difficulties he must have faced since Galbatorix’s fall. It couldn’t be easy, living every day in fear of being caught out.

“You smell of fish,” said Lyreth abruptly.

“Baths are hard to come by on the road.”

“Were you responsible for killing Muckmaw? It’s all my guards have been able to talk about since yesterday. I thought it might have been you.”

Murtagh toyed with the stem of his goblet as he considered how to answer. The conversation was a duel for information, and they both knew it, but the unspoken reality was that Lyreth held no power over him. If Murtagh wanted to leave, or to attack, there was little the other man could do about it. “I may have played a part in the matter.”

Lyreth made an unimpressed sound. “You’ve certainly managed to stir up the local peasantry. They seem to think Eragon himself is wandering the land, curing their ills.”

“If only.”

At that, Lyreth made a face and took a deep quaff of his wine. “Blasted Rider.”

Murtagh could feel Thorn’s ongoing concern. Peace, he said to the dragon. I have his measure.

And it was true. Murtagh had had ample opportunity to study Lyreth and the group of eldest sons he associated with at court. To the last, they had been arrogant, cruel, overconfident, and yet also deeply insecure. There was no such thing as safety around Galbatorix, and their parents had all been born to power and influence, or else had acquired it through cunning and savagery. None of which bred kindness in their offspring. Murtagh had always been the outcast of their generation: the only known child of the Forsworn; ostensibly ignored by Galbatorix during his childhood, yet still understood to be favored by the king; groomed for power and yet powerless himself, with Galbatorix holding his father’s estate in his stead until he came of age. Added to that, Murtagh’s own distrust and inexperience when it came to navigating the treacherous currents of power, and he had been both an object of fear and a figure of scorn and ridicule that they had used poorly however they could. Only once Tornac took him under his wing had Murtagh begun to learn how to defend himself, in more ways than one.

He ate a spoonful of aspic. Of Lyreth, he had no fond memories. Two experiences remained in Murtagh’s mind as emblematic of the man. The first was when Lyreth and a number of other boys had set out to steal cherries from Lord Barst’s private garden in the citadel at Urû’baen. Murtagh had tagged along, hoping that they might let him be part of the group. They’d barely started picking the cherries when one of Barst’s men discovered them and held them at spearpoint. All of them save Lyreth, who managed to slip away, only to return a few minutes later, leading Lord Barst and loudly declaiming the misbehavior of the other boys.

Despite their noble lineage, Barst proceeded to thrash the lot of them. But he spared Lyreth, which earned the young noble no end of hate from the other boys, although most of them were devious enough to hide their true feelings. Lyreth’s family was too wealthy and well placed to openly oppose.

The second incident had been on Murtagh’s fifteenth birthday. No one save Tornac had seemed to mark the significance of the day, but somehow word must have gotten out in the court, probably from the pages. How else to explain that, on that day of all days, as Murtagh climbed the narrow spiral staircase that led to his chambers, a group of boys had ambushed him and beaten him and left him bruised and bleeding on the sharp stone steps?

The attackers had worn party masks of a type common at court, but Murtagh could guess their names regardless. And as the fists and feet had pummeled his sides, he’d heard a semi-familiar voice cry, “That’s it! Get him! Knock him down!” And he knew the voice as Lyreth’s.

None of the boys ever admitted what they had done. They continued to treat him the same as ever about the citadel, and the only hint of acknowledgment was several snide comments made when they saw him limping the next day: “Ha! What happened? Did a horse step on your foot? Murtagh Crookshank! Ha!”

Murtagh had never forgotten. Nor forgiven.

He eyed the decorations in the hall. Despite the house’s rich appointments, he guessed Lyreth found the place uncomfortably confining. For one who had grown up in the citadel in Urû’baen and on Lord Thaven’s vast holdings, living in such a small house would feel like being locked in a closet.

He must be going mad trapped in here, Murtagh thought.