Murtagh

“How fares your father?” he asked. What he didn’t say was, Is Thaven still alive?

Lyreth’s expression remained studiously flat. “As well as could be expected.”

“Of course. In these trying times.” That earned him a twitch of annoyance from Lyreth. Good. The more he could needle the man, the more Lyreth was likely to slip and say something he shouldn’t. “The Empire couldn’t last forever,” said Murtagh. “At some point Galbatorix was bound to fall. It was inevitable.”

“Maybe,” said Lyreth with undisguised bitterness. “But it didn’t have to happen during our lives.”

“No, but that’s not ours to say, is it?”

Lyreth opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again and said, “Were you there? At the end? When…he died?”

“I was.”

The man’s gaze flicked toward him from under bloodless lids. His eyes were grey blue, like distant thunderheads. “How was it done? I’ve heard conflicting accounts.”

“With kindness.”

“You mock me.”

“Not at all.”

A faint frown formed on Lyreth’s brow. “Him? Kindness? That’s pre—”

“You never were the brightest,” Murtagh said in an uninterested tone. “Cunning, that I’ll give you. Determined, even. But not very bright.”

Lyreth inhaled through pinched nostrils. “Keep your secrets, then. I’ll learn the truth of it regardless. Tell me this, at least, if you would so kindly deign. How did you and that dragon of yours escape Urû’baen? Both Eragon and Arya were there, I understand. Surely they tried to stop you.”

“Do you really expect me to explain?” said Murtagh. “Would it help you to know the spells I used? Or the dangers we braved? Does any of that matter? Suffice it to say, we escaped, and at no small risk.” The truth, of course, was nothing so dramatic. He and Thorn had simply…left. They had played their part in toppling Galbatorix—Eragon never would have been able to work magic on the king if Murtagh hadn’t used the Name of Names to break the king’s spells—and after, neither Eragon nor Murtagh had the stomach to continue fighting.

Not for the first time, Murtagh reflected on the fact that if he had been in Eragon’s place, he wouldn’t have thought to force empathy on Galbatorix. It wasn’t part of his nature. Perhaps that was a failing of his—Murtagh was willing to admit it was—but he didn’t feel that his lack of charity toward Galbatorix was wrong, not given what the king had done to him and Thorn.

He placed the small pie in his mouth and chewed, enjoying the flavors of blueberries and blackberries admixed.

Lyreth shifted in his seat, as if there were burrs pricking him from beneath. “And since then? What have you been up to, Murtagh? Wild stories have reached my ears. Tales of a red dragon seen here or there. Whispers of magic that only a Rider or an elf might be capable of casting.”

With the fine linen napkin from by his plate, Murtagh dabbed the corners of his mouth, brushing crumbs off his stubble. “Thorn and I have been traveling the land, seeing what there is to see. What of you and your family, Lyreth? How have you managed since Galbatorix fell?”

“Well enough,” Lyreth muttered.

“No doubt. But how long can you continue to live in hiding? Eventually someone will realize who you are. You would be best served to surrender and cast yourself on the queen’s mercy. She does show mercy on occasion, or so I’m told.”

“Don’t speak to me of that puffed-up pretender. She’s a commoner, without a drop of noble blood in her veins, not from any of the proper families nor from the old lineages of the Broddrings.”

“Those who conquer, rule,” said Murtagh calmly. “So it has always been. You forget your history if you think otherwise.”

“I forget nothing.” A feverish gleam appeared in Lyreth’s otherwise insipid eyes. “You’re right, though, Murtagh. The current state of affairs can’t continue. My family aren’t the only ones hiding. A number of the most powerful nobles—men and women whose names you would recognize—have been biding their time, consolidating their positions for when the moment is ripe.”

“Ripe for what?”

Lyreth leaned forward, suddenly animated. “What are you doing here, Murtagh? Muckmaw dead, and all of Gil’ead in a commotion. What is it? Are you raising troops? Killing Nasuada’s lieutenants? What?”

“You’ve grown obvious, Lyreth,” said Murtagh in a lazy tone. “You wouldn’t have lasted a week at court like this.”

“Bah.” Lyreth waved his hand and sank back in his chair. “Events are afoot, and directness is needed. If you are too cautious, the prize shall go to another…. You could take the throne, Murtagh. You know that, yes? And all the great families would rally to your banner…those of us who still have some standing, that is. Hamlin and Tharos were fools. They couldn’t wait, they couldn’t gather the army they needed, and so their rebellions failed. Hamlin ended up with his head on a pike outside these very walls, and Tharos will spend the rest of his life in Nasuada’s dungeons. Unless…”