Eragon [en]

There was an angry grunt. “What did you find?”

Silence.

“Well, is he to be trusted or not?”

The words came reluctantly. “He... is not your enemy.” There were audible sighs of relief throughout the room.

Eragon’s eyes fluttered open. He gingerly pushed himself upright. “Easy now,” said Orik, wrapping a thick arm around him and helping him to his feet. Eragon wove unsteadily, glaring at the bald man. A low growl rumbled in Saphira’s throat.

The bald man ignored them. He turned to Murtagh, who was still being held at sword point. “It’s your turn now.”

Murtagh stiffened and shook his head. The sword cut his neck slightly. Blood dripped down his skin. “No.”

“You will not be protected here if you refuse.”

“Eragon has been declared trustworthy, so you cannot threaten to kill him to influence me. Since you can’t do that, nothing you say or do will convince me to open my mind.”

Sneering, the bald man cocked what would have been an eyebrow, if he had any. “What of your own life? I can still threaten that.”

“It won’t do any good,” said Murtagh stonily and with such conviction that it was impossible to doubt his word.

The bald man’s breath exploded angrily. “You don’t have a choice!” He stepped forward and placed his palm on Murtagh’s brow, clenching his hand to hold him in place. Murtagh stiffened, face growing as hard as iron, fists clenched, neck muscles bulging. He was obviously fighting the attack with all his strength. The bald man bared his teeth with fury and frustration at the resistance; his fingers dug mercilessly into Murtagh.

Eragon winced in sympathy, knowing the battle that raged between them. Can’t you help him? he asked Saphira.

No, she said softly. He will allow no one into his mind.

Orik scowled darkly as he watched the combatants. “Ilf carnz orodum,” he muttered, then leapt forward and cried, “That is enough!” He grabbed the bald man’s arm and tore him away from Murtagh with strength disproportional to his size.

The bald man stumbled back, then turned on Orik furiously. “How dare you!” he shouted. “You questioned my leadership, opened the gates without permission, and now this! You’ve shown nothing but insolence and treachery. Do you think your king will protect you now?”

Orik bristled. “You would have let them die! If I had waited any longer, the Urgals would have killed them.” He pointed at Murtagh, whose breath came in great heaves. “We don’t have any right to torture him for information! Ajihad won’t sanction it. Not after you’ve examined the Rider and found him free of fault. And they’ve brought us Arya.”

“Would you allow him to enter unchallenged? Are you so great a fool as to put us all at risk?” demanded the bald man. His eyes were feral with loosely chained rage; he looked ready to tear the dwarf into pieces.

“Can he use magic?”

“That is—”

“Can he use magic?” roared Orik, his deep voice echoing in the room. The bald man’s face suddenly grew expressionless. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“No.”

“Then what do you fear? It’s impossible for him to escape, and he can’t work any devilry with all of us here, especially if your powers are as great as you say. But don’t listen to me; ask Ajihad what he wants done.”

The bald man stared at Orik for a moment, his face indecipherable, then looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes. A peculiar stiffness set into his shoulders while his lips moved soundlessly. An intense frown wrinkled the pale skin above his eyes, and his fingers clenched, as if they were throttling an invisible enemy. For several minutes he stood thus, wrapped in silent communication.

When his eyes opened, he ignored Orik and snapped at the warriors, “Leave, now!” As they filed through the doorway, he addressed Eragon coldly, “Because I was unable to complete my examination, you and... your friend will remain here for the night. He will be killed if he attempts to leave.” With those words he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, pale scalp gleaming in the lantern light.

“Thank you,” whispered Eragon to Orik.

The dwarf grunted. “I’ll make sure some food is brought.” He muttered a string of words under his breath, then left, shaking his head. The bolt was secured once again on the outside of the door.

Eragon sat, feeling strangely dreamy from the day’s excitement and their forced march. His eyelids were heavy. Saphira settled next to him. We must be careful. It seems we have as many enemies here as we did in the Empire. He nodded, too tired to talk.

Murtagh, eyes glazed and empty, leaned against the far wall and slid to the shiny floor. He held his sleeve against the cut on his neck to stop the bleeding. “Are you all right?” asked Eragon. Murtagh nodded jerkily. “Did he get anything from you?”

“No.”

“How were you able to keep him out? He’s so strong.”

“I’ve... I’ve been well trained.” There was a bitter note to his voice.

Silence enshrouded them. Eragon’s gaze drifted to one of the lanterns hanging in a corner. His thoughts meandered until he abruptly said, “I didn’t let them know who you are.”

Murtagh looked relieved. He bowed his head. “Thank you for not betraying me.”

“They didn’t recognize you.”

“No.”

“And you still say that you are Morzan’s son?”

“Yes,” he sighed.

Eragon started to speak, but stopped when he felt hot liquid splash onto his hand. He looked down and was startled to see a drop of dark blood roll off his skin. It had fallen from Saphira’s wing. I forgot. You’re injured! he exclaimed, getting up with an effort. I’d better heal you.

Be careful. It’s easy to make mistakes when you’re this tired.

I know. Saphira unfolded one of her wings and lowered it to the floor. Murtagh watched as Eragon ran his hands over the warm blue membrane, saying, “Waise heill,” whenever he found an arrow hole. Luckily, all the wounds were relatively easy to heal, even those on her nose.

Task completed, Eragon slumped against Saphira, breathing hard. He could feel her great heart beating with the steady throb of life. “I hope they bring food soon,” said Murtagh.

Eragon shrugged; he was too exhausted to be hungry. He crossed his arms, missing Zar’roc’s weight by his side. “Why are you here?”

“What?”

“If you really are Morzan’s son, Galbatorix wouldn’t let you wander around Alagaesia freely. How is it that you managed to find the Ra’zac by yourself? Why is it I’ve never heard of any of the Forsworn having children? And what are you doing here?” His voice rose to a near shout at the end.

Murtagh ran his hands over his face. “It’s a long story.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” rebutted Eragon.

“It’s too late to talk.”

“There probably won’t be time for it tomorrow.”

Murtagh wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees, rocking back and forth as he stared at the floor. “It’s not a—” he said, then interrupted himself. “I don’t want to stop... so make yourself comfortable. My story will take a while.” Eragon shifted against Saphira’s side and nodded. Saphira watched both of them intently.

Murtagh’s first sentence was halting, but his voice gained strength and confidence as he spoke. “As far as I know... I am the only child of the Thirteen Servants, or the Forsworn as they’re called. There may be others, for the Thirteen had the skill to hide whatever they wanted, but I doubt it, for reasons I’ll explain later.