CHAPTER XVI
Aftermath
Thorn flew for hours.
Murtagh kept trying to talk with him, but the dragon’s mind remained closed, armored by unreasoning fear. Helpless to do more, Murtagh strove to impress a sense of calm and safety on Thorn, despite his own upset. He wanted to rage and curse and weep, but he knew that would only worsen Thorn’s state, so he crushed his own feelings and focused on maintaining an even frame of mind. Thorn needed to know that he wasn’t alone and that both he and Murtagh were safe. Only then would he regain his senses.
Every wingbeat caused a painful jostle as the scales along Thorn’s knobby fingers cut into Murtagh’s skin. The rush of cold air was loud and distracting and leeched the life from his limbs, though he clung to his bedroll for warmth. Soon he began to shiver.
Murtagh tried to track their path, but he could only see a small patch of the ground. He could tell they were heading north and east, and that was all.
The sight of the burning buildings kept filling his mind, and he kept pushing it away, not wanting his own distress to worsen Thorn’s. But he couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of inevitability at what they had done.
The sun was directly above them when, at long last, Thorn angled downward and glided to a stop upon a small hill by the edge of the vast eastern plains.
They landed with a jolt, and Thorn opened his paw. Murtagh dropped onto the dry grass hard enough to cause him to let out his breath in a whuff.
He unclamped his grip on the bedroll and slowly got to his feet.
Thorn was crouched next to him, shoulders and wings hunched as if to ward off a blow, eyes half closed, his entire body racked with tiny tremors.
Murtagh wrapped his arms around Thorn’s head. “Shh. It’s all right,” he said, both out loud and with his mind. “We’re safe. Be at ease.” He repeated the words until he felt the tremors begin to subside.
It is not all right. Thorn blinked and hunkered lower. It will never be all right.
“The elves will have put out the fires. It’s easy enough with a word or two.”
Thorn laid his head on the ground and let out his breath in a great sigh. His scales felt uncommonly cold to Murtagh; normally the dragon ran hotter than a human. How many do you think I killed?
“…I don’t know. Maybe no one.” But they both knew that was unlikely.
I hate this weakness in me. This is not how I should be. It is unbecoming for a dragon, much less a dragon with a Rider. I dishonor you and my kind.
“No, no, no,” said Murtagh. The words tumbled out in a rush. “This isn’t your fault. It never was.”
Thorn turned doleful eyes on him. Galbatorix is dead. My actions are my own. What he did to me—
“What he did to us.”
We cannot be blamed for it, but the fault here is still mine.
A strange desire to weep came over Murtagh. He remembered Thorn as a hatchling, pure and innocent, free of any misdeed, and despite all they had done, he saw the youngling in Thorn yet. “You’re not helpless,” he said with fierce conviction. “You can overcome this fear of yours. Nothing in this world is mightier than a dragon.”
Thorn snuffed the ground by his feet. Nothing but a dragon’s own mind. To that, Murtagh had no answer, and his helplessness turned into coiled frustration. Thorn noticed. But I will try, however I can.
“I know you will. Tomorrow, let’s find some trees, and we’ll work on this together.”
Together.
With his right hand, Murtagh stroked the scales along Thorn’s jaw. They were still cold against his palm. “Thank you for coming to get me. I would have died if you hadn’t.”
I flew…very fast. Thorn shivered again, and his eyelids drooped lower, although his shoulders and wings remained hunched.
“You need to eat,” said Murtagh. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”
No. Do not go….
But Murtagh was already trotting down the hill.
Thorn’s approach had scared away any nearby game, and Murtagh had to range longer and wider than he wanted before he spotted a herd of red deer grazing along the banks of a creek.
He stopped some distance away. A pair of does looked in his direction before returning to feeding. They seemed entirely unfrightened; he was too far away to be a threat, and he saw no settlements in the area. The animals weren’t used to being hunted by humans.
He cast about the ground, looking for a rock, but unlike the land near the Spine, the soil of the plains was rich and black and had no stones in it. What he found instead was a piece of wind-scoured bone, a fragment of a deer’s thigh or foreleg.
It would do.
He concentrated on the largest deer, lifted the bone on his outstretched palm, and said, “Thrysta!”
The shard flew faster than his eye could follow. With a thup, it struck the doe between her eyes. Her head snapped back, and the animal collapsed, hind legs kicking.
The rest of the herd fled.
Murtagh walked to the fallen animal. By the time he arrived, the doe had gone limp and still.
He looked at the deer, contemplating what he had done. The animal’s eyes were still open, and they were beautiful: round and glassy and gentle. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Then he grabbed the deer by its legs, slung it over his shoulders, and started the long walk back to Thorn.
As he strode across the grassy plain, the weight of the animal warm and heavy around his neck, Murtagh again saw the stone cell where Galbatorix had kept Thorn imprisoned. The chamber had been long but narrow, with murder holes cut in the ceiling. Too large and cold and unfriendly of a place for a hatchling, but there Galbatorix had placed Thorn all the same and anchored him to the floor with chains of iron. Small ones at first, to match Thorn’s size, but bigger and bigger ones thereafter, until the links were as thick about as a man’s torso and too weighty in their combined mass for even a dragon many times Thorn’s age to lift. Whenever he moved, the chains made a harsh and horrible sound. Many a night Murtagh had lain awake in his own cell, listening for the distinctive clink.
At first his heart ached for Thorn’s isolation. It was a cruel thing to put a small creature into such a hostile place, and he could not comfort Thorn with his thoughts, for the king and his servants kept them under constant mental watch (and ofttimes outright assault). But the space was not overly large for long. Thorn’s magically augmented growth meant the cell soon became cramped, and the walls kept him from spreading his wings, and the bony knuckles on the fingers that extended through his flight membranes rubbed raw against the rough stones.
Then Murtagh felt for Thorn’s confinement more than his isolation. He often heard him throwing himself against the walls and chains in a futile attempt to escape, panicked thrashings punctuated by roars and growls that turned to pained whines when the guards came and jabbed spears through the murder holes or else dumped buckets of slop onto Thorn’s sides, forcing him to lick the leavings off his scales.
It was no way to keep an adult dragon, much less a hatchling. A child by any measure. To spend the first few months of your life in such a fashion…
Murtagh clenched his jaw and quickened his pace as a familiar rage flared within him. At times, he fantasized about finding a spell that would let him bring Galbatorix back to life so that he could kill him again. But not by imposing understanding. With the sharp edge of his sword so that the man might feel the full, agonizing force of Murtagh’s fury.
But it would not be enough. For revenge could not fix what the king had broken.
As Thorn had grown, he had become increasingly reluctant to return to his cell whenever Galbatorix saw fit to release him. So much so that Thorn would break into frantic, frenzied fits at the sight of the guards. He would whip his tail and snap and claw and make every attempt to escape. The sight was inspiring at first but then piteous when the king would, with a few words, reduce the dragon to a cowering heap mewling in pain.
Yet the punishment was not enough to overcome Thorn’s dread of close spaces, and day by day, his aversion became ever deeper until it was an instinctual reaction.
Murtagh had only realized the full extent of the problem after Galbatorix posted them to Dras-Leona during the war and Thorn grew frightened while walking amid the city’s narrow streets. The dragon had destroyed four houses and wounded several soldiers in his sudden effort to win free.
Murtagh had hoped that their travels might help, that by avoiding cities and towns and keeping to open places, Thorn’s fear would abate. And perhaps it still would, but it was going to be a slow process. If even it were possible.
He shuddered and looked to the sky for strength. He wished things had been different. But the past couldn’t be changed, and the hurts they had suffered would be a part of them forevermore.
Thorn lifted his head as Murtagh trudged up the hill and dropped the deer onto the ground in front of him.
Thorn sniffed the carcass. Thank you.
“Of course. Eat.”
Murtagh went to the saddlebags and retrieved a waterskin. He drank and watched as Thorn seized the doe, ripped it apart, and swallowed each piece nearly without chewing.
Going to Ilirea and Nasuada was out of the question now. Admitting as much pained Murtagh, but after Thorn’s razing of Gil’ead, he couldn’t see how Nasuada could accept them into her court. Popular opinion would force her to deal with them harshly, and while Murtagh would have submitted to whatever punishment she deemed appropriate, he wasn’t willing to subject Thorn to possible confinement. Or worse.
No. His letter to Nasuada would have to suffice, and he had to believe that she would have the wherewithal to navigate the dangers that beset her. He comforted himself with the knowledge that she was more cunning and capable than most.
Still, it was difficult to accept the change in his and Thorn’s situation. For one shining moment, he had thought another path lay before them. But now Murtagh realized it had been an impossible dream. They would never be able to clear their name and attain a position of good standing among the peoples of the land. That way was forever closed.
Would Nasuada think they had turned against her? He hated to imagine her feeling betrayed. The public accounts of their escape from Gil’ead would confirm the worst aspects of his and Thorn’s reputation. He could only hope that his letter would help Nasuada to understand that more was at play than was first apparent.
Murtagh drank again.
He wondered if perhaps it would be better to take Thorn farther east, to Mount Arngor, where Eragon and Saphira had established the new home of the Dragon Riders. There, Thorn would be able to live with others of his kind, far from any places where he might cause more harm. And he could receive such instruction from elves and Eldunarí as had been traditional for dragons in their order, and which Galbatorix had denied Thorn.
But Murtagh didn’t want to give up. Bachel needed dealing with. And he didn’t want to give Eragon the satisfaction of acknowledging his authority. Most of all, Murtagh didn’t want to admit to the world that he or Thorn needed anyone else’s help. His stance was sheer stubborn pride, but he could not bring himself to show their weakness to the world. Weakness was dangerous; weakness allowed others to hurt and exploit you. Weakness was the first step on the path to death.
Thorn sensed something of what he was thinking, for he said, I will go where you want to go. As long as we are together, I am content.
Murtagh nodded and stoppered the waterskin. “That’s good, because we can’t stay here or anywhere in Nasuada’s realm.”
I am sorry.
Murtagh avoided Thorn’s gaze and did his best to bury his discomfort. “It is what it is.” He replaced the waterskin in the bag. “Still, we’re outcasts now, even more than before. Exiles. We’ll have to stick to the wilds, keep our distance from settled spaces.”
We can fly together from here on? Just us? No more anthill cities?
“Yes, we can fly together. And no more cities.”
Thorn swallowed the deer’s head and licked clean his chops. Having eaten, he seemed calmer, more alert. What of you? Tell me of Gil’ead. How went things with Silna and Carabel? And how did you end up caught in a tangle box?
“I got careless,” said Murtagh. He started pulling from the bags what he needed for his own dinner. He would have to do some hunting for himself if he wanted anything to eat tomorrow.
As he worked, he shared his memories with Thorn, starting with how he’d gained admittance to Captain Wren’s company. When he came to the arcane garden and explained to Thorn about the Ra’zac egg, the dragon snorted with enough force to singe the ground with a finger of flame from each nostril.
Vermin! I had hoped we had seen the last of them.
“I know,” said Murtagh. He blew on the newly birthed flame of the fire he was building. “Eragon did the land a favor when he rid us of them.”
The priests of Helgrind will be seeking to restore the Ra’zac to their previous glory.
At that, Murtagh gave a short laugh. “I can’t see how they could. Soon there will be dragons throughout Alagaësia. No Lethrblaka could survive here.” The Lethrblaka were the adult form of the Ra’zac: hideous flying monsters more akin to bats than dragons.
A Ra’zac might still work plenty of mischief before reaching full growth. Especially if a magician forces it to serve their will.
For a moment, Murtagh contemplated returning to Gil’ead with the express purpose of destroying the Ra’zac egg, but then he berated himself for the stupidity of the idea. Aside from the danger, Captain Wren or Arven would surely have moved everything of value from the chambers under the barracks.
He patted the pouch along his belt. The compendium was still there, as was—when he reached farther down—the yellow diamond hidden in the corner of his cloak.
The fire flared higher, and he continued with his memories. It wasn’t long before he arrived at his confrontation with Arven, Esvar, and the rest of the guards, and Thorn tasted his regret at the outcome of the fight.
Dry grass and the stems of withered thistles snapped under Thorn’s feet as he moved over and nuzzled his shoulder. You did what you had to. No one died. Tormenting yourself won’t help.
Nothing in life is easy, said Murtagh with his thoughts, for the sound of his voice seemed unbearably harsh.
Why should it be? Life is a fight from start to finish.
A grim smile crossed Murtagh’s mouth, and he patted Thorn. And it’s better to win than to lose. The crimson fire in Thorn’s eyes deepened. They understood each other.
Murtagh resumed his review, and at the end of it, he said, “I want to find this witch-woman Bachel even more than before. And I want to know what these Dreamers are about.” He smashed two more turnips with the rock he was holding. He wished he’d managed to find a knife to replace his dagger before leaving Gil’ead. “Whatever they’re planning, it’s more dire than I feared.”
Thorn hissed, and his tongue darted out between his scaled jaws. And you still don’t wish to warn Eragon or Arya?
Murtagh dropped the smashed turnips into the pot hung over the campfire. The thought of begging Eragon for help made him want to spit. Especially since he knew Eragon would help. That was the worst of it. “If Nasuada wants to inform them of the situation, that’s her prerogative. However, it would take too long for either of them to join us, and in any case…I want to deal with this ourselves. If we can. Blast it, we don’t even know what’s actually going on! Until we do, I say we stay the course.”
A sense of agreement emanated from Thorn. Then a low cough sounded in his chest, and his tongue lolled from between his jaws.
“What?” Murtagh asked.
The dragon showed both rows of teeth. A thought occurred to me. Carabel did you a greater favor than you realize.
“How do you figure?”
She saved you from having to treat with Ilenna. A great boon, that.
Murtagh stared at him for a second and then started to chuckle. With a wry twist of his head, he said, “You might have a point….” Then he grew grim again as he looked into the flickering flames.
What is it?
He shrugged, keeping his gaze on the fire. “I just wish I’d known to include something about Lyreth and his kind in my letter. I’m sure Nasuada suspects they’re working against her, but forewarned is forearmed.”
Could you use a spell to warn her?
Murtagh scrubbed the dirt with his boot, pensive. “Probably not. Urû’b— Ilirea is too far away for magic, easy magic that is, and Nasuada is sure to have wards protecting her against such intrusions. I could hire a courier, but I wouldn’t trust a stranger with this information.”
Thorn touched his shoulder again, and Murtagh forced a small smile. He scratched Thorn’s cheek, and the dragon huffed. We head north, then?
He nodded. “Back to the Bay of Fundor. We’ll follow the Spine up along the coast until we find the village Carabel spoke of.”
And then?
Murtagh pounded another turnip with the rock. “And then we’ll see what Bachel has to say for herself.”
Despite his extreme exhaustion, Murtagh found it difficult to sleep that night. His mind kept gnawing over the events of the past few days. Again and again he relived their escape from Gil’ead, and he questioned what he could have done to avoid such a disastrous outcome. Images of Esvar and the field of drowned soldiers continued to bedevil him, and the faces of Silna and the two brothers from the Rusty Anchor rose up before him. The center of his brow burned, and he thought too of Essie and of the stone room beneath the barracks and the rank smell of fear.
When sleep finally took him, he dreamt of empty castles and locked doors and footsteps chasing him down endless corridors. And he heard his father’s voice echo overhead with dreadful intent, followed by a remembered touch upon his cheek, soft and loving, and his mother saying, “Beautiful boy. My beautiful boy.”
Then visions of battle filled his slumbering mind: Glaedr and Oromis over Gil’ead, swords clashing upon the Burning Plains, soldiers dying at his command, banners and pennants whipping in the wind, the smell of blood and fire, and water in his nose and throat choking him as he struggled with Muckmaw.
Thank you, whispered Silna, but he felt no relief, no absolution, and the nightmares dragged him further down, down, down to the cells beneath Urû’baen, where Galbatorix had bent and broken him, and throughout, he heard the growls and cries of Thorn, of his dragon, his beautiful, newly hatched dragon, suffering in the chamber near his.
With morning came frost, and it took Murtagh a good hour or so to warm up enough to face the day. He was sore, and tired too, and the fibers of his being were frayed from use.
After a cup of elderberry tea, he practiced with Zar’roc, and the exercise helped clear his mind and focus his thoughts. And not just his, Thorn’s too. How one of them felt had a large effect on the other, and Murtagh was determined to do everything he could to shore up Thorn’s fortitude.
When he finished with his forms, he and Thorn left their belongings at camp and descended from the hill to a copse of birchwood trees standing along a trickle of a stream.
Murtagh entered first. He walked backward into the copse, feeling with his heels to avoid tripping and keeping his eyes on Thorn the whole while. Once he was a good thirty paces into the stand, he held out his hands.
“To me.”
A dry rustle as Thorn shuffled his wings. He shook himself, and his scales prickled along his glittering length. Then he took a tentative step forward, so his head was just under the reach of the leafless trees. The branches groaned under the influence of a passing breeze.
Thorn stiffened, and Murtagh said again, in a soft voice, “To me.” He smiled for Thorn’s benefit. “You can do it.”
The weight of Thorn’s forefoot crushed dozens of frost-shriveled leaves as he took another step forward. And another.
“That’s it,” Murtagh whispered. If Thorn could break his fear but once, Murtagh knew he could build off that triumph, and the fear would decrease with every success.
As Thorn’s hunched shoulders moved between the pale trunks, the dragon tensed even further. He dropped into a low crouch and dug his talons into the loam, and the tip of his tail whistled as it swung through the air.
“Don’t stop.”
Thorn refused to meet Murtagh’s gaze. He could feel the rising tide of panic swallowing the dragon’s mind, and he fought it with soothing thoughts, but he might as well have tried to beat back the actual sea.
“Try!” commanded Murtagh, his tone suddenly hard. Where enticement would not work, perhaps ferocity would serve. “Now! Don’t think about it!”
An anguished roar escaped Thorn, and he lurched forward on stiff legs, as a wounded animal might, and in his haste, his head brushed a low-hanging branch. Blinding fear swept the dragon’s mind with such strength it sent a bolt through Murtagh’s temples. He cried out and dropped to one knee even as Thorn thrashed and wriggled back out of the copse.
Thorn sat on the open ground, shivering and blinking. His jaws were open, and he panted as if from a desperate run. Then he lifted his snout and loosed a mournful howl that sounded so lonesome and eerie, the entirety of Murtagh’s skin crawled.
I cannot, said Thorn. My legs seize up, and I cannot move. It is as if a spell grips me, and I feel as if I will die.
With an effort, Murtagh got back to his feet and, with slow steps, made his way to Thorn. “They’re just emotions. Emotions aren’t you.” He tapped Thorn’s foreleg. “You can feel them, you can let them pass through you, but who you are doesn’t change. Remember that. Remember the parts of your true name that describe the best parts of you and hold to them.”
Thorn lowered his head in acknowledgment. The doing of it is difficult.
“It always is.” Murtagh gestured at the stand of birchwood trees. “Again. Now.”
Fear and uncertainty flickered at the back of Thorn’s gaze as he regarded Murtagh, but then he drew himself up with a proud arch to his neck, and a puff of smoke swirled from his nostrils. For you.
As before, Murtagh backed into the copse, and as before, Thorn attempted to follow. The red dragon managed to force himself a few feet farther than on his first attempt, but then his nerve broke and he had to retreat. So strong were Thorn’s memories of imprisonment that, for an instant, they overwhelmed Murtagh’s mind, and the dungeons of Urû’baen appeared before him, as seen through Thorn’s eyes. That and the dragon’s visceral aversion were enough to drive Murtagh out from among the trees himself.
They took a few moments to collect themselves. Murtagh’s heart was beating uncomfortably fast.
Then they tried once more with similar results.
“Enough,” said Murtagh, laying a hand on Thorn’s neck. The dragon was coiled into a tight knot upon the matted grass, panting and shivering as if with ague. It was still morning, and they were already wrung out.
They were both uncommonly quiet as they returned to camp and prepared to leave.
Only once Murtagh had packed up and was performing a final check on the rigging of Thorn’s saddle did the dragon say, Tomorrow, I will find another stand of trees.
Murtagh paused with a half-fastened buckle in his hand. He finished securing it. “I’ll help you.” And a sense of shared determination passed between them.
Before climbing into the saddle, Murtagh wetted a scrap of cloth and wiped the sweat from his face and under his arms. He would have preferred a proper bath, but the nearby stream was too small to fit in.
“Shall we?” he asked, rinsing and wringing out the cloth.
Thorn stretched the fingers of his wings and shook them, as if to rid himself of nervous energy. The winds are changing. We will have to dance about the clouds.
Murtagh clambered up Thorn’s side and into the saddle. As he cinched the straps around his legs, he took one last look at the peaceful expanse of grasslands and nodded. “Then let us dance. No, let us hunt.”
And Thorn growled with approval.