Tired as he was, Murtagh had little stomach for introspection. All the same, he persisted. It was important to the two of them that they maintained a full sense of their selves.
So he thought. He had a suspicion as to the cause of his difficulty, and when he noticed he was reluctant to pursue a certain line of inquiry, he knew then he was on the right path. The change had to do with Glaedr’s death, and the battle for Gil’ead, and all the lives that had been lost therein. For them, he felt a greater sense of remorse, and for himself, a greater sense of grief and shame. The realization left him diminished and far less certain about his past choices. Even though he and Thorn hadn’t been in control of their own actions at the time—even though they’d been Galbatorix’s oath-bound thralls—Murtagh realized he still felt responsible for what they’d done. At a certain point, the reasons didn’t matter. The deeds remained, and the consequences thereof, and their reality was a pain greater than any wound.
The emotions were enough to alter the fabric of his character, if however slightly, and as a result, his true name. He gave voice to his newfound knowledge, and the sound of it was even more stark and discomfiting than before.
Yet as always, Thorn listened and accepted without judgment, and for that, Murtagh was deeply grateful. Then he lay beside Thorn, and they rested close together as the cold of the night pressed in about them.
Fleshless fingers reached toward him through flickering water. They closed around his ankles with an icy touch. He struggled to break free, but his strength had deserted him and the bones that bound him were as hard as iron.
He couldn’t breathe…couldn’t escape….
The skeletons of the fallen soldiers rose from the torn lakebed, an army of accusers, pointing at him, reaching for him, desperate to take his warmth, his breath, his life—to tear him apart and seize what they had lost and he still possessed.
Murtagh woke with a start, heart pounding. It was pitch-black beneath Thorn’s wing. His skin was coated with sweat, and he felt both chilled and hot, and the back of his throat was raw and swollen. No, not now, he thought. Of all the times to get sick…And, of course, it happened as soon as he’d entered cities and spent time around other people.
Thorn was watching him through a slitted eye. If we stayed away from others, you would not have to worry about such things.
“I had the same thought,” said Murtagh. “But what kind of life would that be?”
A peaceful one.
“Mmh.” He lay still for a moment and tried to decide whether it was worth closing his eyes again. It felt as if he had only gotten three or four hours of sleep. Maybe less.
He sat up and rubbed his face, conscious of every bump and bruise he’d taken the day before.
The sun will not show for some time, said Thorn.
“I know.” Murtagh crawled out from under the dragon’s wing and looked to the east. The faintest hint of grey lightened the horizon, the first presage of far-off dawn.
He did some figuring on how long it would take to get Muckmaw’s head to Gil’ead.
Holding the blanket tight around himself, he climbed over Thorn’s spiked tail and—walking gingerly on bare feet—went to the creek. It ran along a gravel bed, between drooping willows and clumps of wild rosebushes, and the sound of the gently flowing water was a soothing murmur.
Despite the early hour, the trees and grass and brush were already wet with freezing dew. His breath fogged the air in front of him, and in the crispness, he could feel winter’s impending arrival.
Murtagh rucked the blanket around his thighs and stepped into the creek. The water was like liquid ice. He grimaced as he reached down and pulled his clothes from under the rocks holding them in place.
As he returned to the bank, an aggressive chittering sounded on the other side of the creek. There, among the willows, was a large river otter with a thick brown pelt, waving its paws at him and baring its teeth. The otter chittered again and squeaked—as if offended by Murtagh’s presence—and then slid into the water and swam away downstream.
Murtagh shook his head and hobbled on numb feet back to Thorn.
“Adurna thrysta,” he murmured, and water wept from the woolen shirt and trousers, splattering the blades of grass below. He dressed in the now-dry clothes and repeated the process with his boots, which were still damp from his unexpected swim the day before.
As he forced his feet into the boots, he realized the leather had shrunk slightly, and he berated himself for not attending to them earlier. It wasn’t good to let things like that slip. If you didn’t take care of the little tasks, how could you be trusted to take care of the important responsibilities in life?
He rubbed some bear grease into the outsides of the boots, and then went to the saddlebags and dug out a dried apple and the last two strips of the jerky he’d bought before traveling to Ceunon. A warm breakfast would have been nice, but he didn’t want to lose the time, and in any case, a pair of farmhouses and associated outbuildings were dimly visible to the north. A fire would risk attracting too much attention, even at such a desolate hour.
Murtagh didn’t mind cooking, but he never liked how long it took. He thought of all the meals he’d had growing up, when servants would bring him whatever he wanted, or when he could visit the kitchens and snare a cooked pheasant or aged beef roast and a pitcher of cool milk to wash it down.
The jerky was tediously hard. He chewed like a cow on cud and stared at the ground. With every bite, he felt worse and worse. Just swallowing hurt his throat.
You should stay, said Thorn. You’ll make yourself sicker if you go.
He coughed. “I know, but I can’t give up on Silna. Not now. We’ve already wasted too much time. She might not even be in Gil’ead anymore.”
What if she isn’t?
“We’ll have to track her down. Even if I have to rip the information out of someone’s mind. Besides, if we don’t help Carabel, I have no idea how we’ll find Bachel.” He made a face as he swallowed and the flatbread scraped his raw throat.
Why don’t you use magic to heal yourself?
“Because there’s nothing to heal,” Murtagh said peevishly. “Nothing’s broken. Nothing’s bleeding. What do I fix? The bad humors in my blood?”
Why don’t you try?
“Because…because if I cast a spell without knowing what it’s supposed to do, it could consume all of my strength and kill me. You know that.”
But you know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to heal your fever. You’re trying to make your throat feel better. That.
“I…” Murtagh stared helplessly at Thorn. “Haven’t you ever heard that there’s no cure for the common cold?”
No. A wolfish grin split Thorn’s jaws. You are a magician and a Rider. You speak the Name of Names and bend spells to your will. What can you not do?
“Your confidence is inspiring,” Murtagh said dryly. Still, Thorn had a point. “All right. I’ll try. Intent does matter when it comes to casting spells. Maybe that’ll do the trick.”
Gathering his strength, Murtagh focused on himself, on his body and his growing discomfort. And he said, “Waíse heill.”