Do they smell something wrong with you?
I don’t think so. It’s just how they operate. I’m going to try for the door once everyone’s asleep. If all goes well, I can sneak Silna out without being noticed, and then I’ll take her to Carabel, and we can be rid of this city.
Thorn noticed his grimness at once. Why do you hate it so?
Words were insufficient, so Murtagh shared the images and feelings dominating his mind—Esvar’s comments about Eragon and Saphira; his own conflicted response to being so close to the death place of his father; the sense of unity he’d experienced moving together with the other men in the yard; his distaste at breaking another oath; and in general, the deep and growing discomfort Murtagh felt for the situation and his place within it.
This is why I prefer to avoid your kind, said Thorn. They are too difficult, too complicated. Things are simpler when we stick to the sky.
If only we could.
Then, too, Murtagh shared the men’s comments about Nasuada and her need for an heir. And he made no attempt to hide his distress at the thought.
Thorn hummed in his mind, and in Murtagh’s mind, he saw the dragon’s tail wrapping around him, as if to protect and comfort him.
Perhaps you should seek her out, if you feel so strongly about whom she chooses as her mate, said Thorn.
It’s not that simple.
It is as simple as you make it.
If I were a dragon, maybe.
Slight amusement colored Thorn’s response: You are as close to a dragon in human form as I have ever met.
Coming from Thorn, that was no small compliment, and Murtagh knew it. If only I could breathe fire like you.
That’s what magic is for. Then, changing the topic, Thorn said, What do you make of Captain Wren’s intentions?
Murtagh opened his eyes and looked at the first few stars appearing in the orange and pink sky. I don’t know. Politics? Personal ambition? He seems intelligent and devoted to his men, but I have a feeling…
The wood face masks.
Yes. Anyone who has masks like that has an interest in secrets, in hiding themselves, and in magic. It’s a dangerous combination.
An image of the masks passed through Murtagh’s mind as Thorn returned the memory to him for notice. Which mask would you choose?
A short laugh escaped him. None. I wear too many already.
Not with me.
No, not with you.
Then Thorn wished him luck, and they said their farewells, and—with a strange feeling in his heart—Murtagh headed back to the barracks.
As Murtagh sat on his cot and started to unlace his boots, Esvar came over and, in a somewhat subdued voice, said, “Look, ah, Task, I’m sorry if I were bothering you earlier.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” said Murtagh. He pulled off his right boot.
“Well, that’s kind of you to say. I just got excited t’ have someone new in our ranks, ’specially one as fought with Eragon and Saphira.”
“Again, it’s fine.” He pulled off his left boot.
Esvar shifted uncomfortably. “Well…I know ’tisn’t easy settling in thisways. It’s a big change joining the guard. Least, it were for me. But…anyways, I wanted you t’ know you’re welcome, an’ I’ll be glad t’ stand watch with you any day, even if’n it is raining.”
The words struck Murtagh to the bone. He stared at the boot in his hand for a moment, and then looked up at Esvar. “That’s very kind of you, Esvar.”
Esvar bobbed his head, embarrassed, and was about to leave when Murtagh said, “Are you standing watch tonight?”
“Me? No, no. I get t’ sleep tonight.”
Good. Murtagh watched Esvar walk back to his own cot. Then he shook his head, undid the clasp of his new cloak, and pulled off his red tabard.
As did the other men, Murtagh stored his clothes and belongings in the chest at the bottom of his cot. To his displeasure, the hinges of the chest made an annoying squeal loud enough to wake anyone who heard it.
It was night then, and Gert stood at the front of the barracks, looking them over with a half-shuttered lantern in his hand. He gave a satisfied grunt. “Right. Turn in. First call is two bells before dawn.” Then he closed the lantern and left through the front door.
The interior of the barracks was profoundly dark, even after Murtagh’s eyes adjusted to the absence of light. The only hint of illumination was a thin beam—pale and indistinct—that slipped through a crack in the shutters facing the stone tower of the officers.
Murtagh lay on his back with his eyes open, listening to the breathing of the other men. The black underside of the curved ceiling was deadly dull, but he was afraid to close his eyes, lest he nod off and lose his chance.
It probably wasn’t much of a risk—the thought of sneaking into the catacombs filled his veins with too much fire for sleep to be a likely prospect—but it was best to be cautious. Any mistakes in the barracks could prove fatal. If not for him, then for the men around him, and Murtagh preferred to avoid fighting them.
As long as he did everything right, no one should know what he had done or where he had gone. He felt sorry about Esvar—the youth’s optimism and enthusiasm were bright spots of positivity in the day, but some things couldn’t be helped.
Time passed with creeping slowness. Murtagh tried counting the beats of his heart, but that only made the minutes seem even longer.
He was determined to wait until at least an hour past midnight before he chanced the catacombs. That would allow the guards plenty of time to fall asleep, and it might even be long enough for the man standing watch underground to nod off.
At least Murtagh hoped so.
He shifted on the cot, uncomfortable. He’d spent so long out of doors with Thorn, it felt strange to be lying on a bed again, even an unpadded cot. The canvas backing sagged beneath his weight, putting a curve in his spine that made his lower back ache. He tried shifting to his side, but that only put a painful crook in his neck.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was going to be a taxing few hours.
To distract himself, he set to composing another poem, this one not an Attenwrack, but a form of his own devising. In a silent voice, he said:
Sing of sorrows soft and sad.
Cry, O winged herald, of battles won and lost.
Who mourns for fallen men, in conflict slain?
What comfort tears when flocks of crows descend?
The words echoed in his mind as he lay in the dark. “Forgive me,” he whispered. Whether the words were meant for the ghosts of his past or the men in the barracks, he wasn’t sure, but when he closed his eyes, a field of drowned bones filled his vision.
CHAPTER X
Softly Creeping…
Somewhere in the sleeping city, a black-faced owl hooted and then hooted again.
Murtagh levered himself into a sitting position on his cot. Throughout the barracks, the guards lay still and silent, their breathing slow, even, measured. One or two of them snored, but not loudly enough to wake the others.
Ever so carefully, Murtagh opened his mind and extended his consciousness to touch the thoughts of the other men. They were, as he hoped, all deeply asleep, lost in the confusion of their dreams.