Murtagh listened with growing unease. “Where did they go?”
“Here and there,” said Carabel with an unpleasant smile. “But I suspect…Well, you shall hear. You should know that the Dreamers have become more common. When captured and questioned, they kill themselves without hesitation, but this much seems certain: their influence spreads throughout Alagaësia like roots creeping through the soil. Their kind has been seen dealing with all the races, including the elves and Urgals, and we have scented their meddling in many a dark affair. But again, we know nothing of their goals or causes—only that their pawprints appear ever more frequently, and rarely absent blood or death.”
Another pop sounded in the fireplace.
The werecat continued. “The amulet you found on Arven proves as much. As for where Bachel might be…Every few weeks, ships depart Ceunon and sail north in the Bay of Fundor. Even in the winter, when ice rims the bay and the waves grow steep and dangerous, even then you will find ships that take this journey. They are never gone very long. A few weeks at most, and then they return with their crew grim-faced and closemouthed. The passengers on these ships vary. Often they hide their faces and their minds, but we have seen many a notable merchant and many a scion of a titled family venture forth into the bay, and when they again alight in Ceunon, they often associate with the Dreamers, or else act in ways that seem to aid them.”
Carabel pushed the amulet farther away and then licked her finger, as if to clean it. “Last year, we spoke with one of the sailors who made the journey.”
“And?” asked Murtagh. His voice sounded unusually loud in the room.
The werecat lifted her chin. “He told us of a village set against the Spine. A village where the ground smells of rotten eggs and smoke rises from blackened vents. He told us of these things…and then he died. If your mind is set on finding the witch Bachel, seek you there, O Murtagh son of Morzan.”
Rotten eggs. Brimstone. Exactly what Umaroth had warned him of. Murtagh was glad of the confirmation, and yet it left him with a deep disquiet. But he’d asked for answers, and now he had a start on them. “So the stone Sarros brought me comes from the same place as Bachel?”
Carabel shrugged. “It seems likely, but I cannot say for sure.”
“And what do you think these Dreamers want with werecat younglings?”
Red fire lit her eyes, and she showed her fangs. “Sss. I do not know. Maybe nothing. Maybe this is solely the work of Du Vrangr Gata. Maybe it is a private villainy of Arven. Or Captain Wren. I do not know, but I swear this to you, Rider: I shall not rest until I discover the truth and either rescue or avenge all of our lost children.”
“Good,” said Murtagh in a flat tone. And he meant it. Whoever was responsible deserved the worst possible punishment. If it had been Arven alone, then justice had already been delivered, but he doubted it.
The more Murtagh thought about the situation, the worse he felt. If the Dreamers had infiltrated Du Vrangr Gata—or recruited sympathizers therein—without arousing suspicion, that was alarming enough. But if what the cat said was true, they were operating upon a larger scale, and with a larger goal in mind, and they had already amassed a dangerous amount of influence. The realization made his skin crawl. How could they have escaped notice for so long? What hold did they have upon those they enlisted?
They have to be stopped, he thought. “Have you informed Nasuada of this?”
“Not as yet.”
“Eragon or Arya?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
Carabel gave him a withering look. “Whispers and suspicions are not enough to raise a force, rouse a queen, or recall the leader of the Riders. We must have a clear understanding of the threat first.”
“You mean someone needs to go to the village.”
“Go. And return.”
“Maybe. But I would say this”—he poked the amulet—“is proof enough that concern is warranted. That, and the kidnapping of your younglings.”
Carabel’s expression soured. “Again, we do not know if the Dreamers are responsible. Still…perhaps you are right, and this unfortunate trinket is proof enough. Certainly it would be if you were to bring it to Nasuada along with an accounting of what we have learned.”
Murtagh looked at the fireplace, uncomfortable. “You know I cannot.”
“Can’t you? It is said that the queen has some special fondness for you, and—”
Anger dragged his attention back to Carabel’s smirking face. “It is said? Said by whom? You had best watch your words, cat.”
Carabel shrugged, seemingly impervious to his tone. “By those with ears to hear and eyes to see.”
“Well, they know not what they say, and I’ll please you not to insult the queen or me with such slander.”
After a moment, Carabel inclined her angled face. “Of course, Rider. Very well, I shall compose a message for Nasuada directly, but I do not pretend to know how she will respond. It would be best were you to pen a few words of corroboration. Will you agree to this?”
He grunted. “Fine. Yes.”
As the cat collected her writing instruments, Murtagh sank back in his chair, brooding. Captain Wren’s insubordination, the potential undermining of Du Vrangr Gata, the activities of the Dreamers, and the blasted Ra’zac egg—each was a serious matter. Taken together, they might represent a credible threat to Nasuada’s crown.
What if…For a moment, he considered flying to Ilirea, but then he put the idea from his mind. As tempting as it was, doing so would be a mistake for everyone involved, including Nasuada. Her subjects wouldn’t take kindly to their queen publicly treating with the traitor Murtagh.
And besides, whom would she end up sending to investigate the village? Whom could she send? Du Vrangr Gata was not to be trusted, and at any rate, none of its spellcasters were skilled or strong enough to deal with the sort of wordless magic he had encountered. Few were. Eragon, for one, but he was busy protecting the Eldunarí and the dragon eggs, and he would not lightly leave them. Arya and the more accomplished of the elven mages were certainly capable, but Murtagh knew Nasuada would be reluctant to request help from magicians—much less a Rider—who were neither her subjects nor human.
Which left him. Him and Thorn.
The conclusion did not displease Murtagh, even if the unknown was, as always, unsettling. To have a clear and righteous cause to pursue was a rare treasure. By it, they could do good, and not just in a general sense, but for Nasuada specifically. She whom he had so badly hurt.
He roused himself from his brooding as Carabel gave him a sheet of parchment, a pot of ink, and a freshly cut goose-feather quill. Murtagh hesitated, unsure how to start, for he felt a weight of expectations and experiences and feelings unsaid. He shook himself then and focused on what needed saying. Wants would have to wait.
For a few minutes, the scratching of the quill was the only sound aside from the fire. He ended with:
Thorn and I will depart directly to find this village. What we might discover, I cannot say, but if it is a danger to you, your realm, or Alagaësia as a whole, we shall deal with it as need be. On this, you have my word. In any account, you may expect to hear from us upon our return.