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.