With a gracious gesture, Bachel extended a hand toward the carved chair.
Murtagh hated to put himself at a disadvantage, but it would not do to completely break the rules of hospitality. So he sheathed Zar’roc—though he kept one hand on the hilt—before lowering himself to sit upon the chair. His greaves and vambraces clattered, and the point of his shield knocked against the yard’s paved floor. The armor made him feel clumsy and uncouth; he never would have worn it to a high event at court, but there was a limit to how much safety he would sacrifice for manners.
The moment he was seated, two of the village men came to serve him. They set a small table before him and, on it, deposited plates laden with cheeses, sweetmeats, and fresh blueberries, along with a cup of wine and a bowl of water in which to wash his hands. The blueberries puzzled him; they were out of season, which meant magic or some form of preservation he was unfamiliar with.
One of the men bowed and left, while the other remained close at hand, ready to wait upon his needs.
There was a comfort to again having a servant attending him. It was one of the benefits of living in Urû’baen that Murtagh had not fully appreciated until leaving. Doing everything for himself—especially cooking—took far more time than he liked.
A faint smile curved Bachel’s lips, and she sipped from her chalice. “I see you are not entirely at ease in our midst, but you have nothing to fear from us here in Nal Gorgoth, Kingkiller.”
“Is that so?”
She inclined her head. “You may set aside your arms and armor whene’er you wish. No harm shall come to you.”
“My Lady…” Murtagh paused while he searched for the right words. “I wish to believe you, but how can I, when I know so little about you?”
To his annoyance, Bachel answered with a question of her own: “Tell me, my son, how did you find this valley? Few there are who are aware of Nal Gorgoth’s existence or where it lies.”
Murtagh rolled the stem of his cup between his fingers while he considered how best to answer. Then he tasted the wine. To his surprise, he recognized the vintage as having come from the vineyards on one of the Southern Isles. How did it end up here?
He said, “I met several men who wore amulets of protection they claimed were enchanted by you.” He fixed Bachel with a steady gaze. “They tried to kill me, but they failed, and then they told me what they knew.”
A slight line formed between Bachel’s brows. “I see. Then it was you met some of my Eyes. My apologies for their behavior. They would not have attacked had they known who you were. They did not, did they?”
Murtagh shook his head. “No.”
“That is good. However, I must ask: my Eyes. My children. Did you kill them?”
“Those I had to. But no more.” Her dark gaze lingered on him, and Murtagh felt compelled to add: “I give you my word.”
“Then I thank you for your mercy. Were, perchance, the Eyes you encountered in Ceunon?”
“Some. Not all.” For an instant, Murtagh thought he saw a flicker of concern in Bachel’s expression. He decided to press the advantage. “Have you many Eyes?” he asked in an uninterested tone.
Bachel returned her attention to the preparations before them. “More than you would believe, Kingkiller.”
It was exactly the sort of answer Murtagh had feared. “To what end, I wonder?”
“All shall be revealed in the goodness of time, my son. Worry not. But you must be patient. The secrets of the sacred circle are not lightly shared.”
She spoke in such a gracious and yet commanding manner that Murtagh found it hard to dissent. It felt as if he would be in the wrong, despite everything he knew about the Dreamers and their activities. Yet his disquiet and his desire to know more continued to gnaw at him. Saviors of the world…but how? From what? Or is she merely trying to lead us astray?
Then Bachel turned her hooded gaze to Thorn. “O Exalted Dragon, I would ask a question of you, although perhaps you may think it impertinent. But it is this: you are larger than seems fit for your age. Is your stature born of nature, or has it another origin?”
Thorn was slow to respond, but when he did, he said to both Bachel and Murtagh alike, I grew faster than most hatchlings, for I needed to. So I did.
It was not entirely the truth, but Murtagh knew Thorn hated to speak of what Galbatorix had done to him, and he was not about to share those painful details with a stranger. Especially one as potentially perilous as Bachel.
The witch nodded as if she understood. “Of course. Such is the nature of dragons.”
And what do you know of them? Murtagh wondered. He motioned at the ranks of scaled statues along the temple exterior. “Do you worship dragons?”
A thread of smoke came from Thorn. What an excellent idea. All should worship our kind.
Murtagh nearly smiled, despite himself.
A thin, cold note sounded as Bachel tapped the rim of her stone chalice. “Not as such. But we revere them, for we remember what so many have forgotten. And we count it a sacred thing to be bonded so closely with a dragon, even as you are, Kingkiller.”
Before Murtagh could inquire further, the witch looked away, making it clear that, for the moment, the topic was closed.
To Thorn and Thorn alone, Murtagh asked, What is her mind like? He did not want to risk touching Bachel’s consciousness as well. Not until they were sure of her intentions.
The dragon twitched the blunt end of his tail. Like none I have ever felt.
How so?
Her thoughts are as iron, and yet there is a strangeness to them. It is hard to describe. Here. And an impression came to Murtagh from Thorn, an impression of distance and desolation and distortion, as if the world were seen through a piece of polished crystal that changed the shape of every angle.
Puzzled, Murtagh looked back at Bachel and tried to reconcile her appearance with the oddness of her inner life. She is not as she seems, he said.
No, Thorn agreed.
Throughout the square, the villagers continued to assemble the feast. Goats and sheep were butchered, and rich cuts of meat were laid out over fires built on the flagstones. As the villagers labored, Murtagh noticed how they kept sneaking glances at Thorn. It was as if the dragon were a bloodied lodestone drawing them closer, and their bodies traced lines of force, like iron filings. Some were brave enough to reach out with tremulous hands, though none dared to actually touch him. In Murtagh’s judgment, their behavior bespoke not so much reverence, as Bachel had said, but something closer to idolatry.
Bachel watched him watching, and she seemed to guess his thoughts, for she said, “They are enamored with the beauty of your dragon. Few there are in Nal Gorgoth who remember such a sight.”
Thorn hummed, pleased by what she had said.
“But there are some?” Murtagh asked.
“There are.”
“Would you count yourself among their number?”
Again, slight amusement colored Bachel’s angular features. “You have questions without end, my son. But it is better to eat and then talk than to talk and then eat.”
“Of course. Forgive me. The wisdom of the ages flows from your tongue.” Murtagh meant his response as sarcasm, but despite himself, it came out sounding sincere.
Several men began to play lyres among the columns of the temple. The music was in a minor key and had a fierce, savage sensibility that heightened the strangeness of the setting.
Bachel raised a finger. “Alín, attend me.”