Of course, he still didn’t know for sure if the guards had wards, but he would have been shocked if they didn’t.
How long will they sleep? Thorn asked.
As long as needed. Help me down, said Murtagh, climbing through the window onto the skirt-roof below.
Thorn snorted and lifted his head. Murtagh stepped onto it, careful not to put a heel in the dragon’s eyes. Then Thorn lowered him to the flagstones, and Murtagh straightened his sword belt and looked around.
“Thanks,” he murmured, suddenly gleeful, like a fox that had broken into a henhouse while the hounds were away.
Bachel is very dangerous, I think, said Thorn.
“I agree.”
Perhaps we should leave. We know where this place is now. Let Nasuada or Arya or even Eragon deal with it. This isn’t our responsibility.
“Don’t you want to find out the truth behind Bachel and this Dreamer of Dreams? Not to mention this supposed prophecy regarding the two of us. Aren’t you curious?”
Thorn sniffed the night air and was slow to answer. I am…but I am also wary. I feel as if we’re sticking our paws into a dark burrow. We do not know what we might find. We might end up bitten.
“And if we do?” asked Murtagh, serious. “Would it not be better to know if there’s something here that can bite us?”
Is that even a question? The only mystery is, how large of a bite?
Murtagh cocked an eyebrow. “So far, Bachel and her people have shown us nothing but hospitality. Even if Grieve is a surly malcontent.”
Yet you do not trust the faces they show you, else we would not be having this discussion.
“No. You’re right.”
Thorn released a very human-sounding sigh. You will not sleep well unless you sniff about, will you?
He grinned. “You know me too well.”
After a moment, the dragon lowered his head, and the soft warmth of his breath enveloped Murtagh. All right. But if you get caught again, I’ll grab you and fly out of here, as I did at Gil’ead.
“And if it comes to that, I’ll be happy for you to grab me.” He rubbed Thorn behind one of his neck spikes, and the dragon’s sides vibrated with a low hum of satisfaction.
Where do you want to search?
Murtagh glanced at the tiered temple. The mountains rose high behind it, the peaks pale as the finest pearl beneath the twinkling stars. There, but I think it would be too risky. Too many people in the building.
Then where?
Murtagh pointed at the Tower of Flint. It must be important for the Dreamers to have named it. And I want to see the grounds behind the temple. He cast a critical eye over Thorn. Some of the villagers may still be up, and you’re a bit big to be sneaking around these days.
Thorn snapped his jaws shut with a soft but definite click. Then we wait until they are asleep. Where you go, I go.
Murtagh could tell there was no point in arguing. “You’re as stubborn as a mule,” he muttered. All right. But you’ll have to stay behind where you don’t fit.
The dragon nodded. That is acceptable.
Then Murtagh nestled against Thorn’s side, and the dragon covered him with a wing so he was hidden from any who might pass by. Knowing that Thorn was keeping watch, Murtagh closed his eyes and used the opportunity for a quick nap. Even in the midst of his enemies, he could still sleep—a useful, if somewhat regrettable, skill garnered over years of dangerous living.
The sharp tip of Thorn’s snout poking him in his ribs woke Murtagh. He reluctantly opened his eyes.
I’m up, I’m up, he said as Thorn continued to nudge him.
The dragon snorted and pulled his head out from under his wing.
Murtagh yawned. What had he been dreaming about? The memory scratched at the edge of his mind, and he had an obscure sense that it had been important….
Well? Thorn asked, and lightly scratched the flagstones.
Give me a minute. Let me make sure no one is watching. Carefully, cautiously, with almost paranoid slowness, Murtagh reached out with his mind and checked the surrounding area. He felt a few people nearby, but they were deep asleep, dreaming whatever it was the Dreamers dreamed.
All clear, he said, crawling out from under the wing.
The moon was directly overhead now. The pall of smoke had dispersed, and the air acquired the perfect clarity found only on bitter winter nights. And yet the village retained an unseasonal warmth, as if summer still dwelt among the stone buildings while frost and ice accumulated on the encircling hills and peaks. Perhaps, Murtagh thought, the heat was coming from the ground itself. It would explain why the fields that fronted Nal Gorgoth were charred black.
He sniffed. He couldn’t smell the stench of brimstone anymore. Was that because it had departed along with the smoke, or had he simply gotten used to the odor?
The second explanation bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
“Watch your tail,” he murmured to Thorn. “Don’t go caving in any of the buildings.”
Thorn gave a dismissive snort. I’m more careful than that.
“Mmm,” said Murtagh, unconvinced.
From the courtyard, he scouted down the adjoining streets before heading around the corner of the temple and toward the Tower of Flint. Thorn stalked after him, as quiet as a cat. He lifted the tips of his claws so they didn’t touch the stones and walked on the pads of his paws with impressive delicacy. His tail he kept raised off the ground, and it hung behind him like a great crimson snake, headless and blindly following.
Just off the temple was a roofed well with a small winch for lifting its bucket. The well was plain enough, devoid of even the most basic decoration. Murtagh doubted it was the sacred well that Grieve had mentioned.
On the off chance he was mistaken, he leaned on the mouth of the well and peered over the edge. The black depths echoed with the faint sounds of his hands against the fitted stones. Nothing about it seemed unusual.
If he’d had a coin, he would have tossed it in for luck. He and Thorn needed more than their fair share.
“Nothing,” he said to Thorn. “Do you smell anything?”
The dragon sniffed, and his tongue darted out. Only water, wood, and sweat.
Murtagh moved on.
A hip-high wall of mortarless stonework encircled the Tower of Flint, and there was a small wrought-iron gate blocking the way. The bars of the gate traced the outline of a dragon’s head as seen from the top.
“They really seem to like dragons,” said Murtagh as he unlatched the gate and pulled it open. The hinges squealed loud enough to make him pause, but no one was near to notice.
Why should they not? said Thorn. There is no other creature or being that can match the beauty of our form.
“Perhaps not, but you don’t have to brag about it.”
The truth is never bragging.
Murtagh smirked. Dragons had many virtues, but modesty wasn’t one of them. “Wait here. I won’t be long.” Leaving Thorn at the small gate, he proceeded to the door of the tower. It was wood, with a heavy iron lock set into the boards.
He opened it with a subtle application of the word thrysta and a slight surge of energy. Click went the lock, and he pulled the door open.