Murtagh translated in his head. Du Eld Draumar was a fancy way of saying The Old Dreamers, but as it was cast in the ancient language, the name held more truth than it would have in any other tongue. “I believe you,” he said, and he meant it. Although he doubted Bachel would give him a straightforward answer, he asked, “What, in your judgment, does the vision mean, O Speaker?”
“It is a gift. The exhalations of this land have shown you a vision of the sacred mystery that lies at the heart of our creed. What you saw, Kingkiller, is a portion of what may yet be.”
“As a warning?”
She surprised him by taking his hand and pressing it flat against his chest, over his heart. Her fingers were sticky with blood. And she answered in a low, serious tone with no hint of anything but utter sincerity. “As a promise.” Then she let go.
A hot-cold touch of his dream-born fear gripped Murtagh. He shrank in on himself and found he had lost his taste for further questions.
She lies, said Thorn.
If she does, she believes the lie.
Murtagh looked back at the warriors and counted. Two more were missing. Through the mushroom trees Thorn had knocked over, the open field was visible. In the center of it lay several lifeless hogs, as well as the three downed warriors. One of the men was still moving, albeit feebly. Splattered blood, human and animal alike, stained the mushroom caps in a reddened ring.
“The beasts have cost us,” said Murtagh.
Bachel nodded in a serious manner, though she seemed neither sad nor upset, but rather prideful. “My men have served well today, Kingkiller, and those who fell, fell in service of our faith. Their sacrifice will not go unforgotten or unrewarded.”
The warriors bowed their heads and, as one, said, “As it is dreamt, so it shall be.”
At that, Murtagh thought Bachel would attend to her wounded, or at least dispatch some men to do so. Instead, she gestured at the boar he had slain. “You have taken a fine beast, Kingkiller. I expected nothing less.”
In death, the boar seemed smaller, though still imposing; it must have been equal in weight to several large men. His spear projected from the center of the animal’s chest, the haft a broken splinter.
With a bow and an extended hand, as if requesting a dance at court, Murtagh said, “And without the aid of the slightest charm or spell, my Lady.”
“So I saw,” Bachel replied. “But were it not for our help, would you have lived? Does such a victory count as a victory in truth?”
Murtagh raised an eyebrow. He did not feel like bandying words, but he could not allow her challenge to pass uncontested. “I killed the boar, my Lady, and dead he would have been no matter what happened to me. As that was my goal, yes, I would count it a victory.”
A small smile touched Bachel’s lips. “A fair point, my son.” In the open field, the wounded man let out an agonized groan. The sound drew her attention, and she turned from Murtagh. “Come,” she said, and strode toward the field.
The command annoyed Murtagh, but he followed nonetheless. Should I offer to heal him? he asked Thorn.
Wait to see what magic the witch can work. If she cannot heal the man, then offer to help.
A good idea.
Quickening his pace, Murtagh drew abreast of Bachel and gestured at the dead boars ahead of them. “You made a heroic kill, Lady Bachel.”
She hardly seemed to react to the praise, as if it were merely her apportioned due. “It was of a kind with all my kills, Rider.”
Of that, Murtagh was convinced.
As they approached the churned mess of blood and crushed mushrooms in the center of the field, it became evident that the two warriors who lay motionless on the ground were already dead.
Bachel knelt by the man who still breathed. His jerkin draped inward along the great divot in his chest where his ribs were broken. Bloody slaver coated his chin, and his breathing was hitched and shallow. A punctured lung, Murtagh guessed, if not worse.
With a gentle hand, Bachel smoothed the man’s brow. He opened his eyes and looked up at her, and in his gaze, Murtagh saw utter devotion.
“Shh,” said Bachel, her voice calm and vast as a windless ocean. “Be of good heart, Rauden. You have served well.”
The man nodded. Tears filled his eyes, and with enormous depth of feeling, he whispered, “Mehtra.”
Affection softened Bachel’s face, and she bent close to him. “Sehtra.” Then, with a smooth, quick motion, she drew her black-bladed dagger, placed it under the man’s chin, and shoved it into his head. He convulsed and went limp.
“Shade’s blood!” Murtagh swore, and started forward. Around them, the warriors raised their spears. “I could have healed him!”
Bachel withdrew her dagger and wiped it clean on the man’s shirt. “He was beyond healing, my son.”
“Not for me! You should have let me try!”
Bachel rose and turned to face Murtagh. Her expression was fierce and terrible but also sorrowful. “Do not think to question me, Rider! You do not know our ways! We seek to serve the Dreamer however we can, each and every one of us, and when our time is come, we yearn to return to He who dreams us. It is our greatest desire.”
“Yes, but—”
“The matter is closed, Murtagh son of Morzan. Enough!”
Disapproval pinched Murtagh’s features, and he set his jaw. As if by magic, Bachel seemed to transform before him; he saw cruelty in her features now and the stubbornness of deluded certainty. And he wondered at his own credulity. Then cold settled in his gut as he became aware of the potential danger of the situation and all emotion abandoned him, leaving him a hollow shell. He affected the same bland, noncommittal aspect that had served him so well at court. “Of course, my Lady. My apologies.”
Bachel inclined her head and then turned back to the dead man and placed a hand upon his brow. She murmured something and closed the man’s blank, unseeing eyes.
The witch was silent for a moment, her features inscrutable. Then: “Grieve, see to it that our kills are collected and our fallen too. Bring them to Nal Gorgoth, that we may feast upon our triumph.”
“Speaker.”
Bachel nodded and strode forth from the bodies and broken mushrooms toward the horses.
Murtagh watched her go. Then he looked at Grieve, who was directing the warriors to gut and truss the boars. “What does mehtra mean?”
Grieve gave him a sullen glare and bent to help another man with a boar. “It means mother, Outlander. For Bachel is as our mother in all things, and we trust her as such.”
“And sehtra?”
“Son.”
In a daze, Murtagh walked to Thorn. She’s as ruthless as Galbatorix.
The dragon agreed. And yet her people still care for her.
Rauden called her mother even knowing she was about to kill him. Galbatorix never inspired such love. Only fear.
For a moment, Murtagh debated following Bachel and riding back upon the liver chestnut mare. But he didn’t want to be anywhere near her. Not right then.
He turned to Thorn. “No more horses.” And he reached for the stirrup hanging down Thorn’s left side.
The dragon crouched lower so that Murtagh could catch the loop of boiled leather and pull himself up onto Thorn’s back. Good.