The little worms never flew so far north, said Thorn. Not if Yngmar’s memories are to be trusted.
Are they, though? The world is old; even dragons do not know everything of note that has happened.
It is strange, said Thorn, lifting his head above the rooftops to sniff the air.
Murtagh moved on.
The longer he walked, the more agitated he became. Between the pummeling he’d taken during the hunt and the subsequent vision, he had been in no way prepared for Rauden’s killing. No matter what Bachel or Alín or anyone else says, that was wrong. He snorted. Eragon had said much the same to him after Murtagh had killed the defenseless slaver, Torkenbrand. But that had been different. Torkenbrand had been a threat. Rauden was no threat at all. Certainly not to Bachel.
The memory of the slaver turned his thoughts back to the cultists’ prisoners. Their thralls.
A hard certainty began to form within Murtagh.
He stopped again and looked at Thorn. The dragon lowered his head until they were staring eye to eye. Murtagh could feel the same hard certainty within Thorn.
I don’t care about whatever future Bachel sees for us, said Murtagh.
Nor I.
I just want to know what she and the Draumar are trying to do. It can’t be good.
Thorn’s hot breath washed over him, a comforting sensation. You mean to press the point with Bachel?
He nodded. When we sup this evening. Either she’ll answer us and answer well or—
We fight?
If it comes to that. Only…Murtagh shivered. The children. We have to protect the children.
Thorn licked his teeth. It is hard to fight in a nest without crushing eggs.
Then we’ll have to find a way to empty the nest first. It’s a big enough valley. There’s plenty of room to run and hide.
What if the younglings refuse to run? Thorn cocked his head. They might stand and fight, same as their elders, and then what?
Murtagh shook his head. I don’t know. We do our best. He put his hands on either side of Thorn’s head. We are decided?
We are.
And yet doubt gnawed at Murtagh. Confronting the witch seemed an increasingly chancy prospect, even if he couldn’t reasonably explain why. But he was determined, as was Thorn. There was no turning aside now.
CHAPTER X
Upheaval
As Murtagh and Thorn retraced their steps through the village, they came upon a toothless old man sitting by a well. The man was dressed in rags, with eyes blue white with blindness and a crude crutch cut from a forked branch. He rocked on his narrow haunches and stared sightless at the mountains while he grinned and gummed.
When Murtagh passed by, the man cocked his head and said, “Aha! The crownless prince, afoot in a foreign land. Son of sorrow, bastard of fate, sing of sorry treachery. Red dragon, black dragon, white dragon…White sun, black sun, dead sun.”
Murtagh stopped and crouched by the man. “What do you know about a black sun?”
The man turned his face toward Murtagh. His skin was so deeply wrinkled, it hung in folds like loose leather draped over his bones. He cackled. “Dreamt it, I did. Ahahaha. Sun eaten, earth eaten, the old blood avenged and the new enslaved. Did you dream, princeling? Do you see? What? Speaker got your tongue? Ahahaha.”
“No one has my tongue,” Murtagh said darkly.
The man ignored him and twisted in the direction of Thorn. “Proudback, bentneck, choose, choose, choose, but can’t wake from life, oh no. Serve the sire or sleep forever. What deathless lies may in eons rise, ahahaha!”
And the man said nothing more that resembled coherent speech.
Frustrated, Murtagh stood and continued back through the village. This is pointless, he said to Thorn. They’re all mad. This should be called the village of riddles.
Maybe that is what trapped Galbatorix and the Forsworn.
What? Endless riddles?
Can you think of a better snare for a well-honed mind?
Murtagh couldn’t. I wonder if that addled greybeard is what everyone turns into if they stay in this accursed valley long enough.
Upon returning to the temple courtyard, he and Thorn found the cultists preparing another feast. Tables and chairs and hides had again been placed around the defunct fountain, with braziers of burning coals between and bedded fires laden with spitted meat.
The food was far from ready, so Murtagh retired to his chambers for a time. He tried to nap, but his mind was too agitated for sleep. Instead, as he lay on the bed with his eyes closed, he risked reaching out with his thoughts and lightly searching the village and the area beneath it, looking to see if there were large numbers of people hidden nearby. He found a few bright sparks of consciousness where he didn’t expect—one beneath the temple, and several clustered atop its highest tower—but no great hordes hidden away, no army lying in wait to storm south and overrun Alagaësia.
It should have been a relief, but he remained as tense as ever.
At last he rolled back to his feet, returned to the courtyard, and went to sit with Thorn. There, at least, he felt somewhat more at ease.
As the sun crept downward, Grieve emerged from the temple and began to oversee the proceedings. Then too came Bachel.
No longer in her hunting garb, the witch wore a dress of fine wool dyed a purple so dark as to be nearly black, and a new headpiece adorned her brow, this of gold and silver studded with ruby cabochons. A heavy woolen cloak, red as autumn leaves, wrapped about her shoulders.
She greeted Murtagh and Thorn and proceeded to her dais. There a group of white-robed acolytes gathered in a circle about her, and they began to sway while they chanted and hummed. Murtagh did not see Alín among their ranks.
Bachel stood head and shoulders above the acolytes, her height augmented by the platform beneath her. She swayed in time with her acolytes, eyes half closed, arms raised toward the sky as if to beseech an unseen god for favor.
A strange people, Thorn commented.
Murtagh grunted.
After a few minutes, Alín scurried over. She avoided his gaze and said, “How may I serve you and Thorn, my Lord? May I bring you something to drink?”
Murtagh waved away the suggestion. “What is she doing?” he asked, motioning toward Bachel.
“She is praying for warm weather through the winter, my Lord. And she is calling forth dreams to free the minds of the thralls our warriors have brought us.”
Something about Alín’s phrasing bothered Murtagh, but he wasn’t sure why. “And to whom does Bachel pray?”
Alín backed away. “I will bring you wine and cheese, my Lord, to tide you over until the feast.”
“Wait, that’s not—”
But the young woman was already hurrying off, her head down and her hood up.
Murtagh let out a soft growl and settled back against Thorn. What do dreams have to do with convincing prisoners to join their cause? he said. If the dreams are anything like the ones we had, they’ll just want to leave.
A small puff of smoke rose from Thorn’s nostrils. Perhaps they dream differently than we do. The witch said not everyone here has such visions.