Thorn settled close behind Murtagh’s back, and he was well glad of the companionship. The dragon’s concern mirrored his own.
We should be gone from here, Thorn said.
I agree.
Then why do we wait? A few seconds, and I can have us in the air.
And the witch can cast her magic as fast as she can think. A cultist offered Murtagh a selection of sweetmeats, and Murtagh feigned a smile and declined. Do you want to fight her right now?
…No.
A moment of grim understanding passed between them. The witch was more capable than either of them had expected, and Murtagh did not want to test their magic against hers, for fear they would fall far short. What she did shouldn’t be possible. No one is strong enough to move that much dirt and rock at once. Not even Shruikan.
If all the Eldunarí worked together, they could.
Maybe. But I’ve already looked with my mind. So have you. There are no Eldunarí here.
Thorn’s breath was hot against the nape of his neck. She could have used a store of energy hidden in gems.
Why waste it on such a demonstration, though? That much energy would be a treasure beyond reckoning. It would take years upon years to acquire. Murtagh resisted the urge to grip Zar’roc again. He wanted the sword in hand, blade drawn, and a shield upon his off arm. And yet he knew now none of it would protect him against Bachel’s power. No, she must have a source of energy that renews itself, and it can’t be that far away.
He looked up as Alín approached with a pitcher of wine and offered him a stone cup. He accepted, and she filled the cup, though she refused to meet his gaze. Then she bowed, said, “My Lord,” and departed.
Still unsettled, Murtagh took a larger drink than was his wont. The wine did little to soothe his nerves. He took another sip, and a thought occurred to him that caused him to lower the cup and stare at the coals in the nearby brazier while he worked out the implications. I think I know why Bachel keeps delaying. She wants us to sleep again. To dream. That’s what she’s waiting for. She said as much earlier, didn’t she? That’s why she asked us to stay through the night. She must believe that the dreams here will somehow convince us to join their cause. Same as with their prisoners.
A soft growl sounded behind him. Then we must not sleep.
We daren’t. Murtagh turned the cup between his fingers. If we lose ourselves, I shudder to think what would happen.
It would be good to have help if we are to fight Bachel.
The thought pained Murtagh, but he could see no alternative. Agreed. Once we are away from this place, I’ll send a message to Eragon and Saphira and to Arya and Fírnen.
A hint of fiery excitement colored Thorn’s mind. And then the newest generation of dragons and Riders can fly forth together.
Mmm. Before we leave Nal Gorgoth, though, I want to find out what’s in that cave.
Wariness was Thorn’s initial response. Why?
Because maybe Bachel’s source of power is down there.
And if you find it—
Perhaps we can use it for ourselves. Or I can destroy it. In any case, knowing what it is would give us our best chance of defeating Bachel. We’ll wait for everyone to fall asleep, I’ll look in the cave, and then we’ll be off. By the time the witch wakes, we’ll be long departed.
Good, said Thorn.
Then Bachel proposed a toast, and Murtagh smiled and raised his cup in response. And all the while, his mind whirled with dark speculation.
CHAPTER XI
Anticipation
Night had fallen by the time the feast was finished. As seemed to be her habit, Bachel had eaten all of the dishes placed before her, and more besides. She had also drunk a small cask of sweet red wine and now sat slumped upon her throne, swollen with satiation. Looking at her put Murtagh in mind of a great, overfed toad, self-satisfied with its gluttony.
At a signal from Grieve, the witch’s bearers lifted the litter and carried her into the dark recesses of the temple. Then the music ceased, and the cultists began to remove the tables and clean up from the feast, and Alín came to Murtagh and offered to lead him to his quarters.
After saying a temporary farewell to Thorn, he accepted.
Alín’s white robe seemed to almost glow as she led him through the unlit hallways of the temple.
“Has Bachel ever done something like that before?” Murtagh knew he did not need to specify what exactly.
A momentary hesitation—an almost imperceptible hitch—appeared in Alín’s stride. “Once, a long time ago, my Lord. A woman came to Nal Gorgoth. Uluthrek was her name, which was strange, as she was human. Bachel went to treat with her outside the village. No one heard what they said, but in the end, the Vale of Dreams shook as it shook today.”
“Bachel went to meet her?” Murtagh had difficulty imagining.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, my Lord.”
When they arrived at the doors to his chambers, Murtagh said, “Alín, you are bound by oaths. That I understand. But I need to know: What is Bachel’s source of power? Tell me that much, at least.”
“She is the Speaker, my Lord. All who serve as Speaker have this power.”
“Yes, but why? Where does it come from?”
A hint of exasperation livened Alín’s features. “That is a silly question. It comes from the Dreamer of Dreams, as does everything in life.” She bowed, then said, “Your rooms, my Lord,” and turned to leave.
“Wait!” Without thinking, Murtagh reached out to stop her. But Alín saw, and she shrank from his hand as if it were a red-hot iron, and her back struck a column built into the wall.
She let out an anguished cry and arched her chest, losing all composure.
Murtagh yanked back his hand as he realized he’d nearly touched her. Then his eyes narrowed as he noticed how gingerly Alín straightened her posture, face pale as fresh-fallen snow.
“She had you whipped,” he said. It wasn’t a question. He recognized the way Alín moved; he’d moved the same every time Galbatorix sent him to the post.
“I should not have spoken to you as I did earlier,” said Alín in a low voice.
“After the hunt?” Murtagh struggled to keep the anger out of his voice.
She nodded. “It was wrong to be so familiar. I was wrong.” She covered her face with her hands, and before Murtagh could reply, she rushed away, her soft leather shoes pattering along the stone hall.
A thick cloud layer had formed over the mountains, rendering it a starless, moonless night. The darkness suited Murtagh; it would make sneaking around that much easier.
Still, it was hard to gauge the passage of time without a view of the sky, and he wasn’t sure how long to wait before leaving his quarters. He lit a small fire on the bedroom hearth and watched the flames consume the wood.
His mind refused to rest. Images of the black sun and looming dragon kept intruding, and he found himself planning and overplanning what might happen if he and Thorn had to fight Bachel and the rest of the Draumar.