The more she spoke, the more troubled Murtagh felt. He turned the staff in his hand. “What about Du Vrangr Gata? Surely they could help.”

  A low coughing, spitting sound issued from Carabel. “I would not trust them to catch a mouse with three broken legs. Pah!”

  “And you need someone you can trust.”

  She met his gaze and held it. “Yes.”

  Murtagh wondered about the elves. That Carabel had not mentioned them was answer enough, but he was curious as to the reason. Elves and werecats did not seem entirely dissimilar, and if bad blood lay between them—or even just a basic dislike—he was interested in knowing why. A question for another time.

  His thoughts returned to Silna. In his mind, he pictured a child huddled alone in a bare stone cell. He could imagine all too well the cold, the pain, the anger, and the despair she might be feeling. Had he not shared those same torments when the Twins had deposited him in the dungeon beneath the citadel at Urû’baen? Worst of all had been the uncertainty, not knowing what fresh outrages one moment or the next might bring.

  Nor had that been his only experience in such a helpless, dire situation. He still remembered with painful vividness when, at fourteen, he’d snuck out of Urû’baen without permission or accompaniment. That evening, he’d tried to slip back in through the main gates, and the soldiers standing watch had caught him. Not recognizing him, they threw him into one of the cells buried beneath the guard tower. Galbatorix had been absent from the city at the time, along with his entire retinue. No one remained whom Murtagh could call upon to confirm his identity. So there he had languished for a week and three days, convinced he would die in sunless confinement and that no one would know or care.

  In the end, Galbatorix returned, and word of Murtagh’s plight somehow reached the court, for the king’s then chamberlain had come to see to his release. After which the chamberlain promptly had Murtagh soundly beaten for the trouble he had caused.

  Murtagh suppressed a shiver. He could still smell the dampness of the cell and feel the cold of the stones seeping into his bones. And yet, despite his familiarity with the distressing realities of Silna’s likely plight—and his compassion for her—he resented Carabel using the youngling to secure his help. Doubly so because he knew he would hate himself if he walked away.

  “Fine,” he ground out from between his teeth. “I’ll do it. But not for you, nor even for myself. For Silna.”

  Carabel nodded. “Whatever you find behind that door, the race of werecats will be grateful and count you as a friend, Murtagh son of Morzan.”

  Stop calling me that! “Where are the barracks?”

  Her hair bristled slightly. “It is not that simple.”

  “Why shouldn’t it be? I’ll walk in and open the door, magic or no, and if anyone dares stop me, I’ll—”

  “No!” She dug her claws into the arms of her chair, and for a moment, Murtagh thought she might leap across the desk. “If you rouse the alarm, Silna might be spirited away before you can reach her. Or worse, killed. The risk is too great. And you do not know what spells may have been deployed in that place.”

  Murtagh inclined his head. “So how am I supposed to gain entrance without attracting unwanted attention?”

  Carabel settled back on her cushion and smoothed the tassels on her ears. “You must become a member of the city guard and join Captain Wren’s company.”

  He allowed his eyebrows to rise. “Oh, is that all?…Well, I suppose I can talk my way into their ranks, if need be.”

  “Alas, that will not suffice.” Carabel was somber, but she seemed to take a subtle delight in confounding him. “Captain Wren no longer accepts general recruits into his company. At Lord Relgin’s indulgence, Wren selects his men from among the rest of the guard, and it is counted a high honor to be so chosen. But Wren only seeks out men whose service he trusts.”

  “And that’s not suspicious at all.”

  Carabel flicked her ears. “But not uncommon for officers of distinction.”

  “True enough. So how do I earn Captain Wren’s trust?”

  “It is not possible, not in the time we have. Instead, you will have to impress him.”

  Murtagh nearly growled. “And how am I to accomplish that? A feat of arms?”

  A sly smile curled Carabel’s sharp lips. “It is very simple, human. To impress him, you must kill a fish.”

  “A fish? A fish? Do you take me for a fool?”

  “Not at all. But, alas, to kill the fish, you will need a special lure.”

  “Bah!” With an expression of disgust, Murtagh fell back in the chair. How deep of a hole had he fallen in? If he hadn’t already given his word, and if it weren’t for the vanished youngling, he would have gotten up and left. “Enough of these riddles, cat! Explain, and you’d best do a good job of it.”

  “Of course, human. It goes as such. In Isenstar Lake lives a great cunning fish the men of this place have named Muckmaw. He is fierce, hungry, and cruel, and over the years, he has sunk many a boat and eaten many a fisherman. There is a reward in Gil’ead for whosoever can dispatch Muckmaw and present his head as proof of the deed. Four gold coins and a promise of a position in the guards, if so desired. I have no doubt that if you bring Muckmaw’s head to Captain Wren, he will welcome you into the ranks of his men.”

  “Killing a fish is no great challenge,” said Murtagh.

  “Were that was true. Muckmaw is no ordinary beast.” Carabel gestured at herself. “And a werecat should know. No common bait or cloth or colored thread will attract him, only something of special significance.”

  “Or I could just find him with my mind.” Murtagh gave her a dangerous smile. “A quick spell, and that will be the end of Muckmaw.”

  The werecat matched his smile. “And how will you pick out the thoughts of a single fish amongst all the fish in Isenstar Lake?…No, you will need a lure, one that he cannot resist.”

  “What sort of lure is that?”

  “A scale of the dragon Glaedr, whose body lies burned and buried outside this city.”

  Murtagh’s immediate reaction was outrage. “You must be jesting!”

  “I would not jest about such a thing,” said Carabel, deadly quiet. “Not when one of our younglings is in danger. Trust me, human, only the scale of a dragon will suffice for Muckmaw.”

  Again, Murtagh saw Oromis and Glaedr falling limply through the air while ranks of men and elves clashed on the ground below. He rubbed his knuckles as he stared at the floor. “I’m not happy about this, cat.”

  The slightest bit of sympathy entered Carabel’s voice: “It is a hard thing I ask you for, I know. But there is a rightness to it also.”

  “I fail to see any rightness in grave robbery.”

  “You slew Glaedr. Now, by fate’s design, you may use a part of him to help save an innocent. What could be more right than that?”

  The question struck him to his core. He forced his hands apart. “The elves will have set wards around Glaedr’s tomb to prevent exactly this sort of desecration.”

  A shrug from Carabel. “Yes. Probably. That is why we haven’t tried. That is why we must ask you, Rider.”

  “And what if I hadn’t come to Gil’ead?”

  When she answered, he heard no pretense in her voice, only honest emotion, raw and vulnerable and shot through with determination. “Then I and all the werecats in Gil’ead would have stormed the barracks and attempted to breach the door.” She met his gaze. “If that meant we had to fight an entire company of guards, then so be it. We will not abandon our young.”

  “…No.” Murtagh frowned and looked at the wood-braced ceiling. I should have known better than to give my word. Another thought followed close behind: Thorn won’t like that I did. But he knew he couldn’t ignore Carabel’s request, even if, right then, he rather hated the werecat. “Get the scale, catch the fish, find out what’s behind the door. Is that it?”

  Carabel nodded. “Exactly. But you must be quick about it, human. We have heard whispers of men moving in the night, wagons readied, horses freshly shod…. By tomorrow evening, Silna may no longer be in the city.”

  Murtagh silently cursed. This isn’t going to be easy. Then his resolve hardened, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. If the werecat child was in Gil’ead, he’d find her, even if it meant pulling the city apart beam by beam.

  “Then we’d best not waste any time.”

  A savage, toothy smile spread across Carabel’s face.

  CHAPTER III

  Barrow-Wights

  It was late afternoon when Murtagh exited the secret tunnel underneath Gil’ead’s fortress. Shadows had filled the streets, and only the rooftops remained bathed in light warm and gold.

  The stone door closed behind him with a grinding sound as Bertolf, the sleeveless servant, pulled it shut.

  Cautious, Murtagh climbed the stairs from the hidden entrance, half expecting a band of soldiers to jump him at any moment. At the top, he paused long enough to make sure no one was watching, and then he slipped through the garden, through the front gate, and into the street.

  He had to force himself to pay attention to his surroundings as he hurried back toward Gil’ead’s southern entrance, but his mind kept returning to his encounter with Carabel. A wry chuckle escaped him. Quests from a werecat. It was the sort of thing one heard about in stories, where the earnest young hero proved his doughtiness and won the hand of a princess.

  Only Murtagh knew the world didn’t work like that. More often than not, the hero ended up dead in a ditch, or else forced to carry out orders from the king he hated….

  His mood soured as he arrived at the edge of Gil’ead. With long strides, he hurried away from the buildings until he felt himself a safe distance. Then he moved off the road, to the top of a small hummock, and focused his mind in the direction of the hollow where Thorn lay hiding.

  Can you hear me? he asked.

  Thorn’s response was immediate: a rush of concern and aggravation. Of course. Are you safe?

  Safe enough.

  Where are you?

  Murtagh impressed an image of his surroundings onto Thorn. The dragon huffed, and Murtagh heard the sound in his mind. Were you able to speak with Ilenna?

  Not quite. Opening his memories, Murtagh shared his recollection of his conversation with Carabel. It was faster than using words to explain every little detail.

  Afterward, Thorn snorted. The cat got the best of you, I think.

  I know, he agreed mildly. There wasn’t much I could do about it.

  Still, it will be good if you can help the hatchling.

  I’ll do my best. You don’t mind about Glaedr’s scale, do you?

  Why should I? His scale is not my scale. Besides, Glaedr’s body is dead. Why should a dragon care what happens to them when they are gone?

  Many people do.

  Thorn made the equivalent of a mental shrug. If I am not here to know or feel, what does it matter? It is fear that drives such care, and I do not fear the worms.

  No. There are far worse things than death.

  Murtagh could almost feel Thorn staring at him. You are part dragon, I sometimes think.

  Of course. We are joined, you and I, aren’t we? He looked at the sky, gauged how much time until nightfall. I’m going to get the scale, and then I might need your help with the fish.

  Rainbow flecks of excitement colored Thorn’s thoughts. We will hunt together?

  Yes.

  The flecks brightened, variegated lights sparking as Thorn imagined the successful conclusion of the chase, of teeth sinking into fishy flesh.

  Soon, Murtagh promised.

  * * *

  With a purposeful stride, Murtagh headed west, toward the oak tree grown atop the mound where Oromis and Glaedr’s remains were buried. As it grew near, he saw numerous people gathered about the oak, some kneeling, others standing, and he heard distant singing.

  Among the people, he saw what looked to be a white-robed elf next to the twisted tree trunk.

  “Barzûl,” Murtagh swore, and turned aside. There was no sure way to conceal himself or what he was doing from elven eyes, which were the keenest and most perceptive of all the races’.

  He hated to delay—every hour that passed lessened the chances that he could rescue Silna—but there was no help for it. He would have to wait.

  Frustrated, Murtagh studied the fields around him. There. A small stand of willows near a bowl-like depression filled with lush grass, cattails, and a few crabapple trees heavy with their sour fruit.

  He glanced at the road to make sure it was clear, and then trotted over to the stand of willows. There were midges and biting flies flitting about the grass, and his boots sank into marshy ground, but Murtagh was willing to put up with the annoyance in order to have some cover.

  A fly bit his neck, and he slapped it away.

  He wedged himself into the willows in an angled position that would keep him from falling onto the wet ground. Then, from the purse on his belt, he took some dried apple and a piece of cold bacon and chewed them slowly, savoring every bite. It was all the food he was going to get for a while.

  He was thirsty too, but he didn’t want to drink whatever stagnant water he could find in the depression. That was a good way to end up bent over sick for the next few days.

  There has to be a way to make water safe with a spell. He remembered something of the like from Yngmar’s memories, but the details had been vague.

  Still thinking on it, he crossed his arms over the staff, pulled his hood over his face, and closed his eyes.

  The hum of busy insects soon lulled him to sleep.

  * * *

  Soft flesh fumbling at his skin, teeth scraping, unwelcome wetness along his hand, then a flare of yellow pain bright enough to make him yelp.

  Murtagh jolted awake, shouting, wild-eyed. He thrashed with the staff, hoping to knock back whatever was hurting him.

  A bony, dolorous face hung before him. Sideways pupils rimmed with dirty gold, cruel, inhuman; a profusion of black and white bristles; grasping lips searching like blind worms for food; splayed, flat-topped teeth yellowed around the bases, grinding, gnashing, snapping only inches from his cheek; breath like a putrid pond.

  Murtagh recoiled. The face was a terrifying, uncaring hunger set to devour the world.

  The yellowed teeth closed on his hand again, hard and painful. Repulsed, Murtagh reacted without thinking and shouted, “Thrysta!” while funneling his strength into the spell.

  A full-body blow knocked him against a willow trunk as the creature in front of him went tumbling through the air with an outraged bray.

  The animal landed several paces away and scrambled to its feet.

  A goat. It was nothing more than a goat.

  Murtagh blinked, still disoriented. He worked his mouth, tongue thick and dry, and looked around. No one else was in sight. He and the goat were alone in the shadowed depression.

  The goat shook itself and gave Murtagh an angry, disapproving look. It lowered its head and scraped the marshy ground with a front hoof, as if preparing to charge.

  “Letta,” Murtagh said with a note of finality. The word wasn’t a spell as such, but it contained the authority of the ancient language, and the goat—like all animals—understood the intent behind the command and stopped.

  The goat pulled back its neck and shook its head as if a wasp had stung its nose, upper lip curled with unmistakable anger. Then it went “Maaah” in a disgusted tone and trotted away, flicking its tail.

  Murtagh slumped against the willow. The image of the goat’s open-mouthed face still filled him with revulsion. If he hadn’t woken, he felt sure the beast would have kept eating and eating and eating until it consumed him alive.

  Fresh alarm flooded his mind; his fear had woken Thorn from the dragon’s own nap. For a few seconds, confusion reigned as their emotions overlapped and Murtagh attempted to calm Thorn.

  It was just a goat, Murtagh said, extricating himself from the willow. Just a goat.

  You scared me, said Thorn. Not an accusation, more of a plaintive statement.

  I scared myself. I’m sorry. Everything is all right.

  Do you want me to eat the goat?

  For a moment, Murtagh seriously considered accepting. No, but I appreciate the offer.

  Be careful. Even four-legs-no-fangs can be dangerous.

  I know. I will.

  Making a face, Murtagh brushed off his clothes. His back was sore from where the spell had slammed him into the willow tree. He berated himself for not setting a ward to wake him if someone or something came near…and for overreacting so strongly. Too many dangerous encounters had left him more twitchy than was good.

  And yet his reactions had kept him alive.

  He rubbed his hand where the goat had bitten him. The skin was red and bruised but unbroken.

  The wards he had placed around himself only went so far. Too much protection and he wouldn’t be able to interact with the world in a normal fashion—touching a sharpened edge or an overly hot pot, for example—and powering wards all the time would exhaust him, as they fed off the strength of his body. Which meant he’d never set a ward to specifically prevent an animal from biting him. Nor had the goat’s teeth met any of the conditions he’d built into his wards.

  I’ll have to fix that, he thought. It would be a tricky bit of spellcraft, but he wasn’t about to let some thrice-cursed goat eat him either.

  The horizon was a hazy line bisecting the gold half dome of the setting sun. Purple shadows streaked the land, and nightjars darted overhead, chasing insects as the first stars appeared in the sky beyond.