The cat stared down at him without expression.

  “Come on,” he whispered, and wiggled his fingers.

  At last, the werecat kitten walked to the lip of the tunnel and allowed him to pick her up and place her on the ground next to him.

  “Worse than a dragon,” he muttered. He wedged the grating back into position and then said, “Thrysta,” using the spell to force the metal into place. It would take a hammer and chisel to break it free again.

  Murtagh bundled the red cloak of the watch around one arm as he led Silna out from under the bridge. He glanced up and down the banks of the stream and—seeing them clear—scrambled up into the street.

  He turned to make sure Silna was following.

  The instant the werecat cleared the top of the bank, she took off between the buildings, sprinting faster than any human, her stiff tail tracing circles behind her.

  Murtagh swore and started after her, but Silna had already vanished into the city, and he could see people staring at him from across the way. He risked opening his mind, but it was as if the werecat had ceased to exist. All he could feel were humans and dogs and the self-satisfied thoughts of a notch-eared tomcat sitting atop a plank fence.

  He swore and then swore again.

  There was no helping it. Silna was gone, and he had no confidence he could find her again, even if he searched for days. All he could do was hope the guards didn’t spot her and that she was able to return to her own kind.

  He swore once more. He had rescued Silna. But would Carabel still give him the answers he sought if he couldn’t deliver the youngling to her? He chewed on the question for a time. It left a bad taste on his tongue.

  If the werecat refused…he would insist. That much he was sure of. After everything he’d done for Carabel, he was due his answers. And if, by insisting, he ended up turning werecats as a whole against him—and Thorn—well, that was the price they’d have to pay.

  There was only one way to find out.

  He pulled his hood over his head and hurried deeper into Gil’ead.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Confrontation with a Cat

  It was still early dawn, and all was grey and silent except for the occasional tromp of soldiers and the cry of the watch.

  A direct approach to the fortress would have been suicidal, so Murtagh skirted the center of the city and kept to alleys and side streets where possible.

  The few folks he encountered gave him suspicious glances, but no more than the situation warranted. All of Gil’ead felt tense, alert, as if violence could break out at any moment. Shutters in houses swung shut seemingly of their own accord when he lifted his gaze, and he saw members of the guard posted along the main thoroughfares.

  Murtagh couldn’t stop worrying about Silna as he made his way through the city. Difficult and standoffish though she’d been, he hoped that she was safe and that the guards wouldn’t catch her. She was so small and young…. I should have done a better job of watching her, he thought.

  As he neared the fortress, he slowed to a measured walk, not wanting to rush headlong into a dangerous situation.

  Without too much trouble, he found the house that Bertolf, Carabel’s manservant, had brought him to before. Murtagh wondered if Carabel owned the elegant building or if she had an arrangement with whoever did. It seemed risky to be ducking in and out of a secret tunnel on a property where you didn’t know who might be watching.

  With quick steps, he descended the stone stairs to the well set ten feet or so below the surface of the ground. There, he pushed on the same piece of carving as had Bertolf, and the hidden door swung open.

  Murtagh wasn’t eager to again enter a tunnel, but at least he was familiar with this one, and it was far, far shorter than the maze they’d spent most of the night wandering. The thought reminded him of his lost sleep, and he fought back a powerful yawn. Two bad nights in a row took their toll.

  He ducked beneath the lintel and walked in. Behind him, the door swung shut with a thud of deadly finality, and darkness swallowed him.

  Somewhere ahead of him, the skittering footsteps of a mouse sounded.

  “Great,” he said, starting forward with one hand against the wall for balance. “Just great.”

  * * *

  Murtagh growled as he entered the storage room at the end of the tunnel and his shin banged against the lip of a step. Once he closed the tunnel’s other entrance, he listened for anyone in the hall outside. This time he used his mind also, sending his thoughts searching for nearby beings. The only one he found was a rather frightened mouse in a crack along the wall of the storeroom.

  Now! Murtagh left the storeroom and hurried through the same side passages Bertolf had led him through during his last visit. He was grateful that the path had been easy to remember and that it was still early enough that most of the fortress’s inhabitants had yet to wake. Plenty of the servants would already be after their duties, but he didn’t think he needed to worry about running into the castle’s baker that far outside of the kitchens.

  Nevertheless, he was happy to reach the paneled door to the werecat’s study without incident.

  He didn’t bother knocking; he lifted the latch on the door and pushed. It wasn’t locked or barred and swung inward with hardly a sound.

  * * *

  Carabel was sitting on the velvet cushion behind her desk. She was in the shape of a cat, tassel-eared, with a large mane around her neck and down her spine, and beautiful white fur that shone like satin. In size, she was perhaps three times larger than a normal cat, and lean muscles rippled beneath her hide in a way that spoke of savage strength.

  She was purring and licking with her pink tongue the matted head of none other than Silna, who lay curled against her side, eyes closed in apparent bliss.

  Murtagh paused at the entrance of the study, surprised and somewhat off-balance, but—for many reasons—relieved to see Silna safe. Then he moved in and closed the door behind himself.

  “I take it she found you,” he said. He dropped his bedroll on the floor.

  Carabel looked at him, and her purring deepened. He felt the touch of her mind, as if she were attempting to communicate with her thoughts, like Thorn.

  He armored his consciousness against her and shook his head. “Oh no. Not like that. We talk with words or not at all.”

  The werecat’s ears flattened against her narrow skull. Then her form blurred and wavered, as if seen through rippling water, and after a few seconds, she again resembled a short, thin human.

  Only she was without clothes.

  Murtagh did not care. In other circumstances, her figure might have been distracting, but right then, it had no effect on him. He kept his gaze on the werecat as she picked up her shift from the desk and pulled it on.

  “How inconvenient,” said Carabel, showing her pointed little fangs.

  Silna made a mewl of protest at being abandoned, and Carabel turned back and began to gently draw her sharp nails across the top of Silna’s head. The kitten nestled closer to Carabel, and Murtagh would have sworn there was a smile upon her tiny lips.

  Murtagh planted himself on the center of the knotted rug, directly before the desk. Uncomfortable suspicion soured his mouth. “The two of you are very familiar.”

  “Of course,” said Carabel, directing a fond look toward Silna. “She is my daughter.”

  “Your daughter.”

  “One of many, yes. My youngest.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The werecat looked at him with solemn eyes. “Because names are powerful things. If you had known, it is possible our foes could have discovered the truth from you, and then they might have used Silna against me.” She cocked her head. “You of all people ought to understand the danger of one’s name, Murtagh son of Morzan.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “It is who you are, human.”

  Murtagh fought to control his temper. “So they didn’t know Silna was yours?”

  Carabel shook her head. “No.”

  “It was just happenstance that they took her?”

  “As best I can tell.”

  He growled and paced about the rug. “Why did they kidnap her, then? Excuse me, kittennap her? And the other younglings. Has she said?”

  Silna began to purr—a soft, steady rumble—as Carabel scratched along her cheek. Carabel said, “Only that the magician was involved—”

  “Arven.”

  “Yes, that was his name. And Captain Wren too. They spoke of sending her somewhere farther south.”

  Murtagh’s irritation with the werecat receded into the background as he stalked back and forth across the width of the study, trying to puzzle out the situation. “Lord Relgin has to be told.” He stopped and gave Carabel a sharp look. “Or was this done at his command?”

  Her expression grew severe. “I do not know,” she said in a dangerously quiet voice. “And I would not care to hazard a guess. In this matter, safety will only be found in surety, and so far, surety eludes us…. I take it you did not find any of our other younglings?”

  “There was no sign of them,” he said, and her eyes softened with sorrow. “Does Silna know what happened to them?”

  Carabel placed a protective arm around her daughter. The sight sent a pang through Murtagh. “Alas, no,” Carabel replied. “She saw nothing of them. Tell me, if you would, how you rescued her. I would hear the whole of it, in every detail.”

  “You owe me answers, cat,” he said, grim.

  “And answers you shall have. But first this, if it please you.”

  Murtagh took a breath and did his best to put aside his impatience. He could not fault the werecat for asking.

  So he described his time at Glaedr’s barrow and how he had extracted the dragon’s golden scale from within its earthy tomb. And he explained the steps he had followed to find Muckmaw’s feeding ground, and how he had fought and killed the great fish.

  The werecat listened intently, and at the point of Muckmaw’s death, she went, “Sss. Good. Let the rats eat his tail and may his bones crumble to dust.” By her side, Silna wiggled and looked up at her mother. Carabel resumed petting her. “The fish ate many a werecat over the years, human. It is good he is gone.”

  “And you got me to kill him for you.”

  Carabel cocked her head. “Would you have been able to gain entrance to the guard otherwise?”

  “…No. Probably not.”

  Smug, the cat took a sip from a chalice on the desk. “See? There was a rightness to this.” She waved an elegant hand. “You may continue.”

  Murtagh’s jaw tightened, but he did as she said and described how he had ingratiated himself within Captain Wren’s company and then how he had made his way into the catacombs beneath the barracks.

  The werecat spread the fingers on her free hand and dug them into the top of the desk. “Ssss. And what saw you thereafter, human?”

  Murtagh gestured at Silna. “Surely your daughter can tell you.”

  “Your eyes see differently than hers.”

  He grunted. Then he described the two chambers he’d found after the war room: the magical workshop and the garden of rare and unknown plants. When he mentioned the strange egg in the garden, Carabel stiffened and her spiked hair fluffed, as if she were frightened.

  “What is it?” Murtagh asked.

  “An ancient wrongness that will need to be dealt with,” said Carabel, examining the tips of her nails. “Rest assured, human, I will see to it that the problem is taken care of.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me what this wrongness is?”

  Her lips split in a sly little smile. “Every piece of information has a price, human. What would you be willing to pay for such a lovely morsel?”

  “I would have thought I already earned it.”

  She laughed, her voice like silver coins tumbling. “No, no. Each mouse you wish to catch is different. Each mouse is new. This is a separate matter.”

  Talking with the cat, he decided, was like playing a game of hazard where the rules changed with each throw of the dice. Very well, if I have to be tricksy, I’ll be tricksy. “A secret for a secret, then. Will that satisfy you?”

  Carabel licked her fangs as she considered. “Is it a good secret, human?”

  “As good as any I know.”

  “Hmm. A strong claim, that.” She picked at a scratch in the desktop. “Very well. A secret for a secret. The egg belongs to the creatures known in this tongue as the Ra’zac.” She added a trill to the r at the beginning of the name, and the sound sent a prickle down Murtagh’s spine.

  He swore explosively and paced in a circle before coming back to face the desk. “Them? Those foul creatures! How?”

  The werecat raised her delicate eyebrows. “You must have known that Galbatorix hid some of their eggs about the land.”

  “He never spoke of it.” Murtagh made a face, annoyed with himself. “I suppose I should have guessed as much. He always was devious. What is it doing here, though?”

  A low half purr, half growl rumbled in Carabel’s chest. “That is indeed the question, human.”

  “If I’d known what it was…” He shook his head. He would have melted the egg in a blast of fire fit to rival even the flames Thorn produced. As Carabel had said, the Ra’zac were a wrongness. They were the hunters of humans, nightmares of the night that fed off the flesh of people.

  Murtagh remembered the moment he’d seen them crouched around the campfire where they’d caught and bound Eragon, Saphira, and Brom: stooped figures in dark hoods that hid their vulturelike beaks and round, bulging eyes, pupilless and devoid of white. He’d shot at them with his bow and driven them away. Though not before they succeeded in mortally wounding Brom….

  He shook himself from the shadows of the past.

  “If I’d had word of it beforehand,” said Carabel, “I would have said as such to you. Now your secret, if you please, human.”

  A rough knocking sounded.

  Murtagh started, and then the study door opened to show Bertolf’s broad face. He peered at Murtagh suspiciously. “Were you wanting me, ma’am? It’s near time for breakfast, but the kitchens are behind today.”

  Carabel waved a hand. “Leave us for now, Bertolf. I’ll ring if I want you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The man bowed and withdrew.

  The werecat focused on Murtagh once again, fierce and serious. “Your secret now.”

  From his belt, he removed the second bird-skull amulet and placed it on the desk. Silna hissed, arched her back, and batted the amulet onto the floor.

  Murtagh bent and picked it up. Moving slowly, he placed the amulet on the corner of the desk farthest from Silna.

  The kitten spat at the amulet and then hopped down to the floor and went to sit curled on the study hearth.

  With an expression of distaste, Carabel hooked the amulet with a fingernail and held it up to examine. “I fail to understand,” she said. “You have already shown me this unpleasant trinket. Although”—her nose wrinkled—“there is a different scent to it now.”

  “I took that amulet off the spellcaster,” Murtagh said. And he showed her the original amulet in the pouch on his belt.

  The tips of Carabel’s tufted ears pressed against the side of her head. She growled then, a deep, throaty emanation that made the front of her shift vibrate. Hearing such a primal, animalistic sound coming from such a human-looking being made the hair on Murtagh’s neck stand upright. “Arven. He of Du Vrangr Gata,” she said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Sss. The situation is worse than I feared, Rider.”

  Rider, now? She must be truly concerned. Murtagh seated himself, and he and the werecat exchanged a long, grim stare. For the first time, he felt as if they understood each other. “I think,” he said with deliberate care, “that you had best tell me what exactly you know.”

  Carabel frowned as she again looked at the amulet. “I suppose you’re right.” She leaned back on her cushion. “Where shall I start?”

  * * *

  A faint pop came from the bed of coals in the fireplace, and Silna flicked her ears with annoyance. Outside, in the bailey of the fortress, loud voices sounded. Murtagh kept his gaze fixed on Carabel.

  “Start with the witch-woman Bachel,” he said.

  The werecat hissed. “Yesss. That one. Very well. For some years now, we have heard rumors—no more than whispers—of strange folk moving through the land. Dreamers, they call themselves, and the few that have been questioned claim to serve this Bachel. Who she is and what she wants remain…uncertain, but it is known that she is capable of weird magics.” The werecat indicated the amulet. “We have sought this secret, human, in our own careful way. We are curious by nature, and unanswered questions attract us as moths to the flame. Five of our kind have ventured into the wilds in search of Bachel, and of those five, none have returned.”

  Murtagh listened with growing unease. “Where did they go?”

  “Here and there,” said Carabel with an unpleasant smile. “But I suspect…Well, you shall hear. You should know that the Dreamers have become more common. When captured and questioned, they kill themselves without hesitation, but this much seems certain: their influence spreads throughout Alagaësia like roots creeping through the soil. Their kind has been seen dealing with all the races, including the elves and Urgals, and we have scented their meddling in many a dark affair. But again, we know nothing of their goals or causes—only that their pawprints appear ever more frequently, and rarely absent blood or death.”

  Another pop sounded in the fireplace.