The werecat continued. “The amulet you found on Arven proves as much. As for where Bachel might be…Every few weeks, ships depart Ceunon and sail north in the Bay of Fundor. Even in the winter, when ice rims the bay and the waves grow steep and dangerous, even then you will find ships that take this journey. They are never gone very long. A few weeks at most, and then they return with their crew grim-faced and closemouthed. The passengers on these ships vary. Often they hide their faces and their minds, but we have seen many a notable merchant and many a scion of a titled family venture forth into the bay, and when they again alight in Ceunon, they often associate with the Dreamers, or else act in ways that seem to aid them.”

  Carabel pushed the amulet farther away and then licked her finger, as if to clean it. “Last year, we spoke with one of the sailors who made the journey.”

  “And?” asked Murtagh. His voice sounded unusually loud in the room.

  The werecat lifted her chin. “He told us of a village set against the Spine. A village where the ground smells of rotten eggs and smoke rises from blackened vents. He told us of these things…and then he died. If your mind is set on finding the witch Bachel, seek you there, O Murtagh son of Morzan.”

  Rotten eggs. Brimstone. Exactly what Umaroth had warned him of. Murtagh was glad of the confirmation, and yet it left him with a deep disquiet. But he’d asked for answers, and now he had a start on them. “So the stone Sarros brought me comes from the same place as Bachel?”

  Carabel shrugged. “It seems likely, but I cannot say for sure.”

  “And what do you think these Dreamers want with werecat younglings?”

  Red fire lit her eyes, and she showed her fangs. “Sss. I do not know. Maybe nothing. Maybe this is solely the work of Du Vrangr Gata. Maybe it is a private villainy of Arven. Or Captain Wren. I do not know, but I swear this to you, Rider: I shall not rest until I discover the truth and either rescue or avenge all of our lost children.”

  “Good,” said Murtagh in a flat tone. And he meant it. Whoever was responsible deserved the worst possible punishment. If it had been Arven alone, then justice had already been delivered, but he doubted it.

  The more Murtagh thought about the situation, the worse he felt. If the Dreamers had infiltrated Du Vrangr Gata—or recruited sympathizers therein—without arousing suspicion, that was alarming enough. But if what the cat said was true, they were operating upon a larger scale, and with a larger goal in mind, and they had already amassed a dangerous amount of influence. The realization made his skin crawl. How could they have escaped notice for so long? What hold did they have upon those they enlisted?

  They have to be stopped, he thought. “Have you informed Nasuada of this?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “Eragon or Arya?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  Carabel gave him a withering look. “Whispers and suspicions are not enough to raise a force, rouse a queen, or recall the leader of the Riders. We must have a clear understanding of the threat first.”

  “You mean someone needs to go to the village.”

  “Go. And return.”

  “Maybe. But I would say this”—he poked the amulet—“is proof enough that concern is warranted. That, and the kidnapping of your younglings.”

  Carabel’s expression soured. “Again, we do not know if the Dreamers are responsible. Still…perhaps you are right, and this unfortunate trinket is proof enough. Certainly it would be if you were to bring it to Nasuada along with an accounting of what we have learned.”

  Murtagh looked at the fireplace, uncomfortable. “You know I cannot.”

  “Can’t you? It is said that the queen has some special fondness for you, and—”

  Anger dragged his attention back to Carabel’s smirking face. “It is said? Said by whom? You had best watch your words, cat.”

  Carabel shrugged, seemingly impervious to his tone. “By those with ears to hear and eyes to see.”

  “Well, they know not what they say, and I’ll please you not to insult the queen or me with such slander.”

  After a moment, Carabel inclined her angled face. “Of course, Rider. Very well, I shall compose a message for Nasuada directly, but I do not pretend to know how she will respond. It would be best were you to pen a few words of corroboration. Will you agree to this?”

  He grunted. “Fine. Yes.”

  As the cat collected her writing instruments, Murtagh sank back in his chair, brooding. Captain Wren’s insubordination, the potential undermining of Du Vrangr Gata, the activities of the Dreamers, and the blasted Ra’zac egg—each was a serious matter. Taken together, they might represent a credible threat to Nasuada’s crown.

  What if…For a moment, he considered flying to Ilirea, but then he put the idea from his mind. As tempting as it was, doing so would be a mistake for everyone involved, including Nasuada. Her subjects wouldn’t take kindly to their queen publicly treating with the traitor Murtagh.

  And besides, whom would she end up sending to investigate the village? Whom could she send? Du Vrangr Gata was not to be trusted, and at any rate, none of its spellcasters were skilled or strong enough to deal with the sort of wordless magic he had encountered. Few were. Eragon, for one, but he was busy protecting the Eldunarí and the dragon eggs, and he would not lightly leave them. Arya and the more accomplished of the elven mages were certainly capable, but Murtagh knew Nasuada would be reluctant to request help from magicians—much less a Rider—who were neither her subjects nor human.

  Which left him. Him and Thorn.

  The conclusion did not displease Murtagh, even if the unknown was, as always, unsettling. To have a clear and righteous cause to pursue was a rare treasure. By it, they could do good, and not just in a general sense, but for Nasuada specifically. She whom he had so badly hurt.

  He roused himself from his brooding as Carabel gave him a sheet of parchment, a pot of ink, and a freshly cut goose-feather quill. Murtagh hesitated, unsure how to start, for he felt a weight of expectations and experiences and feelings unsaid. He shook himself then and focused on what needed saying. Wants would have to wait.

  For a few minutes, the scratching of the quill was the only sound aside from the fire. He ended with:

  Thorn and I will depart directly to find this village. What we might discover, I cannot say, but if it is a danger to you, your realm, or Alagaësia as a whole, we shall deal with it as need be. On this, you have my word. In any account, you may expect to hear from us upon our return.

  He frowned as he stared at the last few lines. He was committing both himself and Thorn to this cause without asking Thorn. He hoped the dragon would not mind.

  There was another problem besides. Nasuada did not know his hand, so how could she be sure the letter was from him? He could enchant the parchment, but to what end? She wouldn’t trust a spell from an unknown source. And he didn’t have a signet ring or other token on his person that she might recognize. Which left him with only his words.

  He dipped the quill anew into the inkpot. Then, with special care, he wrote:

  If you question the hand that scribes these runes, if you suspect my motive and wonder why, then I can only answer by saying—you know why.

  Murtagh

  The final sentence was a temerity. He knew that. But he couldn’t think of anything else to write that he was confident Nasuada would believe was from him. He’d uttered those last three words to her—and her alone—in the dark grimness of the Hall of the Soothsayer. It was the closest he had ever come to confessing his feelings for her, and while it felt like an imposition to mention them now, when the situation was so much changed, he had no other choice.

  He felt older than his years as he blotted the letter and wiped dry the quill. He folded the sheet and then melted a few drops of Carabel’s red sealing wax onto the seam of the parchment.

  “There,” he said, feeling a sense of resolution.

  “My thanks,” said Carabel. “I am in your debt, human, as are werecats everywhere.”

  He inclined his head. “No thanks are required.”

  A small smile appeared on Carabel’s face. “Perhaps not, but they’re still polite. How do you plan to proceed, then?”

  Murtagh rubbed his right elbow as he thought; the joint still hurt from the thrashing Muckmaw had given him. “I realize this is another question, cat, but perhaps you’ll humor me and answer.”

  Her expression grew wicked. “Perhaps I shall,” she said.

  “How do you think I should proceed?”

  The cat wiggled on her cushion, tufted ears perking up. The corner of her shift slid off to bare one shoulder. “Sssah. Very well, but I will warn you, human. Advice serves those giving it as much or more than those receiving it.”

  “I’ll take that risk.”

  “Then I say this: it is better to open doors than to wait for them to be opened. And it is better to know what is on the other side of a door before it opens.”

  Murtagh understood. He rose and gave her a small bow and a smaller smile. “I thank you for your advice, werecat Carabel.”

  She sniffed and examined her fingernails again. “You are welcome, human.”

  Outside, in the bailey, shouts sounded—captains rallying their troops. To Murtagh’s ear, it seemed as if the entire city garrison was being assembled in the yard.

  Carabel noticed as well. She turned her head, and the thin morning light entering through the loophole window made the tufts on her ears glow. “I think you had best be off, human, lest Lord Relgin get the idea to search the keep. He’s annoyingly imaginative sometimes.”

  “I’ll bid you farewell, then, and take my leave, fair C—” Behind him, Murtagh heard a faint sifting sound, as of falling cloth. He turned to see Silna standing on two feet next to the hearth, a small wool blanket wrapped about her spare frame. She was no taller than the poker and tongs that hung nearby. Her skin was pale as snow, the veins smoke blue beneath the surface, and there was a translucence to her, as if she were not entirely substantial. Eyelids like polished shells, hair still brindled and in disordered shocks, and all about her a wild alertness, as if she had stepped from a glade within the deepest, darkest forest.

  She walked to Murtagh and stood before him. He looked down into her enormous emerald eyes, clear and innocent, and knew not what to say.

  He knelt before her, even as he would have knelt before a queen.

  With a single bare arm, Silna hugged him about the neck. Her skin was cold against his. In a small, feather-soft voice, she said, “Thank you.” Then she kissed him upon the brow, and the touch of her lips burned long after she pulled away.

  She left him blinking back a film of tears. When he mastered himself well enough to lift his gaze, he saw her lying by the hearth, again in her cattish form, eyes closed, tail wrapped about her paws and nose.

  His legs were unsteady beneath him as he stood. He looked to Carabel and opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  For the first time, Carabel’s expression softened, and her voice was husky with emotion. “I meant what I said, Rider. I am in your debt, as are all werecats. You may count yourself as a friend of our kind, and should you ever need help, you may seek us out.”

  He nodded and swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I am glad I could help.” He drew himself up and gave her a courtly bow. “My thanks for your answers, Carabel. May your claws stay sharp, O most estimable of cats.”

  She bared her teeth in an appreciative smile. “Be careful where you tread, Rider. This witch is like a spider lurking at the center of a great web, and she has venom in her bite.”

  “Then it’s good I’m not scared of spiders.”

  * * *

  Murtagh straightened as he exited the low tunnel that led under the fortress’s curtain wall. He rolled his neck, hoisted his bedroll higher on his back, and checked the position of the sun: still low in the sky. He should be able to leave Gil’ead before most of the city was up and about.

  He rubbed his brow. It felt as if he’d been branded. The memory of Silna’s eyes lingered in his mind, and he felt as if she had seen to his very center, every flaw laid bare before her guileless gaze. It was an intimacy he was only used to sharing with Thorn, and it left him with an uncomfortable sense of vulnerability. And yet, to be seen as he was, and accepted…was there any greater grace?

  Troubled, he started away from the fortress. I’m on my way, he said, sending the thought to where Thorn was waiting. A faint sense of acknowledgment was his reply.

  As Murtagh padded between the buildings, he continued to gnaw over what Carabel had said. Bachel, Wren, the Ra’zac…the world was out of sorts, and in ways he didn’t really understand. The fact made his gut tense, as if he were about to receive a blow.

  Again, Silna’s eyes filled Murtagh’s mind, cool and clear and full of promise. And again, he felt her kiss upon his brow.

  He stopped at the side of a street, and every part of his skin prickled. His thoughts raced as he tried to solve the puzzle before him, tried to find the path of safety through a perilous maze. Had he been wrong? Bachel needed attending to, yes, but Nasuada was in danger, and his letter was hardly a proper means of protection.

  He opened the pouch on his belt and dug through it until his fingers found cold metal: the coins Captain Wren had given him. He pulled one out and looked at Nasuada’s embossed visage.

  As perfect as the likeness was, he could not decipher her expression. She wore a mask of her own, the impassive regality that custom—and necessity—imposed. He found no encouragement in her golden features, and yet their very familiarity helped settle his mind.

  He decided.

  They would go to Ilirea. Despite everything he had thought and said, it was the right thing to do. He would explain himself to Nasuada and face whatever approbation came from her subjects. Difficult though it would be, he would have the satisfaction of knowing Nasuada was safe. And once she was, only then would he and Thorn hunt down Bachel.

  With the decision came a sense of relief. Murtagh nodded, put away the coin, and hurried on his way, feeling fit to face the trials of an uncertain future.

  Would Thorn agree? Murtagh felt sure he would, once he shared his mind with the dragon. Unless, of course—

  Someone collided with him from the side. He shoved the person away, ready to kick and punch and fight.

  “Murtagh!” exclaimed a low, urgent voice.

  Dismay gripped Murtagh as he saw the same unpleasantly familiar face he had spotted outside the citadel not two days past: pale Lyreth in his drab finery. And surrounding them were Lyreth’s guards: six burly men with necks like bulls, the faint whiff of rotting flesh clinging to them. Ex-soldiers of the Empire, spell-warped to feel no pain.

  “Murtagh, it is you,” said Lyreth, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

  Murtagh clenched his teeth. Thorn’s alarm was a rising note of anxiety at the back of his mind. He considered bolting, but there were other people on the street, and he saw a squad of soldiers two houses away, marching toward them….

  Lyreth drew closer, his eyes darting about, the whites showing with some combination of fear and concern. “I thought I saw you a few days ago, but I wasn’t certain. What are you doing here? Don’t you know what they’ll do to you if they catch you?”

  “I need to go,” said Murtagh, and started to pull back.

  Lyreth caught him by the sleeve and held him with a surprisingly strong grip. His breath smelled of lavender and peach liqueur, but it wasn’t enough to conceal the sharp stench of nervous sweat from under his arms. “You can’t stay out here. The magicians of Du Vrangr Gata are everywhere, and there are elves in the city. Elves! Come, come, hurry. You’ll be safe at my house. Hurry!”

  Murtagh! growled Thorn.

  I know!

  The guards closed in around Murtagh, preventing him from stepping away as Lyreth pulled him up the street. And Murtagh had no choice but to accompany his unexpected and thoroughly unwelcome companions.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Duel of Wits

  Murtagh kept careful track of the streets as Lyreth hurried him through the city. If he had to run, he wanted to know exactly where he was.

  Lyreth brought him to a small stone house—one of the few all-stone structures in Gil’ead—tucked away in the corner of a square that was surrounded by cramped log-built dwellings jammed cheek by jowl. The ground was dirt, and there was a watering trough in the center for horses. The whole place felt dark, sheltered, and somewhat decrepit, and the only other living creature to be seen was a bedraggled rooster pecking at the dried mud outside what looked to be a candlemaker’s shop.

  Lyreth used an iron key to unlock the front door of the stone house, and then he waved Murtagh in. “Quickly, quickly now.”

  Wary—and somewhat curious—Murtagh entered. As dangerous as the situation was, his desire to know was stronger than his sense of self-preservation. How were the former members of Galbatorix’s nobility surviving? In a different set of circumstances, he knew he would have been the one hiding like a rabbit trying to escape a hungry hawk.

  The building’s shabby face belied its luxurious interior. Dwarven rugs covered the tiled floor. Carved balustrades lined a marble staircase that climbed to a second story. Dramatic portraits hung on the walls—portraits that were too detailed, too lifelike, to have been created without the help of magic. A gold and silver chandelier hung from the wood-braced ceiling, and cut gems dangled from the chandelier in a rainbow of tears.

  “This way,” said Lyreth, leading Murtagh past the anteroom into a modestly sized but beautifully decorated dining hall. Silken tapestries depicting battles between dragons, elves, and humans adorned the walls, and the candlesticks on the long table looked to be solid gold.