But it would not be enough. For revenge could not fix what the king had broken.

  As Thorn had grown, he had become increasingly reluctant to return to his cell whenever Galbatorix saw fit to release him. So much so that Thorn would break into frantic, frenzied fits at the sight of the guards. He would whip his tail and snap and claw and make every attempt to escape. The sight was inspiring at first but then piteous when the king would, with a few words, reduce the dragon to a cowering heap mewling in pain.

  Yet the punishment was not enough to overcome Thorn’s dread of close spaces, and day by day, his aversion became ever deeper until it was an instinctual reaction.

  Murtagh had only realized the full extent of the problem after Galbatorix posted them to Dras-Leona during the war and Thorn grew frightened while walking amid the city’s narrow streets. The dragon had destroyed four houses and wounded several soldiers in his sudden effort to win free.

  Murtagh had hoped that their travels might help, that by avoiding cities and towns and keeping to open places, Thorn’s fear would abate. And perhaps it still would, but it was going to be a slow process. If even it were possible.

  He shuddered and looked to the sky for strength. He wished things had been different. But the past couldn’t be changed, and the hurts they had suffered would be a part of them forevermore.

  * * *

  Thorn lifted his head as Murtagh trudged up the hill and dropped the deer onto the ground in front of him.

  Thorn sniffed the carcass. Thank you.

  “Of course. Eat.”

  Murtagh went to the saddlebags and retrieved a waterskin. He drank and watched as Thorn seized the doe, ripped it apart, and swallowed each piece nearly without chewing.

  Going to Ilirea and Nasuada was out of the question now. Admitting as much pained Murtagh, but after Thorn’s razing of Gil’ead, he couldn’t see how Nasuada could accept them into her court. Popular opinion would force her to deal with them harshly, and while Murtagh would have submitted to whatever punishment she deemed appropriate, he wasn’t willing to subject Thorn to possible confinement. Or worse.

  No. His letter to Nasuada would have to suffice, and he had to believe that she would have the wherewithal to navigate the dangers that beset her. He comforted himself with the knowledge that she was more cunning and capable than most.

  Still, it was difficult to accept the change in his and Thorn’s situation. For one shining moment, he had thought another path lay before them. But now Murtagh realized it had been an impossible dream. They would never be able to clear their name and attain a position of good standing among the peoples of the land. That way was forever closed.

  Would Nasuada think they had turned against her? He hated to imagine her feeling betrayed. The public accounts of their escape from Gil’ead would confirm the worst aspects of his and Thorn’s reputation. He could only hope that his letter would help Nasuada to understand that more was at play than was first apparent.

  Murtagh drank again.

  He wondered if perhaps it would be better to take Thorn farther east, to Mount Arngor, where Eragon and Saphira had established the new home of the Dragon Riders. There, Thorn would be able to live with others of his kind, far from any places where he might cause more harm. And he could receive such instruction from elves and Eldunarí as had been traditional for dragons in their order, and which Galbatorix had denied Thorn.

  But Murtagh didn’t want to give up. Bachel needed dealing with. And he didn’t want to give Eragon the satisfaction of acknowledging his authority. Most of all, Murtagh didn’t want to admit to the world that he or Thorn needed anyone else’s help. His stance was sheer stubborn pride, but he could not bring himself to show their weakness to the world. Weakness was dangerous; weakness allowed others to hurt and exploit you. Weakness was the first step on the path to death.

  Thorn sensed something of what he was thinking, for he said, I will go where you want to go. As long as we are together, I am content.

  Murtagh nodded and stoppered the waterskin. “That’s good, because we can’t stay here or anywhere in Nasuada’s realm.”

  I am sorry.

  Murtagh avoided Thorn’s gaze and did his best to bury his discomfort. “It is what it is.” He replaced the waterskin in the bag. “Still, we’re outcasts now, even more than before. Exiles. We’ll have to stick to the wilds, keep our distance from settled spaces.”

  We can fly together from here on? Just us? No more anthill cities?

  “Yes, we can fly together. And no more cities.”

  Thorn swallowed the deer’s head and licked clean his chops. Having eaten, he seemed calmer, more alert. What of you? Tell me of Gil’ead. How went things with Silna and Carabel? And how did you end up caught in a tangle box?

  “I got careless,” said Murtagh. He started pulling from the bags what he needed for his own dinner. He would have to do some hunting for himself if he wanted anything to eat tomorrow.

  As he worked, he shared his memories with Thorn, starting with how he’d gained admittance to Captain Wren’s company. When he came to the arcane garden and explained to Thorn about the Ra’zac egg, the dragon snorted with enough force to singe the ground with a finger of flame from each nostril.

  Vermin! I had hoped we had seen the last of them.

  “I know,” said Murtagh. He blew on the newly birthed flame of the fire he was building. “Eragon did the land a favor when he rid us of them.”

  The priests of Helgrind will be seeking to restore the Ra’zac to their previous glory.

  At that, Murtagh gave a short laugh. “I can’t see how they could. Soon there will be dragons throughout Alagaësia. No Lethrblaka could survive here.” The Lethrblaka were the adult form of the Ra’zac: hideous flying monsters more akin to bats than dragons.

  A Ra’zac might still work plenty of mischief before reaching full growth. Especially if a magician forces it to serve their will.

  For a moment, Murtagh contemplated returning to Gil’ead with the express purpose of destroying the Ra’zac egg, but then he berated himself for the stupidity of the idea. Aside from the danger, Captain Wren or Arven would surely have moved everything of value from the chambers under the barracks.

  He patted the pouch along his belt. The compendium was still there, as was—when he reached farther down—the yellow diamond hidden in the corner of his cloak.

  The fire flared higher, and he continued with his memories. It wasn’t long before he arrived at his confrontation with Arven, Esvar, and the rest of the guards, and Thorn tasted his regret at the outcome of the fight.

  Dry grass and the stems of withered thistles snapped under Thorn’s feet as he moved over and nuzzled his shoulder. You did what you had to. No one died. Tormenting yourself won’t help.

  Nothing in life is easy, said Murtagh with his thoughts, for the sound of his voice seemed unbearably harsh.

  Why should it be? Life is a fight from start to finish.

  A grim smile crossed Murtagh’s mouth, and he patted Thorn. And it’s better to win than to lose. The crimson fire in Thorn’s eyes deepened. They understood each other.

  Murtagh resumed his review, and at the end of it, he said, “I want to find this witch-woman Bachel even more than before. And I want to know what these Dreamers are about.” He smashed two more turnips with the rock he was holding. He wished he’d managed to find a knife to replace his dagger before leaving Gil’ead. “Whatever they’re planning, it’s more dire than I feared.”

  Thorn hissed, and his tongue darted out between his scaled jaws. And you still don’t wish to warn Eragon or Arya?

  Murtagh dropped the smashed turnips into the pot hung over the campfire. The thought of begging Eragon for help made him want to spit. Especially since he knew Eragon would help. That was the worst of it. “If Nasuada wants to inform them of the situation, that’s her prerogative. However, it would take too long for either of them to join us, and in any case…I want to deal with this ourselves. If we can. Blast it, we don’t even know what’s actually going on! Until we do, I say we stay the course.”

  A sense of agreement emanated from Thorn. Then a low cough sounded in his chest, and his tongue lolled from between his jaws.

  “What?” Murtagh asked.

  The dragon showed both rows of teeth. A thought occurred to me. Carabel did you a greater favor than you realize.

  “How do you figure?”

  She saved you from having to treat with Ilenna. A great boon, that.

  Murtagh stared at him for a second and then started to chuckle. With a wry twist of his head, he said, “You might have a point….” Then he grew grim again as he looked into the flickering flames.

  What is it?

  He shrugged, keeping his gaze on the fire. “I just wish I’d known to include something about Lyreth and his kind in my letter. I’m sure Nasuada suspects they’re working against her, but forewarned is forearmed.”

  Could you use a spell to warn her?

  Murtagh scrubbed the dirt with his boot, pensive. “Probably not. Urû’b— Ilirea is too far away for magic, easy magic that is, and Nasuada is sure to have wards protecting her against such intrusions. I could hire a courier, but I wouldn’t trust a stranger with this information.”

  Thorn touched his shoulder again, and Murtagh forced a small smile. He scratched Thorn’s cheek, and the dragon huffed. We head north, then?

  He nodded. “Back to the Bay of Fundor. We’ll follow the Spine up along the coast until we find the village Carabel spoke of.”

  And then?

  Murtagh pounded another turnip with the rock. “And then we’ll see what Bachel has to say for herself.”

  * * *

  Despite his extreme exhaustion, Murtagh found it difficult to sleep that night. His mind kept gnawing over the events of the past few days. Again and again he relived their escape from Gil’ead, and he questioned what he could have done to avoid such a disastrous outcome. Images of Esvar and the field of drowned soldiers continued to bedevil him, and the faces of Silna and the two brothers from the Rusty Anchor rose up before him. The center of his brow burned, and he thought too of Essie and of the stone room beneath the barracks and the rank smell of fear.

  When sleep finally took him, he dreamt of empty castles and locked doors and footsteps chasing him down endless corridors. And he heard his father’s voice echo overhead with dreadful intent, followed by a remembered touch upon his cheek, soft and loving, and his mother saying, “Beautiful boy. My beautiful boy.”

  Then visions of battle filled his slumbering mind: Glaedr and Oromis over Gil’ead, swords clashing upon the Burning Plains, soldiers dying at his command, banners and pennants whipping in the wind, the smell of blood and fire, and water in his nose and throat choking him as he struggled with Muckmaw.

  Thank you, whispered Silna, but he felt no relief, no absolution, and the nightmares dragged him further down, down, down to the cells beneath Urû’baen, where Galbatorix had bent and broken him, and throughout, he heard the growls and cries of Thorn, of his dragon, his beautiful, newly hatched dragon, suffering in the chamber near his.

  * * *

  With morning came frost, and it took Murtagh a good hour or so to warm up enough to face the day. He was sore, and tired too, and the fibers of his being were frayed from use.

  After a cup of elderberry tea, he practiced with Zar’roc, and the exercise helped clear his mind and focus his thoughts. And not just his, Thorn’s too. How one of them felt had a large effect on the other, and Murtagh was determined to do everything he could to shore up Thorn’s fortitude.

  When he finished with his forms, he and Thorn left their belongings at camp and descended from the hill to a copse of birchwood trees standing along a trickle of a stream.

  Murtagh entered first. He walked backward into the copse, feeling with his heels to avoid tripping and keeping his eyes on Thorn the whole while. Once he was a good thirty paces into the stand, he held out his hands.

  “To me.”

  A dry rustle as Thorn shuffled his wings. He shook himself, and his scales prickled along his glittering length. Then he took a tentative step forward, so his head was just under the reach of the leafless trees. The branches groaned under the influence of a passing breeze.

  Thorn stiffened, and Murtagh said again, in a soft voice, “To me.” He smiled for Thorn’s benefit. “You can do it.”

  The weight of Thorn’s forefoot crushed dozens of frost-shriveled leaves as he took another step forward. And another.

  “That’s it,” Murtagh whispered. If Thorn could break his fear but once, Murtagh knew he could build off that triumph, and the fear would decrease with every success.

  As Thorn’s hunched shoulders moved between the pale trunks, the dragon tensed even further. He dropped into a low crouch and dug his talons into the loam, and the tip of his tail whistled as it swung through the air.

  “Don’t stop.”

  Thorn refused to meet Murtagh’s gaze. He could feel the rising tide of panic swallowing the dragon’s mind, and he fought it with soothing thoughts, but he might as well have tried to beat back the actual sea.

  “Try!” commanded Murtagh, his tone suddenly hard. Where enticement would not work, perhaps ferocity would serve. “Now! Don’t think about it!”

  An anguished roar escaped Thorn, and he lurched forward on stiff legs, as a wounded animal might, and in his haste, his head brushed a low-hanging branch. Blinding fear swept the dragon’s mind with such strength it sent a bolt through Murtagh’s temples. He cried out and dropped to one knee even as Thorn thrashed and wriggled back out of the copse.

  Thorn sat on the open ground, shivering and blinking. His jaws were open, and he panted as if from a desperate run. Then he lifted his snout and loosed a mournful howl that sounded so lonesome and eerie, the entirety of Murtagh’s skin crawled.

  I cannot, said Thorn. My legs seize up, and I cannot move. It is as if a spell grips me, and I feel as if I will die.

  With an effort, Murtagh got back to his feet and, with slow steps, made his way to Thorn. “They’re just emotions. Emotions aren’t you.” He tapped Thorn’s foreleg. “You can feel them, you can let them pass through you, but who you are doesn’t change. Remember that. Remember the parts of your true name that describe the best parts of you and hold to them.”

  Thorn lowered his head in acknowledgment. The doing of it is difficult.

  “It always is.” Murtagh gestured at the stand of birchwood trees. “Again. Now.”

  Fear and uncertainty flickered at the back of Thorn’s gaze as he regarded Murtagh, but then he drew himself up with a proud arch to his neck, and a puff of smoke swirled from his nostrils. For you.

  As before, Murtagh backed into the copse, and as before, Thorn attempted to follow. The red dragon managed to force himself a few feet farther than on his first attempt, but then his nerve broke and he had to retreat. So strong were Thorn’s memories of imprisonment that, for an instant, they overwhelmed Murtagh’s mind, and the dungeons of Urû’baen appeared before him, as seen through Thorn’s eyes. That and the dragon’s visceral aversion were enough to drive Murtagh out from among the trees himself.

  They took a few moments to collect themselves. Murtagh’s heart was beating uncomfortably fast.

  Then they tried once more with similar results.

  “Enough,” said Murtagh, laying a hand on Thorn’s neck. The dragon was coiled into a tight knot upon the matted grass, panting and shivering as if with ague. It was still morning, and they were already wrung out.

  They were both uncommonly quiet as they returned to camp and prepared to leave.

  Only once Murtagh had packed up and was performing a final check on the rigging of Thorn’s saddle did the dragon say, Tomorrow, I will find another stand of trees.

  Murtagh paused with a half-fastened buckle in his hand. He finished securing it. “I’ll help you.” And a sense of shared determination passed between them.

  Before climbing into the saddle, Murtagh wetted a scrap of cloth and wiped the sweat from his face and under his arms. He would have preferred a proper bath, but the nearby stream was too small to fit in.

  “Shall we?” he asked, rinsing and wringing out the cloth.

  Thorn stretched the fingers of his wings and shook them, as if to rid himself of nervous energy. The winds are changing. We will have to dance about the clouds.

  Murtagh clambered up Thorn’s side and into the saddle. As he cinched the straps around his legs, he took one last look at the peaceful expanse of grasslands and nodded. “Then let us dance. No, let us hunt.”

  And Thorn growled with approval.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Exile

  While Thorn flew and the land rolled past below, Murtagh let his mind wander. His natural inclination was to think—to endlessly turn over all that was, had been, and could be—but he fought the urge. No remembering! Rather, he found solace in existence without contemplation. It was a simple pleasure, perhaps the simplest of all, and yet no less profound.

  High above the ground, the air was chill, and his lashes froze together if he blinked slower than normal. Murtagh used a spell to buffer the wind in front of him, to slow the loss of heat from his body. Thorn needed no such protection; his scales were sufficient guard.

  From the grasslands northeast of Gil’ead, Thorn flew back across Isenstar Lake and started to follow the Ninor River northwest toward the Spine.

  They made good time, but Murtagh worried that events were outpacing them, and he was likewise concerned that Du Vrangr Gata, or even the elves, were hunting him and Thorn. Unless Carabel had abilities as yet unsuspected, it would take some days for his letter to reach Nasuada. Until then, Nasuada, Arya, and Eragon—all of whom had no doubt already received word of the fight at Gil’ead—would assume the worst. Eragon and Arya might even be so alarmed, Murtagh belatedly realized, as to set out in pursuit. He half expected them to contact him, and every time he felt a touch on his mind, he fought the urge to flinch. But always it was Thorn, and the dragon said, You are as twitchy as a mountain cat bitten by too many fleas.