Don’t talk to me about cats.

  The land beneath them was beautiful, and Murtagh found himself wishing that they could ignore the concerns of queens and kings and live according to their own devices, just as Thorn had wanted. Whether that meant settling in one place—with magic as his tool, he could raise a hut or a palace, whichever suited his fancy—or searching the skies like an albatross set to wander all its days.

  But in his heart, he knew neither option would work. No one truly lives apart. We are all connected. And ignoring their responsibilities, his responsibilities, would only lead to regret.

  That evening, they made camp by a stand of poplar near the banks of the river. Murtagh went hunting with a pebble and spell and quickly collected a brace of hares and a large blue-footed duck that was foolish enough to swim past.

  Before he started a fire and fixed himself dinner, he and Thorn went to the stand of poplar, and Thorn again attempted to enter among the trees.

  In this, he was more successful than before, for the poplar were sparsely grown and Thorn had greater room about his head and sides. But in the end, the same fear caused him to freeze and then retreat, and Murtagh did not count the undertaking as much of an improvement.

  The exercise furthered their end-of-day tiredness, and they spoke little through the rest of the evening.

  After eating, Murtagh banked the fire and sat with his back against Thorn. For a time, he stared moodily at one of the gold crowns he’d received from Wren. Then he took up the dictionary he’d stolen and read from it while the sun set and clouds of gnats rose swarming from the treetops.

  * * *

  On the morning of the second day, while Murtagh waited for what remained of the duck to finish heating, he again returned to the compendium. The words it contained represented an incredible opportunity—potential, in fact—and he found himself constantly thinking of ideas for new spells.

  This time, instead of picking up from where he had left off, he flipped through the compendium at random, taking in a word here, a word there.

  His gaze landed upon one in particular. “Deyja,” he murmured. He looked at the definition. His eyes widened. “To die. To stop living.”

  Thorn snorted. A dangerous word, that.

  “Indeed,” said Murtagh softly. He felt rather awed by the word. Such a simple one, and yet so profound. Galbatorix would never have dared teach it to him. In truth, deyja likely wasn’t that useful. Murtagh guessed that most magicians would have a ward that would block its effects. And yet to see it, to know it, felt significant, as if he had surmounted a spire built over a measureless void.

  He wondered what the word for life was.

  He kept reading, hoping to find it. Instead, he chanced upon the word naina. “To make bright. Light without fire. See also líjothsa.” He turned to the entry for líjothsa and read: “Light as the thing itself. See also naina.”

  His brow furrowed as he parsed the difference. Then his thoughts shifted to the light-emitting quartz he’d encountered within the catacombs and also the difficulty he’d had illuminating Isenstar Lake while in the water. Fire was a poor choice for underwater light; it created too many bubbles and too much steam.

  Murtagh glanced up. The morning sky was clear and bright, filled with a seemingly endless pool of sunlit radiance. What if…The spell that he used to hide Thorn from observers worked—as best he could tell—by thickening the air underneath the dragon’s body so that it bent the light around him, similar to how a lens of polished glass might.

  Perhaps he could modify the spell to gather light from a large area around them and concentrate it on a single spot, to use in place of a lantern or to store for later need.

  On a whim, he poured some water into his battered tin plate and then cleared his mind, chose the needed words from the ancient language—the spell was awkward, but he thought it would do what he wanted—and said, “Vindr thrysta un líjothsa athaerum,” with the intent of focusing the light onto the plate.

  BAM!

  A flash as bright as the sun exploded in front of him, a crack of thunder echoed across the plain, and a cloud of cinders and superheated steam blasted outward. Murtagh felt the heat against his face as he fell backward, his wards activating.

  Thorn let out a startled roar and reared up, spreading his wings. A tongue of red flame flickered in his mouth.

  With some dismay, Murtagh saw their campfire blasted to bits: pieces of smoldering embers lay scattered in every direction, and the ground was blackened. Wisps of smoke curled up from patches of dry grass. The pan with his bacon was folded in half, the bacon itself lost somewhere in the dirt.

  Cursing, Murtagh ran about and stomped out the cinders before they could start a wildfire.

  What did you do? Thorn asked, his wings still slightly raised.

  “I’m not sure. It was just light!” Then Murtagh explained what he had been trying to accomplish. He shook his head. “I definitely won’t use that spell again unless it’s at a distance.”

  A long distance.

  “Agreed.”

  * * *

  They continued to follow the Ninor River until it began to bend more to the west and south than to the north, at which point they broke from the river and struck out across the trackless plains.

  Not for the first time, it occurred to Murtagh how empty Alagaësia was. For all the efforts of humans, dwarves, and elves, vast swaths of the land remained unsettled, undeveloped, and uncivilized. Part of him preferred it that way. If all the world were as cramped as Ilirea or Dras-Leona, there would be no place for those who didn’t belong.

  In early afternoon, Murtagh composed a stanza that he particularly liked:

  Atop the tower a hollow man,

  Shell of shadow, void within,

  Bound by words, a villain’s blade.

  A name of shame, a fear of fate.

  Break the bond, change the path,

  The shell remains, a haunting shade.

  By evening, the Spine had faded into sight far ahead of them as a line of purple jags propped against the reddened sky.

  Their camp that night felt terribly alone. The land was flat, with few ridges or washes and thus nowhere to hide. Despite the lack of cover, they shared a sense of relief at the absence of copses, caves, or other enclosures. Thorn more so than Murtagh, but they were both glad to have a break, if only for a day, from Thorn’s fear of narrow spaces.

  They made their own shelter beneath Thorn’s wing, and Murtagh amused the dragon by singing songs from court, and he even danced a step or two for Thorn’s benefit.

  And that was the second day.

  * * *

  On the third day, the eerie howls of a wolf pack woke them before sunrise. The wolves were loping across the grasslands some miles to the south, and their baying carried with surprising volume and clarity through the still morning air. Even at that distance, Murtagh could see how large the animals were; they must have been twice the size of a mastiff, with tawny coats and long, thick tails.

  Shall I answer them? Thorn asked.

  “If you want,” said Murtagh with a smile.

  Then Thorn raised his head and made a passable imitation of a wolf howl, only far louder, and far more menacing.

  The pack yipped with fear, and thereafter ran in silence.

  Murtagh laughed and patted Thorn.

  It is good for them to know they are not the only hunters about, said Thorn, self-satisfied.

  Despite an annoying side wind, they arrived at the edge of the plains late that morning, and the land rose into foothills and then the steep heights of the Spine. A dusting of snow extended halfway down the sides of the mountains, and the pinetrees glittered as if strewn with diamonds.

  A band of silver water lay athwart their path, and Murtagh knew it for the Anora River, which flowed northward to the Bay of Fundor. He directed Thorn to follow the river upstream, deeper into the mountains.

  Thorn did so without question; the dragon was as curious as Murtagh.

  The Anora led them to a pinched mountain pass that stood at the mouth of a long, deep-set valley. Atop the mountain to the left of the pass was a ruined watchtower built in the elven style, with no path or road that led to its dark walls, and Murtagh knew it and spoke its name in the ancient language: Ristvak’baen, or Place of Sorrow. He felt both sorrow and revulsion, for it was there, in that tower, that Galbatorix had slain Vrael, leader of the Riders, following the great battle on Vroengard Island. That event, more than any, had marked the Riders’ downfall.

  Galbatorix had bragged of the fight more than once. Murtagh could see him still, sprawled across the fur-draped chair in his banquet hall, his harsh, eagle-like features lit by the flames from the long fireplace set within one wall, eyes burning with unsavory delight as he recounted how he had felled Vrael with a kick betwixt the legs.

  An urge came over Murtagh, and before he could speak it, Thorn responded, banking leftward and spiraling down to a flat rooftop alongside the ruined tower.

  The presence of the rooftop was most convenient, Murtagh thought. Then he felt foolish. The tower had been built by and for Dragon Riders. Of course it would have a place for a dragon to land.

  Stone scraped under Thorn’s talons as he settled onto Ristvak’baen. Murtagh hoped the structure was still sound. It had held for over a hundred years; surely it could hold a few minutes more.

  He dismounted, and he and Thorn looked up at the crumbling tower. A human-sized archway pierced the outer wall of the building and led to a small courtyard.

  Murtagh walked through.

  Patches of moss and lichen mottled the stones of the courtyard, while tufts of dead grass poked up between the joins. A stunted juniper grew from a crack in the wall higher up, its trunk a withered twist of creviced wood, and a desolate wind shook the branches. Snow clung to the corners of the yard where shadows shielded it from direct light. A single doorway gaped in the side of the tower, hinges warped, broken, rusted black.

  A circle of twelve brass sockets lay embedded within the stones in the center of the yard. The sockets were each the size of a fist and as eyeless and empty as a skull. Waxy verdigris colored them green. What they had once held, Murtagh could not guess.

  Behind him, Thorn hesitated and then, with a soft growl, crouched low to the rooftop and stuck his head and neck into the courtyard. His whole body was tense with strain—his lips wrinkled to show teeth—but he didn’t retreat. Murtagh counted that as a small improvement.

  He continued to study the yard. No evidence remained of the fight between Galbatorix and Vrael. The place was cold and empty, devoid of all comfort, and the rattle of dry branches reminded him of a rattle of bones.

  Thorn scented the air. It is strange to think how much turned upon their meeting here.

  Heat poured through Murtagh’s limbs, like a flood of molten wax. His jaw clenched, and his fists also, and tears dripped from his unblinking eyes. The surge of emotion was so sudden, so strong and unexpected, he shouted from surprise. Then he shouted again out of sheer blind rage.

  Thorn flinched, but Murtagh didn’t care.

  He howled at the empty sky. Howled and screamed until his voice broke and blood slicked the back of his throat. The paving stones bruised his knees as he fell forward and hung his head like a whipped dog.

  With one gloved fist, he pounded at the stones of the courtyard. Sharp pains lanced the bone in the heel of his palm, and great hollow booms echoed through the tower, as if his fist were a mallet made of iron.

  A growl tore his throat, and he slapped his palm flat against the stones. “Jierda!”

  With a deafening report, cracks spiderwebbed out from his hand and split the paving stones throughout the yard. Ribbons of dust drifted up from the exposed rock faces, and one of the brass sockets fell free of its setting.

  Spent, Murtagh collapsed onto the broken stones and buried his face in a fold of his cloak.

  The wind clawed at the sides of the tower.

  Thorn’s mind was a warm presence against his own, but the dragon said nothing, only watched and waited.

  After a long while, Murtagh lifted his head and pushed himself back onto his knees. His cloak pooled around him in ripples of dark wool, and the sharp edges of the cracked stones cut into his shins.

  He wiped his eyes with the back of a gloved hand.

  “All this,” he said, his voice harsh and stark in the thin air. He coughed. “All this because the Riders didn’t kill Galbatorix when they had the chance. If they had—”

  You would not have been born.

  “Then maybe someone else would have had a better opportunity at life.”

  Thorn snarled and leaned forward, as if to crawl into the courtyard, but a tremor racked him, and he sank back on his haunches. Do not say that. Never say that! Do you not want to be joined with me?

  The question cut through Murtagh’s grim introspection like a razor through silk. “Of course I do. That’s not what I meant.”

  Then say what you mean. I chose to hatch for you, Murtagh. I do not wish for another.

  The dragon’s fierce earnestness sobered Murtagh. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I spoke without thinking. I was feeling bad for myself. It’s an unfortunate habit.”

  Very.

  “Why did you hatch for me?” In all their time together, Murtagh had never thought to ask.

  Thorn blinked. I was tired of waiting to emerge, and I could feel that we were a proper fit. That, and you had none of Galbatorix’s madness.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you better.”

  Now you are feeling bad for yourself again. You did as well as anyone could have and better than most.

  “Mmh.” Murtagh slowly got to his feet and gave Thorn a rub on his snout.

  Thorn hummed and pressed against Murtagh’s hand. We survived. That is what matters.

  “I still wish we could fly back through the years and help Vrael.”

  Then everyone everywhere would do the same with their own regrets, and the world would be unmade.

  “I suppose that’s true.” He eyed the cracked stones with some ruefulness. He hoped the tower wouldn’t fall. “I’m going to look inside. I’ll be quick.”

  Watch for traps. Thorn retracted his head and neck from the yard and turned to look upon the valley.

  Murtagh cautiously stepped through the doorway at the base of the tower. A short, dark hall lay before him, the stone floor crusted with dirt and twigs and leaves and withered grass gathered in tangles along the corners.

  From there, he made a pass through the interior of the tower—what he could access of it, that was. Fallen stone blocked several of the doorways. The rooms were dry, dead, and deserted. Some of the furniture remained: wooden chairs brittle to the touch, an iron poker leaning against the kitchen fireplace, the rotted frame of a narrow bed.

  Down a flight of narrow stairs, on the floor of what he guessed had been a storage room, he found a dented brass goblet decorated with fine tracery that could only have been the work of an elven artisan. The metal was frigid against Murtagh’s gloved fingers as he picked it up. He turned the goblet in his hand, studying it, wondering whom it had belonged to and what things it had seen through the long years.

  On an impulse, he kept the goblet as he climbed the narrow staircase back up to the courtyard.

  Thorn’s tail whipped from side to side as Murtagh joined him on the flat-topped roof.

  “A relic from another age,” Murtagh said as he held up the goblet for Thorn to sniff. “I think I’ll keep it. This cup can be the first treasure of House Murtagh. How does that sound?”

  Thorn gave him a dubious look. What about Zar’roc?

  “A curse, not a treasure.” Murtagh bounced the goblet in his hand and then went to the saddlebags and unbuckled one.

  Perhaps you can forge a new history for the blade, said Thorn.

  Murtagh tucked the goblet beneath his bedroll and closed up the saddlebag. “It would take an era and a half to balance out all the misdeeds done with Zar’roc.” He walked back around to face Thorn.

  Then I will have to make sure you live a long, long while, said Thorn, a twinkle in his ruby eyes.

  “Are you sure? That sounds like a burdensome task.”

  Thorn huffed, and the twinkle brightened. Very sure.

  “Mmh,” said Murtagh, but he was touched. He turned and looked out over the valley. “So this is where they came from.” Palancar Valley: home to Eragon…and their mother. The place where she had returned to give birth to Eragon, far from Morzan and the Empire.

  It looks like a good place to hunt.

  Some distance from Ristvak’baen, a small town was visible next to the Anora River. Therinsford, Murtagh guessed, if his memories of what Eragon had told him about the valley were accurate.

  He climbed back onto Thorn and secured his legs. “Ready.”

  Hold on!

  With a mighty leap, Thorn launched himself into the air. Then he climbed several hundred feet above the mountain peaks, where the air was thin and it was unlikely anyone below would hear the beat of his wings.

  Murtagh watched with a fixed gaze as the valley unfolded beneath them. It was as much family history as geography. If events had played out only a little differently, Palancar Valley would have been his home, same as for Eragon. He wondered what it had been like to grow up in such an isolated place.