The formation parted in half, and the warriors arranged themselves on either side of the entrance. They displayed admirable discipline, moving with an alert precision that told Murtagh they weren’t just ceremonial guards but warriors with actual fighting experience.

  Behind them came another fourteen figures: these white-robed, with hoods pulled low over their faces so nothing could be seen of their features. Men and women alike, and each held a metal frame set with rods of iron from which hung open-mouthed bells. They shook the frames with every step, and the tongues of the bells wagged in a discordant chorus.

  There was an air of ancient ritual about the procession, as if such a thing had been done for a thousand years or more.

  The bell-shakers went to stand behind the warriors, where they continued their jarring cadence.

  Last of all appeared four men in black armor that gleamed like lacquer. And on their shoulders, they carried a covered litter draped with diaphanous white veils.

  Through the veils, a figure was partially visible.

  Without word or signal, the four litter-bearers stopped upon the edge of the square and stood in place. They stared straight ahead, unblinking and seemingly unaffected by the sight of Thorn.

  The bell-shakers ceased shaking.

  With a whisper of sliding fabric, the veils parted.

  A woman rose to stand upon the litter. She, like everything about the village, was singular. Her hair was black and shiny as obsidian and arranged in an elaborate edifice upon her head, the coils pinned and piled into a bewildering pattern. Bands of carved ivory stood stark against the amber hue of her forearms, and she wore a dress made of knotted straps. The knots traced the shapes of unfamiliar runes, long lines of them, as if she were armored with palings of words. A small dagger hung from a gilded girdle about her waist.

  She was tall—taller than most men—with strong limbs, an angular face, and a dark red mouth that sat askew upon her face. Her almond-shaped eyes were rimmed with soot, which gave them the bruised look of the fruit of the blackthorn. She appeared neither young nor old; there was an agelessness to her features that made it impossible to determine her years.

  So striking was the woman, Murtagh’s first thought upon seeing her was: An elf! But then he looked more closely and realized that, no, her features weren’t quite elven. However, neither were they entirely human. A deep disquiet stirred within him.

  Then the woman smiled at Thorn and him with such warmth, it took Murtagh aback. “Welcome to Nal Gorgoth, O Exalted Dragon,” she said. Her voice was low and melodic, and it thrummed with the power of conviction. “And welcome to you as well, Rider. I have been waiting for you, my son.”

  CHAPTER II

  Bachel

  Murtagh gripped the edge of Thorn’s saddle, his mind a welter of confusion. The woman before him couldn’t possibly be his mother. Every reasonable part of him knew that. And yet…He felt as if he’d stepped wrong-footed and the path before him had vanished.

  “Are you the witch they call Bachel?” he asked, attempting to feign confidence.

  With an elegant motion, the woman inclined her head. “I am, my son.”

  A sense of imposition began to clear Murtagh’s head. “Why do you call me such?”

  Bachel indicated the courtyard and everyone within it. “Because you are my child, as are all who follow the Great Dream.”

  “I follow no one and nothing.”

  A faint spark of amusement appeared in Bachel’s hooded eyes. “I very much doubt that, Kingkiller.”

  Murtagh tensed even more. “You know of me.”

  “Of you and Thorn both. Word of your deeds has traveled far, Kingkiller, even to this, our sacred redoubt.” There was an archaic quality to her speech that reminded Murtagh of how the eldest of the Eldunarí had spoken: a remnant of past eras.

  “And what is this?” Murtagh gestured with Zar’roc at the temple and the village.

  “A place of many dreams.” Bachel smiled again, seemingly without guile. “You have come to Nal Gorgoth, Kingkiller, as I foretold. Long have we waited for you and Thorn, and your arrival is most propitious.”

  Again, Murtagh felt lost. “Waited for us? Why?”

  The witch’s smile widened, and she spread her arms as if to embrace the whole of existence. “Because you are to be the saviors of the world.”

  * * *

  A profound silence reigned in the courtyard.

  Thorn’s confusion matched Murtagh’s. But before either of them could demand an explanation, Bachel laughed, a low, throaty sound, and said, “You do not believe me. I see it in your eyes. That is of no matter. Soon you shall come to understand the truth of things. Answers you shall have, both to the questions you yearn to ask and those you have yet to conceive. But not here, and not now. It has been many an age since a Rider and dragon graced our court. We shall have a feast to celebrate your arrival, and you shall be my honored guests, you and brilliant Thorn both!”

  She sat then, and snapped her fingers, and the litter-bearers marched to a stone dais on the northern side of the courtyard. The warriors followed and placed themselves on either side of the dais. The bearers continued to stand, the litter resting across their shoulders, while Bachel reclined against her carved, throne-like seat.

  “Grieve,” she said, “see to the arrangements. Let us have food and wine and music. Let the Vale of Dreams ring with joyful revelry, on this most fateful of days.”

  The goateed man bowed. “Your wish is our command, Speaker.”

  He clapped his hands, and the white-robed bell-shakers retreated into the temple while a rush of men and women emerged from the surrounding buildings. They seemed to need no instruction; with hardly a spoken word, the villagers brought out heavy wooden tables, and copper braziers filled with blazing coals, and iron sticks that held tapers of greasy tallow, and deer and goat hides to cover the mossy flagstones. All sorts Murtagh observed among the folk: they appeared to share no common origin. Nor were they human only. He saw two dwarves, both female, and what he thought might have been an Urgal youngling—though Murtagh only had a brief glimpse of his face. The dwarves gave no sign of hostility, but their presence heightened his wariness.

  Nal Gorgoth. His brow furrowed. The name sounded Dwarvish, at least in part. As he had learned during his stay in Farthen Dûr, goroth meant place in the dwarves’ tongue. Was the name of the village related to that word? Or had it another origin entirely? It also reminded him of Du Fells Nángoröth, which was what the elves called the mountains in the center of the Hadarac Desert—where the wild dragons used to live—and which was translated as the Blasted Mountains. Since fells meant mountains, then nángoröth meant blasted.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the return of several of the bell-shakers carrying a heavy carved chair that they placed before the dais.

  “Come, sit with me, Kingkiller,” said Bachel. “And you as well, Dragon. Join me.” She held out a hand, and a young, white-robed woman with flaxen hair and a devoted expression scurried up, placed a stone chalice in Bachel’s grip, and filled it with wine from an earthenware pitcher. “Thank you, my child,” murmured Bachel.

  The young woman curtsied and withdrew.

  Murtagh debated with himself for a moment. Then he slung his leg over the ridge of Thorn’s back and slid to the ground, Zar’roc and shield still in hand.

  Are you sure? Thorn asked.

  No, but I don’t see a choice. Stay close.

  She cannot believe what she said.

  What? About us being the saviors of the world?

  Yes.

  Murtagh agreed. Yet the straightforward assurance with which Bachel had spoken left him with a lingering doubt. Lies of all sorts he was accustomed to from his life at court, but he sensed no falsehood in the witch’s speech or bearing. She seemed utterly convinced of the rightness of her words, and that more than anything made him uncertain.

  Murtagh slowly approached the dais. Thorn followed a pace behind, claws tapping against the flagstones. The fourteen warriors attending Bachel shifted slightly. Murtagh ignored them.

  With a gracious gesture, Bachel extended a hand toward the carved chair.

  Murtagh hated to put himself at a disadvantage, but it would not do to completely break the rules of hospitality. So he sheathed Zar’roc—though he kept one hand on the hilt—before lowering himself to sit upon the chair. His greaves and vambraces clattered, and the point of his shield knocked against the yard’s paved floor. The armor made him feel clumsy and uncouth; he never would have worn it to a high event at court, but there was a limit to how much safety he would sacrifice for manners.

  The moment he was seated, two of the village men came to serve him. They set a small table before him and, on it, deposited plates laden with cheeses, sweetmeats, and fresh blueberries, along with a cup of wine and a bowl of water in which to wash his hands. The blueberries puzzled him; they were out of season, which meant magic or some form of preservation he was unfamiliar with.

  One of the men bowed and left, while the other remained close at hand, ready to wait upon his needs.

  There was a comfort to again having a servant attending him. It was one of the benefits of living in Urû’baen that Murtagh had not fully appreciated until leaving. Doing everything for himself—especially cooking—took far more time than he liked.

  A faint smile curved Bachel’s lips, and she sipped from her chalice. “I see you are not entirely at ease in our midst, but you have nothing to fear from us here in Nal Gorgoth, Kingkiller.”

  “Is that so?”

  She inclined her head. “You may set aside your arms and armor whene’er you wish. No harm shall come to you.”

  “My Lady…” Murtagh paused while he searched for the right words. “I wish to believe you, but how can I, when I know so little about you?”

  To his annoyance, Bachel answered with a question of her own: “Tell me, my son, how did you find this valley? Few there are who are aware of Nal Gorgoth’s existence or where it lies.”

  Murtagh rolled the stem of his cup between his fingers while he considered how best to answer. Then he tasted the wine. To his surprise, he recognized the vintage as having come from the vineyards on one of the Southern Isles. How did it end up here?

  He said, “I met several men who wore amulets of protection they claimed were enchanted by you.” He fixed Bachel with a steady gaze. “They tried to kill me, but they failed, and then they told me what they knew.”

  A slight line formed between Bachel’s brows. “I see. Then it was you met some of my Eyes. My apologies for their behavior. They would not have attacked had they known who you were. They did not, did they?”

  Murtagh shook his head. “No.”

  “That is good. However, I must ask: my Eyes. My children. Did you kill them?”

  “Those I had to. But no more.” Her dark gaze lingered on him, and Murtagh felt compelled to add: “I give you my word.”

  “Then I thank you for your mercy. Were, perchance, the Eyes you encountered in Ceunon?”

  “Some. Not all.” For an instant, Murtagh thought he saw a flicker of concern in Bachel’s expression. He decided to press the advantage. “Have you many Eyes?” he asked in an uninterested tone.

  Bachel returned her attention to the preparations before them. “More than you would believe, Kingkiller.”

  It was exactly the sort of answer Murtagh had feared. “To what end, I wonder?”

  “All shall be revealed in the goodness of time, my son. Worry not. But you must be patient. The secrets of the sacred circle are not lightly shared.”

  She spoke in such a gracious and yet commanding manner that Murtagh found it hard to dissent. It felt as if he would be in the wrong, despite everything he knew about the Dreamers and their activities. Yet his disquiet and his desire to know more continued to gnaw at him. Saviors of the world…but how? From what? Or is she merely trying to lead us astray?

  Then Bachel turned her hooded gaze to Thorn. “O Exalted Dragon, I would ask a question of you, although perhaps you may think it impertinent. But it is this: you are larger than seems fit for your age. Is your stature born of nature, or has it another origin?”

  Thorn was slow to respond, but when he did, he said to both Bachel and Murtagh alike, I grew faster than most hatchlings, for I needed to. So I did.

  It was not entirely the truth, but Murtagh knew Thorn hated to speak of what Galbatorix had done to him, and he was not about to share those painful details with a stranger. Especially one as potentially perilous as Bachel.

  The witch nodded as if she understood. “Of course. Such is the nature of dragons.”

  And what do you know of them? Murtagh wondered. He motioned at the ranks of scaled statues along the temple exterior. “Do you worship dragons?”

  A thread of smoke came from Thorn. What an excellent idea. All should worship our kind.

  Murtagh nearly smiled, despite himself.

  A thin, cold note sounded as Bachel tapped the rim of her stone chalice. “Not as such. But we revere them, for we remember what so many have forgotten. And we count it a sacred thing to be bonded so closely with a dragon, even as you are, Kingkiller.”

  Before Murtagh could inquire further, the witch looked away, making it clear that, for the moment, the topic was closed.

  To Thorn and Thorn alone, Murtagh asked, What is her mind like? He did not want to risk touching Bachel’s consciousness as well. Not until they were sure of her intentions.

  The dragon twitched the blunt end of his tail. Like none I have ever felt.

  How so?

  Her thoughts are as iron, and yet there is a strangeness to them. It is hard to describe. Here. And an impression came to Murtagh from Thorn, an impression of distance and desolation and distortion, as if the world were seen through a piece of polished crystal that changed the shape of every angle.

  Puzzled, Murtagh looked back at Bachel and tried to reconcile her appearance with the oddness of her inner life. She is not as she seems, he said.

  No, Thorn agreed.

  Throughout the square, the villagers continued to assemble the feast. Goats and sheep were butchered, and rich cuts of meat were laid out over fires built on the flagstones. As the villagers labored, Murtagh noticed how they kept sneaking glances at Thorn. It was as if the dragon were a bloodied lodestone drawing them closer, and their bodies traced lines of force, like iron filings. Some were brave enough to reach out with tremulous hands, though none dared to actually touch him. In Murtagh’s judgment, their behavior bespoke not so much reverence, as Bachel had said, but something closer to idolatry.

  Bachel watched him watching, and she seemed to guess his thoughts, for she said, “They are enamored with the beauty of your dragon. Few there are in Nal Gorgoth who remember such a sight.”

  Thorn hummed, pleased by what she had said.

  “But there are some?” Murtagh asked.

  “There are.”

  “Would you count yourself among their number?”

  Again, slight amusement colored Bachel’s angular features. “You have questions without end, my son. But it is better to eat and then talk than to talk and then eat.”

  “Of course. Forgive me. The wisdom of the ages flows from your tongue.” Murtagh meant his response as sarcasm, but despite himself, it came out sounding sincere.

  Several men began to play lyres among the columns of the temple. The music was in a minor key and had a fierce, savage sensibility that heightened the strangeness of the setting.

  Bachel raised a finger. “Alín, attend me.”

  The same young, white-robed woman who had served the witch earlier hurried over and bowed deeply. “Yes, Speaker?” Her voice was high and sweet.

  “What think you of our guest, the great dragon Thorn?” asked Bachel.

  Alín’s eyes grew round, and she bowed again. “He is very splendid, Speaker. We are fortunate you have allowed him to visit among us.”

  Allowed? Thorn said to Murtagh, somewhat bemused.

  I’ll say this, Bachel does not seem concerned by our presence.

  Very little seems to concern her.

  Bachel looked satisfied with Alín’s answer. “Yes, he is. Enjoy his presence whilst you may, my child. Such moments are rare over the long reach of years. You are blessed to live in these most momentous of times.”

  “Yes, Speaker.”

  The lyres struck louder.

  “Dance for us now, my child,” said Bachel. And she tapped one of the litter-bearers on the shoulder. “You as well. Put me down and join with Alín. Share with us your joy.”

  The armor-clad men lowered the litter to the dais and descended with Alín to stand among the tables set up before them. Then the five of them began to move in time with the music, their bodies turning and swaying with sinuous grace.

  The bearers’ armor, Murtagh noted, made no noise, as if it were made of felted wool rather than wood or metal or whatever was the lacquered material.

  Somewhere among the columns, a drum took up the beat, and then a horn, and though Bachel’s face remained impassive, a fire seemed to light her eyes, and she tapped the middle finger of her right hand against her chair, keeping time with perfect, unyielding precision.

  Murtagh watched from the corner of his eye. He couldn’t decide what to make of her. Even sitting there, Bachel struck an imposing figure, tall and statuesque, like a warrior facing a gathered army, and none there were in the courtyard who could match her presence. In that, she reminded him with unexpected strength of Nasuada.

  Thorn nudged his elbow, and Murtagh blinked and tightened his hand about Zar’roc’s hilt.