Several open, human-sized doorways led to yet more tunnels. But it was what lay in the center of the room that captured Murtagh’s attention, for it was large and strange: a ring of rough marble, several hands high, with a lid of grey metal atop it, like a covered well.

  As he crept closer, he saw a pane of clear crystal framed within the metal, and through the crystal…a vaporous void dropping deeper into the earth.

  He frowned. Was this the sacred well that Grieve had mentioned? Was it—or what it contained—the source of Bachel’s power? The well itself didn’t look like much. And yet, the air seemed to thrum like a plucked string. It was true that not all magics were made by humans, elves, dwarves, or any other self-aware, thinking race. There were natural magics also, such as the floating crystals of Eoam, but they tended to be wild and unpredictable.

  If the well were such a place, that could explain Bachel’s prowess with magic. And if so, it wasn’t the sort of thing that the Draumar ought to have dominion over. Not that he would want Du Vrangr Gata to assume control over such an important location either. This was exactly what the Riders had been created for: to oversee and mediate that which could destabilize the land.

  He bent over the hammered lid and squinted as he tried to peer through the snakes of vapor swirling below. There was a hint of a shape beneath the haze: a vague outline that he could almost make sense of.

  Opening his mind, he sent a cautious, probing thought into the murk. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but he suspected there was something of interest hidden at the bottom of the well….

  The moans and murmurs echoing through the tunnels seemed to grow louder, and Murtagh’s vision flickered as if shadowy creatures were moving about the edges. When he blinked, images flashed behind his lids—too fast to fully register—and a powerful urge to sleep settled upon his shoulders, pressing him down. He fought against it, alarmed. Wherever the urge came from, he felt sure it was the source of the bad dreams that plagued the village, as an evil miasma seeping out of the ground and infecting their sleeping minds.

  The vapor below parted in places, and dimly in the dark he saw different levels of tunnels and chambers, pierced by the shaft plunging downward. And at the distant bottom, obscured by drifting patches, a pulsing glow that—

  “You should not be here, my son.”

  Murtagh spun to see Bachel and Grieve standing by the entrance. The witch’s hair was down, and it tumbled in a stormy mess around her face and shoulders to her midback, dark and lustrous. The sleeves of her dress were pushed up to expose her forearms, her feet were bare, and the soot round her eyes was smudged as if she’d been interrupted while removing it. In one hand, she carried a tall spear, the haft of which was made of a greenish material, with a long, barbed blade of strange design atop it. A faint glow surrounded the head of the weapon.

  Cold lead loaded Murtagh’s gut, keeping him from moving. He recognized the spear. It was a Dauthdaert—a Deathspear—made by the elves with but one purpose in mind: to kill dragons. The elves had forged the twelve Dauthdaert during their war with the dragons, prior to the formation of the Riders, and they had enchanted the weapons that they might pierce scale and bypass even a dragon’s wild magic.

  Moreover, Murtagh knew this specific Dauthdaert. It was the selfsame lance that Arya had used to kill Shruikan. Niernen was its name, and it was cursed and hated and coveted by every person of bloody ambition. He’d thought the Dauthdaert had been lost in the destruction following Galbatorix’s death. That it had survived was surprising. That someone had spirited it out of Ilirea and brought it to Bachel was profoundly alarming.

  In contrast to the lance’s arcane appearance, Grieve carried a more mundane weapon: a club of hardwood shod with iron bands secured around the head.

  Thorn! How had Bachel and Grieve gotten past him? Murtagh wanted to reach out with his mind to the dragon, but he didn’t dare lower his mental defenses with the witch and her companion so close. Still, he felt no pain or alarm through the constant background connection that he and Thorn shared, and that was a comfort. More tunnels, he thought. There had to be a passage joining the temple with the caves beneath.

  Murtagh’s hand tightened around Zar’roc’s hilt. In any other circumstances, he would have drawn, but he wanted—no, needed—a better understanding of Bachel’s power before fighting her, especially as he was on his own, without Thorn. “I saw the cave, and I was curious.”

  “This is not a place for outsiders.” Bachel’s stance was poised but not overly stiff, the perfect way to ready oneself for violent action. Her eyes flashed with dark promise, and she held the Dauthdaert with an ease that convinced Murtagh that she was well accustomed to its use.

  “And what is this place, my Lady?”

  Bachel and Grieve started to stalk with measured steps around the lidded well of stone. Murtagh mirrored their movement, keeping the well between him and them.

  Grieve was the one who answered, glowering beneath his heavy, unfinished brow. “It is the Well of Dreams, Rider, and none may approach it without Bachel’s permission. It is the heart of all things, the source of prophecy and power, and those who defile it must die.”

  With the thumb of his left hand, Murtagh pressed Zar’roc an inch or two out of the sheath so that it would slide free without binding. “And have I defiled it, Bachel?”

  At first he thought the witch would respond with anger. But then she laughed in a lazy fashion and took another step closer. Grieve split from her and came round the other side of the well, bracketing Murtagh.

  He retreated a step to keep from being flanked. One of the open doorways was to his back; he had room to flee.

  “Defile?” said Bachel, nearly purring. “No, my son, I think not. Not so long as you kneel now and swear fealty to me. For how can the servant be in the wrong if they are acting in accordance with their mistress’s will? Kneel now, Murtagh son of Morzan, and your life will be spared.”

  Zar’roc sang as he drew it, the familiar weight a comfort in his hand. He smiled a crooked smile. “You know I will not. You have given me no reasons worth hearing. Even if you had, Thorn and I will never again kneel out of fear or desperation. If we bend our knees, it will be because of love, duty, and respect, or not at all.”

  Bachel’s expression grew haughty. “You would not understand if I told you, Kingkiller. You would claim you did, but you would not feel the truth, and your heart would be empty. I had hoped to spare you this. I had hoped you would dream as we all dream here in Nal Gorgoth, and you would come to understand the truth as we all have. You would have devoted yourself to our cause, freely and willingly.”

  “Is that how it was with Saerlith?” asked Murtagh. “Did he follow you freely?” As he spoke, he risked sending a single blade of thought toward the surface. Thorn! A cry for help to the only one he could count on.

  But all he received in return was fear. Fear of enclosed spaces, fear of being trapped, fear of loss. Murtagh’s mouth grew sour. He could expect no reinforcement.

  Bachel’s lips twisted to one side. “Saerlith was a pawn and nothing more. He served our aims, even as did Galbatorix and Morzan.”

  The mention of his father seemed like an obvious attempt to needle him. He chose to ignore the bait. “Somehow I doubt that. Galbatorix served nothing and no one.”

  His words appeared to prick the witch’s pride. “Your fear leads you to overestimate the king. How is it, do you think, he came to lose his dragon?”

  Murtagh felt his pride similarly afflicted. “Galbatorix? He went adventuring in the north, and a group of Urgals—”

  “No!” cried Bachel, and she slashed through the air with one arm, the hand flat and narrow as a blade. Then, in a more measured tone: “It is true that Urgals slew Jarnunvösk in the icy reaches of the far north, but you are mistaken as to the reason Galbatorix and his unfortunate party ventured forth. He lied to you, Outlander. What he told you, and everything else you have heard from the Riders of old about that expedition, all lies!”

  Keep her talking. Murtagh continued to edge around the well, trying to maintain equal distance between him, the witch, and Grieve. “Then what is the truth, Bachel? Or will you only answer with more riddles?”

  Bachel assumed a cold, cruel demeanor. “The truth is this: The Riders feared us, Du Eld Draumar. And they feared me. And, in secret, they dispatched Galbatorix and his companions to seek us out, that the Riders might later destroy us.”

  Just how old was the witch? “If they feared you so,” said Murtagh, “why would they send Riders who were not even fully trained or tested? None of them had even a score of years. Surely you cannot expect me to believe such a tale.”

  “The purpose of Galbatorix’s party was to find us. Theirs was not to attack,” said Bachel. “Indeed, they did not even know the truth of whom they looked for, as their elders sought to keep them ignorant of the Draumar.”

  Murtagh’s steps slowed as dozens of possibilities raced through his mind. Nothing the witch said was impossible, and if she was right, the implications were dire, for they meant the Draumar were dangerous enough to threaten even the Riders. “But they were attacked.”

  Bachel gave a curt nod. “Galbatorix came wandering back through the Spine, alone and half mad. As such, he found us, and it was as such we took him in. At first he distrusted us, even as you have, and he blamed us for the death of Jarnunvösk, but I ministered him with what attentions were needed, and in time, he came to understand that it was the Riders who were to blame for his loss.”

  “You turned him against them,” Murtagh breathed. “And then you sent him back to confront them.”

  Again, Bachel nodded. “It was a test. Were the Riders as kind and compassionate as they claimed, they would have taken pity upon Galbatorix and given him another dragon. But they were not, and they did not, and so Galbatorix came to understand the truth of them.”

  Fear hollowed out Murtagh. It was hard for him to imagine Galbatorix being anything less than the most powerful person in the land, elves included. If Bachel had done what she claimed—whether through the force of her words or the strength of her magic or a combination thereof—then by some measure, she surmounted even the king.

  In a low voice, he said, “Do you mean to say Galbatorix and the Forsworn were your thralls?”

  “In part. They were useful instruments to a needed end.”

  He cocked his head. “Which was?”

  “The eradication of the Riders.”

  “Why would you seek that? Are not dragons sacred to your people?”

  A dismissive wave of Bachel’s hand. “The lesser worms matter not. Their blood is tainted by the wrongdoings of their forefathers, and only once the Riders and their dragons were washed from the world could a new era begin.”

  Grieve moved a bit too close for Murtagh’s liking, and he retreated a few steps. “What of Durza?” he asked. “Always I’ve heard that Galbatorix met him in the Spine, after Jarnunvösk died.”

  “That is true,” Bachel said, inclining her head. “The Shade shared in our dreams, and it was because of them that his ambitions grew longer and broader than is the wont of his ilk.”

  “He lived here?”

  “For many a year, even as Galbatorix and your father lived here after they fled Ilirea with the hatchling Shruikan.” The glow from the Dauthdaert lit the side of Bachel’s face with a ghoulish cast. “Your king and your father knew the truth of things, Murtagh son of Morzan. Always you were destined to follow in their footsteps. There is no other path for you.”

  Murtagh’s mind was awhirl as he parsed the witch’s revelations. And yet he remained convinced of one truth: Galbatorix would never have bent his knee to another. Not after he turned against the Riders. If he had been allied with the Draumar, it had only been as a matter of convenience. The king was no zealot, no true believer. At the soonest opportunity, he would have turned against the Draumar and attempted to undo them. Murtagh recalled what Bachel had said before their boar hunt: that Galbatorix once tried to purge their settlements. Tried and failed.

  With the harsh light of insight, he realized: Somehow the Draumar held their own against the king. Somehow she did. Bachel was a danger even to Galbatorix. But why, why, why, why?

  “I am not my father,” he said in a tight voice. “Nor am I the man I once was. It is you who are mistaken, witch. I shall not bend to you.”

  “How unfortunate,” said Bachel. But she seemed entirely unconcerned.

  Murtagh lifted Zar’roc and twirled the hilt in his hand, as if he had not a care in the world. “You cannot best me, Bachel. Neither of you can.”

  The witch laughed, a wild, unrestrained laughter that sent chills down Murtagh’s spine. She was no more scared of him than he would be of a common footpad, and his palm grew slick with sweat on Zar’roc’s wire-wrapped hilt. Should have worn gloves, he thought. Without taking his gaze off Bachel or Grieve, he unhooked his cloak and spun it around his left forearm, and he heard Tornac’s voice in his head saying, “An offhand garment may serve to distract, bind, and, in the absence of a shield, protect.”

  “Perhaps I cannot best you, Kingkiller,” said Bachel, “though it would be an interesting contest. However, it is not I that you must overcome. I am merely an instrument of a higher power, and neither you nor I nor the wisest of elves nor the strongest of dragons yet living can prevail against that which I serve.”

  She touched the pane of crystal in the hammered lid, and the pane slid open, seemingly of its own accord, and a choking cloud of green-lit vapor billowed into the room.

  Murtagh didn’t know what danger the vapor posed, but he knew enough to be afraid. He had a half second to inhale, and then the cloud enveloped him, dimming the room and making his eyes smart.

  A touch of panic spiked his pulse. He had made no wards to filter the air. An oversight. He turned to run, and the glowing tip of the Dauthdaert sliced past his ear.

  He flinched and used Zar’roc to beat the haft of the lance away. Then he lunged toward Bachel, but the distance was wrong; she was out of reach, laughing amid the brimstone mist.

  Grieve came at him from the side, swinging his iron-shod club with ruthless efficiency. He caught Murtagh in an awkward position, and the club slammed down against Murtagh’s right arm. His wards deflected, and the club skated away amid swirls of vapor.

  At the same time, cruel thoughts assailed Murtagh’s mind: Bachel and Grieve attempting to batter down his defenses and assume control over his consciousness. Their mental attacks were as strong as any he had ever encountered, including Galbatorix’s. But Murtagh was no weakling, and he held fast within his inner being, secure in who and what he was.

  Bachel stabbed again and again with Niernen, fast as an elf. The Dauthdaert flicked like a deadly tongue through the vapor. The edges were so sharp, they parted the cloud like cut gauze.

  Only seconds had passed, but already Murtagh’s lungs were on fire. He felt as if he were going to explode. He needed air, needed to breathe….

  He launched a counterattack against Bachel’s and Grieve’s minds, a desperate attempt to overwhelm them with the sheer force of his consciousness. From a distance, he felt Thorn adding strength to his own, and the realization gave him courage.

  Then Murtagh stepped back, and his heel caught against the lip of a stone tile in the floor.

  His stomach lurched as he fell. He twisted, intending to catch himself on one arm, but—

  —too slow. He landed on his side, and the impact drove the air from his lungs. He inhaled without meaning to, and bitter, sulfurous fumes filled his nose and mouth and throat.

  Coughing, he scrambled backward, keeping Zar’roc above his head to ward off blows. Bachel and Grieve were advancing on him, black shapes in the clotted clouds, their outlines bending and breaking, and he felt as if he were falling again and his body lacked substance and a horrible rushing sounded, as a wind across a desolate plain at the end of all things.

  He tried to rise, tried to shout, tried to focus his will on a word or spell, but the world was dissolving around him, and his thoughts were as scattered as seeds before that horrible howling wind, and again he saw the black sun and the rising dragon, and an inexorable foreboding of doom crushed any hope he had.

  Bachel’s face materialized before him, wisps of vapor wreathing her angled features. Her eyes were glowing with fevered ecstasy, and her lips were ruby red as if painted with blood. And she said, “You cannot win, Kingkiller. I serve the power of dream and He whose mind conjures dream. Sleep.”

  Murtagh fought with all his might, but blackness descended, and Bachel and the chamber and all that he knew vanished.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Nightmare

  Black sun, black dragon, and an eternity of despair. He was falling toward the bottom of an incomprehensibly large void, and at the bottom lay slumbering a mind of impossible size, whose thoughts moved as slowly as the currents within an icebound sea and were just as black, cold, and hostile. He felt a presence that made him shudder and shrink to insignificance, and all of human endeavor seemed of no more importance than the accomplishments of a colony of ants.

  He searched for Thorn, but the bond they shared was no longer to be found. He was utterly alone, without recourse, resource, or hope of rescue.

  Then he was spinning through space, and all around malevolence pressed against him with crushing force. He saw dragons tearing at his flesh, and the bodies of his foes laid out across the mortified earth, scorched with flame, charred with soot. He saw the darkness beneath the mountains, and felt the coolness of the earth firm against his sides. Worms fed off his putrefying limbs as the smell of death wrapped him in its charnel embrace.