“Never,” he gasped. The air seemed heated, and he found it difficult to breathe. He felt as if he were choking.

  “So be it. I shall have you either way, for I am the avatar of Azlagûr, and He cannot be denied.”

  And Bachel swiped her claws across his chest. Sparks flew from the sharpened onyx tips as they struck his wards, and Murtagh grew weak as the spells consumed his strength in an attempt to protect him.

  Her expression hardened, and her glamoured face was fearsome to behold. With a deliberate motion, she placed her claws in a circle over his heart and pressed downward with ever-increasing force. The tips of her claws began to glow red, and Murtagh grew dizzy and breathless.

  His wards could have protected him forever…if he’d had the energy to power them. But he didn’t. Sustaining the spells felt like trying to hold a boulder in his outstretched hands; the weight was overwhelming, and in an instant—to keep from killing him—the wards failed, and Bachel’s claws sank into the meat of his chest.

  Murtagh stiffened and cried out.

  “…how?” he managed to gasp.

  “The might of Azlagûr is greater than you can imagine, Kingkiller. He will not be denied.” And the witch’s mind assaulted Murtagh’s with a torrent of black thoughts, quick and grasping.

  He had not the fortitude to hold her at bay. Not then. So he tried a different approach, one more dangerous, but no less effective. He bent like a reed in the wind and allowed Bachel’s consciousness to flow around his own. Wherever and whenever she attempted to grasp one of his thoughts, he slipped sideways and turned his attention elsewhere. His distraction became a defense, and with it, he repeatedly foiled Bachel.

  The witch did not give up. She had resources he didn’t, and every time a thought or memory flickered through his mind, she learned a little more about him.

  “Ahhh!”

  Her claws cut bloody stripes across his chest, and Murtagh arched his back. He pulled on the iron cuffs and tried to break them, but they were too thick and too well secured.

  Pain focused his mind, and the witch used that to pin his consciousness in place, to hold it and corral it as she sought to subjugate him to her will. But even drugged, Murtagh knew this game. He had played it with Galbatorix more times than he cared to remember, and he knew how to bend and twist and escape her grasp.

  Nasuada too had played the game with him during her time in the Hall of the Soothsayer. And she—fierce, proud, strong—had never broken. The thought gave him a small measure of hope.

  Still, evading the witch’s mental grip was exhausting work, similar in effort to physically wrestling, and compounded in difficulty by the hurts Bachel inflicted upon him.

  “I have no desire to disfigure you, Kingkiller,” she said, and shook a drop of blood from her onyx claws. The bead glistened in the light of the brazier as it fell, a perfect polished orb of deepest vermilion. “But it requires very little to cause agonies that will drive even an elf mad.”

  She pressed the tip of a claw against one of the scratches on his chest, and the point of the claw found a nerve, and electric fire shot across his torso and up his neck.

  He fought to keep his face still. The more he grimaced, the worse the pain seemed. When, after an eternity of suffering, Bachel lifted the claw, he gasped. “Do you want…me…mad?”

  “If mad is what I can have, then mad is what I shall take. You are a useful tool either way, Kingkiller, but my preference would be to have you as you are, whole and handsome and fit to fight an army.” She laughed, and it was a disconcerting sound, emanating as it did from the draconic shadow that enveloped her. “But I think you would be most entertaining mad. You are the one who must choose, Kingkiller. Join the Draumar. Join me, and serve our dread master Azlagûr as have those who came before us.”

  “…Never.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. So repetitive. So boring. You must think of more creative answers, my wayward child. Do not force me to chastise you, though chastise you I shall, for thine own good.”

  She lifted her clawed hand again, and he forced himself to say, fast as he could: “D-does…Azlagûr speak to you?”

  A secret smile formed on Bachel’s face, and her claws paused in the air. “In a way. He speaks to all of us, Kingkiller, even you, if you but have the ears and eyes to understand. When you dream, those are Azlagûr’s dreams, and by them we understand His will. As His priestess, as His Speaker, He sends dreams to me most particularly, and I share them with my people, and I interpret for them the dreams that they have. This is how we receive Azlagûr’s wisdom.”

  “To what end?”

  “That we bring about the destruction of this era and the beginning of another. That we remake the world through fire and blood and bring to fruition prophecies and plans that span millennia. Do you not understand, Kingkiller? We are the instruments of Fate. We have been chosen to set the pattern of history, and by it, we shall have recompense beyond mortal imagining.”

  Then Bachel’s claws again descended, and Murtagh again gave voice to his pain.

  Deep in his mind, he felt a matching agony from Thorn, and the feeling heightened his torment, for he could not help the one who mattered most to him.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Waking Dreams

  The witch tormented him for hours. Always she kept asking him to break or bend.

  Always he refused.

  But he gave her everything else she demanded. When she ordered him to agree, he agreed. When she told him to turn his head or say that the Varden’s cause had been wrong and misguided, he obeyed. It was a trick he’d learned in Urû’baen. If he agreed, it bought him a slight reprieve, physically and mentally. If he was cooperative, that mollified Bachel to a certain extent. But on the core issue, he never budged, and as much as he could, he deflected and dissembled and otherwise tried to frustrate the witch’s efforts.

  Had he not been drugged, he would have attempted to seize Bachel’s mind and make her his own servant. As it was, he could only endure.

  Nor was the witch solely interested in his compliance. She questioned him about Eragon and Saphira, Arya and Fírnen, and specifically the state of Nasuada’s realm, including the dispersion of the magicians of Du Vrangr Gata, the postings of the realm’s armies, and many other useful pieces of intelligence. Much of what she asked, Murtagh had no special knowledge of, though Bachel did not always believe him and pressed him hard on every point.

  Her questions taught him two things in return. First was that Bachel seemed to think a full-scale attack on Nasuada’s realm was not only desirable but an actual possibility. With what army? And second, that Bachel and the Draumar were far better informed than their numbers or location seemed to indicate. How many sympathizers have they?

  Such coherent thoughts appeared only in the brief respites between Bachel’s attentions. Most of the time, Murtagh drifted amid a haze of pain, unable to make sense of anything but his need to escape the witch’s clutches.

  And…he was scared.

  The fear did not cause him to turn coward, but the more he saw of Bachel’s distorted visage, and the more he felt of her red-tipped claws, and the more her intruding consciousness pulled at the most intimate parts of his self, the greater his terror grew.

  Many difficult things Murtagh had done in his life, many shameful, bloody things, some forced upon him, some born of his own weakness, but there and then was the greatest challenge he had faced. Because unlike with Galbatorix, he could not—would not—allow himself to give in. He knew what torments lay down that path, and they were worse than any physical pain.

  Or so he told himself. But because of it, there was no end in sight, and that made it difficult to sustain hope.

  He tried not to think, only do what had to be done in the unfounded, perhaps futile expectation that, at some point, at some time, Bachel would tire of him and direct her cruelty elsewhere.

  Nasuada’s face often filled his mind, her expression sometimes soft with sympathy, other times contorted with pain and fear, and Murtagh found himself forced to remember what he had done to her in the Hall of the Soothsayer. The suffering he had inflicted was no less than what he now endured, and the knowledge made his stomach turn. There was a part of him that welcomed his torture as penance for his crimes. But no matter how great the agony, the mistakes of the past remained a testament to his failures.

  Bachel noticed, for as he struggled with his memories, she brought her face close to his and studied him with cold amusement. “What would your queen think of you now?” she murmured. “Would she pity you? No, I think she would be disgusted by your weakness, my helpless little princeling. ’Tis a fatal weakness, one you will never recover from, unless you swear fealty to me and Azlagûr.”

  “…no.”

  Her claws descended, and he screamed again.

  After an endless while, the witch grew bored with him. She drew forth another crystal vial from her bodice, unstoppered it, and blew a fresh cloud of vapor upon his face.

  Murtagh held his breath, but as with Thorn, the cloud clung to him, and when at last his lungs gave out, the putrid stench of brimstone clogged his nose and mouth, and the room tilted beneath him, and everything that was solid seemed insubstantial.

  Save for Bachel. She retained her sense of substance. Her face grew impossibly large as she leaned over him and said, “We shall try again tomorrow, Kingkiller. Let that knowledge fill your thoughts. In the meantime, may the Breath of Azlagûr bring you wisdom through dream, and dreaming shall you find your way.”

  Her face receded. “Take him to the well before you return him to his chamber. His smell offends me.”

  “As you wish, Speaker,” replied a man from beyond Murtagh’s vision.

  Then the witch swept out of the room, and unseen hands removed the manacles from Murtagh’s wrists and ankles. They dragged him through the building, and for a time, all Murtagh was aware of were the bumping of his legs across the stone floor, the strain in his arms and shoulders, and the bobbing of his head, which made him queasy.

  Blood dripped from his body. Less than he had feared, but any was unwelcome.

  Icy water poured over the back of his neck. The shock cleared his mind somewhat. He gasped and looked around; he was sitting by the well outside the temple, and the two cultists were tossing buckets of water upon him. Then they dragged him into the temple courtyard.

  Thorn was there. Heavy iron chains bound the dragon to the flagstones, while his muzzle was wrapped with thick leather thongs, and his wings were pinned to his side by rounds of rope. Tar-like blood streaked the rucked membranes.

  Murtagh’s heart lurched. He felt as if there were words that needed saying and actions that needed doing, but he could not stir his limbs.

  He stared at Thorn, and Thorn at him—the dragon’s ruby eyes dull, defeated, dimmed by drugs or magic or some combination thereof. There was a sadness to his expression that struck Murtagh to the core, even in the extremes of his own distress, and he struggled to break the grip of his captors, but he could do no more than weakly thrash.

  “None of that now,” said one of the cultists.

  Across the yard, Alín appeared—white-robed and pale-faced—among the temple columns. She seemed stricken by the sight of him and Thorn, though Murtagh could not understand why. For an instant, he thought she was about to speak, but then his captors turned and dragged him toward the temple’s small side door, and the moment passed.

  * * *

  Murtagh landed on his side with a painful impact, and the cell door closed behind him with a clang.

  He lay on his crumpled cloak for a long while, trying to gather the pieces of himself well enough to make sense of the world.

  Despite his efforts otherwise, his eyes slid shut….

  He was sitting on a throne…THE throne: the same black and gold monstrosity Galbatorix had held court from. Thorn was to his left, and on the polished marble floor before them knelt Eragon, head bowed so his face was concealed, his hair the same mess of tousled brown locks Murtagh remembered. There were raw red marks around Eragon’s wrists, and—with the certainty found only in dreams—Murtagh knew that he had broken Eragon, and that Eragon was his to command even as Murtagh had been Galbatorix’s.

  Past Eragon were the kneeling forms of Arya, the dwarf king Orik, and…Nasuada. As with Eragon, their faces were turned toward the floor. All save for Nasuada. She looked at him with an expression of fearful devotion, and he knew that she too was his to command, and that even more than the others, she was a slave to his word.

  Farther still stood endless ranks of soldiers: humans in their mail shirts and padded gambesons; elves garbed in woodland colors, with elegant bows in hand and long, graceful swords at their hips; dwarves with hammers and pikes, and battalions of spearmen mounted on Feldûnost, the proud-footed mountain goats of the Beors; and Urgals too, with their crudely fashioned weapons, Urgals of human height and others towering ten, twelve feet in total—Kull, huge, muscular, terrifying.

  And he knew that every soldier owed him fealty, and that he could order them onto the field of battle, and they would die for him to the last.

  Murtagh felt power to be his, and he welcomed the sense of control. With it, he could do what was right—what was needed—and, more important, he could keep Thorn and himself safe. No one could command or enslave them if they ruled the land. How simple. How direct. Why had he never thought about it before? No longer would he have to wrestle with the question of whether to keep apart from the doings of Alagaësia. By assuming his rightful place on the throne, he could sidestep the problem, and everyone in the realm might become a part of him, rather than he a part of them.

  He smiled as he beheld his dominion. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he had found his place.

  At the end of the impossibly large audience chamber, a trefoil window allowed for a view westward, and framed in it, a black sun descended….

  * * *

  “Murtagh-man…Can you hear me?…Wake now, human…. Human?”

  The dark arch of the stone ceiling was the first thing Murtagh saw. He blinked and stirred. Every muscle in his body felt sore and strained; he’d pulled against the manacles with all his might, and he was paying the price for it now. Tomorrow would be worse.

  Dried blood cracked on his chest as he rolled to his knees. His mind was still bleary, his wits dulled, his vision fuzzed.

  On the other side of the hallway, he saw Uvek crouched by the door to the Urgal’s own enclosure, the tips of his horns touching the bars. It was difficult to tell, but Murtagh thought the Urgal appeared, if not concerned, at least of a mind to commiserate with a fellow prisoner.

  “Can you speak, Murtagh-man?”

  It took him longer than he liked to make a sound: “I—”

  Footsteps echoed off the walls, approaching. Dread filled Murtagh, and he scooted back, away from the door to his cell. Opposite him, Uvek silently withdrew until he was hidden within shadow.

  Then Murtagh saw Alín sweep down the hallway. She stopped before his cell and stared at him, her cheeks as pale as her robe. Her eyebrows narrowed, and her lips pressed together, and she trembled slightly, as if racked by a powerful passion.

  She knelt and placed a wooden plate in his cell, along with a small pitcher of what smelled like watered wine. The plate held bread and hard cheese and several strips of smoked bergenhed.

  Again she stood. She smoothed the front of her robe, and Murtagh noticed that her hands were shaking. Then she turned and ran from his cell, and her robe flapped like a pennant in the wind.

  “You have friend, Murtagh-man.” Uvek’s rumbling voice preceded him as the Urgal emerged from the shadows.

  “…Maybe.” Sudden hunger—ravenous, burning, unbearable—sent Murtagh scrabbling forward to tear at the bread and cheese. His own hands were no more steady than Alín’s. Whether she was a friend or not, the unmistakable flavor of brandy tainted the food she’d brought—the dreaded drug vorgethan. For a moment, he considered forgoing the food, but he was desperately weak. If he did not eat, he knew his will would desert him entirely. To survive, he had to force down the very poison that kept him imprisoned.

  “The witch treated you roughly,” said Uvek.

  It wasn’t a question. Looking at him again, Murtagh saw a kindness in the Urgal’s expression that he had never before encountered among Uvek’s race. An image came to Murtagh, so bright and strong that he felt as if he were looking upon another time and place—an image of Uvek sitting on a high mountain ridge, near a scraggled, windblown pine…sitting hunched over a single blue flower, wan and delicate, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  Murtagh shook his head. The Breath and the vorgethan were making reality as thin as a threadbare curtain, as if he could peek through a frayed hole and see what otherwise would be hidden.

  “What does she want from you, Murtagh-man?”

  “She…” He coughed. Flakes of dried blood fell to the floor. “She wants me to swear fealty to her and to join the Draumar.”

  Uvek tilted his head. The tip of one horn tapped the bars of his cell. “She wants same from me.”

  “But she doesn’t torture you.”

  “Not since they capture you. I think she find you more interesting.”

  “Lucky me.” Murtagh drank deeply of the watered wine and then started in on the smoked bergenhed. As he chewed, he studied Uvek. “Why does Bachel seek your fealty?”

  “The Draumar seek fealty from all who cross path.”

  Murtagh shook his head again. He was having trouble summoning the words he needed. “Yes, but…No. Why…why you?”

  “Because I was one they could find.”

  That still wasn’t what Murtagh wanted to know, but expressing himself was too difficult, so he grunted and focused on eating.