* * *

  When Murtagh woke, at first he did not know who or where he was. He stared at the arched ceiling for a long while before dim, blood-drenched memories of the creekside slaughter spiked his pulse, and guilt again filled him.

  He rolled over, intending to sit up, and felt something hard beneath his right hip. He looked, thinking it must be the blackstone charm, but all he saw was the folded corner of his cloak.

  He patted it.

  Again he felt a hard lump the size of a hazelnut. He frowned.

  “What is it, Murtagh-man?” Uvek was squatting in the same position he’d been in when Murtagh fell asleep. It didn’t look as if he’d moved the entire time.

  At the question, Murtagh became aware of the throbbing in his left wrist. It felt as if he’d been branded. His shoulder hurt too, and that particular pain brought unwelcome memories.

  He shook his head. He was getting distracted. He looked back at the cloak and felt the corner…worked his fingers into the hem…and pulled out a yellow, teardrop-shaped diamond that glittered like a bead of crystallized sunlight in the dim cell.

  Uvek sucked in his lower lip and let out a low sound at the sight.

  It took Murtagh a moment to remember what the diamond was…and where he’d gotten it…. Wren…the door of stone…Excitement began to form in him, and he held the jewel up to Uvek. “…energy,” he whispered.

  The Urgal leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with fire to match the diamond. “Is enough, Murtagh-man?”

  He nodded. “…should…be.”

  Then Murtagh opened his mind and reached out with his thoughts toward the diamond. He could feel the knotted whirlpool of energy the gem contained: so close, so tantalizing. But no matter how he tried, he just…couldn’t…get a hold of it and funnel it through his body into the blackstone charm.

  He groaned with frustration and again threw his mind against the diamond. It felt as if he were trying to grasp liquid ice; it kept slipping through his mental fingers, leaving him fumbling at emptiness.

  “…it’s…no use,” he said, sitting back on his heels and shaking his head. “You want to…try?”

  Uvek held out his paw of a hand, and Murtagh—trusting the oath they had sworn—passed him the gem.

  For several minutes, Uvek sat staring at the diamond, his brow drawn, his breathing slow and heavy. The muscles in his arms tensed as if he were straining against a great weight. Then, finally, he said, “Guh. I cannot touch fire in gem. It keeps slipping away.”

  He passed the diamond back to Murtagh, and Murtagh sat against the wall of the cell and stared at the gem. After a moment, he clenched it in his fist, shook his head, and rested his forehead against his arm. “…has to be a way.”

  For a time, they sat in silence. The whole while, Murtagh battled against the ever-present haze that clogged his mind. If only he could think clearly…

  He frowned. The Breath of Azlagûr was what disrupted his thoughts, but it was the vorgethan that kept him from using magic, although perhaps the effects of both were worse in combination. If he could remove one or the other, he and Thorn—and Uvek—might have a chance.

  He sat up and looked at Uvek.

  The Urgal raised his heavy brow. “What is it, Murtagh-man? You have idea?”

  “…maybe…”

  “Is good?”

  “…maybe…. wait…”

  So they waited. Without windows in the cell, Murtagh couldn’t be sure of the exact time, but he didn’t think he’d slept the whole night through. His body told him it was either very early or very, very late.

  He remained on the floor, eyes half closed as he husbanded his strength, knowing that he would need much of it.

  Finally…footsteps at the end of the hall.

  Alín, come to retrieve the bowl she had brought him earlier. As he had hoped. The white-robed woman gave him only a brief, concerned glance before kneeling and reaching between the bars for the bowl.

  “…wait…,” Murtagh said, and moved to touch her wrist. At the last moment, an instinct halted his hand, though he could not have said why.

  She paused, arm outstretched, her eyes wide and round, like those of a frightened doe.

  “…will you…talk with Bachel…arrange to…bring…bring me all my meals?”

  He could see her tremble. “Why, Kingkiller?” she whispered.

  “…so you…can…leave out the drug.” He stared her straight in the eyes, as earnest as he could be. “…so…Thorn and I can…escape.”

  Her trembling increased, and she shook her head, as if to deny his words, but still she did not pull back her arm. “I—I can’t.”

  “…please…help…. Bachel will…wash the world…with…blood…if she can.”

  Alín shook her head again, and then she did withdraw, and she fled back up the hallway, robe flying behind her.

  With a groan, Murtagh collapsed back against the wall.

  “Was good try, Murtagh-man,” said Uvek.

  “…not good…enough.”

  “Hrmm. We shall see. It takes time to calm wild animal.” The Urgal gave him a knowing look from beneath his beetled brow. “Sometimes better to let animal approach you. Otherwise, you scare.”

  “…not…enough…time…”

  “Not even gods know what future holds.”

  Murtagh glanced at Uvek. The Urgal’s expression was impossible to read, but he seemed untroubled. Murtagh couldn’t decide if Uvek’s attitude was born out of fatalism or faith or some other aspect of his culture or personality, but Murtagh found it impossible to be as calm.

  Calm or not, he had no choice but to bide his time and hope. And in the muddled recesses of his mind, the same two words kept repeating:…please…help….

  CHAPTER XXI

  A Question of Faith

  Murtagh was not long waiting before the cultists once again came for him and escorted him to the temple’s inner sanctum, where Bachel held court with her guests.

  The day passed much as others had in Nal Gorgoth. Murtagh served his role as silent companion to the witch—an object of derision and not some little fear on the part of the guests—while Bachel went about her business.

  Once, he saw Alín among the witch’s retinue, but the flaxen-haired woman avoided his gaze and quickly scurried away.

  The Draumar were still preparing for the fast-approaching festival, and all the village was ahum with activity. Dark banners were hung among the patterned buildings, and carved frames placed about the dragon-like sculptures, while food and drink—much of which Murtagh recognized as spoils from the cultists’ blood-soaked raid—were readied in enormous quantities.

  Twice Bachel let Murtagh sit with Thorn in the courtyard, which was a comfort for both Rider and dragon. Since communicating with their minds was so difficult, Murtagh had to resort to speech, slow and clumsy and wholly inadequate to his depth of feeling. “…how are…you?” he whispered.

  The dragon placed his head alongside Murtagh’s thigh, and he rested his hand on Thorn’s scaled forehead.

  As the Draumar moved about the courtyard, Murtagh saw Thorn watching them, and in Thorn’s gaze, he descried a newly found yet deeply set hate. The dragon’s anger emanated from his body like heat from a forge. Once that would have worried Murtagh. Now he welcomed the feeling. He shared the sentiment, and a part of him thought there was a chance that if Thorn’s emotions were strong enough, they might allow him to dispel the witch’s evil influence. With dragons, you never knew just what they were capable of.

  But Thorn made no unexpected use of magic. The two of them sat there by the side of the courtyard, often glanced at but generally ignored, and Murtagh stared at the scraps of blue sky overhead and wished…wished he and Thorn were far from Nal Gorgoth.

  * * *

  That night, the cultists had barely deposited him in the cell and then departed when Alín came creeping down the hall. Her face was terribly red, the skin under her eyes was swollen, and her hair hung in a tangled mess.

  She stood for a time, staring at Murtagh. Remembering Uvek’s advice, he returned her gaze with an open expression and waited for her to speak.

  Alín hugged herself. Then she said, “You don’t understand…. How could you? But you don’t. You can’t.” Her countenance grew pleading. “I believed in Bachel. I believe. She is no false prophet. She speaks with the authority of Azlagûr, and how can any question Azlagûr when we live with His dreams? We all share in the dream of Nal Gorgoth and the vision of what may come. And when that vision becomes manifest…” She shivered violently. “The world will be remade according to Azlagûr’s will.” She rubbed her arms as if cold. “Always I wondered at what lay beyond this valley. Always Bachel has told us of the evils that inhabit Alagaësia, of the war and injustices.” She shook her head. “But you are not evil, Kingkiller. Nor is Thorn. And the way in which Bachel has treated Thorn…It goes against everything I know. Every tenet I believe. Everything she has preached to us over the years!”

  She turned and paced between the cells, distraught. Still, Murtagh held his tongue. With a wild look, she spun back to him, her small teeth bared like those of a cornered animal. “Dragons are the lifeblood of the land, Kingkiller! They are the source of all that is good, the font of life and magic and…and…They are to be worshipped. Revered. Honored. Served. And yet Bachel says this mistreatment of Thorn is necessary. Needed. According to Azlagûr’s will! I…I—” She broke off and shivered again as if with fever.

  Murtagh rose on unsteady legs and went to the door of his cell. Soft and slow, he said, “What…do…you…want?”

  A film of tears silvered Alín’s eyes. “I want to help Thorn. And— No, it is too selfish of me.”

  “…what?”

  “I want to see the truth of the world before Azlagûr washes it clean.”

  “Then…help us.”

  “It is not that simple, Kingkiller. Bachel is the Speaker. She is our mehtra! I have sworn oaths to her and to Azlagûr. I cannot break them, and if I did, oh! If I did, my soul would be forever forsaken.” Her skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, and he could smell the sour stench of her fear. “You ask me to cast away my life and condemn my eternal future for this.”

  “…for what is right.” The words struck home. He could see it in the misery of her expression. He struggled to order his thoughts. “…oaths bind, but you…can change…free yourself…. I…know. I did.”

  Alín looked at him with anguish. “How?”

  He did not want to say, but he had no other resort but the deepest reservoir of truth. “…for the sake…of another.”

  Alín’s eyes widened, and he felt as if she were seeing his innermost self. Then her shoulders caved in, and she shook her head and uttered a soft sob. “I can’t. I haven’t the strength.”

  The floor seemed to tilt underneath him and the cell spin. He staggered and grasped the iron bars for support. He took a steadying breath, trying to maintain a semblance of clarity. “…family?”

  Alín shook her head. “No. I was found as a child. As many Draumar are.”

  Blood on the ground. Orthroc fallen in mangled heaps. Bodies large and small. A chill gripped Murtagh. He could guess how the children had come to Nal Gorgoth. Orphans. Innocents.

  Sorrow overcame him, and he reached toward Alín’s cheek, wanting only to comfort her.

  She flinched but did not retreat.

  Her skin was feverishly hot against his palm. She let out a small cry as he touched her, and he felt a tremor pass through her, but still she did not pull away. Somehow he knew that was significant. A line had been crossed that could never be uncrossed.

  Tears rolled down her face. In a whisper, she said, “I want…I want a better dream, one of cheer and hope and love.”

  “…then help us.”

  She stared at him with a hope as desperate as his own, and he sensed no guile in her heart. “If you leave, will you take me with you, Kingkiller?”

  “…yes…I swear it.”

  A moment, and then she withdrew from his hand and rubbed her arms again. Her lips parted, as if she meant to speak, but instead, she hurried away before he could do anything to keep her.

  He turned a helpless gaze to Uvek, who was watching as always. “…did I scare…her?”

  The Urgal grunted and scratched at his neck. “Hrmm. Maybe yes, but—”

  More footsteps sounded, and Alín reappeared carrying a bowl and pitcher. She avoided Murtagh’s eyes as she knelt and placed the dishes just outside his cell. Then she bobbed a quick curtsy, as she might have to Bachel, and rushed off again.

  “Is always rushing, that one,” said Uvek.

  Murtagh didn’t answer as he pulled the dishes into his cell. He cautiously tasted the watered wine in the pitcher and then the bread and soup in the bowl. None of them burned like brandy as he swallowed.

  He looked to Uvek and nodded.

  The Urgal grew very still, as if readying himself for action. “How long, you think, Murtagh-man?”

  “I don’t…know. A day?…maybe more…depends…how much…gave me.”

  “The black smoke time is only day or two away. I think it bad if we still here when it happens.”

  “…that soon?” He hadn’t realized the festival was so close.

  “Hrmm. Heal faster, Murtagh-man.”

  * * *

  Every meal thereafter, Alín brought Murtagh food free of vorgethan. He had hoped that his body might purge the drug within a few hours, but to his aggravation and disappointment, the process was far slower.

  Other cultists continued to feed Uvek, and the Urgal remained under the effects of the vorgethan. Murtagh asked Alín if she could help Uvek as well, but she shook her head and explained that a man by the name of Isvar prepared Uvek’s food, and that Isvar had been specially appointed by Bachel and would not surrender the honor.

  So they waited, and every few minutes that Murtagh was awake, he tried to access the energy in the yellow diamond, that he might transfer it into the blackstone charm. At some point, he had to succeed. The question was whether that would happen before the time of the black smoke.

  He was growing increasingly concerned about the festival. From certain fragments he overheard, it seemed to him that Bachel was planning something particularly dramatic, and he worried that her plan would involve him and Thorn.

  Even though Murtagh was no longer receiving the vorgethan, his mind felt as clouded as ever. The witch continued to use the Breath on him whenever they met, and the stench of the swirling miasma never seemed to leave his nostrils.

  The following morning, Murtagh noticed that a goodly portion of Bachel’s guests were departing. They gathered in the courtyard on their fine horses, carrying their colorful pennants, and they saluted Bachel. The man Murtagh felt he ought to recognize said, “Fare thee well, Bachel. We shall send you tidings of our plans ere long.”

  The witch picked at the rim of her dented goblet. “ ’Twere best if you stayed for the time of the black smoke.”

  The grim-faced man inclined his head. “We’ll leave such things to you and your followers.” He looked at Murtagh with an expression of mild disgust. “And to whatever you have made of him.”

  “Ah, but I and my companions shall stay and keep you company, most honorable Bachel,” said Lyreth. He stood at one corner of the courtyard along with four other men. They all had ruddy cheeks, as if from drink.

  Bachel did not seem impressed. To the first man, she smiled and gestured, as if giving permission. “Go, then, and safe sailing upon your journey. Let the culmination of our plans arrive most swiftly.”

  “My Lady.”

  And with that, the group trotted out of Nal Gorgoth, heading for the Bay of Fundor and the ship Murtagh knew was docked thereat.

  * * *

  With every hour that passed, Murtagh felt as if his body were becoming lighter, more responsive. Unfortunately, his mind failed to follow suit. Every thought took work, and it was difficult to hold on to one for any length of time. And yet he could tell that the drug vorgethan was slowly working its way out of his limbs.

  But not fast enough for his liking. The villagers were growing more excited by the prospect of their festival; even the heavy-browed Grieve seemed enlivened.

  Bachel dismissed Murtagh early that day, as she was preoccupied with preparations for the festival. He didn’t mind. The less he saw of the witch, the better.

  Once back in his cell, he did not sit or lie down. Despite his sluggish mind, he forced himself to stand and pace. Movement, as Tornac had told him, always cleared the blood. So he moved, with the hope of speeding the passage of the vorgethan from his veins.

  Uvek watched with impassive patience. Only once did he ask if Murtagh had succeeded with the diamond. Aside from that, the Urgal seemed content to wait. Seeing him squatting in his cell, the flickering light casting deep shadows from Uvek’s horns, Murtagh could imagine the Urgal situated in a high mountain cave, as still and silent as a statue, an oracle waiting for the faithful to flock to his feet.

  And still, Murtagh paced.

  He was getting close to being able to access the energy in the diamond. He could feel it: a delicate tickle, like an itch high in his nose. If only…

  A noise at the head of the hallway. Alín, bringing him his evening meal. Bread, a soup of boar meat, and watered wine.

  Before she left, he said, “…wait…can you bring me…my sword, Zar’roc?”

  She shook her head, hair hiding her face. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “…where?”

  “Bachel keeps your sword and armor in the temple, in her presence chamber.”