He knew the voice. How many times had he heard it in his dreams? How many times had he yearned (and feared) to hear it again?…Yet he wondered: Was he dreaming still?

  Once more he struggled to sit, but the effort defeated him, and he sank back into softness. Despite his inner protest, his eyelids descended, and the waiting darkness embraced him.

  And he knew no more.

  * * *

  The golden light of late afternoon fanned across the plaster ceiling. A sweet smell of flowers pervaded the air, and water—as of a small brook—trickled nearby, while soft coos of drowsy doves sounded among rustling leaves.

  A gentle breeze stirred a pair of white muslin curtains.

  Murtagh lay beneath a heavy blanket, on a large four-poster bed. He felt no desire to move. His whole body was relaxed to the point of immobility.

  A frown formed as he continued to stare at the ceiling. He knew that ceiling. He had grown up looking at just such a ceiling, and seeing it again made him feel as if nothing of the past few years had really happened.

  He almost believed it.

  Ilirea. I’m in Ilirea. His stomach knotted at the thought of again facing…her. But how?

  He started to rise and heard, “Ah, ah! Please take care, Kingkiller.”

  His eyes widened, and he turned his head to see a young woman sitting next to the bed. Flaxen hair fixed in a neat braid, and a simple servant’s gown of green. Pale skin surrounding eyes the color of a summer sky. A ripening bruise and a pair of scabbed scratches marred her left cheek and temple, but otherwise she appeared fresh-faced and well fed, if somewhat worried.

  “Alín,” he breathed.

  Behind her, Thorn sat crouched by the sill of a great dormer window, large enough for the dragon to pass through. Even as Murtagh saw him, the dragon lifted himself off the floor and stalked over dwarven rugs to the end of the bed.

  Alín stood and smoothed her dress. “You must be famished, Kingkiller. Rest here, and I will fetch you something.”

  Before Murtagh could object, she hurried from the room, her skirt swishing with each step. The chamber’s heavy oaken doors creaked as they opened and shut. In the hall outside, Murtagh glimpsed a pair of guards standing at attention.

  Thorn extended his neck until his nose touched Murtagh’s outstretched hand. You live, the dragon said.

  As do you…. You came for me. Into the cave.

  Thorn hummed, and his eyes glittered with ruby light. Of course. You needed me.

  Tears threatened to spill down Murtagh’s cheeks. Thank you.

  Thorn dipped his head. You will never again have to crawl into a cave alone. Not so long as you are my Rider and I am your dragon. And then Thorn spoke his true name, and Murtagh heard and felt the difference in the dragon’s self. His heart near to broke with relief, and pride too, that after so very long, his closest friend and bonded partner had finally won out over his fear.

  Then tears did fall from Murtagh’s eyes, and he wrapped his arms around Thorn’s head and held him tightly. Ah, that makes me happy. There is something you should know as well.

  Oh?

  I am not who or what I was either. And Murtagh spoke his true name, in all its flawed extent, so his very essence was laid bare.

  Thorn’s inner eyelids snicked closed, and he gently licked Murtagh’s arm. You are free.

  We both are…. I’m sorry. I should have been more careful in taking us to Nal Gorgoth.

  A slight growl sounded in Thorn’s chest. The deed is done, the fight is ended, and we still have our freedom. It is not so bad.

  Grateful, Murtagh laid his chest against Thorn’s scaled brow and savored their closeness. All felt right between them, and that, more than anything, mattered.

  At last, he released his hold on Thorn and looked around the room.

  It was one of the large chambers in the northern wing of the citadel, where the structure had been relatively undamaged by Galbatorix’s explosive self-immolation over a year ago. Murtagh vaguely remembered the room being used by the head of the royal mint, but he couldn’t recall for sure.

  Then he looked down at himself. A white linen shirt hung upon him, smooth against his back. No bandages were wrapped about his chest, and although he felt sore and tired, he wasn’t in pain.

  When did— he started to say.

  The doors to the chamber swung open, and Alín entered, carrying a platter with bread, fruit, and cheese, as well as an earthen pitcher alongside a crystal chalice. She walked around Thorn, placed the platter on the small side table next to the bed, and again seated herself.

  Then Alín took the pitcher and poured watered wine into the chalice, which she handed to him. “Here. A drink will do you some good, my Lord.”

  Murtagh obeyed. She was right; his throat was painfully dry.

  “Four days,” said Alín. “That is how long you have been in Ilirea, Kingkiller.” She smiled slightly. “I thought you might wish to know.”

  He placed the empty chalice on the side table. “It would be best if you refrain from calling me Kingkiller here, Alín. As a title, it will earn me no favors.”

  Her cheeks colored, and she ducked her head. “My apologies.”

  “That’s not…How did we get here? How did you? I thought you were left behind in Oth Orum.”

  “No, not quite,” said Alín. “Uvek found me and had me climb onto Thorn behind him. I was with you the entire time.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  She shook her head. “You wouldn’t have, my Lord. You were delirious from your wound.”

  Murtagh glanced around. He half expected to see the Urgal step out from behind a tapestry. “And Uvek? Is he here?”

  No, said Thorn, and Murtagh could tell that the dragon was speaking to both of them. He went to help his people, but he bid us welcome to his hearth and home whenever we might so wish.

  A pang of regret surprised Murtagh. He would have liked to thank the Urgal in person. “I see.”

  From her skirt Alín produced a small length of knotted rope, rough, brown, and frayed, but formed with obvious deftness. She handed it to Murtagh. Puzzled, he turned it over.

  She said, “Uvek gave this to me that I might keep it safe for you. He said that it means brother in his tongue.”

  “Brother.” Murtagh glanced from the knotted rope to the inside of his left wrist. There, the cut that marked his blood oath with Uvek had been healed. But not entirely. A small white scar remained as a permanent reminder. A new scar to go with an old one. It was not an unpleasant thought.

  With a sense of gratitude, he tucked the knotted rope into his shirt. He knew he would keep it safe for the rest of his life. Family, it seemed, came in many forms, and odd as it was, he thought of the Urgal as such. Then he returned his attention to Alín. “You were very brave in Oth Orum. And also before. If not for you, none of us would have escaped.”

  “You’re too kind, my Lord.” She pressed her lips together. “Bachel betrayed our beliefs. Even if she was being true to Azlagûr, even if she was still serving His will, I wanted no part in it.”

  “Still, what you did wasn’t easy. Thank you.”

  Her cheeks colored again. “What you had to endure was far harder, my Lord.”

  Uncomfortable, Murtagh changed tack. “Have you been well here? Have they treated you fairly?” Has she? But he did not voice the thought.

  Alín nodded, serious. “Oh yes. Very well.”

  “And is Alagaësia everything you hoped it would be?”

  “Everything and more. Only…”

  “Only what?”

  Her expression grew troubled. “I worry about the Draumar. I know Bachel is dead, but a new Speaker will be chosen, and…”

  Murtagh thought he knew the true source of her unease. He shared it. “And what?”

  She looked at him with open earnestness. “I fear…” She swallowed and lowered her voice to a whisper. “What if Azlagûr is truly risen?”

  A chill crept into Murtagh’s bones. “Worry not. Thorn and I will see to it the Draumar are dealt with. As for Azlagûr—”

  A creak of iron hinges interrupted him as the chamber’s doors swung open—pushed by a pair of handmaidens—and Nasuada strode into the room.

  As always, the sight of her had a physical effect on Murtagh: his pulse quickened, and his muscles tensed, and he felt an apprehensive gladness. The light from the windows framed Nasuada’s face as she gazed at him with a serious, watchful expression. Her dress was red velvet with gold trim—as fine a garment as had ever graced Galbatorix’s court—with sleeves tailored short to show the ridged scars on her forearms. And unlike when he’d last seen her, in the courtyard before the half-destroyed citadel in Ilirea, a shining, beautifully crafted crown rested upon her brow.

  Old habits made Murtagh pull back the blanket and descend from the bed to stand upon unsteady legs. He was, he was relieved to see, wearing soft trousers. He bowed as well as he could. “Your Majesty.” The words were an unsettling echo of the formalities he had observed with Galbatorix.

  “Murtagh.” Her expression was impossible for him to read. Then she gestured at her servants. “Leave us now.”

  The handmaidens curtsied and departed. Likewise, Alín rose from her chair and, with a slight apologetic glance at Murtagh, hurried from the room.

  The doors closed with heavy finality.

  You do not expect me to depart, hmm? said Thorn, sharing his thoughts with Nasuada.

  The queen’s expression didn’t change. “Of course not. You are a welcome guest, Thorn.”

  Murtagh wondered if the same were true of him.

  A spate of lightheadedness caused him to sway, and Nasuada said, “Sit before you fall over.”

  With some gratitude, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed.

  He watched, wary, as Nasuada approached with perfectly measured steps and settled into Alín’s recently vacated seat. “You should be careful. It was no sure thing that you would live. You were fever-blind and raving when Thorn brought you here. My spellcasters had to labor long and hard to save you.”

  He winced. The attentions of Du Vrangr Gata were hardly what he would have wanted, but then, he was alive, and for that he was grateful. “Then I am in their debt. And yours.” Later, he would have to use the Name of Names to remove whatever unwanted enchantments the queen’s pet magicians might have placed upon him. As well as Bachel, he thought with sudden alarm.

  Nasuada inclined her head. “The work was not entirely theirs. I am told”—her eyes flickered toward Thorn—“that your companion, the Urgal Uvek, used a charm that was sufficient to keep you from dying on the spot.”

  “He did a lot more than just that.” Murtagh spoke his next words with care. “Who else knows that Thorn and I are in Ilirea?”

  She turned and plucked a dried apricot from the platter on the side table and took the smallest bite.

  “If you are asking whether the people of the city are currently assembled outside these walls, clamoring for your head…you may rest assured, they are not. Thorn was careful in his approach. He found my mind, at night, and I saw to it that no one might hear his wings as he brought you to this very room.” She waited as he took another drink. “Only I, my handmaids, and a select few of my spellcasters know you are here, and they have all sworn to me oaths of utmost secrecy in the ancient language.”

  That made Murtagh feel better. But only a bit. “And what of you?” he asked. “Do you wish to claim my head, Your Majesty?” He trembled slightly, and he was not sure why. He hoped it went unnoticed.

  The queen took her time answering. “That depends.” Her bearing softened somewhat then, and for the first time, a deep well of concern appeared within her eyes. The sight of it left him unbalanced. He was not used to such consideration. “Murtagh…what happened? Thorn has given me some of it, but not all he said made sense, and Alín insisted it was not her place to say. I would have the rest from you. The truth.”

  “The truth…” Murtagh reached over, took the platter of food from the side table, and placed it on his lap. “If I may.”

  “As you will.”

  He tore off a piece of bread and paired it with the hard sheep cheese. He chewed without thinking, without feeling, simply seeking the strength to say what was needed.

  Nasuada waited without complaint. She contained a stillness not unlike Uvek’s: a patient, careful watchfulness, as of a hunter observing a dangerous animal.

  Murtagh knew he was that animal.

  He swallowed. “Did you receive my letter? I sent you one from Gil’ead.”

  Nasuada nodded. “It arrived two days before you did. I must say, it raised more questions than it answered.”

  “Ah. Well then…Where to start?” He started at the beginning, on the day they had parted—on the day Galbatorix had died—when Umaroth had warned him of brimstone and fire and not delving too deeply in the depths. He spoke slowly, haltingly, at first, finding it difficult to frame things with the proper words. Nasuada did not press him, and the words came more easily as he went. At least for a time. He told her of his suspicions and the reasons he’d pursued them, and how that pursuit had led him to Ceunon and thence to Gil’ead.

  He told her of all that had occurred in Gil’ead, of Carabel and Muckmaw and Captain Wren and the traitors within Du Vrangr Gata—of Lyreth and the tangle box, and the destruction that had resulted thereof.

  Nasuada listened without interruption, but he saw her expression alternately soften and harden, and often he could not tell why.

  Then of his and Thorn’s great flight north, he spoke. Of the mountains and the herds of red deer and the villages of the Urgals. He drank and ate as he could, but his appetite deserted him when it came time to speak of Nal Gorgoth.

  Murtagh faltered then, and the words again grew difficult. Yet he persisted. He spoke unsparingly of the village, and Bachel, and his mistakes that resulted in the witch ensnaring and imprisoning both him and Thorn.

  He made no attempt to hide what had happened to them while in Bachel’s thrall. He told Nasuada every sordid detail, and as he spoke of their torture, she placed her hand on his, and the understanding in her eyes caused him even more pain than his recollection.

  “You must hate me for what I did to you,” he said in a thick voice.

  “At first, but only at first. It wasn’t your choice.”

  He squeezed her fingers, a silent thanks. Still, his guilt remained. “I don’t know how you endured. I…I couldn’t.”

  “It helped to know you cared.”

  Tears again filled his eyes, and he looked out the window, unable to bear Nasuada’s gaze. “She broke me. And there was nothing I could do about it. I…” His voice hitched, and his throat tightened like a clenched fist.

  Then he spoke of the raid on the Orthroc. The images that filled his head were worse than any nightmare, and when he attempted to explain whom he had slain—attempted to describe the fallen bodies, large and small—his emotions burst forth, and he wept openly, without shame.

  Nasuada stirred, and he felt her hand upon the back of his head, and he bent toward her as his grief ran its course. She held him, and her presence was a balm for his soul.

  In time, he found the strength to continue.

  * * *

  “Do you think that the creature you felt was Azlagûr?”

  They were sitting by the dormer window, looking out over a small atrium with an ash tree growing in the center and an artful stream that wound among beds of perennials. Rock doves roosted among the branches of the ash, and a cheeky red-tailed squirrel ran up and down the trunk, chattering at every movement above and below.

  After speaking for so long, Murtagh couldn’t bear to remain in the bed, so they had moved to the sill, next to Thorn. Murtagh’s legs had been stiff and weak, but Nasuada had helped him, without comment, by wrapping an arm tight around his waist.

  Her scent was completely different from the stench of brimstone: sweet and clean and healthy. It made it hard for him to concentrate.

  “I don’t know. If nothing else, I believe it was what the Draumar believe to be Azlagûr.”

  Nasuada looked out over the walls of the atrium toward the western horizon. The sun was setting, and the buildings of Ilirea cast long shadows back toward the citadel. The serenity of the city stood in stark contrast to how it had last appeared to him: covered in smoke, lit with fire, and echoing with the discordant clamor of battle. Not unlike his final visions of Nal Gorgoth….

  “Do you think you killed it?” she asked.

  “I hope so, but…I fear not.”

  She looked back at him, and he saw his concern mirrored in her eyes. “How could a creature so large go undiscovered for so long?”

  “I’m not sure it has. The Draumar know of it, and the dragons too, it seems. Some of them, at least.” He scratched his beard. It was getting longer than he liked. “I need to talk with Eragon, to warn him. And I want to question Umaroth and find out exactly what he and the other Eldunarí know. I’d ask you to send a courier on my behalf, but I wouldn’t trust this to a scroll or to someone’s mind. Besides, a courier would be too slow, and— No, once I’m fit, Thorn and I will go to Mount Arngor.”

  “That may not be necessary.”

  “Oh?”

  Nasuada gestured toward the main part of the citadel. “Before he left, Eragon enchanted a scrying mirror, that I might communicate with him more easily than by courier. He did the same for all the kings and queens of the land.”

  Murtagh allowed himself a rueful smile. “Of course he did. He’s getting clever, that one…. Have you spoken to him of me?”

  “Not since you arrived.”

  He nodded. “I see. Well, perhaps your mirror will suffice. I would prefer to avoid having to fly all the way out to Arngor. Not if this creature is loose in Alagaësia.”