Concern darkened her expression. “How great a threat do you really think it is?”

  “I don’t know, but…” He shook his head. “If even half of what I saw is true, Azlagûr may be more dangerous than Galbatorix ever was.”

  Nasuada pressed her lips together, and for a few minutes, they watched the sunset in silence. She, of all people, had a true understanding of Galbatorix’s cruelty and depravity, and she had witnessed firsthand the staggering extent of his power. The king had humbled them all. It was only through the greatest of luck—and not a little skill—that they had overcome him.

  She turned to Thorn. “What of you? Did you feel anything of this Azlagûr?”

  No. I was too busy razing Nal Gorgoth, and by the time I found Murtagh, the caves were empty of all but vermin.

  “The thing to do,” said Murtagh, “is to find El-harím and the barrows of Anghelm and wherever else black smoke might rise from the ground. Perhaps we will chance upon Azlagûr at one of them, or at least we may learn more of note.”

  “El-harím,” mused Nasuada. “How strange.”

  “You know of it?”

  “A name from an old rhyme.” She paused for a moment, considering, and then recited:

  In El-harím, there lived a man, a man with yellow eyes.

  To me, he said, “Beware the whispers, for they whisper lies.

  Do not wrestle with the demons of the dark,

  Else upon your mind they’ll place a mark;

  Do not listen to the shadows of the deep,

  Else they haunt you even when you sleep.”

  The words struck Murtagh with unexpected familiarity. At first he could not place them, but then he remembered: the Hall of the Soothsayer, when Nasuada had allowed him to touch her mind, that he might prove his intentions. “Ah! You used that poem to shield your thoughts.”

  Nasuada nodded, and he could see a shadow of the memory in her eyes. “I learned the rhyme as a child in Surda, but I cannot recall anything of its origin.”

  He made a wry face. “I only caught snatches of it before. I’d forgotten until now.” He shook his head, grim. “Yet more proof that something of the Draumar has been known for many a year. If we’d but had the eyes to see and the ears to listen, we could have discovered their existence long ago.”

  “Your mention of eyes makes me wonder,” said Nasuada. “I don’t suppose Grieve’s were yellow?”

  “No. That they were not. One thing is certain—the Draumar need rooting out, and the children they’ve stolen need rescuing. I also want to have a talk with Captain Wren and put a stop to the whole business with the werecat younglings, whatever that is. As soon as I’m able, we’ll set out.”

  Nasuada lifted her chin. The diamond set in the center of her crown glinted in the sunset’s ruddy light. “You forget, I have not given you leave to depart Ilirea.”

  Murtagh studied her, uncertain what game she was playing. In a casual-seeming way, he allowed his gaze to wander around the chamber. Were there soldiers or spellcasters hidden behind the walls? He nearly went searching with his mind, but then decided he didn’t want to know. If Nasuada were going to turn against him, he would rather leave that for the future. Even so…

  Thorn, were you able to retrieve Ithring when you rescued me?

  I was.

  Did you bring it here?

  I did.

  Murtagh looked back at Nasuada and, in a bland tone, said, “I don’t happen to see my sword. Do you know where it is?”

  A slight smile touched Nasuada’s lips. “I thought you might ask.” From within a fold of her dress, she produced a small silver bell that she rang twice before putting it away.

  Once more the oak doors swung open, and Alín entered. Crosswise in her arms, she carried Ithring and Niernen. And not just them. Atop the weapons lay the cloth-wrapped bundle that Murtagh recognized as containing Glaedr’s scale, and beside it, a familiar dented brass goblet.

  Alín brought the items to Murtagh. One by one, she handed them to him, and then curtsied to Nasuada and said, “Your Majesty.”

  She started to depart, but Nasuada held out her hand in a commanding gesture. “A moment, Alín. Tell me, have you had any cause for complaint here in Ilirea?”

  Alín made a slight curtsy. “Oh no, Your Majesty. Not at all.”

  “And would you be willing to accept me as your queen and to serve as one of my faithful subjects?”

  Murtagh caught a quick, uncertain glance from Alín, but then she said, “If you will have me, Your Majesty.”

  “Excellent,” said Nasuada with aplomb. “Then it is settled. Tomorrow you may swear to me formally at court. However, there is another matter. Murtagh has told me much of your history, and it seems to me you are a person of uncommon spirit and fortitude. It would be foolish of me, as queen, to overlook such virtues. Thus, I ask: Would you also be willing to accept a position as one of my royal maids?”

  Alín grew very still, and when she answered, her voice was small: “This is a great honor you offer me, Your Majesty.”

  “It is.”

  A faint tremble passed through Alín’s frame. “And what if I decline, Your Majesty?”

  “Then I will bid you good fortune, and you may follow your heart’s desire wherever it leads.”

  Alín lifted her head, her eyes shining. “In that case, I would be proud to accept.”

  Nasuada nodded in acknowledgment. “The head of my retinue, Farica, will speak to you then about your roles and responsibilities.”

  Again Alín curtsied. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “You may go now.”

  As she withdrew, Alín bobbed to Murtagh and murmured, seemingly out of habit, “Kingkiller.” Murtagh winced, and her cheeks paled as she realized what she’d said. She ducked her head and hurried away.

  Once Alín was departed, and the doors closed, Nasuada turned her gaze on Murtagh. He found it difficult to meet her eyes, but meet them he did. “Was it well done?” she asked.

  “It was,” he said. Of her own and with no standing to her name, Alín would have found it difficult to make her way outside Nal Gorgoth without patronage or protection of a sort Murtagh was in no position to supply. Elevating her to a royal maid was an act of charity on the part of Nasuada, but he knew there was more to it than that. Kings and queens could not afford to think of charity alone. Alín was their strongest link to the Draumar, and their best source of information on the cult. It was wise of Nasuada to keep her close, and to earn her loyalty that others might not turn Alín against them. Very well done indeed, he thought.

  “She holds you in high regard,” said Nasuada, and there was no mistaking the slight edge to her voice.

  In an unaffected manner, Murtagh replied, “And I hold her in high regard. If not for Alín, Thorn and I would still be at Bachel’s mercy.”

  “Mmm.”

  “And because of that, I thank you for the kindness you have shown her.”

  After a moment, Nasuada relented. “It was only right.”

  “Alín was most devoted to Bachel, but Bachel betrayed her trust. She will not give her loyalty again so easily, I think, but once she sees your fairness and honor and goodness of character, I am confident she will be likewise devoted to you. She needs someone whom she can respect and believe in.”

  “Are you that person?”

  He turned to face her square on, his expression frank. “I have neither the reason nor the desire to command her or anyone else. Those days are long since behind me.”

  “Is that so?” Nasuada picked up one of the chalices resting on the sill and sipped from it. “Kingkiller. I’ve not heard that title before.”

  “I never aspired to be called so.”

  “Didn’t you? You wished Galbatorix dead many a time. And you chose to kill Hrothgar.”

  Before her bluntness, he had no defense. “I did. I was…angry.”

  She nodded. “My father and Hrothgar were friends. Did you know that? Even when they were at odds, they respected each other, and they often found time to talk on subjects unrelated to the responsibilities of rule. I knew Hrothgar nearly all my life. In many ways, he was the closest thing I had to an uncle.”

  There was no accusation in her voice, only a straightforward statement of fact underlaid with sadness.

  Murtagh looked down at Ithring and Niernen. “Do you blame me for killing Hrothgar?”

  She was slow to answer, but her voice was firm when she spoke. “Yes. I do.” His heart sank, and he looked up to see her facing him with the same level of frankness he had displayed. “But I understand.”

  He wasn’t sure how to respond.

  To his relief, she shifted her attention to the sword and reached out to touch the crimson sheath. “The crest here is different than I remember.”

  “It changed when I renamed it.”

  Her eyebrows raised. “Zar’roc? You can do that?”

  “I can. I did.” And he told her the new name.

  Her expression softened then, and she murmured: “Ithring. Freedom…It is a good name. Better than Zar’roc.”

  Murtagh was surprised by how much her approval meant to him. Pensive, he slid a hand across the smooth coolness of the sheath, still unaccustomed to the new meaning associated with the weapon. Then he placed the sword, Glaedr’s scale, and the brass goblet on the floor next to his chair and held up Niernen, so the tip pointed toward the ceiling. “I fear we may need the Dauthdaert more than my sword.”

  Nasuada gazed up at the lance’s glowing blade. “Will you carry it?”

  “I think so. Along with Ithring.”

  “A Rider wielding a spear meant for killing a dragon. The elves will not approve, I think.”

  “Why shouldn’t they? As long as it does not bother Thorn—”

  Carry as many teeth or claws as you need, the dragon said.

  Murtagh tipped Niernen toward Thorn in acknowledgment. “Then so I shall.”

  A frown drew together Nasuada’s brows. “You did not explain how this weapon ended up in the clutches of the Draumar.”

  “If I knew, I would have— Ah!” Murtagh made a face as another memory rose to the front of his mind. “Wait.” He carefully placed the lance on the floor, next to Ithring. “I saw someone among the visitors who came to Nal Gorgoth. Someone I recognized from among the Varden. Someone in your circle of advisers.”

  Nasuada’s frown deepened. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t. I’ve tried to remember, but I can’t. The effects of the Breath were too strong. Thorn, do you—”

  The dragon shook his long head. No. I know the one you speak of, but I can no more name him than can you.

  “Barzûl,” said Nasuada. She stood and paced before the sill, forearms crossed, picking at the lace cuffs on her shortened sleeves.

  “Has anyone in your court gone traveling in the past month?”

  Nasuada stopped by her chair. “Far too many, I’m afraid. And I can hardly go around accusing my most trusted ministers without an ironclad reason. Are you sure you can’t remember?”

  Murtagh spread his hands. “If I could, I would.”

  She tapped the sill. “Were you to see this man again, do you think you could point him out?”

  Murtagh considered. “I think I might.”

  Nasuada nodded. “Then I will see about finding a place of concealment from which you can view my court.”

  He stood as well and joined her at the window. His legs felt stronger than before. “There’s no telling who might be working against you.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” said Nasuada. “These Draumar seem to have infiltrated my entire kingdom. Some number of Du Vrangr Gata have allied themselves with the cult, and now I do not even know if I can trust the captains of my army. At every turn, I see plots and schemes and knives lurking in shadows.”

  She remained as controlled as ever, but her distress was palpable. Murtagh was not sure how to respond. Unable to think of anything to say, he dared to put a hand on her shoulder.

  A quick intake of breath from Nasuada, and she unfolded her arms and looked at him with such an expression, he was not sure whether she found the gesture comforting or whether she was about to call the guards to have him dragged away.

  He dropped his hand.

  “Stay,” she said in a calm, quiet voice.

  “What do you—”

  “Don’t go searching for Azlagûr. Not for the time being. Let me send my men instead. Stay here, in Ilirea.”

  His throat tightened. “As what?”

  “Not as what. For what. For me.” Her gaze burrowed into him, as if searching for some hint of his reaction. “You are the only one I can rely on in these matters. The only person whom I don’t have to worry about being corrupted by gold or magic or promises of power.”

  He found it as hard to breathe as in Oth Orum. “Nasuada…How would that work? Your people hate me, especially after what Thorn and I did in Gil’ead.”

  “No one need know you are in Ilirea. There are ways. Trust me.”

  A harsh laugh escaped him. “Shall I be your secret shame, then? Your pet spellcaster kept locked away in a tower, hidden from all? And what of Thorn? He can’t—”

  She stopped him with a hand on the center of his chest. Her skin was warm through his shirt. “I have no desire to cage you, Murtagh. Neither you nor Thorn. I only suggested concealing your presence because I thought it was your desire. If you wish to make yourself known, I will vouch for you before the whole of Alagaësia.”

  “Would you?” His question brought her up short. “Have you told your people how we helped kill Galbatorix?”

  Speaking carefully, she said, “I have made it clear you are not our enemy, but it takes time for word to spread, and people tend to believe what is easiest. Stay in the shadows if you wish, but if, or when, you are comfortable stepping into the light, you may, and no one—least of all I—will stop you. The choice is yours. Likewise, if you wish to leave, leave. But for now, stay.”

  A moment’s pause, and then, in a softer voice still, she added, “I do not ask for reasons of state alone.”

  The words were formal, but he recognized their intent, and his heart raced beneath her hand. He placed his own hand atop hers. “I will not swear fealty to Du Vrangr Gata.”

  “I know.”

  “Nor to the crown. Not yours, not anyone’s.”

  She stepped closer. “That too I know.”

  He shook his head but did not push her away. “You ask me to trust you, but how can you trust me after what I did to you?” He made no attempt to hide his anguish.

  She tipped her head back. Her eyes gleamed with tears. “Because I can. I do.”

  He pressed his lips together, every muscle in his body tense, as if to flee. A slight tremor ran through him, and he felt a similar quiver through the back of Nasuada’s hand.

  They stared into each other’s eyes, not speaking. A new understanding came to Murtagh then, unfolding within him layers of revelation.

  He looked at Thorn, and in response to his questioning thought, the dragon hummed. Yes.

  Trepidation gave Murtagh pause. He feared to speak, to step into the unknown. But it was necessary, so he put aside his concerns, though he felt raw and defenseless, vulnerable to the slightest scratch.

  “What is it, Murtagh?” she asked in a gentle tone.

  He nearly laughed, his pain was so great. “Murtagh. Son of Morzan. So the world knows me and curses me because of it.”

  “That is because they do not know you as I do.”

  “And yet it is who I am. That is who you want to st—”

  Her fingers tightened against his chest. “It is not all you are.”

  “No.” He took a shuddering breath. “No, you are right.”

  She nodded. “It is a good name. Murtagh. I like it.”

  Words failed him. For a timeless while, they stood as such, neither willing to part, and nothing else existed but the two of them. Then Thorn huffed, and Murtagh blinked. There was wetness at the corners of his eyes.

  Nasuada lowered her hand. He felt the lack of her touch with almost physical force, a cold absence that sent a pang to his heart.

  She turned and went to the window and looked out over the rooftops of Ilirea. Her neck and back were very straight, but the slightest waver colored her voice.

  “How will you decide, then?”

  Murtagh joined her. They stood looking out, side by side.

  The city was nearly lost in shadow. The high outer walls blocked the evening light that straked westward, and candles and lanterns sparkled among the dusky streets, where bands of barefoot children played with dogs. Far beyond Ilirea’s outer bounds, the red-rimmed sun sat low upon the flat edge of the plains, and the land seemed strangely desolate, an uncomfortable reminder of his visions in Nal Gorgoth.

  He had a premonition then of the danger gathering against them. Difficult times lay ahead. Of that much, he was certain. Yet, despite the prospect, he felt a sense of rebirth, there in the rebuilt ruins of his past. And a sense of comfort too, for those he cared about were close, and that was a new, and welcome, thing.

  …

  “I will stay.”

  Addendum

  Names & Languages

  ON THE ORIGIN OF NAMES

  To the casual observer, the various names an intrepid traveler will encounter throughout Alagaësia might seem but a random collection with no inherent integrity, culture, or history. However, as with any land that different groups—and in this case, different species—have repeatedly colonized, Alagaësia acquired names from a wide array of unique sources, among them the languages of the dwarves, elves, humans, and even Urgals. Thus, we can have Palancar Valley (a human name), the Anora River and Ristvak’baen (elven names), and Utgard Mountain (a dwarven name) all within a few square miles of each other.