Nights he dreamt, and neither he nor Thorn spoke of what they saw in the small hours.

  Throughout, Du Weldenvarden remained a seemingly endless sea of trees to their left. The forest’s dark depths filled Murtagh with foreboding; he disliked the idea of losing himself among the trackless ranks of pines. Still, he wondered what it would be like to walk the ancient forest. He and Thorn had never had an opportunity to visit the ancestral home of the first Riders.

  The thought reminded him of Vroengard Island, and he shivered. That had been one place he and Thorn had been glad to leave. The whole island had felt wrong, tainted by the deaths of dragons, poisoned by the magics loosed in the Riders’ fall.

  Sometimes it felt to Murtagh as if the whole of Alagaësia were a graveyard, laden with history’s sorrows.

  During the third evening, Thorn was in a playful mood, so they sparred together, or as well as a man and dragon could. Murtagh ran and darted and jumped around Thorn, trying to touch him with the tip of Zar’roc (dulled for the moment with magic). And Thorn in turn did his best to keep Murtagh at bay and to catch him and pin him to the ground.

  It was great fun, even if Murtagh ended up bruised and cut. He left a few bruises of his own, but Thorn didn’t mind; the dragon’s eyes sparkled with fierce enjoyment every time Murtagh landed a hit or made him dodge.

  Afterward, Murtagh lay against Thorn’s heaving belly as they both caught their breath. “You were as slow as a turtle,” he said in a playful tone.

  Thorn nudged his bruised arm. And you were as obvious as an ox.

  Murtagh smirked. “Maybe, but I still managed to mark you.”

  A small, good-humored growl was his answer.

  * * *

  On the morning of the fourth day, a sheet of silver appeared stretched along the southern horizon. “Isenstar!” said Murtagh, and Thorn banked into a gentle turn.

  The lake was one of the largest in Alagaësia. Under normal circumstances, they would have stuck to the shore, keeping land beneath them in case they needed to alight. However, there were sure to be folk along the water’s edge, and the spell Murtagh used to hide Thorn from prying eyes did nothing to conceal the sound of his wings or the feel of their minds. So Thorn struck out straight over the rippling expanse.

  There were herons at Isenstar, and gulls and terns, flown inland to feast on the lake fish. A V-formation of herons joined Thorn in the sky; the birds showed no fear of the larger, slower dragon.

  Murtagh amused himself by shouting at the herons, and they responded with an appalling barking scream that made him think of a donkey crossed with a pig.

  All day Thorn flew, maintaining a steady pace with slow, powerful flaps. At noontime the reflected light from below was so bright, Murtagh had to avert his eyes to keep from being blinded. Later, the water acquired a startling clarity; even from far above, he could see great fishes and swaths of swaying weeds.

  There were boats too, fishermen competing with the birds for the bounty of the lake. Also trappers and merchants transporting goods north or south between Gil’ead and Ceunon.

  But what caught Murtagh’s attention the most was a slim, two-person rowboat that had a white hull and an unmistakably elegant shape. “Elves,” he said, and pointed with his mind.

  Thorn swerved west, away from the rowboat.

  “Guard your thoughts,” said Murtagh. “If they haven’t noticed us, we might sneak by.”

  Thorn hummed in response.

  The rowboat shrank behind them more slowly than Murtagh would have liked. He watched until it was a tiny, undistinguished speck, and only then did he relax.

  Of all the races, elves were the most skilled with magic and mental communication. If the elves had decided to reach out with their thoughts and test the sky, well…Murtagh allowed himself a wry smile. The day would have become unpleasantly interesting.

  He scratched around the spikes on Thorn’s neck. “Well done.”

  Sharp eyes, was all the dragon said in return.

  The sky had darkened to purple, and a scrim of golden clouds hung above the lake when Gil’ead entered into view, past the shoreline ahead of them.

  The city was much as Murtagh remembered. Low and rough, with log-walled structures and—near the center—a sprawling fortress. It was there Lord Relgin, the city’s current governor, would reside, and there Murtagh suspected he would find Ilenna, currying favor and gathering secrets. Assuming, that was, her family hadn’t been exiled from favor for their association with the Empire. But Murtagh doubted it. Her father’s shipping concern was too useful for whoever held power, whether that was Galbatorix, Nasuada, or Lord Relgin.

  Murtagh was glad to have arrived, but the sight of Gil’ead brought him little pleasure. The last time he and Thorn had been at the city, they had been fighting at Galbatorix’s behest, in a desperate and failed attempt to defend the place from the elves. It had been a bloody, miserable battle. And the time before that had been little better: an ambush and then him having to sneak into the fortress to rescue Eragon from the clutches of the Shade Durza.

  He looked for it and saw: the roof above the fortress banquet hall, rebuilt and newly shingled. The people of Gil’ead had been busy since the end of the war.

  In his mind, Murtagh heard the mighty crack that had sounded when Saphira ripped off the banquet hall’s original roof during their escape. He made a face. That had been a dire night. Nor had it been the first such night in Gil’ead for his family.

  We’ve had an unhappy history here, he thought. Best not to add to the tally.

  Then don’t get into any more fights, said Thorn.

  You know I can’t promise that.

  Murtagh turned his gaze westward. In that direction, tucked somewhere among the hills surrounding Gil’ead, was the hollow where he’d hidden with Saphira while they plotted to rescue Eragon….

  “That way,” he said, pointing.

  The horizon tilted as Thorn angled westward, and Murtagh returned to studying the layout of the city while he considered how best to approach Ilenna.

  Gil’ead

  CHAPTER I

  Hostile Territory

  Thorn’s wings knocked loose a flurry of leaves as he descended amid willows and poplars into the secluded hollow. The clearing was barely big enough for him, and Murtagh could already feel his discomfort.

  As the leaves settled, Thorn glanced around at the confined space. He growled, and a brace of ravens sprang cawing from within the poplars.

  “It’s all right,” said Murtagh in a soothing tone. “We have to hide, and this is a good place for it. If anything happens, you can take off.”

  Thorn rolled his eyes but held his position.

  After unstrapping his legs, Murtagh slid to the ground. It felt strange to be back in the hollow, as if it were a place from a half-remembered dream.

  He shook himself and searched the area with his mind. To his relief, the only living creatures he felt were mice and rabbits, two weasels, and a small herd of deer grazing on a nearby hill.

  Satisfied, he said, “It’s safe.”

  The day was already near an end, so they made camp and soon enough were fast asleep.

  * * *

  Does Lord Relgin know you well enough to recognize you?

  Murtagh looked up from his bowl. A fire was too risky so close to Gil’ead, which meant breakfast of cold porridge and jerky.

  Thorn was watching from the center of the clearing. He refused to crawl under the edge of the canopy, where Murtagh had placed his bedroll.

  “He knows of me, but I don’t think we’ve met. In any case, I shouldn’t cross paths with him.”

  And if you do?

  “I’ll lie, and if lies aren’t enough, I’ll run.”

  Thorn blinked.

  A sparrow darted past over the clearing, chasing morning insects.

  Murtagh scooped the last of the porridge into his mouth. “Either way, I’ll be back by sundown. If not—” The soft soil squished between Thorn’s claws as he kneaded the ground. “If not,” Murtagh repeated with gentle emphasis, “I’ll let you know.”

  Will you take Zar’roc with you this time?

  Murtagh looked at the sword propped against the log he was sitting on. He wanted to. Entering Gil’ead unarmed wasn’t an appealing prospect. “It’ll attract too much attention. I’ll bring my dagger instead.”

  Thorn uttered a hiss of disapproval. Always this problem. You should get another sword, one that you can carry wherever you go.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” said Murtagh, wiping his mouth. “I’d have to enchant it, though, so it didn’t break.”

  Then do so, insisted Thorn.

  Murtagh eyed him. “All right. Gil’ead has a large weapons market. Or it did. I’ll see what I can find there.”

  Good. Thorn dug his claws deeper into the ground.

  “But in the meantime…” Murtagh hopped to his feet and walked among the trees until he found a poplar sapling—as thick as his wrist—that had died from lack of light, shadowed by the branches of the full-grown trees. He pried the sapling loose from the loam and carried it back to camp.

  There, he stripped it of bark and cut it so it was a head taller than himself. “Done,” he said, hefting the staff. “Not the best wood, but it’ll do for now.”

  You can fight with this? Thorn asked.

  “Better, I can walk with it,” said Murtagh, and he leaned on the staff as if he had a bad knee. “If anyone looks, they’ll see my leg, not my face.”

  Thorn sniffed the staff. Dull stick-claw is improvement on no dull stick-claw, I suppose. Still, try not to kick up a hive of hornets as you did at Ceunon.

  “That wasn’t on purpose.”

  It never is. Perhaps Ilenna can keep you from getting into trouble, hmm?

  Murtagh raised an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted her to catch me.”

  Thorn’s mouth spread in an approximation of a smile. Maybe you should let her. It might ease the fire in your belly.

  Murtagh snorted. “You know what that leads to. Children.”

  Hatchlings are not a bad thing.

  He eyed Thorn, serious. “They are if you can’t give them the care they need. I wouldn’t inflict that on any child of mine. I’d sooner die.”

  * * *

  From the hollow, Murtagh trotted east and north until he intercepted the main road leading up to Gil’ead. There were soldiers marching along the way, and farmers driving wagons and livestock, and shuttered carriages, and a merchant caravan laden with southern goods.

  Murtagh slipped onto the road and fell in behind the caravan, making no attempt to avoid the cloud of dust kicked up by the line of mules. He pulled his hood over his face, lowered his head, and adopted a limping step.

  As he walked, he practiced his lies. Yes, he was Tornac son of Tereth, come from Ilirea to purchase swords and spears and shields for his master’s men. His master? One Burdock Marrisson, who had served honorably as captain in Nasuada’s army and been awarded a minor title as reward. No, he didn’t have any letters of recommendation. Why should he? Yes, he had a letter of credit to make his purchases. His horse? Stabled at the Cattail Inn, south of Gil’ead.

  And so forth and so on. The story wouldn’t stand close inspection, but Murtagh hoped it would be enough to avoid trouble if trouble came looking.

  In the fields alongside the road, he saw traces of the battle for Gil’ead, ghosts of past bloodshed. There along a hedgerow was where the Empire’s cavalry had massed, and even now a circle of ground was bare where horses had trampled the dirt until it was hard as fired brick. Half a ruined wagon lay rotting along the lip of a nearby ditch, the wood burnt black by spellfire. Farther to the east was where the elves had broken through the army’s defensive lines and begun to drive them away from Gil’ead.

  Murtagh forced himself to stop looking, but he couldn’t stop remembering. It must have been terrifying, he thought. To be stuck on foot, with dragons fighting overhead, and ranks of elves descending upon your position…He could hardly imagine a worse situation.

  As he drew closer to Gil’ead, he noticed an odd thing. Half a mile ahead of him, there was a narrow side path that ran west some distance to a large oak tree on a hilly crest. At least a third of the travelers turned aside from the road and walked to the oak, which they looked at for a long time before doing an about-face and returning to the road.

  Murtagh couldn’t make sense of it. There were no stands beside the oak. No merchants or tinkers plying their trade. It was just…a tree.

  He stopped next to the road and waited until an oxen-pulled wagon came up alongside him. The man holding the reins was rawboned, sun-darkened, and had a stalk of green grass hanging from the corner of his mouth. Next to him sat a pair of boys who couldn’t have been older than ten or twelve.

  “Pardon me, neighbor,” said Murtagh, putting on a northern accent. “What might be happening over at that there tree?”

  The farmer glanced at him sideways and twitched the stalk between his lips. “Tha’s where the dragon’s buried.”

  A knot formed in Murtagh’s stomach. “A dragon?”

  “Ayuh. An’ an elf too, if’n you believe it.” The two boys peered curiously around the farmer at Murtagh, and the oxen lowed. “Th’ elves burned th’ dragon’s body, an’ grew that tree over th’ ashes.”

  Then the wagon rolled past, leaving Murtagh standing alone.

  With heavy steps, he resumed walking. He didn’t look at the tree again, and he tried not to think about it. But when he reached the intersection, where the path diverged from the road, he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

  He could still see Glaedr’s battered body falling from on high, a burning meteor plummeting toward the bloody mire that footed the world, wings fluttering like wind-torn flags.

  Thorn’s mind touched his, and the dragon said, Their fate was not our fault.

  Murtagh tensed as he recalled the feeling of Galbatorix entering and seizing control of his mind. The king had used him to kill Oromis, and Thorn to kill Glaedr, although Glaedr still lived on in his Eldunarí. No, but Galbatorix wouldn’t have succeeded without us. Not then. Not there.

  A sense of reluctant agreement came from Thorn. I would have liked to have known Glaedr as a friend, not a foe.

  And I Oromis. It’s possible we might still have a chance with Glaedr, if ever he allows it.

  The memories of dragons run as long and deep as the roots of the mountains. He will not forgive us for killing his Rider.

  I suppose not. Murtagh sighed. He couldn’t help but resent Eragon and Saphira for having the chance to study under Oromis and Glaedr. If only we’d had the same opportunities, what could we have become? A useless line of thought, and he knew it, but the sentiment weighed on him all the same.

  We have become strong, said Thorn. No one has survived what we have.

  Which was true. But despite what Murtagh had told Essie, he believed that some wounds, some scars, were too great to overcome and did nothing to make a person stronger. Quite the opposite. A truly severe injury only left you weakened, imperfect, and there was no fixing most of it.

  He kept the feeling to himself. He didn’t want Thorn to ever believe that he viewed the dragon as irrevocably damaged. If anything, Murtagh thought the dragon had a better chance of becoming whole than he did. By the standards of both humans and dragons, Thorn was hardly more than a hatchling, despite how Galbatorix had accelerated his physical growth. He was young, and like magic, youth meant potential. But it would take time for Thorn to heal. Years and years, if not the entire span of their existence.

  The pattern of our lives is set so early, he thought. If ever he did have children—and the thought filled him with the deepest trepidation—he knew he would do everything within his power to ensure that their first few years were full of love and joy. If nothing else, then, the children would have those first bright memories to sustain them during the darkness. What better gift from a parent?

  Soft as a shadow came words that he felt almost more than heard: “…beautiful boy. What a strong boy. You make me so proud.” His mother’s voice, half remembered, as she’d spoken to him in the hall of Morzan’s castle.

  Murtagh’s steps faltered. He leaned on his staff for real then, and stared at the net of cracks in the bare dirt as he waited for the surge of emotion to pass. Was it grief, anger, longing for what he never had?…He couldn’t tell.

  Setting aside his feelings, he continued forward. It was all he could do.

  * * *

  Gil’ead didn’t have a proper city wall, as did Ceunon and Dras-Leona—in the event of an attack, the commoners were expected to shelter inside the central fortress—but there was still a gatehouse along the main road.

  The guards, Murtagh was relieved to see, were just keeping a general watch and made no effort to inspect those who entered.

  He lowered his head and hurried past, trying to blend in with the caravan he’d followed.

  The city proper was a loud, boisterous place, earthy and muscular. The smell of manure was strong in the air, and people shouted across the streets and from the balconies of their houses. There were minstrels by the squares and tinkers in the streets, and dozens of buildings were being raised across the city, which surprised Murtagh; they’d have to hurry to get the roofs on before winter descended in earnest.

  He saw even more evidence of the war. The buildings along the main thoroughfare were scorched on their beams, and broken-off shafts of embedded arrows stuck out from the walls, like thorns on a rosebush. A rowdy band of dwarves was arguing with a stablemaster near the city entrance as they tried to agree on terms for housing the dwarves’ ponies. Close to the center of Gil’ead, Murtagh saw a pair of elves—one male, one female, both with ink-black hair—standing inside the gate of an ostentatious stone-walled house, talking in the front garden while purple-edged butterflies fluttered about their heads and shoulders.