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.