Cold fingers slid between his neck and shoulder and rested there. In a low voice that seemed to match the scent of the mushrooms, the witch said, “Can you imagine, Kingkiller, what it was like to be blessed with the full force of Azlagûr’s dreams while still a child? What the power of those visions might do to you? How they might change you?…How lonely you would feel when you could see what others could not? When every moment was a waking dream? Can you imagine?”
He turned to her. The witch’s expression was distant and contemplative, a mood he had not seen in her before. She sipped from her dented goblet. Blood lay splattered in jagged coins across her dress, same as with his hands and jerkin.
“I believe you can, Kingkiller. My mother…she could not. Her dreams drew her away from her people to Nal Gorgoth, but she grew jealous when Azlagûr spoke to me and the Draumar knew I was to be their new Speaker. Their mehtra. Such a blessed thing. Yet my own flesh found it unbearable. Her resentment maddened her, and she turned against me, and in time, I had no choice but to strike her down.”
Another sip. “Do you judge me for it, Kingkiller? No, I think not. You would have killed Morzan had you the chance. You understand my decision, I believe. Something of it, at least. And when the time of black smoke arrives, you will understand better still.”
Her words struck a false note with Murtagh, but he struggled to think why. Would he have killed Morzan?…Yes. But there was more to it than that, and the touch of Bachel’s cold fingers made him want to dash her hand away and flee her presence.
He looked back at the patch of sky cupped between the snowbound peaks.
“I am not the only Speaker, you know, Kingkiller. There have been countless others before me, stretching back to the beginning of time. Nor am I the only one now in the land. Wherever the black smoke rises, there you will find the Draumar.”
That drew his attention back to her. She lifted a dark eyebrow. “Oh yes, Kingkiller. The Draumar have been part of the warp and weft of the world far more than you realize. Nor has it come about by happenstance. Why else do you think a Speaker sat in the Hall of the Soothsayer, whispering visions of what might be into the ears of the elves? Long has the will of Azlagûr shaped the course of events.”
She drained her goblet. “I will tell you this, Kingkiller. There are places deep underground where Azlagûr’s dreams become reality. It is true. Specters acquire substance, and the roots of the mountains seem to move, and it is difficult to know your way. Someday you shall see.”
Soon afterward, Bachel stood and collected herself, and she spoke no more of such things. Then they hoisted their kills onto litters, and the cultists dragged them back to Nal Gorgoth while Murtagh and Bachel rode on Thorn.
It was night, and Murtagh found himself staring into the dark mirror of water that filled the bucket in his cell. He did not recognize the bearded visage that looked back at him from the still surface.
An urge came upon him, and his lips moved as he attempted to speak his true name. The words were familiar upon his tongue, but they no longer rang true, and he felt a hollow despair as he realized he had again become a stranger to himself.
Anger flared, and he dashed the water aside, scattering the reflection in a thousand different directions.
The anger passed. Then he knelt and wet his hands in the water that remained in the bucket, and he washed them over and over. It seemed to him that the boar’s blood still clung to his skin, and so he scrubbed until the skin was red and raw, and yet the blood never seemed to lift free.
He sat kneeling before the bucket, staring at the scratches on his hands, and he wished…He wasn’t sure what he wished, only that it would somehow relieve the burning in his chest.
The dreams that night were worse than before. They seemed more potent and immediate, but also more distorted and disturbing. Slaughtered villages rose before him, and memories of battle brought cold sweat to his brow. A current of deep notes—too discordant to call a melody—ran throughout, and it reminded him of the feel of a dragon’s mind, only vastly larger and more twisted and alien than even the maddest Eldunarí.
Then, amid the cavalcade of bloody images, came a memory. A true memory:
The arming room smelled of rust, oil, leather, and stale sweat. Afternoon light poured like honey through the slit windows and lit the blades of spears stored in racks along the walls. It was a room of many hopes…and many fears.
Tornac tugged on the buckles along the side of Murtagh’s breastplate, checking that they were properly tight. Then he slapped Murtagh on the shoulder. “Good to go. Keep your breathing under control and you’ll have nothing to fear.”
“Nothing?”
“Not from the likes of Goreth. He’s fast enough, but he hasn’t the technique.” Tornac came around to Murtagh’s front and gave him a look-over from top to bottom. “You’ll do.” The words were more comforting than the armor, but even so, Murtagh knew the tough-minded swordsman was putting on a brave face. Goreth was one of the most feared duelists in the king’s court. He’d wounded three men in the past four months, and out of his twenty-seven duels, he’d lost only five.
Tornac read Murtagh’s thoughts easily enough. He always did. “Be of good courage. It’s an exhibition. The king doesn’t want to see you killed any more than he’d like to see a prize horse put down.”
“I know.”
“Remember what I taught you and you’ll acquit yourself with distinction.”
Then Tornac surprised him by giving him a brief embrace. It was the first time the swordsman had shown such emotion—but then, it was the first time Murtagh was to fight a duel.
They parted, and Murtagh let out a shaky laugh.
The brightness of the sandy arena caused him to pause and squint as his eyes adjusted. It was a brisk autumn day, but expectations of combat had raised his pulse, and he already felt overly heated in his armor.
The stands were packed with nobles, there to witness the spectacle of Morzan’s only-born son in an ostensibly friendly contest of arms against Goreth of Teirm, he of the silver sword. The duel had been Galbatorix’s idea. He had chanced to pass the sparring yards while Murtagh took his daily instruction with Tornac, and upon seeing them, the king had proposed that a more formal test of Murtagh’s skills might be appropriate. And as always, what the king desired was soon made manifest.
Murtagh saw many a familiar face in the stands, but no friendly ones. He knew Tornac was watching from the arming room, though, and the knowledge both gave him courage and made him all the more determined not to disappoint his mentor. That, and he would sooner die than embarrass himself before the current crowd. The slightest hint of weakness would earn him a lifetime of derision at court, and his position was already difficult enough.
Goreth entered through the gateway opposite him. The man was tall and clean-limbed, with the sinuous grace of a practiced warrior. Despite Tornac’s assurances, there was no doubt that Goreth was a formidable fighter, and Murtagh knew he would be pressed to the limit of his abilities.
They saluted the king, who was a shadowed shape upon his throne beneath a velvet canopy. Then the heralds made their declarations, and the arena marshal read the rules of combat: No biting. No kicking while a man was upon the ground. No gouging of eyes. No striking of unmanly blows (by which was meant no striking below one’s belt).