Murtagh forced his eyes open. “…yes…solution?…” He shook his head, miserable, and lowered himself to the floor. The flagstones were cold, so he dragged the cloak over him. “…need to…think…sleep…”
“Murtagh-man. Murtagh-man! Open your ears, Murtagh-man. You…”
But Murtagh heard no more, and for once he had respite from the livid nightmares of Nal Gorgoth.
When Murtagh woke, at first he did not know who or where he was. He stared at the arched ceiling for a long while before dim, blood-drenched memories of the creekside slaughter spiked his pulse, and guilt again filled him.
He rolled over, intending to sit up, and felt something hard beneath his right hip. He looked, thinking it must be the blackstone charm, but all he saw was the folded corner of his cloak.
He patted it.
Again he felt a hard lump the size of a hazelnut. He frowned.
“What is it, Murtagh-man?” Uvek was squatting in the same position he’d been in when Murtagh fell asleep. It didn’t look as if he’d moved the entire time.
At the question, Murtagh became aware of the throbbing in his left wrist. It felt as if he’d been branded. His shoulder hurt too, and that particular pain brought unwelcome memories.
He shook his head. He was getting distracted. He looked back at the cloak and felt the corner…worked his fingers into the hem…and pulled out a yellow, teardrop-shaped diamond that glittered like a bead of crystallized sunlight in the dim cell.
Uvek sucked in his lower lip and let out a low sound at the sight.
It took Murtagh a moment to remember what the diamond was…and where he’d gotten it…. Wren…the door of stone…Excitement began to form in him, and he held the jewel up to Uvek. “…energy,” he whispered.
The Urgal leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with fire to match the diamond. “Is enough, Murtagh-man?”
He nodded. “…should…be.”
Then Murtagh opened his mind and reached out with his thoughts toward the diamond. He could feel the knotted whirlpool of energy the gem contained: so close, so tantalizing. But no matter how he tried, he just…couldn’t…get a hold of it and funnel it through his body into the blackstone charm.
He groaned with frustration and again threw his mind against the diamond. It felt as if he were trying to grasp liquid ice; it kept slipping through his mental fingers, leaving him fumbling at emptiness.
“…it’s…no use,” he said, sitting back on his heels and shaking his head. “You want to…try?”
Uvek held out his paw of a hand, and Murtagh—trusting the oath they had sworn—passed him the gem.
For several minutes, Uvek sat staring at the diamond, his brow drawn, his breathing slow and heavy. The muscles in his arms tensed as if he were straining against a great weight. Then, finally, he said, “Guh. I cannot touch fire in gem. It keeps slipping away.”
He passed the diamond back to Murtagh, and Murtagh sat against the wall of the cell and stared at the gem. After a moment, he clenched it in his fist, shook his head, and rested his forehead against his arm. “…has to be a way.”
For a time, they sat in silence. The whole while, Murtagh battled against the ever-present haze that clogged his mind. If only he could think clearly…
He frowned. The Breath of Azlagûr was what disrupted his thoughts, but it was the vorgethan that kept him from using magic, although perhaps the effects of both were worse in combination. If he could remove one or the other, he and Thorn—and Uvek—might have a chance.
He sat up and looked at Uvek.
The Urgal raised his heavy brow. “What is it, Murtagh-man? You have idea?”
“…maybe…”
“Is good?”
“…maybe…. wait…”
So they waited. Without windows in the cell, Murtagh couldn’t be sure of the exact time, but he didn’t think he’d slept the whole night through. His body told him it was either very early or very, very late.
He remained on the floor, eyes half closed as he husbanded his strength, knowing that he would need much of it.
Finally…footsteps at the end of the hall.
Alín, come to retrieve the bowl she had brought him earlier. As he had hoped. The white-robed woman gave him only a brief, concerned glance before kneeling and reaching between the bars for the bowl.
“…wait…,” Murtagh said, and moved to touch her wrist. At the last moment, an instinct halted his hand, though he could not have said why.
She paused, arm outstretched, her eyes wide and round, like those of a frightened doe.
“…will you…talk with Bachel…arrange to…bring…bring me all my meals?”
He could see her tremble. “Why, Kingkiller?” she whispered.
“…so you…can…leave out the drug.” He stared her straight in the eyes, as earnest as he could be. “…so…Thorn and I can…escape.”
Her trembling increased, and she shook her head, as if to deny his words, but still she did not pull back her arm. “I—I can’t.”
“…please…help…. Bachel will…wash the world…with…blood…if she can.”
Alín shook her head again, and then she did withdraw, and she fled back up the hallway, robe flying behind her.
With a groan, Murtagh collapsed back against the wall.
“Was good try, Murtagh-man,” said Uvek.
“…not good…enough.”
“Hrmm. We shall see. It takes time to calm wild animal.” The Urgal gave him a knowing look from beneath his beetled brow. “Sometimes better to let animal approach you. Otherwise, you scare.”
“…not…enough…time…”
“Not even gods know what future holds.”
Murtagh glanced at Uvek. The Urgal’s expression was impossible to read, but he seemed untroubled. Murtagh couldn’t decide if Uvek’s attitude was born out of fatalism or faith or some other aspect of his culture or personality, but Murtagh found it impossible to be as calm.
Calm or not, he had no choice but to bide his time and hope. And in the muddled recesses of his mind, the same two words kept repeating:…please…help….
CHAPTER XXI
A Question of Faith
Murtagh was not long waiting before the cultists once again came for him and escorted him to the temple’s inner sanctum, where Bachel held court with her guests.
The day passed much as others had in Nal Gorgoth. Murtagh served his role as silent companion to the witch—an object of derision and not some little fear on the part of the guests—while Bachel went about her business.
Once, he saw Alín among the witch’s retinue, but the flaxen-haired woman avoided his gaze and quickly scurried away.
The Draumar were still preparing for the fast-approaching festival, and all the village was ahum with activity. Dark banners were hung among the patterned buildings, and carved frames placed about the dragon-like sculptures, while food and drink—much of which Murtagh recognized as spoils from the cultists’ blood-soaked raid—were readied in enormous quantities.
Twice Bachel let Murtagh sit with Thorn in the courtyard, which was a comfort for both Rider and dragon. Since communicating with their minds was so difficult, Murtagh had to resort to speech, slow and clumsy and wholly inadequate to his depth of feeling. “…how are…you?” he whispered.
The dragon placed his head alongside Murtagh’s thigh, and he rested his hand on Thorn’s scaled forehead.
As the Draumar moved about the courtyard, Murtagh saw Thorn watching them, and in Thorn’s gaze, he descried a newly found yet deeply set hate. The dragon’s anger emanated from his body like heat from a forge. Once that would have worried Murtagh. Now he welcomed the feeling. He shared the sentiment, and a part of him thought there was a chance that if Thorn’s emotions were strong enough, they might allow him to dispel the witch’s evil influence. With dragons, you never knew just what they were capable of.