But Thorn made no unexpected use of magic. The two of them sat there by the side of the courtyard, often glanced at but generally ignored, and Murtagh stared at the scraps of blue sky overhead and wished…wished he and Thorn were far from Nal Gorgoth.
That night, the cultists had barely deposited him in the cell and then departed when Alín came creeping down the hall. Her face was terribly red, the skin under her eyes was swollen, and her hair hung in a tangled mess.
She stood for a time, staring at Murtagh. Remembering Uvek’s advice, he returned her gaze with an open expression and waited for her to speak.
Alín hugged herself. Then she said, “You don’t understand…. How could you? But you don’t. You can’t.” Her countenance grew pleading. “I believed in Bachel. I believe. She is no false prophet. She speaks with the authority of Azlagûr, and how can any question Azlagûr when we live with His dreams? We all share in the dream of Nal Gorgoth and the vision of what may come. And when that vision becomes manifest…” She shivered violently. “The world will be remade according to Azlagûr’s will.” She rubbed her arms as if cold. “Always I wondered at what lay beyond this valley. Always Bachel has told us of the evils that inhabit Alagaësia, of the war and injustices.” She shook her head. “But you are not evil, Kingkiller. Nor is Thorn. And the way in which Bachel has treated Thorn…It goes against everything I know. Every tenet I believe. Everything she has preached to us over the years!”
She turned and paced between the cells, distraught. Still, Murtagh held his tongue. With a wild look, she spun back to him, her small teeth bared like those of a cornered animal. “Dragons are the lifeblood of the land, Kingkiller! They are the source of all that is good, the font of life and magic and…and…They are to be worshipped. Revered. Honored. Served. And yet Bachel says this mistreatment of Thorn is necessary. Needed. According to Azlagûr’s will! I…I—” She broke off and shivered again as if with fever.
Murtagh rose on unsteady legs and went to the door of his cell. Soft and slow, he said, “What…do…you…want?”
A film of tears silvered Alín’s eyes. “I want to help Thorn. And— No, it is too selfish of me.”
“…what?”
“I want to see the truth of the world before Azlagûr washes it clean.”
“Then…help us.”
“It is not that simple, Kingkiller. Bachel is the Speaker. She is our mehtra! I have sworn oaths to her and to Azlagûr. I cannot break them, and if I did, oh! If I did, my soul would be forever forsaken.” Her skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, and he could smell the sour stench of her fear. “You ask me to cast away my life and condemn my eternal future for this.”
“…for what is right.” The words struck home. He could see it in the misery of her expression. He struggled to order his thoughts. “…oaths bind, but you…can change…free yourself…. I…know. I did.”
Alín looked at him with anguish. “How?”
He did not want to say, but he had no other resort but the deepest reservoir of truth. “…for the sake…of another.”
Alín’s eyes widened, and he felt as if she were seeing his innermost self. Then her shoulders caved in, and she shook her head and uttered a soft sob. “I can’t. I haven’t the strength.”
The floor seemed to tilt underneath him and the cell spin. He staggered and grasped the iron bars for support. He took a steadying breath, trying to maintain a semblance of clarity. “…family?”
Alín shook her head. “No. I was found as a child. As many Draumar are.”
Blood on the ground. Orthroc fallen in mangled heaps. Bodies large and small. A chill gripped Murtagh. He could guess how the children had come to Nal Gorgoth. Orphans. Innocents.
Sorrow overcame him, and he reached toward Alín’s cheek, wanting only to comfort her.
She flinched but did not retreat.
Her skin was feverishly hot against his palm. She let out a small cry as he touched her, and he felt a tremor pass through her, but still she did not pull away. Somehow he knew that was significant. A line had been crossed that could never be uncrossed.
Tears rolled down her face. In a whisper, she said, “I want…I want a better dream, one of cheer and hope and love.”
“…then help us.”
She stared at him with a hope as desperate as his own, and he sensed no guile in her heart. “If you leave, will you take me with you, Kingkiller?”
“…yes…I swear it.”
A moment, and then she withdrew from his hand and rubbed her arms again. Her lips parted, as if she meant to speak, but instead, she hurried away before he could do anything to keep her.
He turned a helpless gaze to Uvek, who was watching as always. “…did I scare…her?”
The Urgal grunted and scratched at his neck. “Hrmm. Maybe yes, but—”
More footsteps sounded, and Alín reappeared carrying a bowl and pitcher. She avoided Murtagh’s eyes as she knelt and placed the dishes just outside his cell. Then she bobbed a quick curtsy, as she might have to Bachel, and rushed off again.
“Is always rushing, that one,” said Uvek.
Murtagh didn’t answer as he pulled the dishes into his cell. He cautiously tasted the watered wine in the pitcher and then the bread and soup in the bowl. None of them burned like brandy as he swallowed.
He looked to Uvek and nodded.
The Urgal grew very still, as if readying himself for action. “How long, you think, Murtagh-man?”
“I don’t…know. A day?…maybe more…depends…how much…gave me.”
“The black smoke time is only day or two away. I think it bad if we still here when it happens.”
“…that soon?” He hadn’t realized the festival was so close.
“Hrmm. Heal faster, Murtagh-man.”
Every meal thereafter, Alín brought Murtagh food free of vorgethan. He had hoped that his body might purge the drug within a few hours, but to his aggravation and disappointment, the process was far slower.
Other cultists continued to feed Uvek, and the Urgal remained under the effects of the vorgethan. Murtagh asked Alín if she could help Uvek as well, but she shook her head and explained that a man by the name of Isvar prepared Uvek’s food, and that Isvar had been specially appointed by Bachel and would not surrender the honor.
So they waited, and every few minutes that Murtagh was awake, he tried to access the energy in the yellow diamond, that he might transfer it into the blackstone charm. At some point, he had to succeed. The question was whether that would happen before the time of the black smoke.
He was growing increasingly concerned about the festival. From certain fragments he overheard, it seemed to him that Bachel was planning something particularly dramatic, and he worried that her plan would involve him and Thorn.
Even though Murtagh was no longer receiving the vorgethan, his mind felt as clouded as ever. The witch continued to use the Breath on him whenever they met, and the stench of the swirling miasma never seemed to leave his nostrils.
The following morning, Murtagh noticed that a goodly portion of Bachel’s guests were departing. They gathered in the courtyard on their fine horses, carrying their colorful pennants, and they saluted Bachel. The man Murtagh felt he ought to recognize said, “Fare thee well, Bachel. We shall send you tidings of our plans ere long.”