The witch picked at the rim of her dented goblet. “ ’Twere best if you stayed for the time of the black smoke.”
The grim-faced man inclined his head. “We’ll leave such things to you and your followers.” He looked at Murtagh with an expression of mild disgust. “And to whatever you have made of him.”
“Ah, but I and my companions shall stay and keep you company, most honorable Bachel,” said Lyreth. He stood at one corner of the courtyard along with four other men. They all had ruddy cheeks, as if from drink.
Bachel did not seem impressed. To the first man, she smiled and gestured, as if giving permission. “Go, then, and safe sailing upon your journey. Let the culmination of our plans arrive most swiftly.”
“My Lady.”
And with that, the group trotted out of Nal Gorgoth, heading for the Bay of Fundor and the ship Murtagh knew was docked thereat.
With every hour that passed, Murtagh felt as if his body were becoming lighter, more responsive. Unfortunately, his mind failed to follow suit. Every thought took work, and it was difficult to hold on to one for any length of time. And yet he could tell that the drug vorgethan was slowly working its way out of his limbs.
But not fast enough for his liking. The villagers were growing more excited by the prospect of their festival; even the heavy-browed Grieve seemed enlivened.
Bachel dismissed Murtagh early that day, as she was preoccupied with preparations for the festival. He didn’t mind. The less he saw of the witch, the better.
Once back in his cell, he did not sit or lie down. Despite his sluggish mind, he forced himself to stand and pace. Movement, as Tornac had told him, always cleared the blood. So he moved, with the hope of speeding the passage of the vorgethan from his veins.
Uvek watched with impassive patience. Only once did he ask if Murtagh had succeeded with the diamond. Aside from that, the Urgal seemed content to wait. Seeing him squatting in his cell, the flickering light casting deep shadows from Uvek’s horns, Murtagh could imagine the Urgal situated in a high mountain cave, as still and silent as a statue, an oracle waiting for the faithful to flock to his feet.
And still, Murtagh paced.
He was getting close to being able to access the energy in the diamond. He could feel it: a delicate tickle, like an itch high in his nose. If only…
A noise at the head of the hallway. Alín, bringing him his evening meal. Bread, a soup of boar meat, and watered wine.
Before she left, he said, “…wait…can you bring me…my sword, Zar’roc?”
She shook her head, hair hiding her face. “I can’t,” she whispered.
“…where?”
“Bachel keeps your sword and armor in the temple, in her presence chamber.”
That made sense. He nodded slowly. “I’m nearly…free. Can you…help ready Thorn?…water…food…saddle…shackles?”
She hesitated. The hair still covered her face, and she made no move to brush it aside. Soft as a falling petal, she said, “I will try, Kingkiller.”
“…thank…you…. We could use…supplies of…our…own…as well.”
Again a pause, and then she turned away and departed.
Murtagh remained where he was, watching.
“She still uncertain, Murtagh-man.” It was the first thing the Urgal had said in hours.
Murtagh grunted as he lowered himself onto the stones. “She’ll do…what’s right.”
Uvek’s head swung from side to side. “Depends on what she thinks is right.”
“…always…does.” Murtagh looked over at the Urgal. He felt inexpressibly tired. Worry, guilt, and the constant fight to think had consumed his limited strength. Just for a moment, he wanted to forget Bachel and everything about Nal Gorgoth. “…tell me a…story, Uvek.”
The Urgal’s heavy forehead wrinkled as he lifted his brow. “What sort of story?”
“…of your people.”
“Hrmm. I have many peoples. My family. My clan that I left. My fellow Urgralgra.”
Murtagh waved a hand. He was too tired to bother with details. “…you…pick.”
For a minute more, Uvek was silent, ruminating. Then his brow cleared. “I know. I will tell you of son of Svarvok, Ahno the Trickster. This was in time of red clover, when rivers tasted of iron. Ahno had changed himself into deer, and Svarvok sent wolves to chase him, nip at his heels, but Ahno laughed at father and changed himself into wolf instead. Seven winters Ahno ran with wolves, lived as wolf, ate as wolf. Was part of pack. Led pack. You hear, Murtagh-man?”
“…I hear.”
“Good. Hrr. Problem was, wolves did not choose Ahno. Did not want him. But could not drive him from the pack. Ahno was too strong, even in shape of wolf. But—” Uvek’s eyes gleamed with sly delight, and the tips of his fangs showed between his lips. “Wolves are cunning. A black-skin she-wolf known as Sharptooth went one night to gathering of wolves beneath full moon. Was bright as day with light from moon on snow. Wolves howl and growl and Sharptooth convinces pack to help her. Next day, Ahno’s pack goes hunt red deer. They run deep in forest, where shadows and big antlers live. Then Sharptooth came to Ahno and lured him away from pack.” Uvek’s expression grew rather goatish. “He liked her shape, her fur, and her teeth. You understand, Murtagh-man?”
“…understand.”
“Hrr-hrr. Sharptooth ran and ran, and Ahno followed, until they arrive at cliff. All packs wait there, hidden in bush. On cliff, Sharptooth let Ahno approach. Then she bite Ahno, and other packs come and snap and growl and run at Ahno, and they drive him”—Uvek made a diving swoop with his hand—“over edge of cliff. Fall not kill him, Murtagh-man. Wolves know this. Ahno son of Svarvok very hard to kill. At bottom of cliff was cave, and in cave lived ûhldmaq. You know?”
Murtagh shook his head. “…no.”
“Is Urgralgra who became bear. Very dangerous. Is told of in the stories of before times. This ûhldmaq was named Zhargog, and he was very old, very hungry. He came at wounded Ahno and fought with him, and ground shook and rocks fell, and at last, Ahno had to give up wolf form and return to being Horned. Then he fled, and Svarvok spoke to him, say, ‘Ho! now, Ahno! You have given up your teeth and paws and fur. What have you learned from this, my son?’ And Ahno laugh despite hurts and say, ‘It not good to run with pack that does not want me. I will find pack that does want.’ Then he change into eagle and fly away. And how Svarvok dealt with son then is another story entirely. Hrmm.”
Murtagh returned his gaze to the ceiling. “…are there…many…stories of Ahno?”
“Oh yes, Murtagh-man. Entire winter’s worth. Ahno was very clever, got into much trouble. In end, gods put him on mountaintop, tie him to stone so they not have to listen to his constant talk.”
“Did he ever…find his pack?”
“For a time, Murtagh-man. For a time.”
That night, the dreams that came to Murtagh exceeded all bounds of normal constraint. They possessed such vivid, horrific immediacy that reality itself seemed to have broken into blazing fragments: each an image that contained an epic’s worth of meaning—meaning that was understood perfectly and utterly and without words.
He careened through hallucinations of the highest order, where the air seemed to twist and bend, and every emotion, every fear and hope and joy, was given its shining instant beneath the black-sun sky.