Banners hung upon the patterned pillars that lined the temple, and streamers of knotted fabric—similar to those the Urgals made—hung from the eaves of the surrounding buildings.
At the table sat the remaining guests. Lyreth had a chalice in one hand, while his other hand wandered across the back of a village woman seated on his lap.
All the villagers were gathered around the courtyard, packed into the streets as so many pickled bergenhed in casks. They were chanting and moaning and beating drums and ringing bells and striking brass cymbals that jarred the smoke with their brazen crashing. Their clothes were different: a complete change of raiment such as Murtagh had never known commoners to possess. Instead of their usual robes, they wore sleeved jerkins cut and sewn out of dish-sized scales of thick boiled leather dyed dark brown. The effect was between that of a closed pinecone and the belly of a dragon. The scale pattern continued along their arms and trousers, also of leather. On their faces, the Draumar wore molded half masks that resembled Bachel’s, though theirs possessed none of that mask’s transformative power. Even the children were garbed as such, furtive figures amid the forest of legs.
Bachel herself sat upon the hide-strewn throne, her hair raised in an edifice of ragged tufts, her lids and eyes blackened with soot, her lips red as blood, and the hated claws of onyx upon her fingers.
A flock of restless crows roosted on the eaves behind the dais, cawing and cackling in response to the cacophony the villagers produced. They formed a dark crown above Bachel’s head: a shadowed symbol of her supreme authority.
To the left of the witch stood Grieve, and for once the dour man had an almost pleasant expression. The festival seemed to suit him.
But of everything Murtagh saw, it was Thorn he had eyes for most. The dragon was chained next to the dais, wings pinned by cabled ropes, a muzzle of wrought iron locked about his long jaws. Murtagh could feel the dragon’s fetters as if they were tight against his own body, and their touch seemed to burn with icy cold.
Soon, Murtagh said to Thorn, and the word was a promise, an oath, an apology. But it was like pushing his thoughts through a wall of wool. Still, the dragon’s eyelids flickered, as if he understood. Murtagh hoped he did.
The two cultists brought him before Bachel, and she inspected him as one might inspect a prize horse. “You look as though the night treated you badly, Kingkiller.” She gestured with one elegant hand to her right, and he obediently took his place.
His gaze kept drifting back to Thorn. The dragon was still suffering the effects of the drug vorgethan; Alín could not bring him clean food or water without arousing suspicion. Murtagh could feel a low, dull sense of misery emanating from the dragon. Misery. He hated the word….
Once again, Murtagh attempted to access the power in the yellow diamond. Almost. But almost was never enough.
Then Bachel stood and clapped her hands over her head, and after the crowd quieted, she proclaimed, “Let the recitation begin!”
A line formed outside the courtyard, and one by one the cultists presented themselves to Bachel and told her of the visions they’d had that night. The dreams were far more varied than usuaclass="underline" fantastic images and narratives that Murtagh would have hardly credited as true had he not experienced something similar himself. Yet there were commonalities of theme among the visions, promises of bloodshed and vengeance claimed, premonitions of a world razed and rebuilt—a world where every living creature worshipped Azlagûr the Devourer, or else died.
The recitation took hours. Every member of the village came before Bachel and had their say. At the table in front of the throne, Lyreth and the other guests grew restless, and they often stood and left for a time, only to return later and resume eating.
Once Lyreth came to Murtagh and stood before him while gnawing on a leg of lamb. The young nobleman was fever-eyed and disheveled, and his movements had a sharp, birdlike quality, as if he were overly excited. “Did you enjoy those dreams last night, Murtagh? Eh?” And he poked Murtagh in the chest with the end of the leg. The meat left a grease stain on his woolen jerkin. Lyreth took another bite, his eyes wandering across the courtyard. “It was a singular experience. That’s why I wanted to stay, to see if what Bachel said is true. I dreamt of my father and…” A strange smile lifted one corner of his mouth, and he looked back at Murtagh. “Enough of that. How do you like this, Murtagh? Here you are, a faithful servant to the throne again. Even if you sit upon the throne in Urû’baen, yours is ever to be the slave and not the master. You and your dragon both.” He laughed in a most unpleasant way. “How do you like seeing the foundations of the future, Murtagh? These Draumar may be inauspicious material from which to alter the course of history, but from small seeds may tall trees grow.” He poked Murtagh in the chest again and then, with a smirk, returned to his seat.
For his part, Murtagh stood. He stood and he kept trying to force his mind to access the energy in the yellow diamond. Surely the vorgethan couldn’t still be in his body!
The dull disk of the sun arced across the sky. The smoke never lessened, and no breath of wind arose to give them relief. Beneath the stifling blanket of haze, it grew increasingly warm—as if the earth itself were heated—and the whole village seemed to labor beneath an obsessive presence. Murtagh could not shake the feeling he’d had in his dream, of cowering on the blasted plain before the rising abomination, far in the distance….
The ceremonies went on. Endless rites, obscure and meaningless to Murtagh, but clearly of deep value to the cultists. Bachel spoke at times, in the same manner she often did, of the riches and rewards destined to those who followed their faith. The discordant music continued, and between that and the smoke, a pounding headache formed at the base of Murtagh’s skull. His eyeballs throbbed with every beat of a drum or crash of a cymbal.
Then the observances came to an end, and the villagers fell to feasting. That, at least, Murtagh was familiar with. Great servings of food were brought forth from the temple kitchens and from dwellings throughout Nal Gorgoth. Boar meat and venison and mushrooms prepared in a dizzying variety of dishes. Wine too, and mead, and bergenhed, and aspic, and loaves of fresh-baked bread, and more besides. Pies, savory and sweet. Deep dishes of creamy soup, wedges of hard and soft cheeses, berry tarts. All manner of sumptuous food.
Bachel’s servants filled her dented brass goblet with wine, and with his thoughts now clearer, Murtagh recognized the goblet as that which he had found in the tower of Ristvak’baen. His neck stiffened, and he clenched his jaw. The witch continued to pile presumption upon presumption.
Throughout the evening, Murtagh ate when ordered to. He knew it would help keep up his strength, but he had no stomach for food.
He saw Alín on occasion, moving about the courtyard, tending to the guests, helping with the serving, rushing to obey Bachel’s orders. As with the other Draumar, she wore a scaled outfit, and it gave the acolyte a darker, more serious appearance than Murtagh was used to.
The feasting continued for hours. The flock of crows remained for the duration, white eyes fixed on the bounty laid out before them. Bachel appeared to have no interest in feeding the birds, but they did not defy her and take flight. As she ordered, so they obeyed.
Lyreth and his companions consumed cup after cup of wine. They seemed to view the entire festival as a lighthearted affair, no different from the themed parties so common among the nobles of Galbatorix’s court. Murtagh knew better, but he would not have warned them even if he could. Some wisdom, he thought, was best acquired through experience.