As the orange smoke-darkened disk of the sun approached the peaks of the western mountains—which were visible only as dusky silhouettes beneath the sinking orb—the villagers cleared the food from the courtyard and lit the braziers.
Then Bachel did say, “Bring in the offerings!”
A parade of gifts followed. Wooden carvings, small and large, plain and painted, simple and complicated. It seemed as if the villagers had spent the entire year chiseling away at a piece of hardwood in their spare time. The sculptures would have horrified most any artist in Alagaësia, no matter their race, for they were the shape of dreams: distorted, angular, structured according to flawed, uncomfortable logic. In them, Murtagh recognized fragments of his own brimstone-born nightmares.
Each sculpture, Bachel accepted with grace and thanks. She made no distinction in quality; simply creating a piece seemed sufficient to satisfy the traditions of the Draumar.
When the last villager had presented the last carving, Bachel’s warriors gathered the sculptures into a pile behind the basalt altar set before the ruined fountain.
Bachel stood and cried out, “For another sevenmonth, Azlagûr has gifted us with His dreams of prophecy. Now, during the time of black smoke, we repay His generosity with these gifts. With these sculptures born of dream. Azlagûr is well pleased with your efforts, O Draumar! You have proved your devotion, and we make now this burnt offering that Azlagûr may continue to look upon us with favor. In return, we serve Azlagûr with our lives, and may destruction strike us and all we care for if we break this sacred covenant.”
She lifted her pale arm and pointed at the mound of carvings. She spoke no word, but her body grew tense as a bowstring drawn taut, and then the tension released, and a bolt of liquid fire leaped from her hand and flew to the sculptures.
Yellow flames engulfed the carvings. In an instant, a year’s worth of work was lost to fire, charred and seared and soon to be reduced to ashes. But the villagers were not dismayed. To the contrary, they cheered the eruption, and Bachel seemed gratified by the display.
Then once again she clapped her hands. “Bring forth the initiates!”
Murtagh expected to see a line of younger villagers, ready to assume the responsibilities of their elders. Instead, Bachel’s warriors ushered into the courtyard the same sorry-looking prisoners they’d herded into Nal Gorgoth before…before the Breath of Azlagûr had fogged his brain and sapped his will.
Among the prisoners was Uvek. The Urgal’s wrists and ankles were shackled, his lips pulled back to show his fangs. The sight sent a spike of alarm through Murtagh. As far as he knew, the cultists hadn’t taken Uvek from his cell in all the time since Murtagh and Thorn had arrived at the village. That they had done so now presaged nothing good.
The prisoners were herded into a block before the dais. The mound of burning statues backlit them in a writhing thicket of flame and sent their famished shadows stretching off to the north.
Bachel looked the prisoners over with exaggerated care. Then she took a small crystal vial from within the sleeve of her dress, descended from the dais, unstoppered the vial, and blew the swirling contents into the faces of the flinching prisoners. The vapor clung to their heads, and Murtagh saw it pour into their mouths and noses as they inevitably inhaled.
He instinctively held his own breath, hoping that no scrap of vapor would be blown his way.
With a satisfied look, Bachel returned to the throne. Lifting her husky voice, she said, “Dream now, unbelievers, as do all who live here in Nal Gorgoth. Those of you who are prepared to swear loyalty to Azlagûr the Devourer, and who are prepared to join us as faithful members of the Draumar…step forward now.”
The prisoners shuffled and shifted and looked at each other with dazed expressions. Then a full three-quarters moved forward in a single staggered group. Uvek was not one of them. He remained standing at the back, teeth bared, arms pressed outward against his shackles, his fingers locked in claws.
The corners of Bachel’s lips curved. “Excellent. I applaud your wisdom. You shall be inducted into the mysteries of our order, and the veil of common life shall be torn from your eyes by the truth we share. Come. Swear to me and to Azlagûr.”
One by one, the prisoners who had stepped forward knelt before Bachel and swore their fealty. Though they did not use the ancient language, the stifling sense of presence increased, and the hairs on Murtagh’s arms and neck stood on end, and he felt a thrum in the air, as of a great power passing through Bachel into her new followers.
An eerie light brightened the eyes of the men and women as they finished their oaths. With each, Grieve removed their shackles, and they went to stand with the rest of the assembled cultists, an expression of wonderment and—Murtagh thought—fear upon their faces.
“What of these recalcitrant stragglers?” Lyreth asked, his voice ringing out over the courtyard. He gestured toward Uvek and the other prisoners who had refused to budge.
“A sacrifice to Azlagûr,” said Bachel. “In which you are included as well, Uvek Windtalker! Your time is at an end, and I shall no longer waste my energies upon you. Not now that I have a Rider to do my bidding.”
She rose and put a hand on Murtagh’s shoulder and tightened her grip. Even through his clothes, the tips of her sharpened onyx claws hurt. “Come, Kingkiller. Join me in presenting this sacred offering to Azlagûr. Today we shall appease our dread master, you and I together. You shall watch me wield the dagger I had of Saerlith, and then you shall wield it in turn, and the blood will flow and flow and the earth will turn black with it even as it shall when Azlagûr rises from His repose and wreaks His vengeance upon the land.” Her eyes were burning with excitement. “Come. Now.”
Murtagh’s heart began to hammer as the witch took his hand and led him to the altar. The cultists and prisoners parted before them; the sight reminded him of the weddings that had taken place at court, with Galbatorix presiding, a dark and foreboding figure waiting at the head of the great presence chamber to deliver his royal benediction.
Across the courtyard, Thorn stirred in his shackles, a futile protest of movement. Without looking at him, Bachel said, “Stay,” and he subsided, but his eyes sparked with restrained fire.
No, thought Murtagh when he saw the stained surface of the altar. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t be forced to do this. He wouldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t—
Bachel clapped her hands, and her warriors dragged to her the first of the remaining prisoners. The man was a ruddy-faced commoner garbed in a rough, homespun smock. He had a short, untrimmed beard that made his chin and upper lip look as if they had been rubbed with dirt. His jaw was set, and his brow furrowed, but he was obviously frightened, and the Breath of Azlagûr still held him in its power and seemed to have left him with no will to fight or flee.
“Hold him down and bare his breast,” said Bachel, her voice loud and clear.
The warriors hauled the prisoner onto the altar and pinned him down. One of them used a knife to cut open the smock to expose the man’s chest, and the man let out a small groan.
Murtagh gripped the edge of his cloak with his right hand and began to pull the fabric up with his fingers, feeling for the diamond hidden within the hem.
The cultists started to chant, and the combined power of their voices was like a great drum beating through the air and ground. The sound was seductive, transfixing, overwhelming; it made Murtagh want to join the rhythmic recitation, to lose himself in the cry of the crowd and to become one with the group.