Alín stood and smoothed her dress. “You must be famished, Kingkiller. Rest here, and I will fetch you something.”
Before Murtagh could object, she hurried from the room, her skirt swishing with each step. The chamber’s heavy oaken doors creaked as they opened and shut. In the hall outside, Murtagh glimpsed a pair of guards standing at attention.
Thorn extended his neck until his nose touched Murtagh’s outstretched hand. You live, the dragon said.
As do you…. You came for me. Into the cave.
Thorn hummed, and his eyes glittered with ruby light. Of course. You needed me.
Tears threatened to spill down Murtagh’s cheeks. Thank you.
Thorn dipped his head. You will never again have to crawl into a cave alone. Not so long as you are my Rider and I am your dragon. And then Thorn spoke his true name, and Murtagh heard and felt the difference in the dragon’s self. His heart near to broke with relief, and pride too, that after so very long, his closest friend and bonded partner had finally won out over his fear.
Then tears did fall from Murtagh’s eyes, and he wrapped his arms around Thorn’s head and held him tightly. Ah, that makes me happy. There is something you should know as well.
Oh?
I am not who or what I was either. And Murtagh spoke his true name, in all its flawed extent, so his very essence was laid bare.
Thorn’s inner eyelids snicked closed, and he gently licked Murtagh’s arm. You are free.
We both are…. I’m sorry. I should have been more careful in taking us to Nal Gorgoth.
A slight growl sounded in Thorn’s chest. The deed is done, the fight is ended, and we still have our freedom. It is not so bad.
Grateful, Murtagh laid his chest against Thorn’s scaled brow and savored their closeness. All felt right between them, and that, more than anything, mattered.
At last, he released his hold on Thorn and looked around the room.
It was one of the large chambers in the northern wing of the citadel, where the structure had been relatively undamaged by Galbatorix’s explosive self-immolation over a year ago. Murtagh vaguely remembered the room being used by the head of the royal mint, but he couldn’t recall for sure.
Then he looked down at himself. A white linen shirt hung upon him, smooth against his back. No bandages were wrapped about his chest, and although he felt sore and tired, he wasn’t in pain.
When did— he started to say.
The doors to the chamber swung open, and Alín entered, carrying a platter with bread, fruit, and cheese, as well as an earthen pitcher alongside a crystal chalice. She walked around Thorn, placed the platter on the small side table next to the bed, and again seated herself.
Then Alín took the pitcher and poured watered wine into the chalice, which she handed to him. “Here. A drink will do you some good, my Lord.”
Murtagh obeyed. She was right; his throat was painfully dry.
“Four days,” said Alín. “That is how long you have been in Ilirea, Kingkiller.” She smiled slightly. “I thought you might wish to know.”
He placed the empty chalice on the side table. “It would be best if you refrain from calling me Kingkiller here, Alín. As a title, it will earn me no favors.”
Her cheeks colored, and she ducked her head. “My apologies.”
“That’s not…How did we get here? How did you? I thought you were left behind in Oth Orum.”
“No, not quite,” said Alín. “Uvek found me and had me climb onto Thorn behind him. I was with you the entire time.”
“I didn’t see you.”
She shook her head. “You wouldn’t have, my Lord. You were delirious from your wound.”
Murtagh glanced around. He half expected to see the Urgal step out from behind a tapestry. “And Uvek? Is he here?”
No, said Thorn, and Murtagh could tell that the dragon was speaking to both of them. He went to help his people, but he bid us welcome to his hearth and home whenever we might so wish.
A pang of regret surprised Murtagh. He would have liked to thank the Urgal in person. “I see.”
From her skirt Alín produced a small length of knotted rope, rough, brown, and frayed, but formed with obvious deftness. She handed it to Murtagh. Puzzled, he turned it over.
She said, “Uvek gave this to me that I might keep it safe for you. He said that it means brother in his tongue.”
“Brother.” Murtagh glanced from the knotted rope to the inside of his left wrist. There, the cut that marked his blood oath with Uvek had been healed. But not entirely. A small white scar remained as a permanent reminder. A new scar to go with an old one. It was not an unpleasant thought.
With a sense of gratitude, he tucked the knotted rope into his shirt. He knew he would keep it safe for the rest of his life. Family, it seemed, came in many forms, and odd as it was, he thought of the Urgal as such. Then he returned his attention to Alín. “You were very brave in Oth Orum. And also before. If not for you, none of us would have escaped.”
“You’re too kind, my Lord.” She pressed her lips together. “Bachel betrayed our beliefs. Even if she was being true to Azlagûr, even if she was still serving His will, I wanted no part in it.”
“Still, what you did wasn’t easy. Thank you.”
Her cheeks colored again. “What you had to endure was far harder, my Lord.”
Uncomfortable, Murtagh changed tack. “Have you been well here? Have they treated you fairly?” Has she? But he did not voice the thought.
Alín nodded, serious. “Oh yes. Very well.”
“And is Alagaësia everything you hoped it would be?”
“Everything and more. Only…”
“Only what?”
Her expression grew troubled. “I worry about the Draumar. I know Bachel is dead, but a new Speaker will be chosen, and…”
Murtagh thought he knew the true source of her unease. He shared it. “And what?”
She looked at him with open earnestness. “I fear…” She swallowed and lowered her voice to a whisper. “What if Azlagûr is truly risen?”
A chill crept into Murtagh’s bones. “Worry not. Thorn and I will see to it the Draumar are dealt with. As for Azlagûr—”
A creak of iron hinges interrupted him as the chamber’s doors swung open—pushed by a pair of handmaidens—and Nasuada strode into the room.
As always, the sight of her had a physical effect on Murtagh: his pulse quickened, and his muscles tensed, and he felt an apprehensive gladness. The light from the windows framed Nasuada’s face as she gazed at him with a serious, watchful expression. Her dress was red velvet with gold trim—as fine a garment as had ever graced Galbatorix’s court—with sleeves tailored short to show the ridged scars on her forearms. And unlike when he’d last seen her, in the courtyard before the half-destroyed citadel in Ilirea, a shining, beautifully crafted crown rested upon her brow.
Old habits made Murtagh pull back the blanket and descend from the bed to stand upon unsteady legs. He was, he was relieved to see, wearing soft trousers. He bowed as well as he could. “Your Majesty.” The words were an unsettling echo of the formalities he had observed with Galbatorix.
“Murtagh.” Her expression was impossible for him to read. Then she gestured at her servants. “Leave us now.”
The handmaidens curtsied and departed. Likewise, Alín rose from her chair and, with a slight apologetic glance at Murtagh, hurried from the room.