The thought reminded him of Vroengard Island, and he shivered. That had been one place he and Thorn had been glad to leave. The whole island had felt wrong, tainted by the deaths of dragons, poisoned by the magics loosed in the Riders’ fall.
Sometimes it felt to Murtagh as if the whole of Alagaësia were a graveyard, laden with history’s sorrows.
During the third evening, Thorn was in a playful mood, so they sparred together, or as well as a man and dragon could. Murtagh ran and darted and jumped around Thorn, trying to touch him with the tip of Zar’roc (dulled for the moment with magic). And Thorn in turn did his best to keep Murtagh at bay and to catch him and pin him to the ground.
It was great fun, even if Murtagh ended up bruised and cut. He left a few bruises of his own, but Thorn didn’t mind; the dragon’s eyes sparkled with fierce enjoyment every time Murtagh landed a hit or made him dodge.
Afterward, Murtagh lay against Thorn’s heaving belly as they both caught their breath. “You were as slow as a turtle,” he said in a playful tone.
Thorn nudged his bruised arm. And you were as obvious as an ox.
Murtagh smirked. “Maybe, but I still managed to mark you.”
A small, good-humored growl was his answer.
On the morning of the fourth day, a sheet of silver appeared stretched along the southern horizon. “Isenstar!” said Murtagh, and Thorn banked into a gentle turn.
The lake was one of the largest in Alagaësia. Under normal circumstances, they would have stuck to the shore, keeping land beneath them in case they needed to alight. However, there were sure to be folk along the water’s edge, and the spell Murtagh used to hide Thorn from prying eyes did nothing to conceal the sound of his wings or the feel of their minds. So Thorn struck out straight over the rippling expanse.
There were herons at Isenstar, and gulls and terns, flown inland to feast on the lake fish. A V-formation of herons joined Thorn in the sky; the birds showed no fear of the larger, slower dragon.
Murtagh amused himself by shouting at the herons, and they responded with an appalling barking scream that made him think of a donkey crossed with a pig.
All day Thorn flew, maintaining a steady pace with slow, powerful flaps. At noontime the reflected light from below was so bright, Murtagh had to avert his eyes to keep from being blinded. Later, the water acquired a startling clarity; even from far above, he could see great fishes and swaths of swaying weeds.
There were boats too, fishermen competing with the birds for the bounty of the lake. Also trappers and merchants transporting goods north or south between Gil’ead and Ceunon.
But what caught Murtagh’s attention the most was a slim, two-person rowboat that had a white hull and an unmistakably elegant shape. “Elves,” he said, and pointed with his mind.
Thorn swerved west, away from the rowboat.
“Guard your thoughts,” said Murtagh. “If they haven’t noticed us, we might sneak by.”
Thorn hummed in response.
The rowboat shrank behind them more slowly than Murtagh would have liked. He watched until it was a tiny, undistinguished speck, and only then did he relax.
Of all the races, elves were the most skilled with magic and mental communication. If the elves had decided to reach out with their thoughts and test the sky, well…Murtagh allowed himself a wry smile. The day would have become unpleasantly interesting.
He scratched around the spikes on Thorn’s neck. “Well done.”
Sharp eyes, was all the dragon said in return.
The sky had darkened to purple, and a scrim of golden clouds hung above the lake when Gil’ead entered into view, past the shoreline ahead of them.
The city was much as Murtagh remembered. Low and rough, with log-walled structures and—near the center—a sprawling fortress. It was there Lord Relgin, the city’s current governor, would reside, and there Murtagh suspected he would find Ilenna, currying favor and gathering secrets. Assuming, that was, her family hadn’t been exiled from favor for their association with the Empire. But Murtagh doubted it. Her father’s shipping concern was too useful for whoever held power, whether that was Galbatorix, Nasuada, or Lord Relgin.
Murtagh was glad to have arrived, but the sight of Gil’ead brought him little pleasure. The last time he and Thorn had been at the city, they had been fighting at Galbatorix’s behest, in a desperate and failed attempt to defend the place from the elves. It had been a bloody, miserable battle. And the time before that had been little better: an ambush and then him having to sneak into the fortress to rescue Eragon from the clutches of the Shade Durza.
He looked for it and saw: the roof above the fortress banquet hall, rebuilt and newly shingled. The people of Gil’ead had been busy since the end of the war.
In his mind, Murtagh heard the mighty crack that had sounded when Saphira ripped off the banquet hall’s original roof during their escape. He made a face. That had been a dire night. Nor had it been the first such night in Gil’ead for his family.
We’ve had an unhappy history here, he thought. Best not to add to the tally.
Then don’t get into any more fights, said Thorn.
You know I can’t promise that.
Murtagh turned his gaze westward. In that direction, tucked somewhere among the hills surrounding Gil’ead, was the hollow where he’d hidden with Saphira while they plotted to rescue Eragon….
“That way,” he said, pointing.
The horizon tilted as Thorn angled westward, and Murtagh returned to studying the layout of the city while he considered how best to approach Ilenna.
PART II
Gil’ead
CHAPTER I
Hostile Territory
Thorn’s wings knocked loose a flurry of leaves as he descended amid willows and poplars into the secluded hollow. The clearing was barely big enough for him, and Murtagh could already feel his discomfort.
As the leaves settled, Thorn glanced around at the confined space. He growled, and a brace of ravens sprang cawing from within the poplars.
“It’s all right,” said Murtagh in a soothing tone. “We have to hide, and this is a good place for it. If anything happens, you can take off.”
Thorn rolled his eyes but held his position.
After unstrapping his legs, Murtagh slid to the ground. It felt strange to be back in the hollow, as if it were a place from a half-remembered dream.
He shook himself and searched the area with his mind. To his relief, the only living creatures he felt were mice and rabbits, two weasels, and a small herd of deer grazing on a nearby hill.
Satisfied, he said, “It’s safe.”
The day was already near an end, so they made camp and soon enough were fast asleep.
Does Lord Relgin know you well enough to recognize you?
Murtagh looked up from his bowl. A fire was too risky so close to Gil’ead, which meant breakfast of cold porridge and jerky.
Thorn was watching from the center of the clearing. He refused to crawl under the edge of the canopy, where Murtagh had placed his bedroll.
“He knows of me, but I don’t think we’ve met. In any case, I shouldn’t cross paths with him.”