He kept the feeling to himself. He didn’t want Thorn to ever believe that he viewed the dragon as irrevocably damaged. If anything, Murtagh thought the dragon had a better chance of becoming whole than he did. By the standards of both humans and dragons, Thorn was hardly more than a hatchling, despite how Galbatorix had accelerated his physical growth. He was young, and like magic, youth meant potential. But it would take time for Thorn to heal. Years and years, if not the entire span of their existence.
The pattern of our lives is set so early, he thought. If ever he did have children—and the thought filled him with the deepest trepidation—he knew he would do everything within his power to ensure that their first few years were full of love and joy. If nothing else, then, the children would have those first bright memories to sustain them during the darkness. What better gift from a parent?
Soft as a shadow came words that he felt almost more than heard: “…beautiful boy. What a strong boy. You make me so proud.” His mother’s voice, half remembered, as she’d spoken to him in the hall of Morzan’s castle.
Murtagh’s steps faltered. He leaned on his staff for real then, and stared at the net of cracks in the bare dirt as he waited for the surge of emotion to pass. Was it grief, anger, longing for what he never had?…He couldn’t tell.
Setting aside his feelings, he continued forward. It was all he could do.
Gil’ead didn’t have a proper city wall, as did Ceunon and Dras-Leona—in the event of an attack, the commoners were expected to shelter inside the central fortress—but there was still a gatehouse along the main road.
The guards, Murtagh was relieved to see, were just keeping a general watch and made no effort to inspect those who entered.
He lowered his head and hurried past, trying to blend in with the caravan he’d followed.
The city proper was a loud, boisterous place, earthy and muscular. The smell of manure was strong in the air, and people shouted across the streets and from the balconies of their houses. There were minstrels by the squares and tinkers in the streets, and dozens of buildings were being raised across the city, which surprised Murtagh; they’d have to hurry to get the roofs on before winter descended in earnest.
He saw even more evidence of the war. The buildings along the main thoroughfare were scorched on their beams, and broken-off shafts of embedded arrows stuck out from the walls, like thorns on a rosebush. A rowdy band of dwarves was arguing with a stablemaster near the city entrance as they tried to agree on terms for housing the dwarves’ ponies. Close to the center of Gil’ead, Murtagh saw a pair of elves—one male, one female, both with ink-black hair—standing inside the gate of an ostentatious stone-walled house, talking in the front garden while purple-edged butterflies fluttered about their heads and shoulders.
Murtagh suppressed a snort. How like them. We’re all true to our own natures, I suppose.
He made sure to keep well away from the stone house.
After the quiet of the past four days, the smells and sounds of the city were overwhelming. Murtagh fought the urge to plug his ears—and nose—and he found himself flinching at unexpected noises.
You’re turning into a wild animal, he thought. Skittish and untamed. He wasn’t sure if it was a bad thing.
He made his way to the main market, which indeed had many weapons on display. He gave them a pass for the time being, as he felt that a sword would attract more attention than his staff, and wandered among the other stalls, inspecting the wares. A few discreet questions about the origins of a soft woolen scarf and a cask of southern wine and a set of carved necklaces were enough for him to learn that Ilenna’s family still plied their trade. Further inquiry with a seller of cloth revealed that, as he suspected, Ilenna was most often to be found at Lord Relgin’s court, advising the earl on her father’s behalf.
Satisfied with his findings, Murtagh stopped at a small tent decked with wicker cages containing doves, pigeons, and songbirds of various sorts. The owner was a gruff, mustachioed man who more resembled a military quartermaster than a merchant.
After some brief haggling, Murtagh bought the brightest, sweetest-sounding finch. With a cloth over the cage to keep the bird silent, he hurried through the busy streets to the fortress entrance.
The main gates were open, the cross-barred portcullis raised high, but Murtagh didn’t head toward them. The guards standing on either side of the gates would inspect anyone who tried to walk straight in.
That had never been his plan. Instead, he positioned himself behind the corner of a nearby house, where the guards couldn’t see him but he could watch everyone who entered and exited the fortress. Murtagh knew his time was limited. Someone was sure to notice if he kept loitering there, but he didn’t think he would need to wait very long.
He was right.
Not half an hour after he settled into place, a red-haired page with tasseled sleeves hurried out the front gate and rushed off in the direction of the market. Murtagh perked up. Perfect.
He slipped through an alleyway stinking of night soil and placed himself by the side of the street where he guessed the page would return.
A tug on his cloak caused him to start. He looked down to see a pair of dirty faces staring up at him, urchins barely half his height, dressed in rags that had seen more years than their owners.
“Please, master, sir,” they said in unison, and held out cupped hands.
Murtagh couldn’t tell if the children were male or female. He decided it didn’t matter. He also decided it didn’t matter if they were making a fool of him, if they had a house with family and food and a warm hearth.
“Here. Go buy something to eat,” he said, fishing two coppers out of his purse.
They laughed and bobbed their heads. “Thank you, sir! Red, red, red, an’ dragon get’cha!” Then, quick as rats, they scurried down the alley and disappeared among the buildings.
Murtagh checked his belt. His purse was still where it should be, which he counted a victory. He smiled. Whatever happened with Ilenna, he’d done some good that day.
His smile faded as he spotted the page heading back along the street. The youth was dawdling along, eating a hand pie, enjoying the sun, and watching the ladies on the street. Not so eager to return to your master or mistress, eh?
As the youth passed the alley mouth, Murtagh swept aside his cloak and, in a voice from the past, said, “Boy! Hold there. I would speak with you.”
The page froze, and Murtagh could see panic in his eyes as the youth tried to figure out whether he was in trouble and, if so, how much.
“Y-y-yes, sir?” The page bowed slightly, and then looked askance at Murtagh’s travel-stained clothes. A line of gravy ran from the page’s half-eaten pie and down his hand.
Hesitation would lose the day. Assuming a haughty air, Murtagh beckoned him closer. “Come here, boy. You are a page of Lord Relgin’s court, yes? I have need of a courier to deliver a message of mine.”
The youth glanced back at the fortress and shifted on his feet, as if to turn and run. “My master—”
“Speak not to me of your master! This is of the highest importance.” Murtagh tapped the side of his nose. “The highest importance.” The page’s expression sharpened into interest. Intrigue always had that effect. “You know the goodwoman Ilenna who attends Lord Relgin’s court?”