There was a certain comfort in the knowledge. Wherever he went, and whatever he did, Thorn would always be there for him. What’s more, Thorn would understand. On occasion disapprove, perhaps, but even then with empathy and compassion. And the same was true in reverse.
There was also a sense of confinement to the knowledge. Never could they escape one another. Not really. But Murtagh didn’t mind. He was well sick of being alone.
The land sloped away beneath him until, after several miles, it arrived at the Bay of Fundor. There, at the water’s edge, lay the city of Ceunon: a rough-walled collection of buildings, dark with shadow, save for the occasional lamp or candle—warm gems set against the encroaching night. Rows of fishing boats with furled sails floated alongside the stone wharves, and with them, three deep-sea vessels with tall masts and broad hulls, ships capable of surviving passage around the northern tip of the peninsula that separated the bay from the open ocean.
Across the bay stood the mountains of the Spine, sawtoothed and ridge-backed behind a bank of obscuring haze, and the salt water between appeared deep and cold and unfriendly.
Grey clouds lay low upon bay and land alike, and a muffled stillness softened the sound of Murtagh’s steps.
A cold touch on his hand caused him to look up.
Thick flakes of snow drifted downward: the first snow of the year. He opened his mouth and caught a flake on his tongue; it melted like a pleasant memory, fleeting and insubstantial.
Even this far north, it was unseasonably early for snow. Maddentide had been two days past, and that marked the first run of bergenhed, the silvery, hard-scaled fish that invaded the bay every autumn. The shoals were so large and dense you could nearly walk on them, and Murtagh had heard that, during their height, the fish would throw themselves onto the decks of the boats, driven to insanity by the intensity of their spawning urge.
There was a lesson in that, he felt.
Snow didn’t usually arrive until a month or two after Maddentide. For it to be this early meant a bitter, brutal winter was on the way.
Still, Murtagh enjoyed the soft fall of flakes, and he appreciated the coolness of the air. It was the perfect temperature for walking, running, or fighting.
Few things were worse than struggling for your life while so hot as to pass out.
His pulse quickened, and he tossed back his hood and broke into a quick trot, feeling the need to move faster.
He kept a steady pace as he ran onto the flats surrounding Ceunon, past creeks and copses, over stone fences and through fields of barley and rye ripe for harvest. No one marked his passage save a hound at a farmhouse gate, who gave him a perfunctory howl.
And the same to you, Murtagh thought.
His connection with Thorn thinned as he ran, but it never vanished. Which was a comfort for Murtagh. He felt as nervous as Thorn when they were apart, although he worked to hide the feeling, not wanting to worsen the dragon’s concern.
Murtagh would have preferred to land closer to Ceunon. If he needed help, every second would count. However, the risk of someone spotting Thorn was too great. Best to keep their distance and avoid a potential confrontation with local forces.
Murtagh rolled his neck. Being on his feet—lungs full of clean, crisp air, pulse pounding at a quick, sustainable beat—felt good after spending most of the day on dragonback. His knees and hips ached slightly; he wasn’t bowlegged like so many of the cavalrymen of Galbatorix’s army, but if he continued to spend most of his time on Thorn, it could yet happen. Was that an inevitable part of being a Dragon Rider?
A crooked smile lifted his lips.
The thought of far-famed Riders—especially the elven ones—walking around with legs as bent as those of a twenty-year veteran lancer was amusing. But he doubted that had been the case. The Riders likely had a way to counter the effect of being in the saddle, and at any rate, once a dragon was large enough, it became impossible to sit on like a horse. Shruikan—Galbatorix’s mountainous black dragon—had been like that. Instead of a saddle, the king had installed a small pavilion on the hump of Shruikan’s enormous shoulders.
Murtagh shivered and stopped by a lightning-struck tree. A sudden chill washed his arms and legs.
He took a deep breath. And another. Galbatorix was dead. Shruikan was dead. They had no hold on him or anyone still living.
“We’re free,” he whispered.
From Thorn came a sense of comforting warmth, like a distant embrace.
He pulled his hood back over his head and continued on.
When Murtagh arrived at the coastal road south of Ceunon, he paused behind a nearby hedgerow and poked his head over the top. To his relief, the road was empty.
He pushed through the hedge and hurried north, toward the wide, slumped bulk of the city. The faint light that penetrated the clouds had nearly vanished, and he wanted to be in Ceunon before full dark fell.
Deep wagon tracks ridged the well-worn road, and pats of cow dung forced him to switch lanes every few steps. The snow was gathering on the ground in a soft, thin layer that reminded him of the decorative lace that ladies would wear to high events at court.
He slowed as he approached Ceunon’s outer wall. The fortifications were stout and well built, if not so high as those of Teirm or Dras-Leona. The blocks of rude-surfaced blackstone were mortared without gaps, and the wall had a properly angled batter at the bottom, which he noted with approval.
Not that any of it mattered if you were facing a dragon or Rider.
A pair of watchmen leaned on their pikes on either side of Ceunon’s southern gate. Murtagh glanced at the battlements and machicolations above. No archers were posted on the wall walk. Sloppy.
The watchmen straightened as he neared, and Murtagh let his cloak fall open to show that he was unarmed.
A clink sounded as the watchmen crossed their pikes. “Who goes?” asked the man on the left. He had a face like a winter rutabaga, with a fat nose cobwebbed with burst blood vessels and a yellow bruise under his right eye.
“Just a Maddentide traveler,” said Murtagh in an easy tone. “Come to purchase smoked bergenhed for my master.”
The man on the right gave him a suspicious once-over. He looked as if he could be the cousin of fat-nose. “Says you. Where do you hail from, traveler? An’ what name might you use?”
“Tornac son of Tereth, and I hail from Ilirea.”
Mention of the capital put some stiffness into the watchmen’s backs. They glanced at each other, and then fat-nose hacked and spat on the ground. The gob melted a patch of snow. “That’s an awful long way on foot w’ no pack an’ no horse fer a few bushels of fish.”
“It would be,” Murtagh agreed, “but my horse broke her leg last night. Stepped in a badger hole, poor thing.”
“An’ you left yer saddle?” said the right-hand man.
Murtagh shrugged. “My master pays well, but he’s not paying me to lug a saddle and bags halfway across Alagaësia, if you follow.”
The watchmen smirked, and fat-nose said, “Aye. We follow. Have you lodging secured? Coin fer a bed?”
“Coin enough.”
Fat-nose nodded. “Aight. We’re not wanting strangers sleep’n on our streets. We find you mak’n use of ’em, we’ll see the backside of you. We find you mak’n trouble, out you go. From midnight t’ the fourth watch, the gates are closed, an’ they’ll not open for aught but Queen Nasuada herself.”
“That seems reasonable,” said Murtagh.