Grieve snorted. “I mean the First Ones. The first of the Dreamers to find this place. Many races they were, but all of them of a single mind.”
“I see. And the well you mentioned? What makes it sacred?”
“That is not for me to say, Rider.”
“What is for you to say?”
With a stiff-legged step, Grieve stopped, his shoulders and neck hunched like those of a bear readying himself to charge. “Do not expect me to provide you with aid, Rider. You are an outsider, an unbeliever, and your kind are neither needed nor wanted in Nal Gorgoth.”
He turned on Murtagh. His moonlit eyes were silvered chips of ice, hard and full of hate, and Murtagh—despite all his wards and skill at arms—felt threatened enough that he put a hand on Zar’roc’s hilt.
“But,” Grieve continued, “in her wisdom, Bachel has chosen to tolerate your presence. That is her right.”
“She tolerates my presence, does she?” said Murtagh, his voice deadly calm. “What other choice does she have, servant?”
Grieve’s mouth split apart to show the yellow stakes of his teeth. “That you shall learn, Rider, and you will wish you hadn’t. Your power holds no sway here. If Bachel wishes, she will use the Breath on you, and then we will see who is servant and who is master.”
“I don’t think I like you, Grieve.”
“The words of unbelievers are as dirt beneath my feet.”
“I’m glad we have an understanding. Lead on. I grow weary and would rest in my chambers.”
The malice in Grieve’s eyes intensified, but he turned and continued along the landing. Murtagh let the man put several steps between them before he followed. He kept his hand on Zar’roc and made sure the blade was loose in the sheath. Jealousy or overprotectiveness? he wondered. Or was it zealotry that fueled the hostility of Bachel’s right-hand man?
At the end of a hall, they arrived at a set of closed wooden doors. “Here,” said Grieve, and, without another word, departed.
Murtagh waited until he was sure he was alone and then pushed open the doors.
CHAPTER III
The Tower of Flint
The corner chambers Bachel had given him would have been considered poor accommodations in Urû’baen. But by the standards of a rustic, out-of-the-way village, they were sumptuous. The inside of the temple was in better repair than the outside: the stone walls were clear of moss and lichen, the floor was well swept, and there were no cobwebs to catch in his hair.
A stone fireplace was set against one wall. Facing it was a four-poster bed of black walnut, with blankets that seemed clean and a sheepskin laid on top that smelled only faintly of the animal it had been cut from. An iron candlestick with an unlit taper stood by the bed, along with a bare side table and, a few feet past, a plain wardrobe. A bearskin with the head still attached lay in the center of the floor.
Adjoining the space was a small washroom with a stone basin, a porcelain chamber pot, and a bucket of fresh water for his ablutions. There were no carvings or banners upon the walls of either room, but the washroom floor had a mosaic made of chips of colored glass, and it contained the same branching patterns that adorned the rest of the village.
Several shuttered windows marked the walls on either side of the bedroom’s outer corner. Murtagh checked to make sure that no one was hiding in the chambers, and then he went to the windows and unfastened the shutters.
The dragon sculptures that lined the upper part of the building extended past the sides of each window, the exaggerated shapes of their snouts hooked downward like overgrown corbels.
To the east, the windows opened onto the temple courtyard. The villagers had already—with unexpected speed and efficiency—cleared the tables, braziers, food, and skins from around the ruined fountain.
Thorn sat crouched on the flagstones, eyes open and alert. He saw Murtagh, and the dragon’s tongue slipped out as he tasted the air. There you are.
Here I am. By the entrance to the yard, Murtagh spotted a pair of bored-looking villagers sitting next to a glowing brazier. The men carried spears and had swords at their waists, but Murtagh couldn’t imagine that Bachel expected the guards to stop him or Thorn if they chose to leave. Their only purpose, he decided, was to keep watch and inform the witch as to the activities of her guests.
Guests. His lip curled.
The guards glanced up at him and then returned to talking amongst themselves.
One moment, Murtagh told Thorn, and went to the north-facing windows. Not far from the temple, he saw the narrow structure that Bachel had called the Tower of Flint. It stood tall and stark in the moonlight: a spear of rough-hewn stone, velvet grey, with belfry-like openings beneath the domed roof. From the tower, he thought he heard a faint murmur of sleeping birds, but the sound might as easily have been a trick of the imagination.
Past the tower stood a number of houses, and he was also able to pick out—dimly visible in the moonlight—the corner of tended grounds that extended behind the tower and temple. Their presence intrigued him. There was a path running across the neatly trimmed grass and between a double row of low shrubs, leading toward the trees along the foothills….
Murtagh looked back at the guards below. Experience had taught him caution, but it had also taught him the importance of decisive action. Whatever the truth regarding Bachel’s means and motives, he didn’t feel comfortable waiting for her to reveal it. He wanted to find out for himself what secrets lurked at the heart of Nal Gorgoth. That way, at least, he might be able to determine whether Bachel was lying to them.
All of which justified taking a bolder-than-normal approach.
But carefully.
Murtagh scratched his chin. The guards didn’t appear to be wearing amulets like the ones he had encountered in Ceunon and Gil’ead. However, Bachel might have gifted them with some form of wards. There was no way to tell beforehand, and the nature of her wordless magic meant that the Name of Names would be of no help. And while it was possible Bachel was ignorant of more formal magic, he couldn’t see how to use that to his advantage. Still…Whatever wards protected the guards, they might not block spells intended to help rather than harm—even as had been the case with Galbatorix.
He decided to risk it. As with all magic, intent mattered, so he concentrated on the fact that both of the men appeared tired. It was late, and they ought to be in bed. It would be best if they slept, for their own good.
With that firmly in mind, Murtagh cast the same spell he’d used on the guard in the catacombs under Gil’ead: “Slytha.” Sleep.
He released the energy for the spell in a carefully controlled trickle over the course of half a minute or more. It was a gentle piece of magic, subtle enough that if a ward did stop it, the warriors might not notice.
The guards slumped over, and one of them dropped his spear. It clattered on the flagstones with startling loudness, and then the village was again quiet.
When no one came to investigate, Murtagh allowed himself a pleased chuckle. As much as he hated to admit it, the way Eragon had used magic on Galbatorix had been a stroke of inspiration. No one seemed to think of guarding themselves against the good, only the bad.
It wouldn’t last, of course. Over the years, word would spread from magician to magician, and eventually no capable spellcaster would leave themselves open to well-meaning attacks. A contradiction, that! But a reality all the same. Regardless, Murtagh wasn’t about to lament Bachel’s ignorance. As long as the technique continued to work, he’d use it and be grateful for it too.