Thorn hissed, snakelike. Murtagh shared the sentiment.
If the Riders were familiar with Nal Gorgoth, why would they suffer it to endure?
“I don’t know. Maybe they thought it was abandoned. Maybe they set fire to the place and drove out the original inhabitants. We don’t know how long Bachel or her people have been here. The buildings are older than any I’ve seen. Who knows who made them.”
Thorn’s gaze grew more intent. Umaroth knew enough to warn us against coming here. What if the dragons of old and their Riders—his tongue flicked across his teeth—were afraid?
CHAPTER IV
Dreams and Portents
Murtagh and Thorn stared at each other, an unspoken question hanging between them. What or whom would dragons or Riders fear?
“If Galbatorix and Morzan came here,” said Murtagh, “perhaps all of the Forsworn did.” He looked at the silhouettes of the dark rooftops and at the moonlit tip of the Tower of Flint. His discovery of the clasp put everything Bachel had said during the banquet into a new light. And yet he remained uncertain. Was he making unfounded assumptions? His gut told him there was something to Bachel’s claims of fate and prophecy. He just didn’t know what or to what degree. Perhaps his desire to learn more about her and the blackened land was a foolish one.
He turned back to Thorn. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should leave. What say you?”
Thorn blinked, his surprise evident. In all their time together, Murtagh had never before suggested abandoning whatever goal they were pursuing. Thorn dug the tips of his claws into the cracks between the flagstones. If this is the place that Riders feared to tread—
“Which it might not be.”
Thorn’s nostrils flared. If it is, we must know, for the sake of the hatchlings at Mount Arngor. Anything dangerous enough to threaten the Riders of old could destroy the next generation of dragons. Stay on the hunt, search the spoor. There are old secrets here, I can smell it.
“All right. But we have to be smart about this. There’s no point in getting ourselves killed.”
With Thorn following, Murtagh made his way around the northeastern corner of the temple. Behind it lay a swath of cropped turf that, despite the time of year, was soft beneath his feet. A path led across the grass to a small grove of pinetrees set against the base of the foothills.
As Murtagh approached the trees, he noticed the air growing warmer. It was damp too, and the smell of brimstone again rose up to meet him. The ground around the trees was crusted black, similar to the area in front of the village, and tongues of steam drifted from the earth. And yet it was not barren. The grove seemed a garden of sorts. By the moonlight, he saw blueberry bushes and flowers—their blossoms closed and drooping downward for the night—and a vast assortment of mushrooms arranged in pleasing patterns.
He thought of the secret garden in the catacombs of Gil’ead and wondered.
Thorn hesitated at the mouth of the grove, but the path was wide—the villagers had trimmed the lower levels of branches—and there was room for him to walk without scraping the trees. So he followed Murtagh, and Murtagh was glad for the company.
“Remind me to brush out your footsteps when we head back,” he murmured.
A sense of acknowledgment came from Thorn.
The heart of the grove was even darker than inside the Tower of Flint. Murtagh finally relented and whispered, “Brisingr.” The werelight he created was a tiny wisp, no brighter than a dying coal. But it was enough to see where to place his feet.
The path wound between the trees, past beds of well-tended, well-weeded plants—mostly herbs and berries—until it reached the foothills.
There, Murtagh beheld an even greater darkness yawning before them, like a wound cut into the side of the hills. At first his eyes refused to make sense of the absence. Was he looking at something? Into something? Was it a shadow?
Unable to understand, he increased the flow of energy to the werelight and allowed it to brighten until—
He saw.
An open mouth of stone and earth gaping before them. The cavern was large enough that Thorn could have easily fit within, and the interior was a mysterious black depth, swimming with impenetrable shadows and unquiet with ominous sounds: the click of a falling stone, a heavy influx and outflux of heated air—as if the mountains themselves were breathing, slow and labored—the high-pitched squeaks of fluttering bats, and even, Murtagh imagined, the low, nearly inaudible groans of the earth’s massive weight as it settled and shifted, constantly seeking to further collapse into the tumbled ruins time made of all things.
Along both sides of the gaping cavern was stonework of a kind with the rest of the village, and set within the stonework, a mirrored pair of iron rings, each as wide as Murtagh was tall. The rings were so stout, they could have held even Thorn, and by the wavering werelight, they appeared dark and rusted and stained black with what resembled dried blood.
An altar made of cut basalt stood to the left of the cavern, which seemed odd. Murtagh felt it would have been more impressive—and more visually pleasing—to center the altar on the opening. Compared with the altar in the cathedral at Dras-Leona, this one appeared crude, unfinished even. Still, it had a rough presence that made Murtagh think of ancient rites and sacrifices performed to appease an unkind god.
The stench of brimstone was stronger than ever. A thick wave of it rolled out of the cavern, hot and unpleasant, and Murtagh gagged at the reek of rotten eggs. He covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve.
Thorn tasted the air and then wrinkled his snout and hissed. He said, I smell old meat and flowing water and…His scales prickled. And the stink of men. They are—
Footsteps sounded from the cavern, faint but approaching, as two or more people climbed out of the black depths.
Back! said Murtagh, alarmed. He snuffed his werelight and retreated as quickly and quietly as he could.
Our tracks! Thorn said as he did likewise.
The footsteps were growing louder.
Murtagh hastily whispered, “Vindr!” and a small stream of wind swept smooth the path as they rushed through the grove.
Glancing over his shoulder, Murtagh thought he glimpsed a group of robed figures through the trees. His pulse quickened. Had they spotted Thorn? It was dark, and the grove was dense, so maybe not. Maybe.
The two guards were still in their enchanted sleep when he and Thorn hurried into the courtyard.
“Up, up!” said Murtagh.
Thorn crouched low, and Murtagh climbed onto his neck. He held on tightly, and the dragon lifted him high enough to scramble onto the temple’s skirt-roof and thence into his chambers.
As he did, Thorn curled up by the far side of the courtyard.
Just in time. Peering out the north-facing window, Murtagh saw four men, hooded and somber, walk past the temple and disperse among the streets of the village.
He let out his breath. Then he returned to the courtyard window and looked back at Thorn. Bachel has much to explain, he said. And I want to know what the Dreamers find so important about that cave.
Thorn snorted. Whatever it is, I think the fumes from below rot their minds.
Murtagh scratched at his forearm, troubled. You might be right. Either way, I’d like to know the truth. Although, in this case, he wondered if the truth might be as dangerous as ignorance.
He and Thorn forwent the sharing of their true names. There was too great a risk of being overheard in Nal Gorgoth, even if they confined themselves to the privacy of their minds.