“Even for you?”
“Why would they not?”
“Because,” she said, seeming confused, “you are a Rider.”
He felt equally confounded. “What does being a Rider have to do with the dreams I have?”
Alín frowned. “Surely you must know, my Lord. You are joined with a dragon, and dragons are the blood and bones of the land. They are the source of everything that was and is and shall be. I thought that, because of your bond with Thorn, that…”
“You thought what?” Murtagh asked gently.
“That you would have the same dreams as we do in Nal Gorgoth.”
“Does everyone here dream the same, Alín?”
She turned back to the door. “It is the one thing I cannot bear. The dreadful sameness, night after night. The dreams so rarely change.”
Then she pushed open the door and stepped out before Murtagh could ask another question.
Thorn gave Murtagh a welcoming nudge as they came together in the courtyard. He scratched Thorn’s snout in response.
Then he became aware that Alín was standing behind him with her hands clasped and her gaze fixed on the flagstones, her whole body stiff as if she were terrified. But when she stole a glance at Thorn, her eyes shone, and he realized that she was overawed by Thorn’s presence.
“Have you ever seen a dragon before?” he asked.
She shook her head, keeping her gaze turned down. “No, my Lord. He is magnificent.”
I like her, said Thorn.
You would. Would you mind if I—
You may.
With a small smile, Murtagh said, “If you want, you may come closer.”
Alín gasped and looked up with undisguised joy. “Oh! Yes, please. I mean, thank you, my Lord.” With careful steps, she approached Thorn.
She squeaked as Thorn arched his neck and loomed over her, a puff of smoke jetting out from his nostrils.
Murtagh smirked. You’re as dramatic as a troubadour.
Thorn ignored him and lowered his head until he was at eye level with Alín. She stood very still, but her expression was wide and shining, and the tips of her fingers trembled.
“He won’t hurt you,” Murtagh said.
Alín laughed with febrile energy. “It would not matter if he did. I would be honored. It is not every day you meet a living god.”
Murtagh felt his eyebrows rise. He gave Thorn a look. “Do you hear that? A living god, she says.”
The dragon surprised him then, for Murtagh felt Thorn extend his mind until it contacted Alín’s, and for a fraction of a second, the three of them were joined. Murtagh had a brief impression of Alín’s inner self: a sense of warmth and wonder and overwhelming radiance.
Then Thorn withdrew the connection, and Alín cried out and fell to her knees.
Murtagh went to her, meaning to help. At the last moment, he remembered not to touch and stopped with his hands hovering on either side of her shoulders. He retreated a step. “Are you all right?”
It was a long moment before she stirred and looked up, tears on her cheeks. “I never thought to be so blessed,” she whispered. She turned back to Thorn and bowed her head. “Thank you. Thank you. A thousand thanks upon you.”
Murtagh wasn’t sure how to respond. He watched as she gathered herself and stood. “Bachel will send for you soon,” she said, her voice as thin and pale as a winter sky. “Be ready to attend her. She does not stand for delay.”
“No, I would imagine not,” said Murtagh.
Alín gave Thorn one last look—her expression suddenly troubled—and then fled into the temple.
Without her, the courtyard seemed cold and empty.
Murtagh turned back to Thorn. He frowned. “Why?”
With a scrape of scales against stone, Thorn wound his neck around Murtagh and trapped him in a great coil. It seemed appropriate.
“Because she said you were magnificent?”
Thorn coughed. No. Because she has been told much but seen little. I was like that once. It is good to know the truth of things.
At that, Murtagh’s stance softened. “I suppose you’re right.” Thorn hummed, and Murtagh scratched his snout again. “Well, as long as she didn’t see anything about last night, there’s no harm done.”
And perhaps some good.
“Perhaps.”
Then Thorn uncoiled his neck and Murtagh retrieved the haunch of roasted hare from Thorn’s saddlebags. He ate quickly, not knowing how long it would be until Bachel summoned them.
Voices sounded from within the streets leading off the courtyard: rhythmic chanting that seemed more ceremonial than musical.
Curious, Murtagh wiped his fingers and wandered down the nearest street, Thorn at his back.
He didn’t have to go far before he saw a group of twenty or so Dreamers gathered around an alcove built within the outer wall of a house. In the alcove was a small altar—not dissimilar to the one he’d found last night—with fruits and cuts of meat piled in the center.
Another white-robed Dreamer, a man, stood facing the rest of the villagers, and it was to him the people directed their voices. The chanting was so fast, so practiced, that at first Murtagh couldn’t distinguish one word from the next, but as he listened, he began to pick out repeated phrases, such as “With our hands, so we serve,” “As it is dreamt, so it shall be,” and “Given our earthly reward, praise be.”
Between the repeated phrases, he realized the villagers were describing their dreams from that night: something to do with blood and fire and ancient wrongs. The specifics escaped him, but he caught words here and there, like silver fish flashing through a stream. Some of it reminded him of the visions he and Thorn had shared, but only in part; the rest seemed to vary wildly from what they had seen.
It was clear the villagers were well accustomed to their dreams, as Alín had claimed. The chanting was rote, ritualistic, nearly unconscious, with a trance-inducing quality, as if the drumming of their voices numbed their minds. The villagers’ eyes glazed over as they swayed along with the rhythm of their words.
As he stood watching, he found himself struck by the cohesion of the group. The villagers appeared more like a single, many-faced entity than a collection of individuals. The cause that bound them—whatever it was—seemed so strong as to erase their differences. The result was intimidating.
Even with Thorn by his side, a hollow sense of envy formed within Murtagh. He missed the moments, rare as they’d been, when he’d felt joined in common purpose with the soldiers of Galbatorix’s army. The camaraderie had brought with it a certain confidence—a fortification of self, even as his definition of self had expanded to include his brothers-in-arms. He had recaptured the sense, all too briefly, while drilling with the guards in Gil’ead. And looking even further back, he had shared a similar feeling during his travels with Eragon.
But those days were long since passed.
Thorn touched his elbow, and Murtagh smiled sadly.
The chanting continued with numerous repetitions of “As it is dreamt, so it shall be,” and the repetitions were so perfectly uniform, so perfectly matched in intonation and mindless recitation, that the sameness of it suddenly seemed repulsive. It felt as if he were watching a group of sleepwalking half-wits who moved without thinking, their blind, unblinking, cataractal eyes fixed upon a vague point in the distance, while their mouths hinged open and closed with synchronized precision. His envy evaporated, like mist before dragonfire, as he realized something else about the Dreamers: they were neither a conspiratorial group nor a political organization, nor even a martial one. In actuality, they were a cult, devoted to their dreams and to their Speaker above all else.