Opposite the entrance, on the other side of the brazier and pavilion, was a long double arcade with stone chairs set between the carved columns, empty save for dust and memories. The arcade ended at a wide altar of ashen stone, behind which ascended several steps to a high-backed stone chair, cold and grey and carved with arcane patterns.
And reclining upon that unforgiving throne was Bachel in all her stark, imperious glory. A single shaft of light illuminated her from above—the beam filtered through some cleverly hidden window—and it rimmed her as if with holy radiance. Unlike before, she wore an elaborate headpiece of jade and leather that was black and polished to an oily sheen. Her dress was red and, again, sewn from strips of knotted straps. Rubies and emeralds glinted from the rings on her thumbs.
She was sipping from a cup of carved quartz, her eyes liquid amber in the glow from the brazier.
In every aspect, she presented an imposing figure, and a deep disquiet formed within Murtagh. It felt as if he were approaching a source of secret power; he could nearly taste the energy emanating from Bachel, as if she were the physical embodiment of some enormous force. Even Galbatorix, he thought, would have hesitated before the witch.
Three acolytes were arrayed before Bachel and the altar, kneeling on the mosaic, hoods drawn over their faces, hands pressed together in prayer. A single grey-robed villager—a dwarf seemingly of middle age—stood in their midst, and he said, “…twelve upon twelve, and the black swan burst into fire over the field of battle, and—”
Bachel lifted a finger, stopping him. “You have had another vision of victory, Genvek.”
The dwarf tugged on his braided beard. “There is yet more, Speaker. After the swan, I saw—”
“You may tell me of it later, my child,” Bachel said as Grieve arrived at the altar, with Murtagh trailing behind.
The witch, Murtagh noticed, seemed none the worse for wear after her indulgence at the feast. Bachel smiled, and her teeth shone translucent as polished cowrie shells in the pale light from above. “This court has a guest that needs attending. Begone for the nonce.”
Genvek the dwarf appeared put out, but he tugged on his beard again, bowed, and departed with a black glare directed toward Murtagh.
“Come now, Kingkiller,” said Bachel, her voice proud and strong. “Approach that I may see you more clearly.”
Murtagh obliged. He stepped between the acolytes and stood before them, though he hated to have anyone at his back.
Bachel’s smile widened as she studied him. Then she gestured at the temple in a most elegant manner, the gems on her fingers tracing constellations through the air. “Welcome to the Court of Crows, Murtagh Morzansson. It has been over half a century since last a Rider stood here.”
And was that Saerlith or another of the Forsworn? Or Galbatorix himself? Murtagh wondered.
Before he could reply to Bachel, she said, “And welcome to thee as well, Dragon Thorn.”
Murtagh turned to see that Thorn had stuck his head into the entrance of the presence chamber. The dragon did not dare more than that, but Murtagh was still grateful to have him near.
Feeling somewhat more confident, he said, “I must admit, I see no crows, Lady.”
The witch laughed, and her husky voice echoed off the shadowed ceiling. “Look closer, Kingkiller. There is much you do not see.”
Murtagh hated being told that he didn’t understand something. And he especially hated when it was true.
Forcing an expression of polite blandness, he turned his gaze upward while also extending outward with his consciousness. Scores of tiny minds immediately appeared above him, as rings of candles set about a ritual space. Crows. A whole flock of them perched along the underside of the ceiling, on cornices and carvings and beams of stone. Now that he knew what to listen for, he could hear the noises as they clucked and muttered and moved about on their tapping claws. And yet none of them cawed, and he saw no droppings on the mosaic below.
He raised an eyebrow. “The floor is very clean.”
Bachel’s smile grew mysterious. “The crows are my kin. I speak to them, and they answer. I command them, and they obey, as do all of my children.” Then she raised a hand and said, “Come,” and he heard magic in the word: a compulsion that nearly caused him to step forward before he mastered himself.
With a soft gale of flapping wings, the crows descended in a black cloud and settled upon the back and arms of Bachel’s throne and on the dais surrounding her. As one, the dire flock fixed their ghostly eyes upon Murtagh—white irises stark and staring in the chamber’s gloom.
Bachel chuckled and clucked fondly at the birds. One of them hopped close to her, and she scratched it on the head and under the beak while the bird closed its eyes in apparent bliss.
“You see, Kingkiller,” she said, “Speaker I am, but also am I the Queen of Crows.”
There was an unreality to the image of her sitting regnant amid the murmuring multitude, a specter-like quality that made Murtagh feel as if the world had shifted sideways and he was no longer in a place where the familiar rules of nature held sway, but rather an older, wilder sort of reasoning.
He heard Thorn release a low hiss at the front of the chamber.
Murtagh made a small bow. “The extent of your power is truly impressive, Lady Bachel. It seems even the common crow recognizes your authority.”
“Crows are far from common,” said Bachel. She cooed at the bird she was scratching. “Did you know, my son, that the Urgals believe crows carry the souls of the dead to their afterlife?”
“I did not.”
She nodded. “The sight of the crow fills an Urgal with immense dread, but an Urgal will also go to great lengths to help a crow in need or to avoid hurting one, for they think that if they anger the crows, the birds will refuse to carry them to the fields of their ancestors once they die.”
“And what do you believe, my Lady?”
Bachel lifted an eyebrow. Then she said, “Go,” and her voice rang with power. The birds took off in a flurry into the shadows above. “I believe that crows are hungry and they have no scruples as to how they sate their appetite, which is why you will always find them gathered on the field of battle to feast on the fallen.”
Murtagh’s lip curled with revulsion. “A grim reckoning and an unpleasant habit, my Lady.”
The witch sipped from her cup, unconcerned. “You cannot fault them for their nature.”
“Neither do I have to praise them for it.”
Bachel inclined her head. “That is true.” Then her eyes narrowed, and the amber in them darkened. “Tell me, my child, did you rest well last night?”
“Well enough.”
Her gaze further sharpened. “And did you and Thorn dream? You must have. All creatures in this vale dream, even crows.”
She asks most eagerly, said Thorn.
That she does. Murtagh toyed with the ruby set in Zar’roc’s pommel as he considered. He didn’t want to tell Bachel anything too personal, but he was curious how she would interpret their visions. Whatever she said could reveal more about the Dreamers than he would reveal about himself.
So he told her, leaving out but one detaiclass="underline" Nasuada’s appearance in his dream. That was too personal, and Murtagh had no intention of dissecting its meaning with a stranger.
“And what of you, Thorn?” asked Bachel. “What saw you?”
Thorn growled softly. I saw much the same.