He hesitated, and then he rose to his feet in a single graceful movement, came over to the slab, and began to unfasten the padded restraints around her wrists and ankles. “Don’t think you can kill me,” he said in a low voice. “You can’t.”
As soon as she was free, he retreated to his former position and again lowered himself onto the floor, where he sat staring into the distance. It was, she thought, his attempt to give her some privacy as she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the slab. Her shift was in tatters—burned through in dozens of locations—and it did a poor job of concealing her form, not that it had covered much to begin with.
The marble floor was cool against the soles of her feet as she made her way over to Murtagh and sat next to him. She wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to preserve her modesty.
“Was Tornac really your only friend growing up?” she asked.
Murtagh still did not look at her. “No, but he was as close to a father as I’ve ever had. He taught me, comforted me … berated me when I was too arrogant, and saved me from making a fool of myself more times than I can remember. If he were still alive, he would have beaten me silly for getting as drunk as I did the other day.”
“You said he died during your escape from Urû’baen?”
He snorted. “I thought I was being clever. I bribed one of the watchmen to leave a side gate open for us. We were going to slip out of the city under the cover of darkness, and Galbatorix was only supposed to find out what had happened once it was too late to catch us. He knew from the very start, though. How, I’m not sure, but I guess he was scrying me the whole while. When Tornac and I went through the gate, we found soldiers waiting for us on the other side.… Their orders were to bring us back unharmed, but we fought, and one of them killed Tornac. The finest swordsman in all the Empire brought down by a knife in the back.”
“But Galbatorix let you escape.”
“I don’t think he expected us to fight. Besides, his attention was directed elsewhere that night.”
She frowned as she saw the oddest half smile appear on Murtagh’s face.
“I counted the days,” he said. “That was when the Ra’zac were in Palancar Valley, searching for Saphira’s egg. So you see, Eragon lost his foster father almost at the same time I lost mine. Fate has a cruel sense of humor, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it does.… But if Galbatorix could scry you, why didn’t he track you down and bring you back to Urû’baen later on?”
“He was playing with me, I think. I went to stay at the estate of a man I believed I could trust. As usual, I was mistaken, though I only found that out later, once the Twins brought me back here. Galbatorix knew where I was, and he knew I was still angry over Tornac’s death, so he was content to leave me at the estate while he hunted for Eragon and Brom.… I surprised him, though; I left, and by the time he learned of my disappearance, I was already on my way to Dras-Leona. That’s why Galbatorix went to Dras-Leona, you know. It wasn’t to chastise Lord Tábor over his behavior—although he certainly did—it was to find me. But he was too late. By the time he arrived at the city, I had already met up with Eragon and Saphira, and we had set off for Gil’ead.”
“Why did you leave?” she asked.
“Didn’t Eragon tell you? Because—”
“No, not Dras-Leona. Why did you leave the estate? You were safe there, or so you thought. So why did you leave?”
Murtagh was quiet for a while. “I wanted to strike back at Galbatorix, and I wanted to make a name for myself apart from my father’s. My whole life, people have looked at me differently because I am the son of Morzan. I wanted them to respect me for my deeds, not his.” He finally looked at her, a quick glance out of the corner of one eye. “I suppose I got what I wanted, but again, fate has a cruel sense of humor.”
She wondered if there had been anyone else in Galbatorix’s court whom he had cared for, but she decided it would be a dangerous topic to broach. So, instead, she asked, “How much does Galbatorix really know about the Varden?”
“Everything, so far as I can tell. He has more spies than you think.”
She pressed her arms against her belly as her gut twisted. “Do you know of any way to kill him?”
“A knife. A sword. An arrow. Poison. Magic. The usual ways. The problem is, he has too many spells wound about himself for anyone or anything to have a chance of harming him. Eragon is luckier than most; Galbatorix doesn’t want to kill him, so he may get to attack the king more than once. But even if Eragon could attack him a hundred times, he wouldn’t find a way past Galbatorix’s wards.”
“Every puzzle has a solution, and every man has a weakness,” Nasuada insisted. “Does he love any of his concubines?”
The look on Murtagh’s face answered her well enough. Then he said, “Would it be so bad if Galbatorix remains king? The world he envisions is a good world. If he defeats the Varden, the whole of Alagaësia will finally be at peace. He’ll put an end to the misuse of magic; elves, dwarves, and humans will no longer have cause to hate each other. What’s more, if the Varden lose, Eragon and I can be together as brothers ought to be. But if they win, it’ll mean the death of Thorn and me. It’ll have to.”
“Oh? And what of me?” she asked. “If Galbatorix wins, shall I become his slave, to order about as he wills?” Murtagh refused to answer, but she saw the tendons on the back of his hands tighten. “You can’t give up, Murtagh.”
“What other choice do I have!” he shouted, filling the room with echoes.
She stood and stared down at him. “You can fight! Look at me.… Look at me!”
He reluctantly lifted his gaze.
“You can find ways to work against him. That’s what you can do! Even if your oaths will allow only the smallest of rebellions, the smallest of rebellions might still prove to be his undoing.” She restated his question for effect. “What other choice do you have? You can go around feeling helpless and miserable for the rest of your life. You can let Galbatorix turn you into a monster. Or you can fight!” She spread her arms so that he could see all of the burn marks on her. “Do you enjoy hurting me?”
“No!” he exclaimed.
“Then fight, blast you! You have to fight or you will lose everything you are. As will Thorn.”
She held her ground as he sprang to his feet, lithe as a cat, and moved toward her until he was only a few inches away. The muscles in his jaw bunched and knotted while he glowered at her, breathing heavily through his nostrils. She recognized his expression, for it was one she had seen many times before. His was the look of a man whose pride had been offended and who wanted to lash out at the person who had insulted him. It was dangerous to keep pushing him, but she knew she had to, for she might never get the chance again.
“If I can keep fighting,” she said, “then so can you.”
“Back to the stone,” he said in a harsh voice.
“I know you’re not a coward, Murtagh. Better to die than to live as a slave to one such as Galbatorix. At least then you might accomplish some good, and your name might be remembered with a measure of kindness after you’re gone.”