Part 11

Murtagh steeled himself as he stood outside the king's quarters, trying to gain the courage it would take to beg something of this magnitude of the king. The only thing keeping his throat from closing in anxiety was the fact that it needed to be done. It had to be done. He held his chin high, clenched his fists, and took a deep breath as he pushed open the giant doors.

The king was not in his throne as he usually was, but this time was standing in the open doors of his own balcony, looking out over the lands below. He slowly turned, eyeing Murtagh critically.

Murtagh knelt, lowering his head in obedience and waiting for the king to reply.

"Rise," Galbatorix stated simply, striding over and circling him once, still looking him over.

Murtagh stood, his nerves jumping when the king was directly behind him.

"I see you are feeling better," Galbatorix sneered, obviously mocking Murtagh's state the previous night.

"Yes, my lord. And, as I hear, all thanks to your generous hospitality," Murtagh said, half intending the statement to be sarcastic, half not. He waited to judge the king's reaction.

Galbatorix paused, narrowing his eyes, but did not comment. "As I gleaned from your memories when I was repairing the damage, you allowed such an injury to happen. So I have little sympathy."

Murtagh had a hard time believing the king could ever show sympathy.

"First, you dismounted Thorn," Galbatorix continued. "Then, you removed your wards. Then, after all these signs that you would receive injury, you allowed yourself to be distracted."

Murtagh sighed, remembering how Carrogan's eyes had been the same as Moira's.

"I apologize for any inconvenience it may have caused you," Murtagh said, setting his face into one of pacification.

Galbatorix again narrowed his eyes in condescension, but did not act. "Why have you come to me, Murtagh?" the king asked flatly, turning and walking to his throne, where he simply stood, waiting for a reply.

Murtagh took a deep breath. "To ask something of you, my lord," he said, lowering his gaze from the king's, afraid of what he might find within it.

"You wish a favor of me?" Galbatorix hissed. "After what constant failures you have brought me? When you have done nothing to merit such a deed? Why should I?"

"I…" Murtagh began, looking back up. "I only wish to return something to her. An inheritance. And I will swear oaths that it will be the last time," Murtagh said, his words sounding begged.

The king thought deeply. He obviously despised the idea of granting Murtagh the opportunity to see Moira again. But the concept of having Murtagh swear that he never would again enticed him.

Galbatorix rubbed his slight beard as he thought. "On the one hand," he began, pacing before his throne. "I am allowing you a privilege which you have never given reason to earn. You do not teach a dog tricks by allowing it to behave badly."

Murtagh fidgeted under the comparison, but did not speak.

"On the other hand, I could force you to denounce your own weakness, which I have already tried to do once and failed. And then there is a third option," the king said, stepping down from his throne and approaching Murtagh. He stared a cold, bottomless glare at Murtagh, one Murtagh almost could not hold. "I could force you to swear that you will never see her again right now, and spare myself indulging you."

Murtagh sighed, not having thought of that. Galbatorix could easily force him to swear to it by order of his true name. He bit his lip in frustration; staring back at the king with what he was sure was a desperate face.

"However," the king said, an epiphany obviously striking him. "I do like the idea of you having to go to her, knowing it will never happen again. To have something within your grasp, so close you can taste it's sweet nectar, and yet having to let it slip," the king made the motion of dropping something, "through your fingers."

Anger boiled up at the king's ferocity, but again, he bade himself remain silent.

"Yes, I believe I like this idea very much," the king said contently, smiling a mirthless smile to himself. "Kneel," the king commanded, and Murtagh did so obediently.

When the king spoke, it was a binding contract in the ancient language, beginning with his true name. "Will you swear, that upon departing, it will be your last travel in that particular direction? Do you swear, that upon seeing Moira, it will be the last time you do so? Will you swear to never speak to me of her again? Will you swear to it?"

Murtagh clenched his fists, bit his lip, and swallowed his anxiety. "I swear."

The king, having no more to say to Murtagh, dismissed him with a wave of his hand and a turned back. Murtagh thought deeply about what he had just done as he walked through the halls back to his quarters.

Murtagh shoved open the doors to his room, considering the repercussions of this.

So? Thorn asked, staring with raised eyebrows.

Well… he said yes, Murtagh said. But only because he knows it will hurt me, having to say goodbye.

Thorn looked at him sympathetically, and nudged him with his snout. It will be alright, Bjartkala. You know it is for the best. That alone makes you an incredible man.

I don't feel that way, Murtagh said, taking Carrogan's ring from his pants' pocket and staring into the gem's depths.

Thorn was silent for a while, watching Murtagh closely. He then huffed a sigh and stood.

So what are you waiting for? The young red dragon asked, a bit more chipper this time. Let's go see her!

Murtagh smiled at Thorn's enthusiasm. Alright, he said, not bothering with the saddle.

Thorn knelt, Murtagh crawled on, and they headed straight out the balcony. You know exactly where we're headed? Thorn asked as his wings caught the draft that collided with the building and diverted upwards, sending him straight into the mid-afternoon sky.

Not exactly, Murtagh replied, closing his eyes and just feeling the wind. But the longer it takes me to find it, the longer we're away, right?

Sounds like a plan to me, Thorn said gleefully, shaking his head in delight.

The flight to Dras-Leona would take longer than the flight to Altair, Murtagh new. So he had time to think of many things. First, he thought of Eragon. It was a topic his mind frequently went to, just out of sheer nostalgia. He thought of Eragon's solution to their problem.

I do wonder how, exactly, one can change so much as to alter their true name. Especially without becoming better or worse. Eragon said we would just have to be different, Murtagh said aimlessly to Thorn.

I do not know. Every way I have thought of would make us worse. And, as you told him, we do the best we can. There is hardly a way to become better, Thorn said.

Murtagh, sighed, puzzled. I just don't know. And even if we did, what would we do? I do not want to join the Varden. First, I want to get as far from the king as possible, and fighting against him would hardly do that. Second, as I told Eragon when I joined with him all that time ago, I do not share his vendetta against the Empire. The king is flawed, the means of upholding law is flawed, but the system itself is sound.

We could always just flee. Fly as far from here as possible. Where the king could not find us, where the Varden could not find us. They certainly will not let us live, after you killed the dwarf king.

Oh yes, that, Murtagh sighed. Not to mention our work for the king. I scarcely think they would find our servitude excuse enough to save us from consequence.

I still cling to the hope that Eragon and Saphira would understand, Thorn said.

Yes, but even the great Eragon is bound by fealty to them. If they wish our death, he must provide it. We are truly stuck, no matter what happens, Murtagh groaned.

All the more reason to live for the moment now, Thorn said, pulling in his wings and flying faster toward Dras-Leona.

As the great lake city of Dras-Leona began to loom nearer, Murtagh's mind went to Carrogan and the ring. He began to wonder if Moira would even forgive him for the death of her brother. This trip could end up being a very brief one. She might just take the ring and banish him.

He truly hoped not. She was his one escape. The one thing he could hold for his own. The one person who had shown faith and trust when no one else would. He wanted his last moments with her to be cherished. But if she bade him go, then he would. He never knew why, but he was forever bound by a deep sense of propriety. Not so much in his interactions with men. Diplomacy was below him. But with women; any women, he felt a higher power to treat them with dignity. He had not encountered many women in his lifetime; Nasuada and Moira being the only two prominent ones. But he had shown them respect. And he would not cease that now, when the woman's fate depended on his strength of will.

He sighed as Dras-Leona crept ever nearer. Here we go, he moaned to Thorn.

He could nearly feel Thorn's smile as he tucked his wings and dove toward the great city, angling over it and to its border on the shore of the lake. Murtagh scanned the banks, already seeing terrified people running from their homes and looking to the skies as if expecting their doom to come in the form of the great ruby flying above them. And indeed it might. Just not today.

It took him only moments to spot the massive vineyard. There were tall, blooming trees lined in neat rows against the shore, and before them was a massive estate. The home was made in a dark wood, and was at least two stories. As Thorn circled and turned back to land, Murtagh saw a balcony overlooking the trees, and beyond those, the lake. That must have been where Moira was standing when he had located her. He smiled at the mere thought of seeing her again.

Moira, he sighed.