Chapter Text
Eragon leaned forward and pressed himself to the comforting familiarity of Saphira’s scales, shielding himself from the bitter wind.
It would have been warmer if you had agreed to buy those furs in Gil’ead , Saphira’s voice hummed in his head.
You know I didn’t want to make a high profile of myself , Eragon told her. And I don’t appreciate your tone.
Saphira snickered. Eragon rolled his eyes good naturedly.
They flew high, leagues above the snow covered ground. The Ninor River snaked a fine line across the land that Saphira followed. It was icy cold this time of year as they headed north, the water harsh and unforgiving. Eragon had elected not to swim in it, even as Saphira had splashed around with Thorn the night before. Dragons.
A flash of brilliant red at the edge of Eragon’s vision pulled him away from the shelter of Saphira’s neck. He looked over to where Thorn and Murtagh had pulled up alongside them.
It had been seven years since the downfall of the king, five since Eragon had returned to Alagaesia from the East, and four since he’d reunited with Murtagh. And still, every time he laid eyes on the man Eragon’s heart lept a little in his chest.
“Thorn sees Daret up ahead!” Murtagh called, his voice smokey hoarse as the wind carried it over to Eragon. “Where do you want to land?”
There’s a clearing to the west , Saphira projected the image of what she saw to Thorn as well as Eragon.
“It’s better if we leave the dragons where people won’t gawk,” Eragon shouted back to Murtagh.
“So you’re saying we don’t want to repeat Gil’ead?”
“I still blame that entirely on you,” Ergaon said, and Murtagh laughed a deep and infectious laugh.
Eragon smiled to himself. He looked back to the ground, where Saphira was slowly making her descent. He squinted, and saw the speck of the city growing bigger by the second.
He felt Saphira’s mood brighten even as they left the sky. Eragon probed her mind gently, wondering why she felt so good. Usually, stopping their flight left her in a sour temperament.
I am happy because you’re happy , she answered him. Murtagh is good for you. Besides, staying outside the city and away from you is much more bearable when I have Thorn with me.
Eragon cleared his throat with a blush as Saphira’s thoughts wandered to her mate.
You act like a prude , she teased him. It’s not as if you and Murtagh aren’t by the campfire every night, going at it like--
Enough! He was suddenly thankful for the cold wind as something to blame his redness on.
He had himself composed by the time the dragons landed in the clearing with a resounding boom, sweeping the snow away with their massive tails. Eragon slid out of the saddle and stretched his legs with a wince. Murtagh dismounted too, shaking his long hair out of his eyes. Little ice chunks dotted the dark strands, and Eragon stared. He wanted nothing more than to run his hands through that hair and let the snow melt against his skin.
“What are you looking at?” Murtagh asked him, a knowing grin starting to spread across his face.
“Nothing,” Eragon told him quickly, looking away.
Murtagh chuckled, the sound deep and rich. Eragon shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“A little,” Eragon admitted, which was the truth though not why he had shivered.
“Here,” Murtagh stepped forward and shrugged off his outermost coat. “You should have gotten those furs in Gil’ead.”
Saphira snorted her consent in the background, and Eragon mustered up a glare even as he snuggled into Murtagh’s coat.
“We were already causing too much of a scene, I didn’t want to go into the outskirts of town and leave rumors in our wake the size of the Hadarac.”
“Ah yes, the great Kingkiller, Shadeslayer, Dragon Rider out to purchase some furs. They would have been talking about you for years,” the grin on Murtagh’s face had only grown.
Eragon resisted the urge to stick out his tongue like a child.
“I could have gone for you, you know,” Murtagh said. His voice grew serious as he stepped forward.
Eragon swallowed. “You hate being recognized more than I do.”
Murtagh’s jaw tensed. Ergaon reached up to rest his gloved hand softly against his brother’s cheek. Murtagh let out a small exhale, like he did every time Eragon touched him. It was as if he still couldn’t believe Eragon would do such a thing.
Then Eragon took his hand away and the moment had passed.
“We can head into town whenever you’re ready,” he said, turning to get his bags from Saphira’s back. “We made good time. The council will be expecting us.”
“They’re expecting you ,” Murtagh grumbled. “The hero of Alagaesia. Not his treacherous brother.”
Eragon sighed. He had lost count of the number of times they had entertained this conversation. Admittedly it had happened a lot more in the early years, where Murtagh and Eragon were still dancing around each other’s feelings and it wasn’t uncommon for the Red Rider to be thrown out of places heavily populated by the former Varden.
“You have been cleared of your crimes, Murtagh,” Eragon said. “And no one knows you are my brother.”
Murtagh was looking down at his feet when Eragon turned back to him. He walked over and grasped the other’s hand, causing Murtagh to look up. His eyes burned.
“Besides,” Eragon told him. “Where you go, I go.”
A small smile twitched at the corner of Murtagh’s mouth, and Eragon rewarded him with a chaste kiss.
“Now let’s go sign a treaty.”
*
The city of Daret was filthy. Eragon dodged piles of horse dung melting with grey snow as starving dogs nipped at his heels. On every corner someone huddled wrapped in rotten blankets; sometimes it was multiple people. Eragon felt his heart clench at the sight. The king had fallen, but the empire still had a long way to go.
Things are improving, little one, Saphira’s voice rang in his mind. You are here to help these people.
Yes, but there must be dozens of cities in poverty like this across the land. How am I expected to bring peace and prosperity while also training new dragon riders?
With time, patience, and lots of help , she said.
Murtagh nudged him in the side, startling Eragon out of his spiraling hopelessness.
“Stop it,” he said.
“Stop what?”
“I know you’re feeling guilty again. We came here to sign a treaty, and make sure these people are paid the subsidies they deserve. Nasuada won’t let them live like this much longer.”
Eragon nodded. “I know. It’s just...”
Murtagh took his hand and squeezed it as Eragon trailed off. “I know.”
Eragon squeezed back, grateful.
They quickly dropped hands as a portly man with straggly gray hair hurried down the street towards them.
“Hello! Welcome sirs!” he wheezed, out of breath.
Eragon and Murtagh inclined their heads.
“Well met,” Eragon told the man.
The man’s eyes widened as he looked up at Eragon, taking in his slanted eyes and pointed ears. He visibly gulped.
“I-I am here to escort the Queen’s ambassador to the city council,” the man stumbled over his words, still unable to tear his eyes away from Eragon’s face.
“That is I, Eragon Shadeslayer,” Eragon said. “This is my fellow Rider, Murtagh. And you are?”
“Huidemar,” the man squeaked out, and hurriedly began to back up. “Follow me, follow me!”
Murtagh and Eragon exchanged small grins but did not comment as they followed Huidemar into the city center.
The town hall was a dingy building made of dark wood and surrounded by more desolate beggars. Huidemar paid them no mind as he pattered up the front steps and into the building. Inside was a massive chamber and a roaring fire, which instantly set Eragon more at ease. Gathered at a large table was a group of people talking in hushed tones. As Huidemar walked in with Eragon and Murtagh in tow, the conversation rustled to a halt. All eyes swiveled to them. Eragon gulped, getting ready to be the center of attention once again.
A man draped in what was obviously a bearskin stood from the head of the table. His face was laced with lines and pockmarks, and his smile curled shockingly red underneath a hooked nose.
“Welcome, Shadeslayer,” his voice set Ergaon back on edge, despite the warmth of the fire. “I am Droart Sagardson, leader of Daret.”
“Well met,” Eragon said.
“Well met,” Droart replied. “Pray tell, who is your companion?”
“This is Murtagh, my fellow Rider.”
“Well met,” Murtagh said, his speech low and careful.
An almost-sneer worked its way onto Droart’s face. “I wasn’t aware of another rider travelling with the Kingkiller. Did you fight with the Varden?”
“He serves the Queen,” Eragon answered for Murtagh, trying to keep the coldness from his voice.
Droart obviously picked up on some of it, however, because he gave another grin.
“My apologies,” he held up his hands. “Come, sit, you are honored guests at our humble council.”
Eragon and Murtagh took their seats, the high wood back chairs keeping Eragon stiff. He wished desperately to grab Murtagh’s hand, but knew that was an impossibility in front of all these people. Something had given him a very uneasy feeling in his gut. The dark chamber flickered with firelight, and Droart’s grin never left his face. He took his seat at the head of the table.
“We wait now for my trusted advisor, who will only be a minute now,” Droart said.
Eragon nodded and looked around at the other faces of the council. They were all male and all looked to be over the age of forty. He was about to brush out with his mind and sense their intentions, but something stopped him. The twisting in his gut acted as a warning.
Suddenly, the large double doors to the building opened with a bang. A tall figure stood silhouetted by the gray snow outside. It walked forward, and immediately Eragon felt his stomach drop. On instinct, he reached out to Saphira.
Saphira?
Little one?
“There he is,” Droart’s booming voice echoed. “My advisor, Otho.”
A man just walked in, I don’t like the looks of him. He feels like dark magic.
Be careful.
Eragon felt Murtagh bristle almost imperceptibly next to him, and he knew his brother had felt it too.
Otho was a tall man with skin as white as the field of snow where they’d left the dragons. His eyes sunk dark into his bald skull, and the fur he wore looked like it could make his thin frame collapse. But somehow Eragon knew he would not topple that easily.
“Ah, you must be Shadeslayer,” Otho approached Eragon’s seat, and his tone was like slime down Eragon’s spine. “I have heard the ballads sung in your name.” He turned to Murtagh, then. “I do not believe I’d heard of a second ambassador from the queen.”
If Murtagh was bothered by Otho’s forwardness, he didn’t show it. “Murtagh,” he grunted his name in two short syllables.
Otho’s eyes glittered suddenly, and Eragon’s queasy feeling only increased.
“Well met,” Otho whispered. “Well met indeed.”
“Now then,” Droart barked from the head of the table. “I believe we have a tax treaty to negotiate.”
*
Three gruelling hours later, the treaty was signed and sealed back in Eragon’s pack, ready to deliver to Nasuada. He rubbed a tired hand over his face. Politics hadn’t gotten any more fun since he was sixteen and first pledging his fealty. He’d just grown better at knowing what not to say.
Are you alright?
A voice rang in his head, and he jumped. It wasn’t Saphira, and he immediately zeroed in on Otho. He had wards up, how could the man have infiltrated his carefully guarded mind?
It’s Murtagh, dimwit. How are you?
Eragon flicked his gaze over in surprise. Murtagh never talked to Eragon in his mind. It left his own vulnerable to be examined, and the stone walls he usually had up prevented even the smallest conversation. As Eragon eased back in his chair, he couldn’t help but smile a little to himself. He was fairly certain the only people Murtagh had ever spoken to mentally were him and Thorn.
I’m alright , Eragon answered. Just exhausted.
You’re on edge, I’m not a fool, was Murtagh’s sharp response.
Eragon shifted in his seat. It was harder to hide his emotions when he had a mental link open. Especially with someone he cared about as deeply as Murtagh.
It’s Otho. I think he is some kind of magician. And he does not strike me as one who supports the Queen.
Aye, Murtagh agreed. I saw the way he looked at me. He knows who I am.
Droart’s sharp laugh cut across the room, and Murtagh abruptly severed their connection. Eragon felt a pang at the loss of contact.
“Now, to celebrate! We are in the company of the great Riders, and we shall have great mead to greet them!”
Droart clapped his hands and servants scuttled out from the waitings. The council moved to sit around the fire, most of the men lounging across benches and old upholstered chaises. Once drinks were in hand, the conversation grew louder and more boisterous. Eragon stuck close to Murtagh. The both of them drank nothing. Murtagh because he never did, and Eragon because, well, he knew how he got when he was drunk.
They mingled a little with the council members, but it soon became clear that the only reason anyone was interested in talking to them was curiosity. In a relatively small city like Daret, most people had only heard tales of the epic battles that had raged nearly a decade ago. Eragon was glad that they’d left the dragons somewhere secluded.
“Shadeslayer.”
Eragon stiffened, and slowly turned around. Otho loomed behind him, even taller than Murtagh. This meant Eragon had to tilt his head far back to meet his hooded eyes.
“Otho,” Eragon nodded.
“I am thankful you arrived today. This treaty has been long awaited.”
“Well then I am glad we could be of service.”
Otho’s grin widened at the word ‘we’. “Your companion, have you been travelling with him long?”
Eragon glanced over to where Murtagh was engaged in a conversation with a rather tipsy council member. He looked only slightly annoyed, which of course meant that on the inside he was probably seething with irritation.
“Yes,” Eragon said curtly. “We have.”
Long indeed. Eragon remembered the very first time he’d laid eyes on Murtagh after the man had saved his life, the way his heart had sped up in his chest. So much had changed since then. They’d been enemies, brothers, and now lovers. Eragon didn’t have as deep a connection with anyone on earth as much as Murtagh, barring Saphira of course.
“I must say, you look much different than I expected,” Otho continued. “Do you miss them? The elves? It must be strange being so far away from your kin.”
Eragon shivered despite the fire.
“Or are you not permitted to enter Ellesmera with him?”
Eragon looked at him sharply. He felt energy shift and crackle underneath his skin, ready to jump out. It would be so easy, he realized, to end this man. To take his voice or his eyesight, to make him quake in fear and run for the hills. He could do it. It would be simpler than blinking.
“Be careful who you insult in front of me, magician,” Eragon nearly growled.
Otho’s smile split his white face. “Not an insult, not an insult at all. On the contrary, I am a great admirer of the Red Rider. I am surprised that he would travel with the likes of you.”
Eragon could only stare. His heart hammered in his chest as he tried to control the anger pulsing through his limbs.
“Eragon.”
A voice in his ear, a hand on his back. Eragon blinked up at the face of his brother.
“Murtagh,” Otho let his tone drip with sweetness. “I’ll leave you two. Oh, and Eragon, enjoy the show tonight.”
The advisor left then, and went out through a servant’s door. Eragon watched him with a flaming gaze.
“Eragon,” Murtagh repeated. “What happened?”
“The bastard was trying to get to me,” Eragon growled. “He is one of the Vantr I know it.”
The Vantr was the name the elves gave to the last of Galbatorix’s supporters scattered throughout Alagaesia. They met secretly, plotted in sparse locations, and sometimes caused riots in cities like Uru’baen. Nasuada and Arya were working to wipe them out when they could, and it was often Eragon’s job to imprison them as they were a majority magic users.
“This far north?” Murtagh asked. “Are you sure he’s not simply...”
“He’s more than that, and you know it too,” Eragon said. “I would infiltrate his mind but it is far too crowded here.”
“What will you do?”
“I’m not sure. Possibly lure him away somehow for questioning, or confront him outside directly.”
“Do you want to leave Daret?”
Eragon turned to him sharply, shock written across his face. “What?”
Murtagh shrugged. “If there’s one Vantr here, there has to be more. I am willing to bet it would be almost half of the town, and all of the council if my conversations so far have been anything to go by. We can’t imprison all of them. We would be leaving this city to die.”
Eragon swallowed. He knew Murtagh was right. Sometimes, he had learned in his past few years as a peacemaker, the best thing to do was to walk away. But that never made it any easier.
“We should at least stay the night,” Eragon murmured reluctantly. “Leaving early would be undiplomatic and rude.”
Murtagh looked at him, a strange light on his face.
“What?”
“You’ve matured since I met you,” he said. And I really want to kiss you, echoed after in Eragon’s mind.
Eragon hoped the room was too dark for anyone to see his furious blush.
“Everyone, everyone,” Droart clapped his hands and the talking in the room buzzed to a slow halt. “As a gift to express our gratitude to the Riders, I am proud to present a performance prepared by my advisor, Otho.”
Scattered applause filled the room. Eragon and Murtagh did not join in. Then, from out the same door Otho had exited, he appeared again. This time he was followed by a group of people cloaked in shadow. Eragon saw a couple musicians ready their instruments as Otho raised his hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he purred, and his eyes met Eragon’s across the room. “For your pleasure, the Dancers of Daret.”
The room lit up with hoots and hollers as the group of people behind Otho stepped into the light. They were women, Eragon realized in a flash. Women clad in next to nothing. He gulped and had the uncomfortable urge to shield his eyes.
Music started in the background, a heavy northern melody that Eragon thought wouldn’t have sounded too out of place at Carvahall. But the dancers, on the other hand, would have scandalized his old village. The men seated around the fire didn’t seem too scandalized. In fact, Eragon flitted his gaze around the room and only saw predatory hunger in their faces. He felt ill.
The dancers swayed their way to the center, moving in synchronization. Their hips jangled with metal disks and their ankles and wrists shimmered with false jewels.
Suddenly, a voice whispered in Eragon’s ear. It took all of his willpower not to jump.
“If you miss the elves too terribly, Shadeslayer,” Otho sneered. “I think I have something that can satisfy you for tonight.”
“Wha--” Eragon started, but was immediately cut short.
A figure danced out from the doorway, and the dancers parted for it. When it stepped into the light of the fire, Eragon couldn’t hold back a gasp. He heard Murtagh’s soft inhale next to him.
It was an elf. Of that there was no doubt.
He had rich dark skin adorned with metal jewelry all the way up to a golden band around his neck. His hair was a shocking white and fell in curls past his chin, a color Eragon had never seen before. And he was terribly, alarmingly beautiful.
The elf spun to the center of the dancers, obviously the main attraction. The men around the room salvated at his exoticness, but the elf did not seem fazed. In fact, Eragon narrowed his gaze, were his eyes... closed?
When the elf started to dance, it was as if time itself stood still.
Eragon suddenly felt fingers lace with his own, and he glanced over at Murtagh. Murtagh’s gaze was fixed on the elf, eyes swimming with something unreadable. Eragon looked back at the dancers and felt his heart pound in his chest.
The elf moved with more grace than he had ever seen. Each twist of his torso, each extension of his arm seemed to be like music itself. The human dancers paled in comparison to the dark skinned creature wreathed in gold. Eragon found himself gripping tight to Murtagh’s hand. Murtagh gripped back just as hard.
It was on the third song, the human dancers clearly starting to tire, when the elf opened his eyes. And he looked right at Eragon.
Eragon gasped at what he saw.
They were a brilliant gold -- and filled with an agonizing pain. And when they landed on Eragon, they widened. They darted to Eragon’s ears then back to his face before the elf twirled away again, breaking their contact. Eragon didn’t realize he hadn’t been breathing until the elf looked away.
Murtagh , he cried out in his mind, barraging the other’s mind barricade. There’s something wrong with the elf!
I see it too, Murtagh answered, thoughts tinged with a simmering anger. Reach out to him.
But if Otho is protecting the dancers...
There is nothing he can do to you, Murtagh said. You are the most powerful sorcerer in Alagaesia.
Eragon reached out with his mind carefully. When it brushed against a vast consciousness, the elf stumbled in his dancing and his uncanny gold eyes darted about the room. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice. Not even Otho.
Who are you? Eragon asked in the ancient language, at the same time projecting peace and comfort into his thoughts.
The response crashed into Eragon like a tidal wave. He stifled a gasp, and Murtagh looked over at him with a worried expression. The elf’s mind was unlike any Eragon had ever felt. Colors, images, feelings all overwhelmed him, and each screamed the same thing: desolation.
Please, tell me how I can help you, Eragon said desperately. I am a dragon rider and a friend, let me help you.
But the elf did not give him an answer. In fact, it slowly dawned on Eragon that there was not a single word to be found in the elf’s mind. It was only images and emotions; there was no language attached. The elf continued to dance, and once again he spun around so his eyes could land on Eragon’s.
They were deep, and filled with aching. Eragon wanted nothing more than to pull the elf away from the dancers and into a backbreaking hug.
It was over all too quickly. The music stopped as one of the council members fell to the floor drunk, and Droart heaved a laugh. Otho slunk over to usher the dancers back out of the room.
Eragon, finding himself thoroughly shaken, turned to Murtagh. He wanted to reach out to Saphira, but felt he couldn’t properly convey what had just happened.
“The elf,” Murtagh whispered. “Is he...”
The question trailed off into nothing and everything. Eragon simply shook his head helplessly, even though that wasn’t a proper answer.
“Sirs?” a weasely voice piped up from behind them.
Huidemar stood before them, wringing his hands. “If it is pleasing to you, I can show you to your chambers for the night.”
Eragon opened his mouth to protest. The elf! They had to find him and help him! But Murtagh caught his arm before he could speak.
“That would be suitable, Huidemar,” Murtagh said calmly.
Eragon reached out his thoughts to ask Murtagh what he was doing, but was met with the usual iron border around Murtagh’s mind. He huffed, and followed Huidemar out of the town hall. He was glad to be leaving Otho behind. But the thought of the elf caused Eragon to almost turn back, Murtagh be damned.
Outside, the cold accosted them with vigor. Eragon pulled Murtagh’s coat tighter around himself, burying his nose in the fur. The musk was familiar. It comforted him slightly as they walked out into the dark and dirty streets.
Eragon grew more uneasy with each step. They were leaving someone behind, someone who needed help. And if two of the most powerful people in Alagaesia couldn’t help the elf, then who could?
He took a deep breath, and contacted Saphira.
I’m about to do something dangerous, he told her. Stay where you are.
He felt her anger without her having to say anything, but he blocked her out. He needed to focus. He grabbed onto Murtagh’s hand without explanation and closed his eyes.
If Otho really was a magician, Eragon was about to find out quickly.
He spread his mind out like a blanket, sensing everyone and everything. With a quick exhale he had encompassed the entire town. He only had to search for a second. There -- a bright flare behind the town hall. He knew it was Otho immediately. He felt the magician’s shock and indignation at being touched in the mind as he began to throw up barriers. Eragon plowed through his defenses like butter. Otho tried to launch an attack, but his spell didn’t breach Eragon’s outermost wards.
He searched for other magic the magician was using, and found what he was looking for. Otho had a permanent spell cast over a group of people. Eragon recognized the elf’s consciousness even though he’d only come into contact with it for a moment. It was still just as wild, disorganized and pained.
Eragon’s eyes flew open. Murtagh was already staring at him, grey eyes curious and a little worried.
“They’re behind the town hall,” Eragon said, paying no mind to Huidemar. “Otho is a magician. He is keeping the elf under some sort of spell. We have to go to him Murtagh.”
Murtagh gave a hardened sigh. “Why are you always so stubborn about the dangerous things?”
“He’s barely a magician, you could stop him in a heartbeat.”
“Perhaps, but we don’t know what he could do to that elf.”
Eragon swallowed. “Come on.”
“What is the plan?”
“I don’t know, but we best think of something. He knows we’re coming.”
They turned back towards the hall, ignoring Huidemar’s questioning protests. The wind picked up in the dark, lanterns flickering in the grimy windows they passed. Eragon felt his heart in his throat. Something gripped him as he pictured the sad, golden eyes of the dark skinned elf. What elf could possibly be kept under the spell of a lesser magician?
Eragon skidded to a halt, ice soaking through his boots. Murtagh stopped behind him, Zar’roc already drawn. Eragon rested his hand on the hilt of Brisingr.
Otho stood before them in the alleyway, a sinister smile curling on his lips. He held the elf against his chest, a knife against the creature’s throat.
“Ah, I knew you’d be back for him,” Otho sneered. “Too beautiful to ignore, eh? He’s very obedient, will do whatever you ask. As long as he has this on of course.”
Otho stroked the golden collar around the elf’s neck. Eragon’s eyes narrowed. That must be where the spell was concentrated.
“Slaves,” Murtagh suddenly spoke from beside Eragon. The shaking anger in his voice nearly cowed Eragon. Even Otho took a step back, knuckles white around the hilt of the knife. “You’re keeping those dancers as slaves.”
Behind Otho, Eragon could sense the shivering souls of the rest of the dancers.
“The slave trade was abolished the day Galbatorix died,” Eragon said, not taking his eyes off Otho and the elf.
Otho grinned. “And yet, who came to liberate them? You? The great Shadeslayer, Kingkiller, hero of Alagaesia?”
Eragon felt tears prick at his eyes. It was the voice of his worst nightmares and fears come to life. He hadn’t done enough. Keeper of the peace, gods, how had he been keeping the peace? He couldn’t get his mind around words, but he didn’t have to. Murtagh stepped forward, eyes dark and dangerous. His sword glittered in the night.
“This is your last chance to let them go,” Murtagh whispered, voice soft.
“Let them go?” Otho barked out a laugh. “How has the Red Rider fallen so far?”
Murtagh twisted his sword in his hand. Otho’s eyes flicked to where Eragon stood. Something like understanding passed across his face.
“Ah, I see,” he hissed. “The Queen’s pet Rider has become Morzansson’s little whore--”
He couldn’t get another word out. For Eragon heard Murtagh murmur a word so quickly in the ancient language he couldn’t catch it. Suddenly, Otho’s face seemed to be turning even paler. He let go of the knife; the sound of metal clanging against the stone rang through the alleyway. The elf collapsed to the ground like a doll. Otho reached up to claw at his throat, eyes growing more and more panicked. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, searching for air.
“Murtagh,” Eragon looked over to where his half brother glared forward.
Murtagh stood with a wicked glower on his face. He was tense, and when Eragon tried to brush his mind it was even more harshly guarded than usual. He swallowed. It was in moments like these where Eragon remembered facing Murtagh as his enemy, fearing for his life at the tip of his sword.
“Murtagh,” Eragon repeated, louder this time. “Let him go, don’t kill him, he can set the slaves free.”
But Murtagh didn’t stop. It became clear that he wasn’t even hearing Eragon when Otho’s eyelids started to flutter.
“Murtagh!”
But it was too late. Otho collapsed to the ground, his light gone out in Eragon’s mind. Eragon choked at the loss of energy, and he clutched at his chest. Murtagh seemed to come to his senses a moment later, shaking out his dark hair. He blinked over at Eragon, who looked at him in shock.
“You killed him,” he said, hushed. “You killed him.”
“He called you a whore,” Murtagh said bluntly. “He was Vantr. He kept slaves .”
Eragon was no stranger to death, but it still cut him raw every time he witnessed it. The feeling of a whole person being extinguished... he gulped and tried to compose himself. It was Murtagh. Murtagh who loved him and only killed for a reason. Only killed for a reason now, anyway.
“I’m not sorry for his death,” Murtagh said quietly. “But I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Eragon nodded with a stone in his throat. “Let’s get the elf.”
“I’ll go make sure the other dancers are free of Otho’s spell.”
Eragon shook himself and started to approach the elf. He searched out for Saphira on the way.
I’m safe, he told her. Murtagh and I will be out soon.
Her only response was simmering anger.
He knelt down next to the elf. His knees got instantly soaked with melted snow and he reached out to gently turn the elf over on his back. Eragon exhaled at the sight of him. Gods, he was beautiful. His eyes were closed, large and slanted. His pointed ears stuck out from his thin head, tangled in his brilliant white hair. Eragon reached out on a whim and tucked a strand behind his ear.
Then there was an unexpected flash of gold. The elf had opened his eyes. Eragon blinked at him, unable to look away.
“Hello,” he breathed.
The elf blinked back.
“I’m Eragon,” he said, this time not using the ancient language. “What’s your name?”
The elf said nothing, merely blinking slowly. His breathing was a little erratic. Eragon bit his lip, then decided to try something. He reached out with his mind, this time not relying on words. He sent the elf a feeling, the most recent one of comfort he could remember: snuggling into Murtagh’s coat right after leaving the town hall.
The reaction was instantaneous. A calm seemed to settle over the elf, and his breathing slowed to a more reasonable rate. His conscious tentatively brushed Eragon’s in return, and Eragon’s mind was flooded with the color green and the smell of bread baking. Comfort. Eragon found himself smiling.
The elf’s golden eyes blinked slowly one last time, and then they were closed. Eragon did a quick scan of his body, knowing that he was probably extremely injured, malnourished, or both. At least he wasn’t dead. Eragon ignored the body of the magician lying next to them as he scooped the elf into his arms . He was light, the smallest elf Eragon had ever seen actually, so it was not any strain to pick him up.
Just then, Murtagh emerged back into the alleyway.
“The rest of the dancers are free. The spells over them broke with Otho’s death.”
Eragon sighed with relief. “Did you send them off?”
Murtagh nodded. “Summoned some silver for each of them. They’re going to be alright if they make it to Yazuac. What of the elf?”
Eragon shook his head. “I think the spell is kept in the collar. It might be impairing his ability to speak.”
“Can we get it off?”
Murtagh approached the elf in Eragon’s arms, tracing the gold metal band around his neck.
“There’s no seam,” he muttered. “I think it’s magically sealed. If we don’t know the exact enchantment put on it, we might not be able to remove it without hurting him.”
“We just have to get out of Daret,” Eragon said. “Get back to the dragons. We can plan from there.”
They both looked at each other for a moment, things unsaid passing between them. Both of them knew that at some point, they would have to take this elf back to Ellesmera. A place where Arya ruled queen, and she loathed Murtagh with a passion.
“Alright, Thorn is worried anyway. Let’s go.”
“Saphira is going to kill me,” Eragon grimaced.
“And I don’t blame her,” Murtagh muttered at him, flicking him on the temple. “You always go headfirst into danger.”
“I’m not sixteen anymore,” Eragon huffed. “I can handle a lot more than I used to.”
“Just because you’re a Kingkiller doesn’t mean you’ve become less stubborn.”
Eragon swallowed, and looked down at the unconscious elf cradled in his arms.
“I didn’t kill him,” he said softly. “He killed himself.”
Silence reigned deep, and Murtagh placed a hand on Eragon’s shoulder. He felt the warmth even through the fur.
“You’re not a killer, Eragon.”
If Eragon had a free hand, he would have swiped at his eyes.
“Let’s go,” he swallowed. “I have no doubt this elf needs some healing.”