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Chapter Text

By the end of his 14th year, the age at which young nobles were officially introduced to the royal court, Murtagh Morzansson had survived three assassination attempts. These were at least the ones, which had come close enough, that he had noticed them.

The first had been on his way to Urû'baen, after the death of the last of the Forsworn.

Soldiers of the king had come to the castle to bring the heir of his right-hand-man to the capital.
The small contingent of four servants, eight guards and a small boy, who had survived four winters, had laboriously traversed the mountain range, in which heights Morzan’s castle was located.
The fortress was only convenient to reach on the back of a dragon - anyone, and everything else had to be brought there via a steep mountain path and a narrow staircase carved into the rock, both easily defendable from above.
With a small child and a lot of luggage, the descent had taken the whole day, but the group was able to pick up horses from a couriers stable at the foot of the mountain.

The son of Selena looked around with wonder as they fast traversed the lowlands. He had never left Morzan's castle heigh up on the rugged rock. In its garden and greenhouses, warmed from hot springs under the stone, one could see flowers and bushes, even fruit trees, but these open. Gentle hills were something new.
His mother had told him about the world out there on her rare visits, brought him leaves of trees or pebbles from the river. Here, however, he saw entire forests, small and large animals, much more than the occasional bird of prey in the sky above the castle.

And then there was the liberating knowledge that his father would never hurt him again, that he was safe from his fists and his sword.
His old nurse, staying behind in the castle, told him of his mother’s death – but he was still certain this was a trick. She had disappeared so many times and reappeared months later.
And when he saw her again, he too would be able to tell her stories about the world out there and the big, big cities.

But as soon as they had left the high, impassable mountains and reached the slightly wooded hills, that made up most of the principality of Lakeground, the men surrounding him became restless, checking their weapons.

They were right to be concerned. Ten men had confronted the travelers, the weapons drawn. But they did not look like the usual robbers and such lowlife would hardly have sought a confrontation with Imperial troops.
But these men had looked at Morzan's coat of arms, embroidered on one half of the men’s uniforms, and that of the King, which adorned the other half, and it only seemed to strengthen their resolve.
Murtagh sat in the saddle in front of Keran, the steward of the red rider´s mountain estate, on the back of the fastest of the horses. The servants surrounded them with their pack animals, the guards on the outside, taking the whole group in their middle.

The leader of the strangers, a giant with red hair and a huge longsword, turned to the servants: "When we have killed the guards, you better get out of the way. We have no problem with poor commoners, who just want to make a living. Leave the boy here."

"Who sends you? What do you want with a child?" asked a little man with protruding ears to Murtagh's left, who he believed worked in the kitchens.
If his blurred memories served him correctly, clouded by pain and the herbal potions he had been fed at that point, the cook had been there when they took care of his wounded back.

"This is not a child!" the redhead exclaimed, "Morzan's spawn is a stain on this earth. Deynor sends us to wipe it away. We will smash the skull of the beast's puppy before it gets big enough to attack innocents!"

Swords met swords; spears met shields. The screams of the men and horses echoed through the formerly peaceful valley. Eight of the Varden and three of the guards lay dead on the ground. One of the servants tried to bandage the cook with the protruding ears, who had participated in the fight with only a knife in hand and was bleeding heavily from his left side.

Irsen, leader of Morzan's castle guards, was about to interrogate the two surviving rebels. Murtagh pressed his nails in the saddle before him as screams drifted trough the formerly quiet woods. The blood and Irsen´s methodical use of his dagger had something disturbingly captivating. He could not look away showing weakness and he had learned better than turning his back on a man with a drawn knife. He could very vividly imagine the pain the foreign warrior suffered, now bound on the grassy dirt. But then again that man had been ready to kill him…it was confusing.

Baldren, the captain of the soldiers Galbatorix had sent, ordered the remaining men, only slightly injured, to swarm out to look for more assassins. They were also commanded to bring back the one servant, who had fled.
Irsen's interrogation, however, did not seem to have been very successful. He turned to Baldren. "We have to report this, and, despite the detour, we should first turn to Flameheim. Aeonor, the magician, would certainly be able to break them there, but I don't like leaving them near the young lord."

Baldren nodded in agreement. "We should reach Flameheim in a one-day ride."
He walked towards the remaining assassins with his dagger drawn and the sharp metal cut through their throats with a gurgling sound. The servants were ordered to hang the corpses of the Varden on the next tree. Baldren then cut out their eyes and their tongues. Murtagh wondered how that much blood was still flowing, even though their hearts stopped beating.

" I condemn you scum to restlessness – blind and mute you shall wander through the land until the end of this world cycle."

The soldiers had meanwhile brought back the escaped servant and the haggard Keran dismounted.
"Well, I think he is my responsibility." None of soldiers disagreed.

The steward slapped the servant, eyes blazing with anger. "You lousy worm! Abandon your master in danger."

Murtagh was still sitting on the horse, whose reins were being held by one of the less injured men.
He knew that although this matter was formally about him, as a young boy he still had to remain silent. He had often enough seen his father with his servants or vassals, it was always about more than the individual person.

The steward stopped in front of the pale servant. "Well, you are not a warrior, otherwise your death would be your certain reward. No harm has befallen the young prince - if his skin had been scratched, your flesh would have had to pay ten times for it. But the young Albrecht here has fulfilled his duty and blood is now flowing from his side. The unfaithful scum should at least suffer twice as much for it."

The soldiers grabbed the shaking man and pulled a knife from his rib to his hip on both sides, not deep, but certainly painful.
"The traitor has forfeited his status as a free man," Keran said. "It would be appropriate to tie him here for this crime and leave his fate to the stars.
Or he should pay part of his debt until his death. He can certainly empty the night pots in Flameheim"
This was slave labor.

The steward turned to the other servants: "Are you ready to continue serving side by side with such a rat?"
One by one, the other three stepped forward, slapping the unfortunate man, whom the soldiers were still holding and saying, "Shame of our station, falsehood has no place in our midst", sometimes with anger, sometimes rather wooden and forced.

The soldiers tied the man's arms and legs and left him gagged under the tree from which the blood of the Varden warriors dripped on his skin.

They reached Flameheim without further incident.
The large house at the lake shore, where the magician Aeonor administered the principality for the red rider, offered them a welcome break from their journey.
The seat of Morzan, Prince of Lakeground was much more open and brighter than the hidden castle of the Dragon Rider Morzan, right hand of the king and Murtagh would have liked it far better to live here in the future.

But the King was waiting for them in the capital. After three days, all the injured were healed with magic and the reinforcements from Gilead arrived.
Morzan's men remained in Flameheim and Murtagh was accompanied by thirty soldiers to Urû'baen. Morzan's coat of arms was nowhere to be seen.
The rest of the journey was uneventful, but Selena's son had suddenly realized that even after his father's death, he was not safe in this world.

After their arrival in the capital, whose striking green towers could be seen from afar, they hurried through the streets of Urû'baen towards the mighty royal fortress above the city.

The boy had expected to be handed over to a nurse immediately, but the servants led him into a garden in one of the castle's seemingly endless courtyards. He had been told that he would meet his guardian there. Murtagh didn't know exactly what that was, and he deemed it safer not to ask.

At first it seemed as if he was alone in the garden. He watched his surroundings motionless - such caution was automatically learned in Morzan's vicinity - but when no one appeared, he dared to get closer to the plants. Murtagh looked at the strange forms, but he would not touch them... His mother had grown poisonous plants in the Castle Garden.

Suddenly, he heard a noise behind him. There stood a man, tall with tanned skin, black hair, and beard. He wore noble dark robes, a leather cape, and a white sword. The blade was of the same kind as Zar'roc, trough Murtagh did not need to see the sword to realize who this was.
His portrait hung in the main hall of Morzan's castle, but the boy was sure that a mere painting could not accurately capture the look of his black eyes or the wild power that emanated from him – a force even stronger than that of his father.

For a while they stood there, the man and the boy, looking at each other.
Murtagh thought that it was certainly not right to just look at the king, but he had missed the right moment to lower his head and when their eyes met, Galbatorix smiled slightly.
He did not smile mockingly or triumphantly, but almost sadly.
Murtagh wondered if he should not say something to greet his ruler, but he did not know what exactly was expected of him and so he considered it safest to remain silent.

The dragon rider had welcomed the boy to his city.
He had put a hand on his shoulder and spoke of a common loss, of the fact that he had known his father for a very long time.

Galbatorix had told him that he would now take care of Murtagh's affairs.
"As the king of the whole continent don't have much time, of course, but I'll make sure you get the finest teachers that can be found, and I will always observe your progress."

That evening, four-year-old Murtagh lay in a foreign bed in a foreign city, overwhelmed that the mighty King Galbatorix had already expressed more interest and goodwill towards him in a single conversation than his father had his entire lifetime.

But his relief quickly turned into tension: He enjoyed the reading and arithmetic lessons and also the instruction in a mysterious new language, given by a young man in mage robes, but everyone seemed to stay away from him as their gazes followed him through the corridors.

Chapter Text

The twelve-year-old Murtagh spanned the bow.
He had been on the practice field for four hours, trying to improve his precision despite the wind and rain. If protocol master Hitto or dancing tutor Leodogar started looking for him for their lessons, he could tell them that Tornac had instructed him to practice. That wouldn't even have been a lie, but they couldn't ask his master of arms anyway, who had returned to the family's small estate in the Southmarsh for a few days due to his father's death.

Murtagh knew he should not be troubled: Tornac's father was a nobleman with a small estate on the Jeit River, and his two elder sons, the younger of whom, who was currently serving in the army, already had sons himself. His teacher would come back.
But even if the death rituals themselves lasted only three days for a lower nobleman, the journey back and forth would take at least six weeks.
Murtagh was secretly glad that the delays on his trip to Urû'baen had saved him from attending the three-weeks long funeral ceremonies for his father, during which so many prisoners had been executed that people claimed to this they the saw a stream of blood flowing from the gates of the castle to the outer city wall.

As long as Tornac was gone, Murtagh lost an important protective wall shielding him against the intrigues of the court.
Although the king was officially his guardian, the sword master took over most of the everyday educational tasks in practice and determined who got access to Murtagh.

The king's court officials also took care of the administration of Morzan's principality atop of their usual duties in keeping the apparatus of the empire running, while Murtagh was still underage.
The master of protocol, who was apparently responsible for him in Tornac's absence, seemed much more obsessed with introducing him to the greats of the court as early as possible.
However, if he tried to spend most of the day on the training field, he might have been able to escape some of these gaff meetings of the nobility.
At least if they held a lower rank, the excuse of arms exercises would not be meet with displeasure by either the king or the court. Strength in battle was one of the most desirable qualities of a nobleman after all.
And the other twelve princes of the empire, who were his equal - mortal men who had had an unexpected chance of advancement with the death of the thirteen - left their seats and cities very rarely due to the distances. Therefore, Murtagh was not forced to accept an invitation from his peers more than once a year.

He tried to suppress a shudder at the idea of sitting at a table with his father's comrades-in-arms, who had certainly visited the capital more often on the backs of their dragons. No, it was certainly better as it was now. As unpleasant as Marcus Tabor from Dras Leona or Risthard of Teirm were, that had to be better than an evening with Fomora or Kalandi. He likely wouldn't have survived that, probably even in the literal sense.
Murtagh lowered the bow and looked at the dark fortress under the rock overhang, in which’s shadowy courtyard he stood. If he hurried, he could still borrow the book on medicinal herbs the gardeners talked about yesterday.

He entered the dry and relatively warm interior of the castle, pleasant given his now soaked clothes and walked with the certainty of a sleepwalker towards the large oak gates of the library.

The main part of the castle was decorated with depictions of the Thirteen at the height of their power. Opposite the library door, a larger-than-life Fresco covered the wall, showing Galbatorix and Morzan, surrounded by their dragons, bent over a map of the continent.

Murtagh carefully avoided looking at his father's picture, so when he opened the door, his gaze inevitably fell on the king's depiction.

Murtagh had only occasionally exchanged a few words with Galbatorix himself since his arrival many years ago.
When he had won the semi-formal competitions of the young nobles who had not yet been formally introduced to court, even beating competitors, who were two years older, the king congratulated him.
Once a remark about botany and his mother during an encounter in the park, conversations in the corridors about his sword fighting training or a literature recommendation at the door of the great library.

Murtagh saw his occasionally from a distance too.
Even though he was still too young to take part in the festive balls, at least at noon he went to the large dining room of the nobility. There the king had occasionally nodded in his direction from his seat at the large empty table on the high pedestal, when Murtagh entered the room.
Most of the time, however, he avoided the hall where all eyes followed him when he sat down at the table of the imperial princes, high court magicians and generals.

Shaking off the thoughts on the courtly forms, Murtagh entered the enormous library. He convinced the librarian to lend him the book until the end of the week, but the old man didn't really seem to be that attentive today and did not cause him any trouble.

Am the next morning he could not escape the dance lesson or the courtly instruction. Hitto had also accepted an invitation from the Count of Daret on his behalf and spent the remaining hour explaining to his pupil the exact nature of the trade relations between Mozan’s estate around the Flem and Count Iregnost's estates further north.

" But why did they supply so much cattle in exchange for so little grain?"

Even if Murtagh did not particularly appreciate the political and economic instructions, that did not mean that he did not notice anything about it.

" To answer this, I must go a little further into the details of past dealings, I'm afraid: Your high father helped the grandfather of the present count to put down a rebellion of his vassals. In return, Count Beoan promised Prince Morzan a preferential trading relationship for 50 years and gave the assurance that he would obtain the consent of your father before major business deals – trade relations with his own feudal lord, of course, excluded."

Murtagh wondered what Beoan's lord had thought of Morzan interfering in the affairs of his vassal in general. He suspected that by this time the rider to whose territory Daret had belonged to had already died and the principality had been awarded to a human nobleman. He was aware that his father would not have been deterred by the opinion of any ordinary men, even if they formally held the same title of nobility. What was a title against the personal friendship with the king and the power of a fire-breathing, armored lizard?

" But Count Beoan died shortly thereafter, and his son Rowen did not feel bound by an agreement made with his father. And yet the son had taken the place of his father. The fire of your father`s and his dragon`s wrath pored over the land and many of Rowen's family, who had previously been protected by the flames from the uprising of their followers, now fell victim to them. Rowen himself was speared by Morzan, so that he could confessed his guilt and breach of contract in front of court and king - in addition to the original agreement, he agreed to deliver a lot of cattle in exchange for the aforementioned small amount of seed as a penance.

Rowen's nephew Iregnost took over the title five years ago. Since there are still fifteen years of penitential agreement left, he certainly hopes to get a sense of whether you would be willing to relax these conditions after you reach the age of majority.
Of course, it would be inappropriate to approach you with this concern now, but it should also be a good opportunity for you to gain a deeper insight into such matters.

I have here the economic books of the Principality of Lakeground and the Flameheim estate from last year, we should go through them together so that you can get an idea of the economic importance of the current agreement.
To repeal it without any replacement would, of course, be a pathetic sign of weakness that you certainly do not want to send to your followers or opponents in the Empire, but replacing the current agreement with a milder one with a longer term is quite an acceptable option."

Murtagh head was still buzzing with tax lists, cost tables and yield figures when he finally went to the large practice area after lunch.
Here the courtly nobility and the elite of the palace guards met to spar. Of course, there were more than just this one training field within the castle walls. Tornac's teachings, for example, usually took place on a smaller private area that could be reserved by the nobility to conduct lessons (or duels) unobserved.

But during the absence of his sword fighting instructor, Murtagh would have to join the general exercises. Instructor Jerrik, a tall man with hands like pot lids and a huge brown beard, had already noticed him and waved Murtagh over.

"I found a training partner for you," said the experienced soldier without any special preamble or formality. He pointed at a thin blonde boy who seemed to be around fourteen. He wore a fairly simple linen shirt, but the quality of his shoes and trousers clearly identified him as a nobleman.

" His father will stay in the capital for at least a week, and it is always a good opportunity to get to know a new fighting style. Warm up, I'll keep an eye on you later."

Murtagh nodded and the foreign boy followed him to the edge of the practice field.
The blonde stretched out his hand: "Merwin, son of Count Iregnost"

Of course! Murtagh went through the options: Hitto may have initiated this meeting as a more far-reaching practical political test - it was not surprising that he would use Tornac's absence to "well-meaningly" pull him a little further into the noble intrigues. Or Iregnost had influenced instructor Jerrik. Or the solider just saw two boys of similar age, but that seemed to him the most unlikely option. No one of rank did anything in Urû'baen without ulterior motives.

Merwin looked at him expectantly. - Now came the unpleasant part.

" Murtagh"

His answer was unusual, he knew that. His clothing and appearance, as well as the fact that he was assigned to Merwin as a practice partner at all, on top of that by the head-instructor, only allowed the conclusion that Murtagh was also a nobleman.
To name neither his father nor his rank was almost rude, but since Merwin came from the countryside and had apparently not been exposed to the rumor mill of the court long enough, he had not recognized his first name.
And he almost hoped that the other boy would drop the matter, but...

"Is your father also here in the capital to conduct business?"

But not knowing who exactly he was dealing with was too great a political risk for a nobleman, even at their age.
Therefore, he would – no- the count's son could not let it slide. So, it was time to get it over with.

"No, I've been living here since my father's death."

"Oh, I'm sorry for that." - Murtagh gritted his teeth and waited. - " Do you have relatives here in the city or is there another reason why you are not educated at the court of your liege lord?"

Murtagh had to admit the other boy played the game well: the latter was the usual procedure when a deceased nobleman had descendants but no suitable older relatives. After all, he had to know.
However, this sentence contained the suggestion that his feudal lord neglected his duty to the still defenseless child of his vassal. A hidden accusation that had to be eliminated as quickly as possible here, where the walls had ears, in view of its true addressee. He therefor had now no other choice than to put the cards on the table.
"No, I don't have any relatives" – At least none that were relevant in aristocratic circles and anyway hardly anyone seemed to know anything about his mother's family. "And the King generously takes care of my education until I am ready to perform my duties as prince of Lakeground myself."

His counterpart was visibly paled and seemed to look at him sharply. Murtagh had not uttered Morzan's name - he avoided that as much as possible.
But even what he had not said, could be read on the face of the count's son.

Morzan had died seven years ago and there was really only one reason to declare a then five-year-old the new prince of Lakeground. His existence was an open secret at court, but he had seen that in the official pronouncements and nobility lists only stated: "Prince of Lakeground is Ward of the king" and "temporarily under royal administration".

Murtagh dared to doubt that this very half-hearted game of hide-and-seek brought him any kind of protection when the court and apparently also the Varden knew about him. He could not get rid of the suspicion that Galbatorix was more concerned with saving the proclamation of his identity for a great, high-profile propaganda opportunity.

Merwin seemed to have recovered from the surprise. "I beg your pardon, Prince Murtagh." The twelve-year-old shook his head, "You haven't been in the capital for long and I should be glad that you haven't heard too much talk from the court yet. Do we want to start with the exercises?"

Merwin was a good practice partner, and it became quite a balanced fight. Were the count's son was ahead of him in age and thus strength and height, Murtagh was able to compensate quite well with his better technique and probably also greater talent.

They didn't talk much during and after but agreed to repeat the whole thing the next day before Murtagh's lessons. Merwin smiled slightly as he left the practice site. And Morzan's son felt an unprecedented exhilaration.

They met the following morning, before Murtagh's teaching in the ancient language and mental arts. The sand-covered practice area was nearly deserted, only a few tired palace guards made their rounds.

A sharp wind swept into the courtyard, cooling the heated faces of the two boys as they looked their blunt practice swords away.
Murtagh liked the other boy, who did not avoid him, although he knew who his father was, and at the same Merwin did not even try to curry favor for his father or to ask about the king, as many of the ambitious nobles would do.

Their sparring, however, had already been going on for half an hour and Murtagh had no intention of infuriating Master Bertrant by appearing late, especially since he instructed him on the protection of his mind.
Magicians were dangerous in a way against which he could not defend himself and a non-magician was therefore always well advised not to enrage them.
Merwin however still seemed to have stamina, so Tornac's student would probably have to resort to a rather dirty trick to end the fight quickly. Because he wouldn't just admit defeat or ask for a break. Someone was always watching and only those who went to their limits gained respect.

And no one could claim that Murtagh had no ambition. He may not, like his mother, have been born with magical talent, but there were other ways to gain prestige in the Empire.
He would certainly not rest on the name of his sire.

Murtagh was pushed back by Merwin. He followed the movement with his whole body as he steered the sword of the count's son towards the ground. The other boy was now slightly blinded by the sun. Murtagh was in a worse position, half kneeling, but managed to throw a handful of sand in Merwin's face. The other boy twitched and stumbled back and at that moment Murtagh was able to disarm him with a blow to his wrist.

The count's son cursed even more and wiped his eyes. Murtagh took a few steps backward. When he was sure that Merwin would not suddenly pounce on him, he turned his back on him and went to the fountain in the corner of the square. A short time later, he returned to his new comrade with a filled wooden cup, who quickly washed out his eyes and drank eagerly.

" That was not honorable! A nobleman should not resort to such tricks. If this had been a tournament you would have been disqualified!"

" Maybe. But it wasn't a tournament, and I don't plan to fight any regularly. In truth, the only thing that counts is that you win – how you win is not important."

Merwin looked at him for a long time. "Did your father teach you this lesson?

Morzan's son clenched his hands into fists." In a way, yes," he replied heatedly.
The scar on his back stretched.

" As long as not everyone adheres to chivalry and equality of arms, these are worthless principles.
They certainly don’t natter for the assassin at night and whoever forgets that, ends up with a knife in the back."

The count's son averted his gaze. “I have to accompany my father very early to a meeting with the noble of Trinf on the Branagh massif tomorrow. We must leave at dawn so that we are back in time for Father's little celebration in the evening. Would you mind meeting me here tomorrow earlier before dawn?"

“No, that's not a problem."

Murtagh shook his head, relieved that the other boy still wanted something to do with him despite his somewhat devious trick.

The next morning, Murtagh set off in the dark.
Most of the castle was still asleep and cold radiated from the bare stone of the side corridors.
He stepped through an unlocked wooden door into the forecourt of the training ground, which - long and narrow - was used for archery exercises. When Murtagh passed one of the targets, he noticed a movement in the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he threw himself aside and rolled off as Tornac had taught him.

His shoulder burned and stung. He felt blood running down his arm, but it didn't hurt as much as it did when Zar'roc slashed his back. He was not carrying a weapon.
Murtagh therefore grabbed one of the wooden sticks to which various dummies could be attached for shooting exercises and held it in front of him while he looked at his opponent.

The slightly malnourished man before him may have been a good twenty years old and had a skin as black as that of the prince of the Southern Marsh on the border with Surda, who descended from the nomads of the Hadarac. But the man in front of him - shaved bare, in rags and without shoes - was clearly a slave who did not know how to handle the dagger in his hand.
He had almost dropped him when Murtagh rolled away and now looked carefully at the boy with the staff. Taking advantage of his hesitation and the longer range of the stick, Murtagh pushed the staff so violently in front of his attacker's chest that he staggered back.

The second blow knocked the knife out of his hand before he could position himself for a new attack. His adversary turned instead and fled through an archway towards the main training ground.
Murtagh could not pursue him and instead was forced to drop his staff. The cut in his shoulder hurt too much. He then heard a scream from the direction in which his attacker had fled.
Merwin was there! He picked up the assassin’s dagger. Murtagh took up the pursuit with gritted teeth, and as he stepped through the archway, he heard another scream, but it dit not came over Merwin´s lips.

The man who had attacked Murtagh kneeled bleeding from two stab wounds in front of the count's son. "Please, master!"
And the son of Irgenost stabbed his slave once again.

Then he turned to Murtagh. "Hmm I'm going to have to change the chronology a bit – I came too late to save you from the savage and could only avenge the death of Morzan's son."

Murtagh retreated - Merwin had a much longer range with his sword than he did with the foreign dagger, additionally limited by the wound on his right shoulder.

Then he heard the stomping of nail covered soldiers’ boots and a group of five guards and a magician rushed into the courtyard, attracted by the noise of battle, or perhaps by a spell informing them of Murtagh's condition.

The blonde boy froze, held by invisible shackles, while the magician examined the wound on Murtagh's arm and instructed the men to take him to a healer.
While walking away, Murtagh once again turned to Merwin, whose face showed a mixture of fear and anger.
"Why?"
The teenager saw evidently no point in hiding it anymore.
" My grandmother and her whole family died in the flames of Morzan's beast because my great-uncle had enraged him. I can’t get revenge on Morzan - But a son takes the place of his father."

Then the guards dragged Murtagh to the healers.
Half an hour later, the sun had meanwhile pushed itself completely over the horizon, the cut on his arm had completely disappeared, not even a scar had remained. The soldiers did not leave his side for the rest of the day.

Rumors flew around and Murtagh was good at watching and listening to the servants. The mind of the count's son had been examined. His father had publicly distanced himself from him and announced to the king that he had no treacherous sons.
A reading of thoughts had confirmed the innocence of the count.

There was a knock on the door of Murtagh's room, which was opened immediately afterwards. A tall man stood in the door and said in a soft, slightly strange singing voice: "Good Evening, wing-trailer."

To appoint someone as a Shielding Wing to your children and them as their wing-trailer was a strange custom that was not actually practiced by the nobility of Alagaësia. The extended family or the feudal lord would look after a noblemen’s orphan.
But the two men who had practiced this custom had not originally been part of any feudal relationship and in the rare cases where a human dragon rider had descendants, any family of his could have died centuries before him. To avoid leaving such children with strangers who might accidently share their blood, a tradition had been established to pass the responsibility of raising a rider’s children to one of their comrades-in-arms in case of the riders death.

Murtagh sank to one knee, "Your Majesty."

“Get up, my boy." Galbatorix settled in the chair Tornac always used when Murtagh was sick.

The king told him to sit down again as well, so that Murtagh took a seat on his bed.

" I wanted to inquire about your condition. I suppose the wound was completely healed?"

Yes, sir."

"Outstanding. Well, I think you should know what my magicians got out of this worm of assassin.
His father's lord incited him to this ill-conceived assassination attempt.
Lothar of Elvewehr seems to be very resentful of your father's interference. He could certainly also benefit from higher revenues from Irgenost's estate if he is no longer burdened by your agreement and Lothar is currently in great financial difficulties. He must have lured the boy by promising to make him the Count of Daret after his father's death and not his older brother."

A feudal lord had a certain choice among the sons of his liegeman – but most picked the elder out of tradition and to avoid conflict.

The king leaned forward and looked the boy firmly in the eye.

"But he will pay for daring to touch someone under my protection." Galbatorix's voice had become quieter, he had spoken calmly, almost matter-of-factly, but Murtagh saw the anger flickering over the king's face. He put his hand on Murtagh´s shoulder to say goodbye and added: "I will see you tonight."

And so it came to pass that Murtagh did not discuss a trade agreement with Irgenost of Daret in one of the many ballrooms of the royal castle this evening, but that he attended his first public execution at the age of twelve.
He stood with Galbatorix on the outer wall of the castle, a pale Irgenost next to them.

The guards led the assassin to the square in front of the castle - his blond hair had been shaved off and on his bare back you could see the marks of the whip.

The noble status of the condemned had been revoked by the king – he would therefore not receive the mercy of a quick and honorable death.

The boy was tied to pegs stretched out on the ground. Dow at the execution square in front of the main gate a bloodthirsty crowd had gathered around the pedestal of the executioner.
The bulky man used a hammer to break the arms and legs of the delinquent, whose blood curling screams could be heard as clearly by Murtagh up on the crown of the wall as by the spectators, who giddily flooded the square to see justice be served or to enjoy a former noble to be brought so low.
The executioner and his assistants then braided the broken limbs through the spokes of the wheel and put it on a man-high pole in the middle of the castle forecourt.

It was not until the next day that Merwin, former son of Irgenost, died at the age of fourteen.
No one bothered to get his remains off the wheel until they fell apart.

It was the just punishment for a cowardly would-be murderer, a clear sign that the king was dutifully fulfilling his duties as a judge. While it was undoubtedly a disturbing sight, Murtagh was glad to know that Galbatorix punished crimes justly.

A week later, the court of Urû'baen received the news that magicians had invaded the estate of Lothar, Prince of Elvewehr, and had killed him - as well as his whole family. Apparently, all of them had their necks broken with magic and each had a withered, black discolored hand.

Murtagh was sure of this even before the courtly gossip had really begun, because he received a box that contained not only jewelry, daggers and statuettes – all apparently former possessions of the dead prince – but also a fraith of this scene. The slab with the gruesome image bore an inscription on the reverse:
"To honor the Empire, to obey the king and in memory of our name’s sake."

He felt much more uncomfortable now: Surely Lothar von Elvewehr had tried to have him murdered and thus also betrayed his feudal lord, the king.
It was clear that he had to die for it.
Of course, the rest of his family could not keep their position in the empire.

His wife and older sons were most likely accomplices, they had also deserved their death.

He bit his lip. The picture also showed the daughter of Prince Lothar, about his age, 10 or 11, with a twisted neck and black colored hand. Was it necessary to kill her? She herself could not be to blame for the events.

But what else would have happened to the little daughter of a mortally disgraced nobleman - who no one was willing to protect or take in? She might have starved in the woods as nobody would be willing to help a traitor’s daughter. Murtagh put the picture back in the box, not daring to continue this line of thought.

Galbatorix himself did not comment on the events and appointed a new prince of Elvewehr.

Chapter Text

It was an afternoon of a sunny winter day and the old General Heime, who had now been retired for three years, had finished his lecture on the king's tactics at the Battle of Ilirea and now took a sharp look at his fourteen-year-old student.

Murtagh wore his black hair at chin length, as was fashionable with the courtiers in the capital at this time. A dark red tunic decorated with black embroidery on the collar and sleeves and dark brown trousers ending in high leather boots completed the picture of the young nobleman.
He took careful notes with his pen.

" Explain to me the structure of the imperial arms and how they interact with the local nobles.", the old veteran demanded.

Murtagh stood up, folded his arms behind his back and began: "At present, the Imperial army consists of 14,000 men, and the trend is rising - the magicians are not counted, they have a separate organizational structure, but in many areas it is intertwined with the army.

The officers are recruited from the younger sons of the nobility, and they must pay for their own equipment.
This also offers an income and the chance of social advancement to the sons who have no prospect of a greater inheritance.
Other younger sons serve their masters or the king in administration, especially in the larger cities.
But young heirs or title holders are also expected to serve in the king's army for at least five years. They then organize recruitment, basic training, and tax collection in their own territories.
Occasionally, however, even after basic military service, they leave the administration of their fief to a lower-ranking nobleman, often a family member, in order to follow the higher call of the king and to serve him almost permanently in the army or administration, such as the Count Barst.
There are five officer ranks, but the highest four are only open to the nobility if the king does grant a special dispensation.

The command structure of the Varden, on the other hand, is much flatter based on what was to be learned from the report of our spies.
Basically, they are cells of 20 to 50 people organized around a captain.
This structure benefits the rioters hiding and makes it difficult to obtain information, should we catch some.
In the empire, the princes are responsible for the deployment of troops and, depending on the population, have to supply the army with an annual minimum number of recruits.

Volunteers can commit for three, five or ten years. In the cities, in addition to their officers, the soldiers are primarily subordinate to the city prince and maintain order there, but Gilead and Dras Leona are special cases.
The rural principalities send most of their recruits to the army's large gathering points in Gilead and Dras Leona, which are main bases of 5,000 men each, which have a command structure independent of the city prince. Urû'baen owns 1,000 men.

From these main bases, soldiers are sent to any trouble spot. In the rural principalities, half of the men are sent to the collection points, the other half remains in the principality.

The army is financed by a head tax, while the remaining imperial expenses and the tribute
of the princes are covered by tithing.

The income of the rural prince also results from his simultaneously held count's estate, which is worked by his serfs or slaves and day laborers.

A family with more than one son serving in the army, is exempted from the head tax and it is not levied on the nobility, but there practically all men serve at least five years, often more.

An average of 600 men are under arms in the rural principalities. 200 of them are usually stationed at the princely seat, whereby an imperial prince is also entitled to a personal guard of 100 men, his counts to no more than 30.

It can be assumed that in the event of Surda's aggression, the troop strength could be almost quadrupled to 65,000 men."

Very good " Heime gave him a look, as if to warn him not to commit foolish mischief.
“A messenger gave me before our lesson the news, that the king is giving you permission to visit the winter market today in the company of your sword master and some guards."

Murtagh could not suppress his grin. "They are waiting at the main gate. You are released for today, Morzansson."

The teenager bowed his head in front of his teacher. He packed up his writing utensils, including his magically hardened glass pen - a gift from the king for his tenth birthday - and left the room.
Tornac waited for him in the main courtyard in front of the outermost wall of the castle, clad in his usual brown robes of high quality.
His light brown hair started to show slightly graying at the temples.
A group of five soldiers stood next to his teacher , led by a rather young lieutenant in leather armor with a considerable mustache.
Wrinkles formed around Tornac's blue eyes as he smiled at his student. The officer handed Murtagh a simple sword from the armory.
With his coming of age, he would finally be allowed to carry weapons in the castle complex as an imperial prince. Everywhere, except in the throne room, which only the thirteen had been allowed to enter armed.
But in their case, a ban would also have been ridiculous – the most dangerous thing about a rider was not the sword in his hand.

The lieutenant gave instructions to open the gate so that they could step out into the upper part of the city.
They reached the wide, tree-lined streets, which offered space for two carriages to pass next to each other at the same time.
Above the treetops, the ostentatious noble palaces stood out in sharp contrast to the simple elegance of the House of Magicians and the mighty wall of the fortress, which was now in their backs.

There was also a theatre, a public bath and a racecourse, but access to them was strictly regulated. Anyone who tried to pass the gate to the upper city without being accompanied by a magician, military officer or nobleman had to be able to show a permit, signed by someone residing within the upper walls.

If the common people wanted entertainment, they had to be content with the holiday processions or the jugglers of the seasonal markets and with the regular executions.

In the case of notorious robbers or well-known troublemakers, they could also take on the character of a folk festival.

The winter market – destination Murtagh and his escort - would be held in the lower town, which with its bigger squares and the lager number of potential customers.
However, given the crowds of visitors, it was all too easy to lose sight of his companions there in a careless moment, which already seemed to make Murtagh's guards nervous.

The small group had meanwhile passed the wall of the noble district and caught sight of two of the large, green towers, which originated in a time when this city was still called Ilirea.

One of the two cast his shadow over the adjacent residential building of the magicians and served them for teaching and experimental purposes.
The other, it was claimed, housed the headquarters of the Black Hand, although no one whished so speculate too much about this topic.

Tornac entertained the group with a lecture on the architectural history of the capital, whereby he did not use the words elves or dragon riders in the earshot of the guards and rather spoke of the "oldest construction phase".
In any case, the conversation, in which some of the young guards also reluctantly participated, quickly drifted to a discussion of various inns of different reputations.

Murtagh's - partly voluntary - seclusion from the rest of the young nobility and the king's instructions to leave the castle only with an escort had at least saved him from some shady adventures in the brothels of the city, which some of his peers seemed quite fond of if they did not simply took advantage of some of the castle maids.
His face burned slightly when he thought of how Tarrant of Ceunon, who visited the capital briefly a few months ago, had tried to lure him into a trap.
On the occasion of his fourteenth birthday, the other prince had sent him not only an ornate belt and finely crafted gloves, but also one of his servants to warm Murtagh's bed for the night. Horrified, the teenager wanted to send her away immediately, but Tornac had instructed her to wait in a side chamber of Murtagh's rooms, while he wrote an answer to her master. The sword master had then sent one of the palace servants to throw the royal instrument maker out of bed and buy a silver flute richly decorated with engravings from him in Murtagh's name, which they gave to the girl along with the letter to be delivered to her master.

The presence of mind of his teacher had saved him from simply accepting the gift of another nobleman, with whom he had neither family ties nor an established hierarchical relationship. Tarrant was not one of Murtag's followers who wanted to express their devotion to their Lord with such a gift.
And the Prince of Ceunon was also definitely not Murtagh's master, who demonstrated his special favor and grace to him with a gift - but their age difference would have signaled to which position Murtagh seemed ready to debase himself to.
But rejecting the gift of another equally powerful nobleman always carried the risk of an ongoing, possibly bloody, feud.
Sending back a similarly valuable gift as a sign of mutual recognition was an acceptable way out of this dilemma, and Murtagh was quite grateful to Tornac for his skillful solution.

The Prince of Ceunon had certainly hoped that Murtagh would embarrass himself with his youthful blood in one way or another. A mistake that in the long term could motivate other nobles to break away from agreements that had been made with Morzan at the time and to seek other allies.

Oh, how he hated those games! Personally, he was not really interested in maintaining the status as the first among the nobles of the empire that his father had bequeathed to him.

However, he lived in Urû'baen long enough to know that a loss of face and reputation did not necessarily free him from envy and enemies, but simply made him appear as easy prey.

In any case, the sheet music he had received from Tornac for his birthday had been much more welcome to him. Galbatorix had also sent a present: a magnificent hunting outfit, consisting of an elaborate green-brown hunting robe in which spells were cast to protect its wearer from moisture, several hunting knives, and a silver-studded drinking horn - together with an invitation to participate in the great courtly hunts of autumn.

Galbatorix' wing-trailer certainly had experience with hunting. From the age of eleven onward, Murtagh had been allowed to leave the castle every year with Tornac and a royal hunting master twice for two weeks to learn the art that was considered an important skill of a young warrior at court. His actual appearance, becoming more and more similar to Morzan every year, was hidden on this occasion with elaborate illusions. In order not to arouse suspicion, a Page, who at times wore his face, lived in his apartments during his absence.
His hunting trips into the wilderness with Tornac were the best time of the year.

But the mass hunts of the court were of a completely different kind - they were a competition between the men, like a tournament and at the same time the scene of the usual political intrigues. He therefore looked forward to the whole thing with mixed feelings, but an invitation from the king could not be refused.

Someone touched Murtagh’s mind and he raised his head tensely. The touch had been too weak to be a serious attack and too diffuse to represent a purposeful attempt at communication.
On the next street corner, in the shadow of the tall stone houses, he saw two figures, a man and a woman, in the black robes of the imperial magicians.
The woman, in her sixties, found his gaze and nodded in greeting.
Mental contact with others was not unknown to Murtagh. Magicians monitored the castle and capital equally, but the city was much more closely whatched than the black fortress.

Urû'baen, with all the court officials, nobles and officers, had an extremely high density of people who had learned to shield their minds, so that this direct surveillance only occasionally exposed a Varden spy of lower standing. For the magicians to break through the mental barriers of the higher classes, they needed tangible evidence of betrayal or another crime, although certainly one or the other power-hungry magician violated these limits.

And then there were still all the wives, daughters and concubines, whose mental protection usually no one considered, so that the magically gifted spies of different factions still had enough sources of information available to them.

Master Bertrand, who began Murtagh´s lessons in the mental arts after his tenth birthday, no longer only instructed him how to close his mind. His natural talent for this had impressed the old magician early on, so that from his twelfth year forward they had moved on to mental group duels against several imperial magicians.
Murtagh was now able to fend off four of the king's strongest mind-breakers, even though he was aware that these battles were taking place in ideal conditions.
In the library of the magicians, to which the king had generously granted him access, he had come across books describing techniques that could be used to maintain his mental protective walls even in battle or under torture.
Murtagh tried to rehearse them as well as "dry exercises". But he also knew from the books that these techniques would only help him to a limited extent if he were actually tortured by a magician in search of information.
Even if the focus on the strong pain itself could represent a protective wall that should not be underestimated – a wall from which a mentally healthy opponent shied away instinctively, the mental abilities decreased in parallel with the physical ones.

A human prisoner suffering from blood loss and deprivation of food and sleep would at some point simply no longer have the necessary mental discipline to protect himself. In such scenarios, the question was only whether the interrogator lost patience too quickly and killed his recalcitrant prisoner, or whether the prisoner lasted long enough for his information to be out of date enough to not benefit his opponents anymore. Otherwise, there was only suicide.

Although Murtagh had not inherited his mother's strong magical abilities, to the disappointment of many, his mental defense was unparalleled even among Imperial magicians. Therefore, Bertrant had been confident that his student belonged to the half of the non-magicians, who could also learn to touch the mind of another.
It took him three years and many unnerving hours of meditation until he finally succeeded. Hours of frustrated staring at the rabbit in his cage until Murtagh managed to calm his mind to the point where he could stretch it beyond the confines of his own body.

Master Bertrant had assured that he was quite well in time. Supposedly, an ordinary person needed an average of five years to learn it, while a magician only needed two. The skills of a mind-breaker were not only useful in a torture chamber, but also on a battlefield and with proper practice in general for long-distance communication and yet: Murtagh hated it.

He hated having to loosen the iron walls around his mind for it.
He hated how much more vulnerable it made him.
He hated what he could see from it.

In addition to a few animals for practice purposes, he had only had mental contact with Master Bertrant, who demonstrated the thought speech to him.
And his envy of Murtagh's mental talents and closeness to the king, as well as bitterness about not being allowed to train a magic-gifted student, had clearly come to the surface.

Murtagh hated stretching out his mind.
Why make oneself vulnerable to so many enemies?
Why let the fear, envy or contempt that practically everyone held for Morzan's son – in everyday life more or less hidden by courtly forms or out of fear of punishment – rush unfiltered into his innermost being?

Murtagh shook her head. His small group had meanwhile reached the large square in front of the barracks of Urû'baen.
Imperial flags fluttered everywhere in the wind of the first winter moon. The variety of stalls and traders was amazing. There were stalls with fabrics and skins of various quality, wood and metal goods, both practical or artistic, herbs from the north and spices from Surda, weapons and also smaller animals.
The shouting of hundreds of people echoed across the square. Murtagh wanted to get a gift for Tornac for the Festival of Light in the dead of winter.
At the dawn of the new day, he would hand it over to the man who had stand vigil with him in the longest night of the year.
Usually, three to thirty people spend that night together.
Kept awake by laughter from mocking poems, jokes and comedies, the revelers defied the deep-seated fear of the dark – they banished the worry that the sun would not strengthen, and the days would not get longer again.

These customs had been brought to the capital from rural areas via the pages and ladies in waiting. In the remote regions of the empire, it was said that in the darkest of the nights, shades or Ra'zac were born, or at least that they hunted the most human prey in those night.
Murtagh doubted that these beings were sticking to a fixed schedule, and the inhabitants of the royal fortress were also the last to worry about being eaten by some dark beasts. .... Well, apart from Shruikan .... but since he lived mostly in the throne room and you did not enter it anyway without royal request, the dragon should not worry him too much.

In any case, no one remained alone in the long night and occasionally one or the other of Tornac's friends from the army joined them when they were stationed in the capital.

This was always quite unpleasant for both Murtagh and the men in question. He was not quite sure whether the discomfort was aggravated or alleviated by the fact that any distinction of status was suspended among the nightmates for the duration of their guard.

Murtagh did not yet know whether they would get company this year, but he had already decided to buy two bottles of expensive liquor as a precaution – in his experience, never an unwelcome gift among soldiers.
Should they stay among themselves, he would certainly get rid of the stuff by giving it someone else.
The gift for Tornac was trickier, but at least he didn't have to worry about the price. He had fifty pieces of gold with him, the annual earnings of three city guards, but this was only a fraction of the pocket money that the king made available to him.
Murtagh usually didn't use half of it, but the fact that he could afford a book every year was quite a costly extravaganza.

Some merchants sold the remains of their ceremonial candles. Murtagh, who did not want to run the risk of not getting another opportunity before the next Heroes' Day, bought a white, twisted candle of a good height for two pieces of silver and incense for a piece of gold. Buying a gift for someone while standing next to it was of course not ideal. "Would you leave me a little bit alone?" he asked his sword master. Tornac nodded, talked to the lieutenant and disappeared into the crowd with one of the soldiers at his side.

Tornac's student was certain that this had little to do with the safety of his teacher and more with the king's desire to keep an eye on the people with whom Murtagh had close contact.

Soon after, there was a small uproar in the crowed near them, prompting the soldiers to move closer to their ward. A haggard man was arrested by a group of soldiers and led towards the royal seat, which was strange when one considers that the city prison was much closer.

But when Murtagh saw the turquoise sword that the captain of the soldiers was holding in his hand, there was no need for any further questions. The merchant had to be completely crazy to offer a dragon riders sword for sale, especially here in Urû'baen.

The man had laid his fingers on something over which the king considered himself alone to be entitled to authorize the possession of, as the new head of the Dragon Riders – irrespective whether it was a weapon of one of his allies or opponents.
This was perhaps the only thing in which the king, the Varden and the elves agreed: that the blade of a rider did not belong in the hands or an ordinary mortal.
The only people who could not be accused of suicidal stupidity when they showed themselves in public with such a sword would be either a dragon rider who served Galbatorix or one who openly challenged him.

In Murtagh's case, the king might have made an exception, even if he was not a rider. Not that he felt any desire to carry Zar’roc.
In Murtagh´s mind, it was best, if the weapon remained lost forever, he had no desire to see it again.

The only idea that made him even more uncomfortable than holding Morzan's sword in his hands was the thought that someone could again use it against him.

After an hour of browsing, Murtagh finally decided to wear a grey hat with brown feathers and a wide brim, which would certainly serve the sword master well on her next hunting trip.
A small clumsy man with a loud voice sold devotional figures, next to the hat traders stall.
" Followers of the cult of the Storm Lords! See my replicas of the gods for only five silvers."

Almost against his will, Murtagh turned to the display of the statuette dealer. The cult of the Storm Lords was a religious movement that worshipped the Thirteen and the King as gods and that had gained a foothold in every major imperial city, apart from Dras Leona.

The fact that most of their gods initially walked on the earth and that they then suffered various violent deaths did not seem to detract from the religious zeal, rather the opposite. This was supposedly all part of the great plan to save the world, and after their death, the Thirteen were said to have united with the wind to continue watching over the land and delivering news to their leader.

Many nobles, whose estates he had visited in the Upper Town at smaller receptions over the years, owned a house altar with this or that Forsworn, although he was sure that this was more of a political statement than a genuine religious confession.

Morzan as the god of war was certainly plausible, but to declare the supreme torturer Formora the seeker of knowledge indicated a very black sense of humor.

It was such details that suggested that the creator of this religion had known the Thirteen well. Therefore, Murtagh would be willing to bet his bow that the king himself was behind the movement for his own deification and that of his comrades.

Such a belief was undoubtedly very useful to the ruler and since the riders were revered by some even before the downfall, it certainly did not even require too much persuasion. Most of what the preachers of this religion told coincided with what he had been taught about the dragons and riders: strong as ten people, fast as a falcon, with sharper senses and a sharper mind, great magical talents, ageless as death.
The proud dragons with their never-ending growth. Fused with a powerful magical being, the riders had experience beyond mortals.
The merchant praised his goods and slipped into a missionary sermon himself: "They cannot be compared to ordinary men; they cannot be defeated by the greatest among them. They could only be defeated by demonic forces with which the Dwarves and Varden had allied themselves under their mountains.
At their physical death, they destroyed most of the demons and are now leading the fight against dark forces from the shadows - for the benefit of humanity! They are radically different from the weak human race!"

Murtagh thought of the counts who beat the servants, the officers who humiliated the young recruits, and the court officials who hit their wives.
No, his father had been damn human at his core in the worst possible way.

He saw again the stains that his hands had left on his mother's face, her lip split open and blood dripping, her gaze fixed rigidly past Morzan. He felt Zar'roc cut open his back.

The crowd suddenly seemed too loud to him, and ther were too many people around. He had to get away. The teenager ruthlessly made his way through the crowd, his four guards always close behind him, until they finally came to a stop in a quiet alley away from the market in the shadow of a high warehouse.

" Mylord, are you well? Do you need anything?"

Murtagh leaned against the stone wall of a building and closed his eyes briefly." No, all right"

But then he and his men were no longer alone. Six men and one woman in the clothes of peasants or less wealthy craftsmen had entered the alley from different directions. The woman spoke "Jerda", but nothing happened. However, she became paler and paler. "Gertrude, what is going on ?" asked her neighbor, but the woman barely managed to get out in a comprehensible way: "Protective spell... too strong....can't finish".

Her spell ended on its own when it used up all the power in her body and she fell to the ground dead. As a result, her comrades attacked angrily.

Two of Murtagh's guards moved in both directions between him and the assassins to give him time to draw his sword and put himself in the best possible defensive position.

The lieutenant had rushed the furthest towards the three attackers on the south side. He killed the little man with ash-blond hair, who had spoken to the woman, by a quick stab in the neck, while his counterattack slipped off his chest plate.
Even the blow of a second assassin, who wanted to rush to the aid of his comrade, slipped largely ineffectively on the arm rails of the lieutenant.
However, the second began to adapt his way of fighting to the armor of his opponent and grab his longsword at the center to be able to apply more force against the armor plates.
On the north side, the three attackers, as well as Murtagh and the guards, were armed with one hand swaors , but the attackers did not appear to be carrying a shield or a second weapon.
One of the guards on the north side, on the other hand, even carried two bucklers, but before he could completely detach one from his belt to hand over the second one to Murtagh, he distracted by his own fight.
With both guards on the south side already preoccupied with fighting , the third assassin managed to break through their line and get close to Murtagh.
Since his opponents were not armored, it was quite sufficient to wield the sword with one hand. But when Murtagh closed his hand around the cold leather of the handle, he could not resist the thought that he would have preferred the shield for the second hand. But dealing with the situation he was handed; he would settle for a dagger in the second hand.
Time for regret was over anyway. Only reactions counted, which had become so much part of his nature in the hours on the training ground that conscious thinking was no longer necessary.
The attacker did not rush forward wildly and uncontrollably. With an expressionless face, he tested Mutagh's reactions and movement patterns to find a weak spot. Neither stood still, constantly trying to get the opponent out of step, while their swords colliding in quick succession.
His opponent tried to get him to follow him too far by retreating, but Murtagh kept the correct distance.
Sweat ran over the temples and down his back. Murtagh ignored the slight burning sensation in the corners of his eyes.
A powerful swing from the shoulder gave Murtagh enough time to position himself for both the defense and the subsequent counterattack. With the flat side of his blade, he steered away his opponent's thrust. Taking advantage of the momentum and without slowing down significantly , Murtagh continued to lead the blade towards his opponent's shoulder.
The man saw the danger, but his own weapon was in not in the right position to block the blow correctly . However, he managed to dodge hastily, so that the sword stroke went just past his ear. By turning, however, he had come with his unarmed side into the range of the dagger in Murtagh's other hand.
The dagger sank up to the shaft into the side of the man just below his ribs.
When more city guards and Imperial magicians reached the alley a quarter of an hour later, three of the attackers and two of the soldiers had fallen. The remaining two attackers were overwhelmed, but their interrogation could not reveal their sponsors. In their mind every memory had been removed, except for their name and the desire to kill Murtagh. Nevertheless, it did not save them from the gallows.
And in that alley, fourteen-year-old Murtagh Morzansson had killed another human for the first time.

Chapter Text

He certainly wasn't supposed to be here, but he didn't have his sword fighting lesson until the afternoon and the silence was much better than walking under the supervision of his nanny in the large park between the main part of the fortress and the rock overhang.

The boy had a keen ear, the whispering of the courtiers did not escape his notice.
Eight-year-old Murtagh had therefore successfully set himself the task of escaping Hardwig's watchful eye. After three years in the capital, he was familiar with the hidden corridors and passages of the castle, most of them for the use of the servants.
This hallway however seemed to be something else - he had previously seen such lamps only in the areas of the castle closest to the throne room, and the system of corridors, while extensive, seemed to have very few exits. Therefore, it was probably not intended for servants who were supposed to reach any point unseen.

He had heard something from the direction he was going.
And since Murtagh had never – since he arrived in the capital - been punished for an offence in such a painful way as at his father's castle, he dared to indulge his curiosity.
"Is anyone here?"

The noises he had heard stopped abruptly at his question, but some time later he heard someone gasping for a breath. Irritated, he moved towards the sound and found a girl crouching in a wall niche behind a bend.

She gave up hiding when she saw him and asked quietly, "Did they send you?"

Surprised, Murtagh stopped. "Who “they”?" Involuntarily, he had imitated the girl's whisper.

"The magicians"

He shook his head. "You learn from the magicians?"

Her grey habit hardly allowed any other conclusion, he had already seen the students of the magically gifted healers in this attire.
This art fascinated him and he had been fairly disappointed when the supreme court magician told him on his arrival in the capital that he had no natural magical talent.
His mother had occasionally demonstrated something to him and some of her games involved floating balls or shapes made of water. However, he had also heard that a magical education usually began at the age of twelve and his counterpart seemed to be a little younger than himself.

The girl seemed to be reassured by his obvious confusion as she began talking to him: "They took us all away from home – the magicians. They came to our village. My parents wouldn't let me go when they asked. They then said that mom and dad were traitors to the crown. And therefore they... Here are others like me. From everywhere. And occasionally two magicians get one of us out of the group and..."

"Lenora! There you are!"
Silently, a piece of the wall had moved aside and in the opening stood a young woman, her brown hair in a strict knot. The only striking thing about her pitch-black mage robe was the pin with a white stone in a golden setting.

Murtagh, who had bent down to the girl crouching on the floor, straightened up to his full height, even if it was not really impressive compared to the adult woman.
"And who are you, young man?"
Her gaze is fixed on his fine clothes, the posture, the hair that he wore long according to the fashion of the nobility.

There was no point in not telling her the truth, she would find out either way.
If he lied, he was guaranteed to get big trouble, or more.

He was not stupid - if you had stuck your nose, even unknowingly, into the affairs of the Imperial magicians, it was safer if you were of rank.
"Murtagh Morzansson"

A twitch flitted across the woman's face. She looked at him a moment longer, then an absent expression briefly entered her eyes. When she smiled at him soon after, however, it had disappeared from her face again.

The girl - Lenora - had not responded at all to his father's name, he had observed it out of the corner of his eye.

"Ah, I see. I am Master Mara. Well, it would probably be best if I showed you the way out of these corridors, into which you must have only accidentally stumbled."
Her gaze became sharper and Murtagh tried hard not to bow his head guiltily or give the truth away by fiddling. Since she did not try to breach his mind, must have given a convincing picture of innocence or the woman simply regarded such aggressive measures to be politically unwise.

"And it's really nice of you that you took care of poor Lenora a little. She is still very new in the capital and has not yet gotten used to living here."
Murtagh strongly doubted that it was that simple, but naturally he refrained from voicing such thoughts.

The magician led the two children into a wider corridor, her hand always on the shoulder of the girl. Murtagh could see that Lenora was shaking, even though it was a warm late summer afternoon.

When they passed a window, he could tell from the perspective of the rock overhang that they were in a building at the very edge of the fortress complex. The tunnels they had just left therefore had to run under the entire Citadel .

Two other magicians, a man and a woman, with pins similar to Master Mara´s, joined them. They flanked Lenora and led her away. With so many adults and her failed escape attempt, the girl seemed to have given up any thought of resistance.
Meanwhile, Master Mara instructed a servant to accompany him back to the main part of the castle.

There was no punishment and after a few days Murtagh was sure he wouldn't hear anything more about the whole thing.
He felt a little sorry for the girl who might have been forced to witness her parents' execution, but the magicians were right.

It was forbidden to hide a user of magic from the empire- the king had decreed for their own safety as well as to protect the rest of the population, that every magician must be trained by imperial teachers and serve the empire.
That also seemed very reasonable to Murtagh. He had learned enough about the rules of magic to know how easy it was to accidentally kill yourself or others.
The magicians of the Empire enjoyed relative prosperity and prestige and were respected even by the nobility.

And weren't they ultimately comparable to the nobility? Born with a nature that set them apart from ordinary people - but with this elevated station came, in addition to wealth and power, a higher obligation to serve the kingdom.
Of course, all this was irritating and confusing for someone from a peasant family, but Lenora
might adapt to her true role, if given enough time.
At least that's what all his teachers would say, he assumed. - Not that Murtagh had spoken to anyone about this. Luckily no one had paid special attention to his trip into the secret passages so far, bringing up the topic would therefore be foolish.
And being born with this talent gave Lenora advantages that those without magic like himself could hardly compensate for. It greatly reduced the number of people who be able harm her.

Also, there were so many opportunities for a magician to use his talents: as a healer or as a warrior, to weave spells in objects, to erect shields or fortify the cities, to secure communication throughout the empire.

He himself, on the other hand, would, when he was older, inevitably become an officer in the king's army.
This daughter of some peasant therefore probably had more career options than he did as the son of a dragon rider- Still Murtagh could not forget her frightened expression and how she tried to blend in with the wall, when he found her.

A few days later, after his sword fighting lesson, he saw Lenora again. Murtagh had just put his practice sword back into the holder. Lorena stood next to Master Mara, who was engrossed in a conversation with Tornac. She wore her student uniform again and her dark blond hair was braided into a neat wreath. It looked to Murtagh as if she had not been harmed.
The magician turned to the young nobleman.

"I was hoping that if I came so late in the day, I wouldn't interrupt your lessons, my Lord.
Lenora here has settled in better now and since you have been so friendly to her during your last meeting, I thought you wouldn't mind the company of an agemate."

Lenora then stepped forward with a slightly shy smile.

Murtagh remembered his etiquette teachers instructions as he took a small step forward. He tilted his head first towards the magician, then towards the girl, saying: "It would be my pleasure, Master Mara."

The woman in the black robe, together with Tornac, took a few steps back.

" What do we want to do?”, Lenora asked.
.
"Playing hide and seek – I've always seen the children of the castle healer do that in the fortress in the Spine," he said with half a smile.

A somewhat risky suggestion while the adults were still within earshot, but he felt quite funny.

She, however, did not respond at all to his suggestion.
"As you wish." - Well, if she did not get it, they could talk about it later.
After three rounds, they had realized that two people might be too few for a proper game of hide-and-seek, but at least Murtagh had managed to maneuver them both into a deserted section of the large park.
There he tried to resume the conversation.

Maybe she just didn't share his slightly sinister humor.
He made sure that they were unobserved and had no eavesdroppers.

"I actually suggested hiding because you were hiding from Master Mara when we first met."
She frowned.

"I hid from Master Mara? All I know is that I got lost, because I was very new here. Then I met you in one of the corridors and shortly afterwards Master Mara found us."
There had been something sluggish about her whole lecture. But he didn't get the impression that she was lying, that she was saying this because it was expected, because she feared punishment – she lacked any signs of tension that he had previously observed in people when something unpleasant or dangerous came up in conversations.
He reconsidered how to take his next step and then hesitantly said after a small, slightly embarrassing pause, "Are you still angry because of your parents?"

In contrast to his first sentence, a completely open, imprecise question. His rhetoric teacher would certainly be proud of him.

Now the anger burst out of her, "Of course! They abandoned me, just left me in the
wilderness."

Only the years of strict instructions by the old lady-in-waiting, who taught him court etiquette, kept Murtagh from staring at her like a surprised frog.

Lenora didn't seem to notice anything and spoke faster and louder, which covered the sluggish tone of her voice.
"Hilda and Gernot were chased out of their homes after their magic was discovered and the people in the village blamed them for the swine plague.

I don't even know exactly what happened to me, but the magicians say that sometimes your head can push away very bad memories in such a way that you forget them completely.
Master Mara and the others found me alone in the middle of the forest, that's the last thing I remember. So, my family wanted to get rid of me because of the magic as well.
But I now have a new, a real family, of people who are like me: the magicians of the Empire.

And I will do everything to make Master Mara proud and to prove myself a worthy daughter of our great King Galbatorix, who wisely watches over the whole land."

Murtagh mumbled what might pass as a sufficiently patriotic response and said goodbye at the next opportunity.

The sun had almost completely set by now and his teacher must have retired to his own chambers. The boy ran through the corridors of the castle, running almost as fast as his thoughts, even if this was inappropriate behavior.
Just forgot his bad memories. He thought of his father's fits of rage, of his still strong nightmares. It was a tempting thought.

He thought about his scar.
Would he wake up one day here in Urû'baen, convinced that the huge cut on his back was from an assassination attempt by the Varden and be eager to avenge the murder of his great father?

Sure, nothing had happened to the girl physically. She now seemed much happier to live in Urû'baen. Was it not desirable to want what one should, as his rhetoric teacher put it?

Nevertheless, Murtagh was horrified. Lenora hadn't really wanted anything in the true sense of the word. She wanted what the magicians let her want.

He understood that a society only functioned if there were leaders, whose commands would be obeyed. Otherwise, chaos reigned in which many people died, and no one was ever safe.

But didn't that require, for this leadership to be better than the chaos, that the leader protected his subjects and also showed a certain loyalty towards them?
How could you even know, if the leader could do something and then his subjects remembered something completely different?

The boy had meanwhile reached Tornac's door and knocked urgently.

"Come in." The soothing, deep voice of the sword fighting instructor vibrated through the thick wood of the door. The student rushed into the room and the events and thoughts gushed out of him like mead from a stabbed barrel.
Tornac thought feverishly as he gently pushed his student in the direction of his small table with two chairs in the corner and poured them both of the clear water, he had drawn from one of the wells of the castle a few hours ago.
Ever since Tornac had received orders a little over a year ago to take care of the practical part of Morzan's son's military training, he had known that he would inevitably become involved in the high politics of the Empire. If only by trying to keep the pack of hungry wolves, who were the powerful of the empire, at a distance.

On the first day he began his new service at Murtagh's side, he could not really have said anything substantial about what his student had just described.
As the younger son of a low-ranking nobleman, Tornac´s education had included little beyond the craft of war.

At the age of sixteen Tornac had joined the king's army, no longer subject to his father, his elder brother, their feudal lord and his feudal lord, but only to the king and his military superiors.
And these demanded and exemplified nothing more or less than to thoroughly fulfill one’s own task, without the time-consuming, nerve-wracking power games of the nobility.
After twenty years of service, Tornac had intended to ask for his discharge from the army and to run his own swordsmanship school. He had been quite optimistic that he would succeed, as he had been training recruits for the past few years and his superior seemed well-disposed towards him. Perhaps hi could issue him a letter of recommendation that would make it easier to persuade the governor of Teirm to allow him to open his school there.

But apparently he had already been recommended elsewhere - as he was surprised to discover when a messenger handed him a letter that ordered him to the capital at the king's personal request.

That was how he had come by his student, who was now sitting opposite of him on the other side of the very small table, his cup firmly in his hand and nervously chewing on his lip.
The Tornac, who had dismounted tired and tense from the back of his horse in the great courtyard a year ago, could not have said anything about the imperial magicians and would have stuck to platitudes about the importance of faithful service to the empire.
But from the moment he knew he would be responsible for the son of a dragon rider, he had tried to collect every information about courtly politics or magic he could get his hands on.
His sincere efforts to raise Morzan's son as well had even occasionally led the otherwise reserved Imperial mages to share some information with him.

Murtagh waited impatiently for him to start speaking.

Tronac took a little sip out of his cup and began: " First of all, it is true that there is a great fear of magic in many rural areas of the Empire. People know almost nothing about it and that generally scares a person. The unknown is also a good culprit for any misfortune.
Unlike city dwellers, they have never seen magic used in a controlled and harmless way."
-The fact that many of the Imperial punitive expeditions were accompanied by magicians was not a point that necessarily had to be discussed here and now. -
" In addition, as far as I have understood it, an untrained magician often reaches for his powers instinctively and in response to strong feelings, which is certainly not conducive to acceptance in a village community.
So, I do believe that this girl's friends were expelled from their villages.
In order to protect young magicians from such attacks, some Imperial mages travel through the land and bring them to Urû'baen, even if they are not yet twelve years old.
When the sons and daughters of the nobility and the rich merchants from the cities start their magical education at twelve, you have to remember that they have already learned to read and write and calculate at home. They have at least some basic knowledge of geography, history, manners and perhaps politics.
The vast majority of people in the Empire knows nothing about all this, they hardly leave the village, in which they are born.
It would be very daunting and practically impossible to put these children all in the same classroom at the age of twelve.
The fact that the peasant children come here earlier gives them the opportunity to fill these gaps in knowledge."- It also offered a chance to engrain eternal loyalty to the king earlier in these children.

Tornac masked his pause by purring more water into their cups and tried to find a good way to continue his explanation. What he said so far was the well-known, official version and it completely ignored Murtagh's main problem.

The sword master therefore took a deep breath and began again.
" But you are concerned about something else. The fact that this girl's memories and attitudes have been greatly altered with magic, so that instead of hating and fearing the imperial magicians and thus indirectly the king, she now worships them and willingly serves him."
Murtagh nodded silently.

." First of all, I want to reassure you, it is very unlikely that they will ever do such a thing to you. It's primarily about the fact that strong magic users are so rare, and the king faces a great threat."

Tornac had heard rumors that this method of magical re-education was primarily applied to empire-critical mages of medium strength. Drastically reduced intelligence and creativity, as well as the reduction of the ability to solve problems on one's own, were supposed to be the result even if executed successfully. - And this did not include the percentage of those whose minds were completely destroyed by it.
It was rumored that this was another reason why the Empire recruited the children of the common people so early for magical training. A young brain was probably even more malleable and there was less to push aside in order to implant the idea of unconditional obedience to the king.
With strong magicians, who took the leadership positions over the weaker ones according to the will of the king, one could not afford such a drop in mental abilities, and it would be to great a waste of talent anyway, so that they – regardless of age – were usually kept under control with magical oaths when opposed to the empire.
Their attitude would be influenced by the more conventional means of propaganda.

Tornac knew, that a third of the magicians did not serve the king voluntarily, but no one talked about it. Those affected themselves often could not do it, because of their oaths. Or they stayed silent as they feared punishment or shame. The fact that you were helplessly forced to do things you thought were wrong was obviously not something that most people were eager to have endless conversations about.
The royalist mages, on the other hand, did not rube their involuntary colleague’s status in their faces: To stir up conflicts within the king's troops would be a very disloyal act, and kindness would certainly be a better way to bring the dissenters back to the path of virtue than with groundless hostility.

As for the really weak magicians who did not willingly submit to the king's leadership... Well, Bertrant had once told him that magically altering memories or extorting an oath of allegiance from a stubborn subject of the king required a certain amount of time and resources.
Why use it for someone who could only heal a scratch or light a candle?
After all, there must be someone left to make a public example of for violating the laws regulating magic.

Tornac, as a military man, regarded this as a reasonable use of resources.

But he shouldn't tell his eight-year-old charge this here and now. Although some such rumors were tolerated among adults, a child would react much more passionately to the hard necessities of running a kingdom.
And Tornac would no longer be able to help Murtagh if he was hanged because he had allegedly incited Morzan's son against the king. Not that Tornac had anything in mind along those lines. He had fought battles against the rebels, and most of his male relatives had served as officers and professional soldiers in the king's army for three generations.
Sure, the Empire had its faults, but the suffering of civil war or the rule of an incompetent mob or foreign invaders was a far greater evil in his eyes.
Tornac had always been convinced that trough careful training - especially of future imperial officers, one could exert a better influence on the future of a state than through blind revolution.
Questioning the details of a magician’s training and recruitment was not the job of a professional soldier or a swordsmanship instructor.

But even if it was not completely his place to do so, he must at least attempt to give Murtagh a justification for what he witnessed, that he hoped the boy would understand.

Tornac took a sip from his cup to buy himself a little more time, before finally speaking again: "You have to understand that even though we are not in an open war right now, the elves in their forest have not made peace with humans.
My grandfather told me of how his father fought in the war against the elves: supernaturally strong warriors and mages, every single one of them.
The humans only won back then - besides the advantage of their greater numbers - because the Thirteen themselves were incredibly strong magicians and great strategists.
What is far away for humans and spans several generations is not too long for the elves."

Somewhat belatedly, he realized the irony of explaining the different perspective of long-lived peoples to a boy whose father had led his great-grandfather in battle.
But Murtagh was not an immortal dragon rider himself, he was an eight-year-old child who had never had much contact with his father before his death.

" The king believes that it is only a matter of time before the elves have licked their wounds and will attack the Empire.
Without the Thirteen, we need every strong magican we can find to defend the human realm and not let the elves rule us.
Yes, this alteration of memories deeply interferes with the nature of the person concerned, but it does not completely erase who they are.
All these children still have different strengths and weaknesses, character traits and preferences.
The king has a responsibility to protect the entire population of the empire and occasionally this duty of protection means that he must force some people to do certain things, such as paying taxes or the performance of military service, that some of his subjects would like to avoid.

It is true, that what the Empire has done with these children is much more drastic than taxes or the levy - it is expected that they will serve the kingdom faithfully for the rest of their lives. But this only affects about fourhundred people and the danger posed by the elves is immense.
Every leader must make such difficult decisions. And these children in return receive an excellent education, skills that many envy them for, generous pay and prestige. They are also not denied their own family. "

On the contrary, the marriage with a magician was regarded by the nobles as a marriage within equal rank, even if the magician had simple origins. The king encouraged the marriage of his magicians with special bonuses – magical talent was often hereditary. Expectant and young mothers were moved away from the front and could count on a quiet post for at least five years, often in one of the larger cities.

Galbatorix undoubtedly showed favor to those he considered useful.

The boy in front of him thought for a moment about what he had been told and then said hesitantly: "So a ruler has to make difficult decisions between what is good for everyone and what the individual people want. And it's important that if he does something to individuals that they think is bad, it helps everyone else somehow. - And here it also benefits the magicians if they serve the Empire, because then they live in a safer world.
So you always need some kind of balance?
Like the mutual obligations between a feudal lord and his vassal? Like the peasants who cultivate the land for the landlord and are protected from robbers and get support from their Lord in difficult times?"

“Yes"

Murtagh frowned, "But what about slaves?" The sword master choked on his own spit.

His charge continued: "They perform similar tasks as servants, but they are not paid. No one has any duties towards them – "You have no duties towards things," said Master Hitto.”

Tornac had meanwhile stood up and poured the contents of a liquor bottle into his now empty cup. He usually didn't drink anything when his student was around - he had heard enough about Morzan and the origin of the huge scar on Murtagh's back.
But this was certainly a good reason for an exception. By the gods, that very morning he would have sworn that the most unpleasant conversation that awaited him would be that of marital duties and extramarital affairs, and that did not become urgent until the boy turned fourteen.

" Well, many people become slaves, because they have committed serious crimes.
Either against their fellow human beings, such as murder, or against the king and the public, because they refuse in a very serious way to cooperate with the Empire, thereby endangering everyone the Empire protects.
They place themselves through their actions outside of the human community and can no longer be treated as members of this community.
Many are therefore executed in such cases. This punishes them for breaking the rules and prevents them from repeating their evil deeds and spread their rot, but the damage they have already done is usually not repaired.
An alternative, therefore, is to punish them a little less severely, but to make them repent to the Community with their work.
They are therefore no longer subject to the usual reciprocity of duties, because they have first stepped out of the circle of the human community with their crime, and if they are not executed for it, then they still receive something for their service, namely the mercy of being left alive."

Murtagh seemed to accept that part, but he didn't let up.

" But Ara, the girl who cleans my room, is maybe thirteen and I don't think she committed a bad crime. When I once asked her why she was here, she said she was born in the palace."

Tornac took a deep sip from his cup before continuing.

" Well, just as a princely title or belonging to a class is inherited, so also the slave children share the fate of their parents."

“And I understand that in general”, Murtagh interrupted him. “I mean, if the farmer's son could become a Lord, we would certainly have complete chaos here. How is he supposed to be able to do it? I don't know anything about tilling fields either! And I know that children often resemble their parents, in appearance and also in their talents, which is the foundation for the nobilities right to rule, but... but that doesn't mean they will make every single decision the same way as their parents made them, does it?
That doesn't mean they're going to commit the very same crimes that led to their father or mother being excluded from the human community!"

Tornac began to suspect that Morzan's son was only partially speaking of the situation of the slaves now.

" There you are right. Judging children by the crimes of their parents is not fair."

Not that this fact was really new information for his student, but he would not cross the bounds of propriety by pointing that out and laying bare what Murtagh clearly was not ready to openly talk about.

" It is also not the case that every child whose father has committed a crime is ostracized in the same way, but in very extreme cases, people tend to react very extremely.
Many wealthy merchants and aristocrats also benefit from doing things this way, but if you have complete control over your estates, you can do it differently.”

The sword master smiled slightly. "And if you're so passionate about the big political issues, then maybe you're pursuing a courtly rather than a military career. If you are the king's right-hand man, you might even be able to impose changes throughout the empire."

Murtagh gave him a look that was difficult to interpret. Tornac had said it half jokingly, but with pride and ice-cold horror he thought that this might actually be the path of life that King Galbatorix had already mapped out for his student: a prudent deputy who would keep the king's back safe, when his Majesty engaged in his strange magical research and payed little attention to the daily affairs of the kingdom.

And with a thoughtless comment, Tornac had saddled an eight-year-old boy with another responsibility and expectation.
However, it was not a far-fetched possibility and so he did not know how to take back what had been said when Murtagh stood up, thanked him for the conversation and made his way to his own chambers.

Chapter Text

It was the first day of autumn and already late in the afternoon. The grey and cloudy sky stretched over the city like the dome of a cathedral, full of dark shadows and hard to focus on. A cold wind announced the coming winter.

Ten-year-old Murtagh stood in the middle of a crowd of nobles, Tornac ever watchful by his side.
Until now he just observed the rituals of the Death Day from up high on the battlements of the citadel – today he was expected to lead the procession by the king´s side.
The one held in Urû'baen was the greatest parade of its kind, but Murtagh knew that similar festivities were held in all major imperial cities except Dras Leona.

Murtagh and Tornac had already held his own little ceremony at the break of dawn, both remembering dead loved ones, whose graves were out of reach. Selena laid in the peaks of the spine in the gardens of Morzan’s castle and Tornac´s wife and stillborn daughter were buried at his family’s estate in the southern province of the Boddring kingdom near the border with Surda.

Murtagh hope, that the candle they had lit for his mother would lighten her path and keep her warm int the grey and cold expanse of the underworld, that the expensive incense could strengthen her spirit on her long journey.
He also hoped, it would allow her to see him, if she turned around to look after her son and whenever he thought, he felt a special war presence he believed his prayers had been answered.
The public processions that were held in the streets were of an entirely different nature than Murtagh’s and Tornac´s private vigil – they commemorated those heroes , who sacrificed their life for the creation or advancement of the Empire.

The assembled nobility honoured their own sons who lead by example and died for their king and the good of the kingdom.
And the people venerated the thirteen, who according to widespread believe lead the army of the dead, and whose Dragons burned a path through the cold expanse of the underworld.
In villages and cities candles and torches were lit by peasants and tradesmen alike not only to honour and support the dead, but also to signal to the cold army that they were not the enemy. If the restless heros should haunt anyone, it should be the Varden and other traitors, who did not participate in such patriotic rituals.
Murtagh’s believes about the underworld would of course evolve, first by studying some elvish philosopher to whose works the king had graciously granted him access to and later through the feeling how the mind of a dying persons flickering out like a candle in a storm – but we should not get ahead of our self’s.
The noblemen and women in front of the castle gate began to form lines staggered according to their rank, they formed two blocks each certainly 30 rows deep, with a path between them. And every one carried a big candle in a red glass. The rows of the nobility are flanked by army officers with torches and in the rows behind them magicians conjured red lights, which were twisting and swirling hypnotically over the palm of their hands.
Two rows of common soldiers – delegations from every military unit stationed in the capital – formed the end of the glory sharers, as the fist most part of the parade is called unofficially.
Behind those, who actively served the empire, the most wealthy and influential merchants and guild masters of the capital followed, each with a naked little candlelight, trying to bath in the glory of others. The off-duty servants of the palace follow last. Their hands empty and their faces serious. No protocol mentioned their involvement, but their participation as outermost part of the royal household was quietly tolerated.

Murtagh could feel Tornac´s warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing to ground him. He looked up and saw the concerned expression on his teacher´s face.
“How are you?”, the man asked. – Not: Do you want to do this? Or Do you think, you can manage it? – He had to do it, there were no other options.
“It will go well, Tornac” , Murtagh still said. It had been years since he last lost composure in front of the court. He was plagued by nightmares only rarely. Murtagh managed to retain a stoic facade, whether someone cursed or praised his father – whether they called him demon spawn or future of the empire. He had month to accept the fact, that this year and going forward his attendance during the Night of the Dead would be required. He would manage. He had to.

The beating of a drum vibrated trough the twilight and the great portal of the castle open.
The kings usually black clothes neatly matched on this day only the dark attire of the nobility. Galbatorix wore in contrast to most days neither his crown nor is dragon leather cape. The fabric of his shirt and trousers was of low quality only the expensive black colour indicated his status and made the different from the smocks of the peasants. His expression was unusually motionless, like frozen while watching a massacre long passed, while he walked through the corridor in the middle of the procession.
As he reached the place were Murtagh and Tornac stood, the ruler of Alagaësia acknowledged Morzan´s son with a small nod and the boy stepped into the aisle, falling in pace with the king on his right side but one step behind him, as previously instructed.
Murtagh pressed his hands harder against the orb made of rod red glass he was holding and the warm its candle was emitting helped him to relax a little.

Slowly and silently, they moved through the rows of people to the head of the procession, the nobles on either side illuminated by the light of the hundred candles in their red glasses.
But in this close-up view, Murtagh noticed what he had never seen from the distant castle walls: not even one of the dead lights resembled the other.
They had different shapes, straight or wavy, angular, or rounded, twisted or plain. Some were made from piece of glass and others looked more like a composite lantern, or even a glowing mosaic. And every single light had a different shade of red. Orange-red like the flames of fire, dark tones like garnet, shifting into purple, brownish rust red and blood red. Blood-red in all its stages, from the bright glow of the freshly leaked sap to the darker tone of coagulation to the almost black coloration of dried blood on a scabbed wound.

Some glasses were adorned with family coats of arms, others seemed to have been made individually for a specific person or bore name engravings and plaques.
Often, they seemingly replaced the graves of the fallen sons, who had at best been buried somewhere near the place of their death in a remote part of the empire and beyond.
As varied as the shapes were, so were the suspensions of the death lights- with handles and rods to be proudly held aloft by their bearers or suspended from chains to swing to the beat of the procession. Some, like the glass held by Murtagh, had neither handles nor chains - only a warm, smooth, red surface, which was held close to the body by its carrier.

The king had stopped at the head of the procession, and Murtagh followed his gaze downwards.
The boy saw in the ruler's hand a kind of staff made of transparent red glass. It was hexagonal, slightly longer than the height of a hand and of a diameter that a grown man could comfortably grasp it with one hand.
The name of two of the Thirteen Rides had been inscribed in silver letters on each of the six sides.
The king, half facing Murtagh, continued to look at the staff, turning it between two fingers, perhaps lost in thought, lost in the memory of his comrades-in-arms, perhaps with the intention of enabling him to read all the names on the staff.
At the top and bottom side of the staff each was a name engraved in gold.
Jarnunvösk and Morzan.
The king now held the glass handle vertically and completely enclosed in his hand.
„Brisingr“
A pillar of fire, as wide as the glass, shot out from both ends of the staff, at first purple in colour, until it took on a more orange-tinged red.
As if Galbatorix had grabbed a strange tree by the trunk, the column of fire forked at its upper end at the level of the king's head into fourteen individual tongues of flame, most of which flickered red to illuminate his face.

Galbatorix began to move with his fire staff in his hand, and the rest of the procession followed him down the main street lined with people.
While the procession patricipants walked silently and slowly through the wide streets towards the outer city wall, the inhabitants of the city and the visitors from the surrounding area standing at the roadside sang the traditional mourning songs
There were only five of them, constantly repeating, with catchy lyrics that even a stranger could quickly join in.
The music stirred something in Murtagh.
In the songs that spoke of warmth and the emptiness of loss, he missed his mother – even if he had otherwise come to terms with her death.
But one of the five, a song called, "The Path of Our Forefathers"...

" ... and we find us on the path which our fathers have gone before,

Into the twisting and turning of a way unknown,

In the twilight of the future, we attempt to find the destination,

And we cannot look back, just fog and haze, shreds in oblivion

and yet we stand on the path that our fathers walked before,

but they can no longer answer how we got there..."

He usually tries to distance himself from Morzan as much as possible in his mind.
Sure, he was reminded almost daily by a comment or two, even if it was just a nobleman who felt the need to address him by his full name, that Morzan was his father, but he didn't let that get too close to him.
He was his father, but he tried his best not see him as a real person, that had anything substantial to do with himself.
Morzan was his father in a more abstract sense, in the sense of titles and blood, but his mother, as seldom as he had seen her, was in a much more concrete way. She had hugged him, read to him, or played with him.

But this song...

They had reached the outer city walls, and for the first time since Murtagh had entered the capital six years ago, he would now leave its vast boundary behind.

At the gates of the city, but in its immediate vicinity to the south, there was a large burial ground for the rich on and around a hill—the poor were taken beyond the north gate and buried in mass graves a mile from the city.

However, the necropolis of the rich reflected society in the city.
At the foot of the hill, wealthy merchant families and middle-ranking officials had erected large tombstones. Beyond a low wall were the mausoleums of the nobility and the magicians.

The procession moved up the hill until he and the king reached a second wall, this time as tall as a man.
The area behind it was usually only accessible to members of the Imperial forces, but this morning the vestibules of the Thirteen Shrines had been opened to the public, as they did on every Hero's Day.
There was a lot of rumour among the people about the fourteenth shrine, whose impressive doors, purple and with scales carved into it like a fish, were always locked.
Galbatorix stopped in front of the wrought-iron gate to the innermost part of the graveyard and extinguished the flames in his hand.
The procession came to a halt.
No one expected a speech, the decisive thing about courage, duty and sacrifice had already been said at noon from the outer wall of the castle.

The procession dispersed as those who made it up moved towards the graves of their families to place the candles of the dead there.
Ordinary people followed them in small groups.
The foot of the hill was dotted with pavilions of various sizes. Later, the cold night would be filled with the praises of those noble families who had shown themselves to be particularly generous in feeding the poor. A warm meal and nothing to do but to listen to a story about the exploits of his patrons and their ancestors - an irresistible exchange for many of the common people after the end of the harvest season and in view of the coming winter.

The king had just laid his hand on the cold metal of the gate in front of them, when Murtagh felt a slight shock. He thought nothing of it, but the ruler Alagaësia´s froze in the middle of his movement.

The feeling of vibrations in the air grew stronger, somehow louder....but the king did not look around.
He looked up.

A huge black shadow moved through the dark blue night sky, obscuring silvery clouds, briefly obscuring the moon and stars.

Shruikan.

A hint of annoyance twitched across Galbatorix's face before becoming expressionless again, but this time the focused absence of a human engaged in a mental conversation.
Shruikan turned away.

The king opened the black wrought-iron gate, glanced thoughtfully at the boy behind him, and left the gate open, silently but clearly inviting Murtagh to follow him.

Magical fires burned brightly in the inner district, illuminating the paths and geometric hedges between the shrines that were the size of farmhouses.
White marble and tall columns were a unifying design feature, but the other decorations and colour schemes varied from building to building.

They headed for the large entrance portal of the nearest shrine, a tall double door made of dark brown wood with handles in the shape of dragon heads made of black metal.
The upper half of the door leaves consisted of a kind of stained-glass artwork, red and dark grey pieces forming artfully intertwined patterns that certainly created magnificent light effects inside during the day when the sun fell through the door.
The patterns on both doors were mirror images, except for the symbols of white, opaque glass in the middle.

The left wing of the door was adorned with a twisted flame, the symbol of the empire and the king.
On the right side was a glyph of the Old Language, which seemed vaguely familiar to Murtagh, but although his knowledge of the language was almost fluent from the lessons of the last five years, his teacher had not yet introduced him to the alphabet of poetry.
The king, however, had noticed his gaze. He had stopped and was running his hand over the glass symbol. Then he opened one of the doors and they entered. Murtagh wasn't sure, but thought he heard a murmured "Misery".

The room was large enough to hold two practice fights with swords at the same time.
The floor was made of polished grey stone and the ceiling, with it´s depiction of a whipped-up storm sky, seemed to be reflected in it, not only as a reflection.
The dark brown wood panelling of the walls was barely visible, as there was another door on the opposite wall and the walls were otherwise covered by almost floor-to-ceiling paintings.
The room was lit by a magical orb of light that floated under the ceiling like a second blazing sun and had begun to shine on its own when the door was opened, as if it had noticed a consciousness and their entrance.

There were monumental paintings that covered the walls on the sides of the room without doors– Morzan and his blood-red dragon engaged in aerial combat on one side, and Morzan as the leader of an army on the other, while in the background his dragon covered a besieged city with fire.

In front of both paintings, spread out on low wooden tables, were folded pieces of paper, autumn flowers and trinkets. They were all lit by hundreds of candles of varying quality. Murtagh also saw weapons and tools among the offerings, even carved toys, but why exactly someone would leave these in particular here—beyond the obvious purpose of honouring his father in some way—was a mystery to him.
These things must have been brought in here in the morning, the only time of the year when the public had access. At first, he wasn't sure if he wanted to know at all, but then he felt the irrepressible, if certainly irreverent, need to read these notes.

Galbatorix, however, turned purposefully towards the opposite door, and young Murtagh, his red candle still in his hands, followed him.
The works of art to the left and right of the door were not paintings, but magically created Fairiths.
The one on the left showed a life-size man with shoulder-length black hair who looked like he was in his mid-thirties.
He was dressed in a fine blood-red tunic, decorated with black embroidery, dark trousers and knee-high, dark brown riding boots.
The background was an indefinable grey mass, but his entire posture corresponded to the casual elegance of a predator that could kill the viewer at any time, like a moderately interesting prey.
The arrogant smile that played around the corners of his mouth and the slightly mocking look of his mismatched eyes reinforced this impression.

Morzan's dangerousness was evident in every line of this picture, and yet this danger was the only one that really corresponded with Murtagh´s own memories.
He had rarely seen his father so controlled, rather roaring or drunk - occasionally both. But he wasn't sure if his impression was true, as he had rarely seen his father and his tantrums might have overshadowed everything else.
In the meantime, however, Murtagh also had difficulty separating his personal memories from the impressions that had later been evoked by the monumental iconography of the imperial artists. But whether Morzan was more like raging fire or cold, unyielding steel, in both cases Murtagh had been fragile and inconsequential in the face of that strength.

When the king opened the door, Murtagh's gaze left Morzan's portrait and his attention fell on the second image to the right of the door. It was the same height and width as its counterpart and could therefore only capture a small section of the creature depicted, but for Murtagh, who had only ever seen his father's dragon from a distance through the castle windows, this representation was quite sufficient.
One had the impression that the dragon, alternating between blood and ruby red, was looking into the room through a crack in the wall.

For the first time, Galbatorix turned to his young companion, his hand still on the now open door.
"If your sword master and a group of guards are with you, you can come here anytime you like, but they'll have to wait here in the anteroom.
The door to the innermost chamber is magically secured, and crossing its threshold wouldn't do anyone who isn't Morzan's family any good."

The boy nodded.

They entered a smaller chamber with a floor and ceiling of polished red stone and walls of black, finely veined marble.
The room was quite empty. There was no huge sarcophagus with a stone relief of the deceased, as would have been customary in a tomb of the nobility. Instead, the black basalt urn barely stood out from the wall if it weren't for the silver decorations and inlaid rubies.
For a few seconds, Murtagh couldn't take his eyes off the place where his father's remains were now inextricably linked to his dragon - in a volcano-born vessel that would last for centuries.

The ten-year-old pulled himself together.
What was the point?
Morzan had rejected him.
He had been a nuisance to his father, not serious enough to get rid of him personally, but insignificant enough not to care if his son survived after he threw his sword at him.
And yet he was his heir.
That was the reason why he stood here at the side of the Ruler of Alagaësia.
That was what the court saw, what everyone would probably see if they had any idea who he was. The full weight of these prejudices and expectations, which had always lurked at the edge of his consciousness since his arrival in Urû'baen five years ago, swept over him like a wave.
To suppress these thoughts until he could pursue them in peace, the boy looked again at the still silent king.
Galbatorix had completely ignored the ashes and focused all his attention on the great sculpture, which was the only other object in the room besides the urn.
The dragon, which seemed to be made entirely of blood-red jasper, sat on all four legs, his wings spread. Through the thin stone of the wings the overhead lighting seemed to shine, like trough a living membrane. It appeared as if blood was still flowing through the veins in the stone. Murtagh was sure that this work of art could only have been created with the help of magic.

At the dragon's side, one hand resting on the scales of its flank, stood the sculpture of Morzan.
The proportions could not be right, because the arc of the extended wing ended just a head above his rider. The membrane of stone therefore formed an arc behind and over Morzan's effigy like a concert shell, and the dragon's head towered over the first of the thirteen by only two heads in total.
His father, on the other hand, had been depicted in life-size and did not stand on a pedestal, so that Galbatorix could come face to face with him.
The stone Morzan - made of a single grey block without any grain or blemish - wore armour but no helmet. Only the eyes were neither grey nor of different colours as in life, but of cold-reflecting hematite.
Morzan stretched out his hand with the Gedwëy Ignasia - a ring of silver - perhaps pointing contentedly to what had been accomplished, perhaps reaching through the grey veils of death into the world of the living.

The king's face was now clearly showing sadness.
"My friend." - A barely audible whisper, spoken by a man whose consciousness lived through a thousand past moments as he stood in this tomb, staring into the cold, mirrored, dead eyes.
It seemed as if Galbatorix wanted to grasp the statue's outstretched hand. He had raised his hand with his own Gedwëy Ignasia, almost a reflection of the grey stone man in front of him.
But then he decided against it and slowly lowered his hand again.

Murtagh averted his gaze and suddenly felt as if he were bursting into a private matter.
So, his eye fell on the third detail of the statue, which was not made of grey stone. On the scabbard was the same glyph in black depicted, that also adorned the front door. - Zar'roc - Misery

Galbatorix took a step back, evidently in order to clear the space in front of the statue for Murtagh. After a moment's hesitation, the boy placed the red candle at the feet of the statue. Then he, too, stepped back, unsure of what would happen next.

After a while the king began to speak:
"I know you didn't have an easy relationship with your father.
Morzan could be difficult for the people closest to him.
Throughout your life, you're sure to encounter people who either hate him for his actions or worship him like a hero.
And to all these people, you're going to have to prove yourself through strength in one way or another."

The king smiled slightly, but the expression of his eyes remained sad.

"I am one of the few who do not do one or the other.
To me, he was just a friend during the hardest time of my life.
The first one who believed in my idea of another world, encouraged me in it and faithfully helped me to turn it into reality.
I see that you are your own person, Murtagh.
But I still hope that you, like your father and hundreds after him, will see the value of my plans and help me to carry them out when you are older."

The king relieved Murtagh of the embarrassment of having to answer by turning back to the statue and continuing to speak, almost as if to himself.

"But now I would like alone – even though I lost the only thing worth owning first, they all left a hole, all twenty-six, each in their own way. - Your sword master and some guards will be waiting for you at the entrance to the inner graveyard."

Murtagh bowed, but as the king could not see it, he added, "Good night, Your Majesty."

There seemed to be a faint smile in the answer: "Good night, wing-trailer."

The boy left the burial chamber and walked slowly through the antechamber and along the brazier-lined paths back to the gate of the inner graveyard.

It was clear to Murtagh that he would need time to know what to make of this evening. At least he wouldn't be forced to set foot in Morzan's shrine for a whole year. That should surely be enough to digest his feelings and conflicting thoughts.

At the gate, Tornac and about ten soldiers were waiting.
The men looked relatively grumpy, which was not surprising—they could not spend this holiday with their families, nor as was customary with all the unmarried and some of the other off-duty soldiers on that day, spend their holiday allowance in the city.
Not that ten-year-old Murtagh had a particularly precise idea of what exactly the money was being used for.
He was just pretty sure there was a lot of alcohol involved, which he probably wasn't wrong about.
There must have been a certain agitation on his face in spite of all his efforts, for Tornac pulled him without a word into an embrace.
The boy flinched for a moment and stared in the direction of the soldiers.
He only relaxed when, during his mustering, he had come to the conclusion that, most likely, none of his guards had a relative among the greatest nobles of the empire.

Tornac let go of him, and the men fell into formation around them.
As they prepared to leave, Murtagh glanced back through the gate into the inner graveyard.
Galbatorix had apparently left Morzan's shrine and was closing the door behind him, which appeared to be made of dark purple wooden scales.

Just as they had passed the city gates, Murtagh suddenly remembered with unease that he would have to return in the next few days - no one else could get the burned-out candle of death out of the burial chamber.

Chapter Text

Murtagh stood upright in front of a wall whose yellowish sandstone was no longer visible under all the red. He tried not to move a muscle as the sweat ran down his back.

For half an hour he had been standing in the unusually warm autumn sun, in his heaviest, splendidly embroidered robes, in front of a huge red banner adorned with Morzan's coat of arms. The silver threads and black silk forming the emblem glinted in the sun.

Tornac leaned against a tree, enjoying is shade and looked at his former pupil.

Although they wouldn't confirm their new roles until the afternoon, he had, of course, spent half the morning helping Murtagh don the grey armour the King had given to his former ward to celebrate his majority.

Glyphs of the ancient language lined the edges of the stunningly light armour plates, even if the Sword Master was sure that weight wasn't the only quality of the gear enhanced by magic.

An older magician, standing in front of Murtagh, in black robes however did not seem to mind the heat, oppressive for the tenth day of autumn.
Still in the in the best of moods, he was looking for the most suitable angle for the ideal image, while he displayed a talkativeness unusual for his profession.

"My illustrious Lord, would you place your right hand on the pommel of your sword....Thank you, that should fit well in the reception hall of the castle in the Spine."

It was only because Tornac knew his former pupil so well that he could see Murtagh tense up almost imperceptibly at these words.

The magician with the slightly shaggy grey-brown hair took no notice.

"And could you now point your right arm at the coat of arms, yes, very well... maybe a little more dynamic.... and now please lift your head a little more... Very good.... And now please turn so I can see you in profile, hmm, that's ideal for the medium format that his Majesty had asked for."

He beckoned to some servants closer, who moved the stone tablets – some as big as a cupboard door, others knee-high – out of the way. He then picked up a small pile of wooden plates about the size of a book page.

"I will have them brought to Flameheim on my way to the castle. I will leave you these smaller portraits here, I am sure they might be useful to you in some diplomatic matters, my lord. – Well, at least in marriage negotiations.
I have to get a little closer, it's supposed to be more of a shoulder portrait."

Luckily, the task of transferring the image to the wooden panels required enough concentration to finally silence the magician named Daryn for a moment.

Tornac did not envy the men who had to endure the weeks-long journey with this loquacious replacement for the late Aeonor.
On the other hand, traveling in the company of a magic user was always a safer affair, and since he was sent to oversee the principality and maintain contact with the capital, Daryn had to be capable. - Even if his almost childlike enthusiasm in the production of the Fraith´s somehow raised doubts about that.
However, since he always remained appropriately respectful towards Murtagh, there was no real reason to object to his behaviour.

Finally, the man finished his work and handed Murtagh five of the smaller wooden panels with his likeness.

They made their way to the nearest castle entrance, and Murtagh seemed to want to loosen his sword from his belt out of habit before he changed his mind.

Passing the practice field, Tornac saw that a formal duel was underway, but it had attracted only a very limited number of spectators.
The reason for this was obvious on closer inspection: one of the opponents was a muscular, red-haired young man who, with sword in his hand, had assumed a position that showed his experience and technical competence.
But he didn't stand a chance.
His opponent was smaller and slenderer, and he had no weapon in his hands. But that wasn't necessary – he wore a red magician's robe.

The court protocol stated that magicians and nobles of comparable rank were mutually entitled to demand satisfaction for insults offered– a rule that meant that the nobles usually treated the mages with exquisite courtesy.
Here, however, for one reason or another, a duel seemed to have become necessary.

The redhead swung his sword at his opponent, who, as expected, crashed into an invisible barrier one foot away from the magician.
Now it was time for the letters counterattack, ececutid without moving any limb. Only the magician's lips moved. The nobleman grabbed his neck, seemingly choking, and began to burn red.
He must have whispered something like a capitulation that Tornac did not understand from a distance, because the spell seemed to end, and the young warrior was gasping for air on all fours.
The only thing more unpleasant than losing a duel in this very predictable way was cowardly refusing the challenge. If one decided to take this step often, he could be dishonourably discharged from the army, possibly even lose his estates and nobility status as well.
After all, what was the use of a vassal, who was so cowardly as not to compete in a duel in which the rules demanded that the killing or mutilation of the opponent be avoided?
Of course, despite all this, the mages did not possess any inviolability when it came to dealing with the other elites of the empire, after all, the functioning division of labour between all the king's men was decisive for the cohesion of the realm.
Over on the battlefield, the mage and the nobleman seemed to have settled their conflict, and the red-robed man helped the other to his feet.

Murtagh hurried through the corridors toward his chambers, evidently anxious to exchange his clothes that were far too warm for something lighter.
The speed he was able to display despite the grey suit of plates confirmed Tornac's observation that powerful spells must have been placed on the metal, ensuring that the armour did not hinder the wearer any more than a slightly thicker cloak.
He helped the young man remove the breast plate and then waited for Murtagh to re-enter the living room in a thinner red-and-black garment of surdanian silk. His former student held one of the wooden panels in his hands.
For the first time in years, Murtagh looked nervous, his grey eyes inspecting the floor as if he wanted to judge the quality of the terrain during a spar.

"Well, then... I know, of course, that we will continue to see each other - but it is still a change and ... and I wanted to say thank you for the last nine years and... and if you want one..."

Almost hesitantly, he held out the portrait to Tornac.
The sword master took it, smiled slightly, and formally thanked Murtagh.
Then he decided to throw the courtly conventions overboard and pulled the boy into a hug.
"Thank you. And whatever changes today - I am still here and if necessary I am willing to straighten you out closed doors, even if my new Lord could justifiably punish me severely for it."
Murtagh protested indignantly, but still squeezed the swordsman tighter.
Tornac tried to put into this embrace the presumptuous sentence that society would never allow him to utter aloud.

I am proud of you, my son.

Now dressed in lighter clothes, Murtagh and Tornac set out for one of the smaller council chambers, where the sovereign of Alagaësia was waiting for the son of his right-hand man.

The king, despite his coming of age, would not give Murtagh the responsibility for Lakeground today, and according to tradition, he could wait until Murtagh was twenty-five.
Galbatorix, however, had allowed his protégé to accept the oaths of allegiance from his own vassals.

Tornac could not understand this as anything other than a preparation for completely releasing the principality from royal control in the next few years.
The tear in the fabric of the realm caused by Morzan's death would thus be mended a little further.
The Sword master could imagine Murtagh's guts getting tangled at this thought if it were to cross his mind as well.

In the light-flooded hall, King Galbatorix sat at the top of a three-tiered tribune - watching those present.
The dark purple of the royal garments contrasted sharply with the white walls of the room, which, like the ceiling, were decorated with depictions of dark green plants. The carpet, that covered the almost black wood of the floor and the grandstand, was dark green as well.

As far away as possible from the Ruler of the Empire, in front of one of the many large arched windows, stood the nobles of the principality of lake ground, and Tornac joined them.
A slight smile played around the corner of Galbatorix's mouth as Murtagh dropped to one knee at the foot of the podium. The king's former ward rose at a sign from his king and sat down on the chair prepared for him on the second level of the platform.

One by one, the Counts of Lakeground stepped forward and knelt down, as did the nobles of the freehold estate at the Flem and the leader of the castle guards from the Spine. They all assured Murtagh of their loyalty, who confirmed them in their offices.

First up was Count Komar of Woadark, a laid-back, half-bald man in green and red clothing with yellow accents, who was known throughout the kingdom for the wine that thrived on the slopes around the lake.

Count Randulf's blue eyes scrutinized his young liege lord calculatingly, before the grumpy man dropped to one knee and his blue-gray cloak wrinkled on the floor behind him. Murtagh could well understand the gaunt man's reservations about himself: Randulf was the wealthiest of his Vassals with famous horse breeding stables near Gilead, and he could easily lose the most due to Murtagh's increasing interference.
He also supplied the nearby army base in Gilead, and he probably couldn't help but compare him to the cities ruler and ask himself if Murtagh could handle a border conflict.
Count Lambert of Meyfurt, in brown, orange and yellow, obviously did not know such worries with his estates south of the Fläm, protected on one side by the Spine. The rotund middle-aged man with laugh lines on his face had not come alone, one of his younger sons stood in the background and watched the proceedings.

It was certainly a considerable achievement for old Count Willrath to have reached the capital at all from his estates on the tributary of the Ramr, but not to appear in person after a change lordship to renew his oaths was a disrespect that could cost every man and his descendants the county.
As he knelt down, the audience could almost hear the groaning of the joints, and Murtagh was evidently trying to speak faster so that the old man would not have to remain in his position for too long.

Captain Irsen had visibly aged since he had accompanied him on his way to the capital eleven years ago, but the leader of the guards at Morzan's castle still seemed strong and vigilant.

And then there was Tornac himself.

With his pupil coming of age, it would be highly inappropriate for the swordsman to continue to play the role of a teacher - Murtagh was no longer a child, after all.
Once one had such an intimate role in the life of a great nobleman, there was only one way to make their relationship appropriate after reaching manhood, and Tornac had trained Morzan's orphan for nine years.

To turn to something or someone else now would be a scandal that would severely shake Murtagh's authority.
They did not refuse to become a retainer of the second most high-ranking nobleman in the empire.

Tornac took a step forward.

"Lord Murtagh, I beg the honour of entering your service."

Fixed formulas that demanded a fixed answer.

"Who are you and where are you from?"

Murtagh's face showed the stiff earnestness one would expect from a prince of the realm on such an occasion, but his eyes still betrayed to his longtime teacher that tension was running through his former student's veins.

"My name is Tornac, son of the noble Enfric of Kehrn ́tarnrac in the Principality of Southmarch."
Tornac had clasped his hands behind his back and briefly saw neither Murtagh nor the king above him.
An estate he hadn't visited for years, a family with whom he had little in common - there were worse things.

Murtagh continued to ask questions to which he knew the answer, but which had to be spoken out loud that day anyway.

"And are you serving another Lord at present? The Prince of the Southern March, perhaps?"

"I never served him – my brother took over my father's fief.
But I have served our King Galbatorix above all else, since I joined His Majesty's army in the year of my majority“.

The Prince of Lakeground nodded.

"We are all subjects of the king, and yet I cannot accept as my retainer a man, who is already bound by so great another duty."

At this point, according to protocol, Tornac turned away from his former charge, approached the lowest step of the platform, and humbly dropped on both knees.
"My king, I beg you to release me from my duties as your soldier."

Galbatorix leaned forward slightly, and in a fluid movement raised his hand, on which his Gedwëy Ignasia was shining, as if to emphasize his words with the gesture.
"I grant this request, Tornac Enfricson, and dismiss you from my service."

Tornac turned back to Murtagh and fell to one knee before him.
"Lord Murtagh, I want to offer you my services again. Now no duty binds me but that of a subject of his majesty, and the honour of my family."

This time, the young man took his sword master's hands in his own.
"I accept this request and swear, as your Lord, to offer you protection and help.
As long as I have a roof over my head, you will not be left out in the cold.
I swear as your Lord to guide you with an open ear, and if necessary, not to punish you without hearing our side first."

Tornac continued the exchange.
" My Lord, I swear to serve you faithfully and obediently.
Your enemies are my enemies, and your friends are my friends. I swear to protect your back from danger and to follow when you call."
The necessary part was thus completed, but Murtagh did not let go of Tornac's hands, but began to speak again.
"Then I would like to assign your task to you, Tornac Enfricson, as captain of my guard" – a guard that didn't really exist yet, but Tornac still appreciated the gesture – "and as a visible sign of my appreciation, I would like to present this ring."

With a slight smile, Murtagh put the copper signet ring on Tornac's little finger. The sword master found that his Lord hid his feelings very well, suppressing the deep-seated uneasiness at making such a statement public. But Tornac could see the slight tension in Murtagh’s neck and the position of is shoulders.

This was the only socially acceptable way for Murtagh to publicly announce that he saw his former teacher as part of his family.

"Thank you, Sir—I am honoured by your trust." Tornac resolved not to feel embarrassment at his voice breaking with the words.

Murtagh nodded and the king rose, and the moment was over.

At the feast that followed, which Murtagh and his vassals ate together, the young man sat at the head of the table.
He took the position where Morzan would have sat in Flameheim or high in the castle in the Spine.
But it was all right, because Tornac was sitting on his right side.

****

In the end, the public celebrations for his coming of age more or less encompassed the entire court.
It was quite an impressive experience, even for someone familiar with the splendour of the capital.
There was still a game of hide-and-seek played to a certain extent, and people within earshot of supposedly uninitiated third parties spoke only of the Prince of Lakeground or the king's former ward, as if anyone who knew even a little about the history and politics of the Empire did not realize that he was Morzan's son.

Murtagh was besieged by well-wishers, and it had been started by his counts, with whom he had ridden out on his brown riding horse the morning after the oath- taking, so that he and they could get to know each other better.
When they arrived back at the yard in front of the stables, a group of men were already waiting there.

Count Randulf played spokesman: "Sir, your horse is certainly a good animal for longer journeys, but not really suitable for battle.
We would therefore like to express our devotion to our Lord with this gift, which is the best result of my breeding last year."

The Count pointed to a young horse that a stable-hand held successfully by the reigns already.
The grey war horse may not have been quite a year old, but it even this young it showed both elegance and a build that could handle the weight of an armoured rider.

Count Lambert now interjected: "Of course, the rest of us don't want to be inferior and have taken care of the other equipment."

Murtagh thus came into possession of several sets of saddles and bridle, both for battle and an ornate one for representative purposes and a suit of horse armour, adapted to the full-grown size of his new warhorse.
Count Randulf had even assigned one of his horse trainers to assist him and the royal horse masters in the education of the still nameless Grey.
Murtagh formally thanked his vassals for the noble gifts and gently stretched out his hand to familiarize the young horse with his scent.

Competitions were also part of the celebrations for his coming of age.
While they certainly kept the court busy and entertained its counts, they primarily served a different purpose.
Since Morzan's death, the recruitment of men had been reduced to a minimum.
Enough soldiers were trained to reach the king's army quota and to deal with general enforcement of order in the principality, but in total there were only half as many men in the Lord´s service as in Morzan's time.

Of course, there was no need for more at present, for no nobleman rebelled or attacked the principality as long as Lakeground was under the king's administration.
But at some point, Murtagh would have to stand on his own two feet, and so the battle games were also an opportunity to select officers for the troops left behind in the principality, or to fill some of the vacancies in his guard, which was supposed to be made up entirely of nobles.
Even some mages stepped up, possibly hoping to gain access to Morzan's massive private library in his service. Murtagh himself, however, wasn't sure if this was under his control at all, or if the king had not long since removed most of the books on advanced magic.

Murtagh watched the competitions with Tornac and Irsen, consulted with them about candidates and further training.

The young Efrim of Meyfurt was quite talented and promising, but even if not, Murtagh would have been expected to find a suitable use for his vassal's thirteen-year-old son.
However, the fighters who were eventually selected were either quite young or unfamiliar with each other, so it was a good thing that Galbatorix did not yet give him full responsibility for his principality.
In the transitional period of the next few years, during which he personally honed his military and diplomatic skills, Irsen in Lakeground and Tornac were able to form a powerful unit out of this bunch here in the capital.

Some feudal lords withheld the estates of their wards beyond their sixteenth year of age, in order to enrich themselves longer with the whole yield of the lands, but this motive could well be ruled out as the reason for the king’s continued administration of his inheritance.
Galbatorix certainly wanted to keep him away from any distraction for a few years, so Murtagh could first prove, that he was up to the task and worthy of his title.
That was to be expected and he didn't mind.
In fact, Murtagh was more than willing to show his courage and loyalty, especially if it took him away from the superficial and often useless viper's nest that was the court of Urû'baen.
And he would prove that he was more than just Morzan's son.

****

But after the celebrations of his coming of age, the weeks and months passed, and no instruction from the king came.
To be sure, Murtagh was not idle.
He continued his combat exercises, even against larger groups.
There were always ways to improve your technique or strengthen your endurance.
A skilled warrior had to stay in the drill constantly to avoid degrading or allowing deadly negligence to creep in. To be as ready to fight as possible at all times was one of his duties towards his lord and king.

Unmistakably, however, this was more a part of his practical training than an independent, worthwhile task in the service of the king. It fell far short of the mighty battles of great armies, to which his lessons were directed.

He was also invited to attend the meetings of the Imperial Council and the War Council.
There he rarely spoke up, as he was clearly aware of his own inexperience.
But it gave him an invaluable deeper insight into the practical problems and requirements of running a realm the size of the Empire, and would be immensely useful to him, whether in administering his own principality or in the king's service away from the battlefield.

So Murtagh couldn't complain about boredom by any means, and yet...
And yet he became restless..... his peers and agemates had begun military service at sixteen, or taken up a clearly defined position at the court of the king or regional Lord, while he felt that he was still hanging in the air with no real task.

Sure, there were much worse things.
Most of the country's population would have loved to have had this problem - they went to bed hungry after a day of extremely hard work – if they were lucky.
But these people were not in front of his eyes daily, nor were they a particularly relevant point of comparison.

After all, who would spend years to carefully train a warhorse, only to leave it in a stable and move just enough to keep it from nervously kicking the walls?

He knew from the war council meetings that the conflict with the Varden had practically reached a fragile equilibrium.
In what war was he to fight, which required the full attention of the king and the highest nobility?

The occasional, smaller actions of the Varden and the border provocations of Surda could handled smaller forces mustered from the border regions - no armies were needed for this.
The elves hadn't left their forest in 100 years, and while Surda supported the rebellious Varden, she would hardly dare to attack the much larger empire alone.
The Empire might be able to annex Surda, but a possible two-front war with the elves seemed undesirable at the moment, and it was difficult to lure a larger Varden force out of hiding for an open battle.
Murtagh saw nothing to break this present stalemate.
Without a dragon rider, the king had little chance of expanding his empire beyond the Hadarac boundary and, above all, holding and administering it in the long run.
Attacking the elves was also virtually impossible, as they had hidden behind their magical rampart, which even the king and the Thirteen were unable to penetrate during the establishment of the empire.

The rebels, for their part, had no chance of killing the king without their own dragon rider on their side.

But if the great war for which he had been prepared was so improbable...
If any involvement in the petty skirmishes only led to bloodshed without changing the status quo, wouldn't the king be better served by letting Murtagh return to his principality?

Lakeground had been without a master for twelve years now.
Even considering that both the administrators in Flameheim and those of the royal chancellery were capable, this could hardly replace someone in the principality, who could also make far-reaching decisions.

Murtagh always found the idea of a life in the countryside far away from the capital particularly desirable when one of the other nobles tried to implicate him in his schemes, which he could not completely avoid at the king's court.
To be sure, he was competent enough in the political game, but he did not enjoy it—for he had too little real power, too little gold, or too few men at his disposal to be more than an accessory to others.
He had a formal rank, which granted him enough superficial politeness and material comfort, but without one of the aforementioned assets or magic at his disposal he was toothless. He dependent on the king`s protection when it came to serious threats towards his safety and although Galbatorix had so far provided it as best as seemed possible, the man seemed not really interested in him in a personal sense, negating any real influence his father`s name might have brought - despite half the realm`s nobility being convinced otherwise.

Apart from the celebrations of the night of the dead, he had no regular contact with Galbatorix at all, just some meaningless pleasantries exchanged on chance meetings in the halls of the citadel that barely lasted minutes.

In order to leave the court, however, he would have to receive official permission from the king.
But Galbatorix didn't seem to be making any moves to do so either.

If His Majesty expected his vassal and protégé to do his duty and show his appreciation for the training, the protection, the favour he bestowed on occasion at least in a material sense, the king should please assign him a real task!

And yet nothing happened. –
Until the week before his eighteenth birthday.

After the swords-fighting exercises, a servant handed Murtagh, still dripping with sweat, a letter with the familiar seal showing the twisted flame without inscriptions or additions.
The ruler of Alagaësia invited him to a private dinner in order to celebrate the occasion of his birthday.

The excitement tingled in Murtagh's fingertips like a whole ant colony, and goosebumps ran across his spine.
This is exactly what he had been waiting for. What he almost, almost longed for.

But even if he craved it, he was still no fool - no one could take lightly the personal attention of a man who had drenched the continent in blood and swept the lords of the sky out of the air, who extinguished the flame of the dragons.
And along with that, the question inevitably arose as to what exactly would be required of him.
No, that was too general.
Murtagh's mind was weighed down with the same question as always, except now it seemed to have the weight of the Beor Mountains: What exactly would Galbatorix expect specifically from Morzan's son?

****

On the indicated evening, Murtagh, dressed in his best clothes, stood in the antechamber of Galbatorix's private dining-room.

The dark-panelled room was tastefully decorated with red armchairs and green-and-blue carpets. All kinds of art were presented on small tables and on the frame of the huge fireplace, which heated the room and bathed it in warm light. Golden rinds and stone carvings from the Hadarac, woodblock prints from Narda, twisted spheres made of black stone from Dras Leona.

Realistically, Murtagh did not have much to worry about, but he'd only been alone with Galbatorix at his father's shrine for the commemoration of the dead, and naturally there was virtually no talking.
So he looked at all the paintings, statuettes, and ornate boxes to distract himself from his nerves.

In particular, two bright stone pedestals attracted his attention. The carpet on which they stood seems to have been pushed out of it’s proper place when the pedestals were positioned, leading Murtagh to conclude, that they are an incredibly recent addition to the coms décor. The reason for their inclusion remain a mystery to him tough, as they hold two of the strangest art objects he had ever seen, and he had seen many a curious collection of courtiers over the years:
They were two blocks of ice that had apparently been magically prevented from melting, because not the slightest bit of water had collected on or underneath the pedestals.
Inside, there was apparently another object trapped inside, which Murtagh couldn't see clearly, distorted by the thick ice.
All he saw was a splash of colour.
One was green – the other dark red, like wine.

A kind of hostile energy surrounded the podiums, giving Murtagh the impression like it would be better to stay away from the ice blocks. It felt a message was been sent out, that instinctively kept the recipient at a distance and made all the hair at the back of his neck stand up.
But again, and again his gaze was drawn to the red spot.
The thing inside the ice seemed to have the ability to pull him near, with a force much stronger than the force that was supposed to keep him away.
Murtagh felt an irrational need to melt the ice, using only his body heat when necessary, and to place his hand on the warm and vibrant surface containing a glittering sparkle of live.

Warm? Alive!?

Murtagh shuddered and took a step back.
His left hand was wet.

He couldn't believe he'd touched the ice without realizing it.
Apart from the disrespect shown by his action, touching an unknown, obviously magical object bordered on suicidal idiocy.
His stupidity apparently had not set off a magic trap or at least not caused an audible alarm, but in the king's castle you weren't really unobserved anywhere. In Galbatorix's private chambers, it would be ridiculous to suppose that the king had not noticed what he had just done.
Murtagh could only hope that he would forgive him for this rudeness.

The tension returned with a vengeance, but before it could torment him any further, the doors to the dining room opened. No servants touched the wood, they were moved by magic.
Murtagh took this as an invitation to enter.

The King had written that he wished to talk to him about his future and that of the empire. -
Perhaps Murtagh´s life, hanging in the balance, would finally get a clear direction.