Many, many thanks to Somigliana for her beta.
In his rather spartan bedroom, Galbatorix tested the magic around him.
‘Good,’ he thought. ‘The enchantments are still there.’
Indeed, it wouldn’t do for the king to be murdered in his sleep.
How are you? he asked Shruikan, his dragon, through their link.
I’m fine.
Good night, then.
Galbatorix’s thoughts drifted towards Murtagh while he shed his royal outfit. The young man had been hard to break. Two days. It had taken two days of uninterrupted mental attacks to breach the mental defences Murtagh had built around his mind. Two days without sleep, barely eating and drinking, and at last, he had learned everything the boy knew: the Varden—the human resistance to his power—and their rocky alliance with the dwarves, the death of Durza, the Shade, and the strengths and weaknesses of the other dragon Rider, Eragon. The female dragon egg that had been stolen from him years ago had hatched for his enemy! An enemy he could not kill. Saphira, as she was called, was the last female of her species. His plan to restore the Riders depended upon her. Only this time, they would be devoted to him. If he killed Eragon, she would die: the lives of a dragon and its Rider were so intertwined that one could not live without the other. He could not have it, but he would think about it tomorrow. For now, he needed sleep.
In spite of the trials he had faced the last weeks—his violent abduction by the twins, traitors to the Varden; the hard trip back as a prisoner to Urū’baen; his interrogation by Galbatorix—sleep eluded Murtagh. The dark-haired young man tossed on his bed restlessly. Shame and guilt battled in his mind, keeping much needed sleep at bay.
He had betrayed them all—Eragon, the Varden, and Nasuada, their daughter’s leader. For once in his life, he had been accepted for who he was, in spite of being Morzan the Forsworn’s son. He had proven his valour by fighting the Urgals, only to have his reward—acceptance, friends, and perhaps more—taken away by the twins’ treachery before he could even taste it. Now, Galbatorix had made his loss final. He would never be trusted again.
Oh, he could have resisted the king’s intrusion in his mind a bit more, but he would have died with the effort. Murtagh had spent most of his life dodging death. It had become second nature to him, as natural and necessary as breathing. So when he had felt his life force slip out of him, he had given in into Galbatorix’s prodding and delivered him the content of his mind.
‘The young man has been punished as he should be,’ mused Galbatorix. ‘The time has come for his training. I will make him a deathly adversary to my opponents.’
“Fetch Murtagh and bring him to me,” he bellowed at one of his servants. The man bowed and complied.
A few minutes later, Murtagh stood in front of the king. He was subdued, nearly humble.
‘Yes, it is time to stop the punishment and to start the training. If I break him further, he will be of no use to me.’
“Come,” he ordered the young man.
Together, they left the throne room. Galbatorix led Murtagh to a circular room under the roof of a tower. There, an unexpected sight greeted Murtagh: two dragon eggs, one green, one red, were lying on purple cushions. The room was thrumming with magic. Obviously, powerful enchantments protected the last dragon progeny.
“Touch them!”
Galbatorix’s words startled Murtagh out of his reverie. He went to the eggs, not stopping to wonder why the king wanted to make him a Rider. With reverence, he stroked lightly the long side of the green egg, then did the same with the red one. He stepped back to the king’s side, hoping against all hope that one of them would hatch for him.
Soon, a squeak echoed under the wooden beams of the rafters. The sound repeated itself several times. Murtagh wondered if it had been the same with Saphira. She was such a magnificent dragon, with her blue scales twinkling in the sunlight. How he had envied Eragon’s complicity with her! Suddenly, the red egg rocked violently, to the extent that it fell on the stony floor. Cracks appeared on the uniform surface. A small triangular head poked a piece of shell, allowing the body of the dragon hatchling to crawl out of its matrix. The little being squeaked and hopped toward the two men who had witnessed the whole process; one with interest, the other with emotion.
Murtagh glanced at Galbatorix, as if to ask permission. The king nodded to the young man. Tentatively, Murtagh held out his hand, bracing himself for the pain to come, and petted the dragon’s head. He felt cold, he felt warm, he felt paralysed, he felt in pain, but over all, he felt elated; he was a Rider, a Shur’tugal, and he had the mark to prove it.
The next few days, Murtagh basked in his newly-found state as Rider. The power it would bring him! He spent all his time with his dragon, whom he quickly named Thorn, for he hoped his new companion would be a thorn in his enemies’ sides—all the better if the enemy was Galbatorix.
He should have been more suspicious. Galbatorix had left him alone with Thorn. He should have known the king always had ulterior motives.
Some days later, Galbatorix called Murtagh and Thorn into his presence. As soon as they entered the throne room, both were overcome by several armed men. Murtagh watched with horror as a blade was put against Thorn’s throat. The sight made him forget to struggle.
“My dear Murtagh,” the king said, a false smile plastered on his face, “I would like to teach you the way of MY riders. I will teach you the ancient language, its words, and how to use them in ways that will give you powers not even Eragon could wield. However, I need to be sure that you will not turn those powers against me. Your loyalties must lie with me. You will swear an oath of loyalty and obedience to me in the ancient language.” Galbatorix cast a significant glance at Thorn.
Murtagh blanched and lowered his head. The horrible man had let him bond with his dragon only to have better means of pressure on him. He had already betrayed people who were important to him—something he had never expected in his life, that some one other than himself could be important to him—and he was asked to do it again. Yet he could not let Thorn die; he would lose too much of himself if this happened, and he might even die himself.
After a few minutes of internal debate, he squared his jaw and looked at the king straight in the eyes.
“Yes,” he said in the ancient language.
Thorn was submitted to the same blackmail. The red dragon swore loyalty and obedience to Galbatorix, his vermilion eyes fixed on the sword threatening his Rider’s throat.
That day, Murtagh’s training began in earnest.