“I would rather have died.”

“I know,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Will you forgive me?”

That she had not answered. His revelation only made her more uneasy. Why should he care to save her life, and what did he expect in return?

Murtagh had said nothing more for a while. Then, sometimes weeping and sometimes raging, he told her of his upbringing in Galbatorix’s court, of the distrust and jealousy he had faced as the son of Morzan, of the nobles who had sought to use him to win favor with the king, and of his longing for the mother he barely remembered. Twice he mentioned Eragon and cursed him for a fool favored by fortune. “He would not have done so well if our places had been reversed. But our mother chose to take him to Carvahall, not me.” He spat on the floor.

She found the whole episode maudlin and self-pitying, and his weakness did nothing but inspire contempt in her until he recounted how the Twins had abducted him from Farthen Dûr, how they had mistreated him on the way to Urû’baen, and how Galbatorix had broken him once they arrived. Some of the tortures he described were worse than her own and, if true, gave her a slight measure of sympathy for his own plight.

“Thorn was my undoing,” Murtagh finally confessed. “When he hatched for me and we bonded …” He shook his head. “I love him. How could I not? I love him even as Eragon loves Saphira. The moment I touched him, I was lost. Galbatorix used him against me. Thorn was stronger than me. He never gave up. But I could not bear to see him suffer, so I swore my loyalty to the king, and after that …” Murtagh’s lips curled with revulsion. “After that, Galbatorix went into my mind. He learned everything about me, and then he taught me my true name. And now I am his.… His forever.”

Then he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, and she watched the tears roll down his cheeks.

Eventually, he stood, and as he walked toward the door, he paused next to her and touched her on the shoulder. His nails, she noted, were clean and trimmed, but nowhere near as well cared for as her jailer’s. He murmured a few words in the ancient language, and a moment later, her pain melted away, although her wounds looked the same as ever.

As he took his hand away, she said, “I cannot forgive … but I understand.”

Whereupon he nodded and stumbled away, leaving her to wonder if she had found a new ally.

SMALL REBELLIONS

s Nasuada lay on the slab, sweating and shivering, every part of her body aching with pain, she found herself wishing that Murtagh would return, if only so he could again free her from her agony.

When at last the door to the eight-sided chamber swung open, she was unable to suppress her relief, but her relief turned to bitter disappointment when she heard the shuffling footsteps of her jailer descending the stairs that led into the room.

As he had once before, the stocky, narrow-shouldered man bathed her wounds with a wet cloth, then bound them with strips of linen. When he released her from the restraints so that she could visit the privy room, she found she was too weak to make any attempt to grab the knife on the tray of food. Instead, she contented herself with thanking the man for his help and, for the second time, complimenting him on his nails, which were even shinier than before and which he quite obviously wanted her to see, for he kept holding his hands where she could not help but look at them.

After he fed her and departed, she tried to sleep, but the constant pain of her wounds made it impossible for her to do more than doze.

Her eyes snapped open as she heard the bar to the door of the chamber being thrown open.

Not again! she thought, panic welling up inside her. Not so soon! I can’t bear it.… I’m not strong enough. Then she reined in her fear and told herself, Don’t. Don’t say such things or else you’ll start to believe them. Still, although she was able to master her conscious reactions, she could not stop her heart from pounding at twice its normal speed.

A single pair of footsteps echoed in the room, and then Murtagh appeared at the corner of her vision. He wore no mask, and his expression was somber.

This time he healed her first, without waiting. The relief she felt as her pain abated was so intense, it bordered on ecstasy. In all her life, she had never experienced a sensation quite so pleasurable as the draining away of the agony.

She gasped slightly at the feeling. “Thank you.”

Murtagh nodded; then he went over to the wall and sat in the same spot as before.

She studied him for a minute. The skin on his knuckles was smooth and whole again, and he appeared sober, if grim and close-mouthed. His clothes had once been fine, but they were now torn, frayed, and patched, and she spotted what looked like several cuts in the undersides of his sleeves. She wondered if he had been fighting.

“Does Galbatorix know where you are?” she finally asked.

“He might, but I doubt it. He’s busy playing with his favorite concubines. That, or he’s asleep. It’s the middle of the night right now. Besides, I cast a spell to keep anyone from listening to us. He could break it if he wants, but I would know.”

“What if he finds out?”

Murtagh shrugged.

“He will find out, you know, if he wears down my defenses.”

“Then don’t let him. You’re stronger than me; you have no one he can threaten. You can resist him, unlike me.… The Varden are fast approaching, as are the elves from the north. If you can hold out for another few days, there’s a chance … there’s a chance maybe they can free you.”