Murtagh (The Inheritance Cycle #5)

by Christopher Paolini

“Because a scar means you survived. It means you’re tough and hard to kill. It means you lived. A scar is something to admire.” “You’re wrong,” said Essie. She pointed at a pot with painted bluebells on the mantel. A long crack ran from the lip of the pot to the base. “It just means you’re broken.” “Ah,” said Murtagh in a soft voice. “But sometimes, if you work very hard, you can mend a break so that it’s stronger than before.”

If the thought were a prayer, he knew not to whom he prayed. The dwarf gods weren’t his own, and the superstitions of the common folk held no appeal to him. But he hoped that perhaps someone or something might hear his plea. And if not—if, as he suspected, no one was there to respond—then the task of improving was his and his alone. The prospect was daunting in the extreme, but there was solace in it too. Whatever he accomplished—good or evil—he might rightfully claim without apportioned dues. If chance dictated the events of his life, he was the master of his responses, and no king or god could infringe upon that right.

Perhaps Ilenna can keep you from getting into trouble, hmm? Murtagh raised an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted her to catch me.” Thorn’s mouth spread in an approximation of a smile. Maybe you should let her. It might ease the fire in your belly. Murtagh snorted. “You know what that leads to. Children.”

“Trust is a sword with a blade for a hilt. It cuts all equally.”

nodded. “Exactly. But you must be quick about

Besides, Glaedr’s body is dead. Why should a dragon care what happens to them when they are gone? Many people do. Thorn made the equivalent of a mental shrug. If I am not here to know or feel, what does it matter? It is fear that drives such care, and I do not fear the worms. No. There are far worse things than death.

“It’s funny, y’ know,” said the blacksmith. “Y’ take all that time t’ feed and clothe a child. Take care of ’em. Keep ’em from killing themselves on every such thing. But y’ can’t protect ’em from themselves.

You could no more seek to control the wind or the rain than to control magic. Then what hope has the ordinary man in a world of magicians? The same hope any creature has when battered by the storms of fate.

A wry smile formed on Murtagh’s face. “You’re wiser than you look, for a big lizard.”

No, not now, he thought. Of all the times to get sick…And, of course, it happened as soon as he’d entered cities and spent time around other people. Thorn was watching him through a slitted eye. If we stayed away from others, you would not have to worry about such things. “I had the same thought,” said Murtagh. “But what kind of life would that be?” A peaceful one.

Murtagh didn’t mind cooking, but he never liked how long it took.

“Well, blow me sideways. Is that there what I think?”

😂

Then the captain pulled the mask away, and the impression vanished. Once again, he was just a man sitting at a desk, holding a wooden mask in his twisted hand. “That…What is that, sir?” said Murtagh. Wren chuckled and rehung the bear mask. “A powerful glamour, Task.

GLAMOUR? SERIOUSLY?

To distract himself, he pulled out the compendium he’d appropriated—What an elegant word for “stole”—set

Nevertheless, his gorge rose,

Paolini used this expression like 100 times in TSIASOS, not surprised he’s using it again here

“What good does it do to hoard fine wine in these trying times? We might all be dead tomorrow.”

Nothing in life is easy, said Murtagh with his thoughts, for the sound of his voice seemed unbearably harsh. Why should it be? Life is a fight from start to finish.

His natural inclination was to think—to endlessly turn over all that was, had been, and could be—but he fought the urge. No remembering! Rather, he found solace in existence without contemplation. It was a simple pleasure, perhaps the simplest of all, and yet no less profound.

Not for the first time, it occurred to Murtagh how empty Alagaësia was. For all the efforts of humans, dwarves, and elves, vast swaths of the land remained unsettled, undeveloped, and uncivilized. Part of him preferred it that way. If all the world were as cramped as Ilirea or Dras-Leona, there would be no place for those who didn’t belong.

“All this because the Riders didn’t kill Galbatorix when they had the chance. If they had—” You would not have been born. “Then maybe someone else would have had a better opportunity at life.” Thorn snarled and leaned forward, as if to crawl into the courtyard, but a tremor racked him, and he sank back on his haunches. Do not say that. Never say that! Do you not want to be joined with me? The question cut through Murtagh’s grim introspection like a razor through silk. “Of course I do. That’s not what I meant.” Then say what you mean. I chose to hatch for you, Murtagh. I do not wish for another.

We survived. That is what matters. “I still wish we could fly back through the years and help Vrael.” Then everyone everywhere would do the same with their own regrets, and the world would be unmade.

He feigned a relaxed smile as he strode over to inspect the contents of the tray. Half a loaf of dense rye bread, three kippered bergenhed, and a tankard of watered wine.

Wine for breakfast is aggressive but I respect it

“What is the farthest you have been from Nal Gorgoth?” A hint of defensive sorrow colored her voice. “I have never left this valley, Kingkiller.” It was not an unexpected answer for one of her station, yet Murtagh found it difficult to imagine having such a limited perspective. To be so blinkered in place could only lead to being similarly blinkered in mind.

Murtagh hated being told that he didn’t understand something. And he especially hated when it was true.

As he climbed onto the mare, Thorn’s disapproval washed over him. It does not seem right to see you ride one of those hornless deer animals. Horses. They’re called horses, and you know that. But it sounds more insulting to call them hornless deer.

It was an odd thing. In all his years and all his travels, Murtagh had never before seen a human settlement without dogs. Are dogs so important? Thorn asked. They are. For the common man, having a dog is the closest thing to the bond you and I share.

Existence was a tomb wherein the sins of the past lay interred.

“If only…,” he murmured, then stopped. Was there a more useless phrase than that?

My hurts are different from yours, but I am as faulted as you, if not more.

“If wishes were real, world would end.”

“Is better to find way to be close to ones we care for, even if not always fit in easily. The bees know it. The wolves know it. Now I know it.”

“By Azlagûr, I curse you,” said Grieve, and spat on the floor. Murtagh snorted. “I’ve been cursed by better than you and lived to see them become food for worms.”

He started toward the corresponding doorway. Most folks were right-handed, so if either passage was to lead somewhere important, he guessed it would be that one.

Not great logic but okay

Now, there are two additional points that need addressing: First, although Murtagh acts as a stand-alone entry into this world, you will have no doubt noticed that certain storylines are far from concluded. This is on purpose, and although I can’t reveal my exact plans at the moment, rest assured, I have much more to write in (and around) Alagaësia. Second, although Murtagh is the fifth full-length novel I’ve written in this world, it’s not the Book V. Or rather, the book I’ve always thought of as Book V. That particular story takes place a bit further down the timeline, and I still have every intent of writing it. So yes, lots more to come, both in Alagaësia and in the Fractalverse. I have stories to tell, folks!