Murtagh (The Inheritance Cycle #5)

by Christopher Paolini

I wish you would take your fang. Your claw. Your sharpened affliction.

Murtagh amused himself by shouting at the herons, and they responded with an appalling barking scream that made him think of a donkey crossed with a pig.

Murtagh silently cursed. This isn’t going to be easy. Then his resolve hardened, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. If the werecat child was in Gil’ead, he’d find her, even if it meant pulling the city apart beam by beam. “Then we’d best not waste any time.” A savage, toothy smile spread across Carabel’s face.

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. Murtagh could almost feel Thorn staring at him. You are part dragon, I sometimes think.

Rainbow flecks of excitement colored Thorn’s thoughts. We will hunt together? Yes. The flecks brightened, variegated lights sparking as Thorn imagined the successful conclusion of the chase, of teeth sinking into fishy flesh. Soon, Murtagh promised.

The horizon was a hazy line bisecting the gold half dome of the setting sun. Purple shadows streaked the land, and nightjars darted overhead, chasing insects as the first stars appeared in the sky beyond.

Yes. Anyone who has masks like that has an interest in secrets, in hiding themselves, and in magic. It’s a dangerous combination. An image of the masks passed through Murtagh’s mind as Thorn returned the memory to him for notice. Which mask would you choose? A short laugh escaped him. None. I wear too many already. Not with me. No, not with you.

Shall I answer them? Thorn asked. “If you want,” said Murtagh with a smile. Then Thorn raised his head and made a passable imitation of a wolf howl, only far louder, and far more menacing. The pack yipped with fear, and thereafter ran in silence. Murtagh laughed and patted Thorn. It is good for them to know they are not the only hunters about, said Thorn, self-satisfied.

A double row of columns guarded the shadowed entrance, while a line of dragon sculptures loomed outward from between the slitted windows. And wrapped around the columns and pedestals and the scaled statues were the same crystalline patterns seen elsewhere: a membrane of eroded veins, rotten and raveled and pocked by time.

the low, nearly inaudible groans of the earth’s massive weight as it settled and shifted, constantly seeking to further collapse into the tumbled ruins time made of all things.

“I notice you have no dogs.” Disdain sharpened the witch’s angled features. “And for good reason. They are blasphemous creatures.” “Dogs?” “They refuse to accept the insight one may receive through the power of this place. No dog will stay here in Nal Gorgoth, and that has ever been the case. Crows are wiser. They understand the promise of dream.”

“Older I get, Murtagh-man, more I think being wise is knowing how much still unknown. Too easy to be fooled by thinking we know pattern, but the world, she like sand falling in wind. Much zhar. Much randomness.