His sword kept getting in the way, tangling with his legs, as he wrestled the saddle onto the charger’s back. Both he and Tornac were armed, and under his cloak, Murtagh wore a coat of fine mail.
They moved with hurried fear. Blankets, saddles, harnesses, bags laden with the supplies they’d need to get far from Urû’baen.
“What if he comes looking for us?” Murtagh whispered. He still couldn’t believe they were leaving the capital once and for all, leaving behind everything he’d known for the last fifteen years.
Tornac looked over the back of his horse, a roan mare with a white star on her breast. The swordmaster’s lean, tanned face was deadly serious, but there was a light to his expression that bespoke anticipation and, perhaps, a portion of excitement. Danger always quickened the blood. “Then we hide. Dragon eyes are keen, but even they can’t see through leaves or branches, and the king can’t take the time to search every copse and grove in the Empire. As long as we get enough of a head start, he’ll never find us.”
Murtagh was still troubled. “What if he uses magic? He must have spells to search. And I’ve heard he can reach out with his thoughts and find a person, even if they’re on the other side of Urû’baen.”
Then Tornac gripped Murtagh’s shoulder and fixed him with a firm gaze. “The charms I had off the hedge-witch will protect us from any sort of spying. The king is not all-powerful, Murtagh. No one is. Were every whisper about Galbatorix true, the Varden would have long since fallen to his might. As would the elves and dwarves.”
Murtagh pulled on the charger’s girth, tightening it the appropriate amount. “You shouldn’t have said his name,” he muttered.
Tornac paused in his own work. “Do you not want to leave?”
“…I do.”
A nod from Tornac as he returned to adjusting the roan’s saddlebags. “Then enough of this. We need to be well gone before dawn breaks.” Murtagh grunted, and Tornac gave him a considering look. “We agreed. You can’t stay. If you do, the king—”
“If I do, the king will turn me into my father. He’ll make me into another one of his bloody-minded lackeys, same as Barst or Yarek,” said Murtagh, with no attempt to hide his bitterness.
“It’s not just that,” said Tornac. “Even if you weren’t Morzan’s son, this isn’t a good place for you, Murtagh. Those leeches at court will ruin you if you stay.”
Pride made him reply, “I’d never let them.”
