Belgarath the Sorcerer (41 page)

I finally came down out of the mountains into the area colorfully known as the Wasteland of Murgos. There was some evidence that it had been a large lake or even an inland sea at some time in the past. I seem to remember that there had been a sizeable body of water lying to the west of the Angarak city of Karnath before Torak cracked the world, and this black-sand-floored desert had obviously been drained all at one time. The skeletons of large aquatic creatures dotted the sand, but the only remnant of that ancient sea was the rancid Tarn of Cthok, some distance to the north of Rak Cthol. I was a little concerned about the fact that I was leaving tracks in that black sand, but the wind out there blew most of the time, so I quit worrying about it.

I finally got within sight of the steep mountain peak that Ctuchik had topped with his city, and I dropped to my haunches to think things over a little bit. Wolves were not unheard of in the mountains of Cthol Murgos and the wasteland, but a wolf padding through the streets of Rak Cthol would definitely attract attention. I was going to need some other disguise, and since the narrow path angling up around the peak was certain to be patrolled and since the city gates would be guarded, I couldn't see any alternative but feathers.

It was late afternoon, and the heated air rising up off that black sand would help, so I went behind a pile of rocks and slipped back into my own form. Then, after giving some consideration to the surrounding terrain, I formed
the image of a vulture in my mind and flowed into that particular shape. I'll grant you that there are nicer birds in the world than vultures, but there were whole flocks of the ugly brutes circling in the air over Ctuchik's mountain, so at least I wouldn't be conspicuous.

I caught an updraft and spiraled aloft on the west side of Ctuchik's mountain. The sun was just going down, and its ruddy light stained that basalt peak, making it look peculiarly as if it had been dipped in blood. Considering what was going on at the top of it, that was fairly appropriate, I suppose.

I've made quite an issue of the fact that I don't fly very well, but I'm not a
complete
incompetent, and riding an updraft is a fairly simple process. All you really have to do is lock your wings and let it carry you. Hawks and eagles and vultures do it all the time.

I circled up and up until I was above the city, and then I swooped down and perched on the wall to look things over. At that particular time Rak Cthol was still under construction, and it was not nearly as cluttered as it came to be later on. It was already ugly, though. I think that was a reflection of Ctuchik's mind. Although it really wasn't necessary, he appeared to be consciously trying to duplicate the layout of Cthol Mishrak. The actual work of construction was being performed by slaves, of course, since Murgos and Grolims feel they're above that sort of thing. I watched from my perch atop the wall as the slaves were herded into their cells in those tunnels beneath the city and locked in for the night. Then I patiently waited for it to get dark.

Quite obviously, I was going to need a disguise, but I was fairly sure I could find something that'd get me by. As it turned out, it was even easier than I'd expected. There were Murgo sentries patrolling the top of the wall. There was no need for that, really, since there was a sheer drop of almost a mile to the desert floor, but Murgos tend to be traditionalists. They'd patrolled the top of the wall at Cthol
Mishrak, so they patrolled the top of the wall here. I slipped very slowly back into my own form to avoid alerting Ctuchik to the fact that I'd come to pay him a visit, and then I concealed myself in a narrow embrasure to wait for a Murgo.

There were a number of ways I could have done it, I suppose, but I chose the simplest. I waited until the sentry had passed, and then I bashed him on the head with a rock. It was quieter than any of the more exotic things I might have done, and it sufficed. I dragged the Murgo back into the embrasure and peeled off his black robe. I didn't bother with his mail shirt. Chain mail is uncomfortable, and it tends to rattle when you're moving around. I considered dropping my Murgo over the wall, but decided against it. I didn't have anything against him personally, and I wasn't entirely sure how much noise he'd make when he hit the ground a mile below.

 

Yes, I know all about my reputation, but I don't
really
like to kill people unless it's necessary. I've always felt that random murders tend to coarsen one's nature. You might want to think about that when you consider murder as a solution to a problem.

 

I pulled up the hood of the Murgo robe and went looking for Ctuchik. The simplest way would have been to ask, but I might have had trouble imitating the rasping Murgo dialect, so I listened to a number of random conversations and quite gently probed the thoughts of various sentries and passers-by instead. Polgara's much better at that than I am, but I know how it's done. I was fairly careful about it, since everybody in Rak Cthol, Grolim and Murgo, wore those black robes, and that made it hard to tell them apart. It's entirely possible, I suppose, that Murgos think of themselves as a form of minor clergy - or it might just be that Grolims are descendants of the original Murgo tribe. I didn't want to probe the thoughts of a Grolim, since some
of them at least are talented enough to recognize that when it happens.

My eavesdropping - both with my ears and with my mind - eventually gave me enough clues to narrow down the search. Ctuchik was somewhere in the Temple of Torak. I'd more or less expected that, but a little verification never hurts.

The Temple was deserted. Even Grolims have to sleep sometime, and it was getting fairly close to midnight. Ctuchik, however, was
not
asleep. I could sense his mind at work as soon as I entered the Temple. That made finding him much easier. I went along the back wall on that balcony that seems to be a standard feature in every major Grolim temple and eventually located the right door. And, naturally, it was locked. A single thought would have unlocked it, but it would probably have
also
alerted Ctuchik to my presence. Murgo locks aren't very sophisticated, though, so I did it the other way. I might not be as good a burglar as Silk is, but I
have
had some experience in that line of work.

There was a flight of stairs leading downward behind that door, and I followed them, being very careful not to make any noise. There was a black painted door at the bottom of the stairs, and, oddly, no guards. I think it was this particular visit of mine that persuaded Ctuchik that leaving that door unguarded might be a bad idea. I picked the lock and went inside.

The sense of Ctuchik's mind was coming from above me, so I didn't bother to investigate the lower level of his turret. There's a peculiar similarity to the way our minds work. We all feel more comfortable in towers. Ctuchik's tower was hanging off the side of the mountain, though.

I went up the stairs. I ignored the second level and climbed to the top. The door there wasn't locked, and I could sense the presence of the owner of the turret behind it. He seemed to be reading something, and he wasn't particularly alert.

I set myself and opened the door.

An emaciated-looking Grolim with a white beard was sitting at a table near one of the round windows poring over a scroll by the light of a single oil lamp. That Murgo I'd seen at the escarpment - Agga, I think his name was - had described Ctuchik as a man who looked as if he'd been dead for a week. I think Agga'd understated it. I've never known anybody who looked more cadaverous than Ctuchik. ‘
What
?' he exclaimed, dropping his scroll and leaping to his feet. ‘Who gave you permission to come here?'

‘It's late, Ctuchik,' I told him. ‘I didn't want to bother anybody, so I let myself in.'

‘
You
!' His sunken eyes blazed.

‘Don't do anything foolish,' I cautioned him. ‘This is just a social call. If I'd had anything else in mind, you'd already be dead.' I looked around. His tower wasn't nearly as cluttered as mine, but he hadn't been here very long. It takes centuries to accumulate really good clutter. ‘What on earth possessed you to set up shop in
this
hideous place?' I asked him.

‘It suits me,' he replied shortly, struggling to get control of himself. He sat back down and retrieved his scroll. ‘You always manage to show up where you're least expected, don't you, Belgarath?'

‘It's a gift. Are you busy right now? I can come back some other time if you're doing something important.'

‘I think I can spare you a few moments.'

‘Good.' I closed the door, went over to his table, and sat down in the chair directly across from him. ‘I think we should have a little chat, Ctuchik - as long as we're living so close to each other.'

‘You've come to welcome me to the neighborhood?' He looked faintly amused.

‘Not exactly. I thought we should establish a few ground rules, is all. I wouldn't want you to blunder into anything by mistake.'

‘I don't
make
mistakes, Belgarath.'

‘Oh, really? I can think of a dozen or so you've made already. You didn't exactly cover yourself with glory at Cthol Mishrak, as I recall.'

‘You know that what happened at Cthol Mishrak had been decided before you even got there,' he retorted. ‘If Zedar had done what he was supposed to, you wouldn't have made it that far.'

‘Sometimes Zedar's a little undependable - but that's beside the point. I'm not here to talk about the good old days. I'm here to give you a bit of advice. Keep a tight leash on your Murgos. The time isn't right for anything major, and we both know it. A lot of things have to happen yet before we can get down to business. Keep the Murgos out of the western kingdoms. They're starting to irritate the Alorns.'

He sneered. ‘My, my, isn't that a shame.'

‘Don't try to be funny. You're not ready for a war, Ctuchik - particularly not with the Alorns. Iron-grip's got the Orb, and you saw what he can do with it when we had that little get-together at Cthol Mishrak. If you don't get your Murgos under control, he might take it into his head to pay you a call. If you irritate him too much, he'll turn this mountain of yours into a very large pile of gravel.'

‘He's not the one who's supposed to raise the Orb,' Ctuchik objected.

‘My point exactly. Let's not push our luck here. We haven't received all our instructions as yet, so we don't even know what we're supposed to do. If you push the Alorns too far, Iron-grip's very likely to lose his temper and do something precipitous. If that happens, it could throw this whole business into the lap of pure, random chance. We could end up with a
third
possibility, and I don't think the other two would like that very much. So let's not complicate things any more than they already are.'

He pulled speculatively at his beard. ‘You might be right,' he conceded grudgingly. ‘We've all got lots of time, I suppose, so there's no great hurry.'

‘I'm glad you agree.' I squinted at him. ‘Have you managed to get any of your people into the house at Ashaba as yet?'

His eyes suddenly looked startled.

‘It's the logical thing for you to do, Ctuchik. Zedar's there taking down Torak's every word. If you and that pinto-spotted Urvon don't get some of your people inside, Zedar's going to have the upper hand.'

‘I'm working on it,' he replied shortly.

‘I hope so. One of you'd better get your hands on a copy of the Ashabine Oracles before Torak corrupts them into incomprehensibility.'

‘Urvon's got a copy. I can always take his away from him.'

‘Torak burned Urvon's copy. Don't you people even
talk
to each other?'

‘I don't have anything to say to Urvon.'

‘Or to Zedar either, I gather. This bickering between the three of you is going to make
my
job much, much easier.'

‘You aren't the important one, Belgarath. You've
had
your turn as the Child of Light, and I think you blundered it away. You should have killed Zedar when you had the chance.'

‘You
definitely
need instructions, Ctuchik. Zedar's part in all of this isn't over yet. He's still got things to do, and if he
doesn't
do them, we come right back to that third possibility again. Some of your Grolims have been seized by the spirit of
your
Necessity. Get good copies of what they're saying, and don't tamper with them. Torak's erasing whole pages of the Ashabine Oracles, so the Prophecies of your Western Grolims might very well end up being all you'll have to work with. This isn't a good area for experimentation. Certain things
have
to happen, and we both have to know about them. I don't have time to come down here every few centuries to educate you.'

‘I know my responsibilities, Belgarath. You do your work, and I'll do mine.'

‘I can hold up my end of it,' I told him. Then I stood up and smiled benignly at him. ‘It's been absolutely
wonderful
talking with you, old boy, and we'll have to do it again one of these days.'

‘My pleasure, old chap,' he replied with a thin little smile. ‘Stop by any time.'

‘Oh, I
will
, Ctuchik, I
will
. Incidentally, don't try to follow me, and don't send anybody to get in my way - not anybody you care anything about, anyway.'

‘I don't really care for
anybody
, old man.'

‘You ought to try it sometime, Ctuchik. It might sweeten your disposition.'

Then I went out and closed the door behind me.

I flew due west from Rak Cthol, then went wolf and skirted the eastern border of Maragor, and climbed up through the Tolnedran mountains to the southern end of the Vale. All in all, I was rather pleased with myself. Things had gone well at Rak Cthol.

It was early evening when I reached my tower.

‘How did it go?' Beldin asked me when I joined him and Pol.

‘Not bad.' I said it in an off-hand sort of way. Boasting's very unbecoming, after all.

‘What happened, father?' Pol asked in that suspicious tone she always takes when I've been out of her sight for more than five minutes. I
wish
Polgara would trust me just once. Of course, that would probably stop the sun.

I shrugged. ‘I went to Rak Cthol.'

‘Yes, I know. And -?'

‘I talked to Ctuchik.'

‘And -?'

‘I didn't kill him.'

‘Father, get to the point!'

‘Actually, I led him down the garden path. I told him a great many things he already knew just as an excuse to get close enough to him to test his capabilities. He's actually not all that good.' I sat down in my favorite chair. ‘Is supper ready yet?' I asked her.

‘It's still cooking. Talk, father. What really happened?'

‘I slipped into his city and paid him a call in the middle of the night. I made a large issue of telling him to keep his Murgos out of the western kingdoms, and then I raised the possibility that if the Murgos irritated the Alorns
too
much,
Riva might use the Orb against them. That can't happen, of course, but I think the notion worried Ctuchik. He seems to be very gullible in some ways. I'm sure he believes that I'm a fussy old windbag who runs around repeating the obvious. Then I raised the possibility that if somebody did something that he wasn't supposed to do, it might just let pure, random chance enter into the picture.'

‘And he
believed
you?' Beldin asked incredulously.

‘He seemed to. At least he considered it enough to worry about it. Then we discussed the Ashabine Oracles. Both Ctuchik and Urvon are trying to slip people into Torak's house at Ashaba to get copies, but I got the impression that Torak's controlling those copies rather jealously, and Zedar's doing his best to keep his brothers' spies away from Ashaba. The three of them hate each other with a passion that's almost holy.'

‘What's Ctuchik look like?' Beldin asked me. ‘I've seen that piebald Urvon a few times, but I've never actually seen Ctuchik.'

‘He's tall, skinny, and he's got a long, white beard. He looks like a walking corpse.'

‘Peculiar.'

‘What is?'

‘Old Burnt-face seems to be attracted to ugliness. Ctuchik sounds hideous, and that speckled Urvon's no prize. Zedar's not so bad, I guess - unless you want to take the ugliness of his soul into account.'

‘You're not really in a position to talk, uncle,' Pol reminded him.

‘You didn't have to say that, Pol. What now, Belgarath?'

I scratched at my beard. ‘I think we'd better get the twins and see if we can contact the Master. We need some advice here. The Angaraks absolutely
must
have uncorrupted copies of the Oracles, and Torak's doing everything he possibly can to keep that from happening.'

‘Can we
do
that?' Pol asked me.

‘I'm not sure,' I admitted, ‘but I think we'd better try.
Zedar
might
have a clean copy, but I'd hate to hang the fate of the world on a maybe.'

As it turned out, it was surprisingly easy to get in touch with Aldur. I think it might have been because we were in an interim stage between the time when we were guided by the Gods and the time when the prophecies took over. At any rate, a simple ‘Master, we need you' brought Aldur's presence into my tower. He was a bit filmy and indistinct, but he was there.

He went immediately to Polgara, which shouldn't have surprised me. ‘My beloved daughter,' he said to her, lightly touching her cheek.

Would you
believe
that I felt a momentary surge of jealousy at that point? Polgara was
my
daughter, not
his
. We all get strange when we get older, I guess. I choked back my instinctive protest, and I think I had a little epiphany at that point. Jealousy is a symptom of love, I suppose - a primitive form, but love nonetheless. I
loved
my dark-haired, steely-eyed daughter, and, since love - and hate - are at the very core of what I am, Polgara won the whole game right then and there. We argued for another three thousand years or so, but all I was doing was fighting a rearguard action. I'd already lost.

‘You know what Torak's doing at Ashaba, don't you, Master?' Beldin asked.

‘Yes, my son,' Aldur replied sadly. ‘My brother is distraught, and he thinks to change what must happen by changing the word which tells him of it.'

‘If he goes too far and changes the Oracles
too
much, his Angaraks won't know what they're supposed to do,' I said in a worried tone. ‘Are we going to have to take steps?'

‘Nay, my son,' the Master replied. ‘True copies
do
exist, though my brother might wish otherwise. The Necessity which drives him will
not
be so thwarted. Belzedar is with my brother, and, though he knows it not, he is still in some measure driven by
our
Necessity. He hath ensured that the words of that other Necessity are safe and whole.'

‘That's a relief,' Beldin said. ‘If we had to start taking care of
both
sets of instructions, it might get burdensome. I think we're going to have our hands full just taking care of our own.'

‘Set thy mind at rest, my son,' Aldur told him. ‘The steps which lead to the ultimate meeting unfalteringly proceed.'

‘We've identified two of the prophets who're giving us
our
instructions, Master,' I advised him. ‘Their words are being faithfully set down.'

‘Excellent, my son.'

Pol looked slightly worried. ‘Are there others, Master?' she asked. ‘The Alorns know how important those prophecies are, but I don't think the Tolnedrans or the Arends do. We could be missing something significant.
Are
there other speakers?'

He nodded. ‘They are of less import, however, my daughter, and are more in the nature of verification. Put thy mind at ease. Failing all else, we may appeal to the Dals for aid. The Seers at Kell are seeking out
all
the prophecies - both the instruction of
our
Necessity and that of Torak's.'

‘Astonishing,' Beldin said. ‘The Dals are actually doing something useful for a change.'

‘They must, gentle Beldin, for they too have a task in this matter - a task of gravest significance. We must not hinder them. The path they follow is obscure, but it will in the fullness of time bring them to the self-same place whither our path leads us. All is proceeding as it must, my children. Be not unquiet. We will speak more of this anon.'

And then he was gone.

‘Evidently we're doing it right,' Beldin noted, ‘at least so far.'

‘You worry too much, Beldin,' Belkira told him. ‘I don't think we
could
do it wrong.'

Beltira, however, was looking at Pol with a kind of wonder on his face. ‘Dear sister,' he said to her.

That
came crashing down on me. ‘Please don't do that, Beltira,' I told him.

‘But she
is
, Belgarath. She is one of our fellowship.'

‘Yes, I know, but it puts
me
in a peculiar situation. I know that Pol and I are related, but this turn of events makes it
very
complicated.'

‘Be not dismayed, dear brother,' Pol told me sweetly. ‘I'll explain it all to you later - in simple terms, of course. Now, if you gentlemen will get out of my kitchen, I'll finish fixing supper.'

Things went on quietly in the Vale for the next several years. Polgara continued her education, and I think she startled us all by how rapidly she was progressing. Pol had joined us late, but she was more than making up for lost time. There were levels of subtlety in some of the things she did that were absolutely exquisite. I didn't tell her, of course, but I was terribly proud of her.

It was spring, I think, when Algar Fleet-foot came down into the Vale to deliver copies of the now-completed Darine Codex to us. ‘Bormik died last autumn,' he told us. ‘His daughter spent the winter putting everything together and then sent word to me that the Codex was finished. I went there to pick it up and to persuade her to come back to Algaria with me.'

‘Wasn't she happy in Darine?' Pol asked him.

He shrugged. ‘She may have been, but she's done us a great service, and Darine isn't going to be the safest place in the world later on this summer.'

‘Oh?' I said.

‘The Bear-Cult's starting to get out of hand there, so it's time for me to go explain a few things to them. Hatturk's beginning to annoy me. Oh, Dras sent these.' He opened another pouch and took out several scrolls. ‘This isn't complete yet, because the Mrin prophet's still talking, but these are copies of everything he's said so far.'

‘
That's
what I've been waiting for,' I told him eagerly.

‘Don't get your hopes up too much,' he told me. ‘I looked into them a few times on my way down here. Are you
sure
that fellow who's chained to a post up in Drasnia is really
a prophet? That thing you've got in your hands is pure gibberish. I'd hate to see you following instructions that turn out to be no more than the ravings of a genuine madman.'

‘The Mrin prophet
can't
rave, Algar,' I assured him. ‘He can't talk.'

‘He's talked enough to fill up four scrolls so far.'

‘That's the whole point. Everything that's in these scrolls is pure prophecy, because the poor fellow's incapable of speech
except
when he's passing on the words of the Necessity.'

‘Whatever you say, Belgarath. Are you coming to the Alorn Council this summer?'

‘I think that might be nice, father,' Pol said. ‘I haven't seen Beldaran for quite a while, and you should probably look in on your grandson.'

‘I really ought to work on these, Pol,' I objected, pointing at the scrolls.

‘Bring them with you, father,' she suggested. ‘They're not
that
heavy, after all.' Then she turned back to Algar. ‘Send word to Riva,' she told him. ‘Let him know that we're coming. Now, how's your wife?'

And so we went to the Isle of the Winds for the meeting of the Alorn Council - which was more in the nature of a family gathering in those days than it was a formal meeting of heads of state. We had a brief business meeting to get that out of the way, and then we were free to enjoy ourselves.

I was a bit surprised to discover that my grandson was about seven years old now. I tend to lose track of time when I'm working on something, and the years had slipped by without my noticing them.

Daran was a sturdy little boy with sandy-colored hair and a serious nature. We got along well together. He loved to listen to stories, and, though it's probably immodest of me to say it, I'm most likely one of the best story-tellers in the world.

‘What really happened in Cthol Mishrak, grandfather?'
he asked me one rainy afternoon when the two of us were in a room high up in one of the towers feasting on some cherry tarts I'd stolen from the pastry kitchen. ‘Father's started to tell me the story several times, but something always seems to come up just when he's getting to the good part.'

I leaned back in my chair. ‘Well,' I said, ‘let me see -' And then I told him the whole story, embellishing it only slightly - for artistic purposes, you understand.

‘Well, then,' he said gravely as darkness settled over Riva's citadel, ‘I guess that sort of tells me what I'm supposed to do for the rest of my life.' He sighed.

‘Why so great a sigh, Prince Daran?' I asked him.

‘It might have been nice to be just an ordinary person,' he said with uncommon maturity for one so young. ‘I'd kind of like to be able to get up in the morning and go out to look at what's beyond the next hill.'

‘It's not all that much different from what's on this side,' I told him.

‘Maybe not, grandfather, but I would sort of like to see it - just once.' He looked at me with those very serious blue eyes of his. ‘But I can't. That stone on the hilt of father's sword won't let me, will it?'

‘I'm afraid not, Daran,' I replied.

‘Why me?'

Dear God! How many times have I heard that? How should
I
know why him? I wasn't in charge. I took a chance at that point. ‘It has to do with what we are, Daran. We're sort of special, and that means we've got special responsibilities. If it makes you feel any better, we aren't required to like them.' Saying that to a seven-year-old might have been a little brutal, but my grandson wasn't your ordinary child. ‘This is what we're going to do,' I told him then. ‘We're both going to get a good night's sleep, and we're going to get up early tomorrow morning, and we're going to go out and see what's on the other side of that hill.'

‘It's raining. We'll get wet.'

‘We've both been wet before, Daran. We won't melt.'

I managed to offend
both
of my daughters with
that
little project.

The boy and I had fun, though, so all the scoldings we got several days later didn't bother either of us all that much. We tramped the steep hills of the Isle of the Winds, and we camped out and fished for trout in deep, swirling pools in mountain streams, and we talked. We talked about many things, and I think I managed to persuade Daran that what he had to do was necessary and important. At least he wasn't throwing that ‘Why me?' in my face at every turn. I've been talking to a long series of sandy-haired boys for about three thousand years now. I've been obliged to do a lot of things down through those endless centuries, but explaining our rather unique situation to those boys could very well have been the most important.