Belgarath the Sorcerer (39 page)

‘Yes, father,' she said, still smiling. ‘What now?'

‘We'll rest a bit,' I decided. ‘When the sun goes down, we'll start out again.'

‘In the dark?'

‘You're an owl, Polgara. Night's the natural time for you to be out flying.'

‘What about you?'

I shrugged. ‘Night or day - it doesn't matter to a wolf.'

‘We had to leave our supplies behind,' she noted. ‘What are we going to eat?'

‘That's up to you, Pol - whatever's unlucky enough to cross your path, I'd imagine.'

‘You mean
raw
?'

‘You're the one who wanted to be an owl, dear. Sparrows eat seeds, but owls prefer mice. I wouldn't recommend taking on a wild boar. He might be a little more than you can handle, but that's entirely up to you.'

She stalked away from me muttering swear words under her breath.

I'll admit that her idea worked out quite well. It would have taken us two weeks to reach Darine on foot. We managed it the other way in three nights.

The sun was just rising when we reached the hilltop south of the port city. We resumed our natural forms and marched to the city gate. Like just about every other city in the north in those days, Darine was constructed out of logs. A city has to burn down a few times before it occurs to the people who live there that wooden cities aren't really a good idea. We went through the unguarded gate, and I asked a sleepy passer-by where I could find Hatturk, the clan-chief Algar had told me was in charge here in Darine. He gave me directions to a large house near the waterfront and then stood there rather foolishly ogling Polgara. Having beautiful daughters is nice, I suppose, but they
do
attract a certain amount of attention.

‘We'll need to be a little careful with Hatturk, Pol,' I said as we waded down the muddy street toward the harbor.

‘Oh?'

‘Algar says that the clans that have moved here from the plains aren't really happy about the break-up of Aloria, and they're definitely unhappy about that grassland. They migrated here because they got lonesome for trees. Primitive Alorns all lived in the forest, and open country depresses them. Fleet-foot didn't come right out and say it, but I sort of suspect that Darine might just be a stronghold of the Bear-Cult, so let's be a little careful about what we say.'

‘I'll let you do the talking, father.'

‘That might be best. The people here are probably recidivist Alorns of the most primitive kind. I'm going to need Hatturk's cooperation, so I'm going to have to step around him rather carefully.'

‘Just bully him, father. Isn't that what you usually do?'

‘Only when I can stand over somebody to make sure he does what I tell him to do. Once you've bullied somebody, you can't turn your back on him for very long, and Darine's not so pretty that I want to spend the next twenty years here making sure that Hatturk follows my instructions.'

‘I'm learning all sorts of things on this trip.'

‘Good. Try not to forget too many of them.'

Hatturk's house was a large building constructed of logs. An Alorn clan-chief is really a sort of miniature king in many respects, and he's usually surrounded by a group of retainers who serve as court functionaries and double as bodyguards on the side. I introduced myself to the pair of heavily armed Algars at the door, and Pol and I were admitted immediately. Most of the time being famous is a pain, but it has some advantages.

Hatturk was a burly Alorn with a greying beard, a decided paunch, and bloodshot eyes. He didn't look too happy about being roused before noon. As I'd more or less expected, his clothing was made of bear-skins. I've never understood why members of the Bear-Cult feel that it's appropriate to peel the hide off the totem of their God. ‘Well,' he said to me in a rusty-sounding voice, ‘so you're Belgarath. I'd have thought you'd be bigger.'

‘I could arrange that if it'd make you feel more comfortable.'

He gave me a slightly startled look. ‘And the lady?' he asked to cover his confusion.

‘My daughter, Polgara the Sorceress.' I think that might have been the first time anyone had ever called her that, but I wanted to get Hatturk's undivided attention, and I
didn't
want him to be distracted by Pol's beauty. It seemed that planting the notion in his mind that she could turn him into a toad might be the best way to head off any foolishness. To her credit, Pol didn't even turn a hair at my somewhat exotic introduction.

Hatturk's bloodshot eyes took on a rather wild look. ‘My house is honored,' he said with a stiff bow. I got the distinct impression that Hatturk wasn't used to bowing to anybody. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘Algar Fleet-foot tells me that you've got a crazy man here in Darine,' I told him. ‘Polgara and I need to have a look at him.'

‘Oh, he's not really all
that
crazy, Belgarath. He just has
spells now and then when he starts raving. He's an old man, and old men are always a little strange.'

‘Yes,' Polgara agreed mildly.

Hatturk's eyes widened as he realized what he'd just said. ‘Nothing personal intended there, Belgarath,' he hastened to apologize.

‘That's all right, Hatturk,' I forgave him. ‘It takes quite a bit to offend me. Tell me a little bit more about this strange old man.'

‘He was a berserker when he was younger - an absolute terror in a fight. Maybe that explains it. Anyway, his family's fairly well-off, and when he started getting strange, they built a house for him on the outskirts of town. His youngest daughter's a spinster - probably because she's cross-eyed - and she looks after him.'

‘Poor girl,' Pol murmured. Then she sighed rather theatrically. ‘I imagine I've got that to look forward to as well. My father here is stranger than most, and sooner or later he's going to need a keeper.'

‘That'll do, Pol,' I said firmly. ‘If you've got a couple of minutes, Hatturk, we'd like to see this old fellow.'

‘Of course.' He led us out of the room and down the stairs to the street. We talked a bit as we walked through the muddy streets to the eastern edge of town. The idea of paving streets came late to the Alorns, for some reason. I put a few rather carefully phrased questions to Hatturk, and his answers confirmed my worst suspicions. The man was a Bear-Cultist to the bone, and it didn't take very much to set him off on a rambling diatribe filled with slogans and clichés. Religious fanatics are
so
unimaginative. There's no rational explanation for their beliefs, so they're free to speak without benefit of logic, untroubled by petty concerns such as truth or even plausibility.

‘Are your scribes getting down everything your berserker's saying?' I cut him off.

‘That's just a waste of time and money, Belgarath,' he said indifferently. ‘One of the priests of Belar had a look at
what the scribes had taken down, and he told me to quit wasting my time.'

‘King Algar gave you very specific orders, didn't he?'

‘Sometimes Algar's not right in the head. The priest told me that as long as we've got THE BOOK OF ALORN, we don't need any of this other gibberish.'

Naturally
a priest who was a member of the Bear-Cult wouldn't want those prophecies out there. It might interfere with their agenda. I swore under my breath.

The Darine Prophet and his caretaker daughter lived in a neat, well-tended cottage on the eastern edge of town. He was a very old, stringy man with a sparse white beard and big, knobby hands. His name was Bormik, and his daughter's name was Luana. Hatturk's description of her was a gross understatement. She seemed to be intently examining the tip of her own nose most of the time. Alorns are a superstitious people, and physical defects of any kind make them nervous, so Luana's spinsterhood was quite understandable.

‘How are you feeling today, Bormik?' Hatturk said, almost in a shout. Why do people feel they have to yell when they're talking to those who aren't quite right in the head?

‘Oh, not so bad, I guess,' Bormik replied in a wheezy old voice. ‘My hands are giving me some trouble.' He held out those big, swollen hands.

‘You broke your knuckles on other people's heads too many times when you were young,' Hatturk boomed. ‘This is Belgarath. He wants to talk with you.'

Bormik's eyes immediately glazed over. ‘Behold!' he said in a thunderous voice. ‘The Ancient and Beloved hath come to receive instruction.'

‘There he goes again,' Hatturk muttered to me. ‘All that garbled nonsense makes me nervous. I'll wait outside.' And he turned abruptly and left.

‘Hear me, Disciple of Aldur,' Bormik continued. His eyes seemed fixed on my face, but I'm fairly sure he didn't see
me. ‘Hear my words, for my words are truth. The division
will
end, for the Child of Light is coming.'

That
was what I'd been waiting to hear. It confirmed that Bormik
was
the voice of prophecy, and what he'd been saying all these years had contained vital information - and we'd missed it! I started to swear under my breath, and to think up all sorts of nasty things to do to the thick-headed Hatturk. I glanced quickly at Polgara, but she was sitting in a corner of the room speaking intently to Bormik's cross-eyed daughter.

‘And the Choice shall be made in the holy place of the children of the Dragon-God,' Bormik continued, ‘for the Dragon-God is error, and was not intended. Only in the Choice shall error be mended, and all made whole again. Behold, in the day that Aldur's Orb burns hot with crimson fire shall the name of the Child of Dark be revealed. Guard well the son of the Child of Light, for he shall have no brother. And it shall come to pass that those which once were one and now are two shall be rejoined, and in that joining shall one of them be no more.'

Then Bormik's weary old head drooped, as if the effort of prophecy had exhausted him. I might have tried to shake him awake, but I knew that it would be fruitless. He was too old and feeble to go on. I stood, picked up a quilt from a nearby bench, and gently covered the drowsing old man. I certainly didn't want him to take a chill and die on me before he'd said what he was supposed to say. ‘Pol,' I said to my daughter.

‘In a minute, father,' she said, waving me off. She continued to speak with that same low intensity to the cross-eyed Luana. ‘Agreed, then?' she said to the spindly spinster.

‘As you say, Lady Polgara,' Bormik's middle-aged daughter replied. ‘A bit of verification first, if you don't mind.' She rose, crossed the room, and looked intently at the image of her face in a polished brass mirror. ‘Done!' was all she said. Then she turned and looked around the
room, and her eyes were as straight as any I've ever seen - very pretty eyes, as I recall.

What was going on here?

‘All right, father,' Pol said in an off-hand sort of way. ‘We can go now.' And she walked on out of the room.

‘What was that all about?' I asked her as I opened the front door for her.

‘Something for something, father,' she replied. ‘You might call it a fair trade.'

‘There's our problem,' I told her, pointing at the brutish Hatturk impatiently waiting in the street. ‘He's a Bear-Cultist, and even if I could dragoon him into transcribing Bormik's ravings, he'd let the priests of the Bear-Cult see them before he passed them on to me. Revisionism is the soul of theology, so there's no telling what sort of garbage would filter through to me.'

‘It's already been taken care of, father,' she told me in that offensively superior tone of hers. ‘Don't strain Hatturk's understanding by trying to explain the need for accuracy to him. Luana's going to take care of it for us.'

‘Bormik's daughter?'

‘Of course. She's closest to him, after all. She's been listening to his ravings for years now, and she knows exactly how to get him to repeat things he's said in the past. All it takes is a single word to set him off.' She paused. ‘Oh,' she said, ‘here's your purse.' She held out my much-lighter money pouch, which she'd somehow managed to steal from me. ‘I gave her money to hire the scribes.'

‘And?' I said, hefting my diminished purse.

‘And what?'

‘What's in it for her?'

‘Oh,
father
,' she said. ‘You saw her, didn't you?'

‘Her eyes, you mean?'

‘Of course. As I said, something for something.'

‘She's too old for it to make any difference, Pol,' I objected. ‘She'll never catch a husband now.'

‘Maybe not, but at least she'll be able to look herself
straight in the eye in the mirror.' She gave me that long-suffering look. ‘You'll never understand, old wolf. Trust me. I know what I'm doing. What now?'

‘I guess we might as well go on to Drasnia. We seem to have finished up here.' I shrugged. ‘How did you straighten her eyes?'

‘Muscles, old wolf. Tighten some. Relax others. It's easy if you pay attention. Details, father, you have to pay attention to details. Isn't that what you told me?'

‘Where did you learn so much about eyes?'

She shrugged. ‘I didn't. I just made it up as I went along. Shall we go to Drasnia?'

We spent the night in Hatturk's house and went down to the harbor the following morning to sail to Kotu at the mouth of the Mrin River. ‘I want to thank you, Hatturk,' I said to the clan chief as we stood on the wharf.

‘My pleasure, Belgarath,' he replied.

‘I've got a word of advice for you, if you don't mind listening.'

‘Of course.'

‘You might want to give some thought to keeping your religious opinions to yourself. The Bear-Cult's caused a great deal of trouble in Aloria in the past, and the Alorn Kings aren't particularly fond of it. King Algar's a patient man, but his patience only goes so far. The Cult's been suppressed a number of times in the past, and I sort of feel another one coming. I really don't think you want to be on the wrong side when that happens. Algar Fleet-foot can be
very
firm when he sets his mind to it.'

He gave me a sullen sort of look. I
did
try to warn him, but I guess he chose not to listen.

‘Does Dras know we're coming, father?' Polgara asked me as we were boarding the ship.

I nodded. ‘I talked with a Cherek sea-captain yesterday. He's on the way to Boktor right now. His ship's one of those war-boats, so he'll get there long before we reach Kotu.'

‘It'll be good to see Dras again. He's not quite as bright as his brothers, but he's got a good heart.'

‘Yes,' I agreed. ‘I guess I should have a talk with him when we get to Kotu. I think it's time that he got married.'

‘Don't look at me, father,' she said primly. ‘I'm fond of Dras, but not
that
fond.'

Kotu is one of the major seaports in the world now, largely because it's the western terminus of the North Caravan Route. When Pol and I went there, however, trade with the Nadraks was very limited, and Kotu was hardly more than a village with only a few wharves jutting out into the bay. It took us two days to make the voyage across the Gulf of Cherek from Darine to the mouth of the Mrin River, and Dras was waiting for us when we arrived. He had a fair number of his retainers with him, but they hadn't come along to see
me
. It was Polgara they were interested in. Evidently, word had filtered into the various Alorn kingdoms about the beautiful daughter of Ancient Belgarath, and the young Drasnians had come down-river from Boktor to have a look for themselves.

I'm sure they weren't disappointed.

When we'd gone to the Isle of the Winds for Beldaran's wedding, the girls had only been sixteen, and they'd never been out of the Vale. Polgara had made me
very
nervous during the course of that trip. But she was older now, and she'd demonstrated that she knew how to take care of herself, so I could watch those young men swarming around her with equanimity, and even with a certain amusement. Pol enjoyed their attentions, but she wasn't going to do anything inappropriate.

Our ship docked in mid-afternoon, and we took rooms at a somewhat seedy inn, planning to sail up-river the next morning to the village of Braca, where the Mrin Prophet was kenneled.

Bull-neck and I talked until quite late that evening, which gave Pol the opportunity to break a few hearts.

Dras leaned back in his chair and looked at me speculatively. ‘Algar's going to get married, you know,' he told me.

‘It's funny he didn't mention it,' I replied. ‘He went with us to Riva's Island.'

‘You know how Algar is,' Dras said with a shrug. ‘I
suppose I ought to be thinking about that myself.'

‘I'd been intending to bring that up,' I told him. ‘Ordinary people can get married or not, whichever suits them, but kings have certain responsibilities.'

‘I don't suppose …' He left it hanging tentatively in the air between us.

‘No, Dras,' I replied firmly. ‘Polgara's not available. I don't think you'd want to be married to her anyway. She has what you might call a prickly disposition. Pick yourself a nice Alorn girl instead. You'll be happier in the long run.'

He sighed. ‘She
is
pretty, though.'

‘That she is, my friend, but Pol's got other things to do. The time might come when she'll get married, but that'll be
her
decision, and it's still a long way off. How far is it up-river to Braca?'

‘A day or so. We have to go through the fens to get there.' He tugged at his beard. ‘I've been thinking of draining the fens. That region might make good farmland if I could get rid of all the water.'

I shrugged. It's your kingdom, but I think draining the fens might turn into quite a chore. Have you heard from your father lately?'

‘A month or so ago. His new wife's going to have another baby. They're hoping for a boy this time. I suppose my half-sister
could
take the throne after father dies, but Alorns aren't comfortable with the idea of a queen. It seems unnatural to us.'

 

You have no idea of how long it took me to change
that
particular attitude. Porenn is probably one of the most gifted rulers in history, but back-country Drasnians still don't take her seriously.

 

I slept a little late the next morning, and it was almost noon before we got under way.

The Mrin River is sluggish at its mouth, which accounts for the fens, I suppose. The fens are a vast marshland lying
between the Mrin and the Aldur. It's one of the least attractive areas in the north, if you want my personal opinion. I don't like swamps, though, so that might account for my attitude. They smell, and the air's always so humid that I can't seem to get my breath. And then, of course, there are all those bugs that look upon people as a food source. I stayed in the cabin while we went up-river. Polgara, though, paced around the deck, trailing clouds of suitors. I know she was having fun, but
I
certainly wouldn't have given every mosquito for ten miles in any direction a clear invitation to drink my blood, no matter how much fun I was having.

Bull-neck's ship captain dropped anchor at sundown. The channel was clearly marked by buoys, but it's still not a good idea to wander around in the fens in the dark. There are too many chances for things to go wrong.

Dras and I were sitting in the cabin after supper, and it wasn't too long before Pol joined us. ‘Dras?' she said as she entered, ‘why do your people wiggle their fingers at each other all the time?'

‘Oh, that's just the secret language,' he replied.

‘Secret language?'

‘The merchants came up with the notion. I guess there are times when you're doing business that you need to talk privately with your partner. They've developed a kind of sign-language. It was fairly simple right at first, but it's getting a little more complicated now.'

‘Do you know this language?'

He held out one huge hand. ‘With fingers like these? Don't be ridiculous.'

‘It might be a useful thing to know. Don't you think so, father?'

‘We have other ways to communicate, Pol.'

‘Perhaps, but I still think I'd like to learn this secret language. I don't like having people whispering to each other behind my back - even if they're doing it with their fingers.
Do you happen to have someone on board ship who's proficient at it, Dras?'

He shrugged. ‘I don't pay much attention to it, myself. I'll ask around, though.'

‘I'd appreciate it.'

We set out again the following morning and reached the village of Braca about noon. Dras and I stood at the rail as we approached it. ‘Not a very pretty place, is it?' I observed, looking at the collection of run-down shanties huddled on the muddy riverbank.

‘It's not Tol Honeth, by any stretch of the imagination,' he agreed. ‘When we first found out about this crazy man, I was going to take him to Boktor, but he was born here, and he goes wild when you try to take him away from the place. We decided that it'd be better just to leave him here. The scribes don't care much for the idea, but that's what I'm paying them so much for. They're here to write down what he says, not to enjoy the scenery.'

‘Are you sure they're writing it down accurately?'

‘How would I know, Belgarath? I can't read. You know that.'

‘Do you mean you still haven't learned how?'

‘Why should I bother? That's what scribes are for. If something's all that important, they'll read it to me. The ones here have worked out a sort of system. There are always three of them with the crazy man. Two of them write down what he says, and the third one listens to him. When he finishes, they compare the two written versions, and the one who does the listening decides which one's accurate.'

‘It sounds a little complicated.'

‘You made quite an issue of how much you wanted accuracy. If you can think up an easier way, I'd be glad to hear it.'

Our ship coasted up to the rickety dock, the sailors moored her, and we went ashore to have a look at the Mrin prophet.

I don't know if I've ever seen anyone quite so dirty. He wore only a crude canvas loincloth, and his hair and beard were long and matted. He was wearing an iron collar, and a stout chain ran from the collar to the thick post set in the ground in front of his kennel - I'm sorry, but that's the only word I can use to describe the low hut where he apparently slept. He crouched on the ground near the post making animal noises and rhythmically jerking on the chain that bound him to the post. His eyes were deep-sunk under shaggy brows, and there was no hint of intelligence or even humanity in them.

‘Do you really have to chain him like that?' Polgara asked Dras.

Bull-neck nodded. ‘He has spells,' he replied. ‘He used to run off into the fens every so often. He'd be gone for a week or two, and then he'd come crawling back. When we found out just who and what he is, we decided we'd better chain him for his own safety. There are sink-holes and quicksand bogs out in the fens, and the poor devil doesn't have sense enough to avoid them. He can't recite prophecy if he's twelve feet down in a quicksand bog.'

She looked at the low hut. ‘Do you really have to treat him like an animal?'

‘Polgara, he
is
an animal. He stays in that kennel because he wants to. He gets hysterical if you take him inside a house.'

‘You said he was born here,' I noted.

Dras nodded. ‘About thirty or forty years ago. This was all part of father's kingdom before we went to Mallorea. The village has been here for about seventy years, I guess. Most of the villagers are fishermen.'

I went over to where the three scribes on duty were sitting in the shade of a scrubby willow tree and introduced myself. ‘Has he said anything lately?' I asked.

‘Not for the past week,' one of them replied. ‘I think maybe it's the moon that sets him off. He'll talk at various other times, but he
always
does when the moon's full.'

‘I suppose there might be some explanation for that. Isn't there some way you can clean him up a little?'

The scribe shook his head. ‘We've tried throwing pails of water on him, but he just rolls in the mud again. I think he likes being dirty.'

‘Let me know immediately when he starts talking again. I have to hear him.'

‘I don't think you'll be able to make much sense out of what he's saying, Belgarath,' one of the other scribes told me.

‘That'll come later. I've got the feeling that I'm going to spend a lot of time studying what he says. Does he ever talk about ordinary things? The weather or maybe how hungry he is?'

‘No,' the first scribe replied. ‘As closely as we're able to determine, he can't talk - at least that's what the villagers say. It was about eight or ten years ago when he started. It makes our job easier, though. We don't have to wade through casual conversation. Everything he says is important.'

We stayed on board Bull-neck's ship that night. We needed the cooperation of the villagers, and I didn't want to stir up any resentments by commandeering their houses while we were in Braca.

About noon the following day one of the scribes came down to the dock. ‘Belgarath,' he called to me, ‘you'd better come now. He's talking.'

One of the young Drasnians had been teaching Pol that sign-language, and he didn't look
too
happy when she suspended the lesson to accompany Dras and me to the prophet's hovel.

The crazy man was crouched by that post again, and he was still jerking on his chain. I don't think he was actually trying to get loose. The clinking of the chain seemed to soothe him for some reason. Then again, aside from the wooden bowl they fed him from, that chain was his only possession. It was his, so he had a right to play with it, I
guess. He was making animal noises when we approached.

‘Has he stopped?' I asked the scribe who'd come to fetch us.

‘He'll start up again,' the scribe assured me. ‘He breaks off and moans and grunts for a while every so often. Then he goes back to talking. Once he starts, he's usually good for the rest of the day. He stops when the sun goes down.'

Then the crazy man let go of his chain and looked me directly in the face. His eyes were alert and very penetrating. ‘Behold!' he said to me in a booming, hollow voice, a voice that sounded almost exactly the same as Bormik's. ‘The Child of Light shall be accompanied on his quest by the Bear and by the Guide and by the Man with Two Lives. Thou, too, Ancient and Beloved, shall be at his side. And the Horse-Lord shall also go with ye, and the Blind Man, and the Queen of the World. Others also will join with ye - the Knight Protector and the Archer and the Huntress and the Mother of the Race that Died and the Woman Who Watches, whom thou hast known before.'

He broke off and began to moan and drool and yank on his chain again.

‘That should do it,' I told Dras. ‘That's what I needed to know. He's authentic.'