"Is that not the usual purpose of mating?"
"Our purpose is to produce specific young ones."
"Why? One puppy is much like another, is it not? Character is developed in the rearing, not in the blood line."
We argued about that off and on for centuries, and I strongly suspect her of arguing largely because she knew that it irritated me. Technically, I was the leader of our odd little pack, but she wasn't going to let me get above myself.
Arendia was a mournful sort of place in those days. The melancholy institution of serfdom had been well established among the Arends even before the war with the Angaraks, and they brought it with them when they migrated to the West. I've never understood why anyone would submit to being a serf in the first place, but I suppose the Arendish character might have had something to do with it. Arends go to war with each other on the slightest pretext, and an ordinary farmer needs someone around to protect him from belligerent neighbors.
The lands the Arends had occupied in the central part of the continent had been open, and the fields had long been under cultivation. Their new home was a tangled forest, so they had to clear away the trees before they could plant anything. This was the work that fell to the serfs. The wolf and I soon became accustomed to seeing naked people chopping at trees.
"One wonders why they take off their fur to do this," she said to me on one occasion. There's no word in wolfish for "clothing," so she had to improvise.
"It is because they only have one of the things they cover their bodies with. They put them aside while they are hitting the trees because they do not want them to be wounded while they work." I decided not to go into the question of the poverty of the serfs or of the expense of a new canvas smock. The discussion was complicated enough already. How do you explain the concept of ownership to a creature that has no need for possessions of any kind?
"This covering and uncovering of their bodies that the man-things do is foolishness," she declared.
"Why do they do it?"
"For warmth when it is cold."
"But they also do it when it is not cold. Why?"
"For modesty, I suppose."
"What is modesty?"
I sighed. I wasn't making much headway here.
"It is just a custom among the man-things," I told her.
"Oh. If it is a custom, it is all right." Wolves have an enormous respect for customs. Then she immediately thought of something else.
She was always thinking of something else.
"If it is the custom among man-things to cover their bodies sometimes but not others, it is not much of a custom, is it?"
I gave up.
"No," I said.
"Probably not."
She dropped to her haunches in the middle of the forest path we were following with her tongue lolling out in wolfish laughter.
"Do you mind?" I demanded.
"One is merely amused by the inconsistencies of the man-side of your thought," she replied.
"If you would take your true form, your thought would run more smoothly." She was still convinced that I was really a wolf and that my frequent change of form was no more than a personal idiosyncrasy.
In the forests of Arendia, we frequently encountered the almost ubiquitous bands of outlaws. Not all of the serfs docilely accepted their condition. I don't like having people point arrows at me, so after the first time or two, I went wolf as soon as we were out of sight of the village we'd just left. Even the stupidest runaway serf isn't going to argue with a couple of full-grown wolves. That's one of the things that's always been a trial to me. People are forever interfering with me when I've got something to attend to. Why can't they just leave me alone?
We went down into Tolnedra after a number of years, and I continued my activities as a marriage broker, ultimately winding up in Tol Nedrane.
Don't bother trying to find it on a map. The name was changed to Tol Honeth before the beginning of the second millennium.
I know that most of you have seen Tol Honeth, but you wouldn't have recognized it in its original state. The war with the Angaraks had taught the Tolnedrans the value of defensible positions, and the island in the center of the Nedrane--"the River of Nedra"--seemed to them to be an ideal spot for a city. In may very well be now, but there were a lot of drawbacks when they first settled there. They've been working on it for five thousand years now, and I suppose they've finally ironed out most of the wrinkles.
When the wolf and I first went there, however, the island was a damp, marshy place that was frequently inundated by spring floods. They've built a fairly substantial wall of logs around the island, and the houses inside were also built of logs and had thatched roofs--an open invitation to fire, in my opinion. The streets were narrow, crooked, and muddy; and quite frankly, the place smelled like an open cesspool. My companion found that particularly offensive, since wolves have an extremely keen sense of smell.
My major reason for being in Tolnedra was to oversee the beginnings of the Honethite line. I've never really liked the Honeths. They've an exalted opinion of themselves, and I've never much cared for people who look down their noses at me. My distaste for them may have made me a little abrupt with the prospective bridegroom's father when I told him that his son was required to marry the daughter of an artisan whose primary occupation was the construction of fireplaces. The Honeth family absolutely had to have some hereditary familiarity with working in stone.
If it didn't, the Tolnedran Empire would never come into existence, and we were going to need the empire later on. I wouldn't bore you with all of this except to show you just how elemental our arrangements in those days really were. We were setting things in motion that wouldn't come to fruition for thousands of years.
After I'd bullied the bridegroom's father into accepting the marriage I'd proposed for his son, the wolf and I left Tol Nedrane--by ferry, since they hadn't gotten around to building bridges yet. The ferryman overcharged us outrageously, as I recall, but he was a Tolnedran, after all, so that was to be expected.
I'd finally finished the various tasks my Master had given me, and so the wolf and I went eastward toward the Tolnedran Mountains. It was time to go home to the Vale, but I wasn't going to go back through Ulgo land. I wasn't going to go near Ulgoland until I found out what had happened there. We tarried for a while once we got into the mountains, however. My companion entertained herself chasing deer and rabbits, but I spent my time looking for that cave our Master had told us about on several occasions. I knew it was in these mountains somewhere, so I took some time to do a little exploring. I didn't plan to do anything about it if I found it, but I wanted to see the place where the Gods had lived while they were creating the world.
To be honest about it, that wasn't the only time I looked for that cave.
Every time I passed through those mountains, I'd set aside a week or so to look around. The original home of the Gods would be something to see, after all.
I never found it, of course. It took Garion to do that--many, many years later. Something important was going to happen there, and it didn't involve me.
Beldin had returned from Mallorea when the wolf and I got back to the Vale, but Belzedar wasn't with him. I'd missed my ugly little brother during the century or so that he'd been in Mallorea. There were certain special ties between us, and though it may seem a bit odd, I enjoyed his company.
I reported my successes to our Master, and then I told him about what we had encountered in Ulgoland. He seemed to be as baffled as I'd been.
"Is it possible that the Ulgos did something to offend their God, Master?" I asked him.
"Something so serious that he decided to wash his hands of the lot of them and turn the monsters loose again?"
"Nay, my son," Aldur replied, shaking that silvery head of his.
"He would not--could not--do that."
"He changed his mind once, Master," I reminded him.
"He didn't want any part of mankind when the original Gorim went to Pr
olgu, as I recall. Gorim had to badger him for years before he finally relented. It's probably uncharitable of me to mention it, but the current Gorim isn't very lovable. He offends me with a single look. The heavens only know how offensive he could be once he started talking."
Aldur smiled faintly.
"It is uncharitable of thee, Belgarath," he told me. Then he actually laughed.
"I must confess that I find myself in full agreement with thee, however. But no, Belgarath, is most patient. Not even the one who is currently Gorim could offend him so much. I will investigate this troubling matter and advise thee of my findings."
"I thank thee, Master," I said, taking my leave. Then I stopped by Beldin's place to invite him to come by for a few tankards and a bit of talk. I prudently borrowed a keg of ale from the twins on my way home.
Beldin came stumping up the stairs to the room at the top of my tower and drained off his first tankard without stopping for breath. Then he belched and wordlessly handed it back to me for a refill.
I dipped more ale from the keg, and we sat down across the table from each other.
"Well?" I said.
"Well what?" That was Beldin for you.
"What's happening in Mallorea?"
"Can you be a little more specific? Mallorea's a big place." The wolf had come over and laid her chin in his lap. She'd always seemed fond of Beldin for some reason. He scratched her ears absently.
"What's Torak doing?" I asked with some asperity.
"Burning, actually." Beldin grinned that ugly, crooked grin of his.
"I
think our Master's brother's going to burn for a long, long time."
"Is that still going on?" I was a little surprised.
"I'd have thought the fire would have gone out by now."
"Not noticeably. You can't see the flames any more, but Old Burnt-face is still on fire. The Orb was very discontented with him, and it is a stone, after all. Stones aren't noted for their forgiveness. Torak spends a lot of his time screaming."
"Isn't that a shame?" I said with a vast insincerity.
Beldin grinned at me again.
"Anyway," he went on, "after he broke the world apart, he had his Angaraks put the Orb in an iron box so that he wouldn't have to look at it. Just the sight of it makes the fire hotter, I guess. That ocean he'd built was chasing the Angaraks just as fast as it was chasing us, so they ran off to the East with the waves lapping at their heels. All their holy places got swallowed up when the water came in, and they either had to sprout gills or find high ground."
"I find that I can bear their discomfort with enormous fortitude," I said smugly.
"Belgarath, you've been spending too much time with the Alorns You're even starting to sound like one."
I shrugged.
"Alorns aren't really all that bad--once you get used to them."
"I'd rather not. They set my teeth on edge."
"What happened next?"
"That explosion we saw when the water hit the lava boiling up out of the crack in the earth's crust rearranged the geography off to the East rather significantly. There's an impressive new swamp between where Korim used to be and where Kell is."
"Is Kell still there?"
"Kell's always been there, Belgarath, and it probably always will be.
There was a city at Kell before the rest of us came down out of the trees.
This new swamp hasn't been there long, but the Angaraks managed to slog through. Torak himself was busy screaming, so his army commanders were obliged to take charge. It didn't take them very long to realize that all that muck wasn't exactly suitable for human habitation."
"I'm surprised that it bothered them. Angaraks adore ugliness."
"Anyway, there was a big argument between the generals and the Grolims, I understand. The Grolims were hoping that the sea would recede so that they could all go back to Korim. The altars were there, after all. The generals were more practical. They knew that the water wasn't going to go down. They stopped wasting time arguing and ordered the army to march off toward the northwest and to take the rest of Angarak with them. They marched away and left the Grolims standing on the beach staring longingly off toward Korim." He belched again and held out his empty tankard.
"You know where it is," I told him sourly.
"You're not much of a host, Belgarath." He rose, stumped over to the keg, and scooped his tankard full, slopping beer all over my floor. Then he stumped back.
"The Grolims weren't very happy about the generals' decision. They wanted to go back, but if they went back all alone, there wouldn't be anybody to butcher but each other, and they're not quite that devout. They went chasing after the horde, haranguing them to turn around. That irritated the generals, and there were a number of ugly incidents. I guess that's what started the break-up of Angarak society."
"The what?" I said, startled.
"I speak plainly, Belgarath. Is your hearing starting to fail? I've heard that happens to you old people."
"What do you mean, "the breakup of Angarak society"?"
"They're coming apart at the seams. As long as Torak was functioning, the Grolim priesthood had everything their way. During the war, the generals got a taste of power, and they liked it. With Torak incapacitated, the Grolims really don't have any authority; most Angaraks feel the same way about Grolims as Belsambar does. Anyway, the generals led the Angaraks up through the mountains, and they came down on a plain that was more or less habitable. They built a large military camp at a place they call Mal Zeth, and they put guards around it to keep the Grolims out. Eventually the Grolims gave up and took their followers north and built another encampment. They call it Mal Yaska. So now you've got two different kinds of Angaraks in Mallorea. The soldiers at Mal Zeth are like soldiers everywhere; religion isn't one of their highest priorities. The zealots at Mal Yaska spend so much time praying to Torak that they haven't gotten around to building houses yet."
"I wouldn't have believed that could ever happen," I said, "not to Angaraks. Religion's the only thing they've ever been able to think about." Then I thought of something.
"How did Belsambar react when you told him about this?"
Beldin shrugged.
"He didn't believe me. He can't accept the fact that Angarak society disintegrated. Our brother's having a lot of trouble right now, Belgarath. I think he's feeling some obscure racial guilt. He is an Angarak, after all, and Torak did drown more than half of mankind.
Maybe you'd better have a talk with him--persuade him that it's not really his fault."
"I'll see what I can do," I promised.
"Is that the way things stand in Mallorea right now?"
He laughed.
"Oh, no. It gets better. About twenty years ago, Torak stopped feeling sorry for himself and came to his senses. Back in the old days, he'd have simply stamped Mal Zeth into a mud puddle and let it go at that, but now he's got his mind on other things. He stole the Orb, but he can't do anything with it. The frustration's making him more than a little crazy. He winnowed through Mal Zeth and Mal Yaska, took the most fanatic of his worshipers, and went to the Far Northeast coast--up near the lands of the Karands. When they got there, he ordered his followers to build him a tower--out of iron."
"Iron?" I said incredulously.
"An iron tower wouldn't last ten years.
It would start to rust before you even got it put together."
"He ordered it not to, I guess. Torak's fond of iron for some reason.
Maybe he got the idea from that iron box he keeps the Orb in. I think he's got some strange notion that if he piles enough iron around the Orb, he can weaken it to the point that he can control it."
"That's pure nonsense!"
"Don't blame me. It's Torak's idea, not mine. The people he took with him built a city up there, and Torak covered it with clouds--gloomiest place you ever saw. The Angaraks call it Cthol Mishrak--the City of Endless Night. Torak's not nearly as pretty as he used to be--not with half of his
face gone--so maybe he's trying to hide. Ugly people do that sometimes. I was born ugly, so I'm used to it. That's pretty much it, Belgarath. The Angaraks have three cities now, Cthol Mishrak, Mal Yaska, and Mal Zeth, and they're going in three different directions.
Torak's so busy trying to subdue the Orb that he's not paying any attention to what's going on in Mal Zeth and Mal Yaska. Angarak society's disintegrating, and it couldn't happen to a nicer bunch of people. Oh, one other thing. Evidently Torak was quite impressed with us. He's decided to take disciples of his own."
"Oh? How many?"
"Three so far. There may be more later on. I guess the war taught Torak that disciples are useful people to have around. Before the war, he wasn't interested in sharing power, but that seems to have changed. Did you know that an ordinary priest is powerless once he gets past the boundaries of his own country?"
"I don't quite follow you."
"The Gods aren't above a little cheating now and then. They've each invested their priests with certain limited powers. It helps to keep the faithful in line. An ordinary Grolim--or one of the priests of Nedra or Chaldan, and Salmissra certainly--has some ability to do the kinds of things we do. Once they leave the region occupied by the worshipers of their own God, though, that ability goes out the window. A disciple, on the other hand, carries it with him wherever he goes. That's the reason we could do things at Korim. Torak saw the value of that and started gathering disciples of his own."
"Any idea of who they are?"
"Two of them used to be Grolims--Urvon and Ctuchik. I couldn't find anything out about the third one."
"Where was Belzedar during all of this?"
"I haven't got the slightest idea. After we flew in and went back to our own shapes, he gave me a few lame excuses about wanting to survey the whole continent and then went off toward the East. I haven't seen him since then. I have no idea of what he's been doing. I'll tell you one thing, though."
"Oh? What's that?"
"Something's definitely gnawing on his bowels. He couldn't wait to get away from me."
"You have that effect on some people, my brother."
Rivan Codex Series Page 12
