Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  "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 cliches. 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 rejoining 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'd 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-age 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 offhand 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?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  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 had 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 upriver 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 upriver 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 upriver.

  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 rundown 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 sinkholes 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."