"Run, Zandramas!" he called out. "Run as fast as you can! I have your trail now, and the world isn't big enough for you to find any place to hide from me!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
A chill dampness hung in the air beneath the tangled limbs overhead, and the smell of stagnant water and decay filled their nostrils. The trees twisted upward from the dark floor of the jungle, seeking the light. Gray-green moss hung in streamers from the trees, and ropy vines crawled up their trunks like thick-bodied serpents. A pale, wispy fog hovered back among the trees, rising foul-smelling and dank from black ponds and sluggishly moving streams.
The road they followed was ancient, and it was overgrown with tangled brush. Garion rode now at the head of the party with his sword resting on the pommel of his saddle and the Orb eagerly tugging him on. It was late afternoon, and the day that had been gray and overcast to begin with settled slowly, almost sadly toward evening.
"I didn't know that the Nyissans had ever built roads," Ce'Nedra said, looking at the weed-choked track lying ahead of them.
"They were all abandoned after the Marag invasion at the end of the second millennium," Belgarath told her. "The Nyissans discovered that their highway system provided too easy a route for a hostile army, so Salmissra ordered that all the roads be allowed to go back to the jungle."
The sword in Garion's hands swung slightly, pointing toward the thick undergrowth at the side of the road. He frowned slightly, reining in. "Grandfather," he said, "the trail goes off into the woods."
The rest of them pulled up, peering into the obscuring bushes. "I'll go take a look," Silk said, sliding down from his horse and walking toward the side of the road.
"Watch out for snakes," Durnik called after him.
Silk stopped abruptly. "Thanks," he said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. Then he pushed into the brush, moving carefully and with his eyes fixed on the ground.
They waited, listening to the rustling crackle as Silk moved around back in the undergrowth. "There's a campsite back here," he called to them, "an old fire pit and several lean-tos."
"Let's have a look," Belgarath said, swinging down out of his saddle.
They left Toth with the horses and pushed back into the stiffly rustling brush. Some yards back from the road they came to a clearing and found Silk standing over a cold fire pit with a number of charred sticks lying at the bottom. "Was Zandramas here?" he asked Garion.
Garion moved forward, holding out his sword. It moved erratically in his hands, pointing first this way and then that. Then it tugged him toward one of the partially collapsed shelters. When he reached it, the sword dipped, touched the ground inside the rude lean-to, and the Orb flared.
"I guess that answers that question," Silk said with a certain satisfaction.
Durnik had knelt by the fire pit and was carefully turning over the charred sticks and peering into the ashes beneath. "It's been several months," he said.
Silk looked around. "From the number of shelters I'd say that at least four people made camp here."
Belgarath grunted. "Zandramas isn't alone any more, then."
Eriond had been curiously poking into the crude shelters and he reached down, picked something up from the ground inside one of them, and came back to join the rest. Wordlessly, he held out the object in his hand to Ce'Nedra.
"Oh," she cried, taking it quickly and clutching it tightly against her.
"What is it, Ce'Nedra?" Velvet asked.
The little queen, her eyes brimming, mutely held out the object Eriond had just given her. It was a small, wool-knit cap, lying damp and sad-looking in her hand. "It's my baby's," she said in a choked voice. "He was wearing it the night he was stolen."
Durnik cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It's getting late," he said quietly. "Did we want to set up for the night here?"
Garion looked at Ce'Nedra's agonized face. "I don't think so," he replied. "Let's go on just a little farther."
Durnik also looked at the grieving queen. "Right," he agreed.
About a half mile farther down the road, they reached the ruins of a long-abandoned city, half buried in the rank jungle growth. Trees buckled up the once-broad streets, and climbing vines wreathed their way upward about the empty towers.
"It seems like a good location," Durnik said, looking around the ruins. "Why did the people just go away and leave it empty?"
"There could be a half-dozen reasons, Durnik," Polgara said. "A pestilence, politics, war—even a whim."
"A whim?" He looked startled.
"This is Nyissa," she reminded him. "Salmissra rules here, and her authority over her people is the most absolute in all the world. If she came here at some time in the past and told the people to leave, they'd have left."
He shook his head disapprovingly. "That's wrong," he said.
"Yes, dear," she agreed. "I know."
They made camp in the abandoned ruins, and the next morning they continued to ride in a generally southeasterly direction. As they pushed deeper and deeper into the Nyissan jungle, there was a gradual change in the vegetation. The trees loomed higher, and their trunks grew thicker. The underbrush became more dense, and the all-pervading reek of stagnant water grew stronger. Then, shortly before noon, a slight, vagrant breeze suddenly brought another scent to Garion's nostrils. It was an odor of such overpowering sweetness that it almost made him giddy.
"What is that lovely fragrance?" Velvet asked, her brown eyes softening.
Just then they rounded a bend, and there, standing in glory at the side of the road, rose the most beautiful tree Garion had ever seen. Its leaves were a shimmering gold, and long crimson vines hung in profusion from its limbs. It was covered with enormous blossoms of red, blue, and vivid lavender, and among those blossoms hung rich-looking clusters of shiny purple fruit that seemed almost ready to burst. An overwhelming sense of longing seemed to come over him as the sight and smell of that glorious tree touched his very heart.
Velvet, however, had already pushed past him, her face fixed in a dreamy smile as she rode toward the tree.
"Liselle!" Polgara's voice cracked like a whip. "Stop!"
"But—" Velvet's voice was vibrant with longing.
"Don't move," Polgara commanded. "You're in dreadful danger."
"Danger?" Garion said. "It's only a tree, Aunt Pol."
"Come with me, all of you," she commanded. "Keep a tight rein on your horses, and don't go anywhere near that tree." She rode slowly forward at a walk, holding her horse's reins firmly in both hands.
"What's the matter, Pol?" Durnik asked.
"I thought that all of those had been destroyed," she muttered, looking at the gorgeous tree with an expression of flinty hatred.
"But—" Velvet objected, "why would anyone want to destroy something so lovely?"
"Of course it's lovely. That's how it hunts."
"Hunts?" Silk said in a startled voice. "Polgara, it's only a tree. Trees don't hunt."
"This one does. One taste of its fruit is instant death, and the touch of its blossoms paralyses every muscle in the body. Look there." She pointed at something in the high grass beneath the tree. Garion peered into the grass and saw the skeleton of a large-sized animal. A half-dozen of the crimson tendrils hanging from one of the flower-decked branches had poked their way down into the animal's rib cage and interwoven themselves into the mossy bones.
"Do not look at the tree," Polgara told them all in a deadly tone. "Do not think about the fruit, and try not to inhale the fragrance of its flowers too deeply. The tree is trying to lure you to within range of its tendrils. Ride on and don't look back." She reined in her horse.
"Aren't you coming, too?" Durnik asked with a worried look.
"I'll catch up," she replied. "I have to attend to this monstrosity first."
"Do as she says," Belgarath told them. "Let's go."
As they rode on past that beautiful, deadly tree, Garion felt a wrench of bitter disappointment; as they moved farther down the road away from it, he seem
ed to hear a silent snarl of frustration. Startled, he glanced back once and was amazed to see the crimson tendrils hanging from the branches writhing and lashing at the air in a kind of vegetative fury. Then he turned back quickly as Ce'Nedra made a violent retching sound.
"What's the matter?" he cried.
"The tree!" she gasped. "It's horrible! It feeds on the agony of its victims as much as upon their flesh!"
As they rounded another bend in the road, Garion felt a violent surge, and there was a huge concussion behind them, followed by the sizzling crackle of a fire surging up through living wood. In his mind he heard an awful scream filled with pain, anger, and a malevolent hatred. A pall of greasy black smoke drifted low to the ground, bringing with it a dreadful stench.
It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later when Polgara rejoined them. "It will not feed again," she said with a note of satisfaction in her voice. She smiled almost wryly. "That's one of the few things Salmissra and I have ever agreed upon," she added. "There's no place in the world for that particular tree."
They rode on down into Nyissa, following the weed-choked track of the long-abandoned highway. About noon of the following day, Eriond's chestnut stallion grew restive, and the blond young man pulled up beside Garion, who still rode in the lead with his sword on the pommel of his saddle. "He wants to run." Eriond laughed gently. "He always wants to run."
Garion looked over at him. "Eriond," he said, "there's something I've been meaning to ask you."
"Yes, Belgarion?"
"When I was riding your horse to the beach back up there in the Wood of the Dryads, he did something that was sort of odd."
"Odd? How do you mean?"
"It should have taken nearly two days to reach the sea, but he did it in about a half an hour."
"Oh," Eriond said, "that."
"Can you explain how he does it?"
"It's something he does sometimes when he knows that I'm in a hurry to get someplace. He kind of goes to another place, and when he comes back, you're much farther along than you were when he started."
"Where is this other place?"
"Right here—all around us—but at the same time, it's not. Does that make any sense?"
"No. Not really."
Eriond frowned in concentration. "You told me one time that you could change yourself into a wolf—the same way Belgarath does."
"Yes."
"And you said that when you do that, your sword is still with you, but at the same time it's not."
"That's what Grandfather told me."
"I think that's where this other place is—the same place where your sword goes. Distance doesn't seem to mean the same thing there as it does here. Does that explain it at all?''
Garion laughed. "It doesn't even come close, Eriond, but I'll take your word for it."
About midafternoon the next day, they reached the marshy banks of the River of the Serpent where the highway turned toward the east, following the winding course of that sluggish stream. The sky had cleared, though the pale sunlight had little warmth to it.
"Maybe I'd better scout on ahead," Silk said. "The road looks a bit more well traveled along this stretch, and we didn't exactly make a lot of friends the last time we were here." He spurred his horse into a brisk canter; in a few minutes he was out of sight around a bend in the weed-choked road.
"We won't have to go through Sthiss Tor, will we?" Ce'Nedra asked.
"No," Belgarath replied. "It's on the other side of the river." He looked at the screen of trees and brush lying between the ancient highway and the mossy riverbank. "We should be able to slip past it without too much trouble."
An hour or so later, they rounded a bend in the road and caught a glimpse of the strange, alien-looking towers of the capital of the snake-people rising into the air on the far side of the river. There seemed to be no coherent pattern to Nyissan architecture. Some of the towers rose in slender spires, and others were bulky, with bulblike tops. Some even twisted in spirals toward the sky. They were, moreover, painted every possible hue—green, red, yellow, and even some in a garish purple. Silk was waiting for them a few hundred yards farther along the road. "There won't be any trouble getting past here without being seen from the other side," he reported, "but there's someone on up ahead who wants to talk to us."
"Who?" Belgarath asked sharply.
"He didn't say, but he seemed to know we were coming."
"I don't like that very much. Did he say what he wants?"
"Only that he's got a message of some kind for us."
"Let's go find out about this." The old man looked at Garion. "You'd better cover the Orb," he suggested. "Let's keep it out of sight—just to be on the safe side."
Garion nodded, took out a soft, tight-fitting leather sleeve arid pulled it down over the hilt of Iron-grip's sword.
The shaven-headed Nyissan who awaited them was dressed in shabby, stained clothing and he had a long scar running from forehead to chin across an empty eye socket. "We thought you'd get here earlier," he said laconically as they all reined in. "What kept you?"
Garion looked at the one-eyed man closely. "Don't I know you?" he asked. "Isn't your name Issus?"
Issus grunted. "I'm surprised you remember. Your head wasn't too clear the last time we met."
"It wasn't the sort of thing I'd be likely to forget."
"Somebody in the city wants to see you," Issus said.
"I'm sorry, friend," Belgarath told him, "but we're pressed for time. I don't think there's anybody in Sthiss Tor that we need to talk with."
Issus shrugged. "That's up to you. I was paid to meet you and give you the message." He turned and started back through the slanting, late-afternoon sunlight toward the rank growth along the river bank. Then he stopped. "Oh. I almost forgot. The man who sent me said to tell you that he has some information about somebody named Zandramas, if that means anything to you."
"Zandramas?" Ce'Nedra said sharply.
"Whoever that is," Issus replied. "If you're interested, I've got a boat. I can take some of you across to the city if you want."
"Give us a minute or two to talk it over," Belgarath said to him.
"Take as long as you want. We can't cross until after dark anyway. I'll wait in the boat while you decide." He went on down through the bushes toward the river bank.
"Who is he?" Silk asked Garion.
"His name is Issus. He's for hire. Last time I saw him, he was working for Sadi—the Chief Eunuch in Salmissra's palace—but I get the feeling that he'll work for anybody as long as he gets paid." He turned to Belgarath. "What do you think, Grandfather?"
The old man tugged at one earlobe. "It could be some kind of ruse," he said, "but somebody over there knows enough about what we're doing to realize that we're interested in Zandramas. I think I'd like to find out who this well-informed citizen is."
"You won't get anything out of Issus," Silk told him. "I've already tried."
Belgarath pondered a moment. "Go see how big this boat of his is."
Silk went over to the edge of the road and peered down through the bushes. "We can't all go," he reported. "Maybe four of us."
Belgarath scratched his chin. "You, me, Pol, and Garion," he decided. He turned to Durnik. "Take the others— and the horses—and go back into the jungle a ways. This might take us a while. Don't build up any fires that can be seen from the city."
"I'll take care of things, Belgarath."
The boat Issus had rowed across from the city was painted a dull black, and it was moored to a half-sunken log, and screened by overhanging tree limbs. The one-eyed man looked critically at Garion. "Do you have to take that big sword?" he asked.
"Yes," Garion replied.
Issus shrugged. "Suit yourself."
As twilight settled on the river, a mist of tiny gnats rose from the surrounding bushes and swarmed about them as they sat in the boat waiting for darkness. Silk absently slapped at his neck.
"Don't jiggle the boat," Issus warned. "The leeches a
re hungry this time of year, so it's not a good time for swimming."
They sat huddled in the small boat enduring the biting of the gnats as the light gradually faded. After about a half-hour of discomfort, Issus peered out through the concealing branches. "It's dark enough," he said shortly. He untied the boat and pushed it out from the bank with one oar. Then he settled himself and started to row toward the lights of Sthiss Tor on the far side. After about twenty minutes, he swung his boat into the deep shadows beneath the wharf jutting out into the water from the Drasnian enclave, that commercial zone on the river front where northern merchants were permitted to conduct business. A tar-smeared rope was slung under the wharf, and Issus pulled them hand over hand beneath the protecting structure until they reached a ladder. "We go up here," he said, tying his boat to a piling beside the ladder. "Try not to make too much noise."
"Exactly where are you taking us?" Polgara asked him.
"It's not far," he replied and quietly went up the ladder.
"Keep your eyes open," Belgarath muttered. "I don't altogether trust that fellow."
The streets of Sthiss Tor were dark, since all the ground-level windows were thickly shuttered. Issus moved on catlike feet, keeping to the shadows, although Garion could not be sure if his stealth was out of necessity or merely from habit. As they passed a narrow alleyway, Garion heard a skittering noise coming from somewhere in the darkness, and his hand flew to his sword hilt. "What's that?" he asked.
"Rats." Issus shrugged. "They come up from the river at night to feed on garbage—and then the snakes crawl in out of the jungle to eat the rats." He held up one hand. "Wait here a moment." He moved on ahead to peer cautiously up and down a broad street lying just ahead of them. "It's clear," he said. "Come ahead. The house we want is just across the street."
"That's Droblek's house, isn't it?" Polgara asked as they joined the furtive Nyissan, "the Drasnian Port Authority?"
"You've been here before, I see. Let's go. They're expecting us."
Droblek himself opened the door of his house in response to Issus' light tap. The Drasnian port official wore a loose-fitting brown robe and was, if anything, more grossly fat than he had been when Garion had last seen him. As he opened the door, he looked nervously out into the street, peering this way and then that in the gloom. "Quickly," he whispered, "Inside—all of you." Once he had closed the door behind them and secured it with a stout lock, he seemed to relax a bit. "My Lady," he wheezed to Polgara with a portly bow, "my house is honored."
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