Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  "It lies at the head of the street running up from this quay," the Murgo answered.

  "Again my thanks. If you'll give me your name, I'll tell Agachak how helpful you were."

  The Murgo's face took on a pasty hue. "That won't be necessary," he said quickly, then turned and walked away.

  "The names Jaharb and Agachak appear to have a certain impact here,” Silk suggested.

  Sadi smiled. "I imagine that, if you were to mention them in the same breath, every door in town would open for you," he agreed.

  Rak Urga was not an attractive city. The streets were narrow, and the buildings were built of roughly squared-off stones and topped by gray slate roofs that overhung the streets, putting the thoroughfares into a perpetually gloomy twilight. It was not merely that gray bleakness, however, that made the city so dreary. There was about it an air of cold unconcern for normal human feelings, coupled with a sense of lingering fear. Grim-faced Murgos in their black robes moved through the streets, neither speaking nor even acknowledging the presence of their fellow townsmen.

  "Why are these people all so unfriendly toward each other?" Eriond asked Polgara.

  "It's a cultural trait," she told him. "Murgos were the aristocracy at Cthol Mishrak before Torak ordered them to migrate to this continent. They are absolutely convinced that Murgos are the supreme creation of the universe—and every one of them is convinced that he's superior to all the rest. It doesn't leave them very much to talk about."

  There was a pall of greasy black smoke hanging over the city, bringing with it a sickening stench.

  "What is that dreadful smell?" Velvet asked, wrinkling her nose.

  "I don't think you really want to know," Silk told her with a bleak look on his face.

  "Surely they aren't still—" Garion left it hanging.

  "It seems so," the little man replied.

  "But Torak's dead. What's the sense of it?"

  "Grolims have never really been all that much concerned about the fact that what they do doesn't make sense, Garion," Belgarath said. "The source of their power has always been terror. If they want to keep the power, they have to continue the terror."

  They rounded a comer and saw a huge black building ahead of them. A column of dense smoke rose from a large chimney jutting up from the slate roof, blowing first this way and then that in the gusty wind coming up from the harbor

  "Is that the Temple?" Durnik asked.

  "Yes " Polgara replied. She pointed at the two massive, nail-studded doors forming the only break in the blank, featureless wall. Directly above those doors there hung the polished steel replica of the face of Torak. Garion felt the familiar chill in his blood as he looked at the brooding face of his enemy. Even now, after all that had happened in the City of Endless Night, the face of Torak filled him with dread, and he was not particularly surprised to find that he was actually trembling as he approached the entrance to the Temple of the maimed God of Angarak.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sadi slid down from his saddle, went up to the nail-studded doors, and clanged the rusty iron knocker, sending hollow echoes reverberating back into the Temple.

  "Who comes to the House of Torak?" a muffled voice demanded from inside.

  "I bear a message from Jaharb, Chief Elder at Mount Kahsha, for the ears of Agachak, Hierarch of Rak Urga."

  There was a momentary pause inside, and then one of the doors creaked open and a pock-marked Grolim looked cautiously out at them. "You are not of the Dagashi," he said accusingly to Sadi.

  "No, as a matter of fact, I'm not. There's an arrangement between Jaharb and Agachak, and I'm part of it."

  "I have not heard of such an arrangement."

  Sadi looked pointedly at the unadorned hood of the Grolim's robe, an obvious indication that the priest was of low rank. "Forgive me, servant of Torak," he said coolly, "but is your Hierarch in the habit of confiding in his doorman?"

  The Grolim's face darkened as he glared at the eunuch. "Cover your head, Nyissan," he said after a long moment. "This is a holy place."

  "Of course." Sadi pulled the hood of his green robe up over his shaven scalp. "Will you have someone see to our horses?"

  "They will be taken care of. Are these your servants?" The Grolim looked past Sadi's shoulder at the others, who still sat their horses in the cobbled street.

  "They are, noble priest."

  "Tell them to come with us. I will take you all to Chabat."

  "Excuse me, priest of the Dragon God. My message is for Agachak."

  "No one sees Agachak without first seeing Chabat. Bring your servants and follow me."

  The rest of them dismounted and passed through the grim doors into the torchlit corridor beyond. The sickening odor of burning flesh which had pervaded the city was even stronger here in the Temple. A sense of dread came over Garion as he followed the Grolim and Sadi along the smoky hallway into the Temple. The place reeked of an ancient evil, and the hollow-faced priests they passed in the corridor all looked at them with heavy suspicion and undisguised malice.

  And then there came from somewhere in the building an agonized shriek, followed by a great iron clang. Garion shuddered, fully aware of the meaning of those sounds.

  "Is the ancient rite of sacrifice still performed?" Sadi asked the Grolim in some surprise. "I would have thought that the practice might have fallen into disuse—all things considered."

  "Nothing has happened to make us discontinue the performance of our holiest duty, Nyissan," the Grolim replied coldly. "Each hour we offer up a human heart to the God Torak."

  "But Torak is no more."

  The Grolim stopped, his face angry. "Never speak those words again!" he snapped. "It is not the place of a foreigner to utter such blasphemy within the walls of the Temple. The spirit of Torak lives on, and one day he will be reborn to rule the world. He himself will wield the knife when his enemy, Belgarion of Riva, lies screaming on the altar."

  "Now there's a cheery thought," Silk murmured to Belgarath. "We get to do it all over again."

  "Just shut up, Silk," Belgarath muttered.

  The chamber to which the Grolim underpriest led them was large and dimly lighted by several oil lamps. The walls were lined with black drapes, and the air was thick with incense. A slim, hooded figure sat behind a large table with a guttering black candle at its elbow and a heavy, black-bound book before it. A kind of warning tingle prickled Garion's scalp as he sensed the power emanating from that figure. He glanced quickly at Polgara, and she nodded gravely.

  "Forgive me, Holy Chabat," the pock-marked Grolim said in a slightly trembling voice as he genuflected before the table, "but I bring a messenger from Jaharb the assassin."

  The figure at the table looked up, and Garion suppressed a start of surprise. It was a woman. There was about her face a kind of luminous beauty, but it was not that which struck his eye. Cruelly inscribed into each of her pale cheeks were deep red scars that ran down from her temples to her chin in an ornate design, a design which appeared to represent flames. Her eyes were dark and smoldering, and her full-lipped mouth was drawn into a contemptuous sneer. A deep purple piping marked the edge of her black hood. "So?" she said in a harshly rasping voice. "And how is it that the Dagashi now entrust their messages to foreigners?"

  "I—I thought not to ask, Holy Chabat," the Grolim faltered. "This one claims to be a friend of Jaharb."

  "And you chose not to question him further?" Her harsh voice sank into a menacing whisper, and her eyes bored into the suddenly trembling underpriest. Then her gaze slowly shifted to Sadi. "Say your name," she commanded.

  "I am Ussa of Sthiss Tor, Holy Priestess," he replied. "Jaharb instructed me to present myself to your Hierarch and to give him a message."

  "And what is that message?"

  "Ah—forgive me, Holy Priestess, but I was told that it was for Agachak's ears alone."

  "I am Agachak's ears," she told him, her voice dreadfully quiet. "Nothing reaches his ears that I have not heard first." It was the
tone of her voice that made Garion suddenly understand. Although this cruelly scarred woman had somehow risen to a position of power here in the temple, she was still uncertain about that power. She bore her uncertainty like an open wound, and the slightest questioning of her authority roused in her an abiding hatred for whomever doubted her. Fervently he hoped that Sadi realized how extremely dangerous she was.

  "Ah," Sadi said with polished aplomb. "I was not fully aware of the situation here. I was told that Jaharb, Agachak, and King Urgit have reason to want one Kabach transported safely to Rak Hagga. I am the one who is to provide that transportation."

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "That is certainly not the entire message," she accused.

  "I'm afraid it is, Noble Priestess, I presume that Agachak will understand its meaning."

  "Jaharb said nothing else to you?"

  "Only that this Kabach is here in the Temple under Agachak's protection."

  "Impossible," she snapped. "I would have known about it if he were. Agachak conceals nothing from me."

  Sadi spread his hands in a mollifying gesture. "I can only repeat what Jaharb told me, Holy Priestess."

  She gnawed at one knuckle, her eyes suddenly filled with doubt. "If you're lying to me, Ussa—or trying to conceal something—I will have your heart ripped out," she threatened.

  "That is the entire message, Holy Priestess. May I now deliver it to your Hierarch?"

  "The Hierarch is at the Drojim Palace, consulting with the High King. He is not likely to return until midnight."

  "Is there someplace where my servants and I could await his return, then?"

  "I have not yet finished with you, Ussa of Sthiss Tor. What is it that this Kabach is to do in Rak Hagga?"

  "Jaharb did not think I needed to know that."

  "I think you're lying to me, Ussa," she said, her fingernails rapping a nervous staccato on the table top.

  "I have no reason to lie to you, Holy Chabat," he protested.

  "Agachak would have told me of this matter. He conceals nothing from me—nothing."

  "Perhaps he overlooked it. It may not be anything of much importance."

  She looked at each of the others in turn then, her eyes hooded beneath her dark brows. She turned a cold gaze on the still-trembling Grolim. "Tell me," she said in a voice scarcely more than a whisper, "how is it that the one over there was permitted to come into my presence bearing a sword?" She pointed at Garion.

  The Priest's face grew stricken. "Forgive me, Chabat," he stammered, "I—I failed to notice the sword."

  "Failed? How can one fail to see so large a weapon? Can you possibly explain that to me?" The Grolim began to tremble even more violently. "Is the sword perhaps invisible? Or is it, perhaps, that my safety is of no concern to you?" Her scarred face grew even more cruel. "Or might it be that you bear me some malice and hoped that this foreigner might decide to slay me?"

  The Grolim's face grew ashen.

  "I think perhaps that I should bring this matter to the attention of Agachak upon his return. He will doubtless wish to speak with you about this invisible sword—at some length."

  The door to the chamber opened and an emaciated Grolim, black-robed, but with his green-lined hood pushed back, entered the chamber. His black hair was greasy and hung in lank tangles about his shoulders. He had the bulging eyes of a fanatic and there was the acrid odor of a long-unwashed body about him. "It's nearly time, Chabat," he announced in a strident voice.

  Chabat's smoldering eyes softened as she looked at him. "Thank you, Sorchak," she replied, lowering her eyelashes in an oddly coquettish fashion. She rose, opened a drawer in the table, and took out a black leather case. She opened the case and lovingly lifted out a long, gleaming knife. Then she looked coldly at the Grolim priest she had just chastised. "I go now to the Sanctum to perform the rite of sacrifice," she told him, absently testing the edge of her heavy-bladed knife. "If one single word of anything that has happened here escapes your lips, you yourself will die at the next sounding of the bell. Now take these slavers to suitable quarters where they can await the return of the Hierarch." She turned back to the greasy-haired Sorchak, her eyes alight with a sudden, dreadful eagerness. "Will you escort me to the Sanctum so that you can witness my performance of the rite?"

  "I would be honored, Chabat," he replied with a jerky bow; but as the priestess turned from him, his lip curled into a sneer of contempt.

  "I will leave you in the care of this bungler," she told Sadi as she passed him. "You and I have not yet finished our discussion, but I must go prepare myself for the sacrifice." With Sorchak at her side, she left the room.

  When the door closed, the pock-marked underpriest spat on the floor where she had just stood.

  "I had not known that a priestess could rise to the Purple in one of the Temples of Torak," Sadi said to him.

  "She is the favorite of Agachak," the Grolim muttered darkly. "Her ability at sorcery is very limited, so her elevation came at his insistence. The Hierarch has a peculiar preference for ugly things. It is only his power that keeps her from getting her throat cut."

  "Politics." Sadi sighed. "It's the same the world over. She seems most zealous about the performance of her religious duties, however."

  "Her eagerness to perform the rite of sacrifice has little to do with religion. She delights in blood. I myself have seen her drink it as it gushes from the chest of the sacrifice and bathe her face and arms in it." The priest glanced around quickly as if afraid of being overheard. "One day, however, Agachak will discover that she practices witchcraft in the House of Torak and that she and Sorchak celebrate their black sabbaths with obscene rites when all the others in the Temple have gone to their beds. When our Hierarch discovers their corruption, she herself will go screaming under the knife, and every Grolim in the Temple will volunteer to slit her open as she lies on the altar." He straightened. "Come with me," he ordered them.

  The rooms to which he led them were little more than a series of narrow, dim cells. In each cell stood a low cot, and, hanging on a peg protruding from the wall in each, was a black Grolim robe. The priest nodded briefly, then silently left. Silk looked around the somewhat larger central room with its single lamp and the rough table and benches in its center. "Hardly what I'd call luxurious," he sniffed.

  "We can lodge a complaint, if you'd like," Velvet suggested.

  "What happened to her face?" Ce'Nedra asked in a horrified voice. "She's hideous."

  "It was a custom in certain Grolim temples in parts of Hagga," Polgara replied. "Priestesses with some ability at sorcery carved their faces in that fashion to seal themselves to Torak forever. The practice has largely been abandoned."

  "But she could have been so beautiful. Why did she disfigure herself that way?"

  "People sometimes do strange things in the grip of religious hysteria."

  "How did that Grolim miss seeing Garion's sword?" Silk asked Belgarath.

  "The Orb is taking steps to make itself inconspicuous."

  "Did you tell it to do that?"

  "No. Sometimes it gets certain ideas on its own."

  "Well, things seem to be going rather well, don't you think?" Sadi said, rubbing his hands together in a self-congratulatory manner. "I told you I could be very useful down here."

  "Very useful, Sadi," Silk replied sardonically. "So far you've led us into the middle of a battle, directly into the headquarters of the Dagashi, and now to the very center of Grolim power in Cthol Murgos. What did you have planned for us next—assuming that the lady with the interesting face doesn't gut you before morning?"

  "We are going to get the ship, Kheldar," Sadi assured him. "Not even Chabat would dare to counter the wishes of Agachak—no matter how injured her pride may be. And the ship will save us months."

  "There's something else Garion and I need to attend to," Belgarath said. "Durnik, take a look out in that hallway and see if they posted any guards to watch us." "Where are you going?" Silk asked him. "I need to find the libr
ary. I want to see if Jaharb was right about that book being here."

  "Wouldn't it be better to wait until tonight—after everybody's gone to bed?"

  The old man shook his head. "It might take us a while to find what we need. Agachak's going to be at the palace until midnight, so this is probably the best time to paw through his library." He gave the little Drasnian a brief smile. "Besides," he added, "although it might upset your notion of order, sometimes you can move around in the daytime more easily than you can by sneaking around corners after midnight."

  "That's a terribly unnatural thing to suggest, Belgarath."

  "The hallway looks clear," Durnik reported from the doorway.

  "Good." Belgarath stepped back into the cells and emerged with a couple of the Grolim robes. "Here," he said, extending one of them to Garion, "put this on." As the two of them pulled off their green robes and replaced them with the black ones, Durnik kept watch at the door. "It's still clear, Belgarath," he said, "but you'd better hurry. I can hear people moving around down at the far end."

  The old man nodded, pulling up the hood of his robe. "Let's go," he said to Garion.

  The corridors were dim, lighted only by smoky torches set in iron rings protruding from the stone walls. They encountered but few of the black-robed Grolim priests in the hallways. The Grolims walked with an odd, swaying gait, their arms folded in their sleeves, their heads down, and the cowls of their robes covering their faces. Garion guessed that there was some obscure significance to that stiff-legged walk and tried to emulate it as he followed his grandfather along the half-lit halls.

  Belgarath moved with feigned confidence, as if he knew precisely where they were going. They reached a broader corridor, and the old man glanced once toward its far end where a pair of heavy doors stood open. Beyond those doors lay a room filled with the flickering light of seething flames. "Not that way," he whispered to Garion.

  "What is it?"

  "The Sanctum. That's where the altar is." He quickly led the way across the corridor and entered an intersecting hallway.

  "This could take hours, Grandfather," Garion said in a low voice.