Demon Lord Of Karanda

by Eddings, David

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Garion answered. ‘Urgit and I talked a few times, and I told him what he was doing wrong.’

  Zakath tapped one forefinger against his chin, and his eyes were shrewd. ‘You may not have made a lion of him, Belgarion,’ he said, ‘but at least he’s no longer a rabbit.’ A chill smile touched the Mallorean’s lips. ‘In a way, I’m rather glad about that. I’ve never taken much satisfaction in hunting rabbits.’ He shaded his eyes with one hand, although the light in the room was not particularly bright. ‘But what I can’t understand is how you managed to spirit him out of the Drojim Palace and away from the city. He has whole regiments of bodyguards.’

  ‘You’re overlooking something, Zakath,’ Belgarath said to him. ‘We have certain advantages that aren’t available to others.’

  ‘Sorcery, you mean? Is it really all that reliable?’

  ‘I’ve had some luck with it from time to time.’

  Zakath’s eyes had become suddenly intent. ‘They tell me that you’re five thousand years old, Belgarath. Is that true?’

  ‘Seven, actually—or a little more. Why do you ask?’

  ‘In all those years, hasn’t it ever occurred to you simply to seize power? You could have made yourself king of the world, you know.’

  Belgarath looked amused. ‘Why would I want to?’ he asked.

  ‘All men want power. It’s human nature.’

  ‘Has all your power really made you happy?’

  ‘It has certain satisfactions.’

  ‘Enough to make up for all the petty distractions that go with it?’

  ‘I can endure those. At least I’m in a position where no one tells me what to do.’

  ‘No one tells me what to do either, and I’m not saddled with all those tedious responsibilities.’ Belgarath straightened. ‘All right, Zakath, shall we get to the point? What are your intentions concerning us?’

  ‘I haven’t really decided yet.’ The Emperor looked around at them. ‘I presume that we can all be civilized about the present situation?’

  ‘How do you mean, civilized?’ Garion asked him.

  ‘I’ll accept your word that none of you will try to escape or do anything rash. I’m aware that you and a number of your friends have certain specialized talents. I don’t want to be forced to take steps to counteract them.’

  ‘We have some rather pressing business,’ Garion replied carefully, ‘so we can only delay for just so long. For the time being, however, I think we can agree to be reasonable about things.’

  ‘Good. We’ll have to talk later, you and I, and come to know one another. I’ve had comfortable quarters prepared for you and your friends, and I know that you’re anxious about your wife. Now, I hope you’ll excuse me, but I have some of those tedious responsibilities Belgarath mentioned to attend to.’

  Although the house was very large, it was not, strictly speaking, a palace. It appeared that the Murgo governorsgeneral of Hagga who had ordered it built had not shared the grandiose delusions which afflicted the rulers of Urga, and so the building was more functional than ornate.

  ‘I hope you’ll excuse me,’ General Atesca said to them when they had emerged from the audience chamber. ‘I’m obliged to deliver a full report to his Majesty—about various matters—and then I must return immediately to Rak Verkat.’ He looked at Garion. ‘The circumstances under which we met were not the happiest, your Majesty,’ he said, ‘but I hope you won’t think too unkindly of me.’ He bowed rather stiffly and then left them in the care of a member of the Emperor’s staff.

  The man who led them down a long, dark-paneled hallway toward the center of the house was obviously not an Angarak. He had not the angular eyes nor the stiff, bleak-faced arrogance that marked the men of that race. His cheerful, round face seemed to hint at a Melcene heritage, and Garion remembered that the bureaucracy which controlled most aspects of Mallorean life was made up almost exclusively of Melcenes. ‘His Majesty asked me to assure you that your quarters are not intended to be a prison,’ the official told them as they approached a heavily barred iron door blocking off one portion of the hallway. ‘This was a Murgo house before we took the city, and it has certain structural peculiarities. Your rooms are in what once were the women’s quarters, and Murgos are fanatically protective of their women. It has to do with their concept of racial purity, I think.’

  At the moment, Garion had little interest in sleeping arrangements. All his concern was for Ce’Nedra. ‘Do you happen to know where I might find my wife?’ he asked the moon-faced bureaucrat.

  ‘There at the end of this corridor, your Majesty,’ the Melcene replied, pointing toward a blue-painted door at the far end of the hall.

  ‘Thank you.’ Garion glanced at the others. ‘I’ll be back in a little while,’ he told them and strode on ahead.

  The room he entered was warm and the lighting subdued. Deep, ornately woven Mallorean carpets covered the floor and soft green velvet drapes covered the tall, narrow windows. Ce’Nedra lay in a high-posted bed against the wall opposite the door, and Polgara was seated at the bedside, her expression grave.

  ‘Has there been any change?’ Garion asked her, softly closing the door behind him.

  ‘Nothing as yet,’ she replied.

  Ce’Nedra’s face was pale as she slept with her crimson curls tumbled on her pillow.

  ‘She is going to be all right, isn’t she?’ Garion asked.

  ‘I’m sure of it, Garion.’

  Another woman sat near the bed. She wore a light green, cowled robe; despite the fact that she was indoors, she had the hood pulled up, partially concealing her face. Ce’Nedra muttered something in a strangely harsh tone and tossed her head restlessly on her pillow. The cowled woman frowned. ‘Is this her customary voice, Lady Polgara?’ she asked.

  Polgara looked at her sharply. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘As a matter of fact, it’s not.’

  ‘Would the drug you gave her in some way affect the sound of her speech?’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. Actually, she shouldn’t be making any sounds at all.’

  ‘Ah,’ the woman said. ‘I think perhaps I understand now.’ She leaned forward and very gently laid the fingertips of one hand on Ce’Nedra’s lips. She nodded then and withdrew her hand. ‘As I suspected,’ she murmured.

  Polgara also reached out to touch Ce’Nedra’s face. Garion heard the faint whisper of her will, and the candle at the bedside flared up slightly, then sank back until its flame was scarcely more than a pin-point. ‘I should have guessed,’ Polgara accused herself.

  ‘What is it?’ Garion asked in alarm.

  ‘Another mind is seeking to dominate your wife and to subdue her will, your Majesty,’ the cowled woman told him. ‘It’s an art sometimes practiced by the Grolims. They discovered it quite by accident during the third age.’

  ‘This is Andel, Garion,’ Polgara told him. ‘Zakath sent her here to help care for Ce’Nedra.’

  Garion nodded briefly to the hooded woman. ‘Exactly what do we mean by the word “dominate”?’ he asked.

  ‘You should be more familiar with that than most people, Garion,’ Polgara said. ‘I’m sure you remember Asharak the Murgo.’

  Garion felt a sudden chill, remembering the force of the mind that had from his earliest childhood sought that same control over his awareness. ‘Drive it out,’ he pleaded. ‘Get whomever it is out of her mind.’

  ‘Perhaps not quite yet, Garion,’ Polgara said coldly. ‘We have an opportunity here. Let’s not waste it.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will, dear,’ she told him. Then she rose, sat on the edge of the bed and lightly laid one hand on each of Ce’Nedra’s temples. The faint whisper came again, stronger this time, and once again the candles all flared and then sank back as if suffocating. ‘I know you’re in there,’ she said then. ‘You might as well speak.’

  Ce’Nedra’s expression grew contorted, and she tossed her head back and forth as if trying to escape the hands
touching her temples. Polgara’s face grew stern, and she implacably kept her hands in place. The pale lock in her hair began to glow, and a strange chill came into the room, seeming to emanate from the bed itself.

  Ce’Nedra suddenly screamed.

  ‘Speak!’ Polgara commanded. ‘You cannot flee until I release you, and I will not release you until you speak.’

  Ce’Nedra’s eyes suddenly opened. They were filled with hate. ‘I do not fear thee, Polgara,’ she said in a harsh, rasping voice delivered in a peculiar accent.

  ‘And I fear you even less. Now, who are you?’

  ‘Thou knowest me, Polgara.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I will have your name from you.’ There was a long pause, and the surge of Polgara’s will grew stronger.

  Ce’Nedra screamed again—a scream filled with an agony that made Garion flinch. ‘Stop!’ the harsh voice cried. ‘I will speak!’

  ‘Say your name,’ Polgara insisted implacably.

  ‘I am Zandramas.’

  ‘So. What do you hope to gain by this?’

  An evil chuckle escaped Ce’Nedra’s pale lips. ‘I have already stolen her heart, Polgara—her child. Now I will steal her mind as well. I could easily kill her if I chose, but a dead Queen may be buried and her grave left behind. A mad one, on the other hand, will give thee much to distract thee from thy search for the Sardion.’

  ‘I can banish you with a snap of my fingers, Zandramas.’

  ‘And I can return just as quickly.’

  A frosty smile touched Polgara’s lips. ‘You’re not nearly as clever as I thought,’ she said. ‘Did you actually believe that I twisted your name out of you for my own amusement? Were you ignorant of the power over you that you gave me when you spoke your own name? The power of the name is the most elementary of all. I can keep you out of Ce’Nedra’s mind now. There’s much more, though. For example, I know now that you’re at Ashaba, haunting the bat-infested ruins of the House of Torak like a poor ragged ghost.’

  A startled gasp echoed through the room.

  ‘I could tell you more, Zandramas, but this is all beginning to bore me.’ She straightened, her hands still locked to the sides of Ce’Nedra’s head. The white lock at her brow flared into incandescence, and the faint whisper became a deafening roar. ‘Now, begone!’ she commanded.

  Ce’Nedra moaned, and her face suddenly contorted into an expression of agony. An icy, stinking wind seemed to howl through the room, and the candles and glowing braziers sank even lower until the room was scarcely lit.

  ‘Begone!’ Polgara repeated.

  An agonized wail escaped Ce’Nedra’s lips, and then that wail became disembodied, coming it seemed from the empty air above the bed. The candles went out, and all light ceased to glow out of the braziers. The wailing voice began to fade, moving swiftly until it came to them as no more than a murmur echoing from an unimaginable distance.

  ‘Is Zandramas gone?’ Garion asked in a shaking voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Polgara replied calmly out of the sudden darkness.

  ‘What are we going to say to Ce’Nedra? When she wakes up, I mean.’

  ‘She won’t remember any of this. Just tell her something vague. Make some light, dear.’

  Garion fumbled for one of the candles, brushed his sleeve against it and then deftly caught it before it hit the floor. He was sort of proud of that.

  ‘Don’t play with it, Garion. Just light it.’

  Her tone was so familiar and so commonplace that he began to laugh, and the little surge of his will that he directed at the candle was a stuttering sort of thing. The flame that appeared bobbled and hiccuped at the end of the wick in a soundless golden chortle.

  Polgara looked steadily at the giggling candle, then closed her eyes. ‘Oh, Garion,’ she sighed in resignation.

  He moved about the room relighting the other candles and fanning the braziers back into life. The flames were all quite sedate—except for the original one, which continued to dance and laugh in blithe glee.

  Polgara turned to the hooded Dalasian healer. ‘You’re most perceptive, Andel,’ she said. ‘That sort of thing is difficult to recognize unless you know precisely what you’re looking for.’

  ‘The perception was not mine, Lady Polgara,’ Andel replied. ‘I was advised by another of the cause of her Majesty’s illness.’

  ‘Cyradis?’

  Andel nodded. ‘The minds of all our race are joined with hers, for we are but the instruments of the task which lies upon her. Her concern for the Queen’s well-being prompted her to intervene.’ The hooded woman hesitated. ‘The Holy Seeress also asked me to beg you to intercede with your husband in the matter of Toth. The Goodman’s anger is causing that gentle guide extreme anguish, and his pain is also hers. What happened at Verkat had to happen—otherwise the meeting between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark could not come to pass for ages hence.’

  Polgara nodded gravely. ‘I thought it might have been something like that. Tell her that I’ll speak with Durnik on Toth’s behalf.’

  Andel inclined her head gratefully.

  ‘Garion,’ Ce’Nedra murmured drowsily, ‘where are we?’

  He turned to her quickly. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, taking her hand in his.

  ‘Mmmm,’ she said. ‘I’m just so very sleepy. What happened—and where are we?’

  ‘We’re at Rak Hagga.’ He threw a quick glance at Polgara, then turned back to the bed. ‘You just had a little fainting spell is all,’ he said with slightly exaggerated casualness. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine, dear, but I think I’d like to sleep now.’ And her eyes went closed. Then she opened them again with a sleepy little frown. ‘Garion,’ she murmured, ‘why is that candle acting like that?’

  He kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry about it, dear,’ he told her, but she had already fallen fast asleep. It was well past midnight when Garion was awakened by a light tapping on the door of the room in which he slept. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, half rising in his bed.

  ‘A messenger from the Emperor, your Majesty,’ a voice replied from the other side of the door. ‘He instructed me to ask if you would be so good as to join him in his private study.’

  ‘Now? In the middle of the night?’

  ‘Such was the Emperor’s instruction, your Majesty.’

  ‘All right,’ Garion said, throwing off his blankets and swinging around to put his feet on the cold floor. ‘Give me a minute or so to get dressed.’

  ‘Of course, your Majesty.’

  Muttering to himself, Garion began to pull on his clothes by the faint light coming from the brazier in the corner. When he was dressed, he splashed cold water on his face and raked his fingers through his sandy hair, trying to push it into some semblance of order. Almost as an afterthought he ducked his head and arm through the strap attached to the sheath of Iron-grip’s sword and shrugged it into place across his back. Then he opened the door. ‘All right,’ he said to the messenger, ‘let’s go.’

  Kal Zakath’s study was a book-lined room with several leather-upholstered chairs, a large polished table and a crackling fire on the hearth. The Emperor, still clad in plain white linen, sat in a chair at the table, shuffling through a stack of parchment sheets by the light of a single oil lamp.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Zakath?’ Garion asked as he entered the room.

  ‘Ah, yes, Belgarion,’ Zakath said, pushing aside the parchments. ‘So good of you to come. I understand that your wife is recovering.’

  Garion nodded. ‘Thank you again for sending Andel. Her aid was very helpful.’

  ‘My pleasure, Belgarion.’ Zakath reached out and lowered the wick in the lamp until the corners of the room filled with shadows. ‘I thought we might talk a little,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t it sort of late?’

  ‘I don’t sleep very much, Belgarion. A man can lose a third of his life in sleep. The day is filled with bright lights and distractions; the night is dim and quiet and
allows much greater concentration. Please, sit down.’

  Garion unbuckled his sword and leaned it against a bookcase.

  ‘I’m not really all that dangerous, you know,’ the Emperor said, looking pointedly at the great weapon.

  Garion smiled slightly, settling into a chair by the fire. ‘I didn’t bring it because of you, Zakath. It’s just a habit. It’s not the kind of sword you want to leave lying around.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone would steal it, Belgarion.’

  ‘It can’t be stolen. I just don’t want anybody getting hurt by accidentally touching it.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that it’s that sword?’

  Garion nodded. ‘I’m sort of obliged to take care of it. It’s a nuisance most of the time, but there’ve been a few occasions when I was glad I had it with me.’

  ‘What really happened at Cthol Mishrak?’ Zakath asked suddenly. ‘I’ve heard all sorts of stories.’

  Garion nodded wryly. ‘So have I. Most of them get the names right, but not very much else. Neither Torak nor I had very much control over what happened. We fought, and I stuck that sword into his chest.’

  ‘And he died?’ Zakath’s face was intent.

  ‘Eventually, yes.’

  ‘Eventually?’

  ‘He vomited fire first and wept flames. Then he cried out.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘“Mother,”’ Garion replied shortly. He didn’t really want to talk about it.

  ‘What an extraordinary thing for him to do. Whatever happened to his body? I had the entire ruin of Cthol Mishrak searched for him.’

  ‘The other Gods came and took it. Do you suppose we could talk about something else? Those particular memories are painful.’

  ‘He was your enemy.’

  Garion sighed. ‘He was also a God, Zakath—and killing a God is a terrible thing to have to do.’

  ‘You’re a strangely gentle man, Belgarion. I think I respect you more for that than I do for your invincible courage.’