"I suppose there might be some explanation for that. Isn't there some way you can clean him up a little?"
The scribe shook his head.
"We've tried throwing pails of water on him, but he just rolls in the mud again. I think he likes being dirty."
"Let me know immediately when he starts talking again. I have to hear him."
"I don't think you'll be able to make much sense out of what he's saying, Belgarath," one of the other scribes told me.
"That'll come later. I've got the feeling that I'm going to spend a lot of time studying what he says. Does he ever talk about ordinary things?
The weather or maybe how hungry he is?"
"No," the first scribe replied.
"As closely as we're able to determine, he can't talk--at least that's what the villagers say. It was about eight or ten years ago when he started. It makes our job easier, though. We don't have to wade through casual conversation. Everything he says is important."
We stayed on board Bull-neck's ship that night. We needed the cooperation of the villagers, and I didn't want to stir up any resentments by commandeering their houses while we were in Braca.
About noon the following day one of the scribes came down to the dock.
"Belgarath," he called to me.
"You'd better come now. He's talking."
One of the young Drasnians had been teaching Pol that sign language, and he didn't look too happy when she suspended the lesson to accompany Dras and me to the prophet's hovel.
The crazy man was crouched by that post again, and he was still jerking on his chain. I don't think he was actually trying to get loose. The clinking of the chain seemed to soothe him for some reason. Then again, aside from the wooden bowl they fed him from, that chain was his only possession. It was his, so he had a right to play with it, I guess. He was making animal noises when we approached.
"Has he stopped?" I asked the scribe who had come to fetch us.
"He'll start up again," the scribe assured me.
"He breaks off and moans and grunts for a while every so often. Then he goes back to talking. Once he starts, he's usually good for the rest of the day. He stops when the sun goes down."
Then the crazy man let go of his chain and looked me directly in the face. His eyes were alert and very penetrating.
"Behold!" he said to me in a booming, hollow voice, a voice that sounded almost exactly the same as Bormik's.
"The Child of Light shall be accompanied on his quest by the Bear and by the Guide and by the Man with Two Lives. Thou, too, Ancient and Beloved, shall be at his side. And the Horse-Lord shall also go with ye, and the Blind Man, and the Queen of the World. Others also will join with ye--the Knight Protector and the Archer and the Huntress and the Mother of the Race That Died and the Woman who Watches, whom thou hast known before."
He broke off and began to moan and drool and yank on his chain again.
"That should do it," I told Dras.
"That's what I needed to know. He's authentic."
"How were you able to tell so quickly?"
"Because he talked about the Child of Light, Dras. Bormik did the same thing back in Darine. You might want to pass that on to your father and brothers. That's the key that identifies the prophets. As soon as someone mentions the Child of Light, you'd better put some scribes nearby, because what he's saying is going to be important."
"How did you find that out?"
"The Necessity and I spent some time together when we were on the way to Mallorea, remember? He talked about the Child of Light extensively."
Then I remembered something else.
"It might be a little farfetched, and I don't know if it'll ever happen in our part of the world, but we might come across somebody who talks about the Child of Dark, as well. Have people take down what he says, too."
"What's the difference?"
"The ones who talk about the Child of Light are giving us instructions.
The ones who mention the Child of Dark are telling Torak what to do. It might be useful if we can intercept some of those messages."
"Are you going to stay here and listen?"
"There's no need of that. I've found out what I wanted to. Have your scribes make me a copy of everything they've set down so far and send it to me in the Vale."
"I'll see to it. Do you want to go back to Kotu now?"
"No, I don't think so. See if you can find somebody here with a boat who knows the way through the fens. Pol and I'll go on down to Algaria and then on home from there. There's not much point in backtracking."
"Is there anything you want me to do?"
"Go back to Boktor and get married. You'll need a son to pass your crown to."
"I don't have a crown, Belgarath."
"Get one. A crown doesn't really mean anything, but people like to have visible symbols around."
Polgara was scowling at me.
"What?" I asked her.
The fens, father? You're going to make me go through the fens?
"Look upon it as an educational experience, Pol. Let's go gather up our things. I want to get back to the Vale."
"What's the rush?"
"Let's just say I'm homesick."
She rolled her eyes upward with that long-suffering look she's so fond of.
The fellow with the boat was named Gannik, and he was a talkative, good-natured fellow. His boat was long and slender--more like a canoe than a rowboat. Occasionally he paddled us down through the fens, but most of the time he poled us along. I didn't care much for the idea of having someone standing up in that narrow craft, but he seemed to know what he was doing, so I didn't make an issue of it.
I did want to get back to the Vale, but my main reason for leaving Braca so abruptly had been a desire to get Pol away from the young Drasnian who'd been teaching her the secret language. I could retain my equanimity so long as Pol's suitors gathered around her in groups, but seeing her sitting off to one side alone with one of those young men made me nervous. Pol had uncommon good sense, but-- I'm sure you get my drift.
I brooded about that as Gannik poled us on south through that soggy marshland. Polgara was eighteen years old now, and it was definitely time for me to have that little talk with her. She and Beldaran had grown up without a mother, so there'd been no one around to explain certain things to her. Beldaran quite obviously did know about those things, but I wasn't entirely certain that Pol did. Grandchildren are very nice, but unanticipated ones might be just a little embarrassing.
The border between Drasnia and Algaria wasn't really very well defined when it passed through the fens. The Drasnians called that vast swamp Mrin Marsh, and the Algars referred to it as Aldurfens. It was all the same bog, though. We were about three days south of Braca when Pol saw one of those aquatic creatures that live in such places.
"Is that an otter or a beaver?" she asked Gannik when a small, round, sleek head popped above the water ahead of us.
"That's a fen ling he replied.
"They're like otters, but a little bigger.
They're playful little rascals. Some people trap them for their fur, but I don't think I'd care to do that. It just doesn't seem right to me for some reason. I like to watch them play."
The fen ling had very large eyes, and he watched us curiously as Gannik poled his boat through the large pond that appeared to be the creature's home. Then it made that peculiar chittering sound that the fen lings make. It sounded almost as if he were scolding us.
Gannik laughed.
"We're scaring the fish," he said, "and he's telling us about it. Sometimes it seems they can almost talk."
Vordai, the witch of the fens, came to that selfsame conclusion some years later, and she dragooned me into doing something about it.
We finally reached that part of the swamp that was fed by the channels at the mouth of the Aldur river, and Gannik poled us to the higher ground lying to the east of the swamp. Pol and I thanked him and went ashore.
It was good to get m
y feet on dry ground again.
"Are we going to change form again?" Pol asked me.
"In a bit. We've got something to talk about first, though."
"Oh, what's that?"
"You're growing up, Pol."
"Why, do you know, I believe you're right."
"Do you mind? There are some things you need to know."
"Such as?"
That's where I started floundering. Pol stood there with a vapid, wide-eyed expression on her face, letting me dig myself in deeper and deeper. Polgara can be very cruel when she puts her mind to it. Finally I stopped. Her expression was just a little too vacant.
"You already know about all this, don't you?" I accused her.
"About what, father?"
"Stop that. You know where babies come from. Why are you letting me embarrass the both of us?"
"You mean they don't hatch out under cabbage leaves?" She reached out and patted me on the cheek.
"I know all about it, father. I helped to deliver Beldaran's baby, remember? The midwives explained the whole procedure to me. It did sort of stir my curiosity, I'll admit."
"Don't get too curious, Pol. There are certain customary formalities before you start experimenting."
"Oh? Did you go through those formalities in Mar Amon--every single time?"
I muttered a few swear words under my breath and then slipped into the form of a wolf. At least a wolf can't blush, and my face had been getting redder and redder as I had gone along.
Polgara laughed that deep rich laugh I hadn't heard very often and blurred into the shape of the tufted owl.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Beldin had returned from his visit to Mallorea when Pol and I reached the Vale. I was a bit surprised that he'd made it back so soon. He's normally good for a couple of centuries when he goes there. He was his usual gracious self when he came stumping up the stairs to my tower on the morning after the night Pol and I got home.
"Where have you two been?" he snapped at us.
"Be nice, uncle," Pol replied calmly.
"We had some things to take care of."
"You're back early," I said.
"Is there some sort of emergency?"
"Stop trying to be clever, Belgarath. You don't have the gift for it.
The Mallorean Angaraks are just milling around over there. Nothing's going to happen until Torak comes out of seclusion at Ashaba." He suddenly grinned.
"Zedar's there with him now, and it's making that piebald Urvon crazy."
"Oh?"
"Urvon's a born toady, and the fact that Zedar's closer to Torak than he is right now is more than he can bear. To make it worse, he can't go to Ashaba to protect his interests because he's afraid to come out of Mal Yaska."
"What's he so afraid of?"
"Me. I guess he has nightmares about that hook I showed him."
"Still? That was over five hundred years ago, Beldin."
"Evidently it made a lasting impression. At least it keeps one of Torak's disciples pinned down. What's for breakfast, Pol?"
She gave him a long, steady look.
"You seem to be filling out a bit," he noted, brazenly running his eyes over her.
"You might want to try to keep that under control. You're getting a little hippy."
Her eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Don't press your luck, uncle," she warned.
"I'd pay attention to her, Beldin," I advised him.
"She's started her education, and she's a very apt pupil."
"I sort of thought she might be. What were you two up to? The twins told me you'd gone to the Isle."
"There's an heir to the Rivan throne now," I told him.
"His name's Daran, and he shows quite a bit of promise. The Master's Orb was very pleased to meet him."
"Maybe I'll drift on over there and have a look at him," Beldin mused.
"I might not be related to him the way you are, but Beldaran and I were fairly close when she was growing up. What took you so long coming back?"
"Pol and I took a swing through Darine and then went over to Drasnia on our way back. I wanted to take a look at those two prophets.
There's no question about their authenticity."
"Good. Torak's having a little difficulty with his prophecy."
"What kind of difficulty?"
"He doesn't like what it says. When he came out of his trance and read what Urvon's scribes had taken down, he tore down a couple of mountains, I guess. The Ashabine Oracles seem to have offended him."
"That sounds promising. Is there any way we can get our hands on a copy?"
"Not likely. Torak definitely doesn't want that document widely circulated.
Urvon had a copy, but Torak reached out from Ashaba and set fire to it." He scratched at his beard.
"Zedar's at Ashaba, and we both know him well enough to be sure that he'll have a copy. If Torak ever lets him leave, he'll probably take it with him. It's my guess that it's the only copy that isn't under One-eye's direct control. Someday I'll catch up with Zedar and take it off his carcass." He scowled at me.
"Why didn't you kill him when you had the chance?"
"I was told not to. I think you'd better restrain your homicidal impulses, as well, if you ever happen to come across him. We're going to need him later on."
"I don't suppose you could be any more specific?"
I shook my head.
"That's all I was told."
He grunted sourly.
"I might be able to get hold of a copy of
"The Mallorean Gospels'--if I could figure out a way to get into Kell and back out again all in one piece."
"What are The Mallorean Gospels'?" Pol asked him.
"Another set of prophecies," he replied.
"They'll be very obscure, though. The Dals wrote them, and the Dals are absolutely neutral. Oh, incidentally, Belgarath, Ctuchik's moved."
"Yes, I'd heard about that. He's at a place called Rak Cthol now."
He nodded.
"I flew over it on my way home. It isn't very inviting. It's built on top of a peak that sticks up out of the middle of a desert. I picked up a few rumors. Evidently this epidemic of prophecy's pretty widespread.
Some of Ctuchik's Grolims have come down with it, too. He's got them at Rak Cthol with scribes camped on them. I doubt that their prophecies'll be as precise as Torak's, but it might be worth our while to try to get hold of a copy. I'll leave that up to you, though. I think I'd better stay away from Ctuchik. I've brushed up against his mind a few times, and he could probably feel me coming from a hundred leagues off. We want information, not fist-fights."
"The Murgos are on the move, you know," Pol told him.
"They're moving into the southern half of the continent and enslaving the western Dals in the process."
"I've got a great deal of respect for the Dals' intellectual gifts," he replied, "but they don't have much spirit, do they?"
"I think that's all subterfuge," I told him.
"They don't have any trouble keeping Urvon's Grolims away from Kell." I leaned back.
"I think maybe I'll visit Rak Cthol and pay a call on Ctuchik," I mused.
"He's new in this part of the world, so somebody ought to welcome him--or at least see what he looks like when he isn't a Hound."
"It'd be the neighborly thing to do," Beldin said with an evil grin.
"Are you going back to Mallorea?"
"Not for a while. I want to go look at your grandson first."
"Do you want to keep an eye on Polgara for me while I'm gone?"
"I don't need a keeper, father," she told me.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, you do," I disagreed.
"You're at a dangerous stage in your education. You think you know more than you really do. I don't want you to start experimenting without supervision."
"I'll watch her," Beldin promised. He looked at her then.
"Have we forgotten about breakfast altogether, Pol? Just because you've decided to
watch your weight doesn't mean that the rest of us have to start fasting."
I went northeasterly out of the Vale that same morning and changed my form as soon as I reached the Algarian plain. I don't like to pass through the Vale as a wolf. The deer and rabbits there might be alarmed.
They're all more or less tame, and it's not polite to frighten the neighbors.
I swam across the Aldur River and reached the Eastern Escarpment the following morning. I followed it for quite some distance until I came to one of those ravines Algar had told us about at Riva's Isle. The Eastern Escarpment's one of the results of what the Master and Belar were obliged to do to contain the ocean Torak created when he cracked the world. The mountain range that came pushing up out of the earth fractured along its western edge, and the result was that imposing, mile-high cliff that forms the natural boundary between Algaria and Mishrak ac Thull.
I considered it as I stood at the mouth of the ravine and decided to wait until nightfall before climbing it. Fleet-foot had told us that Murgos sometimes came down those ravines on horse-stealing expeditions, and I didn't want to meet a chance group of them in tight quarters. Besides, I didn't particularly want Ctuchik to know that I was coming. Zedar knew that my favorite alternative to my own form was that of the wolf, and I couldn't be sure whether he'd shared that knowledge with his fellow disciples. I went a mile or so on along the cliff and bedded down in the tall grass.
As it turned out, my decision was a wise one. About noon, I heard riders picking their way around the rubble at the foot of the cliff. I pricked up my ears and stayed hidden in the tall grass.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Rashag," I heard one of them saying.
"I've heard about what the Horse People do to those who try to steal their animals."
"They'll have to catch us before they can do anything to us, Agga,"
another voice replied.
I very slowly raised my head. The breeze was a bit erratic, but I was fairly sure it wouldn't carry my scent to their horses. I peered intently in the direction from which their voices had been coming. Then I saw them.
There were only the two of them. They were wearing chain-mail shirts and conical helmets, and they both had swords belted at their waists.
Rivan Codex Series Page 40