Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  "The notion of conferring immortality on his handmaiden doesn't seem to have occurred to Issa, so I've only got about three more years to live. Zedar knew that, of course, and he used it to dupe me. I wish there were some way I could pay him back for that. He got everything he wanted from me, and all I got was a cup of foul-tasting poison."

  I looked around to make certain that nobody was hiding in one of the corners.

  "Zedar got nothing, Salmissra," I told her very quietly.

  "Your assassins missed somebody. The Rivan line's still intact."

  She stared at me for a moment, and then she actually laughed.

  "What a wonderful old man you are," she said warmly.

  "Are you going to kill Zedar?"

  "Probably," I replied.

  "Tell him that the survivor you mentioned is my last gift to him before you put him away, would you? It's a petty sort of vengeance, but it's all that's available to a dying old lady."

  "Did Zedar tell you what Torak planned to do once the Rivan King was dead?" I asked her.

  "We didn't get into that," she murmured, "but it shouldn't be hard to guess. Now that he believes that the Guardian of the Orb is dead, he'll probably be paying you a call shortly. I wish I could be in a corner somewhere to watch the rest of his face crumble when he finds out that Zedar's scheme didn't work." Her head drooped, and her eyes went closed again.

  "Is she dead?" Beldin asked me.

  "Close, I think."

  "Belgarath?" Her voice was only a whisper now.

  "Yes?"

  "Avenge me, would you please?"

  "You've got my word on that, Salmissra."

  "Please don't call me that, Ancient One. Once, when I was a little girl, my name was Illessa. I was very happy with that name. Then the palace eunuchs came to our village, and they looked at my face. That was when they took me away from my mother and told me that my name was Salmissra now. I've always hated that name. I didn't want to be Salmissra.

  I wanted to keep on being Illessa, but they didn't give me any choice. It was either become one of the twenty twelve-year-old Salmissras or die.

  Why couldn't they let me keep my real name?"

  "It's a lovely name, Illessa," I told her gently.

  "Thank you, Ancient One." She sighed a long quavering sigh.

  "Sometimes I wish--" We never found out what she wished, because she died before she could tell us.

  "Well?" Beldin said to me.

  "Well what?"

  "Aren't you going to hit her?"

  "Why would I want to do that?"

  "Didn't you promise Prince Geran you would?"

  "Some promises can't be kept, Beldin."

  "Sentimentalist!" He snorted.

  "She wouldn't mind now."

  "I would." I trans located the little green snakes to the far side of the throne room, stepped up onto the dais, and arranged the body of the Serpent Queen on her throne in a position that had some dignity. Then I patted her gently on the cheek.

  "Sleep well, Illessa," I murmured.

  Then I stepped down from the dais.

  "Let's get out of here, Beldin," I suggested.

  "I hate the smell of snakes."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  You're disappointed, aren't you?

  You wanted a lurid description of my dreadful retribution on the body of the Serpent Queen. Well, I'm a pretty good storyteller, so if that's the kind of story you really want, I suppose I could make it up for you. After you've calmed down a bit, though, I think you'll be just a little ashamed of yourself.

  Actually, I'm not very proud of what we did in Nyissa. If I'd been filled with rage and a hunger for vengeance, the things we did down there might have been understandable--not particularly admirable, maybe, but at least understandable. But I did it all in cold blood, and that makes it fairly monstrous, wouldn't you say?

  I suppose I should have known that Zedar had been behind the whole thing right from the start. It was all too subtle to have come from Ctuchik. Every time I start feeling uneasy about what I ultimately did to Zedar, I run over the long list of his offenses in my mind, and the fact that he duped Illessa into murdering Gorek and then left her to face the Alorns all alone stands fairly high on that list.

  Enough of all this tedious self-justification.

  The Alorns were still happily dismantling the city when Beldin and I came out of the palace. Most of the houses were made of stone, since wood decays rather quickly in the middle of a tropical swamp. The Alorns set fire to everything that would burn, and they took battering rams to the rest. Lurid orange flame seemed to be everywhere, and the streets were almost totally obscured by clouds of choking black smoke. I looked around sourly.

  "That's ridiculous!" I said.

  "The war's over. There's no need for all of this."

  "Let 'em play," Beldin said indifferently.

  "We came here to wreck Nyissa, didn't we?"

  I grunted.

  "What's Torak been up to?" I asked him.

  "We didn't get much chance to talk about that when I passed through the Vale."

  "Torak's still at Ashaba--" A howling Cherek, dressed in bearskins despite the climate, ran past us waving a torch.

  "I'd better have a talk with Valcor," I muttered.

  "The Bear-cult's been yearning to invade the southern kingdoms for the past twenty-five centuries. Now that they're here, they might decide to expand the hostilities. Is Mal Zeth quiet? I mean, are they making any preparations?"

  Beldin laughed that short, ugly laugh of his and scratched vigorously at one armpit. He shook his head.

  "The army's in turmoil--there's a new emperor shaking things up. But Torak isn't mobilizing. He didn't know anything about this." He squinted off down a smoky street where flames were belching out of windows.

  "I hope Zedar's found himself a very deep hole to hide in. Old Burnt-face might get a little peevish when he finds out what's happened."

  "I suppose we can worry about that later. Do you want to take the Alorns home?"

  "Not particularly. Why?"

  "It won't really take you very long, Beldin, and I've got something else to do."

  "Oh? What's that?"

  "I think I'd better go back to the Vale and dig into the Mrin Codex. If Torak does decide to exploit this, we'll want to know that he's coming. It'll be one of those EVENTS, and the Mrin's bound to cover it."

  "Probably so, but you'll have to make sense out of it first. Why not just let the Alorns find their way home by themselves?"

  "I want to make sure they go home. That means that somebody's going to have to herd the Bear-cult out of the South. Tell Brand what we found out from Illessa. Sort of hint around that you and I are going to take care of Zedar. Don't get too specific about how long it's likely to take us."

  "Are you going to look in on Pol before you go back to the Vale?"

  "She can take care of herself. If anybody can, she can."

  He gave me a sly, sidelong look.

  "You're very proud of her, aren't you?"

  "Of course I am."

  "Have you ever considered telling her so?"

  "And spoil over a thousand years of bickering? Don't be silly. Stop by the Vale before you go back to Mallorea. I might have dredged a few useful hints out of the Mrin by then."

  I left him standing on the palace steps and went on out of the wrecked and burning city to the edge of the jungle. I found a clearing, climbed up on a stump, and changed into a falcon again. I was actually getting rather fond of that shape.

  Flying through all the smoke from the burning jungle wasn't particularly pleasant, so I kept climbing until I got above it. I'd received reports about the fires, naturally, and I'd passed through some smoldering burned-off areas on the way to Sthiss Tor myself, but I don't think I'd fully grasped the extent of the fires until I got a mile or so above them. It actually appeared that the whole of Nyissa was burning.

  When I got back to the Vale, I told the twins about what had happ
ened in Nyissa. Great tears of sympathy welled up in their eyes when I described Illessa's last hour. The twins are very sentimental sometimes.

  All right, I sympathized with her, too. Do you want to make something out of it? Zedar had tricked Illessa and then left her hanging out to dry.

  Of course I felt sorry for her. Use your head.

  I spent the next couple of weeks floundering my way through the Mrin.

  I'm rather proud of the self-control I exhibited there. I didn't once hurl those stupid scrolls out the window.

  The core of the difficulty with the Mrin lies in the way it jumps around. I think I've mentioned that before. As I struggled with that long display of incoherence, I began to see where Garion's friend had blundered. The Mrin prophet wasn't a very good choice as a spokesman.

  Regardless of what we may think about the power of that Necessity, the prophecies had to be filtered through the minds of the prophets, and the Mrin prophet had no conception of time. He lived in a world of eternal now, and the words of Necessity all came out together with "now" and "then" and "sometime next week" scrambled together like an omelette.

  It was pure luck when I stumbled across a possible solution. I'd pushed the Mrin aside in disgust and turned to the Darine simply to clear my head. Bormik had been crazy, but at least he'd known the difference between yesterday and tomorrow. I don't think I was actually reading it, just unrolling and looking at it. Bormik's daughter had made fair copies of the hen-scratchings of her scribes, and she'd had beautiful penmanship.

  Her letters were graceful and her lines well balanced. Bull-neck's scribes should have gone to Darine and taken lessons from her. The Mrin was filled with blotches, scrubbed-out words, and crossed-out lines. A twelve-year-old just learning his letters could have produced a neater page. Suddenly my eyes stopped, and a familiar passage jumped out at me.

  "Be not dismayed, for the Rivan King shall return."

  I quickly laid a couple of books on the scroll to keep the place. That's one of the reasons I don't like scrolls. Left to their own devices, they'll roll themselves back up without any outside assistance as soon as you let go of them.

  I picked up the Mrin again and rolled my way through it until I came to the place I'd just remembered.

  "Behold," it said, "all shall seem lost, but curb thy despair, for the Rivan King shall return."

  They weren't identical, but they were very close. I stared at the two passages with my heart sinking like a rock. A rather horrid prospect was looming in front of me. I knew how to wring coherence out of the Mrin now, but the sheer size of that job made me weak just thinking about it.

  There were matching passages in those documents. The Mrin had no sense of time, but the Darine did. All I had to do to get a coherent time sequence for the Mrin was to compile a comparative concordance.

  Then I read the next line of the Mrin.

  "I had fullest confidence in thee, Ancient and Beloved, knowing full well that the solution would come to thee--eventually."

  Now that was really offensive, even though it confirmed my discovery.

  The Necessity knew the past and the present and the future, so it knew that I'd ultimately break its code. The clever remark was there for no reason other than to draw my attention to the fact so that I wouldn't dismiss it out of hand. Evidently it thought I was stupid.

  Incidentally, Garion, the next time your friend pays you a visit, you might tell him that I've occasionally taken advantage of his clever little trick.

  Why should I wrack my brains trying to make sense of that solid wall of gibberish we call the Mrin Codex when he's speckled it with those very obvious signals? I'm not above letting somebody else do my work for me.

  Then you might ask him who got in the last laugh. I'm sure he won't mind. He has an absolutely wonderful sense of humor.

  I went back to the place in the Darine that more or less matched the warning in the Mrin that'd sent Pol and me flying off to the Isle of the Winds; then I settled down to work. It was very slow going, since I had to virtually memorize the Mrin in the process. The Darine usually gave only a brief summary of an event, and the Mrin expanded on it. Certain key words linked the two, and after I'd matched up a couple of those passages, I got a little better at pinpointing those keys. I devised a system of index marks that I'd put in the margins to correlate matching passages.

  Once I'd found a match, I didn't want to lose it. The more I worked on it, the more I came to realize that the Darine was little more than a map to the Mrin. Neither of them was very useful by itself, but when you put them together, the message started to emerge. It was subtle and very complex, but it almost absolutely guaranteed that nobody'd accidentally get his hands on information that was none of his business.

  I slogged along for the better part of a year, and then Beldin came back to the Vale.

  "Did you get the Alorns back where they belong?" I asked him when he came stumping up the stairs to my tower.

  "Finally," he said.

  "You were right about the Bear-cult. They really wanted to stay in the South. You'd better keep an eye on Valcor. He's not quite a cultist, but his sympathies sort of lean in that direction. Radek and Cho-Ram finally managed to bring him to his senses, though."

  "Cultists don't have any sense, Beldin."

  "They're not quite suicidal, though. Radek and Cho-Ram chained up all the cultists in their own ranks and started for home. The Chereks are savages, but they're no match for the legions all by themselves. Once the Drasnians and Algars left, Valcor didn't have any choice but to go home, too."

  "Did Brand take sides?"

  "He was in complete agreement with Radek and Cho-Ram. He's got responsibilities at home, so he wasn't about to get involved in an extended war in the South." He looked at the scrolls on my work table.

  "Are you making any progress?"

  "Some. It's very slow going, though." I explained the concordance I'd been working on.

  "Cunning," he noted.

  "Thank you."

  "Not you, Belgarath; the Necessity."

  "It's not quite as easy as it sounds. You wouldn't believe how long it takes to match up some of those passages."

  "Have you talked with the twins about it?"

  "They're busy with something else."

  "Maybe they'd better put it aside. I think this is more important."

  "I can handle it, Beldin."

  "A little professional jealousy there, old boy? A prophecy isn't really a prophecy if you don't unravel it until after the fact, you know. To all intents and purposes, the twins have a single mind, don't they?"

  "I suppose so."

  "When you try to do this, you have to keep hopping back and forth, but they wouldn't. Beltira could read the Darine, and Belkira the Mrin.

  When they hit these correspondences, they'll both know it instantly.

  They'll be able to do in minutes what takes you days."

  I blinked.

  "They could, couldn't they? I never thought of that."

  "Obviously. Let's go drop your project into their laps. Then you'll be able to do something useful--like cutting firewood or digging ditches.

  Have you looked in on Pol?"

  "I've been busy. Did it really take you a whole year to take the Alorns home?"

  "No. I made a quick trip to Mallorea to see if anything was stirring yet."

  "Is there?"

  "Not so far. Maybe word of what happened at Riva hasn't reached Torak yet. Let's go get Pol. I think we'd all better get together and make some plans before I go back and take up permanent residence in Mal Zeth."

  "That might not be a bad idea. I've picked up a few hints about the next couple of centuries while I was putting the concordance together. I don't think anything significant's going to happen for a while, but let's all put our heads together on it. Sometimes I miss things."

  "You? Impossible."

  "Quit trying to be clever, Beldin. I'm not in the mood for it. Let's turn the concordance over to the twins
and then go to Erat and talk to Pol."

  The twins understood the idea behind the concordance immediately, and Beldin had been right. With two sets of eyes, one reading Darine and the other reading Mrin, they definitely could make headway faster than I could. Then Beldin took the form of the blue-banded hawk he's so fond of, I converted myself into the falcon again, and we winged off to the northwest to drop in on Polgara.

  There's an old fairy tale about a princess who's locked up in a lonely castle that's completely surrounded by a dense thicket of thorny trees.

  Pol's manor house in north-central Sendaria is very much like that-except that her thicket has roses all over it. Those rosebushes had been untended for centuries. The canes were as thick as tree trunks, and they were covered with thorns that were at least four inches long. Their tendrils were so interwoven that nobody was going to get through them without ripping off most of his skin. Since the house was totally concealed, nobody'd have any reason to take the trouble, so Pol's privacy was guaranteed.

  We settled on her doorstep, changed back, and I pounded on the door, sending echoes booming back into the house.

  After a few moments, I heard Pol's voice just inside.

  "Who's there?"

  "It's me, Pol. Open up."

  She was wearing an apron, and she'd tied a kerchief around her head in a kind of turban. She was holding a cloth-wrapped broom that had cobwebs all over it.

  "What are you doing, Pol?" Beldin asked her.

  "Cleaning house."

  "By hand? Why don't you do it the other way?"

  "It's my house, uncle. I'll clean it any way I choose."

  He shook his head.

  "You're a strange person, Polgara," he noted.

  "You spend centuries learning all the shortcuts, and then you refuse to use them."

  "It's a matter of principle, uncle. You don't have any principles, so you wouldn't understand."

  He bowed to her.

  "Score one for you, Pol," he said.

  "An' would y' be willin' t' offer the hospitality of yer splendid house t' a couple o' weary travelers, great lady?"

  She ignored his attempt at humor.

  "What do you two want?" She wasn't very gracious about it.

  "We're having a little family get-together at the Vale, Pol," I told her.