"If it bothers you, don't look," Garion suggested.
Relg ignored that. "I have even considered banning them from my presence, but then I thought that it might be better if I kept my eyes on them so that I could protect my followers from their wickedness. I thought for a time that I should forbid marriage among my followers, but some of the older ones told me that I might lose the young if I did that. I still think it might not be a bad idea."
"Wouldn't that sort of eliminate your followers altogether?" Garion asked him. "I mean, if you kept it up long enough? No marriage, no children. You get my point?"
"That's the part I haven't worked out yet," Relg admitted.
"And what about the child - the new Gorim? If two people are supposed to get married so they can have a child - that particular, special child - and you persuade them not to, aren't you interfering with something that UL wants to happen?"
Relg drew in a sharp breath as if he had not considered that. Then he groaned. "You see? Even when I'm trying my very hardest, I always seem to stumble straight into sin. I'm cursed, Belgarion, cursed. Why did UL choose me to reveal the child when I am so corrupt?"
Garion quickly changed the subject to head off that line of thought. For nine days they crossed the endless sea of grass toward the eastern escarpment, and for nine days the others, with a callousness that hurt Garion to the quick, left him trapped in the company of the ranting zealot. He gew sulky and frequently cast reproachful glances at them, but they ignored him.
Near the eastern edge of the plain, they crested a long hill and stared for the first time at the immense wall of the eastern escarpment, a sheer basalt cliff rising fully a mile above the rubble at its base and stretching off into the distance in either direction.
"Impossible," Barak stated flatly. "We'll never be able to climb that."
"We won't have to," Silk told him confidently. "I know a trail."
"A secret trail, I suppose?"
"Not exactly a secret," Silk replied. "I don't imagine too many people know about it, but it's right out in plain sight - if you know where to look. I had occasion to leave Mishrak ac Thull in a hurry once, and I stumbled across it."
"One gets the feeling that you've had occasion to leave just about every place in a hurry at one time or another."
Silk shrugged. "Knowing when it's time to run is one of the most important things people in my profession ever learn."
"Will the river ahead not prove a barrier?" Mandorallen asked, looking at the sparkling surface of the Aldur River lying between them and the grim, black cliff. He was running his fingertips lightly over his side, testing for tender spots.
"Mandorallen, stop that," Aunt Pol told him. "They'll never heal if you keep poking at them."
"Me thinks, my Lady, that they are nearly whole again," the knight replied. "Only one still causes me any discomfort."
"Well, leave it alone."
"There's a ford a few miles upstream," Belgarath said in answer to the question. "The river's down at this time of year, so we won't have any difficulty crossing." He started out again, leading them down the gradual slope toward the Aldur.
They forded late that afternoon and pitched their tents on the far side. The next morning they moved out to the foot of the escarpment.
"The trail's just a few miles south," Silk told them, leading the way along the looming black cliff.
"Do we have to go up along the face of it?" Garion asked apprehensively, craning his neck to look up the towering wall.
Silk shook his head. "The trail's a streambed. It cuts down through the cliff. It's a little steep and narrow, but it will get us safely to the top."
Garion found that encouraging.
The trail appeared to be little more than a crack in the stupendous cliff, and a trickle of water ran out of the opening to disappear into the jumble of rocky debris along the base of the escarpment.
"Are you sure it goes all the way to the top?" Barak asked, eyeing the narrow chimney suspiciously.
"Trust me," Silk assured him.
"Not if I can help it."
The trail was awful, steep and strewn with rock. At times it was so narrow that the packhorses had to be unloaded before they could make it through and they had to be literally manhandled up over basalt boulders that had fractured into squares, almost like huge steps. The trickle of water running down the cut made everything slick and muddy. To make matters even worse, thin, high clouds swept in from the west and a bitterly cold draft spilled down the narrow cut from the arid plains of Mishrak ac Thull, lying high above.
It took them two days, and by the time they reached the top, a mile or so back from the brink of the escarpment, they were all exhausted.
"I feel as if somebody's been beating me with a stick," Barak groaned, sinking to the ground in the brushy gully at the top of the cut. "A very big, dirty stick."
They all sat on the ground among the prickly thornbushes in the gully, recovering from the dreadful climb. "I'll have a look around," Silk said after only a few moments. The small man had the body of an acrobat - supple, strong, and quick to restore itself. He crept up to the rim of the gully, ducking low under the thornbushes and worming his way the last few feet on his stomach to peer carefully over the top. After several minutes, he gave a low whistle, and they saw him motion sharply for them to join him.
Barak groaned again and stood up. Durnik, Mandorallen, and Garion also got stiffly to their feet.
"See what he wants," Belgarath told them. "I'm not ready to start moving around just yet."
The four of them started up the slope through the loose gravel toward the spot where Silk lay peering out from under a thornbush, crawling the last few feet as he had done.
"What's the trouble?" Barak asked the little man as they came up beside him.
"Company," Silk replied shortly, pointing out over the rocky, arid plain lying brown and dead under the flat gray sky.
A cloud of yellow dust, whipped low to the ground by the stiff, chill wind, gave evidence of riders.
"A patrol?" Durnik asked in a hushed voice.
"I don't think so," Silk answered. "Thulls aren't comfortable on horses. They usually patrol on foot."
Garion peered out across the arid waste. "Is that somebody out in front of them?" he asked, pointing at a tiny, moving speck a half mile or so in front of the riders.
"Ah," Silk said with a peculiar kind of sadness.
"What is it?" Barak asked. "Don't keep secrets, Silk. I'm not in the mood for it."
"They're Grolims," Silk explained. "The one they're chasing is a Thull trying to escape being sacrificed. It happens rather frequently."
"Should Belgarath be warned?" Mandorallen suggested.
"It's probably not necessary," Silk replied. "The Grolims around here are mostly low-ranking. I doubt that any of them would have any skill at sorcery."
"I'll go tell him anyway," Durnik said. He slid back away from the edge of the gully, rose, and went back down to where the old man rested with Aunt Pol and Relg.
"As long as we stay out of sight, we'll probably be all right," Silk told them. "It looks as if there are only three of them, and they're concentrating on the Thull."
The running man had moved closer. He ran with his head down and his arms pumping at his sides.
"What happens if he tries to hide here in the gully?" Barak asked.
Silk shrugged. "The Grolims will follow him."
"We'd have to take steps at that point, wouldn't we?" Silk nodded with a wicked little smirk.
"We could call him, I suppose," Barak suggested, loosening his sword in its sheath.
"The same thought had just occurred to me."
Durnik came back up the slope, his feet crunching in the gravel.
"Wolf says to keep an eye on them," he reported, "but he says not to do anything unless they actually start into the gully."
"What a shame!" Silk sighed regretfully.
The running Thull was clearly visible now. He was a thick-bodi
ed man in a rough tunic, belted at the waist. His hair was shaggy and mudcolored, and his face was contorted into an expression of brutish panic. He passed the place where they hid, perhaps thirty paces out on the flats, and Garion could clearly hear his breath whistling in his throat as he pounded past. He was whimpering as he ran - an animal-like sound of absolute despair.
"They almost never try to hide," Silk said in a soft voice tinged with pity. "All they do is run." He shook his head.
"They'll overtake him soon," Mandorallen observed. The pursuing Grolims wore black, hooded robes and polished steel masks.
"We'd better get down," Barak advised.
They all ducked below the gully rim. A few moments later, the three horses galloped by, their hooves thudding on the hard earth.
"They'll catch him in a few more minutes," Garion said. "He's running right for the edge. He'll be trapped."
"I don't think so," Silk replied somberly.
A moment later they heard a long, despairing shriek, fading horribly into the gulf below.
"I more or less expected that," Silk said.
Garion's stomach wrenched at the thought of the dreadful height of the escarpment.
"They're coming back," Barak warned. "Get down."
The three Grolims rode back along the edge of the gully. One of them said something Garion could not quite hear, and the other two laughed.
"The world might be a brighter place with three less Grolims in it," Mandorallen suggested in a grim whisper.
"Attractive thought," Silk agreed, "but Belgarath would probably disapprove. I suppose it's better to let them go. We wouldn't want anybody looking for them."
Barak looked longingly after the three Grolims, then sighed with deep regret.
"Let's go back down," Silk said.
They all turned and crawled back down into the brushy gully. Belgarath looked up as they returned. "Are they gone?"
"They're riding off," Silk told him.
"What was that cry?" Relg asked.
"Three Grolims chased a Thull off the edge of the escarpment," Silk replied.
"Why?"
"He'd been selected for a certain religious observance, and he didn't want to participate."
"He refused?" Relg sounded shocked. "He deserved his fate then."
"I don't think you appreciate the nature of Grolim ceremonies, Relg," Silk said.
"One must submit to the will of one's God," Relg insisted. There was a sanctimonious note to his voice. "Religious obligations are absolute."
Silk's eyes glittered as he looked at the Ulgo fanatic. "How much do you know about the Angarak religion, Relg?" he asked.
"I concern myself only with the religion of Ulgo."
"A man ought to know what he's talking about before he makes judgments."
"Let it lie, Silk," Aunt Pol told him.
"I don't think so, Polgara. Not this time. A few facts might be good for our devout friend here. He seems to lack perspective." Silk turned back to Relg. "The core of the Angarak religion is a ritual most men find repugnant. Thulls devote their entire lives to avoiding it. That's the central reality of Thullish life."
"An abominable people." Relg's denunciation was harsh.
"No. Thulls are stupid - even brutish - but they're hardly abominable. You see, Relg, the ritual we're talking about involves human sacrifice."
Relg pulled the veil from his eyes to stare incredulously at the ratfaced little man.
"Each year two thousand Thulls are sacrificed to Torak," Silk went on, his eyes boring into Relg's stunned face. "The Grolims permit the substitution of slaves, so a Thull spends his whole life working in order to get enough money to buy a slave to take his place on the altar if he's unlucky enough to be chosen. But slaves die sometimes - or they escape. If a Thull without a slave is chosen, he usually tries to run. Then the Grolims chase him - they've had a lot of practice, so they're very good at it. I've never heard of a Thull actually getting away."
"It's their duty to submit," Relg maintained stubbornly, though he seemed a bit less sure of himself.
"How are they sacrificed?" Durnik asked in a subdued voice. The Thull's willingness to hurl himself off the escarpment had obviously shaken him.
"It's a simple procedure," Silk replied, watching Relg closely. "Two Grolims bend the Thull backward over the altar, and a third cuts his heart out. Then they burn the heart in a little fire. Torak isn't interested in the whole Thull. He only wants the heart."
Relg flinched at that.
"They sacrifice women, too," Silk pressed. "But women have a simpler means of escape. The Grolims won't sacrifice a pregnant woman - it confuses their count - so Thulllish women try to stay pregnant constantly. That explains why there are so many Thulls and why Thullish women are notorious for their indiscriminate appetite."
"Monstrous." Relg gasped. "Death would be better than such vile corruption."
"Death lasts for a long time, Relg," Silk said with a cold little smile. "A little corruption can be forgotten rather quickly if you put your mind to it. That's particularly true if your life depends on it."
Relg's face was troubled as he struggled with the blunt description of the horror of Thullish life. "You're a wicked man," he accused Silk, though his voice lacked conviction.
"I know," Silk admitted.
Relg appealed to Belgarath. "Is what he says true?"
The sorcerer scratched thoughtfully at his beard. "He doesn't seem to have left out very much," he replied. "The word religion means different things to different people, Relg. It depends on the nature of one's God. You ought to try to get that sorted out in your mind. It might make some of the things you'll have to do a bit easier."
"I think we've just about exhausted the possibilities of this conversation, father," Aunt Pol suggested, "and we have a long way to go."
"Right," he agreed, getting to his feet.
They rode down through the arid jumble of rock and scrubby bushes that spread across the western frontier of the land of the Thulls. The continual wind that swept up across the escarpment was bitterly cold, though there were only a few patches of thin snow lying beneath the somber gray sky.
Relg's eyes adjusted to the subdued light, and the clouds appeared to quiet the panic the open sky had caused him. But this was obviously a difficult time for him. The world here above ground was alien, and everything he encountered seemed to shatter his preconceptions. It was also a time of personal religious turmoil, and the crisis goaded him into peculiar fluctuations of speech and action. At one moment he would sanctimoniously denounce the sinful wickedness of others, his face set in a stern expression of righteousness; and in the next, he would be writhing in an agony of self loathing, confessing his sin and guilt in an endless, repetitious litany to any who would listen. His pale face and huge, dark eyes, framed by the hood of his leaf mail shirt, contorted in the tumult of his emotions. Once again the others - even patient, good-hearted Durnik - drew away from him, leaving him entirely to Garion. Relg stopped often for prayers and obscure little rituals that always seemed to involve a great deal of groveling in the dirt.
"It's going to take us all year to get to Rak Cthol at this rate," Barak rumbled sourly on one such occasion, glaring with open dislike at the ranting fanatic kneeling in the sand beside the trail.
"We need him," Belgarath replied calmly, "and he needs this. We can live with it if we have to."
"We're getting close to the northern edge of Cthol Murgos," Silk said, pointing ahead at a low range of hills. "We won't be able to stop like this once we cross the border. We'll have to ride as hard as we can until we get to the South Caravan Route. The Murgos patrol extensively, and they disapprove of side trips. Once we get to the track, we'll be all right, but we don't want to be stopped before we get there."
"Will we not be questioned even on the caravan route, Prince Kheldar?" Mandorallen asked. "Our company is oddly assorted, and Murgos are suspicious."
"They'll watch us," Silk admitted, "but they won't interfere
as long as we don't stray from the track. The treaty between Taur Urgas and Ran Borune guarantees freedom of travel along the caravan route, and no Murgo alive would be foolish enough to embarrass his king by violating it. Taur Urgas is very severe with people who embarrass him."
They crossed into Cthol Murgos shortly after noon on a cold, murky day and immediately pushed into a gallop. After about a league or so, Relg began to pull in his horse.
"Not now, Relg," Belgarath told him sharply. "Later."
"But-"
"UL's a patient God. He'll wait. Keep going."
They galloped on across the high, barren plain toward the caravan route, their cloaks streaming behind them in the biting wind. It was midafternoon when they reached the track and reined in. The South Caravan Route was not precisely a road, but centuries of travel had clearly marked its course. Silk looked around with satisfaction. "Made it," he said. "Now we become honest merchants again, and no Murgo in the world is going to interfere with us." He turned his horse eastward then and led the way with a great show of confidence. He squared his shoulders, seeming to puff himself up with a kind of busy self importance, and Garion knew that he was making mental preparations involved in assuming a new role. When they encountered the well-guarded packtrain of a Tolnedran merchant moving west, Silk had made his transition and he greeted the merchant with the easy camaraderie of a man of trade.
"Good day, Grand High Merchant," he said to the Tolnedran, noting the other's marks of rank. "If you can spare a moment, I thought we might exchange information about the trail. You've come from the east, and I've just come over the route to the west of here. An exchange might prove mutually beneficial."
"Excellent idea," the Tolnedran agreed. The Grand High Merchant was a stocky man with a high forehead and wore a fur-lined cloak pulled tightly about him to ward off the icy wind.
"My name is Ambar," Silk said. "From Kotu."
The Tolnedran nodded in polite acknowledgement. "Kalvor," he introduced himself, "of Tol Horb. You've picked a hard season for the journey east, Ambar."
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