Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  "It got a bit cold on toward morning, your Majesty."

  "It's the slipshod construction of this place. There are cracks in the walls big enough to push a horse through. In the wintertime we have snow storms in the corridors." He sighed. "Do you realize that it's spring in Tol Honeth right now?" He sighed again, then glanced at Belgarath, who stood smiling peculiarly at him. "Was there something amusing, old boy?"

  "Not really. Just remembering something I heard once." The old man went to the fire and held out his hands to the crackling flames. "How are your people coming on that ship?"

  "I expect that it's going to be tomorrow at the earliest before it's ready," Urgit replied. "Winter's coming on, and the seas around the southern tip of the Urga peninsula are never what you'd call placid, even in the best of seasons, so I ordered the shipwrights to take special pains." He leaned forward and negligently tossed his chicken leg into the fireplace. "It was burned," he said absently. "Every meal I get in this place is either burned or raw." He looked peculiarly at Belgarath. "You intrigue me, old man. You don't seem like the type to wind up his career hiring himself out to a Nyissan slaver."

  "Appearances can be deceiving." Belgarath shrugged. . "You don't look much like a king, either, but you do have the crown, after all."

  Urgit reached up and pulled off his iron circlet. He looked at it distastefully and then held it out to Belgarath. "You want this thing?" he asked. "I'm sure you'd look more regal than I do, and I'd be very happy to get rid of it—particularly in view of the fact that Kal Zakath so keenly wants to take my head out from under it." He dropped it on the floor beside his chair with a dull clink. "Let's go back to something we were discussing yesterday. You told me that you know Belgarion."

  Belgarath nodded.

  "How well?"

  "How well can any man know another?"

  "You're evading my question."

  "It seems that way, doesn't it?"

  Urgit let that pass. He looked intently at the old man. "How do you think Belgarion would really react if I proposed that he ally himself with me to drive the Malloreans off the continent? I'm sure their presence here worries him almost as much as it does me."

  "The chances aren't very good," Belgarath told him. "You might be able to persuade Belgarion that it's a good idea, but the rest of the Alorn monarchs would probably object."

  "They reached an accommodation with Drosta, didn't they?"

  "That was between Rhodar and Drosta. There's always been a certain wary friendship between the Drasnians and the Nadraks. The one you'd need to get to accept your idea would be Cho-Hag, and Cho-Hag's never been exactly cordial to Murgos."

  "I need allies, old man, not platitudes." Urgit paused. "What if I got word to Belgarath?"

  "What would you say to him?"

  "I'd try to persuade him that Zakath's a much greater danger to the Kingdoms of the West than I am. Maybe he could make the Alorns listen to reason."

  "I don't think you'd have much luck there, either." The old man looked into the dancing flames with the firelight gleaming on his short, silvery beard. "You have to understand that Belgarath doesn't live in the same world with ordinary men. He lives in the world of first causes and primal forces. I'd imagine that he looks upon Kal Zakath as little more than a minor irritation."

  "Torak's teeth!" Urgit swore. "Where am I going to get the troops I need?"

  "Hire mercenaries," Silk suggested without turning from the window where he stood.

  "What?"

  "Dip into the royal vaults and bring out some of the fabled red gold of Angarak. Send word into the Kingdoms of the West that you need good men and that you're willing to pay them good gold. You'll be swamped with volunteers."

  "I prefer men who fight for patriotism—or religion," Urgit declared stiffly.

  Silk turned with an amused expression. "I've noticed that preference in many kings," he observed. "It doesn't put such a strain on royal treasuries. But believe me, your Majesty, loyalty to an ideal can vary in its intensity, but loyalty to money never changes. That's why mercenaries are better fighters."

  "You're a cynic," Urgit accused.

  Silk shook his head. "No, your Majesty. I'm a realist." He stepped over to Sadi and murmured something. The eunuch nodded, and the rat-faced little Drasnian quietly left the room.

  Urgit raised one eyebrow inquiringly.

  "He's going to go start packing, your Majesty," Sadi explained. "If we're going to sail tomorrow, we need to start getting ready."

  Urgit and Sadi talked quietly for about a quarter of an hour, and then the door at the far end of the room opened again. Polgara and the other ladies entered with the Lady Tamazin.

  "Good morning, mother," Urgit greeted her. "You slept well, I trust?"

  "Quite well, thank you." She looked critically at him. "Urgit, where's your crown?"

  "I took it off. It gives me a headache."

  "Put it back on at once."

  "What for?"

  "Urgit, you don't look very much like a king. You're short and thin and you've got a face like a weasel. Murgos are not bright. If you don't wear your crown all the time, it's altogether possible that they'll forget who you are. Now put it back on."

  "Yes, mother." He picked up his crown and clapped it on his head. "How's that?"

  "It's lopsided, dear," she said in a calm tone so familiar that Garion gave Polgara a quick, startled look. "Now you look like a drunken sailor."

  Urgit laughed and straightened his crown.

  Garion looked closely at Ce'Nedra to see if there were any traces left of the storm of weeping that had swept over her the previous day, but he saw no evidence that it might immediately return. She was engaged in a murmured conversation with the Cthan Princess, Praia, and the Murgo girl's face clearly showed that she had already fallen under the queen's spell.

  "And you, Urgit," Lady Tamazin said, "did you sleep well?"

  "I never really sleep, mother. You know that. I decided years ago that sleeping nervously is infinitely preferable to sleeping permanently."

  Garion found himself making a difficult readjustment in his thinking. He had never liked Murgos. He had always distrusted and even feared them. King Urgit's personality, however, was as un-Murgoish as his appearance. He was quick and volatile, and his moods swung from sardonic amusement to gloom so rapidly that Garion was quite uncertain what to expect next. He was obviously not a strong king, and Garion had been a king long enough himself to see where Urgit was making his mistakes. In spite of himself, though, Garion found that he actually liked him and felt a peculiar sympathy for him as he struggled with a job for which he was hopelessly unsuited. That, of course, created a problem. Garion did not want to like this man, and this unwanted sympathy seemed wildly out of place. He rose from his chair and withdrew to the far end of the room, making some pretense of looking out the window so that he might put himself beyond the range of the Murgo King's urbane wit. With a kind of unbearable urgency, he wanted to be on board ship and away from this ugly Murgo city, huddled on its barren coast, and from the weak, fearful man who was not really such a bad fellow, but whom Garion knew he should regard as an enemy.

  "What's the trouble, Garion?" Polgara asked quietly, coming up behind him.

  "Impatience, I guess, Aunt Pol. I want to get moving."

  "We all do, dear," she told him, "but we have to endure this for one more day."

  "Why can't he just leave us alone?"

  "Who's that?"

  "Urgit. I'm not interested in his problems, so why does he have to sit around telling us about them all the time?"

  "Because he's lonely, Garion."

  "All kings are lonely. It comes with the crown. Most of us learn how to endure it, though. We don't sit around and snivel about it."

  "That's unkind, Garion," she told him firmly, "and it's unworthy of you."

  "Why are we all so concerned about a weak king with a clever mouth?"

  "Perhaps it's because he's the first Murgo we've met in eons who s
hows some human qualities. Because he's the way he is, he raises the possibility that Alorns and Murgos might someday find ways to settle their differences without resorting to bloodshed."

  He continued to stare out the window, although a slow flush began to creep up his neck. "I'm being childish, aren't I?” he admitted.

  "Yes, dear, I'm afraid you are. Your prejudices are running away with you. Ordinary people can afford that. Kings cannot. Go back to where he's sitting, Garion, and watch him very closely. Don't pass up this opportunity to get to know him. The time may come when that knowledge will help you."

  "All right, Aunt Pol." Garion sighed, squaring his shoulders resolutely.

  It was almost noon when Oskatat entered the room. "Your Majesty," he announced in his rasping voice, "Agachak, Hierarch of Rak Urga, craves audience with you."

  "Show him in, Oskatat," Urgit replied wearily. He turned to his mother. "I think I'm going to have to find another place to hide," he muttered. "Too many people know where to find me."

  "I have a splendid closet, Urgit," she replied, "warm and dry and dark. You could hide in there and cover yourself with a blanket. We'll slip food in to you from time to time."

  "Are you making fun of me, mother?"

  "No, dear," she said. "But like it or not, you're the king. You can either be king or you can be a spoiled child. The choice is entirely up to you."

  Garion glanced guiltily at Polgara.

  "Yes?" she murmured.

  But he decided not to answer.

  The cadaverous-looking Agachak entered and bowed perfunctorily to his king. "Your Majesty," he said in his hollow voice.

  "Dread Hierarch," Urgit responded, his voice betraying no hint of his true feeling.

  "Time is passing, your Majesty."

  "It has a way of doing that, I've noticed."

  "My point is that the weather is about to turn stormy. Is the ship nearly ready?"

  "I expect it to sail tomorrow," Urgit replied.

  "Excellent. I shall instruct Kabach to make ready."

  "Has the Priestess Chabat regained her composure?" Urgit asked.

  "Not really, your Majesty. She still keenly feels the loss of her paramour."

  "Even after she found out what his true feelings were about her? Who can ever hope to understand the workings of the female mind?"

  "Chabat is not that difficult to fathom, your Majesty." Agachak shrugged. "A disfigured woman has little chance to attract lovers, and the loss of even an insincere one is most painful. Her loss in this particular case goes a bit deeper, however. Sorchak assisted her in the performance of certain rites of magic. Without him, she will not be able to continue her efforts to summon up demons."

  Urgit shuddered. "I thought that she was a sorceress. Isn't that enough for her? Why would she want to dabble in magic, too?"

  "Chabat is not really that powerful a sorceress," Agachak replied. "She thinks that she will have a greater advantage when she finally confronts me if she has demons to aid her.''

  "Confront you? Is that what she's planning?"

  "Of course. Her occasional dallying is merely an amusement. Her central goal has always been power. In time, she will have to try to wrest mine from me."

  "If that's the case, why did you allow her to gain so much authority in the Temple?"

  "It amused me," Agachak said with a chill smile. "I am not as repelled by ugliness as others are, and Chabat, despite her ambition—or perhaps because of it—is very efficient."

  "You knew about her affair with Sorchak. Didn't that offend you?"

  "Not really," the dead-looking Hierarch answered. "That's just a part of the entertainment I'm preparing for myself. Eventually, Chabat will succeed in raising a demon, and then she will challenge me. At the very instant that her triumph seems complete, I shall also raise a demon, and mine will destroy hers. Then I shall have her stripped and dragged to the Sanctum. There she will be bent backward across the altar and I myself will slowly cut out her heart. I look forward to that moment with a great deal of anticipation, and it will be all the sweeter because it will come just when she thinks she has beaten me." His dead face had come alive with a dreadful pleasure. His eyes burned, and there were flecks of spittle in the comers of his mouth.

  Urgit, however, looked faintly sick. "Grolims appear to have more exotic amusements than ordinary men."

  "Not really, Urgit. The only reason for power is to be able to use it to destroy your enemies, and it's particularly enjoyable to be able to drag them down from a height before you destroy them. Wouldn't you like to be present when the mighty Kal Zakath dies with a Dagashi knife in his heart?"

  "Not really. I just want him out of the way. I don't particularly want to watch the procedure."

  "You have not yet learned the true meaning of power, then. The understanding may come when you and I stand in the presence of Cthrag Sardius and witness the rebirth of the Dark God and the final triumph of the Child of Dark."

  Urgit's expression grew pained.

  "Do not flinch from your destiny, Urgit," Agachak said in his hollow voice. "It is foretold that a King of Angarak will be present at the final meeting. You will be that king— just as I will be the one to make the sacrifice and thus become the first disciple of the reborn God. We are bound together by a chain forged of fate. Your destiny is to become Overking of Angarak, and mine is to rule the Church."

  Urgit sighed in resignation. "Whatever you say, Agachak," he said disconsolately. "We still have a few problems to overcome, however."

  "They are of little concern to me," the Hierarch declared.

  "Well, they do concern me," Urgit said with surprising heat. "First we have to deal with Zakath, and then we'll need to get rid of Gethel and Drosta—just to be on the safe side. I've been involved in a race for a throne before and I think I'd feel more confident if I were the only one running. Your problems, however, are a bit more weighty. Urvon and Zandramas are very serious opponents."

  "Urvon is a doddering old fool, and Zandramas is only a woman."

  "Agachak," Urgit said pointedly, "Polgara is also only a woman. Would you care to face her?" No, Dread Hierarch, I think that Urvon doesn't dodder as much as you think, and Zandramas is probably more dangerous than you'd like to believe. She's managed to spirit away Belgarion's son, and that was no mean trick. She's also slipped past you and all the other Hierarchs as if you weren't even here. Let's neither of us take any of this too lightly."

  "I know where Zandramas is," Agachak said with a chill smile, "and I will wrest Belgarion's son from her at the proper time. It is foretold that you and I and the babe who is to be sacrificed will come into the presence of the Sardion at the appointed time. There I will perform the sacrifice, and you will witness the rite, and we shall both be exalted. It is so written."

  "Depending on how you read it," Urgit added morosely.

  Garion moved to Ce'Nedra's side, trying to look casual, As the meaning of what the Grolim Hierarch had just said came to her, the blood slowly drained from her face. "It's not going to happen," he told her in a firm, quiet voice. "Nobody's going to do that to our baby."

  "You knew," she accused him in a choked whisper.

  "Grandfather and I found it in the Grolim Prophecies in the Temple library."

  "Oh, Garion," she said, biting her lip to keep back the tears.

  "Don't worry about it," he said. "The same Prophecy said that Torak was going to win at Cthol Mishrak. That didn't happen, and this isn't going to happen, either."

  "But what if—"

  "There aren't any ifs," he said firmly. "It's not going to happen."

  After the Hierarch had left, King Urgit's mood changed. He sat in his chair, brooding sourly.

  "Perhaps your Majesty might prefer to be left alone," Sadi ventured.

  "No, Sadi." Urgit sighed. "No amount of worrying at it is going to change what we've already set in motion." He shook his head and then shrugged as if dismissing the whole matter. "Why don't you tell me the details of the little
misdemeanor that made Salmissra so vexed with you? I adore stories of deceit and dishonesty. They always seem to hint that the world's not really such a bad place after all."

  It was not long after, as Sadi was elaborating at some length on the involuted scheme that had caused his downfall, when the seneschal entered the room again. "A dispatch has arrived from the military governor at Cthaka, your Majesty," he rasped.

  "What does he want now?" Urgit muttered plaintively.

  "He reports that the Malloreans are mounting a major campaign in the south. Rak Gorut is under siege and must inevitably fall within a week."

  "In the autumn?" Urgit exclaimed, coming up out of his chair in dismay. "They're mounting a campaign when the summer's already over?"

  "So it appears," Oskatat replied. "I think that Kal Zakath's hoping to take you by surprise. Once Rak Gorut falls, there won't be anything between his forces and Rak Cthaka."

  "And the garrison there is virtually nonexistent, isn't it?"

  "I'm afraid so, Urgit. Rak Cthaka will also fall, and then Zakath will have all winter to consolidate his hold on the south."

  Urgit began to swear and moved quickly to a map tacked up on the wall. "How many troops do we have up here in Morcth?" he demanded, tapping the map with one finger.

  "A few score thousand. But by the time they had received the order to march south, the Malloreans would already be halfway to Rak Cthaka."

  Urgit stared in consternation at the map. Then he suddenly smashed his fist against it. "He's outsmarted me again!" he raged. He returned to his chair and collapsed in it.

  "I think I'd better go get Kradak," Oskatat said. "The General Staff will need to know about this."

  "Whatever you think best, Oskatat," Urgit replied in a defeated tone.

  As the seneschal strode from the room, Garion crossed to look at the map. After only the briefest of glances, he saw a solution to Urgit's problem, but he was reluctant to speak. He did not want to become involved in this. There were a dozen good reasons why he should keep his mouth shut— the most important being the fact that should he offer his solution to the Murgo King, he would in a sense be committed, and he firmly desired to avoid any commitment to the man, no matter how slight. An unresolved problem, however, nagged at his sense of responsibility; to turn his back on one—even one that was not his own—violated something deep within him. He muttered a curse under his breath, then turned to the stricken Urgit. "Excuse me, your Majesty," he said, approaching the matter obliquely, "but how well fortified is Rak Cthaka?"