“Magic? Is that different from what we do?”
“Quite a bit. We’re sorcerers—at least that’s what we’re called. What we do involves the Will and the Word, but that’s not the only way to do things.”
“I don’t quite follow.”
“It’s not really all that complicated, Garion. There are several ways to tamper with the normal order of things. Vordai’s a witch. What she does involves the use of spirits—usually benign, mischievous sometimes—but not actually wicked. A magician uses devils—evil spirits.”
“Isn’t that sort of dangerous?”
Belgarath nodded. “Very dangerous,” he replied. “The magician tries to control the demon with spells—formulas, incantations, symbols, mystic diagrams—that sort of thing. As long as he doesn’t make any mistakes, the demon is his absolute slave and has to do what he tells it to do. The demon doesn’t want to be a slave, so it keeps looking for a way to break the spell.”
“What happens if it does?”
“It generally devours the magician on the spot. That happens rather frequently. If you lose your concentration or summon a demon too strong for you, you’re in trouble.”
“What did Beldin mean when he said that you weren’t very good at magic?” Silk asked.
“I’ve never spent that much time trying to learn about it,” the old sorcerer replied. “I have alternatives, after all, and magic is dangerous and not very dependable.”
“Don’t use it then,” Silk suggested.
“I hadn’t really planned to. Usually the threat of magic is enough to keep the Morindim at a distance. Actual confrontations are rather rare.”
“I can see why.”
“After we get through the north range, we’ll disguise ourselves. There are a number of markings and symbols that will make the Morindim avoid us.”
“That sounds promising.”
“Of course we have to get there first,” the old man pointed out. “Let’s pick up the pace a bit. We’ve still got a long way to go.” And he pushed his horse into a gallop.
7
They rode hard for the better part of a week, moving steadily northward and avoiding the scattered settlements which dotted the Nadrak forest. Garion noticed that the nights grew steadily shorter; by the time they reached the foothills of the north range, darkness had virtually disappeared. Evening and morning merged into a few hours of luminous twilight as the sun dipped briefly below the horizon before bursting into view once more.
The north range marked the upper edge of the Nadrak forest. It was not so much a mountainous region as it was a string of peaks, a long finger of upthrusting terrain reaching out toward the east from the broad ranges that formed the spine of the continent. As they rode up a scarcely defined trail toward a saddle that stretched between two snowy peaks, the trees around them grew more stunted and finally disappeared entirely. Beyond that point, there would be no more trees. Belgarath stopped at the edge of one of these last groves and cut a half dozen long saplings.
The wind that came down off the peaks had a bitter chill to it and the arid smell of perpetual winter. When they reached the boulder-strewn summit, Garion looked out for the first time at the immense plain stretching below. The plain, unmarked by trees, was covered with tall grass that bent before the vagrant wind in long, undulating waves. Rivers wandered aimlessly across that emptiness, and a thousand shallow lakes and ponds scattered, blue and glistening under a northern sun, toward the horizon.
“How far does it reach?” Garion asked quietly.
“From here to the polar ice,” Belgarath replied. “Several hundred leagues.”
“And no one lives out there but the Morindim?”
“Nobody wants to. For most of the year, it’s buried in snow and darkness. You can go for six months up here without ever seeing the sun.”
They rode down the rocky slope toward the plain and found a lowroofed, shallow cave at the base of the granite cliff that seemed to be the demarcation line between the mountains and the foothills. “We’ll stop here for a while,” Belgarath told them, reining in his tired mount. “We’ve got some preparations to make, and the horses need some rest.”
They were all kept quite busy for the next several days while Belgarath radically altered their appearances. Silk set crude traps among the maze of rabbit runs twisting through the tall grass, and Garion roamed the foothills in search of certain tuberous roots and a peculiar smelling white flower. Belgarath sat at the mouth of the cave, fashioning various implements from his saplings. The roots Garion had gathered yielded a dark brown stain, and Belgarath carefully applied it to their skins. “The Morindim are dark-skinned,” he explained as he sat painting Silk’s arms and back with the stain. “Somewhat darker than Tolnedrans or Nyissans. This will wear off after a few weeks, but it will last long enough to get us through.”
After he had stained all their skins into swarthiness, he crushed the odd-smelling flowers to produce a jet black ink. “Silk’s hair is the right color already,” he said, “and mine will get by, but Garion’s just won’t do.” He diluted some of the ink with water and dyed Garion’s sandy hair black. “That’s better,” he grunted when he had finished, “and there’s enough left for the tattoos.”
“Tattoos?” Garion asked, startled at the thought.
“The Morindim decorate themselves extensively.”
“Will it hurt?”
“We’re not really going to tattoo ourselves, Garion,” Belgarath told him with a pained look. “They take too long to heal. Besides, I’m afraid your Aunt would go into hysterics if I took you back to her with designs engraved all over you. This ink will last long enough for us to get through Morindland. It will wear off-eventually.”
Silk was sitting cross-legged in front of the cave, looking for all the world like a tailor as he sewed fresh rabbit pelts to their clothing.
“Won’t they start to smell after a few days?” Garion asked, wrinkling his nose.
“Probably,” Silk admitted, “but I don’t have time to cure the pelts.” Later, as Belgarath was carefully drawing the tattoos on their faces, he explained the guise they were going to assume. “Garion will be the quester,” he said.
“What’s that?” Garion asked.
“Don’t move your face,” Belgarath told him, frowning as he drew lines under Garion’s eyes with a raven-feather quill. “The quest is a Morind ritual. It’s customary for a young Morind of a certain rank to undertake a quest before he assumes a position of authority in his clan. You’ll wear a white fur headband and carry that red spear I fixed up for you. It’s ceremonial,” he cautioned, “so don’t try to stab anybody with it. That’s very bad form.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“We’ll disguise your sword to look like some sort of relic or something. A magician might see past the Orb’s suggestion that it’s not there—depending on how good he is. One other thing—the quester is absolutely forbidden to speak under any circumstances, so keep your mouth shut. Silk will be your dreamer. He’ll wear a white fur band on his left arm. Dreamers speak in riddles and gibberish for the most part, and they tend to fall into trances and have fits.” He glanced over at Silk. “Do you think you can handle that?”
“Trust me,” Silk replied, grinning.
“Not very likely,” Belgarath grunted. “I’ll be Garion’s magician. I’ll carry a staff with a horned skull on it that will make most Morindim avoid us.”
“Most?” Silk asked quickly.
“It’s considered bad manners to interfere with a quest, but it happens now and then.” The old man looked critically at Garion’s tattoos. “Good enough,” he said and turned to Silk with his quill.
When it was all done, the three of them were scarcely recognizable. The markings the old man had carefully drawn on their arms and faces were not pictures so much as they were designs. Their faces had been changed into hideous devil masks, and the exposed parts of their bodies were covered with symbols etched in black ink. They wore fur-covered trousers and vests and bone necklaces clattered about their necks. Their stained arms and shoulders were bared and intricately marked.