“All you had to do was lie to him a little. Is that so difficult?”
“Lie? About something like that?” Garion was horrified at the thought.
“I need him, Garion, and he can’t function if he’s incapacitated by some kind of religious hysteria. Use your head, boy.”
“I can’t do it, Grandfather,” Garion repeated stubbornly. “It’s too important to him for me to cheat him about it.”
“You’d better go find him, father,” Aunt Pol said.
Belgarath scowled at Garion. “You and I aren’t finished with this yet, boy,” he said, pointing an angry finger. Then, muttering irritably to himself, he went in search of Relg.
With a cold certainty Garion suddenly knew that the journey to Cthol Murgos was going to be very long and uncomfortable.
20
Though summer that year had lingered in the lowlands and on the plains of Algaria, autumn was brief. The blizzards and squalls they had encountered in the mountains above Maragor and again among the peaks of Ulgo had hinted that winter would be early and severe, and there was already a chill to the nights as they rode day after day across the open grassland toward the eastern escarpment.
Belgarath had recovered from his momentary fit of anger over Garion’s failure to deal with Relg’s attack of guilt, but then, with inescapable logic, he had placed an enormous burden squarely on Garion’s shoulders. “For some reason he trusts you,” the old man observed, “so I’m going to leave him entirely in your hands. I don’t care what you have to do, but keep him from flying apart again.”
At first, Relg refused to respond to Garion’s efforts to draw him out; but after a while, one of the waves of panic caused by the thought of the open sky above swept over the zealot, and he began to talk—haltingly at first but then finally in a great rush. As Garion had feared, Relg’s favorite topic was sin. Garion was amazed at the simple things that Relg considered sinful. Forgetting to pray before a meal, for example, was a major transgression. As the fanatic’s gloomy catalogue of his faults expanded, Garion began to perceive that most of his sins were sins of thought rather than of action. The one matter that kept cropping up again and again was the question of lustful thoughts about women. To Garion’s intense discomfort, Relg insisted on describing these lustful thoughts extensively.
“Women are not the same as we are, of course,” the zealot confided one afternoon as they rode together. “Their minds and hearts are not drawn to holiness the way ours are, and they set out deliberately to tempt us with their bodies and draw us into sin.”
“Why do you suppose that is?” Garion asked carefully.
“Their hearts are filled with lust,” Relg declared adamantly. “They take particular delight in tempting the righteous. I tell you truly, Belgarion, you would not believe the subtlety of the creatures. I have seen the evidence of this wickedness in the soberest of matrons—the wives of some of my most devout followers. They’re forever touching—brushing as if by accident—and they take great pains to allow the sleeves of their robes to slip up brazenly to expose their rounded arms—and the hems of their garments always seem to be hitching up to display their ankles.”
“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 grew 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.