They quickly saddled their horses and rode back along the edge of the sunlit forest toward the road leading north.
Despite the rather lame assurances of the two sorcerers, Garion rode slumped in despair. They were going to lose, and Torak was going to kill him.
“Stop feeling sa sorry for yourself, ” the inner voice told him finally.
“Why did you get me into this?” Garion demanded bitterly.
“We’ve discussed that before. ”
“He’s going to kill me.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“That’s what the Prophecy said.” Garion stopped abruptly as a thought occurred to him. “You said it yourself. You’re the Prophecy, aren’t you?”
“It’s a misleading term-,and I didn’t say anything about winning or losing. ”
“Isn’t that what it means?”
“No. It means exactly what it says.”
“What else could it mean?”
“You’re getting more stubborn every day. Stop worrying so much about meanings and just do what you have to do. You almost had it right, back there. ”
“If all you’re going to do is talk in riddles, why bother with it at all? Why go to all the trouble of saying things that nobody’s able to understand?”
“Because it’s necessary to say it. The word determines the event. The word puts limits on the event and shapes it. Without the word, the event is merely a random happening. That’s the whole purpose of what you call prophecy – to separate the significant from the random. ”
“I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t think you would, but you asked, after all. Now stop worrying about it. It has nothing to do with you.”
Garion wanted to protest, but the voice was gone. The conversation, however, had made him feel a little better – not much, but a little. To take his mind off it, he pulled his horse in beside Belgarath’s as they reentered the forest on the far side of the burn. “Exactly who are the Morindim, Grandfather?” he asked. “Everybody keeps talking about them as if they were terribly dangerous.”
“They are,” Belgarath replied, “but you can get through their country if you’re careful.”
“Are they on Torak’s side?”
“The Morindim aren’t on anybody’s side. They don’t even live in the same world with us.”
“I don’t follow that.”
“The Morindim are like the Ulgos used to be – before UL accepted them. There were several groups of Godless Ones. They all wandered off in various directions. The Ulgos went to the west, the Morindim went north. Other groups went south or east and disappeared.”
“Why didn’t they just stay where they were?”
“They couldn’t. There’s a kind of compulsion involved in the decisions of the Gods. Anyway, the Ulgos finally found themselves a God. The Morindim didn’t. The compulsion to remain separated from other people is still there. They live in that treeless emptiness up there beyond the north range – small nomadic bands, mostly.”
“What did you mean when you said that they don’t live in the same world with us?”
“The world is a pretty terrible place for a Morind – a demon-haunted place. They worship devils and they live more in dreams than they do in reality. Their society is dominated by the dreamers and the magicians.”
“There aren’t really any devils, are there?” Garion asked skeptically.
“Oh, yes. The devils are very real.”
“Where do they come from?”
Belgarath shrugged. “I haven’t any idea. They do exist, though, and they’re completely evil. The Morindim control them by the use of magic.”
“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.
Chapter Seven
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?”