“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.”
“Necessity,” Silk said. “My funds are limited, and the cost of winter lodgings in Tol Honeth would have devoured what little I have.”
“The Honeths are rapacious,” Kalvor concurred. “Is Ran Borune still alive?”
“He was when I left.”
Kalvor made a face. “And the squabble over the succession goes on?”
Silk laughed. “Oh, yes.”
“Is that swine Kador from Tol Vordue still dominant?”
“Kador fell upon hard times, I understand. I heard that he made an attempt on the life of Princess Ce’Nedra. I imagine that the Emperor’s going to take steps to remove him from the race.”