lavender. Beyond the windows lay a snowy garden, totally embraced by the tall wings of this bleak Murgo house. A cheery fire crackled in the half-moon arch of a broad fireplace, and at the far corner of the room an artfully contrived grotto, thick with green fern and moss, flourished about a trickling fountain. Garion sat brooding out at a sunless noon -at an ash-colored sky spitting white pellets that were neither snow nor hail, but something in between- and realized all of a sudden that he was homesick for Riva. It was a peculiar thing to come to grips with here on the opposite end of the world. Always before, the word "homesick" had been associated with Faldor's farm -the kitchen, the broad central courtyard, Durnik's smithy, and all the other dear, treasured memories. Now, suddenly, he missed that storm-lashed coast, the security of that grim fortress hovering above the bleak city lying below, and the mountains, heavy with snow, rising stark white against a black and stormy sky.
There was a faint knock at the door.
"Yes?" Garion said absently, not looking around.
The door opened almost timidly. "Your Majesty?" a vaguely familiar voice said.
Garion turned, looking back over his shoulder. The man was chubby and bald and he wore brown, a plain serviceable color, though his robe was obviously costly, and the heavy gold chain about his neck loudly proclaimed that this was no minor official. Garion frowned slightly. "Haven't we met before?" he asked. "Aren't you General Atesca's friend-uh-"
"Brador, your Majesty," the brown-robed man supplied. "Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs."
"Oh, yes. Now I remember. Come in, your Excellency, come in."
"Thank you, your Majesty." Brador came into the room and moved toward the fireplace, extending his hands to its warmth. "Miserable climate." He shuddered.
"You should try a winter in Riva," Garion said, "although it's summer there right now."
Brador looked out the window at the snowy garden. "Strange place, Cthol Murgos," he said. "One's tempted to believe that all of Murgodom is deliberately ugly, and then one comes across a room like this."
"I suspect that the ugliness was to satisfy Ctuchik -and Taur Urgas," Garion replied. "Underneath, Murgos probably aren't much different from the rest of us."
Brador laughed. "That sort of thinking is considered heresy in Mal Zeth," he said.
"The people in Val Alorn feel much the same way." Garion looked at the bureaucrat. "I expect that this isn't just a social call, Brador," he said. "What's on your mind?"
"Your Majesty," Brador said soberly, "I absolutely have to speak with the Emperor. Atesca tried to arrange it before he went back to Rak Verkat, but-" He spread his hands helplessly. "Could you possibly speak to him about it? The matter is of the utmost urgency."
"I really don't think there's very much I can do for you, Brador," Garion told him. "Right now I'm probably the last person he'd want to talk to."
"Oh?"
"I told him something that he didn't want to hear."
Brador's shoulders slumped in defeat. "You were my last hope, your Majesty." he said.
"What's the problem?"
Brador hesitated, looking around nervously as if to assure himself that they were alone. "Belgarion," he said then in a very quiet voice, "have you ever seen a demon?"
"A couple of times, yes. It's not the sort of experience I'd care to repeat."
"How much do you know about the Karands?"
"Not a great deal. I've heard that they're related to the Morindim in northern Gar og Nadrak."
"You know more about them than most people, then. Do you know very much about the religious practices of the Morindim?"
Garion nodded. "They're demon worshippers. It's not a particularly safe form of religion, I've noticed."
Brador's face was bleak. "The Karands share the beliefs and practices of their cousins on the arctic plains of the West," he said. "After they were converted to the worship of Torak, the Grolims tried to stamp out those practices, but they persisted in the
There was a faint knock at the door.
"Yes?" Garion said absently, not looking around.
The door opened almost timidly. "Your Majesty?" a vaguely familiar voice said.
Garion turned, looking back over his shoulder. The man was chubby and bald and he wore brown, a plain serviceable color, though his robe was obviously costly, and the heavy gold chain about his neck loudly proclaimed that this was no minor official. Garion frowned slightly. "Haven't we met before?" he asked. "Aren't you General Atesca's friend-uh-"
"Brador, your Majesty," the brown-robed man supplied. "Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs."
"Oh, yes. Now I remember. Come in, your Excellency, come in."
"Thank you, your Majesty." Brador came into the room and moved toward the fireplace, extending his hands to its warmth. "Miserable climate." He shuddered.
"You should try a winter in Riva," Garion said, "although it's summer there right now."
Brador looked out the window at the snowy garden. "Strange place, Cthol Murgos," he said. "One's tempted to believe that all of Murgodom is deliberately ugly, and then one comes across a room like this."
"I suspect that the ugliness was to satisfy Ctuchik -and Taur Urgas," Garion replied. "Underneath, Murgos probably aren't much different from the rest of us."
Brador laughed. "That sort of thinking is considered heresy in Mal Zeth," he said.
"The people in Val Alorn feel much the same way." Garion looked at the bureaucrat. "I expect that this isn't just a social call, Brador," he said. "What's on your mind?"
"Your Majesty," Brador said soberly, "I absolutely have to speak with the Emperor. Atesca tried to arrange it before he went back to Rak Verkat, but-" He spread his hands helplessly. "Could you possibly speak to him about it? The matter is of the utmost urgency."
"I really don't think there's very much I can do for you, Brador," Garion told him. "Right now I'm probably the last person he'd want to talk to."
"Oh?"
"I told him something that he didn't want to hear."
Brador's shoulders slumped in defeat. "You were my last hope, your Majesty." he said.
"What's the problem?"
Brador hesitated, looking around nervously as if to assure himself that they were alone. "Belgarion," he said then in a very quiet voice, "have you ever seen a demon?"
"A couple of times, yes. It's not the sort of experience I'd care to repeat."
"How much do you know about the Karands?"
"Not a great deal. I've heard that they're related to the Morindim in northern Gar og Nadrak."
"You know more about them than most people, then. Do you know very much about the religious practices of the Morindim?"
Garion nodded. "They're demon worshippers. It's not a particularly safe form of religion, I've noticed."
Brador's face was bleak. "The Karands share the beliefs and practices of their cousins on the arctic plains of the West," he said. "After they were converted to the worship of Torak, the Grolims tried to stamp out those practices, but they persisted in the
Similar Books
