Sorceress of Darshiva

in his favorite purple doublet and hose, he had one leg negligently cocked over the arm of the throne, and he was absently tossing his crown back and forth between his hands as he listened to the droning voice of Agachak, the cadaverous-looking Hierarch of Rak Urga. "It's going to have to wait, Agachak," he said finally. "I'm getting married next month."
    "This is a command of the Church, Urgit."
    "Wonderful. Give the Church my regards."
    Agachak looked taken a bit aback. "You don't believe in anything now, do you, my King?"
    "Not very much, no. Is this sick world we live in ready for atheism yet?"
    For the first time in his life, Urgit saw doubt on the face of the Hierarch.
    "Atheism's a clean place, Agachak," he said, "a flat, gray, empty place where man makes his own destiny, and let the Gods go hang. I didn't make them; they didn't make me; and we're quits on all of that. I wish them well, though."
    "This is unlike you, Urgit," Agachak said.
    "No, not really. I'm just tired of playing the clown." He stretched out his leg and tossed his crown at his foot like a hoop. He caught it and kicked it back again.
    "You don't really understand, do you, Agachak?" he said as he caught the crown out of midair.
    The Hierarch of Rak Urga drew himself up. "This is not a request, Urgit. I'm not asking you."
    "Good. Because I'm not going."
    "I command you to go."
    "I don't think so."
    "Do you realize to whom you're talking?"
    "Perfectly, old boy. You're the same tiresome old Grolim who's been boring me to tears ever since I inherited the throne from that fellow who used to chew on the carpets back in Rak Goska. Listen carefully, Agachak. I'll use short words and simple sentences so that I don't confuse you. I am not going to Mallorea. I've never had any intention of going to Mallorea. There's nothing I want to see in Mallorea. There's nothing I want to do there. I most definitely do not intend to put myself anywhere near Kal Zakath, and he's gone back to Mal Zeth. Not only that, they have demons in Mallorea. Have you ever seen a demon, Agachak?"
    "Once or twice," the Hierarch replied sullenly.
    "And you're still going to Mallorea? Agachak, you're as crazy as Taur Urgas was."
    "I can make you king of all of Angarak."
    "I don't want to be king of all of Angarak. I don't even want to be King of Cthol Murgos. All I want is to be left alone to contemplate the horror that's about to descend on me."
    "Your marriage, you mean?" Agachak's face grew sly. "You could evade that by coming to Mallorea with me."
    "Have I been going too fast for you, Agachak? A wife is bad enough. Demons are much worse. Did anybody ever tell you what that thing did to Chabat?" Urgit shuddered.
    "I can protect you."
    Urgit laughed scornfully. "You, Agachak? You couldn't even protect yourself. Even Polgara had to have help from a God to deal with that monster. Do you plan to resurrect Torak to give you a hand? Or maybe you could appeal to Aldur. He's the one who helped Polgara. I don't really think He'd like you, though, I don't even like you, and I've known you all my life."
    "You go too far, Urgit."
    "No. Not far enough, Agachak. For centuries—eons, probably—you Grolims have held the upper hand in Cthol Murgos, but that was when Ctuchik was still alive, and Ctuchik is dead now. You did know about that, didn't you, old boy? He tried his hand against Belgarath, and Belgarath disassembled him right down to the floor. I may be the only Murgo alive who's ever met Belgarath and lived to talk about it. We're actually on fairly good terms. Would you like to meet him? I could probably arrange an introduction, if you'd like."
    Agachak visibly shrank back.
    "Much better, Agachak," Urgit said smoothly. "I'm delighted at your grasp of the realities of the situation. Now, I'm certain that you can raise your hand and wiggle your fingers at me, but now I know how to recognize that sort of thing. I watched Belgarion rather closely while we were trotting across Cthaka last winter. If your hand moves even a fraction of an inch, you're going to get about a bushel basket full of arrows right in the middle of the back. The archers are already in place, and their bows are already drawn. Give it some thought, Agachak—while you're leaving."
    "This is not like you, Urgit," Agachak said, his nostrils white with fury.
    "I know. Delightful, isn't it? You may go now, Agachak."
    The Hierarch spun on his heel and started toward the door.
    "Oh, by the way, old boy," Urgit added. "I've had