Guardians of the West

by David Eddings

  ‘Greldik,’ she said, ‘do you absolutely have to get drunk every time you’re in port?’

  Greldik looked thoughtfully at the ceiling, scratching at his beard. ‘Now that you mention it, Polgara, I believe I do. I hadn’t really thought about it that way before, but now that you suggest it—’

  She gave him a hard stare, but the look he returned was deliberately impudent. ‘Don’t waste your time, Polgara,’ he suggested. ‘I’m not married; I’ve never been married; and I’m not ever going to get married. I’m not ruining any woman’s life by the way I behave, and it’s absolutely certain that no woman is ever going to ruin mine. Now, Belgarath says that you want to go to Riva. I’ll round up my crew, and we’ll leave on the morning tide.’

  ‘Will your crew be sober enough to find their way out of the harbor?’

  He shrugged. ‘We might bump into a Tolnedran merchantman or two on the way out, but we’ll find our way to the open sea eventually. Drunk or sober, my crew is the best afloat. We’ll put you on the quay at Riva by midafternoon on the day after tomorrow—unless the sea freezes solid between now and then, in which case it might take a couple hours longer.’ He belched again. ‘Par’m me,’ he said, swaying back and forth and peering at her with his bleary eyes.

  ‘Greldik,’ Belgarath said admiringly, ‘you’re the bravest man alive.’

  ‘The sea doesn’t frighten me,’ Greldik replied.

  ‘I wasn’t talking about the sea.’

  About noon of the following day, Greldik’s ship was running before a freshening breeze through foaming whitecaps. A few of the less indisposed members of his crew lurched about the deck tending the lines and keeping a more or less alert eye on the stern where Greldik, puffy-eyed and obviously suffering, clung to the tiller.

  ‘Aren’t you going to shorten your sail?’ Belgarath asked him.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because if you leave full sail up in this kind of wind, you’ll uproot your mast.’

  ‘You stick to your sorcery, Belgarath,’ Greldik told him, ‘and leave the sailing to me. We’re making good time, and the deck-planking starts to buckle up long before the mast is in any danger.’

  ‘How long before?’

  Greldik shrugged. ‘Almost a minute or so—most of the time.’

  Belgarath stared at him. ‘I think I’ll go below,’ he said at last.

  ‘That’s a good idea.’

  By evening the wind had abated, and Greldik’s ship continued across a quieter sea as night fell. There were only occasional glimpses of the stars, but they were sufficient; when the sun rose the next morning, it was, as the wayward captain had predicted, dead astern. By midmorning, the dark, rocky crags and jagged peaks that formed the crest of the Isle of the Winds were poked above the western horizon, and their ship was once again plunging like a spirited horse through the whitecaps under a crisp blue sky. A broad grin split Greldik’s bearded face as his ship swooped and lurched and shuddered her way through the hammering seas, throwing out great sheets of sparkling spray each time she knifed into a wave.

  ‘That’s a very unreliable man,’ Polgara said, giving the captain a disapproving stare.

  ‘He really seems to be a very good sailor, Pol,’ Durnik said mildly.

  ‘That’s not what I was talking about, Durnik.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The ship tacked smoothly between two rocky headlands and into the sheltered harbor of the city of Riva. The gray stone buildings mounted steeply upward toward the grim, menancing battlements of the Citadel which brooded over the city and the harbor below.

  ‘This place always looks so bleak,’ Durnik noted. ‘Bleak and uninviting.’

  ‘That was sort of the idea when they built it, Durnik,’ Belgarath replied. ‘They didn’t really want many visitors.’

  Then, at the end of a starboard tack, Greldik swung his tiller hard over, and his ship, her prow knifing through the dark water, ran directly at the stone quay jutting out from the foot of the city. At the last possible moment he swung his tiller again. To the flapping of her patched sails, the ship coasted the last few yards and bumped gently against the salt-crusted stones of the quay.

  ‘Do you think anybody saw us coming and told Garion?’ Durnik asked.

  ‘Evidently so,’ Belgarath replied, pointing toward the arched gate that had just swung open to reveal the broad flight of stone stairs mounting upward within the thick, high walls protecting the seaward side of Riva. A number of official-looking men were coming through the gate; in the center of the group strode a tall young man with sandy-colored hair and a serious expression on his face.

  ‘Let’s step over to the other side of the ship,’ Belgarath suggested to Durnik and Errand. ‘I want to surprise him.’

  ‘Welcome to Riva, Captain Greldik.’ Errand recognized Garion’s voice, even though it sounded older, more sure now.

  Greldik squinted appraisingly over the rail. ‘You’ve grown, boy,’ he said to the King of Riva. A man as free as Greldik almost never felt the need for using customary terms of respect.

  ‘It’s been going around lately,’ Garion replied drily. ‘Almost everybody my age has come down with it.’

  ‘I’ve brought you some visitors,’ Greldik told him.

  Grinning, Belgarath moved across the deck to the quay-side railing with Durnik and Errand close behind him.

  ‘Grandfather?’ Garion’s face was completely astonished. ‘What are you doing here? And Durnik—and Errand?’

  ‘Actually it was your aunt’s idea,’ Belgarath told him.

  ‘Is Aunt Pol here, too?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Polgara replied calmly, emerging from the low-roofed cabin under the stern.

  ‘Aunt Pol!’ Garion exclaimed, looking dumbfounded.

  ‘Don’t stare, Garion,’ she told him, adjusting the collar of her blue cloak. ‘It’s impolite.’

  ‘But, why didn’t you let me know you were coming? What are you all doing here?’

  ‘Visiting, dear. People do that from time to time.’

  When they joined the young king on the quay, there were the usual embraces and handshakes and the long looks into each others’ faces that go with reunions. Errand, however, was much more interested in something else. As they started the climb up through the gray city toward the Citadel brooding above it, he tugged once at Garion’s sleeve. ‘Horse?’ he asked.

  Garion looked at him. ‘He’s in the stables, Errand. He’ll be happy to see you.’

  Errand smiled and nodded.

  ‘Does he still talk that way?’ Garion asked Durnik. ‘Just one word at a time like that? I thought—well—’

  ‘Most of the time he speaks normally—for his age,’ Durnik replied, ‘but he’s been thinking about the colt ever since we left the Vale and sometimes, when he gets excited, he slips back to the old way.’

  ‘He listens, though,’ Polgara added, ‘which is more than I can say about another boy when he was that age.’

  Garion laughed. ‘Was I really that difficult, Aunt Pol?’

  ‘Not difficult, dear. You just didn’t listen.’

  When they arrived at the Citadel, the Rivan Queen greeted them under the high, thick-walled arch of the front gate. Ce’Nedra was as exquisite as Errand remembered her. Her coppery-colored hair was caught at the back of her head by a pair of golden combs, and the ringlets tumbled down her back in a flaming cascade. Her green eyes were large. She was tiny, not much taller than Errand, but she was every inch a queen. She greeted them all regally, embracing Belgarth and Durnik and lightly kissing Polgara’s cheek.

  Then she held out both hands to Errand, and he took them in his and looked into her eyes. There was a barrier there, the faintest hint of the defensive tightening with which she kept the hurt away. She drew him to her and kissed him; even in that gesture, he could feel the unhappy tenseness that she was probably no longer even aware of. As she removed her soft lips from his cheek, Errand once again looked deeply into her eyes, letting all the love and h
ope and compassion he felt for her flow into his gaze. Then, without thinking, he reached out his hand and gently touched her cheek. Her eyes went very wide, and her lip began to tremble. That faint touch of agate-hard defensiveness about her face began to crumble. Two great tears welled up in her eyes; then, with a brokenhearted wail, she turned and stumbled blindly, her arms outstretched. ‘Oh, Lady Polgara!’ she cried.

  Polgara calmly took the sobbing little queen in her arms and held her. She looked directly into Errand’s face, however, and one of her eyebrows was raised questioningly. Errand returned her look and gave her a calm, answering nod.

  ‘Well,’ Belgarath said, slightly embarrassed by Ce’Nedra’s sudden weeping. He scratched at his beard and looked around the inner courtyard of the Citadel and the broad granite steps leading up to the massive door. ‘Have you got anything to drink handy?’ he asked Garion.

  Polgara, her arms still about the weeping Ce’Nedra, gave him a level look. ‘Isn’t it a bit early, father?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ he replied blandly. ‘A bit of ale helps to settle the stomach after a sea voyage.’

  ‘There’s always some excuse, isn’t there?’

  ‘I can usually manage to think of something.’

  Errand spent the afternoon in the exercise yard at the rear of the royal stables. The chestnut-colored colt was not really a colt any more, but rather a full-grown young stallion. His dark coat was glossy, and his muscles rippled under that coat as he ran in a wide circle about the yard. The single white patch on his shoulder seemed almost incandescent in the bright sunlight.

  The horse had known somehow that Errand was coming and had been restive and high-strung all morning. The stableman cautioned Errand about that. ‘Be careful of him,’ he said. ‘He’s a bit flighty today for some reason.’

  ‘He’ll be fine now,’ Errand said, calmly unlatching the door to the young horse’s stall.

  ‘I wouldn’t go—’ the stableman started sharply, half-reaching out as if to pull the boy back, but Errand had already entered the stall with the wide-eyed animal. The horse snorted once and pranced nervously, his hooves thudding on the straw-covered floor. He stopped and stood quivering until Errand put out his hand and touched that bowed neck. Then everything was all right between them. Errand pushed the door of the stall open wider and, with the horse contentedly nuzzling at his shoulder, led the way out of the stable past the astonished groom.

  For the time being, it was enough for the two of them just to be together—to share the bond which was between them and had somehow existed even before they had met and, in a peculiar way, even before either of them was born. There would be more later, but for now this was enough.

  When the purple hue of evening began to creep up the eastern sky, Errand fed the horse, promised that he would come again the following day, and went back into the Citadel in search of his friends. He found them seated in a low-ceilinged dining hall. This room was smaller than the great main banquet hall and it was less formal. It was perhaps as close to being homey as any room in this bleak fortress could be.

  ‘Did you have a pleasant afternoon?’ Polgara asked him.

  Errand nodded.

  ‘And was the horse glad to see you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now you’re hungry, I suppose?’

  ‘Well—a little.’ He looked around the room, noting that the Rivan Queen was not present. ‘Where’s Ce’Nedra?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s a little tired,’ Polgara replied. ‘She and I had a long talk this afternoon.’

  Errand looked at her and understood. Then he looked around again. ‘I really am sort of hungry,’ he told her.

  She laughed a warm, fond laugh. ‘All boys are the same,’ she said.

  ‘Would you really want us to be different?’ Garion asked her.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose I would.’

  The next morning, quite early, Polgara and Errand were in front of the fire in the apartment that had always been hers. Polgara sat in a high-backed chair with a fragrant cup of tea on the small table beside her. She wore a deep blue velvet dressing gown and held a large ivory comb. Errand sat on a carpet-covered footstool directly in front of her, enduring a part of the morning ritual. The washing of the face, ears, and neck did not take all that much time, but for some reason the combing of his hair always seemed to fill up the better part of a quarter hour. Errand’s personal tastes in the arrangement of his hair were fairly elemental. As long as it was out of his eyes, it was satisfactory. Polgara, however, seemed to find a great deal of entertainment in pulling a comb through his soft, pale-blond curls. Now and then at odd times of the day, he would see that peculiar softness come into her eyes and see her fingers twitching almost of their own will toward a comb and he would know that, if he did not immediately become very busy with something, he would be wordlessly seated in a chair to have his hair attended to.

  There was a respectful tap on the door.

  ‘Yes, Garion?’ she replied.

  ‘I hope I’m not too early, Aunt Pol. May I come in?’

  ‘Of course, dear.’

  Garion wore a blue doublet and hose and soft leather shoes. Errand had noticed that if he had any choice in the matter, the young King of Riva almost always wore blue.

  ‘Good morning, dear,’ Polgara said, her fingers still busy with the comb.

  ‘Good morning, Aunt Pol,’ Garion said. And then he looked at the boy who sat fidgeting slightly on the stool in front of Polgara’s chair. ‘Good morning, Errand,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Belgarion,’ Errand said, nodding.

  ‘Hold your head still, Errand,’ Polgara said calmly. ‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked Garion.

  ‘No, thank you.’ He drew up another chair and sat down across from her. ‘Where’s Durnik?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s taking a walk around the parapet,’ Polgara told him. ‘Durnik likes to be outside when the sun comes up.’

  ‘Yes,’ Garion smiled. ‘I seem to remember that from Faldor’s farm. Is everything all right? With the rooms, I mean?’

  ‘I’m always very comfortable here,’ she said. ‘In some ways it always was the closest thing I had to a permanent home—at least until now.’ She looked around with satisfaction at the deep crimson velvet drapes and the dark leather upholstery of her chairs and sighed contentedly.

  ‘These have been your rooms for a long time, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes. Beldaran set them aside for me after she and Iron-grip were married.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Iron-grip? Very tall—almost as tall as his father—and immensely strong.’ She turned her attention back to Errand’s hair.

  ‘Was he as tall as Barak?’

  ‘Taller, but not quite so thick-bodied. King Cherek himself was seven feet tall, and all of his sons were very big men. Dras Bull-neck was like a tree trunk. He blotted out the sky. Iron-grip was leaner and he had a fierce black beard and piercing blue eyes. By the time he and Beldaran were married, there were touches of gray in his hair and beard; but even so, there was a kind of innocence about him that we could all sense. It was very much like the innocence we all feel in Errand here.’

  ‘You seem to remember him very well. For me, he’s always been just somebody in a legend. Everybody knows about the things he did, but we don’t know anything about him as a real man.’

  ‘I’d remember him a bit more acutely, Garion. After all, there had been the possibility that I might have married him.’

  ‘Iron-grip?’

  ‘Aldur told father to send one of his daughters to the Rivan King to be his wife. Father had to choose between Beldaran and me. I think the old wolf made the right choice, but I still looked at Iron-grip in a rather special way.’ She sighed and then smiled a bit ruefully. ‘I don’t think I’d have made him a good wife,’ she said. ‘My sister Beldaran was sweet and gentle and very beautiful. I was neither gentle nor very attractive.’

  ‘
But you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, Aunt Pol,’ Garion objected quickly.

  ‘It’s nice of you to say that, Garion, but when I was sixteen, I wasn’t what most people would call pretty. I was tall and gangly. My knees were always skinned, and my face was usually dirty. Your grandfather was never very conscientious about looking after the appearance of his daughters. Sometimes whole weeks would go by without a comb ever touching my hair. I didn’t like my hair very much, anyway. Beldaran’s was soft and golden, but mine was like a horse’s mane, and there was this ugly white streak.’ She absently touched the white lock at her left brow with the comb.

  ‘What caused that?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘Your grandfather touched me there with his hand the first time he saw me—when I was just a baby. The lock turned white instantly. We’re all marked in one way or another, you know. You have the mark on your palm; I have this white lock; your grandfather has a mark just over his heart. It’s in different places on each of us, but it means the same thing.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It has to do with what we are, dear.’ She turned Errand around and looked at him, her lips pursed. Then she gently touched the curls just over his ears. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I was wild and willful and not at all pretty when I was young. The Vale of Aldur isn’t really a very good place for a girl to grow up, and a group of crotchety old sorcerers is not really a very good substitute for a mother. They tend to forget that you’re around. You remember that huge, ancient tree in the middle of the Vale?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I climbed up into that tree once and stayed there for two weeks before anyone noticed that I hadn’t been underfoot lately. That sort of thing can make a girl feel neglected and unloved.’

  ‘How did you finally find out—that you’re really beautiful, I mean?’

  She smiled. ‘That’s another story, dear.’ She looked at him rather directly. ‘Do you suppose we can stop tiptoeing around the subject now?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That business in your letter about you and Ce’Nedra.’

  ‘Oh, that. I probably shouldn’t have bothered you with it, Aunt Pol. It’s my problem, after all.’ He looked away uncomfortably.