‘Why—yes,’ he replied. ‘I suppose I did, Pol.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Errand was out there playing,’ Durnik said, still concentrating most of his attention on the harness. ‘I didn’t think you’d want him to get wet.’
Polgara looked at the cloud wasting all of its rain on grass so deeply rooted that it could have easily survived a ten-month drought. Then she looked at her garden and its drooping turnip tops and pathetic beans. She clenched her teeth tightly together to keep in certain words and phrases which she knew might shock her strait-laced and proper husband. She raised her face to the sky and lifted her arms in supplication. ‘Why me?’ she demanded in a loud, tragic voice. ‘Why me?’
‘Why, dear,’ Durnik said mildly, ‘whatever is wrong?’
Polgara told him what was wrong—at some length.
Durnik spent the next week putting in an irrigation system leading from the upper end of their valley to Polgara’s garden, and she forgave him for his mistake almost as soon as he had finished it.
The winter came late that year, and autumn lingered in the Vale. The twins, Beltira and Belkira, came by just before the snows set in and told them that, after several weeks of discussion, both Belgarath and Beldin had left the Vale, and that each of them had gone away with that serious expression on his face that mean that there was trouble somewhere.
Errand missed Belgarath’s company that winter. To be sure, the old sorcerer had, more often than not, managed to get him in trouble with Polgara, but Errand felt somehow that he shouldn’t really be expected to devote every waking moment to staying out of trouble. When the snow came, he took up sledding again. After she had watched him come flying down the hill and across the meadow a few times, Polgara prudently asked Durnik to erect a barrier at the stream bank to prevent a recurrence of the previous winter’s mishap. It was while the smith was erecting a woven wattle fence to keep Errand on dry land that he happened to glance down into the water. Because the often muddy little rills that emptied into their stream were all locked in ice now, the water was low and as clear as crystal. Durnik could very clearly see the long, narrow shapes hovering like shadows in the current above the beds of gravel that formed the bottom.
‘What a curious thing,’ he murmured, his eyes taking on that peculiarly abstracted look. ‘I’ve never noticed them there before.’
‘I’ve seen them jumping,’ Errand said. ‘But most of the time, the water’s too cloudy to see them when they’re lying underwater.’
‘I imagine that’s the reason for it, all right,’ Durnik agreed. He tied the end of the wattle fence to a tree and thoughtfully walked through the snow toward the shed he had built at the back of the cottage. A moment or so later he emerged with the skein of waxed cord in his hand; five minutes later he was fishing. Errand smiled and turned to trudge back up the long hill, towing his sled behind him. When he reached the top of the hill, a strange, hooded young woman awaited him.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked politely.
The young woman pushed back her hood to reveal the fact that a dark cloth was tightly bound across her eyes. ‘Thou art the one they call Errand?’ she asked. Her voice was low and musical, and there was a peculiar lilt to her archaic speech.
‘Yes,’ Errand replied, ‘I am. Did you hurt your eyes?’
‘Nay, gentle child,’ she replied. ‘I must needs look upon the world by a light other than that of the mundane sun.’
‘Would you like to come down to our cottage?’ Errand asked her. ‘You could warm yourself by our fire, and Polgara would welcome company.’
‘Though I revere the Lady Polgara, the time has not yet arrived for us to meet,’ the young woman said, ‘and it is not cold where I am.’ She paused and bent forward slightly as if she were in fact peering at him, though the cloth over her eyes was quite thick. ‘It is true then,’ she murmured softly. ‘We could not be certain at such great distance, but now that I am face to face with thee, I know that there can be no mistake.’ She straightened then. ‘We will meet again,’ she told him.
‘As you wish, ma’am,’ Errand replied, remembering his manners.
She smiled, and her smile was so radiant that it seemed almost to bring sunlight to the murky winter afternoon. ‘I am Cyradis,’ she said, ‘and I bear thee friendship, gentle Errand, even though the time may come when I must needs decide against thee.’ And then she vanished, disappearing so suddenly that she was there and then gone in the space of a single heart beat.
Startled a bit, Errand glanced at the snow where she had stood and saw that there were no marks or footprints. He sat down on his sled to think about it. Nothing that the strange young woman had said really seemed to make much sense, but he was fairly sure that a time would come when it would. After a bit of thought he concluded that this peculiar visit would upset Polgara if she heard about it. Since he was certain that this Cyradis posed no threat and meant him no harm, he decided that he would not mention the incident.
Then, because it was growing quite chilly atop the hill, he pushed his sled into motion and coasted down the long slope and across the meadow and to within a few dozen yards of where Durnik was fishing with such total concentration that he was oblivious of all that was going on around him.
Polgara was tolerant about Durnik’s pastime. She was always suitably impressed at the length, weight, and silvery color of the prizes he brought home and she drew upon all her vast knowledge to find new and interesting ways to fry, bake, broil, roast, and even poach fish. She adamantly insisted, however, that he clean them.
When spring returned once again, Belgarath came by, mounted on a spirited roan stallion.
‘What happened to your mare?’ Durnik asked the old man as he dismounted in the dooryard of the cottage.
Belgarath made a sour face. ‘I was halfway to Drasnia when I discovered that she was pregnant. I traded her for this enthusiast.’ He gave the prancing roan a hard look.
‘It looks as if you might have gotten the best of the bargain,’ Durnik mused, looking Belgarath’s horse over.
‘The mare was sedate and sensible,’ the old man disagreed. ‘This one doesn’t have a brain in his head. All he wants to do is show off—running, jumping, rearing, and pawing the air with his hooves.’ He shook his head in disgust.
‘Put him in the barn, father,’ Polgara suggested, ‘and wash up. You’re just in time for supper. You can have a baked fish. As a matter of fact, you can have several baked fish if you’d like.’
After they had eaten, Belgarath turned his chair around, leaned back, and pushed his feet out toward the fire. He looked around with a contented smile at the polished flagstone floor, the limed white walls with polished pots and kettles hanging on pegs, and at the dancing light and shadow coming from the arched fireplace. ‘It’s good to relax a bit,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve stopped moving since I left here last autumn.’
‘What is it that’s so pressing, father?’ Polgara asked him as she cleared away the supper dishes.
‘Beldin and I had quite a long talk,’ the old man replied. ‘There are some things going on in Mallorea that I don’t quite like.’
‘What earthly difference can it make now, father? Our interest in Mallorea ended at Cthol Mishrak when Torak died. You were not appointed caretaker of the world, you know.’
‘I wish it were that easy, Pol,’ he said. ‘Does the name “the Sardion” mean anything to you? Or “Cthrag Sardius” perhaps?’
She was pouring hot water from a kettle into the large pan in which she customarily washed the dishes, but she stopped, frowning slightly. ‘I think I heard a Grolim say something about “Cthrag Sardius” once. He was delirious and babbling in old Angarak.’
‘Can you remember what he was saying?’ Belgarath asked intently.
‘I’m sorry, father, but I don’t speak old Angarak. You never got around to teaching me, remember?’ She looked at Errand and crooked one finger at him.
Errand sighed disconsolat
ely, got up, and fetched a dish towel.
‘Don’t make faces, Errand,’ she told. ‘It doesn’t hurt you to help clean up after supper.’ She looked back at Belgarath as she started to wash the dishes. ‘What’s the significance of the “Sardion” or whatever you call it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Belgarath replied, scratching at his beard in perplexity. ‘As Beldin pointed out, though, Torak called our Master’s Orb “Cthrag Yaska.” It’s possible, I suppose, that “Cthrag Sardius” might be connected in some way.’
‘I picked up a lot of “possibles” and “supposes” and “mights” in there, father,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you aren’t chasing after shadows out of habit—or just to keep busy.’
‘You know me well enough to know that I’m not all that enthusiastic about keeping busy, Pol,’ he said wryly.
‘So I’ve noticed. Is anything else happening in the world?’
‘Let’s see,’ Belgarath leaned back and stared speculatively at the low-beamed ceiling. ‘The Grand Duke Noragon ate something that definitely didn’t agree with him.’
‘Who is the Grand Duke Noragon? And why are we interested in his digestion?’ Polgara asked.
‘The Grand Duke Noragon was the candidate of the Honeth family to succeed Ran Borune on the Imperial Throne of Tolnedra,’ Belgarath smirked. ‘He was a complete and total jackass, and his ascension to the throne would have been an unmitigated disaster.’
‘You said was,’ Durnik noted.
‘Right. Noragon’s indigestion proved fatal. It is widely suspected that some splendid Horbite sympathizer used certain exotic condiments that come from the jungles of Nyissa to season the Grand Duke’s last lunch. The symptoms, I understand, were quite spectacular. The Honeths are in total disarray, and the other families are gloating outrageously.’
‘Tolnedran politics are disgusting,’ Polgara declared.
‘Our Prince Kheldar appears to be well on his way toward becoming the wealthiest man in the world,’ Belgarath continued.
‘Silk?’ Durnik looked a bit amazed. ‘Has he managed to steal that much already?’
‘I gather that what he’s doing is sort of legitimate this time,’ Belgarath said. ‘He and that rascal Yarblek have somehow managed to gain control of the entire Nadrak fur harvest. I wasn’t able to get all the details, but the screams of anguish coming from the major commercial houses in Boktor would seem to indicate that our friends are doing rather well.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ Durnik said.
‘That’s probably because you haven’t been in the market for a fur cape lately.’ Belgarath chuckled. ‘The price has taken quite a jump, I understand.’ The old man rocked back in his chair. ‘In Cthol Murgos, your friend Kal Zakath is methodically butchering his way down the east coast. He’s added Rak Cthan and Rak Hagga to the list of cities he’s captured and depopulated. I’m not too fond of Murgos, but it’s just possible that Zakath is going a little too far.’
‘Kal Zakath?’ Polgara asked with one eyebrow slightly raised.
‘An affectation.’ Belgarath shrugged.
‘More likely a symptom,’ she observed. ‘Angarak rulers always seem to be unstable in one way or another.’ She turned to look at her father. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Have you heard anything from Riva? How are Garion and Ce’Nedra doing?’
‘I haven’t heard a sound—oh, a few official things. “The Rivan King is pleased to announce the appointment of Earl what’s-his-name as Rivan ambassador to the Kingdom of Drasnia.” That sort of thing, but nothing in the least bit personal.’
‘We are sure that he knows how to write, aren’t we?’ she demanded exasperatedly. ‘I’m sure that he’s not so busy that he hasn’t had the time to write at least one letter in the last two years.’
‘He did,’ Errand said quietly. He might not have mentioned the letter, but it seemed very important to Polgara.
She looked at him sharply. ‘What did you say?’ she asked.
‘Belgarion wrote to you last winter,’ Errand said. ‘The letter got lost, though, when the ship his messenger was aboard sank.’
‘If the ship sank, then how do you—’
‘Pol,’ Belgarath said in a tone that seemed uncharacteristically firm, ‘why don’t you let me handle this?’ He turned to Errand. ‘You say that Garion wrote a letter to Polgara last winter?’
‘Yes,’ Errand said.
‘But that the letter was lost when the messenger’s ship sank?’
Errand nodded.
‘Why didn’t he write another one then?’
‘He doesn’t know that the ship sank.’
‘But you do?’
Errand nodded again.
‘Do you by any chance know what the letter said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you suppose you could recite it for us?’
‘I guess I could, if you want. Belgarion’s going to write another one in a week or so, though.’
Belgarath gave him a strange look. ‘Why don’t you tell us what the first one said? That way we won’t miss anything.’
‘All right,’ Errand agreed. He frowned, concentrating very hard. ‘He started out by saying, “Dear Aunt Pol and Durnik.” I think that’s sort of nice, don’t you?’
‘Just recite the letter, Errand,’ Belgarath said patiently. ‘Save the comments for later.’
‘All right.’ Errand stared thoughtfully into the fire. ‘“I’m sorry I haven’t written earlier,”’ he recited, ‘“but I’ve been terribly busy learning how to be a good king. It’s easy enough to be King—all you need is to be born into the right family. To be a good king is harder, though. Brand helps me as much as he can, but I still have to make a lot of decisions about things that I don’t really understand.
‘“Ce’Nedra is well—at least I think so. We’re hardly talking to each other any more, so it’s kind of hard to say for sure. Brand is a bit concerned that we haven’t had any children yet, but I don’t think he needs to worry. So far as I can tell, we’re never going to have any children, and maybe it’s just as well. I really think we should have gotten to know each other a little better before we got married. I’m sure that there’s some way that we could have called it off. Now it’s too late. We’ll just have to make the best of it. If we don’t see each other too much, we can usually manage to be civil to each other—at least civil enough to keep up appearances.
‘“Barak came by in that big war boat of his last summer, and we had a very good visit. He told me all about—”’
‘Just a moment, Errand.’ Polgara stopped the recitation. ‘Does he say any more about the trouble he’s having with Ce’Nedra?’
‘No, ma’am,’ Errand replied after a moment during which he quickly ran through the rest of the letter in his mind. ‘He wrote about Barak’s visit and some news he got from King Anheg and a letter from Mandorallen. That’s about all. He said that he loves you and misses you very much. That’s how he ended it.’
Polgar and Belgarath exchanged a very long look. Errand could feel their perplexity, but he was not sure exactly how to set their minds at rest about the matter.
‘You’re sure that’s the way the letter went?’ Belgarath asked him.
Errand nodded. ‘That’s what he wrote.’
‘And you knew what was in the letter as soon as he wrote it?’
Errand hesitated. ‘I don’t know if it was like that exactly. It doesn’t really work that way, you know. You have to sort of think about it, and I didn’t really think about it until the subject came up—when Polgara was talking about it just now.’
‘Does it matter how far away the other person is?’ Belgarath asked curiously.
‘No,’ Errand replied, ‘I don’t think so. It just seems to be there when I want it to be.’
‘No one can do that, father,’ Polgara said to the old man. ‘No one has ever been able to do that.’
‘Apparently the rules have changed,’ Belgarath said thoughtfu
lly. ‘I think we’ll have to accept it as genuine, don’t you?’
She nodded. ‘He doesn’t have any reason to make it up.’
‘I think you and I are going to have to have some very long talks together, Errand,’ the old man said.
‘Perhaps,’ Polgara said, ‘but not just yet.’ She turned back to the boy. ‘Could you repeat what Garion said about Ce’Nedra for me?’
Errand nodded. ‘“Ce’Nedra is well—at least I think so. We’re hardly talking to each other any more, so it’s kind of hard to say for sure. Brand is a bit concerned that—”’
‘That’s fine, Errand,’ she said, raising one hand slightly. Then she looked into the boy’s face. After a moment, one of her eyebrows shot up. ‘Tell me,’ she said, very carefully choosing her words, ‘do you know what’s wrong between Garion and Ce’Nedra?’
‘Yes,’ Errand replied.
‘Would you tell me?’
‘If you want. Ce’Nedra did something that made Garion very angry, and then he did something that embarrassed her in public, and that made her angry. She thinks that he doesn’t pay enough attention to her and that he spends all his time on his work so that he won’t have to spend any with her. He thinks that she’s selfish and spoiled and doesn’t think about anybody but herself. They’re both wrong, but they’ve had a lot of arguments about it and they’ve hurt each other so much with some of the things they’ve said that they’ve both given up on being married to each other. They’re terribly unhappy.’
‘Thank you, Errand,’ she said. Then she turned to Durnik. ‘We’ll need to pack a few things,’ she said.
‘Oh?’ He looked a bit surprised.
‘We’re going to Riva,’ she said quite firmly.
Chapter Four
At Camaar, Belgarath ran across an old friend in a tavern near the harbor. When he brought the bearded, fur-clad Cherek to the inn where they were staying, Polgara gave the swaying sailor a penetrating look. ‘How long have you been drunk, Captain Greldik?’ she asked bluntly.
The Malloreon: Book 01 - Guardians of the West Page 6