"It's awkward and uncomfortable, but I suppose it's worth it." Then she waddled over and kissed me.
"How have you been, father?" she asked me.
"About the same," I replied.
"Oh, yes," Pol agreed.
"Nothing changes our father."
"Why don't we go inside?" Riva suggested.
"We don't want Beldaran taking a chill."
"I'm perfectly fine, Riva," she told him.
"You worry too much."
Beldaran's pregnancy raised all sorts of emotions in me. Strangely, the memories of her mother weren't all that painful. Poledra's pregnancy had made her very happy, and I remembered that rather than what happened later.
I'd been a little uneasy about returning Polgara to the scene of her previous triumphs, but she evidently felt that she'd already broken enough hearts there, so she largely ignored the young men who flocked to the Citadel when word of her arrival got around. Pol enjoys being the center of attention, but she had other things on her mind this time. The young men sulked, but I don't think that bothered her much. I know it didn't bother me.
She spent most of her time with her sister, of course, but she did have long conferences with the midwives. I think her interest in the healing arts dates from that time. I suppose that birth is a logical place to begin the study of medicine.
The rest of us were redundant. If there's ever a time in a man's life when he's redundant, it's when his women-folk are delivering babies. Pol made that abundantly clear to us, and we wisely chose not to argue with her about it. Young as she was, Polgara had already begun to take charge of things. There have been times--many times--when I'd have been happier if she weren't quite so forceful, but that's the way she is.
Riva had set aside a room high up in one of the towers that served him as a kind of study, not that he was really all that studious. I'm not trying to imply that he was stupid, by any means, but he didn't have that burning interest in books that characterizes the scholar. I think his major concern at that time had to do with the tax code.
Fleet-foot, Anrak, and I took to joining him in that tower room-largely to stay out from underfoot, I think.
"Have you heard from Beldin?" Algar asked me one morning after we'd settled in for one of those random day-long discussions.
"Not for several months," I replied.
"I guess things are quiet in Mallorea."
"Is Torak still at Ashaba?" Riva asked.
"So far as I know. From what Beldin told me the last time we talked, that ecstasy is still on him."
"I don't quite understand that," Anrak confessed.
"Exactly what's happening to him?"
"Have you heard about the two Destinies?"
"Vaguely. The priest of Belar talks about them in church sometimes.
It usually puts me to sleep."
"Try to stay awake this time," I told him.
"To put it in the simplest terms, the universe came into existence with a Purpose."
"I understand that part."
"Good. Anyway, something happened that wasn't supposed to happen, and it divided that Purpose. Now there are two possibilities where there used to be only one."
"This is the place where I usually go to sleep," he said.
"Fight it. Always before, we got our instructions directly from the Gods, but they've left now, so we're supposed to be instructed by one or the other of the two Necessities. Torak follows one, and we follow the other. Certain people get touched by those Necessities, and they start to talk. Most people think they're just crazy, but they're not. They're passing instructions on to us."
"Isn't that a cumbersome way to do it?"
I shrugged.
"Yes, but it has to be that way."
"Why?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. Anyway, Torak's been raving for years now, and Urvon's got scribes taking down his every word. There are instructions and hints about the future in those ravings. As soon as Torak comes to his senses again, he'll try to figure out what they mean." I suddenly remembered something.
"Does Dras still have that maniac chained to a post near Boktor?" I asked Riva.
"So far as I know he does--unless the fellow's chewed his chain in two and run off into the fens by now. There's one in Darine, as well, you know. He's not quite as crazy as the one Dras has, but he's close."
I looked at Algar.
"You've got clans near Darine, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Can you get word to one of your Clan-Chiefs? I want scribes to start taking down that fellow's ravings. They're probably important."
"I've already taken care of that, Belgarath."
"I think I'll take the long way around when I go home," I mused.
"I
want to have a look at these two prophets--and talk to them. Maybe I can say something that'll set them off. Has Dras made any contacts with the Nadraks?"
"Not personally," Riva replied.
"Dras has prejudices where Angaraks are concerned. There are merchants in Boktor, though, and there's a little bit of trade going on along the border. The merchants have been picking up quite a bit of information."
"Anything useful?"
"It's hard to say. Things have a way of getting garbled after they've passed through six or eight people. From what I understand, the Murgos have been moving south into the lands of the western Dals. They almost had to, I guess. The Thulls have started to lose interest in feeding their former masters, and nothing grows around Rak Goska. The Murgos either had to move or starve."
"Maybe they'll wander off the southern end of the continent," Algar said.
"The notion of watching the Murgos marching out to sea sort of appeals to me."
"Has there been any word about Ctuchik?" I asked.
"I think he's left Rak Goska," Riva replied.
"They say that he's building a city at a place called Rak Cthol. It's supposed to be on top of a mountain somewhere."
"It'd be consistent," I said.
"Ctuchik's a Grolim, and the Grolims have been in mourning ever since Korim sank into the sea. They adore temples on top of mountains, for some reason."
"They wouldn't get too much worship out of me in a place like that,"
Anrak said.
"I'll go to church if it's not too much trouble, but I don't think I'd want to climb a mountain to get there." He looked at me.
"Have you ever met this Ctuchik?"
"I think so," I replied.
"I think he was the one who was chasing us after we stole the Orb. Ctuchik more or less ran things at Cthol Mishrak.
Torak was concentrating all his attention on the Orb, so he left the day-to-day details to Ctuchik. I know that the one leading the pursuit was either Urvon or Ctuchik, and I hear Urvon didn't go to Cthol Mishrak unless Torak summoned him."
"What does Ctuchik look like?"
"A dog, last time I looked," Algar murmured.
"A dog?"
"One of the Hounds of Torak," I explained.
"Certain Grolims took on the form of Hounds so that they could guard the place."
"Who'd want to go near a place like Cthol Mishrak?"
"We did," Algar told him.
"There was something there we wanted."
He looked at me.
"Has Beldin heard anything about where Zedar might be?" He asked.
"Not that he mentioned."
"I think maybe we ought to keep an eye out for him. We know that Urvon's at Mal Yaska and Ctuchik's at Rak Cthol. We don't know where Zedar is, and that makes him dangerous. Urvon and Ctuchik are Angaraks. If either one of them comes after the Orb, he'll come with an army. Zedar's not an Angarak, so he might try something different."
I could have saved myself--and a large number of other people--a great deal of trouble if I'd paid closer attention to what Fleet-foot said.
We didn't have time to pursue the question, though, because it was just about then that the messenger Pol had sent found us.
"Lord Riva," he said to my son-in-law,
"Lady Polgara says that you're supposed to come now."
Riva stood up quickly.
"Is everything all right?" he asked.
The messenger was a bearded Alorn warrior, and he seemed a little offended by his errand. Polgara tends to ignore rank, and when she needs something, she'll send the first person she sees to get it.
"Everything seems normal to me," the messenger replied, shrugging.
"The women are all running around with pails of hot water, and your wife's yelling."
"Yelling?" Riva's eyes got wild.
"Women always yell when they're having babies, my Lord. My wife's had nine, and she still yells. You'd think they'd get used to it after a while, wouldn't you?"
Riva pushed past him and went down the stairs four at a time.
It was the first time that Pol had officiated at a birth, so she was probably just a bit premature about summoning Riva. Beldaran's labor continued for about another four hours, and Iron-grip was definitely in the way the whole time. I think my daughter learned a valuable lesson that day. After that, she always invented something for the expectant father to do during his wife's labor--usually something physical and a long way away from the birthing chamber.
In the normal course of time, Beldaran delivered my grandson, a red-faced, squirming boy with damp hair that dried to sandy blond. Polgara emerged from the bedroom with the small, blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms and a strange, almost wistful look on her face.
"Behold the heir to the Rivan throne," she said to us, holding out the baby.
Riva stumbled to his feet.
"Is he all right?" he stammered.
"He has the customary number of arms and legs, if that's what you mean," Pol replied.
"Here." She thrust the baby at his father.
"Hold him.
I want to help my sister."
"Is she all right?"
"She's fine, Riva. Take the baby."
"Isn't he awfully small?"
"Most babies are. Take him."
"Maybe I'd better not. I might drop him."
Her eyes glinted.
"Take the baby, Riva." She said it slowly, emphasizing each word. Nobody argues with Polgara when she takes that tone.
Riva's hands were shaking very badly when he reached out to take his son.
"Support his head," she instructed.
Riva placed one of his huge hands behind the baby's head. His knees were visibly trembling.
"Maybe you'd better sit down," she said.
He sank back into his chair, his face very pale.
"Men!" Polgara said, rolling her eyes upward. Then she turned and went back into the bedroom.
My grandson looked at his father gravely. He had very blue eyes, and he seemed much calmer than the trembling giant who was holding him.
After a few minutes, Iron-grip began that meticulous examination of his newborn offspring that all parents seem to feel is necessary. I'm not sure why people always want to count fingers and toes under those circumstances.
"Would you look at those tiny little fingernails!" Riva exclaimed.
Why are people always surprised about the size of baby's fingernails? Are they expecting claws, perhaps?
"Belgarath!" Riva said then in a choked voice.
"He's deformed!"
I looked down at the baby.
"He looks all right to me."
"There's a mark on the palm of his right hand!" He carefully opened those tiny fingers to show me.
The mark wasn't very large, of course, hardly more than a small white spot.
"Oh, that," I said.
"Don't worry about it. It's supposed to be there."
"What?"
"Look at your own hand, Riva," I said patiently.
He opened that massive right hand of his.
"But that's a burn mark. I got it when I picked up the Orb for the first time--before it got to know me."
"Did it hurt when it burned you?"
"I don't remember exactly. I was a little excited at the time. Torak was right in the next room, and I wasn't sure he'd stay asleep."
"It's not a burn, Riva. The Orb knew who you were, and it wasn't going to hurt you. All it did was mark you. Your son's marked the same way because he's going to be the next keeper of the Orb. You might as well get used to that mark. It's going to be in your family for a long time."
"What an amazing thing. How did you find out about this?"
I shrugged.
"Aldur told me," I replied. It was the easy thing to say, but it wasn't true. I hadn't known about the mark until I saw it, but as soon as I did, I knew exactly what it meant. Evidently a great deal of information had been passed on to me while I had been sharing my head with that peculiar voice that had guided us to Cthol Mishrak. The inconvenient part of the whole business lies in the fact that these insights don't rise to the surface until certain events come along to trigger them. Moreover, as soon as I saw that mark on my grandson's palm, I knew there was something I had to do.
That had to wait, however, because Polgara came out of the bedroom just then.
"Give him to me," she told Riva.
"What for?" Iron-grip's voice had a possessive tone to it.
"It's time he had something to eat. I think Beldaran ought to take care of that--unless you want to do it."
He actually blushed as he quickly handed the baby over.
I wasn't able to attend to my little project until the following morning.
I don't think the baby got very much sleep that night. Everybody wanted to hold him. He took it well, though. My grandson was an uncommonly good-natured baby. He didn't fuss or cry, but just examined each new face with that same grave, serious expression. I even got the chance to hold him once--for a little while. I took him in my hands and winked at him. He actually smiled. That made me feel very good, for some reason.
There was a bit of an argument the next morning, however.
"He needs to get some sleep," Polgara insisted.
"He needs to do something else first," I told her.
"Isn't he a little young for chores, father?"
"He's not too young for this one. Bring him along."
"Where are we going?"
"To the throne room. Just bring him, Pol. Don't argue with me. This is one of those things that's supposed to happen."
She gave me a strange look.
"Why didn't you say so, father?"
"I just did."
"What's happening here?" Riva asked me.
"I wouldn't want to spoil it for you. Come along."
We trooped through the halls from the royal apartment to the Hall of the Rivan King, and the two guards who were always there opened the massive doors for us.
I'd been in Riva's throne room before, of course, but the size of the place always surprised me just a bit. It was vaulted, naturally. You can't really support a flat roof safely over a room of that size. Massive beams crisscrossed high overhead, and they were held in place by carved wooden buttresses. There were three great stone fire pits set at intervals in the floor, and a broad aisle that led down to the basalt throne. Riva's sword hung point-down on the wall behind the throne, and the Orb resting on the pommel was flickering slightly. I'm told that it did that whenever Riva entered the hall.
We marched straight to the throne.
"Take down your sword, Iron-grip," I said.
"Why?"
"It's a ceremony, Riva," I told him.
"Take down the sword, hold it by the blade, and introduce your son to the Orb."
"It's only a rock, Belgarath. It doesn't care what his name is."
"I think you might be surprised."
He shrugged.
"If you say so." He reached up and took hold of the huge blade. Then he lifted down the great sword and held the pommel out to the baby in Polgara's arms.
"This is my son, Daran," he said to the Orb.
"He'll take care of you after I'm g
one."
I might have said it differently, but Riva Iron-grip was a plainspoken sort of fellow who didn't set much store in ceremonies. I immediately recognized the derivation of my grandson's name, and I was sure that Beldaran would be pleased.
I'm almost certain that the infant Daran had been asleep in his aunt's arms, but something seemed to wake him up. His eyes opened, and he saw my Master's Orb, which his father was holding out to him. It's easy to say that a baby will reach out for any bright thing that's offered to him, but Daran knew exactly what he was supposed to do. He'd known about that before he was even born.
He reached out that small, marked hand and firmly laid it palm-down on the Orb.
The Orb recognized him immediately. It burst joyously into bright blue flame, a blue aura surrounded Pol and the baby, and the sound of millions of exulting voices seemed to echo down from the stars.
I have it on the very best of authority that the sound brought Torak howling to his feet in Ashaba, half a world away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Pol and I stayed on the Isle of the Winds for about a month after Daran was born. There wasn't anything urgent calling us back to the Vale, and it was a rather special time in our lives.
Beldaran was up and about in a few days, and she and Pol spent most of their time together. I don't think I'd fully understood how painful their separation had been for both of them. Every now and then, I'd catch a glimpse of Polgara's face in an unguarded moment. Her expression was one of obscure pain. Beldaran had inexorably been drawn away from her --first by her husband and now by her baby. Their lives had diverged, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.
Algar Fleet-foot left for Vo Wacune after a week or so to have a talk with the Wacite duke. Evidently, the idea that'd come to him in that mountain pass had set fire to his imagination, and he really wanted to explore the possibility of establishing a permanent cattle fair at Muros.
Raising cows has its satisfactions, I suppose, but getting rid of them after you've raised them is something else. If I'd paid closer attention to the implications of his notion, I might have realized just how profoundly it would affect history. Revenues from that fair financed the military adventures of the Wacites during the Arendish civil wars, and the profits to be made in Muros almost guaranteed a Tolnedran presence there. Ultimately, I suppose, that cattle fair was responsible for the founding of the Kingdom of Sendaria. I've always felt that an economic theory of history is an oversimplification, but in this case it had a certain validity.
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