Meanwhile, I hovered on the outskirts of my little family waiting for the chance to get my hands on my grandson. You have no idea of how difficult that was. He was Beldaran's first child, and she treated him like a new appendage. When she wasn't holding him, Polgara was. Then it was Riva's turn. Then it was time for Beldaran to feed him again. They passed him around like a group of children playing with a ball, and there wasn't room for another player in their little game.
I was finally obliged to take steps. I waited until the middle of the night, crept into the nursery, and lifted Daran out of his cradle. Then I crept out again. All grandparents have strong feelings about their grandchildren, but my motives went a little further than a simple desire to get all gooey inside. Daran was the direct result of certain instructions my Master had given me, and I needed to be alone with him for a few minutes to find out if I'd done it right.
I carried him out into the sitting room where a single candle burned, held him on my lap, and looked directly into those sleepy eyes.
"It's nothing really all that important," I murmured to him. I refuse to babble gibberish to a baby. I think it's insulting. I was very careful about what I did, of course. A baby's mind is extremely malleable, and I didn't want to damage my grandson. I probed quite gently, lightly brushing my fingertip --figuratively speaking--across the edges of his awareness. The merger of my family with Riva's was supposed to produce someone very important, and I needed to know something about Daran's potential.
I wasn't disappointed. His mind was unformed, but it was very quick.
I think he realized in a vague sort of way what I was doing, and he smiled at me. I suppressed an urge to shout with glee. He was going to work out just fine.
"We'll get to know each other better later on," I told him.
"I just thought I ought to say hello." Then I took him back to the nursery and tucked him into his cradle.
He watched me a lot after that, and he always giggled when I winked at him. Riva and Beldaran thought that was adorable. Polgara, however, didn't.
"What did you do to that baby?" she demanded when she caught me alone in the hall after supper one evening.
"I just introduced myself, Pol," I replied as inoffensively as possible.
"Oh, really?"
"You've got a suspicious mind, Polgara," I told her.
"I am the boy's grandfather, after all. It's only natural for him to like me."
"Why does he laugh when he looks at you, then?"
"Because I'm a very funny fellow, I suppose. Hadn't you ever noticed that?"
She glowered at me, but I hadn't left her any openings. It was one of the few times I ever managed to outmaneuver her. I'm rather proud of it, actually.
"I'm going to watch you very closely, Old Man," she warned.
"Feel free, Pol. Maybe if I do something funny enough, I'll even be able to get a smile out of you." Then I patted her fondly on the cheek and went off down the hall, whistling a little tune.
Pol and I left the Isle a few weeks later. Anrak sailed us across the Sea of the Winds to that deeply indented bay that lies just to the west of Lake Sendar, and we landed at the head of the bay where the city of Sendar itself now stands. There wasn't a city there at the time, though, just that gloomy forest that covered all of northern Sendaria until about the middle of the fourth millennium.
"That's not very promising-looking country, Belgarath," Anrak told me as Pol and I prepared to disembark.
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have me sail you around to Darine?"
"No, this is fine, Anrak. Let's not risk the Cherek Bore if we don't have to."
"It's not all that bad, Belgarath--or so they tell me."
"You're wrong, Anrak," I said quite firmly.
"It is that bad. The Great Maelstrom in the middle of it swallows whole fleets just for breakfast. I'd rather walk."
"Cherek war boats go through it all the time, Belgarath."
"This isn't a Cherek war boat, and you aren't crazy enough to be a Cherek. We'll walk."
And so Anrak beached his ship, and Pol and I got off. I wonder when the practice of beaching ships fell into disuse. Sailors used to do it all the time. Now they stand off a ways and send passengers ashore in longboats.
It's probably a Tolnedran innovation. Tolnedran sea captains tend to be a bit on the timid side.
My daughter and I stood on that sandy beach watching Anrak's sailors straining to get his ship back out into the water. When she was finally afloat again, they poled her out a ways, raised the sails, and went off down the bay.
"What now, father?" Pol asked me.
I squinted up at the sun.
"It's mid-afternoon," I told her.
"Let's set up a camp and get an early start in the morning."
"Are you sure you know the way to Darine?"
"Of course I am." I wasn't, actually. I'd never been there before, but I had a general idea of where it was. Over the years, I've found that it's usually best to pretend that I know what I'm doing and where I'm going.
It heads off a lot of arguments in the long run.
We went back from the beach a ways and set up camp in a rather pleasant forest clearing. I offered to do the cooking, but Pol wouldn't hear of it. I even made a few suggestions about cooking over an open campfire, but she tartly told me to mind my own business and she did it her own way. Actually, supper didn't turn out too badly.
We traveled northwesterly through that ancient forest for the next couple of days. The region was unpopulated, so there weren't any paths. I kept our general direction firmly in mind and simply followed the course of least resistance. I've spent a lot of time in the woods over the years, and I've found that to be about the best way to go through them. There's a certain amount of meandering involved, but it gets you to where you're going--eventually.
Polgara, however, didn't like it.
"How far have we come today?" she asked me on the evening of the second day.
"Oh, I don't know," I replied.
"Probably six or eight leagues."
"I meant in a straight line."
"You don't follow straight lines in the woods, Pol. The trees get in the way."
"There is a faster way to do this, father."
"Were you in a hurry?"
"I'm not enjoying this, Old Man." She looked around at the huge, mossy trees with distaste.
"It's damp, it's dirty, and there are bugs. I haven't had a bath for four days."
"You don't have to bathe when you're in the woods, Pol. The squirrels don't mind if your face is dirty."
"Are we going to argue about this?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"Why walk when we can fly?"
I stared at her.
"How did you know about that?" I demanded.
"Uncle Beldin does it all the time. You're supposed to be educating me, father. This seems to be a perfect time for me to learn how to change my form into one that's more useful. You can suit yourself, of course, but I'm not going to plod through this gloomy forest all the way to Darine just so you can look at the scenery." Pol can turn the slightest thing into an ultimatum. It's her one great failing.
There was a certain logic to what she was saying, however. Wandering around in the woods is enjoyable, but there were other things I wanted to do, and the art of changing form is one of the more useful ones. I wasn't entirely positive that her talent was that far along yet, though, so I was a little dubious about the whole idea.
"We'll try it," I finally gave in. It was easier than arguing with her.
"When?"
"Tomorrow morning."
"Why not now?"
"Because it's getting dark. I don't want you flying into a tree and breaking your beak."
"Whatever you say, father." Her submissive tone was fraudulent, naturally. She'd won the argument, so now she could afford to be gracious about it.
She was up the next morning before it got light, and she'd crammed my breakfast into me before t
he sun came up.
"Now, then," she said, "let's get started." She really wanted to try this.
I described the procedure to her at some length, carefully going over all the details while her look of impatience grew more and more pronounced.
"Oh, let's get on with it, father," she said finally.
"All right, Pol," I surrendered.
"I suppose you can always change back if you turn yourself into a flying rabbit."
She looked a little startled at that.
"Details, Polgara," I told her.
"This is one case when you really have to pay attention to details. Feathers aren't that easy, you know. All right.
Don't rush. Take it slowly."
And, of course, she ignored me. Her eyebrows sank into a scowl of intense concentration. Then she shimmered and blurred--and became a snowy white owl.
My eyes filled with tears immediately, and I choked back a sob.
"Change back!"
She looked a little startled when she resumed her own form.
"Don't ever do that again!" I commanded.
"What's wrong, father?"
"Any shape but that one."
"What's wrong with that one? Uncle Beldin says that mother used to do it all the time."
"Exactly. Pick another shape."
"Are you crying, father?" she asked with a certain surprise.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."
"I didn't think you knew how." She touched my face almost tenderly.
"Would some other kind of owl be all right?"
"Turn yourself into a pelican if you want to. Just stay away from that shape."
"How about this one?" She blurred into the form of a tufted owl instead. She was a mottled brown color, and the sprigs of feathers sprouting from the sides of her head altered that painful appearance enough so that I could bear to live with it.
I drew in a deep breath.
"All right," I told her, "flap your wings and see if you can get up off the ground."
She hooted at me.
"I can't understand you, Pol. Just flap your wings. We can talk about it later."
Would you believe that she did it perfectly the first time? I should have had suspicions at that point, but I was still all choked up, so I didn't think about it. With a few strokes of those soft wings she lifted herself effortlessly off the ground and circled the clearing a few times. Then she landed on a tree branch and began to preen her feathers.
It took me awhile to regain my composure, and then I went over to her tree and looked up at her.
"Don't try to change back," I instructed.
"You'll fall out of the tree if you do."
She stared down at me with those huge, unblinking eyes.
"We're going in that direction." I pointed northeasterly.
"I'm not going to turn myself into a bird because I don't fly very well. I'll take the shape of a wolf instead. I'll probably be able to keep up with you, but don't get out of sight. I want to be close enough to catch you if something goes wrong. Keep an eye on the sun. We'll change back about noon."
She hooted at me again, that strange hollow cry of the tufted owl.
"Don't argue with me, Polgara," I told her.
"We're going to do this my way. I don't want you to get hurt." Then, to avoid any further argument, I slipped into the form of the wolf.
Her flights were short at first. She drifted from tree to tree, obediently staying just ahead of me. I didn't have any difficulty keeping up with her. By midmorning, however, she began to extend the distance between perches, and I was obliged to move up from a sedate trot to a lope. By noon I was running. Finally I stopped, lifting my muzzle, and howled at her.
She circled, swooped back, and settled to earth. Then she shimmered back into her own form.
"Oh, that was just fine!" she exclaimed with a sensuous shudder of pure pleasure.
I was right on the verge of an oration at that point. She'd pushed me fairly hard that morning. It was her smile that cut me off before I even got started, though. Polgara seldom smiled, but this time her face actually seemed to glow, and that single white lock above her forehead was bright as a sun-touched snow-bank. Dear Gods, she was a beautiful girl!
"You need to use your tail feathers just a bit more" was all I said to her.
"Yes, father," she said, still smiling.
"What now?"
"We'll rest a bit," I decided.
"When the sun goes down, we'll start out again."
"In the dark?"
"You're an owl, Polgara. Night's the natural time for you to be out flying."
"What about you?"
I shrugged.
"Night or day--it doesn't matter to a wolf."
"We had to leave our supplies behind," she noted.
"What are we going to eat?"
"That's up to you, Pol--whatever's unlucky enough to cross your path, I'd imagine."
"You mean raw?"
"You're the one who wanted to be an owl, dear. Sparrows eat seeds, but owls prefer mice. I wouldn't recommend taking on a wild boar. He might be a little more than you can handle, but that's entirely up to you."
She stalked away from me muttering swear words under her breath.
I'll admit that her idea worked out quite well. It would have taken us two weeks to reach Darine on foot. We managed it the other way in three nights.
The sun was just rising when we reached the hilltop south of the port city. We resumed our natural forms and marched to the city gate. Like just about every other city in the north in those days, Darine was constructed out of logs. A city has to burn down a few times before it occurs to the people who live there that wooden cities aren't really a good idea.
We went through the unguarded gate, and I asked a sleepy passerby where I could find Hatturk, the Clan-Chief Algar had told me was in charge here in Darine. He gave me directions to a large house near the waterfront and then stood there rather foolishly ogling Polgara. Having beautiful daughters is nice, I suppose, but they do attract a certain amount of attention.
"We'll need to be a little careful with Hatturk, Pol," I said as we waded down the muddy street toward the harbor.
"Oh?"
"Algar says that the clans that have moved here from the plains aren't really happy about the breakup of Aloria, and they're definitely unhappy about that grassland. They migrated here because they got lonesome for trees. Primitive Alorns all lived in the forest, and open country depresses them. Fleet-foot didn't come right out and say it, but I sort of suspect that Darine might just be a stronghold of the Bear-cult, so let's be a little careful about what we say."
"I'll let you do the talking, father."
"That might be best. The people here are probably recidivist Alorns of the most primitive kind. I'm going to need Hatturk's cooperation, so I'm going to have to step around him rather carefully."
"Just bully him, father. Isn't that what you usually do?"
"Only when I can stand over somebody to make sure he does what I tell him to do. Once you've bullied somebody, you can't turn your back on him for very long, and Darine's not so pretty that I want to spend the next twenty years here making sure that Hatturk follows my instructions."
"I'm learning all sorts of things on this trip."
"Good. Try not to forget too many of them."
Hatturk's house was a large building constructed of logs. An Alorn Clan-Chief is really a sort of mini-king in many respects, and he's usually surrounded by a group of retainers who serve as court functionaries and double as bodyguards on the side. I introduced myself to the pair of heavily armed Algars at the door, and Pol and I were admitted immediately.
Most of the time being famous is a pain, but it has some advantages.
Hatturk was a burly Alorn with a grey-shot beard, a decided paunch, and bloodshot eyes. He didn't look too happy about being roused before noon. As I'd more or less expected, his clothing was made of bearskins.
I've never understood why membe
rs of the Bear-cult feel that it's appropriate to peel the hide off the totem of their God.
"Well," he said to me in a rusty-sounding voice, "so you're Belgarath. I'd have thought you'd be bigger."
"I could arrange that if it'd make you feel more comfortable."
He gave me a slightly startled look.
"And the lady?" he asked to cover his confusion.
"My daughter, Polgara the Sorceress." I think that might have been the first time anyone had ever called her that, but I wanted to get Hatturk's undivided attention, and I didn't want him to be distracted by Pol's beauty. It seemed that planting the notion in his mind that she could turn him into a toad might be the best way to head off any foolishness. To her credit, Pol didn't even turn a hair at my somewhat exotic introduction.
Hatturk's bloodshot eyes took on a rather wild look.
"My house is honored," he said with a stiff bow. I got the distinct impression that he wasn't used to bowing to anybody.
"What can I do for you?"
"Algar Fleet-foot tells me that you've got a crazy man here in Darine," I told him.
"Polgara and I need to have a look at him."
"Oh, he's not really all that crazy, Belgarath. He just has spells now and then when he starts raving. He's an old man, and old men are always a little strange."
"Yes," Polgara agreed mildly.
Hatturk's eyes widened as he realized what he'd just said.
"Nothing personal intended there, Belgarath," he hastened to apologize.
"That's all right, Hatturk," I forgave him.
"It takes quite a bit to offend me. Tell me a little bit more about this strange old man."
"He was a berserker when he was younger--an absolute terror in a fight. Maybe that explains it. Anyway, his family's fairly well off, and when he started getting strange, they built a house for him on the outskirts of town. His youngest daughter's a spinster--probably because she's cross-eyed--and she looks after him."
"Poor girl," Pol murmured. Then she sighed rather theatrically.
"I
imagine I've got that to look forward to, as well. My father here is stranger than most, and sooner or later he's going to need a keeper."
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