Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

"Let's go talk with the twins. We'd better see what the Mrin has to say about this."

  "You'd also better hustle your tail feathers north to warn the Alorns."

  "In a bit. I want to look at the Mrin first."

  "I don't have much time, Belgarath. I've got to go back to Mallorea. I don't want Kal Torak to sneak up on you with several million Malloreans."

  "I'm almost sure I'll hear him coming."

  "Where's Pol now?"

  "At Aldurford in northern Algaria."

  "You'd better tell her to come home."

  "We'll see. I'm not going to do anything until I find out what the Mrin has to say."

  The twins became very excited when Beldin told them that Torak had finally come out of Ashaba, and they immediately went to work. Beldin stumped around, growing increasingly impatient.

  "Please, brother," Beltira told him, looking up from his copy of the Mrin, "sit down someplace. We're trying to concentrate." It was one of the few times I've ever seen either of the twins display anything remotely resembling irritability.

  After about an hour, Belkira slapped his hand down on the Darine triumphantly.

  "Here it is!" he exclaimed.

  "I thought I remembered it."

  "What does it say?" Beltira demanded.

  "It's that passage about the eclipse. It says,

  "Behold! The sun shall fall dark, and the sky shall endlessly weep, and it shall be a sign that the King returneth, and the God, also."

  "It got the part about the sky weeping pretty close," Beldin noted.

  "We misread it," Beltira confessed.

  "It's only talking about one of them, not both."

  "Will you two please try to make sense?" Beldin exploded.

  "We've been looking in the wrong direction," Beltira explained.

  "We thought the passage meant that the Rivan King would reemerge and that Torak would come out of Ashaba at the same time. It doesn't have anything to do with the Rivan King, though. It's only talking about Torak, since he's both King and God in Angarak. That eclipse and the foul weather we've had since then warned us that this was coming, but Iron-grip's heir's over fifty years old right now, so we discounted the possibility.

  We're sorry, Belgarath."

  "I'd have probably missed it, as well, Beltira. Don't blame yourselves.

  Where's the corresponding passage in the Mrin?"

  Belkira checked their concordance, took up the third scroll of the Mrin, and unrolled it until he found the index mark he was looking for.

  "It's right here," he said, handing me the scroll and pointing at the mark.

  "Behold!" I read it aloud.

  "In the day that the sun falls dark at noon and the skies are veiled shall the King reemerge, and shall he journey to the seat of power and put aside the one who hath stood in his stead."" "I can see how you missed that one, brothers," Beldin said to the twins.

  "It's ambiguous enough so that it could very well mean the Rivan King. What does it say next, Belgarath?"

  "And he shall confer with his tributary kings," I read on, "instructing all in that which they must do, and in the fullness of time shall he gather his forces and shall move to confront the other Child. And the one of them shall be a God, and the other shall be like unto a God, and the jewel shall decide the outcome in the lands of the children of the Bull-God."

  "Arendia?" Beldin said.

  "Why Arendia?"

  "There've been hints of that before," Beltira said.

  "Something important's going to happen in Arendia."

  "What else does it say?" Beldin asked me.

  I read the next line, and then I started to swear.

  "What's wrong?" Beldin demanded.

  "It just broke off. Now it's talking about "the Mother of the Race That Died."" "Beltira and I'll work with it some more," Belkira told me.

  "We know enough to get started, Belgarath," Beldin said.

  "You and I both have things to do, and the twins can work better without the two of us hanging over their shoulders. I'm going back to Mallorea. You'd better go alert the Alorns--and find a safer place to hide Polgara. There's nothing at Aldurford but the river and a lot of open grassland."

  I grunted and stood up.

  "You're probably right," I agreed.

  "I don't care much for running off on just a few hints, but there's no help for it, I guess."

  "We'll stay in touch," Beltira promised.

  "We'll let you or Pol know just as soon as we pinpoint anything else that seems significant."

  "I'd really appreciate that, brother," I replied.

  I flew north from the Vale to the Algarian Stronghold and found out from the caretakers there that Cho-Ram XIV, the current chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria, was in the vicinity of Lake Atun up near the Drasnian border.

  I'm sure that name rings a bell. Royal families habitually repeat names.

  It's a silly custom, but at least it doesn't strain anybody's creativity.

  It took me only two days to locate the fourteenth Cho-Ram. He was a fairly young man, and he customarily wore clothing made of horsehide and shaved his head--except for a flowing scalp-lock that hung down his back like the tail of a horse. Now that I think back on it, he looked a great deal like Cho-Hag's adopted son, Hettar.

  "It's about time" was all he said when I told him that Torak was coming. He was obviously a true descendant of the close-mouthed Algar Fleet-foot.

  "He isn't coming to pay a social call," I said acidly.

  "I know." Then he grinned wolfishly at me.

  Alorns!

  "You'd better gather your clans," I advised.

  "How long have we got?"

  "I'm not sure. Mallorea's a big place, and it's going to take Torak a while to gather his forces. Beldin's there, though, so he'll be able to give us a little advance notice."

  "That's all we really need, isn't it? I'll call the clans in, and we'll all go down to the Stronghold. I'll be there when you need me."

  "Is Khalan still king in Drasnia?"

  "No. He died last fall. His son Rhodar wears the crown."

  "I'd better go to Boktor and talk with him. Keep a sharp eye on the Eastern Escarpment. Something important's going to happen in Arendia, so the Murgos might come down the cliff to try to soften you up before Torak gets here. You're sitting on his logical invasion route."

  "Good."

  "Good? What do you mean, good?"

  "I won't have to go looking for him."

  "Was your grandmother an Arend, by any chance?"

  "Belgarath! What a thing to suggest!"

  "Never mind. Get to work. I'll go talk with Rhodar, and then go to Val Alorn and see Eldrig."

  Notice that I'd already broad-jumped my way to an erroneous conclusion.

  Both Mishrak ac Thull and Algaria were open grasslands, and Torak was going to be leading a very large army. It didn't even occur to me that he'd try to take all those troops through the Nadrak Forest.

  Rhodar I of Drasnia was not nearly as corpulent as his namesake five centuries later, but he was still fairly stout. He was a descendant of Bull neck, though, so a certain bulk was understandable. We ran a lot of that off him during the next twenty or so years. I alerted him to what was happening in Mallorea and then left him mapping out his defenses with his generals while I flew on to Val Alorn.

  King Eldrig of Cherek was not exactly what you'd call a true representative of his race. More often than not his tankard held water instead of beer, for one thing, and he was a scholarly man, for another. He was a great deal like Anheg in that respect. About the only difference is the fact that Anheg will take a drink on occasion.

  "Arendia?" he said when I told him what was coming.

  "That's what the Mrin says."

  "Are you sure? Torak's coming west to get the Orb, isn't he? The Orb's not in Arendia; it's at Riva."

  "The twins are still hammering at the Mrin. They might be able to dig out an explanation. All we've got so far is the fact that the event's
going to take place in the lands of the children of the Bull God. Unless something's changed, that means Arendia."

  Eldrig scratched at his iron-grey hair and stared at his map.

  "I suppose Torak could swing through Mimbre and then turn north to the hook of Arendia to come at the Isle from the south. If we just happened to be in his way, there could be some kind of confrontation down there."

  I also looked at his map.

  "There's no real point in running off there until Torak makes his move," I said.

  "You'd better get word to Brand. Tell him that I'll come to the Isle in a little bit. I've got a couple of other things to attend to first."

  "Do you think I should seal off the Isle?" he asked.

  "We'll have to do that eventually, but let's not upset the Tolnedrans by making them shut down their shops on the beach at Riva just yet. We'll need the legions before this is over, so we don't want Ran Borune's nose getting out of joint. We'll have plenty of time to fill the Sea of the Winds with war-boats when Torak starts to move, and Beldin'll give us plenty of warning when that happens."

  "I wish we had more to work with."

  "So do I, but for right now, we've got enough to get started. Oh, you might want to warn Ormik of Sendaria, as well."

  "You're not serious!"

  "The Sendars live here, too, Eldrig."

  "Cabbage farmers won't be much good in a fight."

  "Maybe not, but if all this shapes up the way I think it's going to, we'll probably have to go through Sendaria from time to time, so let's stay on Ormik's good side."

  "Anything you say, Ancient One." He leaned back in his chair. King Eldrig had grey hair, but the grin he suddenly flashed at me was surprisingly youthful.

  "This is the one we've been waiting for, isn't it, Belgarath?" he said.

  "One of them, I suppose. I think there'll be others, as well."

  "One's enough for right now. I wouldn't want to seem greedy. This is the one we've been expecting since the days of Bear-shoulders, so that's good enough for me."

  "Talk to me about how lucky you are after the war, Eldrig. The last one wasn't too pleasant, as I recall. Start getting your people ready, and dip into your treasury so that you can hire shipbuilders. I might need more war boats."

  He winced.

  "Maybe I can float a loan from Ran Borune."

  "I wouldn't bet on it, and you wouldn't care for his interest rates. Get started, Eldrig. I'll be in touch."

  I left Val Alorn and flew southeast to Aldurford in northern Algaria to talk with Polgara. Her house was near the ford itself, so I strolled on down through the town to the river. With the exception of the Stronghold, Aldurford is just about the only town in Algaria, and it shows.

  Algars have a rather haphazard idea about what a town ought to look like. The notion of regular streets hasn't really caught on, and the citizens of Aldurford have built their houses wherever it suited them. It makes finding your way around a bit challenging.

  Eventually I located Pol's house and knocked on the door. She opened it almost immediately. As usual, she was dressed all in blue, and she greeted me in her usual gracious fashion.

  "Where have you been?"

  she demanded.

  "I've been expecting you for two weeks now."

  "I had to go talk with some Alorns." I looked past her into her kitchen. There was a boy of about eleven sitting at the table. It wasn't hard to recognize him, since all of Iron-grip's descendants have looked much the same. He had sandy-colored hair and that same serious expression they've all had. There was a melancholy Algar woman with long dark hair shelling peas at the table with him. I was never certain just how much Pol had told the various heirs she raised, so I thought it might be best if she and I spoke privately.

  "Let's take a little walk, Pol," I suggested.

  "We've got some fairly important decisions to make."

  She glanced over her shoulder, nodded, fetched a shawl, and came outside.

  "What happened to his father?"

  "He died," she replied shortly, and that same old sorrow was in her voice.

  "What's the boy's name?"

  "Garel. He's the heir."

  "Obviously."

  I could see that she didn't want to talk, so we walked on in silence.

  We went along the riverbank until we were well beyond the last of the houses. The perpetual clouds that had obscured the sky for months had broken for a brief period, and it was actually sunny. A breeze was rippling the surface of the water. I looked out across the broad river and had one of those peculiar little shocks of recognition. I was almost positive that it had been on the far bank that the funny old man in the rickety cart had given me instructions about the breakup of Aloria after Cherek and the boys and I had returned from Cthol Mishrak about twenty-nine centuries back.

  "What's the matter?" Pol asked curiously.

  I shrugged.

  "Nothing important. I've been here before, that's all. I gather you know what's happened?"

  She nodded.

  "The twins told me. They couldn't locate you, so they asked me to pass a few things on to you."

  "Oh?"

  "They've managed to extract some more information out of the Mrin. Brand's going to be the Child of Light during this particular

  EVENT."

  "Brand?"

  "That's what the Mrin says. The passage reads,

  "And let him who stands in the stead of the Guardian meet the Child of Dark in the domain of the Bull God." That has to mean Brand, doesn't it?"

  "I don't see how it could mean anybody else. Evidently there's going to be a suspension of the rules--enough to allow Brand to take up Riva's sword, at any rate."

  "The twins didn't say. They're still working on that part, I guess.

  There's more."

  "There almost has to be. Give me your hand, Pol. I think I'd better talk with the twins directly, and we both need to hear what they say."

  She nodded and held out her hand to me. For any number of reasons, Pol and I have rarely touched each other over the years, and we've even more rarely linked our minds in order to do something. Once again I was startled by the breadth and depth of my daughter's mind, and by its exquisite subtlety. What struck me the most, however, was her deep sadness. I think we all overlooked the fact that the task she'd freely accepted involved rearing a long series of little boys, watching them grow up, get married, and then grow old and die. The vaults of her mind echoed with an unremitting sorrow that nothing could ever dispel.

  Once our minds were linked, we sent out our combined voices.

  "Brothers."

  "Belgarath?" Beltira's voice came back to us.

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm at Aldurford. Pol's with me. Could you clarify a few things for us?"

  "Of course."

  "Have you found out how Brand's supposed to use the Orb yet?"

  "No. It's very difficult going here, Belgarath. I think this is going to be a major EVENT. The Mrin always gets very obscure when we come to one of those."

  "Any hints about what I'm supposed to do?"

  "You and Pol are supposed to go to Riva to meet with the Alorn kings. Oh, something else, too. You're supposed to take Iron-grip's heir to the Stronghold before you go to Riva."

  "Out of the question!" Pol's voice overrode mine.

  "The Stronghold's directly in Torak's path."

  "I'm just passing on what the Mrin says, Pol," Beltira replied.

  "It says,

  "And the Guardian shall take refuge in the fortress of the Horse People, for all the might of the Dark Child shall not prevail against its walls." You're probably right. Torak's going to lay siege to the Stronghold, but he's not going to be able to storm it under."

  "I don't like it," she fumed.

  "It does make sense, Pol," I told her, speaking aloud.

  "You and I have to go to Riva, and that wouldn't be a safe place for Garel and his mother. The whole point of this last eight hundred years ha
s been to keep the heirs and the Orb separated. If we take Garel to Riva, he'll have to take up the sword, and he's a little young yet." Then I sent my thought out to the twins again.

  "Have you been able to get any kind of time frame out of this?"

  "From the Mrin? You know that there's no such thing as time in the Mrin."

  "Have you heard from Beldin?"

  "Once or twice. Torak's still at Mal Zeth, and he's got Zedar and Urvon with him."

  "We've still got plenty of time then."

  "We'll see. We'll keep working on this, but you two had better get started."

  Pol and I started back along the riverbank toward Aldurford.

  "I don't like this, father," she told me again.

  "I don't very much myself. We're playing a game, Pol, and we don't know all the rules yet, so I guess we'll just have to make one of those great leaps of faith. We have to believe that the Purpose knows what it's doing."

  "I still don't like it."

  "Sometimes we have to do things we don't like, Pol. That's what we get paid to do."

  "Paid?"

  "Figuratively speaking."

  Garel and his mother didn't really know too much about their real situation, and Pol and I decided that it might be best to leave it that way.

  The heirs to Iron-grip's throne have all been what we've come to call "talented"-- some more, some less--and it's a little dangerous to have a novice sorcerer in possession of too much information. Garion, who's far more than marginally talented, probably will remember any number of times while he was growing up on Faldor's farm when either Pol or I skillfully sidestepped his questions. The decision to do it that way was Pol's, of course, but after I thought about it for a bit, I wholeheartedly approved. It headed off all sorts of unpleasant possibilities.

  We circulated the usual "family emergency" story around Aldurford for a day or so, and then we bundled up Garel and Adana and left for the Stronghold. When we got there, I had a talk with Cho-Ram, and then the three of us left for Riva.

  The weather on the Isle of the Winds is so miserable most of the time anyway that we scarcely noticed the rather profound climate change brought on by that eclipse. The rain was seething across the harbor when we arrived, the stairway leading up to the Citadel looked like a waterfall, and the eaves of the slate-roofed stone houses spilled sheets of water into the cobbled streets. I found it all moderately depressing.