It was early afternoon when Hettar and Silk, following the prancing little colt, found him.
"How in the world did you manage to do that?" Silk asked curiously.
"I don't want to talk about it," Garion muttered, somewhere between relief and total embarrassment.
"He probably can do many things that we can't," Hettar observed, climbing down from his horse and untying Durnik's shovel from his saddle. "The thing I can't understand, though, is why he'd want to do it.
"I'm positive he had a good reason for it," Silk assured him. "Do you think we should ask him?"
"It's probably very complicated," Silk replied. "I'm sure simple men like you and me wouldn't be able to understand it."
"Do you suppose he's finished with whatever it is he's doing?"
"We could ask him, I suppose."
"I wouldn't want to disturb him," Hettar said. "It could be very important."
"It almost has to be," Silk agreed.
"Will you please get me out of here?" Garion begged.
"Are you sure you're finished?" Silk asked politely. "We can wait if you're not done yet."
"Please," Garion asked, almost in tears.
Chapter Twelve
"WHY DID YOU try to lift it?" Belgarath asked Garion the next morning after he and Aunt Pol had returned and Silk and Hettar had solemnly informed them of the predicament in which they had found the young man the afternoon before.
"It seemed like the best way to tip it over," Garion answered. "You know, kind of get hold of it from underneath and then roll it-sort of."
"Why didn't you just push against it - close to the top? It would have rolled over if you'd done it that way."
"I didn't think of it."
"Don't you realize that soft earth won't accept that kind of pressure?" Aunt Pol asked.
"I do now," Garion replied. "But wouldn't pushing on it have just moved me backward?"
"You have to brace yourself," Belgarath explained. "That's part of the whole trick. As much of your will goes to holding yourself immobile as it does to pushing against the object you're trying to move. Otherwise all you do is just shove yourself away."
"I didn't know that," Garion admitted. "It's the first time I've ever tried to do anything unless it was an emergency . . . Will you stop that?" he demanded crossly of Ce'Nedra, who had collapsed into gales of laughter as soon as Silk had finished telling them about Garion's blunder.
She laughed even harder.
"I think you're going to have to explain a few things to him, father," Aunt Pol said. "He doesn't seem to have even the most rudimentary idea about the way forces react against each other." She looked at Garion critically. "It's lucky you didn't decide to throw it," she told him. "You might have flung yourself halfway back to Maragor."
"I really don't think it's all that funny," Garion told his friends, who were all grinning openly at him. "This isn't as easy as it looks, you know." He realized that he had just made a fool of himself and he was not sure if he were more embarrassed or hurt by their amusement.
"Come with me, boy," Belgarath said firmly. "It looks as if we're going to have to start at the very beginning."
"It's not my fault I didn't know," Garion protested. "You should have told me."
"I didn't know you were planning to start experimenting so soon," the old man replied. "Most of us have sense enough to wait for guidance before we start rearranging local geography."
"Well, at least I did manage to move it," Garion said defensively as he followed the old man across the meadow toward the tower.
"Splendid. Did you put it back the way you found it?"
"Why? What difference does it make?"
"We don't move things here in the Vale. Everything that's here is here for a reason, and they're all supposed to be exactly where they are."
"I didn't know," Garion apologized.
"You do now. Let's go put it back where it belongs." They trudged along in silence.
"Grandfather?" Garion said finally.
"Yes?"
"When I moved the rock, it seemed that I was getting the strength to do it from all around me. It seemed just to flow in from everyplace. Does that mean anything?"
"That's the way it works," Belgarath explained. "When we do something, we take the power to do it from our surroundings. When you burned Chamdar, for example, you drew the heat from all around you - from the air, from the ground, and from everyone who was in the area. You drew a little heat from everything to build the fire. When you tipped the rock over, you took the force to do it from everything nearby."
"I thought it all came from inside."
"Only when you create things," the old man replied. "That force has to come from within us. For anything else, we borrow. We gather up a little power from here and there and put it all together and then turn it loose all at one spot. Nobody's big enough to carry around the kind of force it would take to do even the simplest sort of thing."
"Then that's what happens when somebody tries to unmake something," Garion said intuitively. "He pulls in all the force, but then he can't let it go, and it just " He spread his hands and jerked them suddenly apart.
Belgarath looked narrowly at him. "You've got a strange sort of mind, boy. You understand the difficult things quite easily, but you can't seem to get hold of the simple ones. There's the rock." He shook his head. "That will never do. Put it back where it belongs, and try not to make so much noise this time. That racket you raised yesterday echoed all over the Vale."
"What do I do?" Garion asked.
"Gather in the force," Belgarath told him. "Take it from everything around."
Garion tried that.
"Not from me!" the old man exclaimed sharply.
Garion excluded his grandfather from his field of reaching out and pulling in. After a moment or two, he felt as if he were tingling all over and that his hair was standing on end. "Now what?" he asked, clenching his teeth to hold it in.
"Push out behind you and push at the rock at the same time.''
"What do I push at behind me?"
"Everything - and at the rock as well. It has to be simultaneous."
"Won't I get - sort of squeezed in between?"
"Tense yourself up."
"We'd better hurry, Grandfather," Garion said. "I feel like I'm going to fly apart."
"Hold it in. Now put your will on the rock, and say the word." Garion put his hands out in front of him and straightened his arms. "Push," he commanded. He felt the surge and the roaring.
With a resounding thud, the rock teetered and then rolled back smoothly to where it had been the morning before. Garion suddenly felt bruised all over, and he sank to his knees in exhaustion.
"Push?" Belgarath said incredulously.
"You said to say push."
"I said to push. I didn't say to say push."
"It went over. What difference does it make what word I used?"
"It's a question of style," the old man said with a pained look. "Push sounds so - so babyish."
Weakly, Garion began to laugh.
"After all, Garion, we do have a certain dignity to maintain," the old man said loftily. "If we go around saying 'push' or 'flop' or things like that, no one's ever going to take us seriously."
Garion wanted to stop laughing, but he simply couldn't. Belgarath stalked away indignantly, muttering to himself.
When they returned to the others, they found that the tents had been struck and the packhorses loaded.
"There's no point in staying here," Aunt Pol told them, "and the others are waiting for us. Did you manage to make him understand anything, father?"
Belgarath grunted, his face set in an expression of profound disapproval.
"Things didn't go well, I take it."
"I'll explain later," he said shortly.
During Garion's absence, Ce'Nedra, with much coaxing and a lapful of apples from their stores, had seduced the little colt into a kind of ecstatic subservience. He followed her about shameless
ly, and the rather distant look he gave Garion showed not the slightest trace of guilt.
"You're going to make him sick," Garion accused her.
"Apples are good for horses," she replied airily.
"Tell her, Hettar," Garion said.
"They won't hurt him," the hook-nosed man answered. "It's a customary way to gain the trust of a young horse."
Garion tried to think of another suitable objection, but without success. For some reason the sight of the little animal nuzzling at Ce'Nedra offended him, though he couldn't exactly put his finger on why.
"Who are these others, Belgarath?" Silk asked as they rode. "The ones Polgara mentioned."
"My brothers," the old sorcerer replied. "Our Master's advised them that we're coming."
"I've heard stories about the Brotherhood of Sorcerers all my life. Are they as remarkable as everyone says?"
"I think you're in for a bit of a disappointment," Aunt Pol told him rather primly. "For the most part, sorcerers tend to be crotchety old men with a wide assortment of bad habits. I grew up amongst them, so I know them all rather well." She turned her face to the thrush perched on her shoulder, singing adoringly. "Yes," she said to the bird, "I know."
Garion pulled closer to his Aunt and began to listen very hard to the birdsong. At first it was merely noise-pretty, but without sense. Then, gradually, he began to pick up scraps of meaning - a bit here, a bit there. The bird was singing of nests and small, speckled eggs and sunrises and the overwhelming joy of flying. Then, as if his ears had suddenly opened, Garion began to understand. Larks sang of flying and singing. Sparrows chirped of hidden little pockets of seeds. A hawk, soaring overhead, screamed its lonely song of riding the wind alone and the fierce joy of the kill. Garion was awed as the air around him suddenly came alive with words.
Aunt Pol looked at him gravely. "It's a beginning," she said without bothering to explain.
Garion was so caught up in the world that had just opened to him that he did not see the two silvery-haired men at first. They stood together beneath a tall tree, waiting as the party rode nearer. They wore identical blue robes, and their white hair was quite long, though they were clean-shaven. When Garion looked at them for the first time, he thought for a moment that his eyes were playing tricks. The two were so absolutely identical that it was impossible to tell them apart.
"Belgarath, our brother," one of them said, "it's been such-" "-a terribly long time," the other finished.
"Beltira," Belgarath said. "Belkira." He dismounted and embraced the twins.
"Dearest little Polgara," one of them said then. "The Vale has been-" the other started.
"-empty without you," the second completed. He turned to his brother. "That was very poetic," he said admiringly.
"Thank you," the first replied modestly.
"These are my brothers, Beltira and Belkira," Belgarath informed the members of the party who had begun to dismount. "Don't bother to try to keep them separate. Nobody can tell them apart anyway."
"We can," the two said in unison.
"I'm not even sure of that," Belgarath responded with a gentle smile. "Your minds are so close together that your thoughts start with one and finish with the other."
"You always complicate it so much, father," Aunt Pol said. "This is Beltira." She kissed one of the sweet-faced old men. "And this is Belkira." She kissed the other. "I've been able to tell them apart since I was a child."
"Polgara knows-"
"-all our secrets." The twins smiled. "And who are-"
"-your companions?"
"I think you'll recognize them," Belgarath answered. "Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor."
"The Knight Protector," the twins said in unison, bowing.
"Prince Kheldar of Drasnia."
"The Guide," they said.
"Barak, Earl of Trellheim."
"The Dreadful Bear." They looked at the big Cherek apprehensively. Barak's face darkened, but he said nothing.
"Hettar, son of Cho-Hag of Algaria."
"The Horse Lord."
"And Durnik of Sendaria."
"The One with Two Lives," they murmured with profound respect. Durnik looked baffled at that.
"Ce'Nedra, Imperial Princess of Tolnedra."
"The Queen of the World," they replied with another deep bow. Ce'Nedra laughed nervously.
"And this-"
"-can only be Belgarion," they said, their faces alive with joy, "the Chosen One." The twins reached out in unison and laid their right hands on Garion's head. Their voices sounded within his mind. "Hail, Belgarion, Overlord and Champion, hope of the world."
Garion was too surprised at this strange benediction to do more than awkwardly nod his head.
"If this gets any more cloying, I think I'll vomit," a new voice, harsh and rasping, announced. The speaker, who had just stepped out from behind the tree, was a squat, misshapen old man, dirty and profoundly ugly. His legs were bowed and gnarled like oak trunks. His shoulders were huge, and his hands dangled below his knees. There was a large hump in the middle of his back, and his face was twisted into a grotesque caricature of a human countenance. His straggly, iron-gray hair and beard were matted, and twigs and bits of leaves were caught in the tangles. His hideous face wore an expression of perpetual contempt and anger.
"Beldin," Belgarath said mildly, "we weren't sure you would come."
"I shouldn't have, you bungler," the ugly man snapped. "You've made a mess of things as usual, Belgarath." He turned to the twins. "Get me something to eat," he told them peremptorily.
"Yes, Beldin," they said quickly and started away.
"And don't be all day," he shouted after them.
"You seem to be in a good humor today, Beldin," Belgarath said with no trace of sarcasm. "What's made you so cheerful?"
The ugly dwarf scowled at him, then laughed, a short, barking sound. "I saw Belzedar. He looked like an unmade bed. Something had gone terribly wrong for him, and I enjoy that sort of thing."
"Dear Uncle Beldin," Aunt Pol said fondly, putting her arms around the filthy little man. "I've missed you so much."
"Don't try to charm me, Polgara," he told her, though his eyes seemed to soften slightly. "This is as much your fault as it is your father's. I thought you were going to keep an eye on him. How did Belzedar get his hands on our Master's Orb?"
"We think he used a child," Belgarath answered seriously. "The Orb won't strike an innocent."
The dwarf snorted. "There's no such thing as an innocent. All men are born corrupt." He turned his eyes back to Aunt Pol and looked appraisingly at her. "You're getting fat," he said bluntly. "Your hips are as wide as an ox cart."
Durnik immediately clenched his fists and went for the hideous little man.
The dwarf laughed, and one of his big hands caught the front of the smith's tunic. Without any seeming effort, he lifted the surprised Durnik and threw him several yards away. "You can start your second life right now if you want," he growled threateningly.
"Let me handle this, Durnik," Aunt Pol told the smith. "Beldin," she said coolly, "how long has it been since you've had a bath?"
The dwarf shrugged. "It rained on me a couple months ago."
"Not hard enough, though. You smell like an uncleaned pigsty."
Beldin grinned at her. "That's my girl." He chortled. "I was afraid the years had taken off your edge."
The two of them then began to trade the most hair-raising insults Garion had ever heard in his life. Graphic, ugly words passed back and forth between them, almost sizzling in the air. Barak's eyes widened in astonishment, and Mandorallen's face blanched often. Ce'Nedra, her face flaming, bolted out of earshot.
The worse the insults, however, the more the hideous Beldin smiled. Finally Aunt Pol delivered an epithet so vile that Garion actually cringed, and the ugly little man collapsed on the ground, roaring with laughter and hammering at the dirt with his great fists. "By the Gods, I've missed you, Pol!" he gasped. "Come here and give us a kiss."
She smiled, kissing his dirty face affectionately. "Mangy dog."
"Big cow." He grinned, catching her in a crushing embrace.
"I'll need my ribs more or less in one piece, uncle," she told him.
"I haven't cracked any of your ribs in years, my girl."
"I'd like to keep it that way."
The twins hurried across to the dwarf Beldin, carrying a large plate of steaming stew and a huge tankard. The ugly man looked curiously at the plate, then casually dumped the stew on the ground and tossed the plate away. "Doesn't smell too bad." He squatted and began to stuff the food into his mouth with both hands, pausing only now and then to spit out some of the larger pebbles that clung to the chunks of meat. When he had finished, he swilled down the contents of the tankard, belched thunderously, and sat back, scratching at his matted hair with gravy-smeared fingers. "Let's get down to business," he said.
"Where have you been?" Belgarath asked him.
"Central Cthol Murgos. I've been sitting on a hilltop since the Battle of Vo Mimbre, watching the cave where Belzedar took Torak."
"Five hundred years?" Silk gasped.
Beldin shrugged. "More or less," he replied indifferently. "Somebody had to keep an eye on Burnt-Face, and I wasn't doing anything that couldn't be interrupted."
"You said you saw Belzedar," Aunt Pol said.
"About a month ago. He came to the cave as if he had a demon on his tail and pulled Torak out. Then he changed himself into a vulture and flew off with the body."
"That must have been right after Ctuchik caught him at the Nyissan border and took the Orb away from him," Belgarath mused.
"I wouldn't know about that. That was part of your responsibility, not mine. All I was supposed to do was keep watch over Torak. Did any of the ashes fall on you?"
"Which ashes?" one of the twins asked.
"When Belzedar took Torak out of the cave, the mountain exploded -blew its guts out. I imagine it had something to do with the force surrounding One-Eye's body. It was still blowing when I left."
"We wondered what had caused the eruption," Aunt Pol commented. "It put ash down an inch deep all over Nyissa."
"Good. Too bad it wasn't deeper."
"Did you see any signs-"
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