Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  Perhaps a day or so later, when the sun was sparkling on the waters of the Sea of the Winds and a stiff onshore breeze was flecking the tops of the green waves with frothy white-caps, a huge Cherek war boat maneuvered its way ponderously between the two rocky headlands embracing the harbor at Riva. The ship's captain was also more than life-sized. With his red beard streaming in the wind, Barak, Earl of Trellheim, stood at his tiller, a look of studied concentration on his face as he worked his way through a tricky eddy just inside one of the protective headlands and then across the harbor to the stone quay. Almost before his sailors had made the ship fast, Barak was coming up the long flight of granite steps to the Citadel.

  Belgarath and Errand had been on the parapet atop the walls of the fortress and had witnessed the arrival of Barak's ship. And so, when the big man reached the heavy gates, they were waiting for him.

  "What are you doing here, Belgarath?" the burly Cherek asked. "I thought you were at the Vale."

  Belgarath shrugged. "We came by for a visit."

  Barak looked at Errand. "Hello, boy," he said. "Are Polgara and Durnik here, too?"

  "Yes," Errand replied. "They're all in the throne room watching Belgarion."

  "What's he doing?"

  "Being king," Belgarath said shortly. "We saw you come into the harbor."

  "Really impressive, wasn't it?" Barak said proudly.

  "Your ship steers like a pregnant whale, Barak," Belgarath told him bluntly. "You don't seem to have grasped the idea that bigger is not necessarily better."

  Barak's face took on an injured expression. "I don't make jokes about your possessions, Belgarath."

  "I don't have any possessions, Barak. What brought you to Riva?"

  "Anheg sent me. Is Garion going to be much longer at whatever he's doing?"

  "We can go find out, I suppose."

  The Rivan King, however, had concluded the formal audience for that morning and, in the company of Ce'Nedra, Polgara, and Durnik, had gone through a dim, private passageway which led from the great Hall of the Rivan King to the royal apartments.

  "Barak!" Garion exclaimed, hurrying forward to greet his friend in the corridor outside the door to the apartment.

  Barak gave him a peculiar look and bowed respectfully.

  "What's that all about?" Garion asked him with a puzzled look.

  "You're still wearing your crown, Garion," Polgara reminded him, "and your state robes. All of that makes you look rather official."

  "Oh," Garion said, looking a bit abashed, "I forgot. Let's go inside." He pulled open the door and led them all into the room beyond.

  With a broad grin, Barak enfolded Polgara in a vast bear hug.

  "Barak," she said a trifle breathlessly, "you'd be much nicer at close quarters if you'd remember to wash your beard after you've been eating smoked fish."

  "I only had one," he told her.

  "That's usually enough." He turned then and put his bulky arms around Ce'Nedra's tiny shoulders and kissed her soundly.

  The little queen laughed and caught her crown in time to keep it from sliding off her head. "You're right, Lady Polgara," she said, "he definitely has a certain fragrance about him."

  "Garion," Barak said plaintively, "I'm absolutely dying for a drink."

  "Did all the ale barrels on your ship run dry?" Polgara asked him.

  "There's no drinking aboard the Seabird," Barak replied.

  "Oh?"

  "I want my sailors sober."

  "Astonishing," she murmured.

  "It's a matter of principle," Barak said piously.

  "They do need their wits about them," Belgarath agreed. "That big ship of his is not exactly what you'd call responsive."

  Barak gave him a hurt look.

  Garion sent for ale, removed his crown and state robes with obvious relief, and invited them all to sit down.

  Once Barak had quenched his most immediate thirst, his expression became serious. He looked at Garion. "Anheg sent me to warn you that we're starting to get reports about the Bear-cult again."

  "I thought they were all killed at Thull Mardu," Durnik said.

  "Grodeg's underlings were," Barak told him. "Unfortunately, Grodeg wasn't the whole cult."

  "I don't exactly follow you," Durnik said.

  "It gets a little complicated. You see, the Bear-cult has always been there, really. It's a fundamental part of the religious life of the more remote parts of Cherek, Drasnia, and Algaria. Every so often, though, somebody with more ambition than good sense -like Grodeg- gains control and tries to establish the cult in the cities. The cities are where the power is, and somebody like Grodeg automatically tries to use the cult to take them over. The problem is that the Bear-cult doesn't work in the cities."

  Durnik's frown became even more confused.

  "People who live in cities are always coming in contact with new people and new ideas," Barak explained. "Out in the countryside, though, they can go for generations without ever encountering a single new thought. The Bear-cult doesn't believe in new thoughts, so it's the natural sort of thing to attract country people."

  "New ideas aren't always good ones," Durnik said stiffly, his own rural background painfully obvious.

  "Granted," Barak agreed, "but old ones aren't necessarily good either, and the Bear-cult's been working on the same idea for several thousand years now. About the last thing Belar said to the Alorns before the Gods departed was that they should lead the Kingdoms of the West against the people of Torak. It's that word 'lead' that's caused all the problems. It can mean many things, unfortunately. Bear-cultists have always taken it to mean that their very first step in obeying Belar's instructions should be a campaign to force the other Western Kingdoms to submit to Alorn domination. A good Bear-cultist isn't thinking about fighting Angaraks, because all of his attention is fixed on subduing Sendaria, Arendia, Tolnedra, Nyissa, and Maragor."

  "Maragor doesn't even exist any more," Durnik objected.

  "That news hasn't reached the cult yet," Barak said drily. "After all, it's only been about three thousand years now. Anyway, that's the rather tired idea behind the Bear-cult. Their first goal is to reunite Aloria; their next is to overrun and subjugate all of the Western Kingdoms; and only then will they start to give some thought to attacking Murgos and Malloreans."

  "They are just a bit backward, aren't they?" Durnik observed.

  "Some of them haven't even discovered fire yet." Barak snorted.

  "I don't really see why Anheg is so concerned, Barak," Belgarath said. "The Bear-cult doesn't really cause any problems out there in the countryside. They jump around bonfires on midsummer's eve and put on bearskins and shuffle around in single file in the dead of winter and recite long prayers in smoky caves, until they get so dizzy that they can't stand up. Where's the danger in that?"

  "I'm getting to that," Barak said, pulling at his beard. "Always before, the rural Bear-cult was just a reservoir of undirected stupidity and superstition. But in the last year or so, something new has been going on."

  "Oh?" Belgarath looked at him curiously.

  "There's a new leader of the cult -we don't even know who he is. In the past, Bear-cultists from one village didn't even trust the ones from another, so they were never organized enough to be any problem. This new leader of theirs has changed all of that. For the first time in history, rural Bear-cultists are all taking orders from one man."

  Belgarath frowned. "That is serious," he admitted.

  "This is very interesting, Barak," Garion said, looking a bit perplexed, "but why did King Anheg send you all the way here to warn me? From what I've been told, the Bear-cult has never been able to get a foothold here on the Isle of the Winds."

  " Anheg wanted me to warn you to take a few precautions, since this new cult's antagonism is directed primarily at you."

  "Me? What for?"

  "You married a Tolnedran," Barak told him. "To a Bear-cultist a Tolnedran is worse than a Murgo."

  "That's a novel position," C
e'Nedra said with a toss of her curls.

  "That's the way those people think," Barak told her. "Most of those blockheads don't even know what an Angarak is. They've all seen Tolnedrans though -usually merchants who deal quite sharply. For a thousand years, they've been waiting for a king to come and pick up Riva's sword and lead them on a holy war to crush all the Kingdoms of the West into subjugation, and when he does finally show up, the very first thing he does is marry an Imperial Tolnedran Princess. The way they look at it, the next Rivan King is going to be a mongrel. They hate you like poison, my little sweetheart."

  "What an absolute absurdity!" she exclaimed.

  "Of course it is," the big Cherek agreed. "But absurdity has always been a characteristic of the mind dominated by religion. We'd all be a lot better off if Belar had just kept his mouth shut.

  Belgarath laughed suddenly.

  "What's so funny?" Barak asked.

  "Asking Belar to keep his mouth shut would probably have been the most futile thing any human being could even contemplate," the old sorcerer said, still laughing. "I remember one time when he talked for a week and a half straight without stopping."

  "What was he saying?" Garion asked curiously.

  "He was explaining to the early Alorns why it wasn't a good idea to start a trek into the far north at the beginning of winter. Sometimes in those days you really had to talk to an Alorn to get an idea through to him."

  "That hasn't really changed all that much," Ce'Nedra said with an arch look at her husband. Then she laughed and fondly touched his hand.

  The next morning dawned clear and sunny, and Errand, as he usually did, went to the window as soon as he awoke to see what the day promised. He looked out over the city of Riva and saw the bright morning sun standing over the Sea of the Winds and smiled. There was not a hint of cloud.

  Today would be fine. He dressed himself in the tunic and hose which Polgara had laid out for him and then went to join his family. Durnik and Polgara sat in two comfortable, leather-upholstered chairs, one on each side of the fire, talking together quietly and sipping tea. As he always did, Errand went to Polgara, put his arms about her neck and kissed her.

  "You slept late," she said, brushing his tousled hair back from his eyes.

  "I was a little tired," he replied. "I didn't get much sleep the night before last."

  "So I heard." Almost absently, she pulled him up into her lap and held him nestled against the soft velvet of her blue robe.

  "He's growing a bit big for your lap," Durnik noted, smiling fondly at the two of them.

  "I know," Polgara answered. "That's why I hold him as often as I can. Very soon he'll outgrow laps and cuddling, so I need to store up as much as I can now. It's all very well for them to grow up, but I miss the charm of having a small one about."

  There was a brief tap on the door, and Belgarath entered.

  "Well, good morning, father"' Polgara greeted him.

  "Pol." He nodded briefly. "Durnik."

  "Did you manage to get Barak put to bed last night?" Durnik asked with a grin.

  "We poured him in about midnight. Brand's sons helped us with him. He seems to be getting heavier as he puts on the years."

  "You're looking surprisingly well," Polgara observed, "considering the fact that you spent the evening at Garion's ale barrel."

  "I didn't drink all that much," he told her, coming to the fire to warm his hands.

  She looked at him with one raised eyebrow.

  "I've got a lot on my mind," he said. Then he looked directly at her. "Is everything straightened out between Garion and Ce'Nedra?"

  "I think so, yes."

  "Let's be sure. I don't want things here to fly apart again. I'm going to have to get back to the Vale, but if you think you ought to stay and keep an eye on those two, I can go on ahead." His voice was serious, even decisive.

  Errand looked at the old man, noting once again that Belgarath seemed sometimes to be two different people. When there was nothing of any urgency going on, he reveled in his leisure, amusing himself with drink, deception, and petty theft. When a serious problem arose, however, he could set all that aside and devote almost unlimited concentration and energy to solving it.

  Polgara quietly put Errand down and looked at her father. "It's serious, then?"

  "I don't know, Pol," he said, "and I don't like it when things are going on that I don't know about. If you've finished with what you came here to do, I think we'd better get back. As soon as we can get Barak on his feet, we'll have him take us to Camaar. We can pick up horses there. I need to talk with Beldin -see if he knows anything about this Zandramas thing."

  "We'll be ready whenever you want to leave, father," she assured him.

  Later that same morning Errand went to the stables to say good-bye to the frolicsome young horse. He was a bit sad to be leaving so soon. He was genuinely fond of Garion and Ce'Nedra. The young King of Riva was in many ways like a brother to Errand, and Ce'Nedra was delightful -when she was not going out of her way to be difficult. Most of all, however, he was going to miss the horse. Errand did not think of the horse as a beast of burden. They were both young and shared a wholehearted enthusiasm for each other's company.

  The boy stood in the center of the exercise yard with the long-legged animal frisking about him in the bright morning sunlight. Then he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, turned, and saw Durnik and Garion approaching.

  "Good morning, Errand," the Rivan King said.

  "Belgarion."

  "You and the horse seem to be enjoying yourselves."

  "We're friends," Errand said. "We like to be together."

  Garion looked almost sadly at the chestnut-hued animal. The horse came to him and curiously nuzzled at his clothing. Garion rubbed the pointed ears and ran his hand down the smooth, glossy forehead. Then he sighed. "Would you like to have him for your very own?" he asked Errand.

  "You don't own friends, Belgarion."

  "You're right," Garion agreed, "but would you like it if he went back to the Vale with you?"

  "But he likes you, too."

  "I can always come and visit," the Rivan King said. "There isn't really much room for him to run here, and I'm always so busy that I don't have the time to spend with him the way I should. I think it would be best for him if he went with you. What do you think?"

  Errand considered that, trying to think only of the well being of the young animal and not of his own personal preferences. He looked at Garion and saw how much this generous offer had cost his friend. When he finally answered, his voice was quiet and very serious. "I think you're right, Belgarion. The Vale would be better for him. He wouldn't have to be penned up there."

  "You'll have to train him," Garion said. "He's never been ridden."

  "He and I can work on that," Errand assured him.

  "He'll go with you, then," Garion decided.

  "Thank you," Errand said simply.

  "You're welcome, Errand."

  "And done!" Errand could hear the voice as clearly as if it had spoken in his own mind.

  "What?" Garion's silent reply was startled.

  "Excellently done, Garion. I want these two to be together. They have things to do that need the both of them." Then the voice was gone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "The best way to begin is to lay a tunic or a coat across his back," Hettar said in his quiet voice. The tall Algar wore his usual black leather and he stood with Errand in the pasture lying to the west of Poledra's cottage. "Be sure that it's something that has your scent on it. You want him to get used to your smell and the idea that it's all right if something that smells like you is on his back."

  "He already knows what I smell like, doesn't he?" Errand asked.

  "This is just a little different," Hettar told him. "You have to go at these things slowly. You don't want to frighten him. If he's frightened, he'll try to throw you off his back."

  "We're friends," Errand tried to explain. "He knows I won't do anything to
hurt him, so why should he try to do something to hurt me?"

  Hettar shook his head and looked out over the rolling grassland. "Just do it the way I explained, Errand," he said patiently. "Believe me, I know what I'm talking about."

  "If you really want me to," Errand replied, "but I think it's an awful waste of time."

  "Trust me."

  Errand obediently laid one of his old tunics across the horse's back several times while the horse looked at him curiously, quite obviously wondering what he was doing. Errand wished that he could make Hettar understand. They had already wasted a good part of the morning on the hawkfaced Algar warrior's cautious approach to horse training.

  If they had just got right on with it, Errand knew that he and the horse could be galloping together across the free open expanse of hills and valleys stretched out before them.

  "Is that enough?" Errand asked after he had put the tunic on the horse's back several times. "Can I get on him now?"

  Hettar sighed. "It looks as if you're going to have to learn the hard way." he said. "Go ahead and climb on, if you want. Try to find a soft place to land when he throws you off, though."

  "He wouldn't do that," Errand replied confidently. He put his hand on the chestnut's neck and gently led him over to where a white boulder stuck up out of the turf.

  "Don't you think you ought to bridle him first?" Hettar asked him. "At least that gives you something to hang on to."

  "I don't think so," Errand replied. "I don't believe he'd like that bridle."

  "It's up to you," Hettar said. "Do it any way you like. Just try not to break anything when you fall."

  "Oh, I don't think I'll fall."

  "Tell me, do you know what the word 'wager' means?"

  Errand laughed and climbed up on the boulder. "Well," he said, "here we go." He threw his leg over the horse's back.

  The colt flinched slightly and stood trembling.

  "It's all right," Errand assured him in a calm voice.

  The horse turned and looked at him with soft astonishment in his large, liquid eyes.

  "You'd better hang on," Hettar warned, but his eyes had an oddly puzzled look, and his voice was not quite as certain as the words.