Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  "He's fine." Errand flexed his legs, not actually even bringing his heels in contact with the chestnut's flanks. The horse took a tentative step forward and then looked back enquiringly.

  "That's the idea," Errand encouraged him.

  The horse took several more steps, then stopped to look back over his shoulder again.

  "Good," Errand said, patting his neck. "Very, very good." The horse pranced about enthusiastically.

  "Watch out!" Hettar said sharply.

  Errand leaned forward and pointed toward a grassy knoll several hundred yards off to the southwest. "Let's go up there," he said into the sharply upstanding ear.

  The horse gave a sort of delighted shudder, bunched himself, and ran for the hilltop as hard as he could. When, moments later, they crested the knoll, he slowed and pranced about proudly.

  " All right," Errand said, laughing with sheer delight. "Now, why don't we go to that tree way over there on that other hillside?"

  "It was unnatural," Hettar said moodily that evening as they all sat at the table in Poledra's cottage, bathed in the golden firelight.

  "They seem to be doing all right," Durnik said mildly.

  "But he's doing everything wrong," Hettar protested. "That horse should have gone absolutely wild when Errand just got on him like that without any warning. And you don't tell a horse where you want him to go. You have to steer him. That's what the reins are for."

  "Errand's an unusual boy," Belgarath told him, "and the horse is an unusual horse. As long as they get along and understand each other, what difference does it make?"

  "It's unnatural," Hettar said again with a baffled look. "I kept waiting for the horse to panic, but his mind stayed absolutely calm. I know what a horse is thinking, and about the only thing that colt was feeling when Errand got on his back was curiosity. Curiosity! He didn't do or think anything the way he should." He shook his head darkly, and his long black scalplock swung back and forth as if in emphasis. "It's unnatural," he growled as if that were the only word he could think of to sum up the situation.

  "I think you've already said that several times, Hettar," Polgara told him. "Why don't we just drop the subject since it seems to bother you so much and you can tell me about Adara's baby instead."

  An expression of fatuous pleasure came over Hettar's fierce, hawk-like face. "He's a boy." he said with the overwhelming pride of a new father.

  "We gathered that," Polgara said calmly. "How big was he when he was born?"

  "Oh-" Hettar looked perplexed. "About so big, I'd say." He held his hands half a yard apart.

  "No one took the trouble to measure him?"

  "They might have done that, I suppose. My mother and the other ladies were doing all sorts of things right after he came."

  "And would you care to estimate his weight?"

  "Probably about as much as a full-grown hare, I suppose -a fairly good-sized one- or perhaps the weight of one of those red Sendarian cheeses."

  "I see, perhaps a foot and a half long and eight or nine pounds -is that what you're trying to say?" Her look was steady.

  "About that, I suppose."

  "Why didn't you say so, then?" she demanded in exasperation.

  He looked at her, startled. "Is it really that important?"

  "Yes, Hettar, it really is that important. Women like to know these things."

  "I'll have to remember that. About all I was really interested in was whether he had the usual number of arms, legs, ears, noses -things like that- that and making sure that his very first food was mare's milk, of course."

  "Of course," she said acidly.

  "It's very important, Polgara," he assured her. "Every Algar's first drink is mare's milk."

  "That makes him part horse, I suppose."

  He blinked. "No, of course not, but it establishes a sort of bond."

  "Did you milk the mare for him? Or did you make him crawl out and find one for himself?"

  "You're taking all this very oddly, Polgara."

  "Blame it on my age," she said in a dangerous voice.

  He caught that tone almost immediately. "No, I don't think I'd want to do that."

  "Wise decision," Durnik murmured. "You said that you were going up into the mountains of Ulgoland."

  Hettar nodded. "You remember the Hrulgin?"

  "The flesh-eating horses?"

  "I have sort of an idea I want to try out. A full-grown Hrulga can't be tamed, of course, but maybe if I can capture some of their colts."

  "That's very dangerous, Hettar," Belgarath warned. "The whole herd will defend the young."

  "There are some ways to separate the colts from the rest of the herd."

  Polgara looked at him disapprovingly. "Even if you succeed, what do you plan to do with the beasts?"

  "Tame them," Hettar replied simply.

  "They can't be tamed."

  "Nobody' s ever tried it. And even if I can't tame them, I perhaps I can breed them with ordinary horses."

  Durnik looked puzzled. "Why would you want horses with fangs and claws?"

  Hettar looked thoughtfully into the fire. "They're faster and stronger than ordinary horses," he replied. "They can jump much farther, and-" His voice drifted off into silence.

  "And because you can't stand the idea of anything that looks like a horse that you can't ride," Belgarath finished for him.

  "That might be a part of it," Hettar admitted. "They'd give a man a tremendous advantage in a battle, though."

  "Hettar," Durnik said, "the most important thing in Algaria is the cattle, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you really want to start raising a breed of horses that would probably look at a cow as something to eat?"

  Hettar frowned and scratched at his chin. "I hadn't thought about that," he admitted.

  Now that he had the horse, Errand's range increased enormously . The young stallion's stamina was virtually inexhaustible, and he could run for most of the day without tiring.

  Because Errand was still only a boy, his weight was not enough to burden the enthusiastic animal, and they ran freely over the rolling, grass-covered hills of southern Algaria and down into the tree-dotted expanse of the Vale of Aldur.

  The boy rose early each morning and ate his breakfast impatiently, knowing that the chestnut stallion was waiting just outside the cottage and that, as soon as breakfast was over, the two of them could gallop out through the dewdrenched grass glistening green and lush in the slanting, golden rays of the morning sun and pound up the long slopes of the hills lying before them with the cool, sweet morning air rushing past them. Polgara, who seemed to know instinctively why they both had this need to run, said nothing as Errand wolfed down his food, sitting on the very edge of his chair so that at the very instant his plate was clean he could bolt for the door and the day which lay before him. Her eyes were gentle as she watched him, and the smile she gave him when he asked to be excused was understanding.

  On a dewy, sun-filled morning in late summer when the grass was golden and heavy with ripe seeds, Errand came out of the door of the cottage and touched the bowed neck of his waiting friend with a gentle, caressing hand. The horse quivered with pleasure and took a few prancing steps, eager to be off. Errand laughed, took a handful of the stallion's mane, swung his leg and flowed up onto the strong, glossy back in a single, fluid move. The horse was running almost before the boy was in place. They galloped up the long hill, paused to look out over the sun-touched grassland lying open before them, and then circled the small valley where the thatched stone cottage lay and headed south, down into the Vale.

  This day's ride was not, as so many others had been, a random excursion with no particular goal or purpose. For days now, Errand had felt the presence of a strange, awareness emanating from the Vale that seemed to be calling to him and, as he had emerged from the cottage door, he had suddenly resolved to find out exactly what it was that seemed to summon him so quietly.

  As they moved down into the quiet Vale, past placidly gra
zing deer and curious rabbits, Errand could feel that awareness growing stronger. It was a peculiar kind of consciousness, dominated more than anything by an incredible patience -an ability, it seemed, to wait for eons for a response to these occasional quiet calls.

  As they crested a tall, rounded hill a few leagues to the west of Belgarath's tower, a brief shadow flickered across the bending grass. Errand glanced up and saw a blue-banded hawk circling on motionless wings on a rising column of sun-warmed air. Even as the boy watched, the hawk tilted, sideslipped, and then spiraled down in long, graceful circles. When it was no more than inches above the golden tassels of the ripe grass, it flared its wings, thrust down with its taloned feet and seemed somehow to shimmer in the morning air. When the momentary shimmer faded, the hawk was gone and the hunchbacked Beldin stood waist-deep in the tall grass, with one eyebrow cocked curiously. "What are you doing all the way down here, boy?" he asked without any kind of preamble.

  "Good morning, Beldin," Errand said calmly, leaning back to let the horse know that he wanted to stop for a few minutes.

  "Does Pol know how far from home you've been going?" the ugly man demanded, ignoring Errand's gesture toward politeness.

  "Probably not entirely," Errand admitted. "She knows that I'm out riding, but she might not know how much ground we can cover."

  "I've got better things to do than spend every day watching over you, you know," the irascible old man growled.

  "You don't have to do that."

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. It's my month for it."

  Errand looked at him, puzzled.

  "Didn't you know that one of us watches you every time you leave the cottage?"

  "Why would you want to do that?"

  "You do remember Zedar, don't you?"

  Errand sighed sadly. "Yes," he said.

  "Don't waste your sympathy on him," Beldin said. "He got exactly what he deserved."

  "Nobody deserves that."

  Beldin gave a snort of ugly laughter. "He's lucky that it was Belgarath who caught up with him. If it had been me, I'd have done a lot more than just seal him up inside solid rock. But that's beside the point. You remember why Zedar found you and took you with him?"

  "To steal the Orb of Aldur."

  "Right. So far as we know, you're the only person beside Belgarion who can touch the Orb and keep on living. Other people know that, too, so you might as well get used to the idea of being watched. We are not going to let you wander around alone where somebody might get his hands on you. Now, you didn't answer my question."

  "Which question?"

  "What are you doing all the way down in this part of the Vale?"

  "There's something I need to see."

  "What's that?"

  "I don't know. It's up ahead somewhere. What is it that's off in that direction?"

  "There's nothing out there but the tree."

  "That must be it, then. It wants to see me."

  "See?"

  "Maybe that's the wrong word."

  Beldin scowled at him. "Are you sure it's the tree?"

  "No. Not really. All I know is that something in that direction has been-" Errand hesitated. "I want to say inviting me to come by. Would that be the proper word?"

  "It's talking to you, not me. Pick any word you like. All right, let's go then."

  "Would you like to ride?" Errand offered. "Horse can carry us both."

  "Haven't you given him a name yet?"

  "Horse is good enough. He doesn't seem to feel that he needs one. Would you like to ride?"

  "Why would I want to ride when I can fly?"

  Errand felt a sudden curiosity. "What's it like?" he asked. "Flying, I mean?"

  Beldin's eyes suddenly changed, to become distant and almost soft. "You couldn't even begin to imagine," he said. "Just keep your eyes on me. When I get over the tree, I'll circle to show you where it is." He stooped in the tall grass, curved out his arms, and gave a strong leap. As he rose into the air, he shimmered into feathers and swooped away.

  The tree stood in solitary immensity in the middle of a broad meadow, its trunk larger than a house, its wide-spread branches shading entire acres, and its crown rising hundreds of feet into the air. It was incredibly ancient. Its roots reached down almost into the very heart of the world, and its branches touched the sky. It stood alone and silent, as if forming a link between earth and sky, a link whose purpose was beyond the understanding of man.

  As Errand rode up to the vast shaded area beneath the tree's shelter, Beldin swooped in, hovered, and dropped, almost seeming to stumble into his natural form. "All right," he growled, "there it is. Now what?"

  "I'm not sure." Errand slid down off the horse's back and walked across the soft, springy turf toward the immense trunk. The sense of the tree's awareness was very strong now, and Errand approached it curiously, still unable to determine exactly what it wanted with him.

  Then he put out his hand and touched the rough bark; in the instant that he touched it, he understood. He quite suddenly knew the whole of the tree's existence. He found that he could look back over a million million mornings to the time when the world had just emerged out of the elemental chaos from which the Gods had formed it. All at once, he knew of the incredible length of time that the earth had rolled in silence, awaiting the coming of man. He saw the endless turning of the seasons and felt the footsteps of the Gods upon the earth. And even as the tree knew, Errand came to know the fallacy which lay behind man's conception of the nature of time. Man needed to compartmentalize time, to break it into manageable pieces -eons, centuries, years, and hours.

  This eternal tree, however, understood that time was all one piece -that it was not merely an endless repetition of the same events, but rather that it moved from its beginning toward a final goal. All of that convenient segmenting which men used to make time more manageable had no real meaning. It was to tell him this simple truth that the tree had summoned him here. As he grasped that fact, the tree acknowledged him in friendship and affection.

  Slowly Errand let his fingertips slide from the bark, then turned, and walked back to where Beldin stood.

  "That's it?" the hunchbacked sorcerer asked. "That's all it wanted?"

  "Yes. That's all. We can go back now."

  Beldin gave him a penetrating look. "What did it say?"

  "lt's not the kind of thing you can put into words."

  "Try."

  Well -it was sort of saying that we pay too much attention to years."

  "That's enormously helpful, Errand."

  Errand struggled with it, trying to formulate words that would express what he had just learned. "Things happen in their own time," he said finally, "It doesn't make any difference how many -or few- of what we call years come between things."

  "What things are we talking about?"

  "The important ones. Do you really have to follow me all the way home?"

  "I need to keep an eye on you. That's about all. Are you going back now?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll be up there." Beldin made a gesture toward the arching blue dome of the sky. He shuddered into the form of a hawk and drove himself into the air with strong thrusts of his wings.

  Errand pulled himself up onto the chestnut stallion's back. His pensive mood was somehow communicated to the animal; instead of a gallop, the horse turned and walked north, back toward the cottage nestling in its valley.

  The boy considered the message of the eternal tree as he rode slowly through the golden, sun-drenched grass and, all lost in thought, he paid but little attention to his surroundings. It was thus that he was not actually aware of the robed and hooded figure standing beneath a broad-spread pine until he was almost on top of it. It was the horse that warned him with a startled snort as the figure made a slight move.

  "And so thou art the one," it snarled in a voice which seemed scarcely human.

  Errand calmed the horse with a reassuring hand on its quivering neck and looked at the dark figure before him. He co
uld feel the waves of hatred emanating from that shadowy shape and he knew that, of all the things he had ever encountered, this was the thing he should most fear. Yet, surprising even himself, he remained calm and unafraid.

  The shape laughed, an ugly, dusty kind of sound. "Thou art a fool, boy," it said. "Fear me, for the day will come when I shall surely destroy thee."

  "Not surely," Errand replied calmly. He peered closely at the shadow-shrouded form and saw at once that -like the figure of Cyradis he had met on the snowy hilltop- this seemingly substantial shape was not really here, but somewhere else, sending its malevolent hatred across the empty miles. "Besides," he added, "I'm old enough now not to be afraid of shadows."

  "We will meet in the flesh, boy," the shadow snarled, "and in that meeting shalt thou die."

  "That hasn't been decided yet, has it?" Errand said.

  "That's why we have to meet -to decide which of us will stay and which must go." The dark-robed shape drew in its breath with a sharp hiss.

  "Enjoy thy youth, boy," it snarled, "for it is all the life thou wilt have. I will prevail." Then the dark shape vanished.

  Errand drew in a deep breath and glanced skyward at the circling Beldin. He realized that not even the hawk's sharp eyes could have penetrated the spreading treelimbs to where that strange, cowled figure had stood. Beldin could not know of the meeting. Errand nudged the stallion's flanks, and they moved away from the solitary tree at a flowing canter, riding in the golden sunlight toward home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The years that followed were quiet years at the cottage. Belgarath and Beldin were often away for long periods of time, and when they returned, travel-stained and weary, their faces usually wore the frustrated look of men who have not found what they were looking for. Although Durnik was often on the stream bank, bending all of his attention to the problem of convincing some wary trout that a thumbnail-sized bit of polished metal with a few strands of red yarn trailing behind it in the current was not merely edible but irresistibly delicious, he nonetheless maintained the cottage and its immediate surroundings in that scrupulously tidy condition which announced louder than words that the proprietor of any given farmstead was a Sendar. Although rail fences, by their very nature, zigzagged and tended to meander with the lay of the ground, Durnik firmly insisted that his fence lines be absolutely straight. He was quite obviously constitutionally incapable of going around any obstacle.