Belgarath the Sorcerer and Polgara the Sorceress

by David Eddings

  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 mid-morning, 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, lifted 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 snowbank. 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 passer-by 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 break-up 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 miniature 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 greying 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 bear-skins. I’ve never understood why members 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 Hatturk 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.’

  ‘That’ll do, Pol,’ I said firmly. ‘If you’ve got a couple of minutes, Hatturk, we’d like to see this old fellow.’

  ‘Of course.’ He led us out of the room and down the stairs to the street. We talked a bit as we walked through the muddy streets to the eastern edge of town. The idea of paving streets came late to the Alorns, for some reason. I put a few rather carefully phrased questions to Hatturk, and his answers confirmed my worst suspicions. The man was a Bear-Cultist to the bone, and it didn’t take very much to set him off on a rambling diatribe filled with slogans and clichés. Religious fanatics are so unimaginative. There’s no rational explanation for their beliefs, so they’re free to speak without benefit of logic, untroubled by petty concerns such as truth or even plausibility.

  ‘Are your scribes getting down everything your berserker’s saying?’ I cut him off.

  ‘That’s just a waste of time and money, Belgarath,’ he
said indifferently. ‘One of the priests of Belar had a look at what the scribes had taken down, and he told me to quit wasting my time.’

  ‘King Algar gave you very specific orders, didn’t he?’

  ‘Sometimes Algar’s not right in the head. The priest told me that as long as we’ve got THE BOOK OF ALORN, we don’t need any of this other gibberish.’

  Naturally a priest who was a member of the Bear– Cult wouldn’t want those prophecies out there. It might interfere with their agenda. I swore under my breath.

  The Darine Prophet and his caretaker daughter lived in a neat, well-tended cottage on the eastern edge of town. He was a very old, stringy man with a sparse white beard and big, knobby hands. His name was Bormik, and his daughter’s name was Luana. Hatturk’s description of her was a gross understatement. She seemed to be intently examining the tip of her own nose most of the time. Alorns are a superstitious people, and physical defects of any kind make them nervous, so Luana’s spinsterhood was quite understandable.

  ‘How are you feeling today, Bormik?’ Hatturk said, almost in a shout. Why do people feel they have to yell when they’re talking to those who aren’t quite right in the head?

  ‘Oh, not so bad, I guess,’ Bormik replied in a wheezy old voice. ‘My hands are giving me some trouble.’ He held out those big, swollen hands.

  ‘You broke your knuckles on other people’s heads too many times when you were young,’ Hatturk boomed. ‘This is Belgarath. He wants to talk with you.’

  Bormik’s eyes immediately glazed over. ‘Behold!’ he said in a thunderous voice. ‘The Ancient and Beloved hath come to receive instruction.’

  ‘There he goes again,’ Hatturk muttered to me. ‘All that garbled nonsense makes me nervous. ‘I’ll wait outside.’ And he turned abruptly and left.

  ‘Hear me, Disciple of Aldur,’ Bormik continued. His eyes seemed fixed on my face, but I’m fairly sure he didn’t see me. ‘Hear my words, for my words are truth. The division will end, for the Child of Light is coming.’

  That was what I’d been waiting to hear. It confirmed that Bormik was the voice of prophecy, and what he’d been saying all these years had contained vital information – and we’d missed it! I started to swear under my breath, and to think up all sorts of nasty things to do to the thick-headed Hatturk. I glanced quickly at Polgara, but she was sitting in a corner of the room speaking intently to Bormik’s cross-eyed daughter.

  ‘And the Choice shall be made in the holy place of the children of the Dragon-God,’ Bormik continued, ‘for the Dragon-God is error, and was not intended. Only in the Choice shall error be mended, and all made whole again. Behold, in the day that Aldur’s Orb burns hot with crimson fire shall the name of the Child of Dark be revealed. Guard well the son of the Child of Light, for he shall have no brother. And it shall come to pass that those which once were one and now are two shall be rejoined, and in that joining shall one of them be no more.’

  Then Bormik’s weary old head drooped, as if the effort of prophecy had exhausted him. I might have tried to shake him awake, but I knew that it would be fruitless. He was too old and feeble to go on. I stood, picked up a quilt from a nearby bench, and gently covered the drowsing old man. I certainly didn’t want him to take a chill and die on me before he’d said what he was supposed to say. ‘Pol,’ I said to my daughter.

  ‘In a minute, father,’ she said, waving me off. She continued to speak with that same low intensity to the cross-eyed Luana. ‘Agreed, then?’ she said to the spindly spinster.

  ‘As you say, Lady Polgara,’ Bormik’s middle-aged daughter replied. ‘A bit of verification first, if you don’t mind.’ She rose, crossed the room, and looked intently at the image of her face in a polished brass mirror. ‘Done!’ was all she said. Then she turned and looked around the room, and her eyes were as straight as any I’ve ever seen – very pretty eyes, as I recall.

  What was going on here?

  ‘All right, father,’ Pol said in an off-hand sort of way. ‘We can go now.’ And she walked on out of the room.

  ‘What was that all about?’ I asked her as I opened the front door for her.

  ‘Something for something, father,’ she replied. ‘You might call it a fair trade.’

  ‘There’s our problem,’ I told her, pointing at the brutish Hatturk impatiently waiting in the street. ‘He’s a Bear-Cultist, and even if I could dragoon him into transcribing Bormik’s ravings, he’d let the priests of the Bear-Cult see them before he passed them on to me. Revisionism is the soul of theology, so there’s no telling what sort of garbage would filter through to me.’

  ‘It’s already been taken care of, father,’ she told me in that offensively superior tone of hers. ‘Don’t strain Hatturk’s understanding by trying to explain the need for accuracy to him. Luana’s going to take care of it for us.’

  ‘Bormik’s daughter?’

  ‘Of course. She’s closest to him, after all. She’s been listening to his ravings for years now, and she knows exactly how to get him to repeat things he’s said in the past. All it takes is a single word to set him off.’ She paused. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘here’s your purse.’ She held out my much-lighter money pouch, which she’d somehow managed to steal from me. ‘I gave her money to hire the scribes.’

  ‘And?’ I said, hefting my diminished purse.

  ‘And what?’

  ‘What’s in it for her?’

  ‘Oh, father,’ she said. ‘You saw her, didn’t you?’

  ‘Her eyes, you mean?’

  ‘Of course. As I said, something for something.’

  ‘She’s too old for it to make any difference, Pol,’ I objected. ‘She’ll never catch a husband now.’

  ‘Maybe not, but at least she’ll be able to look herself straight in the eye in the mirror.’ She gave me that long-suffering look. ‘You’ll never understand, old wolf. Trust me. I know what I’m doing. What now?’

  ‘I guess we might as well go on to Drasnia. We seem to have finished up here.’ I shrugged. ‘How did you straighten her eyes?’

  ‘Muscles, old wolf. Tighten some. Relax others. It’s easy if you pay attention. Details, father, you have to pay attention to details. Isn’t that what you told me?’

  ‘Where did you learn so much about eyes?’

  She shrugged. ‘I didn’t. I just made it up as I went along. Shall we go to Drasnia?’

  Chapter 26

  We spent the night in Hatturk’s house and went down to the harbor the following morning to sail to Kotu at the mouth of the Mrin River. ‘I want to thank you, Hatturk,’ I said to the clan chief as we stood on the wharf.

  ‘My pleasure, Belgarath,’ he replied.

  ‘I’ve got a word of advice for you, if you don’t mind listening.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You might want to give some thought to keeping your religious opinions to yourself. The Bear-Cult’s caused a great deal of trouble in Aloria in the past, and the Alorn Kings aren’t particularly fond of it. King Algar’s a patient man, but his patience only goes so far. The Cult’s been suppressed a number of times in the past, and I sort of feel another one coming. I really don’t think you want to be on the wrong side when that happens. Algar Fleet-foot can be very firm when he sets his mind to it.’

  He gave me a sullen sort of look. I did try to warn him, but I guess he chose not to listen.

  ‘Does Dras know we’re coming, father?’ Polgara asked me as we were boarding the ship.

  I nodded. ‘I talked with a Cherek sea-captain yesterday. He’s on the way to Boktor right now. His ship’s one of those war-boats, so he’ll get there long before we reach Kotu.’

  ‘It’ll be good to see Dras again. He’s not quite as bright as his brothers, but he’s got a good heart.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I guess I should have a talk with him when we get to Kotu. I think it’s time that he got married.’

  ‘Don’t look at me, father,’ she said primly. ‘I’m fond of Dras, but not that fond.’

/>   Kotu is one of the major seaports in the world now, largely because it’s the western terminus of the North Caravan Route. When Pol and I went there, however, trade with the Nadraks was very limited, and Kotu was hardly more than a village with only a few wharves jutting out into the bay. It took us two days to make the voyage across the Gulf of Cherek from Darine to the mouth of the Mrin River, and Dras was waiting for us when we arrived. He had a fair number of his retainers with him, but they hadn’t come along to see me. It was Polgara they were interested in. Evidently, word had filtered into the various Alorn kingdoms about the beautiful daughter of Ancient Belgarath, and the young Drasnians had come down-river from Boktor to have a look for themselves.

  I’m sure they weren’t disappointed.

  When we’d gone to the Isle of the Winds for Beldaran’s wedding, the girls had only been sixteen, and they’d never been out of the Vale. Polgara had made me very nervous during the course of that trip. But she was older now, and she’d demonstrated that she knew how to take care of herself, so I could watch those young men swarming around her with equanimity, and even with a certain amusement. Pol enjoyed their attentions, but she wasn’t going to do anything inappropriate.

  Our ship docked in mid-afternoon, and we took rooms at a somewhat seedy inn, planning to sail up-river the next morning to the village of Braca, where the Mrin Prophet was kenneled.

  Bull-neck and I talked until quite late that evening, which gave Pol the opportunity to break a few hearts.

  Dras leaned back in his chair and looked at me speculatively. ‘Algar’s going to get married, you know,’ he told me.

  ‘It’s funny he didn’t mention it,’ I replied. ‘He went with us to Riva’s Island.’

  ‘You know how Algar is,’ Dras said with a shrug. ‘I suppose I ought to be thinking about that myself.’