My only real contribution to our impromptu get-together was so obscure that it didn’t even make sense to me at the time. It does now, of course, but that’s only in retrospect. I was adamant about it, and the others gave up and put it in the Accords just as I dictated it. ‘From this day forward upon her sixteenth birthday shall each Princess of Imperial Tolnedra present herself in the Hall of the Rivan King. In her wedding gown shall she be clad, and three days shall she abide there against the coming of the King. And if he comes not to claim her, shall she be free to go wheresoever her father, the Emperor, shall decree, for she shall not be the favored one.’
Mergon, the Tolnedran ambassador, objected violently, of course, but I had all these nice burly Alorns around me to flex their muscles and make dire predictions about what would happen if the Tolnedrans chose to ignore my simple little request.
That took care of the Tolnedran government, but it didn’t really have much impact on Ce’Nedra, who turned out to be the lucky girl. She seems to have had certain objections. She didn’t have a very high opinion of her pre-ordained husband in the first place, and when she discovered that he outranked her, she went up in flames. Rank and station were very important to Ce’Nedra, evidently. I’ll grant you that our tiny princess can be absolutely adorable – when she wants something – but she aged me far more than several dozen centuries ever did. To give you some idea of just how stubborn she could be, it finally took a God – Eriond – to get her anywhere near the Hall of the Rivan King on the appointed day. It’s entirely possible that Eriond will unify the world in peace and harmony, but that won’t even come close to his victory over Ce’Nedra that day in the caverns of Ulgo.
That, of course, brings us to the question of just who it was who prompted mother to insist that I slip that ridiculous obligation into the Accords of Vo Mimbre. If we were out to elect the most probable perpetrator, my vote would go to UL. I’m sure that Gods have a sense of humor, and UL’s would probably be the most obscure.
Note that I avoided the word ‘perverted’ there. Still, one does have to wonder about a God who turns his chosen people into moles, doesn’t one?
Despite my reservations about the Father of the Gods and his probable involvement, I will credit the Gorim of Ulgo with keeping the entire conference from blowing up into a general war. The very presence of ‘the holiest man in the world’ kept everyone at least marginally civil, and when he read the Accords to us after it was all over, the document had a faint tinge of ‘Holy Writ’, and the various items it contained seemed to have almost the force of religious obligations. People are used to doing peculiar things for religious reasons, so the fact that many things in the Accords didn’t make any sense was smoothed over as long as we all tacitly agreed to view them as religious.
It had taken us several weeks to hammer out the Accords, and that had given Korodullin and Mayaserana enough time to stop talking about politics and get down to more important things. When Brand sent for them, they came hand in hand into the throne-room with that rather silly look on their faces that I recognized immediately. They’d definitely made peace with each other. I leaned over to whisper to my father almost as soon as the blushing pair entered. ‘I think you just lost our wager, Old Man,’ I said. ‘I seem to forget. What was it you put on the line when we made the bet?’
He glared at me.
‘I told you so, father,’ I said sweetly. Try to get used to the sound of that. I’m going to tell you that I told you so quite often over the next several centuries. Look upon it as educational. Maybe the next time I tell you that I know what I’m doing, you’ll believe me.’
‘Do you mind, Polgara?’
‘Not at all, father. I just wanted to be sure that you remembered, that’s all.’ I gave my head a little toss. ‘I told you so,’ I added.
Mandor and Wildantor went out and found a priest to perform the wedding ceremony. I didn’t see any blood or visible bruises on the priest when they brought him in, but his slightly frightened eyes hinted that there’d been some threats. It was a start, I guess. Threats are a little more civilized than open violence.
We’d just come through a war, so there was a great deal of disordered confusion in Vo Mimbre. The wedding of Korodullin and Mayaserana, therefore, was not surrounded by all the pomp and ceremony – and parties – which would have taken place in peacetime. I don’t think that really disappointed the bride and groom very much. Once Mandorin had patiently pounded the idea that the wedding technically unified Arendia – under a Mimbrate king – the priest of Chaldan became very cooperative, and his spur-of-the-moment wedding sermon wasn’t really too bad. What escaped him – and most of the Mimbrate wedding guests – was the fact that the wedding produced a joint monarchy. The unification of my poor Arendia took place in the royal bedchamber.
Then it was time for us to point the Alorns in a generally northerly direction and to tell them to go home. The presence of a unified Aloria no more than two hundred leagues north of Tol Honeth was probably making Ran Borune very nervous. Moreover, there were inevitably members of the Bear-Cult in the ranks of the Alorn armies, and it wouldn’t have been a good idea to give them time to start having religious experiences brought on by our proximity to Tol Honeth and all its wealth.
Father and I rode with Brand on up to the Arendish Fair. Then we said goodbye and rode east toward the border of Ulgoland, where we were met by several battalions of Algar horsemen. It was courteous of Cho-Ram to provide us with an escort, so father and I didn’t make an issue of the fact that the Algars were more of an inconvenience than anything else. It was late summer anyway, and since there wasn’t anything pressing for us to do, we didn’t really mind a horseback ride through the mountains.
‘I’m going on down to the Vale,’ father said when we reached the Algarian plain. ‘Are you going back to Aldurford?’
‘I don’t think so. There were a lot of Algar soldiers at Vo Mimbre, and I wouldn’t want some neighbor who’s a veteran to start making some connections. Gelane and I’d better start fresh somewhere.’
‘Maybe you’re right. Let’s get you out of sight somewhere. Have you got anyplace particular in mind?’
‘I think I’ll take the boy to Sendaria. After Vo Mimbre, there aren’t too many Murgos left in the world, and they aren’t going to be welcome in Sendaria – or anyplace else, for that matter.’
He shrugged. “That’s your decision, Pol. Gelane’s your responsibility, so whatever you decide is all right with me.’
‘Thank you.’ I wasn’t really trying to be sarcastic, but it did sort of come out that way. ‘Is there something pressing for you to attend to at the Vale?’
‘I need a vacation, that’s about all. I’ve been running a little light on sleep for the past several years.’ He scratched at his bearded cheek. ‘I’ll give things a while to settle down, and then I want to look in on those families I’ve been watching for the last millennium or so. I want to make sure that they’re all still intact.’
‘What if they aren’t?’
‘I’ll have to make some other arrangements.’
‘Enjoy yourself, but stay out of my hair, father, and this time I mean it.’
‘Whatever you say, Pol. Give my best to Gelane.’ Then he rode off south toward the Vale while the Algars and I went on toward the Stronghold. It occurred to me as we rode that I sometimes underestimated my father. I’d devoted centuries to one family, but father had been manipulating several all at one time. That probably explained why he seemed so much like a vagabond most of the time.
Gelane was fourteen now, and that’s probably the most troublesome age for a young man. He hovered between childhood and adulthood, and he bitterly resented the fact that he hadn’t been permitted to share the fun at Vo Mimbre.
A part of the problem – the major part most likely – arose from Gelane’s awareness of his identity. When I’d taken Garel, his father, to the Stronghold, he’d been placed under Cho-Ram’s personal protection, and Cho-Ram hadn’t fully u
nderstood why it was necessary to keep his ward’s identity a secret. Algar society is closed to outsiders, so Algars all view each other as relatives. They don’t bother keeping secrets because there’s no one to keep them from. Thus, Gelane had grown up knowing who he was and in the company of those who also knew who he was. He didn’t exactly put on airs, but he was accustomed to having people address him as ‘your Highness’. He had a regal sort of air about him that started causing problems almost as soon as I reached the Stronghold.
‘I don’t think I want to go to Sendaria, Aunt Pol,’ he responded when I broached the plan to him. ‘I wouldn’t like that very much.’
‘You don’t have to like it, Gelane,’ I said firmly, ‘but that’s where we’re going.’
‘Why can’t we stay here? All my friends are here.’
‘You’ll make new ones when we get to Sendaria.’
‘I have some rights, Aunt Pol.’ What is it about adolescents that makes them all start talking about their ‘rights’ in any argument?
‘Of course you do, dear,’ I said sweetly. ‘You have the absolute right to have me make your decisions for you.’
“That’s not fair!’
‘It wasn’t intended to be. Run along now. Tell all your friends goodbye and start packing. We’re leaving tomorrow morning.’
‘You can’t order me around.’
‘Actually, I can. I’m very good at ordering people around – and for some reason, they always end up doing exactly what I tell them to do. There’s the door. Use it – or would you rather have me throw you through?’
I’ve seldom had to take that position with any of Iron-grip’s heirs, but Gelane had somehow gotten out of control. As soon as he left, slamming the door behind him, I went through the echoing halls of the Stronghold to have a word with his mother, Aravina. It only took me a few minutes to discover the source of Gelane’s unruliness. Aravina was a very pretty Algar lady, but the untimely death of Gelane’s father had largely broken her spirit. She was so immersed in her own grief that she’d paid little or no attention to her son’s behavior. It’s a part of the nature of adolescents to test limits to see just how far they can go. The wise parent doesn’t permit that to get out of hand. Gentle firmness at the early stages of this testing is far kinder in the long run than the inevitable harshness that becomes necessary later on.
If you’re contemplating parenthood, take notes. There’ll be tests later on – and I won’t be the one who’ll grade those tests.
I chose to settle my family in Seline rather than Muros, Medalia, or Sulturn, largely because King Ormik had deployed the troops from the northern provinces of Sendaria along the coast to ward off any possible Angarak surprise attacks, and so there’d be few veterans of the Battle of Vo Mimbre living there. Father and I had been fairly visible at Vo Mimbre, after all, and I didn’t think it’d be appropriate to have some former comrades-in-arms invite me to share a few tankards of strong ale in the local tavern while we exchanged war-stories.
Gelane didn’t like Seline, and it showed. A more or less permanent sneer settled over his still beardless face as he walked about the rainy streets of his new home. Adolescent males tend to do that a lot. I’m sure they practice that expression of lofty disdain in front of a mirror every chance they get. I think that in a perfect society both strong drink and mirrors would be prohibited for adolescents. Gelane’s sneer disappeared quite abruptly one morning when he approached the reflective altar of his self-adoration and discovered that a very large, shiny pimple had mysteriously appeared overnight on the very tip of his nose.
The pimple went away eventually – almost as soon as Gelane’s expression became more sunny. I think it may have something to do with the body’s chemistry. A sour expression probably sours the blood, and everybody knows that sour blood makes one’s face break out.
I bought us a modest little house near the commercial district in Seline, and after a bit of constructive snooping among the local craftsmen, I located Osrig, a sober, sensible cooper of late middle age with no immediate heir. Osrig made good barrels, and his former apprentices were all successfully following the trade in nearby towns and villages, a clear indication that their former master was a good teacher. I spoke with Osrig one day, some money changed hands, and then I went home to advise my nephew that I’d made a decision about his life’s work.
‘Barrels?’ he protested. ‘I don’t know anything about barrels, Aunt Pol.’
‘I know, dear,’ I replied. ‘That’s why you start out as an apprentice. You have to learn how to make them before you can go into business for yourself.’
‘I don’t want to be a barrel-maker.’
‘It’s a useful product, Gelane, and barrels aren’t likely to go out of fashion, so you’ll have a secure future.’
‘But it’s so ordinary, Aunt Pol.’
‘Yes. That’s the whole idea. You want to be ordinary.’
‘No I don’t. Can’t we find something more interesting for me to do? Maybe I could be a sailor or something – or maybe go into the army. I think I’d like to be a soldier.’
‘I’ve seen your bedroom, Gelane. You wouldn’t make a very good soldier.’
‘What’s my bedroom got to do with it?’
‘A soldier has to make his bed every morning – and pick up all his dirty clothes. You’re a nice boy, but neatness isn’t one of your strong points. A soldier with dented armor and a rusty sword doesn’t impress his enemies very much.’
His expression grew mournful. ‘Barrels?’ He said it with a note of resignation.
‘Barrels, Gelane.’
“That’s not much of an occupation for a king, Aunt Pol.’
‘Don’t start polishing your crown until they put it on your head, dear. Stick to barrels instead.’
‘Torak’s dead, Aunt Pol. I don’t have to hide from him any more.’
‘No, dear. Torak’s not dead. He’s just asleep. Just as soon as you put on the crown of Riva and pick up the sword, he’ll wake up and come looking for you. We don’t want him to do that, so concentrate on barrels. Now, you’d better eat some supper and go to bed. You’ll be getting up early tomorrow morning. Osrig’s going to be expecting you at the shop as soon as it gets light.’
‘Osrig?’
‘Your master. He’s the one who’s going to teach you how to make barrels that don’t leak.’
I hate to use the word ‘chance’ here, since I’ve learned over the years that when we’re talking about my peculiar family, pure random chance seldom has much to do with how things turn out. This time, though, chance might have had a lot to do with it. I could have bought Gelane an apprenticeship to any one of a dozen or so craftsmen who followed entirely different trades. Osrig, however, fitted all my requirements. He was skilled, he was a good teacher, he was growing old, and he didn’t have a son waiting to inherit the family business. As soon as Gelane learned the trade, I could buy Osrig out and set my reluctant nephew up in business for himself. That was my goal. The end product of that business was really secondary. The important thing was to merge him into the general population to the point that he’d be invisible in the event that Chamdar came looking for him. We could always hope that Chamdar hadn’t survived the Battle of Vo Mimbre, but I’ve learned over the years not to depend too much on hope.
We settled in, and Gelane learned how to make barrels while I stayed home with Aravina doing everything I could to bring her out of the melancholia which came very close to incapacitating her. Melancholia’s a difficult condition to deal with. The admonition, ‘Oh, cheer up’, doesn’t really work, no matter how often you say it. There are some herbs and compounds of herbs that numb that overpowering sadness, but numb people don’t function very well.
Osrig, as I mentioned, was a very good teacher, and Gelane was soon making barrels that didn’t leak very much. His products moved down a definite descending scale. His first barrel gushed water from every seam. The second spurted. The third dribbled. The next three only oozed. Aft
er that, they were mostly watertight, and he actually began to take some pride in his work. When a craftsman reaches that point, the battle’s largely over. Whether he liked the idea or not, Gelane was now a cooper.
Then, when our young barrel-maker was sixteen, he met a very pretty girl named Enalla, the daughter of a local carpenter, and the customary bell rang in the corridors of my mind. Gelane was absolutely smitten with her, and she with him, so they began ‘walking out with each other.’ That’s a Sendarian euphemism for what a young pair does when they’re looking for an opportunity to slip away together to explore the differences between boys and girls. Enalla’s mother and I took turns preventing that, so about all Gelane and Enalla were able to manage were a few hastily stolen kisses.
After a month or so they were formally engaged, so the kisses were now acceptable – within certain rather tightly controlled limits. Then, shortly after Gelane’s seventeenth birthday, he and his radiant Enalla were married. The entire courtship had been rather plodding and pedestrian, but this was Sendaria after all, and the local society of merchants and craftsmen was conservative. Conservative people don’t like surprises – like the ritual kidnaping of the bride-to-be by her adoring bridegroom and several of his half-drunk friends that’s common in some of the rowdier clans in Algaria.
After the wedding there was the ceremonial wedding supper – the traditional lavish feast which insures the attendance of just about everybody in the neighborhood. After he’d eaten his fill – and then some – Gelane’s grey-haired employer drew me aside for some serious discussion. I always rather liked Osrig. He was a Sendar to his fingertips, the kind of man who made me proud of the part I’d played in creating Sendaria. He was sober, practical, and eminently sensible. He paid his taxes, didn’t cheat his customers, and abstained from some of the more colorful aspects of language so admired by Chereks and Drasnians. He was a solidly-built man in his mid-fifties, and he was probably the one who really raised Gelane. Sometimes that task does fall on the shoulders of a young man’s first employer.
Belgarath the Sorcerer and Polgara the Sorceress Page 152