Pawn of Prophecy tb-1

by David Eddings

  "Shocking," Garion agreed, secretly amused by Durnik's embarrassment. They crossed the courtyard through the lightly sifting snow.

  The smithy was presided over by a huge, black-bearded man with forearms as big as Garion's thighs. Durnik introduced himself and the two were soon happily talking shop to the accompaniment of the ringing blows of the smith's hammer. Garion noticed that instead of the plows, spades, and hoes that would fill a Sendarian smithy, the walls here were hung with swords, spears, and war axes. At one forge an apprentice was hammering out arrowheads, and at another, a lean, one-eyed man was working on an evil-looking dagger.

  Durnik and the smith talked together for most of the remainder of the morning while Garion wandered about the inner courtyard watching the various workmen at their tasks. There were coopers and wheelwrights, cobblers and carpenters, saddlers and candlemakers, all busily at work to maintain the huge household of King Anheg. As he watched, Garion also kept his eyes open for the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak he'd seen the night before. It wasn't likely that the man would be here where honest work was being done, but Garion stayed alert all the same.

  About noon, Barak came looking for them and led them back to the great hall where Silk lounged, intently watching a dice game.

  "Anheg and the others want to meet privately this afternoon," Barak said. "I've got an errand to run, and I thought you might want to go along."

  "That might not be a bad idea," Silk said, tearing his eyes from the game. "Your cousin's warriors dice badly, and I'm tempted to try a few rolls with them. It would probably be better if I didn't. Most men take offense at losing to strangers."

  Barak grinned. "I'm sure they'd be glad to let you play, Silk," he said. "They've got just as much chance of winning as you do."

  "Just as the sun has as much chance of coming up in the west as in the east," Silk said.

  "Are you that sure of your skill, friend Silk?" Durnik asked.

  "I'm sure of theirs." Silk chuckled. He jumped up. "Let's go," he said. "My fingers are starting to itch. Let's get them away from temptation."

  "Anything you say, Prince Kheldar." Barak laughed.

  They all put on fur cloaks and left the palace. The snow had almost stopped, and the wind was brisk.

  "I'm a bit confused by all these names," Durnik said as they trudged toward the central part of Val Alorn. "I've been meaning to ask about it. You, friend Silk, are also Prince Kheldar and sometimes the merchant Ambar of Kotu, and Mister Wolf is called Belgarath, and Mistress Pol is also Lady Polgara or the Duchess of Erat. Where I come from, people usually have one name."

  "Names are like clothes, Durnik," Silk explained. "We put on what's most suitable for the occasion. Honest men have little need to wear strange clothes or strange names. Those of us who aren't so honest, however, occasionally have to change one or the other."

  "I don't find it amusing to hear Mistress Pol described as not being honest," Durnik said stifliy.

  "No disrespect intended," Silk assured him. "Simple definitions don't apply to Lady Polgara; and when I say that we're not honest, I simply mean that this business we're in sometimes requires us to conceal ourselves from people who are evil as well as devious."

  Durnik looked unconvinced but let it pass.

  "Let's take this street," Barak suggested. "I don't want to pass the Temple of Belar today."

  "Why?" Garion asked.

  "I'm a little behind in my religious duties," Barak said with a pained look, "and I'd rather not be reminded of it by the High Priest of Belar. His voice is very penetrating, and I don't like being called down in front of the whole city. A prudent man doesn't give either a priest or a woman the opportunity to scold him in public."

  The streets of Val Alorn were narrow and crooked, and the ancient stone houses were tall and narrow with overhanging second stories. Despite the intermittent snow and the crisp wind, the streets seemed full of people, most of them garbed in furs against the chill.

  There was much good-humored shouting and the exchange of bawdy insults. Two elderly and dignified men were pelting each other with snowballs in the middle of one street to the raucous encouragement of the bystanders.

  "They're old friends," Barak said with a broad grin. "They do this every day all winter long. Pretty soon they'll go to an alehouse and get drunk and sing old songs together until they fall off their benches. They've been doing it for years now."

  "What do they do in the summer?" Silk asked.

  "They throw rocks," Barak said. "The drinking and singing and falling off the benches stays the same, though."

  "Hello, Barak," a green-eyed young woman called from an upper window. "When are you coming to see me again?"

  Barak glanced up, and his face flushed, but he didn't answer.

  "That lady's talking to you, Barak," Garion said.

  "I heard her," Barak replied shortly.

  "She seems to know you," Silk said with a sly look.

  "She knows everyone," Barak said, flushing even more. "Shall we move along?"

  Around another corner a group of men dressed in shaggy furs shufted along in single file. Their gait was a kind of curious swaying from side to side, and people quickly made way for them.

  "Hail, Lord Barak," their leader intoned.

  "Hail, Lord Barak," the others said in unison, still swaying. Barak bowed stitpy.

  "May the arm of Belar protect thee," the leader said. "All praise to Belar, Bear-God of Aloria," the others said. Barak bowed again and stood until the procession had passed.

  "Who were they?" Durnik asked.

  "Bear-cultists," Barak said with distaste. "Religious fanatics."

  "A troublesome group," Silk explained. "They have chapters in all the Alorn kingdoms. They're excellent warriors, but they're the instruments of the High Priest of Belar. They spend their time in rituals, military training, and interfering in local politics."

  "Where's this Aloria they spoke of?" Garion asked.

  "All around us," Barak said with a broad gesture. "Aloria used to be all the Alorn kingdoms together. They were all one nation. The cultists want to reunite them."

  "That doesn't seem unreasonable," Durnik said.

  "Aloria was divided for a reason," Barak said. "A certain thing had to be protected, and the division of Aloria was the best way to do that."

  "Was this thing so important?" Durnik asked.

  "It's the most important thing in the world," Silk said. "The Bearcultists tend to forget that."

  "Only now it's been stolen, hasn't it?" Garion blurted as that dry voice in his mind informed him of the connection between what Barak and Silk had just said and the sudden disruption of his own life. "It's this thing that Mister Wolf is following."

  Barak glanced quickly at him. "The lad is wiser than we thought, Silk," he said soberly.

  "He's a clever boy," Silk agreed, "and it's not hard to put it all together." His weasel face was grave. "You're right, of course, Garion," he said. "We don't know how yet, but somebody's managed to steal it. If Belgarath gives the word, the Alorn Kings will take the world apart stone by stone to get it back."

  "You mean war?" Durnik said in a sinking voice.

  "There are worse things than war," Barak said grimly. "It might be a good opportunity to dispose of the Angaraks once and for all."

  "Let's hope that Belgarath can persuade the Alorn Kings otherwise," Silk said.

  "The thing has to be recovered," Barak insisted.

  "Granted," Silk agreed, "but there are other ways, and I hardly think a public street's the place to discuss our alternatives."

  Barak looked around quickly, his eyes narrowing.

  They had by then reached the harbor where the masts of the ships of Cherek rose as thickly as trees in a forest. They crossed an icy bridge over a frozen stream and came to several large yards where the skeletons of ships lay in the snow.

  A limping man in a leather smock came from a low stone building in the center of one of the yards and stood watching their ap
proach.

  "Ho, Krendig," Barak called.

  "Ho, Barak," the man in the leather smock replied.

  "How does the work go?" Barak asked.

  "Slowly in this season," Krendig said. "It's not a good time to work with wood. My artisans are fashioning the fittings and sawing the boards, but we won't be able to do much more until spring."

  Barak nodded and walked over to lay his hand on the new wood of a ship prow rising out of the snow. "Krendig is building this for me," he said, patting the prow. "She'll be the finest ship afloat."

  "If your oarsmen are strong enough to move her," Krendig said. "She'll be very big, Barak, and very heavy."

  "Then I'll man her with big men," Barak said, still gazing at the ribs of his ship.

  Garion heard a gleeful shout from the hillside above the shipyard and looked up quickly. Several young people were sliding down the hill on smooth planks. It was obvious that Barak and the others were going to spend most of the rest of the afternoon discussing the ship. While that might be all very interesting, Garion realized that he hadn't spoken with anyone his own age for a long time. He drifted away from the others and stood at the foot of the hill, watching.

  One blond girl particularly attracted his eye. In some ways she reminded him of Zubrette, but there were some differences. Where Zubrette had been petite, this girl was as big as a boy—though she was noticeably not a boy. Her laughter rang out merrily, and her cheeks were pink in the cold afternoon air as she slid down the hill with her long braids flying behind her.

  "That looks like fun," Garion said as her improvised sled came to rest nearby.

  "Would you like to try?" she asked, getting up and brushing the snow from her woolen dress.

  "I don't have a sled," he told her.

  "I might let you use mine," she said, looking at him archly, "if you give me something."

  "What would you want me to give you?" he asked.

  "We'll think of something," she said, eyeing him boldly. "What's your name?"

  "Garion," he said.

  "What an odd name. Do you come from here?"

  "No. I'm from Sendaria."

  "A Sendar? Truly?" Her blue eyes twinkled. "I've never met a Sendar before. My name is Maidee."

  Garion inclined his head slightly.

  "Do you want to use my sled?" Maidee asked.

  "I might like to try it," Garion said.

  "I might let you," she said, "for a kiss."

  Garion blushed furiously, and Maidee laughed.

  A large red-haired boy in a long tunic slid to a stop nearby and rose with a menacing look on his face.

  "Maidee, come away from there," he ordered.

  "What if I don't want to?" she asked.

  The red-haired boy swaggered toward Garion.

  "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

  "I was talking with Maidee," Garion said.

  "Who gave you permission?" the red-haired boy asked. He was a bit taller than Garion and somewhat heavier.

  "I didn't bother to ask permission," Garion said.

  The red-haired boy glowered, flexing his muscles threateningly.

  "I can thrash you if I like," he announced.

  Garion realized that the redhead was feeling belligerent and that a fight was inevitable. The preliminaries-threats, insults and the likewould probably go on for several more minutes, but the fight would take place as soon as the boy in the long tunic had worked himself up to it. Garion decided not to wait. He doubled his fist and punched the larger boy in the nose.

  The blow was a good one, and the redhead stumbled back and sat down heavily in the snow. He raised one hand to his nose and brought it away bright red.

  "It's bleeding!" he wailed accusingly. "You made my nose bleed."

  "It'll stop in a few minutes," Garion said.

  "What if it doesn't?"

  "Nose bleeds don't last forever," Garion told him.

  "Why did you hit me?" the redhead demanded tearfully, wiping his nose. "I didn't do anything to you."

  "You were going to," Garion said. "Put snow on it, and don't be such a baby."

  "It's still bleeding," the boy said.

  "Put snow on it," Garion said again.

  "What if it doesn't stop bleeding?"

  "Then you'll probably bleed to death," Garion said in a heartless tone. It was a trick he had learned from Aunt Pol. It worked as well on the Cherek boy as it had on Doroon and Rundorig. The redhead blinked at him and then took a large handful of snow and held it to his nose.

  "Are all Sendars so cruel?" Maidee asked.

  "I don't know all the people in Sendaria," Garion said. The affair hadn't turned out well at all, and regretfully he turned and started back toward the shipyard.

  "Garion, wait," Maidee said. She ran after him and caught him by the arm. "You forgot my kiss," she said, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the lips.

  "There," she said, and she turned and ran laughing back up the hill, her blond braids flying behind her.

  Barak, Silk and Durnik were all laughing when he returned to where they stood.

  "You were supposed to chase her," Barak said.

  "What for?" Garion asked, flushing at their laughter.

  "She wanted you to catch her."

  "I don't understand."

  "Barak," Silk said, "I think that one of us is going to have to inform the Lady Polgara that our Garion needs some further education."

  "You're skilled with words, Silk," Barak said. "I'm sure you ought to be the one to tell her."

  "Why don't we throw dice for the privilege?" Silk suggested.

  "I've seen you throw dice before, Silk." Barak laughed.

  "Of course we could simply stay here a while longer," Silk said slyly. "I rather imagine that Garion's new playmate would be quite happy to complete his education, and that way we wouldn't have to bother Lady Polgara about it."

  Garion's ears were flaming. "I'm not as stupid as all that," he said hotly. "I know what you're talking about, and you don't have to say anything to Aunt Pol about it." He stamped away angrily, kicking at the snow.

  After Barak had talked for a while longer with his shipbuilder and the harbor had begun to darken with the approach of evening, they started back toward the palace. Garion sulked along behind, still offended by their laughter. The clouds which had hung overhead since their arrival in Val Alorn had begun to tatter, and patches of clear sky began to appear. Here and there single stars twinkled as evening slowly settled in the snowy streets. The soft light of candles began to glow in the windows of the houses, and the few people left in the streets hurried to get home before dark.

  Garion, still loitering behind, saw two men entering a wide door beneath a crude sign depicting a cluster of grapes. One of them was the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak that he had seen in the palace the night before. The other man wore a dark hood, and Garion felt a familiar tingle of recognition. Even though he couldn't see the hooded man's face, there was no need of that. They had looked at each other too often for there to be any doubt. As always before, Garion felt that peculiar restraint, almost like a ghostly finger touching his lips. The hooded man was Asharak, and, though the Murgo's presence here was very important, it was for some reason impossible for Garion to speak of it. He watched the two men only for a moment and then hurried to catch up with his friends. He struggled with the compulsion that froze his tongue, and then tried another approach.

  "Barak," he asked, "are there many Murgos in Val Alorn?"

  "There aren't any Murgos in Cherek," Barak said. "Angaraks aren't allowed in the kingdom on pain of death. It's our oldest law. It was laid down by old Cherek Bear-shoulders himself. Why do you ask?"

  "I was just wondering," Garion said lamely. His mind shrieked with the need to tell them about Asharak, but his lips stayed frozen.

  That evening, when they were all seated at the long table in King Anheg's central hall with a great feast set before them, Barak entertained them with a broadly ex
aggerated account of Garion's encounter with the young people on the hillside.

  "A great blow it was," he said in expansive tones, "worthy of the mightiest warrior and truly struck upon the nose of the foe. The bright blood flew, and the enemy was dismayed and overcome. Like a hero, Garion stood over the vanquished, and, like a true hero, did not boast nor taunt his fallen opponent, but offered instead advice for quelling that crimson flood. With simple dignity then, he quit the field, but the brighteyed maid would not let him depart unrewarded for his valor. Hastily, she pursued him and fondly clasped her snowy arms about his neck. And there she lovingly bestowed that single kiss that is the true hero's greatest reward. Her eyes flamed with admiration, and her chaste bosom heaved with newly wakened passion. But modest Garion innocently departed and tarried not to claim those other sweet rewards the gentle maid's fond demeanor so clearly offered. And thus the adventure ended with our hero tasting victory but tenderly declining victory's true compensation."

  The warriors and kings at the long table roared with laughter and pounded the table and their knees and each others' backs in their glee. Queen Islena and Queen Silar smiled tolerantly, and Queen Porenn laughed openly. Lady Merel, however, remained stony-faced, her expression faintly contemptuous as she looked at her husband.

  Garion sat with his face aflame, his ears besieged with shouted suggestions and advice.

  "Is that really the way it happened, nephew?" King Rhodar demanded of Silk, wiping tears from his eyes.

  "More or less," Silk replied. "Lord Barak's telling was masterly, though a good deal embellished."

  "We should send for a minstrel," the Earl of Seline said. "This exploit should be immortalized in song."

  "Don't tease him," Queen Porenn said, looking sympathetically at Garion.

  Aunt Pol did not seem amused. Her eyes were cold as she looked at Barak.

  "Isn't it odd that three grown men can't keep one boy out of trouble?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  "It was only one blow, my Lady," Silk protested, "and only one kiss, after all."

  "Really?" she said. "And what's it going to be next time? A duel with swords, perhaps, and even greater foolishness afterward?"