Polgara the Sorceress

by David Eddings

  We reached Muros the following day, and I purchased supplies. Then, the next morning at daybreak Baron and I struck out for the Sendarian mountains. If you absolutely must be alone in the wilderness, I strongly recommend the mountains. A kind of peace comes over me in high country that I feel in no other surroundings. To be perfectly honest, I loitered, frequently making my night’s encampment long before it was really necessary. I swam in icy mountain lakes, startling the local trout, I’m sure, and I browsed through thickets of berry-bushes when they presented themselves. It was with some regret that I came down out of the mountains and rode out onto that endless sea of grass that is the Algarian plain.

  The weather held fair, and we arrived in the Vale a few days later. Father and the twins greeted me warmly, but uncle Beldin, as usual, was off in Mallorea keeping an eye on the enemy and trying to come up with a way to lure Urvon out of Mal Yaska.

  It felt odd to be back in the Vale after the years I’d spent on the Isle of the Winds. I’d been at the center of things in the Citadel, and there was always something going on that needed my immediate attention. To be honest about it, I missed those affairs of state, and the remoteness of the Vale made it impossible for me to even know about them, much less take a hand. My father, who’s much more observant than he sometimes appears to be, noticed the signs of my discontent. ‘Are you busy, Pol?’ he asked me one autumn evening after supper.

  ‘Not really,’ I replied, setting aside the medical text I’d been reading.

  ‘You’re having problems, aren’t you?’ he asked me, his white hair and beard ruddy in the firelight.

  ‘I can’t seem to get settled back down,’ I admitted.

  He shrugged. ‘It happens. It usually takes me a year or so to get my feet back on the ground after I’ve been out in the world for a while. Study’s something you have to do every day. If you put it aside, you have to learn how all over again. Just be patient, Pol. It comes back after a while.’ He leaned back, looking reflectively into the fire. ‘We’re not like other people, Pol, and there’s no point in pretending that we are. We’re not here to get involved in running the world. That’s what kings are for, and for all of me they’re welcome to it. Our business is here, and what’s going on out there doesn’t really mean anything to us – at least it shouldn’t.’

  ‘We live in the world too, father.’

  ‘No, Pol, we don’t – at least not in the same world as the people out there live in. Our world’s a world of first causes and that inevitable string of EVENTS that’s been growing out of those causes from the moment the Purpose of the Universe was divided. Our only task is to identify – and influence – certain incidents that are so minute and unremarkable that ordinary people don’t even notice them.’ He paused. ‘What are you studying right now?’

  ‘Medical texts.’

  ‘Why? People are going to die anyway, no matter how much you try to prevent it. If one thing doesn’t carry them off, something else will.’

  ‘We’re talking about friends and family here, father.’

  He sighed. ‘Yes, I know. That doesn’t alter the facts, though. They’re mortal; we aren’t – at least not yet. Set your hobby aside, Polgara, and get down to business. Here.’ He handed me a thick, heavy scroll. ‘This is your copy of the Mrin Codex. You’d better get started on it. There’ll probably be tests later on.’

  ‘Oh, father,’ I said, ‘be serious.’

  ‘I am. The tests that’ll grow out of this course of study are likely to have far-reaching consequences.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – the end of the world, possibly – or the coming of the one who’ll save it.’ He gave me an inscrutable look. ‘Be happy in your work, Pol,’ he told me as he returned to his own copy of the ravings of that idiot on the banks of the Mrin.

  The next morning I put on my grey Rivan cloak, saddled Baron, and rode out into the blustery autumn day. The Tree, standing deep in eternity, had begun to deck himself out in his autumn finery, and he was absolutely glorious. The birds, probable descendants of my cheeky sparrow and lyric lark, swooped down to greet me as I approached. I’m not sure why, but I’ve never encountered a bird who didn’t call me by name when he first caught sight of me.

  Mother didn’t respond when I sent my thought out to her, but I don’t think I’d really expected her to reply. Mother was still mourning the death of my sister.

  I didn’t press the issue, since it was the Tree I’d come to visit. We didn’t speak, but then we never do. Our communion couldn’t have been put into words. I immersed myself in his sense of timelessness, absorbing his eternal presence, and in a somewhat gentler manner he confirmed father’s blunt assessment of the previous night. Father, Beldin, the twins, and I were not like other people, and our purpose was not like theirs.

  After a time, I simply reached out my hand, laid it on the rough bark of the Tree, sighed, and returned to father’s tower and the waiting Mrin Codex.

  Father and I made periodic visits to the Isle of the Winds during the next half-century or so – usually for meetings of the Alorn Council. There were new kings in Cherek, Drasnia, and Algaria, but father and I weren’t as close to them as we’d been to Bear-shoulders, Bull-neck, and Fleet-foot. Because fairly extended periods of time passed between our visits, I was keenly aware of the fact that Daran and Kamion were visibly older each time we went to the Isle.

  My father’s hinted at this, but one of us had probably better come right out with it. Our situation is most peculiar, and it requires certain adjustments. As those we’ve come to know and love grow older, it’s absolutely necessary for us to distance ourselves from them. The alternative is quite probably madness. Endless grief will eventually destroy the human mind. We’re not heartless, but we do have duties, and those duties oblige us to protect our ability to function. As I watched Daran and Kamion become crotchety, querulous old men, I knew they’d eventually leave us and that there was nothing I could do about it.

  The Vale serves us as a kind of sanctuary – a place where we can absorb our grief and come to terms with it – and the presence of the Tree there is an absolute necessity.

  If you think about it for a while, I’m sure you’ll understand.

  In time, word inevitably reached us that both Daran and Kamion had gone on. “They were very tired anyway, Pol,’ was all my father said before he went back to his studies.

  My first century was drawing to a close when uncle Beldin returned from Mallorea. ‘Burnt-face is still at Ash-aba,’ he reported, ‘and nothing’s going to happen over there until he comes out of seclusion.’

  ‘Is Zedar still with him?’ father asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Zedar’s stuck to Torak like a leech. Proximity to a God seems to expand Zedar’s opinion of himself.’

  ‘Some things never change, do they?’

  ‘Not where Zedar’s concerned, they don’t. Is Ctuchik doing anything interesting?’

  ‘Nothing momentous enough to make waves. Is Urvon still hiding at Mal Yaska?’

  Beldin’s chuckle was hideous. ‘Oh, indeed he is, Belgarath. Every now and then I drift on up to his neighborhood and butcher a few Grolims. I always leave a survivor or two – just to be sure that Urvon gets word that I’m still out there waiting for the pleasure of his company. I’m told that he usually retires to the dungeon on those occasions. He seems to think that thick stone walls might keep me from getting at him.’ He squinted thoughtfully. ‘Maybe when I go back, I’ll slip into his temple and litter the place with dead Grolims – just to let him know that there isn’t really any place where he can hide from me. Keeping Urvon nervous is one of my favorite pastimes. What kind of celebration do we have planned?’

  ‘Celebration? What celebration?’

  ‘Polgara’s hundredth birthday, you clot. You didn’t really think I came all the way back here just for the pleasure of your company, did you?’

  The celebration of my birthday was lavish – even grotesquely overdone. Ours was a sm
all, highly unique society, and since father, Beldin and I traveled extensively and were away for long periods of time, we seldom had the opportunity to join the twins in the Vale to draw our shared uniqueness about us. We’re sometimes wildly different from each other – except for the twins, of course – but we’re all members of a tiny closed society that shares experiences and concepts the rest of the world cannot begin to comprehend. Along toward the end of the festivities when my elders were all more than slightly tipsy and I was tidying up, mother’s voice rang gently in the vaults of my mind. ‘Happy birthday, Pol,’ was all she said, but it was nice to know that the last member of our little group was also in attendance.

  The uneasy truce between Drasnia and Gar og Nadrak fell apart a few years later when the Nadraks – probably at Ctuchik’s prodding – began raiding across their common border. Ctuchik definitely didn’t approve of any kind of peaceful contacts between Angaraks and other races, and trade was exactly the sort of thing he most abhorred, since ideas have a way of being exchanged along with goods, and new ideas weren’t welcome in Angarak society.

  In the south, the merchant princes of Tol Honeth were growing increasingly desperate because of the stubborn refusal of the Marags to even consider commercial contacts of any kind. The Marags didn’t use money and had no idea whatsoever of what it meant. They did, however, have access to almost unlimited amounts of free gold, since the stream-beds of Maragor are littered with it. Gold is pretty, I guess, but when you get right down to it, it has little actual value. You can’t even make cooking pots out of it, because it melts. I think the Marags were actually amused when they discovered that a Tolnedran would give them almost anything in exchange for what they considered to be no more than another form of dirt. The problem, I think, lay in the fact that the merchants of Tolnedra didn’t really have anything the Marags wanted badly enough to take the trouble to bend over to pick up the gold littering the bed of every stream in Maragor.

  The thought of all that gold just lying there with no way to get at it – except to possibly give fair value – sent the Tolnedrans to the verge of desperation. A few of the children of Nedra decided to just skip over the tedious business of swindling the Marags and to go right to the source. Those expeditions into Maragor were a mistake, of course, largely because of the Marag religious practice of ritual cannibalism. The Tolnedrans who sneaked across the border looking for gold encountered Marags – who were looking for lunch.

  After no more than a few wealthy – but still greedy – Tolnedran merchants had gone into Marag cooking pots, their heirs and assigns began to pressure the imperial throne to do something – anything – to prevent honest thieves from ending up on a Marag supper-table. Unfortunately, Emperor Ran Vordue was new to his throne, and he eventually succumbed to the importunings of the merchant class. Thus, in 2115, the Tolnedran legions swept across the border into Maragor intent on nothing less than the extermination of the entire Marag race.

  My father had always been fond of the Marags, and he was preparing to rush south to ‘take steps’ when the Master uncharacteristically paid him a call and bluntly told him to keep his nose out of things that didn’t concern him. Father’s protests were long and loud, but Aldur was adamant. ‘This must take place, my son,’ he told father. ‘It is a necessary part of the PURPOSE which doth guide us all.’

  ‘But – ’ father started to protest.

  ‘I will hear no more of this!’ the Master thundered. ‘Stay home, Belgarath!’

  Father muttered something under his breath.

  ‘What was that?’ the Master demanded.

  ‘Nothing, Master.’

  I’d have given a great deal to have witnessed that exchange.

  And so Maragor perished – except for those few captives who were sold to the Nyissan slavers. But that’s another story.

  The invasion of Maragor and the massacre of the inhabitants brought the Gods into the whole sorry business. Nedra chastised those of his children most involved, and Mara’s grief-stricken response closed haunted Maragor off from further Tolnedran incursions. That in itself would have been punishment enough, but then Belar took a hand in the chastisement of the avaricious Tolnedrans by encouraging his Chereks to start raiding up and down the Tolnedran coast. The Chereks didn’t really need too much encouragement, since if you scratch the surface of any normal Cherek, you’ll find a pirate lurking underneath. This gave the Tolnedrans other things to keep them busy instead of all that brooding about the gold in Maragor or worrying about being sent to the monastery at Mar Terrin, so I don’t think I need to belabor this sorry sequence of events any further.

  I am, however, convinced that father exaggerated the contention between the Gods that supposedly erupted following the destruction of the Marags. Nedra was clearly unhappy with his people for their atrocious behavior, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that Belar sent his Chereks to the Tolnedran coast at the invitation of his brother. When you want to punish a Tolnedran, all you have to do is take the fruits of his thievery away from him.

  The raids continued for several centuries until, in the mid-twenty-sixth century, Ran Borune I drove his fat, lazy legions out of their garrisons and ordered them to start earning their pay.

  My father, my uncles, and I really didn’t pay too much attention to the bickering between the Tolnedrans and the Chereks, but continued our ongoing struggle with the Mrin Codex. We did pay attention when Ctuchik began sending more and more Murgos down the Eastern Escarpment into Algaria in probing raids that had two basic purposes. Ctuchik wanted to check the defenses of the Algars, certainly, but he also wanted to mount his warrior class on better horses. Murgo ponies were about the size of large dogs, and Algar horses were vastly superior. My father spent a great deal of time in Algaria during the twenty-second and twenty-third centuries devising cavalry tactics which the Algars use even to this day. When Ctuchik’s losses became unacceptable, those raids were largely discontinued. Part of the charm of Torak’s personality was derived from the fact that he viewed his Angaraks as little more than breeding stock, a view that Ctuchik shared. Torak’s third disciple wanted to increase his herd, not diminish it.

  The endless civil war in Arendia continued – and continued, and continued – as the three warring duchies maneuvered, connived, and formed tentative alliances – often dissolved in the middle of a battle. It was ultimately the turmoil in Arendia that took me out of the seclusion of the Vale and back into the world again.

  My three hundredth birthday had passed more or less unnoticed. Father maintains that I went to Vo Wacune in the twenty-fifth century, which isn’t too far off the mark. He only missed by a hundred years, and old people are always a little vague about dates.

  My, that was fun, wasn’t it, father?

  Actually, my excursion into Arendia started in the year 2312. I was asleep one night – despite father’s snoring – and I awoke with that restless feeling that there were eyes on me. I rolled over and saw the ghostly form of the white snowy owl glowing in the moonlight in my window. It was mother. ‘Polgara,’ she said crisply, ‘you’d better pack a few things. You’re going to Vo Wacune.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ I demanded.

  ‘Ctuchik’s stirring up trouble in Arendia.’

  ‘The Arends don’t need any help, mother. They can stir up trouble enough by themselves without any outside assistance.’

  “Things are a little more serious this time, Pol. Ctuchik has underlings posing as Tolnedran merchants in each of the duchies. They’re using various stories to persuade the three dukes that Ran Vordue is offering an alliance, but Ran Vordue doesn’t know anything about it. If Ctuchik’s plan works, there’ll be a war between Arendia and Tolnedra. The Wacite duke’s the most intelligent of the three, so go to Vo Wacune, find out what’s going on, and put a stop to it. The Master’s depending on you, Pol.’

  ‘I’ll leave at once, mother,’ I promised.

  The next morning I began to pack.

  ‘Moving, Pol?’ fat
her asked mildly. ‘Was it something I said?’

  ‘I’ve got something to attend to in Arendia, father.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘That’s none of your business, Old Man,’ I told him. ‘I’m going to need a horse. Get me one.’

  ‘Now look here, Pol – ’

  ‘Never mind, father. I’ll do it myself.’

  ‘I want to know what you think you’re going to do in Arendia, Pol.’

  ‘Wanting and getting are two different things, father. The Master’s told me to go to Arendia to fix something. I know the way, so you won’t have to come along. Now, will you go to the Algars and get me a horse, or am I going to have to take care of it myself?’

  He spluttered a bit, but by midmorning there was a saddled chestnut mare named Lady waiting for me at the foot of the tower. Lady was not quite as large as Baron had been, but she and I got along well.

  It was late afternoon before I caught the familiar sense of father’s presence coming from a few miles behind. Actually, I’d been wondering what’d been keeping him.

  I rode north along the eastern fringes of Ulgoland and then crossed the Sendarian mountains into Wacite territory with father tailing along behind me, changing his form every hour or so.

  I crossed the upper reaches of the Camaar River and entered the vast forest of northern Arendia, and it wasn’t too long before I encountered a Wacite patrol under the command of an obviously inexperienced young nobleman with an attitude problem. ‘Hold, wench!’ he commanded haughtily as he and his men came crashing out of the bushes. Wench? The young man and I weren’t getting off to a good start here. ‘Wither goest thou?’ he demanded arrogantly.