Belgarath the Sorcerer

by David Eddings

  ‘Javelin’s going to be very upset about this, you know. He’s devoted a lot of time and money to watching this imposter.’

  ‘It’s not his fault. It’s probably mine. For all we know, there could be a half-dozen or so of these imitation Asharaks knocking around here in the west. Chamdar’s working for Ctuchik, and I’m sure that Ctuchik knows how to alter another man’s features enough to lead us astray.’

  ‘What’s Chamdar supposed to do?’

  ‘He’s looking for something. I’ve been trying to keep him from finding it.’

  ‘Oh? What’s he looking for?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that, Silk. When we get back to Tol Honeth, I want you to go to Cherek.’

  ‘Cherek? At this time of year?’

  ‘The time of year doesn’t make any difference. You know Barak, don’t you?’

  ‘The Earl of Trellheim? Of course. He and I got drunk together at the last meeting of the Alorn Council. He’s a bit of a braggart, but I sort of like him.’

  ‘Hold that thought. You two are going to be working together for quite a long time.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  I couldn’t resist it. ‘I have my sources.’ I threw his clever remark back into his own teeth. ‘I want you to go to Trellheim and take Barak in hand. He’ll never be a really competent spy, but he needs to know what’s going on in the world. He’s only nineteen, and he needs educating.’

  ‘I’ll have to clear this with Javelin first.’

  ‘Forget about Javelin. I’ll tell him what he needs to know. From now on, you’re working for me. When I call you, I want you to come immediately, and when I tell you to do something, I want you to do it. No arguments. No questions. What we’re involved in is the most important thing since the cracking of the world, and you’re going to be in it up to your pointed nose.’

  ‘Well, now,’ he said. Then he gave me a shrewd look. ‘It’s finally come, then, hasn’t it?’

  ‘That it has, my young friend.’

  ‘Are we going to win?’

  ‘We’re certainly going to try.’

  When we got to Tol Honeth, Beldin was waiting for me at the Drasnian embassy. ‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded of him. I wasn’t particularly gracious about it.

  ‘You’re in a sour mood,’ my brother noted.

  ‘I got a nasty surprise a few days ago. Ctuchik’s devised a way to make ordinary Murgos resemble Chamdar. I’ve been counting on Drasnian intelligence to keep an eye on him for me, but that was a mistake. They’ve spent centuries watching the wrong people.’

  Beldin whistled. ‘That’s something we didn’t expect. I told you that you ought to do your own work. You do realize that you’ve given Chamdar an absolutely free rein with this laziness of yours, don’t you?’

  ‘Don’t beat it into the ground, Beldin. I blundered. It happens.’

  ‘You’d better hustle your behind back to Sendaria. Pol’s out there all alone, and you haven’t got the faintest idea of where Chamdar really is.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I was just getting to that - it’s why I’m here, actually. The twins called me back to the Vale and sent me out to find you. She left that house of hers at Erat last week.’

  ‘Where’d she go?’

  ‘There’s a village called Upper Gralt south of Erat. Pol’s at the farm of a man named Faldor about ten leagues west of there. She’s working in his kitchen, and she’s got the baby there with her. You’d better get up there and warn her that Chamdar’s on the loose.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I agreed glumly. ‘I’ve made a pretty thorough mess of things so far, haven’t I?’

  ‘You haven’t exactly covered yourself with glory. Is the “Guide” as good as the Mrin says he’s going to be?’

  ‘Close. I’ll probably have to hone his edge a bit, though.’

  ‘Does he know what’s really going on?’

  ‘He’s made some educated guesses that aren’t too far off the mark.’

  ‘Are the rest of them in place?’

  ‘I’m missing the “Mother of the Race that Died”, but I’m sure she’ll turn up when we need her.’

  ‘Optimism’s all well and good, Belgarath, but sometimes you carry it to extremes.’

  ‘Are you going back to the Vale?’

  ‘No. I’d better get back to southern Cthol Murgos. Torak could be waking up at any time now, and somebody’s got to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Right, and I’ll get on up to Sendaria.’

  ‘Have a nice trip.’

  I dusted off my story-teller’s costume once again, and I left Tol Honeth as soon as the gates opened the following morning. I’d passed through the village of Upper Gralt a number of times over the years, so I knew exactly where it was.

  My search for Chamdar had proved to be a serious waste of time, but it had led to the discovery of the ruse that had made it possible for him to elude me so many times. I suppose that counts for something. I didn’t really worry too much about the fact that he’d escaped me. I was fairly certain that he’d show up again someday and that I’d be able to deal with him once and for all.

  I put all that behind me, though, and I took the imperial highway north toward Sendaria and a place called Faldor’s Farm.

  Epilogue

  Captain Greldik was swinishly drunk when the one-armed General Brendig and his men finally tracked him down to the waterfront dive in Camaar. ‘Ho, Brendig!’ Greldik bellowed. ‘You’d better come over here and get started! I’m already a long way ahead of you!’

  ‘What’s the fastest way to sober him up?’ Brendig asked the bulky sergeant standing just behind him.

  ‘We could throw him in the bay, I suppose, sir. It’s winter, and the water’s pretty cold. That might work.’ The sergeant didn’t sound very hopeful about it, though.

  ‘Be sure you don’t drown him.’

  ‘We’ll be careful, sir.’

  The sergeant and his four Sendarian soldiers crossed the straw-covered floor of the tavern, picked Greldik up bodily, and carried him outside, ignoring his squirming and outraged howls of protest. Then they took him out to the end of the wharf, tied a rope to one of his legs, and threw him into the icy water.

  Greldik was spluttering curses when he came to the surface. He still seemed fairly drunk to Brendig. ‘Let him swim around for a while,’ he instructed the sergeant.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant was a veteran of the Battle of Thull Mardu, a solid, practical man who always seemed able to get things done.

  They let Greldik flounder around in the bay for about five minutes, and then they unceremoniously hauled him out. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Brendig?’ Greldik demanded. His lips were turning blue and his teeth were chattering.

  ‘Getting your attention, Greldik,’ Brendig replied calmly. ‘We’ll be sailing for Riva in the morning, so I want you to be sober enough to hold the right course.’

  ‘And just why are we going to Riva?’

  ‘Prince Hettar of Algaria brought some documents from Holy Belgarath to the palace in Sendar a few days ago. We have to take them to King Belgarion.’

  ‘Couldn’t you find a ship in the harbor at Sendar?’

  ‘Prince Hettar told me that Belgarath specifically asked for you. I can’t for the life of me think why, but he seems to believe that you’re dependable.’

  Greldik was shivering violently. ‘Can we go back inside?’ he asked. ‘It seems a little chilly tonight.’ Water was dripping out of his beard.

  ‘All right,’ Brendig agreed, ‘but no more drinking.’

  ‘You’ve got a cruel streak in you, Brendig,’ Greldik accused.

  ‘So I’ve been told, yes.’

  It took most of the rest of the night to round up Greldik’s sailors, and they all seemed to be as drunk as their captain had been.

  The ship was battered and none too clean. The sails were patched and frayed, but General Brendig judged that she was sound. She was a Chere
k war-boat, but she’d been slightly modified to carry cargo. Brendig had a few suspicions about just where and how Greldik obtained those cargoes; piracy was second nature to Chereks, he’d observed. The crew wasn’t particularly sprightly that morning, but they managed to row out beyond the breakwater, and then they set the sails. Greldik himself, red-eyed and trembling, stood at the tiller. He held his course, despite the fact that they were sailing almost into the teeth of a howling gale.

  General Brendig was a Sendar, so he admired professionalism, and he was forced to admit that, despite his bad habits, Captain Greldik might just be the finest sailor in the world. A Sendarian sea-captain wouldn’t have ventured out of port in this kind of weather, but Greldik had a tendency to ignore the elements.

  They’d been three days at sea when they raised the port at Riva. Greldik smoothly brought his battered ship up to one of the wharves. The instructions he gave his crew were couched in language that made even the professional soldier Brendig turn pale. Then the two of them crossed to the wharf and made their way up the steep stairs that mounted through the city to the fortress that was the home of the Rivan King.

  No one approaches Riva without being observed, so, despite the weather, King Belgarion and his tiny Queen, Ce’Nedra, were waiting in the shallow square before the great hall. ‘Brendig!’ Ce’Nedra squealed delightedly, rushing forward to embrace her old friend.

  ‘You’re looking well, your Majesty,’ he replied, wrapping his single arm about her shoulders.

  ‘Brendig, can’t you ever smile?’

  ‘I am smiling, your Majesty,’ he said with an absolutely straight face.

  ‘Hello, Garion,’ the bearded Greldik said to the Rivan King. Captain Greldik was probably the least formal of all men. He never used titles when speaking to anyone.

  ‘Greldik,’ Garion responded as they shook hands.

  ‘You look older.’

  ‘I hope so. If I went the other way, people might begin to suspect things. What brings you to Riva at this time of year?’

  ‘Brendig here,’ Greldik replied, giving the Sendarian general a hard look. ‘He rooted me out of a perfectly comfortable tavern in Camaar, threw me into the bay, and then insisted that I bring him here to Riva. Brendig’s just a little too used to giving orders. If he’d been civil enough to get drunk with me, I’d probably have agreed to bring him here without his giving me my annual bath.’

  ‘Captain Greldik!’ Ce’Nedra said sharply. ‘Are you sober?’

  ‘More or less,’ Greldik replied with a shrug. ‘It was a little stormy out there, so I sort of had to pay attention to what I was doing. I see that you’ve filled out a bit, girl. You look better. You were kind of scrawny before.’

  The Rivan Queen actually blushed. The blunt-spoken Greldik always seemed to catch her off-guard. Free as a bird, Greldik usually said exactly what was on his mind with no regard for propriety, or even common courtesy.

  ‘What was so important to make you venture out into the Sea of the Winds in the dead of winter, General?’ Garion asked the Sendarian soldier.

  ‘Prince Hettar brought a package of documents to the palace at Sendar, your Majesty,’ Brendig replied. ‘They’re from Holy Belgarath, and he wanted them delivered to you immediately. There are a couple of letters as well.’

  ‘Well, finally!’ Ce’Nedra said. ‘I thought it was going to take that old dear forever to finish up! He’s been at it for almost a year now!’

  ‘Is it really all that important, your Majesty?’ Brendig asked Garion.

  ‘It’s a history book, General,’ Garion replied.

  ‘A history book?’ Brendig seemed startled.

  ‘It has a certain special meaning for our family. My wife’s been particularly interested in it, for some reason. Of course, she’s Tolnedran, and you know how they are. Let’s go inside out of the weather.’

  ‘Tell me, Garion,’ Greldik said as they crossed the square to the broad gateway to the Rivan Citadel, ‘do you think you might possibly have something to drink lying around somewhere?’

  Belgarion of Riva, Godslayer and Overlord of the West, read the last page of his grandfather’s text with a certain awe and a kind of wonder as his entire perception of the world subtly shifted. So much had happened that he hadn’t known about. The meaning of events that had passed almost unnoticed suddenly came sharply into focus as he reflected on what he had just read. He remembered any number of conversations with Belgarath during which he and his grandfather had discussed the ‘possible’ and the ‘impossible’, and now the true meaning of these seemingly casual discussions became clear. Belgarath may have taken the world in his hands and shaken it to its foundations, but he was first and foremost a teacher.

  Garion was ruefully forced to concede that he hadn’t really been a very good pupil. Belgarath had patiently told him time and again what was really happening, and he’d totally missed the point. ‘Maybe I’d better pay a little more attention to my studies,’ he muttered, half aloud, looking up at the shelves filled with books and scrolls that lined the walls of his cramped little study. ‘And I think that maybe I’m going to need a little more room,’ he added. The image of Belgarath’s tower suddenly came to him, and it seemed so perfectly right that it filled him with a kind of yearning. He needed a private place where he could come to grips with what he’d just learned. There was an unused tower on the west side of the citadel. It was cold and drafty, of course, but it wouldn’t take much to make it habitable - a little mortar to fill the chinks in the walls, decent glass in the windows, and a bit of repair to the fireplace was about all.

  Then he sighed. It was an impossible dream. He had a wife and family, and he had a kingdom to rule. The scholarly life simply wasn’t available to him as it had been to Aldur’s first Disciple, and Garion was forced to admit that he wasn’t that good a scholar in the first place. Of course, with a little time - a few centuries at most -

  That thought brought him up short. The text he had just read had casually dismissed time. To Belgarath the Sorcerer centuries meant no more than years to normal men. He’d spent forty-five years studying grass, and the Gods only knew how much time trying to discover the reason for mountains. Garion realized that he didn’t even know what questions to ask, much less how to go about finding the answers. He did know, however, that the first question was, ‘Why?’

  It was at that point that he took up the letter from his grandfather. It wasn’t really very long.

  ‘Garion,’ he read. ‘There you have it, since you and Durnik were so insistent about this ridiculous project. This is the beginning and the middle. You already know the end - if something like this can really be said to have an end. Someday, when you’ve got some time, stop by, and we’ll talk about it. Right now, though, I think I’ll go back and look over my notes on mountains.

  ‘Belgarath.’

  Garion started violently as the door of his study burst open. ‘Haven’t you finished yet!’ Ce’Nedra demanded. Though they had been married for quite some time now, Garion was always slightly startled by just how tiny his wife really was. When he was away from her for more than a few hours, she seemed to grow in his mind’s eye. She was perfect, but she was very, very small. Maybe it was that flaming red hair that seemed to give her added stature.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ he said, handing over the last couple of chapters, which she eagerly snatched out of his hand.

  ‘Well, finally!’

  ‘You’re going to have to learn patience, Ce’Nedra.’

  ‘Garion, I’ve gone through two pregnancies. I know all about patience. Now hush and let me read.’ She pulled a chair up to the side of his desk, seated herself and started in. Ce’Nedra had received the finest education the Tolnedran Empire could provide, but her husband was still startled by just how quickly she could devour any given text. It took her no more than a quarter of an hour to reach the end. ‘It doesn’t go anyplace!’ she burst out. ‘He didn’t finish the story!’

  ‘I don’t think the story’s ov
er yet, dear,’ Garion told her. ‘We all know what happened at Faldor’s Farm, though, so grandfather didn’t think he’d have to go over it again for us.’ He leaned back reflectively. ‘An awful lot was going on that none of us were even aware of, you know. Grandfather doesn’t even live in the same world with the rest of us. He let it slip a few times in there toward the end. I wish I had time to go to Mal Zeth and talk with Cyradis. There’s another world out there that we don’t even know about.’

  ‘Well, of course there is, you ninny! Don’t pester Cyradis. Talk with Eriond instead. He’s what this was all about!’

  And that rang some bells in the Rivan King’s mind. Ce’Nedra was right! Eriond had been at the center of everything they’d done! Torak and Zandramas had been error. Eriond was truth. The struggle between the two Necessities had been that simple. Torak had been the result of a mistake. Eriond was the correction of that mistake. Ce’Nedra, perhaps instinctively, had seen that. The Godslayer had somehow missed it. ‘Sometimes you’re so clever that you almost make me sick,’ he told his wife with just a hint of spite.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied blandly, ‘I know. But you still love me, don’t you?’ She gave him that winsome little smile that always made his knees go weak.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, trying to look stern and regal. ‘What did grandfather have to say in the letter he sent you?’

  ‘I thought it was pure nonsense, but now that I see how he ended this thing, I can see what he was driving at. Here.’ She handed him a folded sheet of paper.

  ‘Yes, Ce’Nedra,’ the letter began, ‘I know that the story’s not complete. You all got together and bullied me into doing this. You’ve got this much out of me, and that’s as far as I’m willing to go. If you want the rest, go bully Polgara. I wish you all the luck in the world with that little project. Don’t expect much help from me, though. I’m old enough to know when I’m well off.

  ‘Belgarath.’

  ‘I’d better start packing,’ Ce’Nedra said after her husband had finished reading the letter.