Magician's Gambit

by David Eddings

  "SCREECHING?" she screeched.

  The fight lasted for about a quarter of an hour before Barak and Aunt Pol moved forward to separate them. On the whole, it was not very satisfactory. Garion was a bit too preoccupied to put his heart into the insults he flung at the tiny girl, and Ce'Nedra's irritation robbed her retorts of their usual fine edge. Toward the end, the whole thing had degenerated into a tedious repetition of "spoiled brat" and "stupid peasant" echoing endlessly back from the surrounding mountains.

  Mister Wolf and Silk rode back to join them. "What was all the yelling?" Wolf asked.

  "The children were playing," Aunt Pol replied with a withering look at Garion.

  "Where's Hettar?" Silk asked.

  "Right behind us," Barak said. He turned to look back toward the packhorses, but the tall Algar was nowhere to be seen. Barak frowned. "He was just there. Maybe he stopped for a moment to rest his horse or something."

  "Without saying anything?" Silk objected. "That's not like him. And it's not like him to leave the packhorses unattended."

  "He must have some good reason," Durnik said.

  "I'll go back and look for him," Barak offered.

  "No," Mister Wolf told him. "Wait a few minutes. Let's not get scattered all over these mountains. If anybody goes back, we'll all go back."

  They waited. The wind stirred the branches of the pines around them, making a mournful, sighing sound.

  After several moments, Aunt Pol let out her breath almost explosively. "He's coming." There was a steely note in her voice. "He's been entertaining himself."

  From far back up the trail, Hettar appeared in his black leather clothing, riding easily at a loping canter with his long scalp lock flowing in the wind. He was leading two saddled but riderless horses. As he drew nearer, they could hear him whistling rather tunelessly to himself.

  "What have you been doing?" Barak demanded.

  "There were a couple of Murgos following us," Hettar replied as if that explained everything.

  "You might have asked me to go along," Barak said, sounding a little injured.

  Hettar shrugged. "There were only two. They were riding Algar horses, so I took it rather personally."

  "It seems that you always find some reason to take it personally where Murgos are concerned," Aunt Pol said crisply.

  "It does seem to work out that way, doesn't it?"

  "Didn't it occur to you to let us know you were going?" she asked.

  "There were only two," Hettar said again. "I didn't expect to be gone for very long."

  She drew in a deep breath, her eyes flashing dangerously.

  "Let it go, Pol," Mister Wolf told her.

  "But-"

  "You're not going to change him, so why excite yourself about it? Besides, it's just as well to discourage pursuit." The old man turned to Hettar, ignoring the dangerous look Aunt Pol leveled at him. "Were the Murgos some of those who were with Brill?" he asked.

  Hettar shook his head. "No. Brill's Murgos were from the south and they were riding Murgo horses. These two were northern Murgos."

  "Is there a visible difference?" Mandorallen asked curiously.

  "The armor is slightly different, and the southerners have flatter faces and they're not quite so tall."

  "Where did they get Algar horses?" Garion asked.

  "They're herd raiders," Hettar answered bleakly. "Algar horses are valuable in Cthol Murgos, and certain Murgos make a practice of creeping down into Algaria on horse-stealing expeditions. We try to discourage that as much as possible."

  "These horses aren't in very good shape," Durnik observed, looking at the two weary-looking animals Hettar was leading. "They've been ridden hard, and there are whip cuts on them."

  Hettar nodded grimly. "That's another reason to hate Murgos."

  "Did you bury them?" Barak asked.

  "No. I left them where any other Murgos who might be following could find them. I thought it might help to educate any who come along later."

  "There are some signs that others have been through here, too," Silk said. "I found the tracks of a dozen or so up ahead."

  "It was to be expected, I suppose," Mister Wolf commented, scratching at his beard. "Ctuchik's got his Grolims out in force, and Taur Urgas is probably having the region patrolled. I'm sure they'd like to stop us if they could. I think we should move on down into the Vale as fast as possible. Once we're there, we won't be bothered any more."

  "Won't they follow us into the Vale?" Durnik asked, looking around nervously.

  "No. Murgos won't go into the Vale - not for any reason. Aldur's Spirit is there, and the Murgos are desperately afraid of him."

  "How many days to the Vale?" Silk asked.

  "Four or five, if we ride hard," Wolf replied.

  "We'd better get started then."

  Chapter Ten

  THE WEATHER, WHICH had seemed on the brink of winter in the higher mountains, softened back into autumn as they rode down from the peaks and ridges. The forests in the hills above Maragor had been thick with fir and spruce and heavy undergrowth. On this side, however, the dominant tree was the pine, and the undergrowth was sparse. The air seemed drier, and the hillsides were covered with high, yellow grass.

  They passed through an area where the leaves on the scattered bushes were bright red; then, as they moved lower, the foliage turned first yellow, then green again. Garion found this reversal of the seasons strange. It seemed to violate all his perceptions of the natural order of things. By the time they reached the foothills above the Vale of Aldur, it was late summer again, golden and slightly dusty. Although they frequently saw evidences of the Murgo patrols which were crisscrossing the region, they had no further encounters. After they crossed a certain undefined line, there were no more tracks of Murgo horses.

  They rode down beside a turbulent stream which plunged over smooth, round rocks, frothing and roaring. The stream was one of several forming the headwaters of the Aldur River, a broad flow running through the vast Algarian plain to empty into the Gulf of Cherek, eight hundred leagues to the northwest.

  The Vale of Aldur was a valley lying in the embrace of the two mountain ranges which formed the central spine of the continent. It was lush and green, covered with high grass and dotted here and there with huge, solitary trees. Deer and wild horses grazed there, as tame as cattle. Skylarks wheeled and dove, filling the air with their song. As the party rode out into the valley, Garion noticed that the birds seemed to gather wherever Aunt Pol moved, and many of the braver ones even settled on her shoulders, warbling and trilling to her in welcome and adoration.

  "I'd forgotten about that," Mister Wolf said to Garion. "It's going to be difficult to get her attention for the next few days."

  "Why?"

  "Every bird in the Vale is going to stop by to visit her. It happens every time we come here. The birds go wild at the sight of her."

  Out of the welter of confused bird sound it seemed to Garion that faintly, almost like a murmuring whisper, he could hear a chorus of chirping voices repeating, "Polgara. Polgara. Polgara."

  "Is it my imagination, or are they actually talking?" he asked.

  "I'm surprised you haven't heard them before," Wolf replied. "Every bird we've passed for the last ten leagues has been babbling her name."

  "Look at me, Polgara, look at me," a swallow seemed to say, hurling himself into a wild series of swooping dives around her head. She smiled gently at him, and he redoubled his efforts.

  "I've never heard them talk before," Garion marveled.

  "They talk to her all the time," Wolf said. "Sometimes they go on for hours. That's why she seems a little abstracted sometimes. She's listening to the birds. Your Aunt moves through a world filled with conversation."

  "I didn't know that."

  "Not many people do."

  The colt, who had been trotting rather sedately along behind Garion as they had come down out of the foothills, went wild with delight when he reached the lush grass of the Vale. With an a
mazing burst of speed, he ran out over the meadows. He rolled in the grass, his thin legs flailing. He galloped in long, curving sweeps over the low, rolling hilts. He deliberately ran at herds of grazing deer, startling them into flight and then plunging along after them. "Come back here!" Garion shouted at him.

  "He won't hear you," Hettar said, smiling at the little horse's antics. "At least, he'll pretend that he doesn't. He's having too much fun."

  "Get back here right now!" Garion projected the thought a bit more firmly than he'd intended. The colt's forelegs stiffened, and he slid to a stop. Then he turned and trotted obediently back to Garion, his eyes apologetic. "Bad horse!" Garion chided.

  The colt hung his head.

  "Don't scold him," Wolf said. "You were very young once yourself."

  Garion immediately regretted what he had said and reached down to pat the little animal's shoulder. "It's all right," he apologized. The colt looked at him gratefully and began to frisk through the grass again, although staying close.

  Princess Ce'Nedra had been watching him. She always seemed to be watching him for some reason. She would look at him, her eyes speculative and a tendril of her coppery hair coiled about one finger and raised absently to her teeth. It seemed to Garion that every time he turned around she was watching and nibbling. For some reason he could not quite put his finger on, it made him very nervous. "If he were mine, I wouldn't be so cruel to him," she accused, taking the tip of the curl from between her teeth.

  Garion chose not to answer that.

  As they rode down the valley, they passed three ruined towers, standing some distance apart and all showing signs of great antiquity. Each of them appeared to have originally been about sixty feet high, though weather and the passage of years had eroded them down considerably. The last of the three looked as if it had been blackened by some intensely hot fire.

  "Was there some kind of war here, Grandfather?" Garion asked.

  "No," Wolf replied rather sadly. "The towers belonged to my brothers. That one over there was Belsambar's, and the one near it was Belmakor's. They died a long time ago."

  "I didn't think sorcerers ever died."

  "They grew tired - or maybe they lost hope. They caused themselves no longer to exist."

  "They killed themselves?"

  "In a manner of speaking. It was a little more complete than that, though."

  Garion didn't press it, since the old man appeared to prefer not to go into details. "What about the other one - the one that's been burned? Whose tower was that?"

  "Belzedar's."

  "Did you and the other sorcerers burn it after he went over to Torak?"

  "No. He burned it himself. I suppose he thought that was a way to show us that he was no longer a member of our' brotherhood. Belzedar always liked dramatic gestures."

  "Where's your tower?"

  "Farther on down the Vale."

  "Will you show it to me?"

  "If you like."

  "Does Aunt Pol have her own tower?"

  "No. She stayed with me while she was growing up, and then we went out into the world. We never got around to building her one of her own."

  They rode until late afternoon and stopped for the day beneath an enormous tree which stood alone in the center of a broad meadow. The tree quite literally shaded whole acres. Ce'Nedra sprang out of her saddle and ran toward the tree, her deep red hair flying behind her. "He's beautiful!" she exclaimed, placing her hands with reverent affection on the rough bark.

  Mister Wolf shook his head. "Dryads. They grow giddy at the sight of trees."

  "I don't recognize it," Durnik said with a slight frown. "It's not an oak."

  "Maybe it's some southern species," Barak suggested. "I've never seen one exactly like it myself."

  "He's very old," Ce'Nedra said, putting her cheek fondly against the tree trunk, "and he speaks strangely - but he likes me."

  "What kind of tree is it?" Durnik asked. He was still frowning, his need to classify and categorize frustrated by the huge tree.

  "It's the only one of its kind in the world," Mister Wolf told him. "I don't think we ever named it. It was always just the tree. We used to meet here sometimes."

  "It doesn't seem to drop any berries or fruit or seeds of any kind," Durnik observed, examining the ground beneath the spreading branches.

  "It doesn't need them," Wolf replied. "As I told you, it's the only one of its kind. It's always been here - and always will be. It feels no urge to propagate itself."

  Durnik seemed worried about it. "I've never heard of a tree with no seeds."

  "It's a rather special tree, Durnik," Aunt Pol said. "It sprouted on the day the world was made, and it will probably stand here for as long as the world exists. It has a purpose other than reproducing itself."

  "What purpose is that?"

  "We don't know," Wolf answered. "We only know that it's the oldest living thing in the world. Maybe that's its purpose. Maybe it's here to demonstrate the continuity of life."

  Ce'Nedra had removed her shoes and was climbing up into the thick branches, making little sounds of affection and delight.

  "Is there by any chance a tradition linking Dryads with squirrels?" Silk asked.

  Mister Wolf smiled. "If the rest of you can manage without us, Garion and I have something to attend to."

  Aunt Pol looked questioningly at him.

  "It's time for a little instruction, Pol," he explained.

  "We can manage, father," she said. "Will you be back in time for supper?"

  "Keep it warm for us. Coming, Garion?"

  The two of them rode in silence through the green meadows with the golden afternoon sunlight making the entire Vale warm and lovely. Garion was baffled by Mister Wolf's curious change of mood. Always before, there had been a sort of impromptu quality about the old man. He seemed frequently to be making up his life as he went along, relying on chance, his wits, and his power, when necessary, to see him through. Here in the Vale, he seemed serene, undisturbed by the chaotic events taking place in the world outside.

  About two miles from the tree stood another tower. It was rather squat and round and was built of rough stone. Arched windows near the top faced out in the directions of the four winds, but there seemed to be no door.

  "You said you'd like to visit my tower," Wolf said, dismounting. "This is it."

  "It isn't ruined like the others."

  "I take care of it from time to time. Shall we go up?"

  Garion slid down from his horse. "Where's the door?" he asked.

  "Right there." Wolf pointed at a large stone in the rounded wall. Garion looked skeptical.

  Mister Wolf stepped in front of the stone. "It's me," he said. "Open."

  The surge Garion felt at the old man's word seemed common place ordinary - a household kind of surge that spoke of something that had been done so often that it was no longer a wonder. The rock turned obediently, revealing a sort of narrow, irregular doorway. Motioning for Garion to follow, Wolf squeezed through into the dim chamber beyond the door.

  The tower, Garion saw, was not a hollow shell as he had expected, but rather was a solid pedestal, pierced only by a stairway winding upward.

  "Come along," Wolf told him, starting up the worn stone steps. "Watch that one," he said about halfway up, pointing at one of the steps. "The stone is loose."

  "Why don't you fix it?" Garion asked, stepping up over the loose stone.

  "I've been meaning to, but I just haven't gotten around to it. It's been that way for a long time. I'm so used to it now that I never seem to think of fixing it when I'm here."

  The chamber at the top of the tower was round and very cluttered. A thick coat of dust lay over everything. There were several tables in various parts of the room, covered with rolls and scraps of parchment, strange-looking implements and models, bits and pieces of rock and glass, and a couple of birds' nests; on one, a curious stick was so wound and twisted and coiled that Garion's eye could not exactly follow its convolutions. He
picked it up and turned it over in his hands, trying to trace it out. "What's this, Grandfather?" he asked.

  "One of Polgara's toys," the old man said absently, staring around at the dusty chamber.

  "What's it supposed to do?"

  "It kept her quiet when she was a baby. It's only got one end. She spent five years trying to figure it out."

  Garion pulled his eyes off the fascinatingly compelling piece of wood. "That's a cruel sort of thing to do to a child."

  "I had to do something," Wolf answered. "She had a penetrating voice as a child. Beldaran was a quiet, happy little girl, but your Aunt never seemed satisfied."

  "Beldaran?"

  "Your Aunt's twin sister." The old man's voice trailed off, and he looked sadly out of one of the windows for a few moments. Finally he sighed and turned back to the round room. "I suppose I ought to clean this up a bit," he said, looking around at the dust and litter.

  "Let me help," Garion offered.

  "Just be careful not to break anything," the old man warned. "Some of those things took me centuries to make." He began moving around the chamber, picking things up and setting them down again, blowing now and then on them to clear away a bit of the dust. His efforts didn't really seem to be getting anywhere.

  Finally he stopped, staring at a low, rough-looking chair with the rail along its back, scarred and gashed as if it had been continually grasped by strong claws. He sighed again.

  "What's wrong?" Garion asked.

  "Poledra's chair," Wolf said. "-My wife. She used to perch there and watch me - sometimes for years on end."

  "Perch?"

  "She was fond of the shape of the owl."

  "Oh." Garion had somehow never thought of the old man as ever having been married, although he obviously had to have been at some time, since Aunt Pol and her twin sister were his daughters. The shadowy wife's affinity for owls, however, explained Aunt Pol's own preference for that shape. The two women, Poledra and Beldaran, were involved rather intimately in his own background, he realized, but quite irrationally he resented them. They had shared a part of the lives of his Aunt and his grandfather that he would never - could never know.