The Seeress of Kell

by David Eddings

  ‘I speak not of Mimbrates only, my Lord,’ the old man replied mildly. ‘I speak of all Arends, Asturians as well as Mimbrates.’

  ‘Asturians have no honor,’ the baron sneered.

  Lelldorin immediately went for his sword.

  ‘Nay, my young friend,’ Mandorallen said, restraining the impetuous youth. ‘the insult hath been delivered here – on Mimbrate soil. Thus it is my responsibility – and pleasure – to answer it.’ He stepped forward. ‘Thy words were perhaps hasty, my Lord,’ he said politely to the arrogant baron. ‘I pray thee, reconsider them.’

  ‘I have said what I have said, Sir Knight,’ the young hothead declared.

  ‘Thou hast spoken discourteously to a revered counsellor of the king,’ Mandorallen said firmly, ‘and thou hast delivered a mortal insult unto our brethren of the north.’

  ‘I have no Asturian brethren,’ the knight declared. ‘I do not deign to acknowledge kinship with miscreants and traitors.’

  Mandorallen sighed. ‘I pray thee, forgive me, your Majesty,’ he apologized to the king. ‘Mayhap thou wouldst have the ladies withdraw, for I propose to speak bluntly.’

  No force on earth, however, could have dragged the ladies of the court from the throne room at that time.

  Mandorallen turned back toward the insolently sneering baron. ‘My Lord,’ the great knight said distantly, ‘I find thy face apelike and thy form misshapen. Thy beard, moreover, is an offense against decency, resembling more closely the scabrous fur which doth decorate the hinder portion of a mongrel dog than a proper adornment for a human face. Is it possible that thy mother, seized by some wild lechery, did dally at some time past with a randy goat?’

  The baron went livid and he spluttered, unable to speak.

  ‘Thou seemeth wroth, my Lord,’ Mandorallen said to him in that same deceptively mild tone, ‘or mayhap thine unseemly breeding hath robbed thy tongue of human speech.’ He looked critically at the baron. ‘I do perceive, my Lord, that thou art afflicted with cowardice as well as lack of breeding, for, in truth, no man of honor would endure such deadly insult as those which I have delivered unto thee without some response. Therefore, I fear I must goad thee further.’ He removed his gauntlet.

  As all the world knew, it was customary to hurl one’s gauntlet to the floor when issuing a challenge. Mandorallen somehow missed the floor. The young baron staggered backward, spitting teeth and blood. ‘Thou art no longer a youth, Sir Mandorallen,’ he raged. ‘Long hast thou used thy questionable reputation to avoid combat. Methinks it is time for thee to be truly tried.’

  ‘It speaks,’ Mandorallen said with feigned astonishment. ‘Behold this wonder, My Lords and Ladies – a talking dog.’

  The court laughed at that.

  ‘Let us proceed to the lower court, My Lord of Fleas,’ Mandorallen continued. ‘Mayhap a pass at arms with so elderly and feeble a knight shall give thee entertainment.’

  The next ten minutes were very long for the insolent young baron. Mandorallen, who could undoubtedly have split him down the middle with one stroke, toyed with him instead, inflicting numerous painful and humiliating injuries. None of the bones the great knight broke were absolutely essential, however, and none of the cuts and contusions were incapacitating. The baron reeled about, trying desperately to protect himself as Mandorallen skillfully peeled his armor off him in chunks and pieces. Finally, apparently growing bored with the whole business, the champion of Arendia broke both of the young man’s shinbones with a single stroke. The baron howled with pain as he fell.

  ‘Prithee, my Lord,’ Mandorallen chided, ‘modulate thy shrieks of anguish, lest thou alarm the ladies. Groan quietly, an it please thee, and keep this unseemly writhing to a minimum.’ He turned sternly to a hushed and even frightened crowd. ‘And, he added, ‘should any other here share this rash youth’s prejudices, let him speak now, ’ere I sheath my sword, for truly, it is fatigueing to draw the weapon again and again.’ He looked around. ‘Let us proceed then, my Lords, for this foolishness doth weary me, and presently I shall grow irritable.’

  Whatever their views were, the knights of the royal court chose at that point to keep them to themselves.

  Ce’Nedra gravely stepped out into the courtyard. ‘My knight,’ she said proudly to Mandorallen. Then her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘I do perceive that thy prowess doth remain undiminished even though cruel eld doth palsy thy limbs and snow down silvery hair upon thy raven locks.’

  ‘Eld?’ Mandorallen protested.

  ‘I’m only teasing, Mandorallen,’ she laughed. ‘Put away your sword. No one else wants to play with you today.’

  They bade farewell to Mandorallen, Lelldorin, and Relg, who intended to return to Taiba and their children in Maragor from Vo Mimbre.

  ‘Mandorallen!’ King Anheg bellowed as they rode away from the city, ‘when winter gets here, come up to Val Alorn, and we’ll take Barak and go boar-hunting.’

  ‘I surely will, your Majesty,’ Mandorallen promised from the battlements.

  ‘I like that man,’ Anheg said expansively.

  They took ship again and sailed north to the city of Sendar to advise King Fulrach of the Accords of Dal Perivor. Silk and Velvet were to sail north on Seabird with Barak and Anheg, and the rest of them planned a leisurely ride across the mountains to Algaria and from thence down into the Vale.

  The farewells at wharfside were brief, in part because they would all see each other again shortly, and in part because none of them wanted to appear over-emotional. Garion took his leave of Silk and Barak in particular with a great deal of reluctance. The two oddly matched men had been his companions for more than half his life, and the prospect of being separated from them caused him an obscure kind of pain. The earth-shaking adventures were over now, and things would not ever really be the same.

  ‘Do you think you can stay out of trouble now?’ Barak asked him gruffly, obviously feeling the same way. ‘It upsets Merel when she wakes up in the morning to find that she’s been sharing her bed with a bear.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Garion promised.

  ‘Do you remember what I told you that time just outside Winold – when it was so frosty that morning?’ Silk asked.

  Garion frowned, trying to remember.

  ‘I said that we were living in momentous times, and that now was the time to be alive to share in those events.’

  ‘Oh yes, now I remember.’

  ‘I’ve had some time to think about it, and I believe I’d like to reconsider.’ Silk grinned suddenly, and Garion knew that the little man did not mean one word he said.

  ‘We’ll see you at the Alorn council later this summer, Garion,’ Anheg shouted across the rail as Seabird prepared to depart. ‘It’s at your place this year. Maybe if we work on it, we can teach you to sing properly.’

  They left the city of Sendar early the next morning and took the high road to Muros. Although it was not, strictly speaking, necessary, Garion had decided to see his friends all home. The gradual eroding of their company as they had sailed north had been depressing, and Garion was not quite ready yet to be separated from all of them.

  They rode across Sendaria in late spring sunshine, crossed the mountains into Algaria, and reached the Stronghold a week or so later. King Cho-Hag was overjoyed at the outcome of the meeting at Korim, and startled at the results of the impromptu conference at Dal Perivor. Because Cho-Hag was far more stable than the brilliant but sometimes erratic Anheg, Belgarath and Garion went into somewhat greater detail about the astonishing elevation of Eriond.

  ‘He always was a strange boy,’ Cho-Hag mused in his deep, quiet voice when they had finished, ‘but then, this entire series of events has been strange. We’ve been privileged to live in important times, my friends.’

  ‘We have indeed,’ Belgarath agreed. ‘Let’s hope that things quiet down now – for a while, at least.’

  ‘Father,’ Hettar said then, ‘King Urgit of the Murgos asked me to convey his appreciation to you.’
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  ‘You met the Murgo King? And we’re not at war?’ Cho-Hag was amazed.

  ‘Urgit’s not like any other Murgo you’ve ever met, Father,’ Hettar told him. ‘He wanted to thank you for killing Taur Urgas.’

  ‘That’s a novel sentiment coming from a son.’

  Garion explained Urgit’s peculiar background, and the normally reserved King of Algaria burst out in peal after peal of laughter. ‘I knew Prince Kheldar’s father,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly the kind of thing he would have done.’

  The ladies were gathered about Geran and about Adara’s growing brood of children. Garion’s cousin was at the ungainly stage of her pregnancy, and she sat most of the time now with a dreamy smile on her face as she listened to the inexorable changes nature was imposing on her body. The revelation of the dual pregnancies of Ce’Nedra and Polgara filled Adara and Queen Silar with wonder, and Poledra sat among them, smiling mysteriously. Poledra, Garion was sure, knew far more than she was revealing.

  After about ten days, Durnik grew restless. ‘We’ve been away for a long while, Pol,’ he said one morning. ‘There’s still time to put in a crop, and I’m sure we’ll need to tidy up a bit – mend fences, check the roof, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Anything you say, dear,’ she agreed placidly. Pregnancy had notably altered Polgara. Nothing seemed to upset her now.

  On the day of their departure, Garion went down to the courtyard to saddle Chretienne. Although there were plenty of Algar clansmen here in the Stronghold who would have been more than willing to have performed the task for him, he feigned a desire to attend to it himself. The others were engaged in extended farewells, and Garion knew that about one more goodbye right now would probably reduce him to tears,

  ‘That’s a very good horse, Garion.’

  It was his cousin Adara. Her face had the serenity that pregnancy bestowed upon women, and looking at her convinced Garion once again just how lucky Hettar really was. Since he had first met her, there had always been a special bond and a special kind of love between Garion and Adara. ‘Zakath gave him to me,’ he replied. If they confined their conversation to the subject of horses, he was fairly certain that he’d be able to keep his emotions under control.

  Adara, however, was not there to talk about horses. She put one hand gently to the back of his neck and kissed him. ‘Farewell, my kinsman,’ she said softly.

  ‘Goodbye, Adara,’ he said, his voice growing thick. ‘Goodbye.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  KING BELGARION OF RIVA, Overlord of the West, Lord of the Western Sea, Godslayer, and general all-round hero had an extended arguement with his co-ruler, Queen Ce’Nedra of Riva, Imperial Princess of the Tolnedran Empire and Jewel of the House of Borune. The subject of their discussion hinged on the question of just who should have the privilege of carrying Crown Prince Geran, Heir to the Throne of Riva, hereditary Keeper of the Orb and, until recently, The Child of Dark. The conversation lasted for quite some time as the royal pair rode with their family from the Stronghold of the Algars to the Vale of Aldur.

  Ultimately, albeit somewhat reluctantly, Queen Ce’ Nedra relented. As Belgarath the Sorcerer had predicted, Queen Ce’Nedra’s arms had at last grown tired of continually carrying her young son, and she relinquished him with some relief.

  ‘Make sure he doesn’t fall off,’ she warned her husband.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ Garion replied, settling his son on Chretienne’s neck just in front of the saddle.

  ‘And don’t let him get sunburned.’

  Now that he had been rescued from Zandramas, Geran was a good-natured little boy. He spoke in half-phrases, his small face very serious as he tried to explain things to his father. Very importantly, he pointed out deer and rabbits as they rode south, and he dozed from time to time, resting his blond, curly head against his father’s chest in absolute contentment. He was restive one morning, however, and Garion, without really thinking about it, removed the Orb from the pommel of his sword and gave it to his son to play with. Geran was delighted, and with a kind of bemused wonder he held the glowing jewel between his hands to stare with fascination into its depths. Often, he would hold it to his ear to listen by the hour to its song. The Orb, it appeared, was even more delighted than the little boy.

  ‘That’s really very disturbing, Garion,’ Beldin chided. ‘You’ve turned the most powerful object in the universe into a child’s plaything.’

  ‘It’s his, after all – or it will be. They ought to get to know each other, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘What if he loses it?’

  ‘Beldin, do you really think the Orb can be lost?’

  The game, however, came rather abruptly to an end when Poledra reined in her horse beside the Overlord of the West. ‘He’s too young to be doing this sort of thing, Garion,’ she said reprovingly. She reached out her arm and a curiously twisted and knotted stick appeared in her hand. ‘Put the Orb away, Garion,’ she said. ‘Give him this to play with instead.’

  ‘That’s the stick with only one end, isn’t it?’ he said suspiciously, remembering the toy Belgarath had once shown him in the cluttered tower – the toy which had occupied Aunt Pol’s mind during her babyhood.

  Poledra nodded. ‘It should keep him busy,’ she said.

  Geran willingly gave up the Orb for the new toy. The Orb, however, muttered complaints in Garion’s ear for the next several hours.

  They reached the cottage a day or so later. Poledra looked rather critically down from the hill-top above it. ‘You’ve made some changes, I see,’ she said to her daughter.

  ‘Do you mind, mother?’ Aunt Pol asked.

  ‘Of course not, Polgara. A house should reflect the character of its owner.’

  ‘I’m sure there are a million things to do,’ Durnik said. ‘Those fences really need attention. We’ll have hundreds of Algar cows in the dooryard if I don’t mend them.’

  ‘And I’m sure the cottage needs a thorough cleaning,’ his wife added.

  They rode down the hill, dismounted, and went inside. ‘Impossible,’ Polgara exclaimed, looking about in dismay at the negligibly thin film of dust lying over everything. ‘We’ll need some brooms, Durnik,’ she said.

  ‘Of course, dear,’ he agreed.

  Belgarath was rummaging through the pantry.

  ‘None of that now, father,’ Polgara told him crisply. ‘I want you and Uncle Beldin and Garion to go out there and clear the weeds out of my kitchen garden.’

  ‘What?’ he demanded incredulously.

  ‘I’ll want to plant tomorrow,’ she told him. ‘Open the ground for me, Father.’

  Garion, Beldin, and Belgarath rather disconsolately went out to the leanto where Durnik kept his tools.

  Garion looked with a sense of defeat at Aunt Pol’s kitchen garden, which seemed quite large enough to provide food for a small army.

  Beldin gave the ground a few desultory chops with his hoe. ‘This is ridiculous!’ he burst out. He threw down his hoe and pointed one finger at the ground. As he moved the finger, a neat furrow of freshly plowed earth moved resolutely across the garden.

  ‘Aunt Pol will be angry,’ Garion warned the hunchback.

  ‘Not if she doesn’t catch us,’ Beldin growled, looking at the cottage where Polgara, Poledra, and the Rivan Queen were busy with brooms and dust-cloths. ‘Your turn, Belgarath,’ he said. ‘Try to keep the furrows straight.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can coax some ale from Pol before we rake it,’ Beldin suggested when they had finished. ‘This is hot work – even doing it this way.’

  As it happened, Durnik had also returned to the house briefly to refresh himself before returning to the fence-line. The ladies were busily wielding their brooms, stirring up the dust, which, Garion observed, stubbornly settled back on places already swept. Dust was like that sometimes.

  ‘Where’s Geran?’ Ce’Nedra suddenly exclaimed, dropping her broom and looking around in dismay.

  Polgara’s eyes went distant. ‘Oh, dear,’ s
he sighed. ‘Durnik,’ she said quite calmly, ‘go fish him out of the creek, please.’

  ‘What?’ Ce’Nedra almost screamed as Durnik, moving rapidly, went outside.

  ‘He’s all right, Ce’Nedra,’ Polgara assured her. ‘He just fell into the creek, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’ Ce’Nedra’s voice went up another octave.

  ‘It’s a common pastime for little boys,’ Polgara told her. ‘Garion did it, Eriond did it, and now Geran’s doing it. Don’t worry. He swims rather well, actually.’

  ‘How did he learn to swim?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe little boys are born with the ability – some of them, anyway. Garion was the only one who tried drowning.’

  ‘I was starting to get the hang of swimming, Aunt Pol,’ he objected, ‘before I came up under that log and hit my head.’

  Ce’Nedra stared at him in horror, and then she quite suddenly broke down and began to cry.

  Durnik was carrying Geran by the back of his tunic when he returned. The little boy was dripping wet, but seemed quite happy, nonetheless. ‘He’s really very muddy, Pol,’ the smith noted. ‘Eriond used to get wet, but I don’t think he ever got this muddy.’

  ‘Take him outside, Ce’Nedra,’ Polgara instructed. ‘He’s dripping mud on our clean floor. Garion, there’s a wash-tub in the leanto. Put it in the dooryard and fill it.’ She smiled at Geran’s mother. ‘It’s about time for him to have a bath anyway. For some reason, little boys always seem to need bathing. Garion used to get dirty even while he was asleep.’

  On one perfect evening, Garion joined Belgarath just outside the cottage door. ‘You seem a bit pensive, Grandfather. What’s the problem?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about living arrangements. Poledra’s going to be moving back into my tower with me.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We’re probably going to become involved in a decade or so of cleaning – and hanging window curtains. How can a man look out at the world with window curtains in his way?’

  ‘Maybe she won’t make such an issue of it. Back on Perivor, she said that wolves aren’t as compulsively tidy as birds are.’