Eddings, David - Malloreon - 5 Books

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DAVID EDDINGS

GUARDIAN OF THE WEST

PROLOGUE

Being an Account those Events came to the Throne of Riva and how he slew the Accursed God Torak.

-from the Introduction, Legends of Aloria

After the seven Gods created the world, it is said that they and those races of men they had chosen dwelt

together in peace and harmony. But UL, father of the Gods, remained aloof, until Gorim, leader of those who

had no God, went up on a high mountain and importuned him mightily. Then the heart of UL melted, and he

lifted up Gorim and swore to be his God and God of his people, the Ulgos.

The God Aldur remained apart, teaching the power of the Will and the Word to Belgarath and other

disciples. And a time came when Aldur took up a globe-shaped stone no larger than the heart of child. Men

named the stone the Orb of Aldur, and it was filled with enormous power, for it was the embodiment of a

Necessity which had existed since the beginning of time.

Torak, God of the Angarak peoples, coveted lordship and dominion over all things, for to him had come an

opposing Necessity. When he learned of the Orb, he was sorely troubled, fearing that it would counter his

destiny. He went therefore to Aldur to plead that the stone be set aside. When Aldur would not give up the

stone, Torak smote him and fled with the Orb.

Then Aldur summoned his other brothers, and they went with a mighty army of their followers to confront

Torak. But Torak, seeing that his Angaraks must be defeated, raised the Orb and used its power to crack the

world and bring in the Sea of the East to divide him from his enemies.

But the Orb was angered that Torak should use it thus and it lashed him with a fire whose agony could not

be quenched.

Torak's left hand was burned away, his left cheek was seared in the arts of sorcery and charred, and his left

eye took flame and was ever after filled with the fire of the Orb's wrath.

In agony, Torak led his people into the wastelands of Mallorea, and his people built him a city in Cthol

Mishrak, which was called the City of Night, for Torak hid it under an endless cloud. There, in a tower of iron,

Torak contended with the Orb, trying in vain to quell its hatred for him.

Thus it endured for two thousand years. Then Cherek Bear-Shoulders, King of the Alorns, went down to the

Vale of Aldur to tell Belgarath the Sorcerer that the northern way was clear. Together they left the Vale with

Cherek's three mighty sons, Dras Bull-neck, Algar Fleet-foot and Riva Irongrip. They stole through the

marches, with Belgarath taking the form of a wolf to guide them, and they crossed over into Mallorea. By

night, they stole into Torak's iron tower. And while the maimed God tossed in pain-haunted slumber, they

crept to the room where he kept the Orb locked in an iron casket. Riva Iron-grip, whose heart was without ill

intent, took up the Orb, and they left for the West.

Torak waked to find the Orb gone and he pursued them.

But Riva lifted up the Orb, and its angry flame filled Torak with fear. Then the company passed from

Mallorea and returned to their own lands.

Belgarath divides Aloria into four kingdoms. Over three he set Bear-Shoulders, Dras Bull-neck, and Algar

Fleet-foot. To Riva Iron-grip and to his line he gave the Orb of Aldur and sent him to the Isle of the Winds.

Belar, God of the Alorns, sent down two stars, and from them Riva forged a mighty sword and placed the

Orb on its pommel. And he hung the sword on the wall of the throne room of the Citadel, where it might ever

guard the West from Torak.

When Belgarath returned to his home, he discovered that his wife, Poledra, had borne him twin daughters,

but then had passed away. In heartsick sorrow, he named his daughters Polgara and Beldaran. And when

they were of age, he sent Beldaran to Riva Iron-grip to be his wife and mother of the Rivan line. But Polgara

he kept with him and instructed in the arts of sorcery.

In rage at the loss of the Orb, Torak destroyed the City of Night and divided the Angaraks. The Murgos, the

Nadraks, and the Thulls he sent to dwell in the wastelands along the western shores of the Sea of the East.

The Malloreans he kept to subdue all of the continent on which they dwelt.

Over all, he set his Grolim priests to watch, to scourge any who faltered, and to offer human sacrifices to

him.

Many centuries passed. Then Zedar the Apostate, who served Torak, conspired with Salmissra, Queen of

the snake-people, to send emissaries to the Isle of the Winds to slay Gorek, Riva's descendant, and all his

family. This was done, though some claimed that a lone child escaped; but none could say for certain.

Emboldened by the death of the guardian of the Orb, Torak gathered his host and invaded the West,

planning to enslave the peoples and regain the Orb. At Vo Mimbre on the plains of Arendia, the hordes of

Angaraks met the armies of the West in dreadful slaughter. And there Brand the Rivan Warder, bearing the

Orb upon his shield, met Torak in single combat and struck down the maimed God. The Angaraks, seeing

that, were disheartened and they were overthrown and destroyed. But at night, as the Kings of the West

celebrated, Zedar the Apostate took the body of Torak and spirited it away. Then the High Priest of the

Ulgos, named Gorim as all such High Priests had been, revealed that Torak had not been killed, but bound

in slumber until a king of the line of Riva sat once more on the throne in the Hall of the Rivan King.

The Kings of the West believed that meant forever, for it was held that the line of Riva had perished utterly.

But Belgarath and his daughter Polgara knew better. For a child had escaped the slaughter of Gorek's

family, and they had concealed him and his descendants in obscurity for generations.

But ancient prophecies revealed to them that the time for the return of the Rivan King was not yet come.

Many more centuries passed. Then, in a nameless city on the far side of the world, Zedar the Apostate

came upon an innocent child and resolved to take the child and go secretly with him to the Isle of the Winds.

There he hoped that the innocence of the child might enable that child to take the Orb of Aldur from the

pommel of the sword of the Rivan King. It occurred as he wished, and Zedar fled with the child and the Orb

toward the East.

Polgara the Sorceress had been living with a young boy, who called her Aunt Pol, in obscurity on a farm in

Sendaria.

This boy was Garion, the orphaned last descendant of the Rivan line, but he was unaware of his parentage.

When Belgarath learned of the theft of the Orb, he hastened to Sendaria to urge his daughter to join him in

the search for Zedar and the Orb. Polgara insisted that the boy must accompany them on the quest, so

Garion accompanied his Aunt Pol and Belgarath, whom he knew as a storyteller who sometimes visited the

farm and whom he called Grandfather.

Durnik, the farm smith, insisted on going with them. Soon they were joined by Barak of Cherek and by

Kheldar of Drasnia, whom men called Silk. In time, their quest for the Orb was joined by others: Hettar,

horse-lord of Algaria; Mandorallen, the Mimbrate knight; and Relg, an Ulgo zealot.

And seemingly by chance, the Princess Ce'Nedra, having quarreled with her father, Emperor Ran Borune

XXIII of Tolnedra, fled his palace and became one of the companions, though she knew nothing of their

quest. Thus was completed the company foretold by the prophecy of the Mrin Codex.

Their search led them to the Wood of the Dryads, where they were confronted by the Murgo Grolim

Asharak, who had long spied secretly upon Garion. Then the voice of prophecy within Garion's mind spoke

to Garion, and he struck Asharak with his hand and his Will. And Asharak was utterly consumed in fire. Thus

Garion learned that he was possessed of the power of sorcery. Polgara rejoiced, telling him that henceforth

he should be named Belgarion, as was proper for a sorcerer, for she knew then that the centuries of waiting

were over and that Garion should be the one to reclaim the Rivan Throne, as foretold.

Zedar the Apostate fled from Belgarath in haste. Unwisely, he entered the realms of Ctuchik, High Priest of

the western Grolims. Like Zedar, Ctuchik was a disciple of Torak, but the two had lived in enmity throughout

the centuries. As Zedar crossed the barren mountains of Cthol Murgos, Ctuchik waited him in ambush and

wrested from him the Orb of Aldur and the child whose innocence enabled him to touch the Orb and not die.

Belgarath went ahead to seek out the trail of Zedar, but Beltira, another disciple of Aldur, gave him the news

that Ctuchik now held the child and the Orb. The other companions went on to Nyissa, where Salmissra,

Queen of the snake-loving people, had Garion seized and brought to her palace. But Polgara freed him and

turned Salmissra into a serpent, to rule over the snake-people in that form forever.

When Belgarath rejoined his companions, he led the company on a difficult journey to the dark city of Rak

Cthol, which was built atop a mountain in the desert of Murgos.

They accomplished the difficult climb to confront Ctuchik, who knew of their coming and awaited with the

child and the Orb. Then Belgarath engaged Ctuchik in a duel of sorcery. But Ctuchik, hard-pressed, tried a

forbidden spell, and it rebounded on him, destroying him so utterly that no trace of him remained.

The shock of his destruction tumbled Rak Cthol from its mountaintop. While the city of the Grolims

shuddered into rubble, Garion snatched up the trusting child who bore the Orb and carried him to safety.

They fled, with the hordes of Taur Urgas, King of the Murgos, pursuing them. But when they crossed into the

lands of Algaria, the Algarians came against the Murgos and defeated them. Then at last, Belgarath could

turn toward the Isle of the Winds to restore the Orb to its rightful place.

There in the Hall of the Rivan King at Erastide, the child whom they called Errand placed the Orb of Aldur

into Garion's hand, and Garion stood on the throne to set it in its accustomed place on the pommel of the

great Sword of the Rivan King. As he did so, the Orb leaped into flame, and the sword blazed with cold blue

fire. By these signs, all knew that Garion was indeed the true heir to the throne of Riva and they acclaimed

him King of Riva, Overlord of the West, and the Keeper of the Orb.

Soon, in keeping with the Accords signed after the Battle of Vo Mimbre, the boy who had come from a

humble farm in Sendaria to become the Rivan King was betrothed to the Princess Ce'Nedra. But before the

wedding could take place, the voice of prophecy that was within his head urged him to go to the room of

documents and there take down the copy of the Mrin Codex.

In that ancient prophecy, he discovered that he was destined to take up Riva's sword and go with it to

confront the maimed God Torak and to slay or be slain, thereby to decide the fate of the world. For Torak

had begun to end his long slumber with the crowning of Garion, and in this meeting must be determined

which of the two opposing Necessities or prophecies would prevail.

Garion knew that he could marshal an army to invade the East with him. But though his heart was filled with

fear, he determined that he alone should accept the danger. Only Belgarath and Silk accompanied him. In

the early morning, they crept out of the Citadel of Riva and set out on the long northern journey to the dark

ruins of the City of Night where Torak lay.

But the Princess Ce'Nedra went to the Kings of the West and persuaded them to join her in an effort to

distract the forces of the Angaraks, so that Garion might win through safely. With the help of Polgara, she

marched through Sendaria, Arendia, and Tolnedra, raising a mighty army to follow her and to engage the

hosts of the East. They met on the plain surrounding the city of Thull Mardu. Caught between the forces of

Emperor 'Zakath of Mallorea and those of the mad King of the Murgos, Taur Urgas, Ce'Nedra's army faced

annihilation. But Cho-Hag, Chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria, slew Taur Urgas; and the Nadrak King Drosta

lek Thun changed sides, giving her forces time to withdraw.

Ce'Nedra, Polgara, Durnik, and the child Errand, however, were captured and sent to Zakath, who sent them

on to the ruined city of Cthol Mishrak for Zedar to judge. Zedar slew Durnik, and it was to see Polgara

weeping over his body that Garion arrived.

In a duel of sorcery, Belgarath sealed Zedar into the rocks far below the surface. But by then Torak had

awakened fully.

The two destinies which had opposed each other since time began thus faced each other in the ruined City

of Night. And there in the darkness, Garion, the Child of Light, slew Torak, the Child of Dark, with the flaming

sword of the Rivan King, and the dark prophecy fled wailing into the void.

UL and the six living Gods came for the body of Torak.

And Polgara importuned them to bring Durnik back to life. Reluctantly they consented. But since it would not

be mete for her so far to exceed Durnik's abilities, they gave to him the gift of sorcery.

Then all returned to the city of Riva. Belgarion married Ce'Nedra, and Polgara took Durnik as her husband.

The Orb was again in its rightful place to protect the West. And the war of Gods, kings, and men, which had

endured for seven thousand years, was at an end.

Or so men thought.

PART ONE

THE VALE OF ALDUR

It was late spring. The rains had come and passed, and the frost had gone out of the ground. Warmed by

the soft touch of the sun, damp brown fields lay open to the sky, covered only by a faint green blush as the

first tender shoots emerged from their winter's sleep. Quite early one fine morning, when the air was still

cool, but the sky gave promise of a golden day, the boy Errand, along with his family, left an inn lying in one

of the quieter districts of the bustling port city of Camaar on the south coast of the kingdom of Sendaria.

Errand had never had a family before, and the sense of belonging was new to him. Everything around him

seemed colored, overshadowed almost, by the fact that he was now included in a small, tightly knit group of

people bound together by love. The purpose of the journey upon which they set out that spring morning was

at once simple and very profound. They were going home. Just as he had not had a family before, Errand

had never had a home; and, though he had never seen the cottage in the Vale of Aldur which was their

destination, he nonetheless yearned toward that place as if its every stone and tree and bush had been

imprinted upon his memory and imagination since the day he was born.

A brief rain squall had swept in off the Sea of the Winds about midnight and then had passed as quickly as it

had come, leaving the gray, cobbled streets and tall, tile-roofed buildings of Camaar washed clean to greet

the morning sun.

As they rolled slowly through the streets in the sturdy wagon which Durnik the smith, after much careful

inspection, had bought two days earlier, Errand, riding burrowed amongst the bags of food and equipment

which filled the wagon bed, could smell the faint, salt tang of the harbor and see the bluish morning cast in

the shadows of the red-roofed buildings they passed. Durnik, of course, drove the wagon, his strong brown

hands holding the reins in that competent way with which he did everything, transmitting somehow along

those leather straps to the wagon team the comforting knowledge that he was completely in control and

knew exactly what he was doing.

The stout, placid mare upon which Belgarath the Sorcerer rode, however, quite obviously did not share the

comfortable security felt by the wagon horses. Belgarath, as he sometimes did, had stayed late in the

taproom of the inn the previous night and he rode this morning slumped in the saddle, paying little or no

heed to where he was going. The mare, also recently purchased, had not yet had the time to accustom

herself to her new owner's peculiarities, and his almost aggressive inattention made her nervous. She rolled

her eyes often, as if trying to determine if this immobile lump mounted on her back really intended for her to

go along with the wagon or not.

Belgarath's daughter, known to the entire world as Polgara the Sorceress, viewed her father's

semicomatose progress through the streets of Camaar with a steady gaze, reserving her comments for later.

She sat beside Durnik, her husband of only a few weeks, wearing a hooded cape and a plain gray woolen

dress. She had put aside the blue velvet gowns and jewels and rich, fur-trimmed capes which she had

customarily worn while they had been at Riva and had assumed this simpler mode of dress as if almost with

relief. Polgara was not averse to wearing finery when the occasion demanded it; and when so dressed, she

appeared more regal than any queen in all the world. She had, however, an exquisite sense of the

appropriate and she had dressed herself in these plain garments almost with delight, since they were

appropriate to something she had wanted to do for uncounted centuries.

Unlike his daughter, Belgarath dressed entirely for comfort. The fact that his boots were mismatched was

neither an indication of poverty nor of carelessness. It stemmed rather from conscious choice, since the left

boot of one pair was comfortable upon his left foot and its mate pinched his toes, whereas his right boot -

from another pair - was most satisfactory, while its companion chafed his heel. It was much the same with

the rest of his clothing. He was indifferent to the patches on the knees of his hose, unconcerned by the fact

that he was one of the few men in the world who used a length of soft rope for a belt, and quite content to

wear a tunic so wrinkled and gravy-spotted that persons of only moderate fastidiousness would not even

have considered using it for a scrub-rag.

The great oaken gates of Camaar stood open, for the war that had raged on the plains of Mishrak ac Thull,

hundreds of leagues to the east, was over. The vast armies that had been raised by the Princess Ce'Nedra

to fight that war had returned to their homes, and there was peace once more in the Kingdoms of the West.

Belgarion, King of Riva and Overlord of the West, sat upon the throne in the Hall of the Rivan King with the

Orb of Aldur once again in its proper place above his throne. The maimed God of Angarak was dead, and

his eons-old threat to the West was gone forever.

The guards at the city gate paid scant attention to Errand's family as they passed, and so they left Camaar

and set out upon the broad, straight imperial highway that stretched east toward Muros and the snow-topped

mountains that separated Sendaria from the lands of the horse clans of Algaria.

Flights of birds wheeled and darted in the luminous air as the wagon team and the patient mare plodded up

the long hill outside Camaar. The birds sang and trilled almost as if in greeting and hovered strangely on

stuttering wings above the wagon. Polgara raised her flawless face in the clear, bright light to listen.

"What are they saying?" Durnik asked.

She smiled gently. "They're babbling," she replied in her rich voice. "Birds do that a great deal. In general

they're happy that it's morning and that the sun is shining and that their nests have been built. Most of them

want to talk about their eggs. Birds always want to talk about their eggs."

"And of course they're glad to see you, aren't they?"

"I suppose they are."

"Someday do you suppose you could teach me to understand what they're saying?"

She smiled at him. "If you wish. It' s not a very practical thing to know, however."

"It probably doesn't hurt to know a few things that aren't practical," he replied with an absolutely straight

face.

"Oh, my Durnik." She laughed, fondly putting her hand over his. "You're an absolute joy, do you know that?"

Errand, riding just behind them among the bags and boxes and the tools Durnik had so carefully selected in

Camaar, smiled, feeling that he was included in the deep, warm affection they shared. Errand was not used

to affection. He had been raised, if that is the proper term, by Zedar the Apostate -a man who had looked

much like Belgarath. Zedar had simply come across the little boy in a narrow alleyway in some forgotten city

and had taken him along for a specific purpose. The boy had been fed and clothed, nothing more, and the

only words his bleak-faced guardian had ever spoken to him were, "I have an errand for you, boy"' Because

those were the only words he had heard, the only word the child spoke when he had been found by these

others was "Errand." And since they did not know what else to call him, that had become his name.

When they reached the top of the long hill, they paused for a few moments to allow the wagon horses to

catch their breath. From his comfortable perch in the wagon, Errand looked out over the broad expanse of

neatly walled fields lying pale green in the long, slanting rays of the morning sun.

Then he turned and looked back toward Camaar with its red roofs and its sparkling blue-green harbor filled

with the ships of a half-dozen kingdoms.

"Are you warm enough?" Polgara asked him.

Errand nodded. "Yes," he said, "thank you." The words were coming more easily to him now, though he still

spoke but rarely.

Belgarath lounged in his saddle, absently rubbing at his short white beard. His eyes were slightly bleary, and

he squinted as if the morning sunlight was painful to him. "I sort of like to start out a journey in the sunshine,"

he said. "It always seems to bode well for the rest of the trip." Then he grimaced. "I don't know that it needs

to be this bright, however."

"Are we feeling a bit delicate this morning, father?" Polgara asked him archly.

He turned to regard his daughter, his face set. "Why don't you go ahead and say it, Pol? I'm sure you won't

be happy until you do."

"Why, father," she said, her glorious eyes wide with feigned innocence, "what makes you think I was going

to say anything?"

He grunted.

"I'm sure you realize by now all by yourself that you drank a bit too much ale last night," she continued. "You

don't need me to tell you that, do you?"

"I'm not really in the mood for any of this, Polgara," he told her shortly.

"Oh, poor old dear," she said in mock commiseration. "Would you like to have me stir something up to make

you feel better?"

"Thank you, but no," he replied. "The aftertaste of your concoctions lingers for days. I think I prefer the

headache."

"If a medicine doesn't taste bad, it isn't working," she told him. She pushed back the hood of the cape she

wore. Her hair was long, very dark, and touched just over her left brow with a single lock of snowy white. "I

did warn you, father," she said relentlessly.

"Polgara," he said, wincing, "do you suppose we could skip the 'I told you so?' "

"You heard me warn him, didn't you, Durnik?" Polgara asked her husband.

Durnik was obviously trying not to laugh.

The old man sighed, then reached inside his tunic and took out a small flagon. He uncorked it with his teeth

and took a long drink. .

"Oh, father," Polgara said disgustedly, "didn't you get enough last night?"

"Not if this conversation is going to linger on this particular subject, no." He held out the flagon to his

daughter's husband. "Durnik?" he offered.

"Thanks all the same, Belgarath," Durnik replied, "but it's a bit early for me."

"Pol?" Belgarath said then, offering a drink to his daughter.

"Don't be absurd."

"As you wish." Belgarath shrugged, recorking the bottle and tucking it away again. "Shall we move along

then?" he suggested. "It's a very long way to the Vale of Aldur." And he nudged his horse into a walk.

Just before the wagon rolled down on the far side of the hill, Errand looked back toward Camaar and saw a

detachment of mounted men coming out through the gate. Glints and flashes of reflected sunlight said quite

clearly that at least some of the garments the men wore were made of polished steel. Errand considered

mentioning the fact, but decided not to. He settled back again and looked up at the deep blue sky dotted

with puffy white clouds. Errand liked mornings.

In the morning a day was always full of promise. The disappointments usually did not start until later.

The soldiers who had ridden out of Camaar caught up with them before they had gone another mile. The

commander of the detachment was a sober-faced Sendarian officer with only one arm. As his troops fell in

behind the wagon, he rode up alongside.

"Your Grace," he greeted Polgara formally with a stiff little bow from his saddle.

"General Brendig," she replied with a brief nod of acknowledgment. "You're up early "

"Soldiers are almost always up early, your Grace."

"Brendig," Belgarath said rather irritably, "is this some kind of coincidence, or are you following us on

purpose?"

"Sendaria is a very orderly kingdom, Ancient One," Brendig answered blandly. "We try to arrange things so

that coincidences don't happen."

"I thought so," Belgarath said sourly. "What's Fulrach up to now?"

"His Majesty merely felt that an escort might be appropriate."

"I know the way, Brendig. I've made the trip a few times before, after all."

"I'm sure of it, Ancient Belgarath," Brendig agreed politely. "The escort has to do with friendship and

respect."

"I take it then that you're going to insist?"

"Orders are orders, Ancient One."

"Could we skip the 'Ancient?' " Belgarath asked plaintively.

"My father's feeling his years this morning, General." Polgara smiled, "All seven thousand of them."

Brendig almost smiled. " Of course, your Grace."

"Just why are we being so formal this morning, my Lord Brendig?" she asked him. "I'm sure we know each

other well enough to skip all that nonsense."

Brendig looked at her quizzically. "You remember when we first met?" he asked.

"As I recall, that was when you were arresting us, wasn't it?" Durnik asked with a slight grin.

"Well-" Brendig coughed uncomfortably, "-not exactly, Goodman Durnik. I was really just conveying his

Majesty's invitation to you to visit him at the palace. At any rate, Lady Polgara -your esteemed wife- was

posing as the Duchess of Erat, you may remember."

"Durnik nodded. "I believe she was, yes.

"I had occasion recently to look into some old books of heraldry and I discovered something rather

remarkable. Were you aware, Goodman Durnik, that your wife really is the Duchess of Erat?"

Durnik blinked. "Pol?" he said incredulously.

Polgara shrugged. "I'd almost forgotten," she said. "It was a very long time ago."

"Your title, nonetheless, is still valid, your Grace," Brendig assured her. "Every landholder in the District of

Erat pays a small tithe each year into an account that's being held in Sendar for you."

"How tiresome," she said.

"Wait a minute, Pol," Belgarath said sharply, his eyes suddenly very alert. "Brendig, just how big is this

account of my daughter's -in round figures?"

"Several million, as I understand it," Brendig replied.

"Well," Belgarath said, his eyes going wide. "Well, well, well."

Polgara gave him a level gaze. "What have you got in your mind, father?" she asked him pointedly.

"It's just that I'm pleased for you, Pol," he said expansively. "Any father would be happy to know that his

child has done so well." He turned back to Brendig. "Tell me, General, Just who's managing my daughter's

fortune?"

"It's supervised by the crown, Belgarath," Brendig replied.

"That's an awful burden to lay on poor Fulrach," Belgarath said thoughtfully, "considering all his other

responsibilities. Perhaps I ought to-"

"Never mind, Old Wolf," Polgara said firmly.

"I just thought-"

"Yes, father. I know what you thought. The money's fine right where it is."

Belgarath sighed. "I've never been rich before," he said wistfully.

"Then you won't really miss it, will you?"

"You're a hard woman, Polgara -to leave your poor old father sunk in deprivation like this."

"You've lived without money or possessions for thousands of years, father. Somehow I'm almost positive

that you'll survive."

"How did you get to be the Duchess of Erat?" Durnik asked his wife.

"I did the Duke of Vo Wacune a favor," she replied. "It was something that no one else could do. He was

very grateful."

Durnik looked stunned. "But Vo Wacune was destroyed thousands of years ago," he protested.

"Yes. I know."

"I think I'm going to have trouble getting used to all this."

"You knew that I wasn't like other women," she said.

"Yes, but-"

"Does it really matter to you how old I am? Does it change anything?"

"No," he said immediately, "not a thing."

"Then don't worry about it."

They moved in easy stages across southern Sendaria, stopping each night at the solid, comfortable hostels

operated by the Tolnedran legionnaires who patrolled and maintained the imperial highway and arriving in

Muros on the afternoon of the third day after their departure from Camaar. Vast cattle herds from Algaria

were already filling the acre upon acre of pens lying to the east of the city, and the cloud of dust raised by

their milling hooves blotted out the sky. Muros was not a comfortable town during the season of the cattle

drives. It was hot, dirty, and noisy. Belgarath suggested that they pass it up and stop for the night in the

mountains where the air would be less dust-clogged and the neighbors less rowdy.

"Are you planning to accompany us all the way to the Vale?" he asked General Brendig after they had

passed the cattle pens and were moving along the Great North Road toward the mountains.

"Ah -no, actually, Belgarath," Brendig replied, peering ahead at a band of Algar horsemen approaching

along the highway. "As a matter of fact, I'll be turning back about now."

The leader of the Algar riders was a tall, hawk-faced man in leather clothing, with a raven-black scalp lock

flowing behind him. When he reached the wagon, he reined in his horse.

"General Brendig," he said in a quiet voice, nodding to the Sendarian officer.

"My Lord Hettar," Brendig replied pleasantly.

"What are you doing here, Hettar?" Belgarath demanded.

Hettar's eyes went very wide. "I just brought a cattle herd across the mountains, Belgarath," he said

innocently. "I'll be going back now and I thought you might like some company."

"How strange that you just happen to be here at this particular time."

"Isn't it, though?" Hettar looked at Brendig and winked.

"Are we playing games?" Belgarath asked the pair of them. "I don't need supervision and I definitely don't

need a military escort every place I go. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Durnik went to the wagon and took a coil.

"We all know that, Belgarath," Hettar said placatingly. He looked at the wagon. "It's nice to see you again,

Polgara," he said pleasantly. Then he gave Durnik a rather sly look. "Married life agrees with you, my friend,"

he added. "I think you've put on a few pounds."

"I'd say that your wife has been adding a few extra spoonfuls to your plate as well." Durnik grinned at his

friend.

"Is it starting to show?" Hettar asked.

Durnik nodded gravely. "Just a bit," he said.

Hettar made a rueful face and then gave Errand a peculiar little wink. Errand and Hettar had always got on

well together, probably because neither of them felt any pressing need to fill up the silence with random

conversation.

"I'll be leaving you now," Brendig said. "It's been a pleasant journey." He bowed to Polgara and nodded to

Hettar. And then, with his detachment of troops jingling along behind him, he rode back toward Muros.

"I'm going to have words with Fulrach about this," Belgarath said darkly to Hettar, "and with your father, too."

"It's one of the prices of immortality, Belgarath," Hettar said blandly. "People tend to respect you -even when

you'd rather they didn't. Shall we go?"

The mountains of eastern Sendaria were not so high as to make travel across them unpleasant. With the

fierce-looking Algar clansmen riding both to the front and to the rear of the wagon, they traveled at an easy

pace along the Great North Road through the deep green forests and beside mountain streams. At one

point, when they had stopped to rest their horses, Durnik stepped down from the wagon and walked to the

edge of the road to gaze speculatively at a deep pool at the foot of a small, churning waterfall.

"Are we in any particular hurry?" he asked Belgarath.

"Not really. Why?"

"I just thought that this might be a pleasant place to stop for our noon meal," the smith said artlessly.

Belgarath looked around. "If you want, I suppose it's all right."

"Good."

With that same slightly absent look on his face, Durnik went to the wagon and took a coil of thin, waxed cord

from one of the bags. He carefully tied a hook decorated with some brightly colored yarn to one end of the

cord and began looking about for a slender, springy sapling. Five minutes later he was standing on a

boulder that jutted out into the pool, making long casts into the turbulent water just at the foot of the falls.

Errand drifted down to the edge of the stream to watch.

Durnik was casting into the center of the main flow of the current so that the swiftly moving green water

pulled his lure down deep into the pool.

After about a half an hour, Polgara called to them. "Errand, Durnik, your lunch is ready"'

"Yes, dear"' Durnik replied absently. "ln a moment."

Errand obediently went back up to the wagon, though his eyes yearned back toward the rushing water.

Polgara gave him one brief, understanding look, then laid the meat and cheese she had sliced for him on a

piece of bread so that he could carry his lunch back to the stream bank.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Durnik continued his fishing, his face still intent. Polgara came down to the water's edge. "Durnik," she

called. "Lunch."

"Yes," he replied, not taking his eyes off the water. "l'm coming." He made another cast.

Polgara sighed. "Oh, well," she said. "I suppose every man needs at least one vice."

After about another half-hour, Durnik looked baffled. He jumped from his boulder to the stream bank and

stood scratching his head and staring in perplexity at the swirling water. "I know they're in there," he said to

Errand. "I can almost feel them."

"Here," Errand said, pointing down at the deep, slow moving eddy near the bank.

"I think they'd be farther out, Errand," Durnik replied doubtfully.

"Here," Errand repeated, pointing again.

Durnik shrugged. "If you say so," he said dubiously, flipping his lure out into the eddy. "I still think they'd be

out in the main current, though."

And then his pole bent sharply into a tense, quivering bow. He caught four trout in rapid succession, thick,

heavy-bodied trout with silvery, speckled sides and curved jaws filled with needlelike teeth.

"Why did it take you so long to find the right spot?" Belgarath asked later that afternoon when they were

back on the highway.

"You have to work that kind of pool methodically, Belgarath," Durnik explained. "You start at one side and

work your way across, cast by cast."

"I see."

"It's the only way to be really sure you've covered it all."

"Of course."

"I was fairly sure where they were lying, though."

"Naturally."

"It was just that I wanted to do it the right way. I'm sure you understand."

"Perfectly," Belgarath said gravely.

After they had passed through the mountains, they turned south, riding through the vast grasslands of the

Algarian plain where herds of cattle and horses grazed in that huge green sea of grass that rippled and

swayed under the steady easterly breeze. Although Hettar strongly urged them to stop by the Stronghold of

the Algar clans, Polgara declined. "Tell Cho-Hag and Silar that we may visit later," she said, "but we really

should get to the Vale. It's probably going to take most of the summer to make my mother's house habitable

again."

Hettar nodded gravely and then waved a brief salute as he and his clansmen turned eastward and rode off

across the rolling grasslands toward the mountainlike Stronghold of his father, Cho-Hag, Chief of the Clan-

Chiefs of Algaria.

The cottage that had belonged to Polgara's mother lay in a valley among the rolling hills marking the

northern edge of the Vale of Aldur. A sparkling stream flowed through the sheltered hollow, and there were

woods, birch intermixed with cedar, stretching along the valley floor. The cottage was constructed of

fieldstone, gray, russet, and earthy-brown, all neatly fitted together. It was a broad, low building,

considerably larger than the word "cottage" suggested. It had not been occupied for well over three

thousand years, and the thatching and the doors and windowframes had long since surrendered to the

elements, leaving the shell of the house standing, bramble-filled and unroofed to the sky.

There was, nonetheless, a peculiar sense of waiting about it, as if Poledra, the woman who had lived here,

had instilled in the very stones the knowledge that one day her daughter would return. They arrived in the

middle of a golden afternoon, and Errand, lulled by a creaking wheel, had drifted into a doze.

When the wagon stopped, Polgara shook him gently awake. "Errand," she said, "we're here." He opened his

eyes and looked for the first time at the place he would forever call home. He saw the weathered shell of the

cottage nestled in the tall green grass. He saw the woods beyond, with the white trunks of the birch trees

standing out among the dark green cedars, and he saw the stream. The place had enormous possibilities.

He realized that at once. The stream, of course, was perfect for sailing toy boats, for skipping stones, and, in

the event of failing inspiration, for falling into. Several of the trees appeared to have been specifically

designed for climbing, and one huge, white old birch overhanging the stream promised the exhilarating

combination of climbing a tree and falling into the water, all at one time.

The land upon which their wagon had stopped was a long hill sloping gently down toward the cottage. It was

the kind of a hilldown which a boy could run on a day when the sky was a deep blue dotted with dandelion-

puff clouds racing in the breeze. The knee-high grass would be lush in the sun, and the turf damply firm

underfoot; the rush of sweet-smelling air as one ran down that long slope would be intoxicating.

And then he felt quite keenly a sense of deep sorrow, a sorrow which had endured unchanged for century

upon century, and he turned to look at Belgarath's weathered face and the single tear coursing down the old

man's furrowed cheek, to disappear in his close-cropped white beard.

In spite of Belgarath's sorrow for his lost wife, Errand looked out at this small, green valley with its trees and

its stream and its lush meadow with a deep and abiding contentment. He smiled and said, "Home," trying

the word and liking the sound of it.

Polgara looked gravely into his face. Her eyes were very large, and luminous, and their color changed with

her mood, ranging from a light blue so pale as to be virtually gray to a deep lavender. "Yes, Errand," she

replied in her vibrant voice. "Home." Then she put her arms about him to hold him softly, and there was in

that gentle embrace all the yearning toward this place which had filled her down through the weary centuries

that she and her father had labored at their task.

Durnik the smith looked thoughtfully at the hollow spread below in the warm sunshine, considering, planning,

arranging and rearranging things in his mind. "It's going to take a while to get everything the way we want it,

Pol," he said to his bride.

We have all the time in the world, Durnik," Polgara replied with a gentle smile.

"I'll help you unload the wagon and set up your tents," Belgarath said, scratching absently at his beard.

"Then tomorrow I suppose I ought to go on down into the Vale -have a talk with Beldin and the twins, look in

on my tower- that sort of thing."

Polgara gave him a long, steady look. "Don't be in such a hurry to leave, father," she told him. "You talked

with Beldin just last month at Riva and on any number of occasions you've gone for decades without visiting

your tower. I've noticed that every time there's work to be done, you suddenly have pressing business

someplace else."

Belgarath's face assumed an expression of injured innocence. "Why, Polgara-" he started to protest.

"That won't work either, father," she told him crisply. "A few weeks -or a month or two- of helping Durnik isn't

going to injure you permanently. Or did you plan to leave us abandoned to the winter snows?"

Belgarath looked with some distaste at the shell of the house standing at the foot of the hill, with the hours of

toil it was going to take to make it livable stamped all over it.

"Why, of course, Pol," he said somewhat too quickly. "I'd happy to stay and lend a hand."

"I knew we could depend on you, father," she said sweetly.

Belgarath looked critically at Durnik, trying to assess the strength of the smith's convictions. "I hope you

weren't intending to do everything by hand," he said tentatively.

"What I mean is -well, we do have certain alternatives available to us, you know."

Durnik looked a little uncomfortable, his plain, honest face touched with the faintest hint of a disapproving

expression. "I-uh-I really don't know, Belgarath," he said dubiously. "I don't believe that I'd really feel right

about that. If I do it by hand, then I'll know that it's been done properly. I'm not all that comfortable with this

other way of doing things yet. Somehow it seems like cheating -if you get what I mean."

Belgarath sighed. "Somehow I was afraid you might look at it that way." He shook his head and squared his

shoulders.

"All right, let's go on down there and get started."

It took about a month to dig the accumulated debris of three eons out of the corners of the house, to reframe

the doors and windows and to re-beam and thatch the roof. It would have taken twice as long had Belgarath

not cheated outrageously each time Durnik's back was turned. All manner of tedious tasks somehow

performed themselves whenever the smith was not around. Once, for example, Durnik took out the wagon to

bring in more timbers; as soon as he was out of sight, Belgarath tossed aside the adze with which he had

been laboriously squaring off a beam, looked gravely at Errand, and reached inside his jerkin for the

earthenware jar of ale he had filched from Polgara's stores. He took a long drink and then he directed the

force of his will at the stubborn beam and released it with a single muttered word.

An absolute blizzard of white wood chips went flying in all directions. When the beam was neatly squared,

the old man looked at Errand with a self-satisfied smirk and winked impishly. With a perfectly straight face,

Errand winked back.

The boy had seen sorcery performed before. Zedar the Apostate had been a sorcerer, and so had Ctuchik.

Indeed, throughout almost his entire life the boy had been in the care of people with that peculiar gift. Not

one of the others, however, had that air of casual competence, that verve, with which Belgarath performed

his art. The old man's offhand way of making the impossible seem so easy that it was hardly worth

mentioning was the mark of the true virtuoso. Errand knew how it was done, of course. No one can possibly

spend that much time with assorted sorcerers without picking up the theory, at least. The ease with which

Belgarath made things happen almost tempted him to try it himself; but whenever he considered the idea, he

realized that there wasn't really anything he wanted to do that badly.

The things the boy learned from Durnik, while more commonplace, were nonetheless very nearly as

profound. Errand saw almost immediately that there was virtually nothing the smith could not do with his

hands. He was familiar with almost every known tool. He could work in wood and stone as readily as in iron

and brass. He could build a house or a chair or a bed with equal facility. As Errand watched closely, he

picked up the hundreds of little tricks and knacks that separated the craftsman from the bumbling amateur.

Polgara dealt with all domestic matters. The tents in which they slept while the cottage was being readied

were as neatly kept as any house. The bedding was aired daily, meals were prepared, and laundry was

hung out to dry. On one occasion Belgarath, who had come to beg or steal more ale, looked critically at his

daughter, who was humming contentedly to herself as she cut up some recently cooked-down soap.

"Pol," he said acidly, "you're the most powerful woman in the world. You've got more titles than you can

count, and there's not a king in the world who doesn't bow to you automatically. Can you tell me exactly why

you find it necessary to make soap that way? It's hard work, hot work, and the smell is awful."

She looked calmly at her father. "I've spent thousands of years being the most powerful woman in the world,

Old Wolf," she replied. "Kings have been bowing to me for centuries, and I've lost track of all the titles. This

is, however, the very first time I've ever married. You and I were always too busy for that. I've wanted to be

married, though, and I've spent my whole life practicing. I know everything a good wife needs to know and I

can do everything a good wife needs to do. Please don't criticize me, father, and please don't interfere. I've

never been so happy in my life."

"Making soap?"

"That's part of it, yes."

"It's such a waste of time," he said. He gestured negligently , and a cake of soap that had not been there

before joined the ones she had already made.

"Father!" she said, stamping her foot. "You stop that this minute!"

He picked up two cakes of soap, one his and one hers. "Can you really tell me the difference between them,

Pol?"

"Mine was made with love; yours is just a trick."

"It's still going to get clothes just as clean."

"Not mine, it won't," she said, taking the cake of soap out of his hand. She held it up, balanced neatly on her

palm. Then she blew on it with a slight puff, and it instantly vanished.

"That's a little silly, Pol," he told her.

"Being silly at times runs in my family, I think," she replied calmly. "Just go back to your own work, father,

and leave me to mine."

"You're almost as bad as Durnik is," he accused her.

She nodded with a contented smile. "I know. That's probably why I married him."

"Come along, Errand," Belgarath said to the boy as he turned to leave. "This sort of thing might be

contagious, and I wouldn't want you to catch it."

"Oh," she said. "One other thing, father. Stay out of my stores. If you want a jar of ale, ask me."

Assuming a lofty expression, Belgarath strode away without answering. As soon as they were around the

corner, however, Errand pulled a brown jar from inside his tunic and wordlessly gave it to the old man.

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DAVIDEDDINGSGUARDIANOFTHEWESTPROLOGUEBeinganAccountthoseEventscametotheThroneofRivaandhowheslewtheAccursedGodTorak.-fromtheIntroduction,LegendsofAloriaAfterthesevenGodscreatedtheworld,itissaidthattheyandthoseracesofmentheyhadchosendwelttogetherinpeaceandharmony.ButUL,fatheroftheGods,remainedaloof,un...

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