I certainly wasn’t going to intrude upon his contemplation of the
thing, so I turned back to my study of the inconstant stars.
CHAPTER
THREE
In time, others came to us, some accident, as I had come, and some by
intent, seeking out my Master that they might learn from him. Such a
one was Zedar.
I came upon him near our tower one golden day in autumn after I’d
served my Master for five hundred years or so. This stranger had built
a rude altar and was burning the carcass of a goat on it. That got us
off on the wrong foot right at the outset. Even the wolves knew enough
not to kill things in the Vale. The greasy smoke from his offering was
fouling the air, and he was prostrated before his altar, chanting some
outlandish prayer.
“What are you doing?” I demanded–quite abruptly, I’ll admit, since
his noise and the stink of his sacrifice distracted my mind from a
problem I’d been considering for the past half century.
“Oh, puissant and all-knowing God,” he said, groveling in the dirt, “I
have come a thousand leagues to behold thy glory and to worship
thee.”
“Puissant? Quit trying to show off your education, man. Now get up
and stop this caterwauling. I’m no more a God than you are.”
“Art thou not the great God Aldur?”
“I’m his disciple, Belgarath. What is all this nonsense?” I pointed
at his altar and his smoking goat.
“It is to please the God,” he replied, rising and dusting off his
clothes. I couldn’t be sure, but he looked rather like a Tolnedran–or
possibly an Arend. In either case, his babble about a thousand leagues
was clearly a self-serving exaggeration. He gave me a servile, fawning
sort of look.
“Tell me truly,” he pleaded.
“Dost thou think he will find this poor offering of mine acceptable?”
I laughed.
“I can’t think of a single thing you could have done that would offend
him more.”
The stranger looked stricken. He turned quickly and reached out as if
he were going to grab up the animal with his bare hands to hide it.
“Don’t be an idiot!” I snapped.
“You’ll burn yourself!”
“It must be hidden,” he said desperately.
“I would rather die than offend mighty Aldur.”
“Just get out of the way,” I told him.
“What?”
“Stand clear,” I said, irritably waving him off, “unless you want to
take a trip with your goat.” Then I looked at his grotesque little
altar, willed it to a spot five miles distant, and trans located it
with a single word, leaving only a few tatters of confused smoke
hanging in the air.
He collapsed on his face again.
“You’re going to wear out your clothes if you keep doing that,” I told
him, “and my Master won’t find it very amusing.”
“I pray thee, mighty disciple of most high Aldur,” he said, rising and
dusting himself off again, “instruct me so that I offend not the God.”
He must have been an Arend. No Tolnedran could possibly mangle the
language the way he did.
“Be truthful,” I told him, “and don’t try to impress him with false
show and flowery speech. Believe me, friend, he can see straight into
your heart, so there’s no way you can deceive him. I’m not sure which
God you worshiped before, but Aldur’s like no other God in the whole
world.”
What an asinine thing that was to say. No two Gods are ever the
same.
“And how may I become his disciple, as thou art?”
“First you become his pupil,” I replied, “and that’s not easy.”
“What must I do to become his pupil?”
“You must become his servant.” I said it a bit smugly, I’ll admit. A
few years with an axe and a broom would probably do this pompous ass
some good.
“And then his pupil?” he pressed.
“In time,” I replied, “if he so wills.” It wasn’t up to me to reveal
the secret of the Will and the Word to him. He’d have to find that out
for himself–the same as I had.
“And when may I meet the God?”
I was getting tired of him anyway, so I took him to the tower.
“Will the God Aldur wish to know my name?” he asked as we started
across the meadow.
I shrugged.
“Not particularly. If you’re lucky enough to prove worthy, he’ll give
you a name of his own choosing.” When we reached the tower, I
commanded the grey stone in the wall to open, and we went inside and on
up the stairs.
My Master looked the stranger over and then turned to me.
“Why hast thou brought this man to me, my son?” he asked me.
“He besought me, Master,” I replied.
“I felt it was not my place to say him yea or nay.” I could mangle
language as well as Zedar could, I guess.
“Thy will must decide such things,” I continued.
“If it turns out that he doesn’t please thee, I’ll take him outside and
turn him into a carrot, and that’ll be the end of it.”
“That was unkindly said, Belgarath,” Aldur chided.
“Forgive me, Master,” I said humbly.
“Thou shalt instruct him, Belgarath. Should it come to pass that he be
apt, inform me.”
I groaned inwardly, cursing my careless tongue. My casual offer to
vegetablize the stranger had saddled me with him. But Aldur was my
Lord, so I said,
“I will, Master.”
“What is thy current study, my son?”
“I examine the reason for mountains. Master.”
“Lay aside thy mountains, Belgarath, and study man instead. It may be
that the study shall make thee more kindly disposed toward thy fellow
creatures.”
I knew a rebuke when I heard one, so I didn’t argue. I sighed.
“As my Master commands,” I submitted regretfully. I’d almost found the
secret of mountains, and I didn’t want it to escape me. But then I
remembered how patient my Master had been when I first came to the
Vale, so I swallowed my resentment–at least right there in front of
him.
I was not nearly so agreeable once I got Zedar back outside, though.
I put that poor man through absolute hell, I’m ashamed to admit. I
degraded him, I berated him, I set him to work on impossible tasks and
then laughed scornfully at his efforts. To be quite honest about it, I
secretly hoped that I could make his life so miserable that he’d run
away.
But he didn’t. He endured all my abuse with a saintly patience that
sometimes made me want to scream. Didn’t the man have any spirit at
all? To make matters even worse–to my profoundest mortification–he
learned the secret of the Will and the Word within six months. My
Master named him Belzedar and accepted him as his pupil.
In time Belzedar and I made peace with each other. I reasoned that as
long as we were probably going to spend the next dozen or so centuries
together, we might as well learn to get along. Actually, once I ground
away his tendency toward hyperbole and excessively ornamental language,
he wasn’t such a bad fellow. His mind was extraordinarily quick, but
he was polite enough not to rub my nose in the fact that mine really
wasn’t.
The three of us, our Master, Belzedar, and I, settled in and learned to
get along with a minimum of aggravation on all sides.
And then the others began to drift in. Kira and Tira were twin Alorn
shepherd boys who had become lost and wandered into the Vale one day
–and stayed. Their minds were so closely linked that they always had
the same thoughts at the same time and even finished each other’s
sentences.
Despite the fact that they’re Alorns, Belkira and Beltira are the
gentlest men I’ve ever known. I’m quite fond of them, actually.
Makor was the next to arrive, and he came to us from so far away that I
couldn’t understand how he had ever heard of my Master. Unlike the
rest of us, who’d been fairly shabby when we’d arrived, Makor came
strolling down the Vale dressed in a silk mantle, somewhat like the
garb currently in fashion in Tol Honeth. He was a witty, urbane,
well-educated man, and I took to him immediately.
Our Master questioned him briefly and decided that he was
acceptable–with all the usual provisos.
“But, Master,” Belzedar objected vehemently, “he cannot become one of
our fellowship. He is a Dal–one of the Godless ones.”
“Melcene, actually, old boy,” Makor corrected him in that
ultra-civilized manner of his that always drove Belzedar absolutely
wild. Now do you see why I was so fond of Makor?
“What’s the difference?” Belzedar demanded bluntly.
“All the difference in the world, old chap,” Makor replied, examining
his fingernails.
“We Melcenes separated from the Dals so long ago that we’re no more
like them than Alorns are like Marags. It’s not really up to you,