Garel and his mother. The whole point of this last eight hundred years
has been to keep the heirs and the Orb separated. If we take Garel to
Riva, he’ll have to take up the sword, and he’s a little young yet.”
Then I sent my thought out to the twins again.
“Have you been able to get any kind of time frame out of this?”
“From the Mrin? You know that there’s no such thing as time in the
Mrin.”
“Have you heard from Beldin?”
“Once or twice. Torak’s still at Mal Zeth, and he’s got Zedar and
Urvon with him.”
“We’ve still got plenty of time then.”
“We’ll see. We’ll keep working on this, but you two had better get
started.”
Pol and I started back along the riverbank toward Aldurford.
“I don’t like this, father,” she told me again.
“I don’t very much myself. We’re playing a game, Pol, and we don’t
know all the rules yet, so I guess we’ll just have to make one of those
great leaps of faith. We have to believe that the Purpose knows what
it’s doing.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like, Pol. That’s what we get
paid to do.”
“Paid?”
“Figuratively speaking.”
Garel and his mother didn’t really know too much about their real
situation, and Pol and I decided that it might be best to leave it that
way.
The heirs to Iron-grip’s throne have all been what we’ve come to call
“talented”– some more, some less–and it’s a little dangerous to have
a novice sorcerer in possession of too much information. Garion, who’s
far more than marginally talented, probably will remember any number of
times while he was growing up on Faldor’s farm when either Pol or I
skillfully sidestepped his questions. The decision to do it that way
was Pol’s, of course, but after I thought about it for a bit, I
wholeheartedly approved. It headed off all sorts of unpleasant
possibilities.
We circulated the usual “family emergency” story around Aldurford for a
day or so, and then we bundled up Garel and Adana and left for the
Stronghold. When we got there, I had a talk with Cho-Ram, and then the
three of us left for Riva.
The weather on the Isle of the Winds is so miserable most of the time
anyway that we scarcely noticed the rather profound climate change
brought on by that eclipse. The rain was seething across the harbor
when we arrived, the stairway leading up to the Citadel looked like a
waterfall, and the eaves of the slate-roofed stone houses spilled
sheets of water into the cobbled streets. I found it all moderately
depressing.
Eldrig and Rhodar hadn’t arrived yet, so Pol and I met with Brand and
Cho-Ram high in one of those towers that loom up over the Citadel.
I’d been roaming around quite a bit during the past several years, so I
didn’t really know the current Rivan Warder all that well. Even though
the Warder’s office isn’t hereditary, there’s always been a certain
continuity of character in the men who’ve held the position. The
Rivans don’t quite go as far as the Nyissans do in selecting Salmissra,
but they come fairly close when choosing Brand. The Rivan Warders have
all been solid, sensible men that we’ve been able to rely on. This
one, though, was a truly remarkable man. The putative Child of Light
was a big man, but Alorns generally are quite large. Tolnedrans, who
are racially small, try to make some issue of an old Tolnedran proverb
contrasting physical size with mental capacity. I’m not all that large
myself, but I’ve been jerked up short any number of times when I’ve
come across brilliant giants. This particular Rivan Warder was
intelligent, introspective, and he had a low, deep, quiet voice. I
liked him right at the outset, and I grew to like him even more as the
years drew us inexorably toward that meeting he was going to have in
Arendia.
“Are you certain that King Garel’s going to be safe at the Stronghold?”
he asked.
“That’s what the Mrin Codex says,” I replied.
“Don’t worry. Brand,” Cho-Ram assured him.
“Nobody’s going to get over the walls of the Stronghold.”
“We’re talking about my king, Cho-Ram,” Brand said.
“I won’t throw dice for his safety.”
“I’ll go there myself, Brand, and I’ll stand on top of the wall for
twenty years and let Torak throw everything he’s got at me.”
“No, you won’t, Cho-Ram,” I told him firmly.
“I’m not going to let you get locked up inside the Stronghold. Any
colonel can defend that place. I need the Alorn kings where I can get
my hands on them.”
“I’d still feel better if my Lord Garel were here,” Brand said.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea. If he comes anywhere near the Orb,
Torak’ll know about it immediately. If he stays at the Stronghold,
he’ll still be anonymous, and Torak won’t even know he’s there.”
“He’ll have to come here eventually, Belgarath.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“To get his sword. If he’s going to meet Torak, he’s going to need
that sword.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Brand,” Pol told him.
“Garel’s not the one who’s going to meet Torak in Arendia.”
“He’s the Rivan King, Polgara. He has to meet Torak.”
“Not this time.”
“Well, if he isn’t, who is?”
“You are.”
“Me?” To his credit, Brand didn’t add that inevitable
“Why me?” His eyes were a little wild, though.
I recited the passage to him.
“It looks like you’ve been elected, Brand,” I added.
“I didn’t even know I was a candidate. What am I supposed to do?”
“We’re not sure. You will be when the time comes, though. When you
come face to face with One-eye, the Necessity’s going to take over. It
always does in these situations.”
“I’d be a lot more comfortable if I knew what was supposed to
happen.”
“We all would, but it doesn’t work that way. Don’t worry, Brand.
You’ll do just fine.”
Eldrig and Rhodar joined us at Riva a month or so later, and we started
mapping out our strategy. Beldin advised us that Torak didn’t seem to
be in any hurry to start west. He was concentrating instead on
consolidating his hold on the hearts and minds of the subject races in
Mallorea. I wasn’t really worried about any surprises. Torak was far
too arrogant to try to sneak up on us. He wanted us to know that he
was coming.
After our first few meetings, we invited King Ormik of Sendaria to join
us. Ormik’s mother had been an Alorn, so his inclusion was right and
proper. The fact that we were all spending a lot of time at Riva
didn’t go unnoticed. Ran Borune’s intelligence service wasn’t as good
as Rhodar’s, but even the most half-witted spy in the world could
hardly miss the fact that something was in the wind.
Torak spent a dozen years or so establishing his absolute domination of
Mallorea–all unaware that Garel had married an Algar girl, Aravino, in
4860, and that a year later she had given birth to her son, Gelane.
Then in the fall of 4864 the Murgos and Nadraks closed the caravan
routes to the east. The howls of anguish in Tol Honeth echoed from the
jungles of Nyissa to the arctic wastes of Morindland. Ran Borune sent
diplomatically worded protests to Rak Goska and Yar Nadrak, but they
were generally ignored. Ad Rak Cthoros, the King of the Murgos, and
Yar Lek Thun of the Nadraks were taking their orders from Ctuchik, and
neither one of them was going to cross that walking corpse just because
Ran Borune had his feelings hurt. I don’t know if Ctuchik even
bothered to tell Gethel Mardu of the Thulls about the planned invasion
of the West, since Gethel probably didn’t even know which way west
was.
The closing of those trade routes was a clear signal that Torak was
about to move, so Brand declared the port of Riva closed “for
renovations,” and Eldrig’s war-boats enforced that declaration. Things
were definitely going downhill for the merchant princes of Tol
Honeth.
After the sealing of the port of Riva, we gathered once more in the
Citadel.
“Things are coming to a head, father,” Polgara noted.
“I think it’s time for you to go have a talk with Ran Borune.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I conceded glumly.
“Why so long a face, Belgarath?” Brand asked me.
“Have you ever met Ran Borune?”
“I’ve never had the pleasure.”
“That’s not the right word, Brand. The Borunes are stubborn and
contentious, and they absolutely refuse to believe in anything the
least bit out of the ordinary.”
“Shouldn’t we alert the Arends, too?” the leather-clad Cho-Ram
suggested.
“Not yet,” I replied.
“It’s probably a little premature. If Torak’s more than two days from
their eastern frontier, they’ll forget that he’s coming.”
“The Arends aren’t that stupid, father,” Pol protested.