David and Leigh Eddings – Belgarath the Sorcerer

course, despite the fact that they were sailing almost into the teeth

of a howling gale.

General Brendig was a Sendar, so he admired professionalism, and he was

forced to admit that, despite his bad habits, Captain Greldik might

just be the finest sailor in the world. A Sendarian sea captain

wouldn’t have ventured out of port in this kind of weather, but Greldik

had a tendency to ignore the elements.

They’d been three days at sea when they raised the port at Riva.

Greldik smoothly brought his battered ship up to one of the wharves.

The instructions he gave his crew were couched in language that made

even the professional soldier Brendig turn pale. Then the two of them

crossed to the wharf and made their way up the steep stairs that

mounted through the city to the fortress that was the home of the Rivan

King.

No one approaches Riva without being observed, so, despite the weather,

King Belgarion and his tiny Queen, Ce’Nedra, were waiting in the

shallow square before the great hall.

“Brendig!” Ce’nedra squealed delightedly, rushing forward to embrace

her old friend.

“You’re looking well, your Majesty,” he replied, wrapping his single

arm about her shoulders.

“Brendig, can’t you ever smile?”

“I am smiling, your Majesty,” he said with an absolutely straight

face.

“Hello, Garion,” the bearded Greldik said to the Rivan King. Captain

Greldik was probably the least formal of all men. He never used titles

when speaking to anyone.

“Greldik,” Garion responded as they shook hands.

“You look older.”

“I hope so. If I went the other way, people might begin to suspect

things. What brings you to Riva at this time of year?”

“Brendig here,” Greldik replied, giving the Sendarian general a hard

look.

“He rooted me out of a perfectly comfortable tavern in Camaar, threw me

into the bay, and then insisted that I bring him here to Riva.

Brendig’s just a little too used to giving orders. If he’d been civil

enough to get drunk with me, I’d probably have agreed to bring him here

without his giving me my annual bath.”

“Captain Greldik!” Ce’Nedra said sharply.

“Are you sober?”

“More or less,” Greldik replied with a shrug.

“It was a little stormy out there, so I sort of had to pay attention to

what I was doing. I see that you’ve filled out a bit, girl. You look

better. You were kind of scrawny before.”

The Rivan Queen actually blushed. The blunt-spoken Greldik always

seemed to catch her off guard. Free as a bird, Greldik usually said

exactly what was on his mind with no regard for propriety or even

common courtesy.

“What was so important to make you venture out into the Sea of the

Winds in the dead of winter, General?” Garion asked the Sendarian

soldier.

“Prince Hettar brought a package of documents to the palace at Sendar,

your Majesty,” Brendig replied.

“They’re from Holy Belgarath, and he wanted them delivered to you

immediately. There are a couple of letters, as well.”

“Well, finally!” Ce’Nedra said.

“I thought it was going to take that old dear forever to finish up!

He’s been at it for almost a year now!”

“Is it really all that important, your Majesty?” Brendig asked

Garion.

“It’s a history book, General,” Garion replied.

“A history book?” Brendig seemed startled.

“It has a certain special meaning for our family. My wife’s been

particularly interested in it, for some reason. Of course, she’s

Tolnedran, and you know how they are. Let’s go inside out of the

weather.”

“Tell me, Garion,” Greldik said as they crossed the square to the broad

gateway to the Rivan Citadel, “do you think you might possibly have

something to drink lying around somewhere?”

Belgarion of Riva, Godslayer and Overlord of the West, read the last

page of his grandfather’s text with a certain awe and a kind of wonder

as his entire perception of the world subtly shifted. So much had

happened that he hadn’t known about. The meaning of events that had

passed almost unnoticed suddenly came sharply into focus as he

reflected on what he had just read. He remembered any number of

conversations with Belgarath during which he and his grandfather had

discussed the “possible” and the “impossible,” and now the true meaning

of these seemingly casual discussions became clear. Belgarath may have

taken the world in his hands and shaken it to its foundations, but he

was first and foremost a teacher.

Garion was ruefully forced to concede that he hadn’t really been a very

good pupil. Belgarath had patiently told him time and again what was

really happening, and he’d totally missed the point.

“Maybe I’d better pay a little more attention to my studies,” he

muttered, half aloud, looking up at the shelves filled with books and

scrolls that lined the walls of his cramped little study.

“And I think that maybe I’m going to need a little more room,” he

added. The image of Belgarath’s tower suddenly came to him, and it

seemed so perfectly right that it filled him with a kind of yearning.

He needed a private place where he could come to grips with what he’d

just learned. There was an unused tower on the west side of the

Citadel. It was cold and drafty, of course, but it wouldn’t take much

to make it habitable–a little mortar to fill the chinks in the walls,

decent glass in the windows, and a bit of repair to the fireplace was

about all.

Then he sighed. It was an impossible dream. He had a wife and family,

and he had a kingdom to rule. The scholarly life simply wasn’t

available to him as it had been to Aldur’s first disciple, and Garion

was forced to admit that he wasn’t that good a scholar in the first

place. Of course, with a little time–a few centuries at most-That

thought brought him up short. The text he had just read had casually

dismissed time. To Belgarath the Sorcerer centuries meant no more than

years to normal men. He’d spent forty-five years studying grass and

the Gods only knew how much time trying to discover the reason for

mountains. Garion realized that he didn’t even know what questions to

ask, much less how to go about finding the answers. He did know,

however, that the first question was,

“Why?”

It was at that point that he took up the letter from his grandfather.

It wasn’t really very long.

“Garion,” he read.

“There you have it, since you and Durnik were so insistent about this

ridiculous project. This is the beginning and the middle.

You already know the end–if something like this can really be said to

have an end. Someday, when you’ve got some time, stop by, and we’ll

talk about it. Right now, though, I think I’ll go back and look over

my notes on mountains. Belgarath.”

Garion started violently as the door of his study burst open.

“Haven’t you finished yet’.” Ce’Nedra demanded. Though they had been

married for quite some time now, Garion was always slightly startled by

just how tiny his wife really was. When he was away from her for more

than a few hours, she seemed to grow in his mind’s eye. She was

perfect, but she was very, very small. Maybe it was that flaming red

hair that seemed to give her added stature.

“Yes, dear,” he said, handing over the last couple of chapters, which

she eagerly snatched out of his hand.

“Well, finally!”

“You’re going to have to learn patience, Ce’Nedra.”

“Garion, I’ve gone through two pregnancies. I know all about

patience.

Now hush and let me read.” She pulled a chair up to the side of his

desk, seated herself, and started in. Ce’Nedra had received the finest

education the Tolnedran Empire could provide, but her husband was still

startled by just how quickly she could devour any given text. It took

her no more than a quarter of an hour to reach the end.

“It doesn’t go anyplace!” she burst out.

“He didn’t finish the story!”

“I don’t think the story’s over yet, dear,” Garion told her.

“We all know what happened at Faldor’s Farm, though, so grandfather

didn’t think he’d have to go over it again for us.” He leaned back

reflectively.

“An awful lot was going on that none of us were even aware of, you

know.

Grandfather doesn’t even live in the same world with the rest of us. He

let it slip a few times in there toward the end. I wish I had time to

go to Mal Zeth and talk with Cyradis. There’s another world out there

that we don’t even know about.”

“Well, of course there is, you ninny! Don’t pester Cyradis. Talk with

Eriond instead. He’s what this was all about!”

And that rang some bells in the Rivan King’s mind. Ce’Nedra was right!

Eriond had been at the center of everything they’d done! Torak and

Zandramas had been error. Eriond was truth. The struggle between the