David and Leigh Eddings – Belgarath the Sorcerer

come back.

Then I rose to my feet, sighed, and turned my back on the only place

I’d ever really called home.

I skirted the eastern edge of Ulgoland. I hadn’t exercised my gift

since that dreadful day, and I wasn’t really sure if I still could.

Grul had probably healed by now, and I was fairly sure that he’d be

nursing a grudge–and that he wouldn’t let me get close enough to knife

him again.

It would have been terribly embarrassing to try to gather my Will only

to discover that it just wasn’t there anymore. There were also

Hrulgin, Algroths, and an occasional Troll up in those mountains, so

prudence suggested that I go around them.

My brothers tried to make contact with me, of course. I dimly heard

their voices calling me from time to time, but I didn’t bother to

answer. It would just have been a waste of time and effort. I wasn’t

going back, no matter what they said to me.

I went up through western Algaria and didn’t encounter anyone.

When I judged that I was well past the northern edge of Ulgoland, I

turned westward, crossed the mountains, and came down onto the plains

around Muros.

There was a sleepy little village of Wacite Arends where Muros now

stands, and I stopped there for supplies. Since I didn’t have any

money with me, I reverted to the shady practices of my youth and stole

what I needed.

Then I went down-river, ultimately ending up in Camaar. Like all

seaports, there was a certain cosmopolitanism about Camaar. The city

was nominally subject to the duke of Vo Wacune, but the waterfront

dives I frequented had as many Alorns and Tolnedrans and even Nyissans

in them as they did Wacites. The locals were mostly sailors, and

sailors out on the town after a long voyage are a good-natured and

generous lot, so it wasn’t all that hard to find people willing to

stand me to a few tankards of ale.

As is usually the case in a preliterate society, the fellows in the

taverns loved to listen to stories, and I could make up stories with

the best. And that was how I made my way in Camaar. I’ve done that

fairly frequently over the years. It’s an easy way to make a living,

and you can usually do it sitting down, which was a good thing in this

case, since most of the time I was in no condition to stand. To put it

quite bluntly, I became a common drunkard. I apparently also became a

public nuisance, since I seem to remember being thrown out of any

number of low waterfront dives, places that are notoriously tolerant of

little social gaffes.

I really couldn’t tell you how long I stayed in Camaar–two years at

least, and possibly more. I drank myself into insensibility each

night, and I never knew where I’d wake up in the morning. Usually it

was in a gutter or some smelly back alley. People are not particularly

interested in listening to stories first thing in the morning, so I

took up begging on street-corners as a sideline. I became fairly

proficient at it–proficient enough at any rate to be roaring drunk by

noon every day.

I started seeing thing that weren’t there and hearing voices nobody

else could hear. My hands shook violently all the time, and I

frequently woke up with the horrors.

But I didn’t dream, and I had no memories of anything that had happened

more than a few days ago. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I was

happy, but at least I wasn’t suffering.

Then one night while I was comfortably sleeping in my favorite gutter,

I did have a dream. My Master probably had to shout to cut through my

drunken stupor, but he finally managed to get my attention.

When I woke up, there was no question in my mind at all that I’d been

visited. I hadn’t had a real dream for years. Not only that, I was

stone-cold sober, and I wasn’t even shaking. What really persuaded me,

though, was the fact that the heavenly perfume wafting from the tavern

I’d probably been thrown out of the previous evening turned my stomach

inside out right there on the spot. I amused myself by kneeling over

my Butter and vomiting for a half hour or so, much to the disgust of

everyone who happened by. I soon discovered that it wasn’t so much the

stink of that tavern that set my stomach all achurn, but the stale,

sour reek exuding from the rags I wore and from my very skin. Then,

still weakly retching, I lurched to my feet, stumbled out onto a wharf,

and threw myself into the bay with the rest of the garbage.

No, I wasn’t trying to drown myself. I was trying to wash off that

dreadful smell. When I came out of the water, I reeked of dead fish

and the various nasty things that people dump into a harbor–usually

when nobody’s watching–but it was a definite improvement.

I stood on the wharf for a time, shivering violently and dripping like

a down-spout, and I made up my mind to leave Camaar that very day. My

Master obviously disapproved of my behavior, and the next time I

weakened, he’d probably arrange to have me vomit up my shoe soles. Fear

isn’t the best motivation for embarking on a life of sobriety, but it

gets your attention. The taverns of Camaar were too close at hand, and

I knew most of the tavern-keepers by name, so I decided to go down into

Arendia to avoid temptation.

I stumbled through the streets of the better parts of town, offending

the residents mightily, I’m sure, and along about noon I reached the

upstream edge of the city. I didn’t have any money to pay a ferryman,

so I swam across the Camaar River to the Arendish side. It took me a

couple of hours, but I wasn’t really in any hurry. The river was

bank-full of fresh, running water, and it washed off a multitude of

sins.

I walked back to the ferry landing to ask a few questions. There was a

rude hut on the riverbank, and the fellow who lived there was sitting

on a tree stump at the water’s edge with a fishing pole in his hands.

“An’ would y’ be wantin’ t’ cross over t’ Camaar, friend?” he asked in

that brogue that immediately identified him as a Wacite peasant.

“No, thanks,” I replied.

“I just came from there.”

“Yer a wee bit on the damp side. Surely y’ didn’t swim across?”

“No,” I lied.

“I had a small boat. It overturned on me while I was trying to beach

it. What part of Arendia have I landed in? I lost my bearings while I

was crossing the river.”

“Ah, it’s a lucky one y’ are t’ have come ashore here instead of a few

miles down-river. Yer in the lands of his Grace, the duke of Vo

Wacune.

Off t’ the west be the lands of the duke of Vo Astur. I shouldn’t say

it-them being’ our allies and all–but the Asturians are a hard an’

treacherous people.”

“Allies?”

“In our war with the murderin’ Mimbrates, don’t y’ know.”

“Is that still going on?”

“Ah, t’ be sure. The duke of Vo Mimbre fancies himself king of all

Arendia, but our duke an’ the’ duke of the Asturians ain’t about t’

bend no knees t’ him.” He squinted at me.

“If y’ don’t mind me sayin’ it, yer lookin’ a bit seedy.”

“I’ve been sick for a while.”

He started back from me.

“It ain’t catchin’, is it?”

“No. I got a bad cut, and it didn’t heal right.”

“That’s a relief. We’ve already got enough trouble on this side o’ the

river without some traveler bringin’ in a pestilence, don’t y’ know.”

“Which way do I go to hit the road to Vo Wacune?”

“Back up the river a few miles. There’s another ferry landin’ right

where the road starts. Y’ can’t miss it.” He squinted at me again.

“Would y’ be after wantin’ a drop or two of something’ t’ brace y’ up

fer yer journey?

“Tis a cruel long way t’ walk, don’t y’ know, and y’ll find me prices

t’ be the most reasonable on this side o’ the river.”

“No thanks, friend. My stomach’s a little delicate. The illness, you

understand.”

” Tis a shame. Y’ look t’ be a jolly sort, an’ I wouldn’t mind the

company, don’t y’ know.”

A jolly sort? Me? This fellow really wanted to sell me some beer.

“Well,” I said,

“I’m not getting any closer to Vo Wacune just standing here. Thanks

for the information, friend, and good luck with your fishing.”

I turned and went back up the river.

By the time I reached Vo Wacune, I’d more or less shaken off the

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