lingering aftereffects of my years in Camaar, and I was starting to
think coherently again. The first order of business was to find some
decent clothing to replace the rags I was wearing and a bit of money to
get me by.
I suppose I could have stolen what I needed, but my Master might not
have cared for that, so I decided to behave myself. The solution to my
little problem lay no further away than the nearest temple of Chaldan,
Bull God of the Arends. I was something of a celebrity in those days,
after all.
I can’t say that I really blame the priests of Chaldan for not
believing me when I announced my name to them. In their eyes I was
probably just another ragged beggar. Their lofty, disdainful attitude
irritated me, though, and without even thinking about it, I gave them a
small demonstration of the sort of things I was capable of, just to
prove that I was really who I’d told them I was. Actually, I was
almost as surprised as they were when it really worked, but neither my
madness nor the years of concentrated dissipation in Camaar had eroded
my talent.
The priests fell all over themselves apologizing, and they pressed new
clothing and a well-filled purse on me by way of recompense for their
failure to take me at my word. I accepted their gifts graciously,
though I realized that I didn’t really need them now that I knew that
my “talent” hadn’t deserted me. I could have spun clothes out of air
and turned pebbles into coins if I’d really wanted to. I bathed,
trimmed my shaggy beard, and put on my new clothes. I felt much
better, actually.
What I needed more than clothes or money or tidying up was
information.
I’d been sorely out of touch with things during my stay in Camaar, and
I was hungry for news. I was surprised to find that our little
adventure in Mallorea was now common knowledge here in Arendia, and the
priests of the Bull God assured me that the story was well-known in
Tolnedra and had even penetrated into Nyissa and Maragor. I probably
shouldn’t have been surprised, now that I think about it. My Master
had met with his brothers in their cave, and their decision to leave
had been based largely on our recovery of the Orb. Since this was
undoubtedly the most stupendous event since the cracking of the world,
the other Gods would certainly have passed it on to their priests
before they departed.
The story had been greatly embellished, of course. Any time there’s a
miracle involved, you can trust a priest to get creative. Since their
enhancement of the bare bones of the story elevated me to near Godhood,
I decided not to correct them. A reputation of that kind can be useful
now and then. The white robe the priests had given me to replace the
dirty rags I’d been wearing gave me a dramatic appearance, and I cut
myself a long staff to fill out the characterization. I didn’t plan to
stay in Vo Wacune, and if I wanted the cooperation of the priesthood in
the various towns I’d pass through, I was going to have to dress the
part of a mighty sorcerer. It was pure charlatanism, of course, but it
avoided arguments and long explanations.
I spent a month or so in the temple of Chaldan in Vo Wacune, and then I
hiked to Vo Astur to see what the Asturians were up to–no good, as it
turned out, but this was Arendia, after all. The Asturians held the
balance of power during the long, mournful years of the Arendish civil
wars, and they’d change sides at the drop of a hat.
Frankly, the Arendish civil wars bored me. I wasn’t interested in the
spurious grievances the Arends were constantly inventing to justify
atrocities they were going to commit anyway. I went to Asturia because
Asturia had a seacoast and Wacune didn’t. The last thing I’d done
before I left Cherek and his sons had been to break the Kingdom of
Aloria all to pieces, and I was moderately curious about how it was
working out.
Vo Astur was situated on the south bank of the Astur River, and Alorn
ships frequently sailed upriver to call there. I stopped by the
temple, and the priests directed me to several river-front taverns
where I might reasonably expect to find Alorn sailors. I wasn’t happy
about the prospect of testing my willpower in a tavern, but there was
no help for it.
If you want to talk to an Alorn, you’re going to have to go where the
beer is.
As luck had it, I came across a burly Alorn sea captain in the second
tavern I visited. His name was Haknar, and he’d sailed down to Arendia
from Val Alorn. I introduced myself, and the white robe and staff
helped to convince him that I was telling the truth. He offered to buy
me a tankard or six of Arendish ale, but I politely declined. I didn’t
want to get started on that again.
“How are the boats working out?” I asked him.
“Ships,” he corrected. Sailors always make that distinction.
“They’re fast,” he conceded, “but you have to pay close attention to
what you’re doing when the wind comes up. King Cherek told me that you
designed them.”
“I had a little help,” I replied modestly.
“Aldur gave me the basic plan. How is Cherek?”
“A little mournful, really. I think he misses his sons.”
“It couldn’t be helped. We had to protect the Orb. How are the boys
doing in their new kingdoms?”
“They’re getting by, I guess. I think you rushed them, Belgarath.
They were a little young when you sent them off into the wilderness
like that. Dras calls his kingdom Drasnia, and he’s starting to build
a city at a place he calls Boktor. I think he misses Val Alorn. Algar
calls his kingdom Algaria, and he isn’t building cities. He’s got his
people rounding up horses and cattle instead.”
I nodded. Algar probably wouldn’t have been interested in cities.
“What’s Riva doing?” I asked.
“He’s definitely building a city. The word “fort” would probably come
closer, though. Have you ever been to the Isle of the Winds?”
“Once,” I said.
“Then you know where the beach is. That valley that runs down out of
the mountains sort of stair-steps its way down to the beach. Riva had
his people build stone walls across the front of each step. Now he’s
got them building their houses up against the backs of those walls. If
somebody tried to attack the place, he’d have to fight his way over a
dozen of those walls. That could get very expensive. I stopped by the
Isle on my way here. They’re making good progress.”
“Has Riva started building his Citadel yet?”
“He’s got it laid out, but he wants to get his houses built first. You
know how Riva is. He’s awfully young, but he does look out for his
people.”
“He’ll make a good king, then.”
“Probably so. His subjects are a little worried, though. They really
want him to get married, but he keeps putting them off. He seems to
have somebody special in mind.”
“He does. He dreamed about her once.”
“You can’t marry a dream, Belgarath. The Rivan throne has to have an
heir, and that’s something a man can’t do all by himself.”
“He’s still young, Haknar. Sooner or later some girl’s going to take
his eye. If it starts to look like it’s going to be a problem, I’ll go
to the Isle and have a talk with him. Is Cherek still calling what’s
left of his kingdom Aloria?”
“No. Aloria’s gone now. That took a lot of the heart out of
Bear-shoulders. He hasn’t even gotten around to putting a name to that
peninsula you left him. The rest of us just call it “”Cherek” and let
it go at that.
That’s whenever he lets us come home. We spend a lot of time at sea
patrolling the Sea of the Winds. Cherek’s very free with titles of
nobility, but there’s a large fishhook attached to them. I was about
half drunk when he made me Baron Haknar. It wasn’t until I sobered up
that I realized that I’d volunteered to spend three months out of every
year for the rest of my life sailing around in circles up in the Sea of
the Winds. It’s really unpleasant up there, Belgarath–particularly in
the winter. I get ice a half-foot thick on my sails every night. My
deck-hands talk about the
“Haknar jig.” That’s when the morning breeze shakes the ice off the
sails and drops it down on the deck. My sailors have to dance out of
the way or get brained. Are you sure I can’t offer you something to
drink?”