She shook her head. “No. Apparently Urgit defied Agachak and refused to make the journey.”
“Urgit defied Agachak? Are you sure? Urgit’s afraid of his own shadow.”
“Not any more, it seems. Your brother’s changed quite a bit since you last saw him, Kheldar. His new wife may have had something to do with that. She’s a very determined young woman, and she’s making him over to fit her conception of him.”
“That’s terribly depressing,” Silk mourned.
“Agachak brought the new king of the Thulls instead—a cretin named Nathel.” Poledra looked at her husband. “Be very careful when you get to Dalasia,” she told him. “Zandramas, Urvon, and Agachak will all be converging on you. They hate each other, but they all know that you’re the common enemy. They may decide to put aside their feelings in order to join forces against you.”
“When you add Zakath and the whole Mallorean army to that, the Place Which Is No More might be just a little crowded when we get there,” Silk observed wryly.
“Numbers will mean absolutely nothing in that place, Kheldar. There will only be three who matter there—the Child of Light, the Child of Dark, and the Seeress of Kell, who will make the choice.” She looked at Eriond then. “Do you know what it is you have to do?” she asked him.
“Yes,” be replied simply. “It’s not such a difficult thing, really.”
“Perhaps not,” Poledra told him, “but you’re the only one who can do it.”
“I’ll be ready when the time comes, Poledra.”
Then the tawny-haired woman looked again at Belgarath. “Now I think it’s finally time for you and me to have that little talk you’ve been avoiding since our daughters were born,” she said very firmly.
The old man started.
“In private,” she added. “Come with me.”
“Yes, Poledra,” he replied meekly.
Purposefully she walked toward the gate of the farmstead with Belgarath trailing behind her like a schoolboy anticipating a scolding—or worse.
“At last,” Polgara sighed with relief.
“What’s going on, Lady Polgara?” Ce’Nedra asked in a baffled little voice.
“My mother and father are going to be reconciled,” Polgara replied happily. “My mother died—or perhaps didn’t— when my sister Beldaran and I were born. My father always blamed himself because he wasn’t there to help her. He and Bear-shoulders and the others had gone to Cthol Mishrak to steal the Orb back from Torak. Mother never blamed him because she knew how important what they were doing was. Father doesn’t forgive himself that easily, however, and he’s been punishing himself about it for all these centuries. Mother’s finally gotten tired of it, so she’s going to take steps to correct the situation.”
“Oh,” Ce’Nedra said with that odd little catch in her voice. “That’s just beautiful.” Her eyes filled with sudden tears.
Wordlessly, Velvet drew a flimsy little bit of a handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbed at her own eyes, then passed it to Ce’Nedra.
It was perhaps an hour later when Belgarath returned. He was alone, but there was a gentle smile on his face and a youthful twinkle in his eye. No one saw fit to ask him any questions. “What time of night would you say it is?” he asked Durnik.
The smith squinted up at the sky where the last remnants of cloud were being swept off to the east by the prevailing wind to reveal the stars. “I’d guess about two hours until first light, Belgarath,” he replied. “The breeze has come up, and it sort of smells like morning.”
“I don’t think we’ll get any more sleep tonight,” the old man said. “Why don’t we load the packs and saddle the horses while Pol fixes some of those eggs for breakfast?”
Polgara looked at him with a slightly raised eyebrow.
“You weren’t planning to let us leave without feeding us first, were you, Pol?” he asked her roguishly.
“No, father,” she said, “as a matter of fact, I wasn’t.”
“I didn’t think so.” Then he laughed and threw his arms about her. “Oh, my Pol,” he said exuberantly. Ce’Nedra’s eyes filled with tears again, and Velvet leached for her handkerchief once more.
“Between them, they’re going to wear that little thing out,” Silk noted clinically.
“That’s all right,” Garion replied. “I’ve got a couple of spares in my pack.” Then he remembered something.
“Grandfather,” he said, “in all the excitement, I almost forgot something. Before she changed into the dragon, I heard Zandramas talking with Naradas.”
“Oh?”
“He’s been in Gandahar and he’s taking a regiment of elephant cavalry to the battlefield.”
“That won’t matter very much to the demons.”
“The demons aren’t there any more. Zandramas raised another Demon Lord—Mordja, his name is—and he’s managed to lure Nahaz away from the battlefield. They’ve gone off someplace else to fight.”
Belgarath scratched at one bearded cheek. “Just how is that elephant cavalry out of Gandahar?” he asked
“Pretty close to invincible,” Silk replied. “They drape them in chain mail, and they trample wide paths through opposing armies. If the demons have left the field, Urvon’s army hasn’t got a chance.”
“There are too many people involved in this race anyway,” Belgarath grunted. “Let’s get across the Magan and leave all these armies to their own devices.”
They ate breakfast and rode out from the farmstead as the first light of dawn began to creep slowly up out of the eastern horizon. Oddly, Garion felt no particular weariness despite a night significantly short on sleep. A great deal had happened since the sun had gone down, and he had much to think about.
The sun had risen when they reached the great River Magan. Then, following Toth’s gestured directions, they rode slowly southward, looking for a village where they might find a boat large enough to carry them across to Darshiva. The day was warm, and the grass and trees had all been washed clean by the previous night’s storm.
They came to a small settlement of mud-smeared shacks standing on stilts, with rickety docks thrusting out into the river. A lone fisherman sat at the end of one of the docks negligently holding a long cane pole.
“Talk to him, Durnik,” Belgarath said. “See if he knows where we can hire a boat.”
The smith nodded and reined his horse around. On an impulse, Garion followed him. They dismounted at the landward end of the dock and walked out toward the fisherman.
He was a stumpy-looking little fellow, dressed in a homespun tunic and with muddy, baglike shoes on his feet. His bare legs were laced with knotty, purple veins, and they were not very clean. His face was tanned, and he was not so much bearded as unshaven.
“Any luck?” Durnik asked him.
“See fer yerself,” the fisherman said, pointing at the wooden tub at his side. He did not turn, but rather kept his eyes intently on the floating red stick to which his line was attached and which dangled his baited hook down into the murky water of the river. The tub was half-full of water, and several foot-long trout swam in circles in it. The fish had angry-looking eyes and jutting lower jaws.
Durnik squatted down beside the fisherman, his hands on his knees. “Nice-looking fish,” he observed.
“A fish is a fish.” The stumpy fellow shrugged. “They look better on the plate than they do in the tub.”
“That’s why we catch them,” Durnik agreed. “What are you using for bait?”
“Tried angleworms earlier,” the fellow replied laconically. “Didn’t seem to interest ‘em, so I switched over to fish roe.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever tried that,” Durnik admitted. “How does it work?”
“Caught them five in the last half hour. Sometimes it makes ‘em so excited, you got to go behind a tree to bait ‘ur hook to keep ‘em from chasin’ you right up onto the bank.”
“I’ll have to try it,” Durnik said, eyeing the water wistfully. “Have you got any idea of where we might be able to hire a boat? We’ve got to go across the river.”
The fisherman turned and stared at the smith incredulously. “To the Darshiva side?” he exclaimed. “Man, are out of your mind?”
“Is there some trouble over there?”
“Trouble? That don’t even begin to describe what’s happened over there. You ever hear tell of what they call a demon?”
A few times.”
“You ever seen one?”
“Once, I think.”
There’s no think about it, friend. If you seen one, you’d know.” The fellow shuddered. “They’re just plain awful. ‘tell, sir, the whole of Darshiva’s just crawlin’ with ‘em. ire’s this Grolim, he come down from the north with a pack of ‘em snappin’ an’ growlin’ at his heels. Then ire’s this other Grolim—a woman, if you can believe that— idramas, her name is, an’ she stepped back an’ cast a ‘ill an’ hauled some of her own out of wherever it is they is from, an’ them demons is fightin’ each other over in Darshiva.”