There was an abiding peace here, a peace that washed away the turmoil and anxiety that had beset them all on the plains below and somehow erased care and even thought. Each turn and each ridgetop brought new vistas, each filled with more splendor than the last until they could only ride in silence and wonder. The works of man shrank into insignificance here. Man would never, could never, touch these eternal mountains.
It was summer, and the days were long and filled with sunlight. Birds sang from the trees beside the winding track, and the smell of sun-warmed evergreens was touched lightly with the delicate odors of the acre upon acre of wildflowers carpeting the steep meadows. Occasionally the wild, shrill cry of an eagle echoed from the rocks. “Have you ever considered moving your capital?” Garion asked the Emperor of Mallorea, who rode beside him. His tone was hushed. To speak in a louder voice would somehow profane what lay around them.
“No, not really, Garion,” Zakath replied. “My government wouldn’t function here. The bureaucracy is largely Melcene. Melcenes appear to be prosaic people, but actually they aren’t. I *m afraid my officials would spend about half their time looking at the scenery and the other half writing bad poetry. Nobody would get any work done. Besides, you have no idea what it’s like up here in the winter.”
“Snow?”
Zakath nodded. “People up here don’t bother to measure it in inches. They measure it in feet.”
“Are there people up here? I haven’t seen-any.”
“There are a few—fur trappers, gold hunters, that sort of thing.’ * Zakath smiled faintly. “I think it’s just an excuse, really. Some people prefer solitude.”
“This is a good place for it.”
The Emperor of Mallorea had changed since they had left Atesca’s enclave on the banks of the Magan. He was leaner now, and the dead look was gone from his eyes. Like Garion and all the rest, he rode warily, his eyes and ears constantly alert. It was not so much his outward aspect that marked the change in him, however. Zakath had always been a pensive, even melancholy man, given often to periods of black depression, but filled
at the same time with a cold ambition. Garion had often felt that fee Mallorean’s ambition and his apparent hunger for power were not so much a driving need in him as they had been a kind of continual testing of himself, and, at perhaps a deeper level, deriving from an urge toward self-destruction. It had seemed almost that Zakath had hurled himself and all the resources of his empire into impossible struggles in the secret hope that eventually he would encounter someone strong enough to kill him and thereby relieve him of the burden of a life that was barely tolerable to him.
Such was no longer the case. His meeting with Cyradis on the banks of the Magan had forever changed him. A world that had always been flat and stale now seemed to be all new to him. At times, Garion even thought he detected a faint touch of hope in his friend’s face, and hope had never been a part of Zakath’s makeup.
As they rounded a wide bend in the track, Garion saw the she-wolf he had found in the dead forest back in Darshiva. She sat patiently on her haunches waiting for them. Increasingly, the behavior of the wolf puzzled him. Now that her injured paw was healed, she made sporadic sweeps through the surrounding forests in search of her pack, but always returned, seemingly unconcerned about her failure to locate them. It was as if she were perfectly content to remain with them as a member of their most unusual pack. So long as they were in forests and uninhabited mountains, this peculiarity of hers caused no particular problems, but they would not always be in the wilderness, and the appearance of an untamed and probably nervous wolf on the busy street of a populous city would be likely to attract attention, to say the very least.
“How is it with you, little sister?” he asked her politely in the language of wolves.
“It is well,” she replied.
“Did you find any traces of your pack?”
“There are many other wolves about, but they are not of my kindred. One will remain with you for yet a while longer. Where is the young one?”
Garion glanced back over his shoulder at the little two-wheeled carriage trundling along behind them. “He sits beside my mate in the thing with round feet.”
The wolf sighed. “If he sits much longer, he will no longer be able to run or hunt,” she said disapprovingly, ‘ ‘and if your
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mate continues to feed him so much, she will stretch his belly, and he will not survive a lean season when there is little food.”
“One will speak with her about it.”
“Will she listen?”
“Probably not, but one will speak with her all the same. She is fond of the young one and takes pleasure in having him near her.”
“Soon one will need to teach him how to hunt.”
“Yes. One knows. One will explain that to one’s mate.”
“One is grateful.” She paused, looking about a bit warily. “Proceed with some caution,” she warned. “There is a creature who dwells here. One has caught his scent several tunes, though one has not seen him. He is quite large, however.”
“How large?”
“Larger than the beast upon which you sit.” She looked pointedly at Chretienne. Familiarity had made the big gray stallion less nervous in the presence of the she-wolf, though Garion suspected that he would be much happier if she did not come quite so close.
“One will tell the pack-leader of what you have said,” Garion promised. For some reason, the she-wolf avoided Belgarath. Garion surmised that her behavior might reflect some obscure facet of wolfly etiquette of which he was not aware.
“One will continue one’s search then,” she said, rising to her feet. “It may happen that one will come upon this beast, and then we will know him.” She paused. “His scent tells one that he is dangerous, however. He feeds on all things—even on things that we would shun.” Then she turned and loped off into the forest, moving swiftly and silently.
“That’s really uncanny, you know,” Zakath observed. “IVe heard men talk to animals before, but never in their own language.”
“It’s a family peculiarity.” Garion smiled. “At first I didn’t believe it either. Birds used to come and talk to Aunt Pol all the time—usually about their eggs. Birds are awfully fond of talking about their eggs, I understand. They can be very silly at times. Wolves are much more dignified.” He paused a moment. “You don’t necessarily have to tell Aunt Pol I said that,” he added.
“Subterfuge, Garion?” Zakath laughed.
“Prudence,” Garion corrected. “I have to go talk with Belgarath. Keep your eyes open. The wolf says that there’s some kind of animal out there somewhere. She says it’s bigger than a
horse and very dangerous. She hinted at the fact that it’s a man-eater.”
“What does it look like?”
“She hasn’t seen it. She’s smelled it, though, and seen its tracks.”
“I’ll watch fork.”
“Good idea.” Garion turned and rode back to where Belgarath and Aunt Pol were deep in a discussion.
“Durnik needs a tower somewhere in the Vale,” Belgarath was saying.
“I don’t see why, father,” Polgara replied.
“All of Aldur’s disciples have towers, Pol. It’s the custom.”
“Old customs persist—even when there’s no longer any need for them.”
“He’s going to need to study, Pol. How can he possibly study with you underfoot all the time?”
She gave him a long, chilly stare.
“Maybe I should rephrase that.”
“Take as long as you need, father. I’m willing to wait.”
“Grandfather,” Garion said, reining in. “I was just talking with the wolf, and she says there’s a very large animal out in the forest.”
“A bear maybe?”
“I don’t think so. She’s caught its scent a few times, and she’d probably recognize the smell of a bear, wouldn’t she?”
“I’d think so, yes.”
“She didn’t say it exactly, but I got the impression that it’s not too selective about what it eats.” He paused. “Is it my imagination, or is she a very strange wolf?”
‘ ‘How do you mean, exactly?”
“She stretches the language about as far as it will go, and I get the feeling that she still has more to say.”
“She’s intelligent, that’s all. It’s an uncommon trait in females, but it’s not unheard of.”
“What a fascinating turn this conversation has taken,” Polgara observed.
“Oh,” the old man said blandly, “are you still here, Pol? I thought you’d have found something else to do by now.”
Her gaze was icy, but Belgarath seemed totally unperturbed. “Iftw’d better warn the others,” he told Garion. “A wolf would P»8s an ordinary animal without comment. Whatever this thing is, it’s unusual, and unusual usually means dangerous. Tell Cc’Nedra to get up here among the rest of us. She’s a bit vul-