Toth nodded.
“Will it take us to Verkat?”
Toth nodded again.
“You mean that it will, if the sprite that’s pushing it doesn’t get bored with the idea—or decide that it might be funny to take us in the opposite direction.”
Toth held out both hands.
“He says to trust him,” Durnik supplied.
“I wish people would quit saying that to me.”
The ship slowed, and her keel ground gently on the gravel bottom. A broad ramp came sliding out over the side, and its weighted end sank in about three feet of water. Toth, leading his reluctant horse, waded out to the ramp. Then he turned and looked inquiringly back at the rest of them. He motioned with his arm.
“He says we’re supposed to board now,” Durnik said.
“I heard him,” Belgarath growled. “All right, I suppose we might as well.” Sourly, he took his horse’s reins and waded out into the water.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The crew of the strange ship all wore rough, cowled tunics made of heavy cloth. The bones of their faces were prominent, giving their features a peculiarly hewn-out look and, like Toth, they were all mutes. They went about their work in absolute silence. Garion, accustomed to the bawling and cursing which accompanied the labors of Cherek sailors, found this stillness peculiar, even slightly unnerving. The ship itself made none of the usual sounds. There was no rasp of oars in their locks, no creak of rigging, no groaning of timbers—only the faint wash and run of water along the sides as they were propelled out across the fog-muffled sea by some force or spirit Garion could not even comprehend.
Once the shore behind had sunk into the fog, there was no reference point, no hint of direction. The silent ship moved on.
Garion stood with his arm about Ce’Nedra’s shoulders. The peculiar combination of his near-exhaustion from the ordeal in the wood of the Raveners and the pervading gloom of dark, unbroken water and thick-hanging fog made his mood melancholy and his thoughts abstracted. It was enough merely to stand at the side of his weary wife, holding her in the protecting curve of his arm and to look blankly, uncomprehendingly into the fog.
“What in the world is that?” Velvet exclaimed from somewhere behind him. He turned and looked toward the stern. From out of the pearly fog, there came a ghostly white bird with impossible wings—pinions that appeared longer than a tall man might stretch his arms. The wings did not move, and yet the silent bird came on, gliding through the misty air like a disembodied spirit.
“Albatross,” Polgara identified the magnificent creature.
“Aren’t they supposed to be bad luck?” Silk asked.
“Are you superstitious, Prince Kheldar?”
“Not exactly, but—” He left it hanging.
“It’s a sea bird, nothing more,” she told him.
“Why does it have such enormous wings?” Velvet asked curiously.
“It flies great distances over open water,” Polgara said. “The wings hold it aloft without any effort. It’s very practical.”
The great-winged bird tilted in the air, giving forth a strange, lonely cry, a sound that carried in it all the emptiness of a vast, rolling sea.
Polgara inclined her head in response to that strange greeting.
“What did he say, Pol?” Durnik asked her in an oddly subdued voice.
“It was quite formal,” she replied. “Sea birds have a great deal of dignity—perhaps because they spend so much time alone. It gives them leisure to formulate their thoughts, I suppose. Land birds babble a great deal, but sea birds try to be profound.”
“They’re strange creatures, aren’t they—birds I mean?”
“Not once you get used to them.” She looked out at the alabaster bird coasting in the silent air beside the ship with an indecipherable expression on her face.
The albatross moved his great wings and pulled ahead of the ship to station himself just in front of the prow, hanging apparently motionless in the mist.
Belgarath had been staring up at the sails, which bellied out improbably in the dead-calm air. Finally he grunted and turned to Toth. “How long does the trip to Verkat take?” he asked.
Toth measured out a short space with his hands.
“That’s not very specific, my friend.”
Toth pointed upward and spread his fingers wide.
“He says about five hours, Belgarath,” Durnik translated.
“We’re moving faster than it appears then,” the old man observed. “I wonder how they managed to persuade the sprite to concentrate on one thing for that long, though. I’ve never run into one before that could keep hold of an idea for more than a minute.”
“Do you want me to ask him?” Durnik offered.
Belgarath squinted back up at the sails. “No,” he said. “I guess not. I might not like the answer.”
The northwest coast of the Isle of Verkat rose dark and indistinct out of the fog as evening approached. They sailed closer, with the gleaming albatross hovering just ahead, and Garion saw that the low hills behind the gravel strand were thickly covered with dark evergreens wreathed in fog. Some distance back up from the beach, a few scattered lights gleamed golden in the windows of a village, and a line of torches wound down from that village toward the shore. Faintly, Garion could hear the sound of singing. The words were indistinct, but the overall tone of the song conveyed a great sadness and an endless longing.
Their ship moved silently across a shallow bay, then coasted gently up beside a rude stone quay that looked more like a natural rock formation than any man-made structure.
A tall man in a white linen robe stood on the quay. Although his face was unlined and his eyebrows were black as ravens’ wings, his flowing hair was as silver as Belgarath’s. “Welcome,” he greeted them. His voice was deep and peculiarly gentle. “I am Vard. We have long awaited your coming, which the Book of the Heavens revealed to us ages past.”
“Now you see why I don’t like these people,” Belgarath muttered. “I hate it when someone pretends to know everything.”
“Forgive us, Holy Belgarath,” the man on the quay said with a slight smile. “If it will make you more comfortable, we will conceal what we have read in the stars.”
“You’ve got sharp ears, Yard,” the old man noted.
“If you wish to believe so.” Yard shrugged. “A place has been made ready for you—and food prepared. Your journey has been long and difficult, and I’m sure you are all very tired. If you will come with me, I will show you the way. My people will bring your mounts and your belongings.”
“You are very kind, Yard,” Polgara said across the rail of the ship as the mute sailors ran their ramp out to the stones of the quay.
Yard bowed. “We are honored by your presence, Lady Polgara,” he replied. “We have stood in awe of you since the beginning of the Third Age.”
The path leading up from the bay was narrow and it wound about with no seeming purpose. “I fear that you will find our village rude by comparison with the mighty cities of the west,” the white-robed man apologized. “We have ever been indifferent to our surroundings.”
“One place is much the same as another,” Belgarath agreed, peering ahead toward the cluster of lighted windows glowing in the mist.
The village consisted of a score or so buildings constructed of rough field stone and thatched with straw. They seemed scattered at random with nothing resembling an organized street anywhere in sight. The place was tidy, however, with none of the clutter that inevitably seemed to spring up in such places, and the doorstep of each house showed signs of frequent scrubbing.
Yard led them to a fair-sized house in the center of the village and opened the door for them. “This will be yours for as long as you remain,” he said. “The table is prepared, and some of my people will attend you. Should you require anything else, please send for me.” Then he bowed, turned, and walked away into the foggy twilight.
The inside of the house was by no means palatial, but it belied the crude-appearing exterior. Each room contained a low, cheery fireplace, exuding warmth and light. The doorways were arched and the walls all whitewashed. The furniture was plain, but stoutly made, and the beds were covered with thick, down-filled comforters.
A table and benches stood in the central room, and a number of covered earthenware pots stood on that table. The smells coming from those pots reminded Garion that he had not eaten a hot meal in several days.
“They’re a strange sort of people,” Velvet observed, removing her cloak, “but you certainly can’t fault their hospitality.”
Silk had been eyeing the table. “We wouldn’t want to offend them by letting supper get cold, would we? I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m famished.”