bark of the Tree, sighed, and returned to father’s tower and the
waiting Mrin Codex.
Father and I made periodic visits to the Isle of the Winds during
the next half-century or so – usually for meetings of the Alorn
Council. There were new kings in Cherek, Drasnia, and Algaria, but
father and I weren’t as close to them as we’d been to Bear-shoulders,
Bull-neck, and Fleet-foot. Because fairly extended periods of time
passed between our visits, I was keenly aware of the fact that Daran
and Kamion were visibly older each time we went to the Isle.
My father’s hinted at this, but one of us had probably better come
right out with it. Our situation is most peculiar, and it requires
certain adjustments. As those we’ve come to know and love grow
older, it’s absolutely necessary for us to distance ourselves from
them. The alternative is quite probably madness. Endless grief will
eventually destroy the human mind. We’re not heartless, but we do
have duties, and those duties oblige us to protect our ability to
function. As I watched Daran and Kamion become crotchety,
querulous old men, I knew they’d eventually leave us and that there was
nothing I could do about it.
The Vale serves us as a kind of sanctuary – a place where we can
absorb our grief and come to terms with it and the presence of
the Tree there is an absolute necessity.
If you think about it for a while, I’m sure you’ll understand.
in time, word inevitably reached us that both Daran and Kamion
had gone on. ‘They were very tired anyway, Pol,’ was all my father
said before he went back to his studies.
My first century was drawing to a close when uncle Beldin
returned from Mallorea. ‘Burnt-face is still at Ashaba,’ he reported,
‘and nothing’s going to happen over there until he comes out of
seclusion.’
‘Is Zedar still with him?’ father asked.
‘Oh, yes. Zedar’s stuck to Torak like a leech. Proximity to a God
seems to expand Zedar’s opinion of himself.’
‘Some things never change, do they?’
‘Not where Zedar’s concerned, they don’t. Is Ctuchik doing
anything interesting?’
‘Nothing momentous enough to make waves. Is Urvon still hiding
at Mal Yaska?’
Beldin’s chuckle was hideous. ‘Oh, indeed he is, Belgarath. Every
now and then I drift on up to his neighborhood and butcher a few
Grolims. I always leave a survivor or two – just to be sure that
ervon gets word that I’m still out there waiting for the pleasure of
his company. I’m told that he usually retires to the dungeon on
those occasions. He seems to think that thick stone walls might keep
me from getting at him.’ He squinted thoughtfully. ‘Maybe when I
go back, I’ll slip into his temple and litter the place with dead
grolims – just to let him know that there isn’t really anyplace where
he can hide from me. Keeping Urvon nervous is one of my favorite
pastimes. What kind of celebration do we have planned?’
‘Celebration? What celebration?’
‘Polgara’s hundredth birthday, you clot. You didn’t really think
I came all the way back here just for the pleasure of your company,
did you?’
The celebration of my birthday was lavish – even grotesquely
overdone. Ours was a small, highly unique society, and since father,
Beldin and I traveled extensively and were away for long periods
of time, we seldom had the opportunity to join the twins in the Vale
to draw our shared uniqueness about us. We’re sometimes wildly
different from each other – except for the twins, of course but
we’re all members of a tiny closed society that shares experiences
and concepts the rest of the world cannot begin to comprehend.
Along toward the end of the festivities when my elders were all
more than slightly tipsy and I was tidying up, mother’s voice rang
gently in the vaults of my mind. ‘Happy birthday, Pol,’ was all she
said, but it was nice to know that the last member of our little group
was also in attendance.
The uneasy truce between Drasnia and Car og Nadrak fell apart
a few years later when the Nadraks – probably at Ctuchik’s prodding
began raiding across their common border. Ctuchik definitely didn’t
approve of any kind of peaceful contacts between Angaraks and
other races, and trade was exactly the sort of thing he most abhorred,
since ideas have a way of being exchanged along with goods, and
new ideas weren’t welcome in Angarak society.
In the south, the merchant princes of Tol Honeth were growing
increasingly desperate because of the stubborn refusal of the Marags
to even consider commercial contacts of any kind. The Marags didn’t
use money and had no idea whatsoever of what it meant. They did,
however, have access to almost unlimited amounts of free gold,
since the stream-beds of Maragor are littered with it. Gold is pretty,
I guess, but when you get right down to it, it has little actual value.
You can’t even make cooking pots out of it, because it melts. I
think the Marags were actually amused when they discovered that
a Tolnedran would give them almost anything in exchange for what
they considered to be no more than another form of dirt. The
problem, I think, lay in the fact that the merchants of Tolnedra didn’t
really have anything the Marags wanted badly enough to take the
trouble to bend over to pick up the gold littering the bed of every
stream in Maragor.
The thought of all that gold just lying there with no way to get
at it – except to possibly give fair value – sent the Tolnedrans to the
verge of desperation. A few of the children of Nedra decided to just
skip over the tedious business of swindling the Marags and to go
right to the source. Those expeditions into Maragor were a mistake,
of course, largely because of the Marag religious practice of ritual
cannibalism. The Tolnedrans who sneaked across the border looking
for gold encountered Marags – who were looking for lunch.
After no more than a few wealthy – but still greedy – Tolnedran
merchants had gone into Marag cooking pots, their heirs and assigns
began to pressure the imperial throne to do something – anything
– to prevent honest thieves from ending up on a Marag supper-table.
Unfortunately, Emperor Ran Vordue was new to his throne, and he
eventually succumbed to the importunings of the merchant class.
Thus, in 2115, the Tolnedran legions swept across the border into
Maragor intent on nothing less than the extermination of the entire
Marag race.
My father had always been fond of the Marags, and he was
preparing to rush south to ‘take steps’ when the Master uncharacteristically
paid him a call and bluntly told him to keep his nose out of things
that didn’t concern him. Father’s protests were long and loud, but
Aldur was adamant. ‘This must take place, my son,’ he told father.
‘It is a necessary part of the PURPOSE which doth guide us all.’
‘But -‘ father started to protest.
‘I will hear no more of this!’ the Master thundered. ‘Stay home,
Belgarath!’
Father muttered something under his breath.
‘What was that?’ the Master demanded.
‘Nothing, Master.’
I’d have given a great deal to have witnessed that exchange.
And so Maragor perished – except for those few captives who
were sold to the Nyissan slavers. But that’s another story.
The invasion of Maragor and the massacre of the inhabitants
brought the Gods into the whole sorry business. Nedra chastised
those of his children most involved, and Mara’s grief-stricken
response closed haunted Maragor off from further Tolnedran
incurSions. That in itself would have been punishment enough, but then
Belar took a hand in the chastisement of the avaricious Tolnedrans
by encouraging his Chereks to start raiding up and down the
Tolnedran coast. The Chereks didn’t really need too much encouragement,
Since if you scratch the surface of any normal Cherek, you’ll find a
Pirate lurking underneath. This gave the Tolnedrans other things
to keep them busy instead of all that brooding about the gold in
Maragor or worrying about being sent to the monastery at Mar
Terrin, so I don’t think I need to belabor this sorry sequence of
events any further.
I am, however, convinced that father exaggerated the contention
between the Gods that supposedly erupted following the destruction
of the Marags. Nedra was clearly unhappy with his people for their
atrocious behavior, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that
Belar sent his Chereks to the Tolnedran coast at the invitation of his
brother. When you want to punish a Tolnedran, all you have to do
is take the fruits of his thievery away from him.
The raids continued for several centuries until, in the
mid-twenty-sixth century, Ran Borune I drove his fat, lazy legions out of their
garrisons and ordered them to start earning their pay.