Belgarath the Sorcerer and Polgara the Sorceress

by David Eddings

  ‘I think you dropped something there, Grul,’ I suggested.

  He clutched at his spilling entrails with both hands, a look of consternation on his brutish face. ‘’Grat cut Grul’s belly,’ he said. ‘Make Grul’s insides fall out.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that. Did you want to fight some more, Grul? I think you could spend your time better by sewing yourself back together. You’re not going to be able to move very fast with your guts tangled around your feet.’

  ‘’Grat is not nice,’ he accused mournfully, sitting down and holding his entrails in his lap.

  For some reason, that struck me as enormously funny. I laughed for a bit, but when two great tears began to run down his shaggy face, I felt a little ashamed of myself. I held out my hand, willed a large, curved needle into existence and threaded it with deer sinew. I tossed it to him. ‘Here,’ I told him. ‘Sew your belly back together, and remember this if we ever run across each other again. Find something else to eat, Grul. I’m old and tough and stringy, so I really wouldn’t taste too good – and I think you’ve already discovered that I’m very expensive.’

  The dawn had progressed far enough along to give me sufficient light to travel, so I left him sitting by my fire trying to figure out how to use the needle I’d given him.

  Oddly, the incident brightened my disposition enormously. I’d actually pulled it off. What an amazing thing that was! I savored that last comment of his. By now, half the world agreed with him. ‘Grat is definitely not nice.

  I reached the western edge of the Vale two days later. It was early summer, one of the loveliest times of year. The spring rains have passed, and the dusty heat that comes later hasn’t yet arrived. Even though our Master was gone, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Vale more beautiful. The grass was bright green, and many of the fruit trees that grew wild there were in bloom. The berries were out, although they weren’t really ripe yet. I rather like the tart taste of half-ripe berries anyway. The sky was very blue, and the puffy white clouds seemed almost to dance aloft. The roiling grey clouds and stiff winds of early spring are dramatic, but early summer is lush and warm and filled with the scent of urgent growth. I was home, and I don’t know that I’ve ever been any happier.

  I was in a peculiar sort of mood. I was eager to get back to Poledra, but for some reason I was enjoying the sense of anticipation. I discarded my traveling form and almost sauntered across the gentle hills and valleys of the Vale. I knew that Poledra would sense my approach, and, as she always did, she’d probably be fixing supper. I didn’t want to rush her.

  It was just evening when I reached my tower, and I was a little surprised not to see lights in the windows. I went around to the far side, opened the door and went on in. ‘Poledra,’ I called up the stairs to her.

  Strangely, she didn’t answer.

  I went on up the stairs.

  It was dark in my tower. Poledra’s curtains may not have kept out the breeze, but they definitely kept out the light. I twirled a tongue of flame off my index finger and lit a candle.

  There wasn’t anybody there, and the place had that dusty, unused look. What was going on here?

  Then I saw a square of parchment in the precise center of my work-table, and I recognized Beldin’s crabbed handwriting immediately. ‘Come to my tower.’ That was all it said.

  I raised my candle and saw that the two cradles were gone. Evidently Beldin had transferred my wife and children to his tower. That was odd. Poledra had a very strong attachment to this tower. Why would Beldin have moved her? As I remembered, she didn’t particularly like his tower. It was a little too fanciful for her taste. Puzzled, I went back downstairs.

  It was only about a five-minute walk to Beldin’s tower, and I didn’t really hurry. But my sense of anticipation was fading toward puzzlement.

  ‘Beldin!’ I shouted up to him. ‘It’s me. Open your door.’

  There was quite a long pause, and then the rock that formed his door slid open.

  I started on up the stairs. Now I did hurry.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, I looked around. Beltira, Belkira, and Beldin were there, but Poledra wasn’t. ‘Where’s my wife?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t you want to meet your daughters?’ Beltira asked me.

  ‘Daughters? More than one?’

  ‘That’s why we made two cradles, brother,’ Belkira said. ‘You’re the father of twins.’

  Beldin reached into one of the cradles and gently lifted out a baby. ‘This is Polgara,’ he introduced her. ‘She’s your eldest,’ He handed me the blanket-wrapped baby. I turned back the corner of the blanket and looked into Pol’s eyes for the very first time. Pol and I didn’t get off to a very good start. Those of you who know her know that my daughter’s eyes change color, depending on her mood. They were steel-grey when I first looked into them, and as hard as agates. I got the distinct impression that she didn’t care much for me. Her hair was very dark, and she seemed not to have the characteristic chubbiness babies are supposed to have. Her face was expressionless, but those steely eyes of hers spoke volumes. Then I did something that had been a custom back in the village of Gara. Pol was my first-born, whether she liked me or not, so I laid my hand on her head in benediction.

  I felt a sudden jolt in that hand, and I jerked it back with a startled oath. It’s a bit unfortunate that the first word Polgara heard coming from my mouth was a curse. I stared at this grim-faced baby girl. A single lock at her brow had turned snowy white at my touch.

  ‘What a wonder!’ Beltira gasped.

  ‘Not really,’ Beldin disagreed. ‘She’s his first-born, and he just marked her. Unless I miss my guess, she’s going to grow up to be a sorcerer.’

  ‘Sorceress,’ Belkira corrected.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A sorcerer is a man. She’s a girl, so the right word would be sorceress.’

  Sorceress or not, my first-born was wet, so I put her back in her cradle.

  My younger daughter was the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen – and that’s not just fatherly pride. Everybody who saw her said exactly the same thing. She smiled at me as I took her from Beldin, and with that one sunny little smile, she reached directly into my heart and claimed me.

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question, Beldin,’ I said, cuddling Beldaran in my arms. ‘Where’s Poledra?’

  ‘Why don’t you sit down and have a drink, Belgarath?’ He went quickly to an open barrel and dipped me out a tankard of ale.

  I sat down at the table with Beldaran on my knee. I probably shouldn’t mention it, but she wasn’t wet. I took a long drink, a little puzzled by the evasiveness of my brothers. ‘Quit playing around, Beldin,’ I said, wiping the foam off my lips. ‘Where’s my wife?’

  Beltira came to me and took Beldaran.

  I looked at Beldin and saw two great tears in his eyes. ‘I’m afraid we’ve lost her, Belgarath,’ he told me in a sorrowing voice. ‘She had a very hard labor. We did everything we could, but she slipped away.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘She died, Belgarath. I’m sorry, but Poledra’s dead.’

  PART THREE

  The Time of Woe

  Chapter 18

  I won’t be able to give you a coherent account of the next several months, because I don’t really remember them. I had a few rational interludes, but they jump out at me with stark clarity, totally disconnected from what happened before or after. I try very hard to suppress those memories, since disinterring a period of madness isn’t a particularly pleasant way to pass the time.

  If Aldur hadn’t left us, things might have been easier for me, but Necessity had taken him from me at the worst possible time. So it seemed to me that I was alone with only my unbearable grief for company. There’s no real point in beating this into the ground. I know now that what happened was necessary. Why don’t we just let it go at that?

  I seem to remember long periods of being chained to my bed with Beldin and the twins taking turns
watching over me and ruthlessly crushing every attempt I made to gather my Will. They were not going to let me follow the examples set by Belsambar and Belmakor. Then, after my suicidal impulses had lessened to some degree, they unchained me – not that it particularly meant anything. I seem to remember sitting and staring at the floor for days on end with no real awareness of the passage of time.

  Since the presence of Beldaran seemed to calm me, my brothers frequently brought her to my tower and even allowed me to hold her. I think it was probably Beldaran who finally brought me back from the brink of total madness. How I loved that baby girl!

  Beldin and the twins did not bring Polgara to me, however. Those icy grey eyes of hers cut large holes in my soul, and Polgara’s eyes would turn from deep blue to steel grey at the very mention of my name. There was no hint of forgiveness in Pol’s nature whatsoever.

  Beldin had shrewdly watched my slow ascent from the pit of madness, and I think it was late summer or early autumn when he finally broached a subject of some delicacy. ‘Did you want to see the grave?’ he asked me. ‘I hear that sometimes people do.’

  I understand the theory, of course. A grave’s a place to visit and to decorate with flowers. It’s supposed to help the bereaved put things into perspective. Maybe it works that way for some people, but it didn’t for me. Just the word brought my sense of loss crashing down around my ears all over again.

  When I crept back toward sanity once more, it was midwinter and I was chained to the bed again.

  I knew that setting all this down was going to be a mistake.

  I more or less returned to sanity again by the time winter was winding down, and after the twins had questioned me rather closely, they unchained me and let me move around. Beldin never mentioned that ‘grave’ again.

  I took to walking vigorously through the slushy snow that covered the Vale. I walked fast because I wanted to be exhausted by nightfall. I made sure that I was too tired to dream. The only trouble with that plan lay in the fact that everything in the Vale aroused memories of Poledra. Have you any idea how many snowy owls there are in this world?

  I think I probably came to a decision during that soggy tail-end of winter. I wasn’t fully aware of it, but it was there all the same.

  In furtherance of that decision, I began to put my affairs in order. On one raw, blustery evening I went to Beldin’s tower to look in on my daughters. They were just over a year old by then, so they were walking – sort of. Beldin had prudently gated the top of his stairs to prevent accidents. Beldaran had discovered how much fun it was to run, although she fell down a lot. For some reason that struck her as hilarious, and she’d always squeal with delighted laughter when it happened.

  Polgara, of course, never laughed. She still doesn’t very often. Sometimes I think Polgara takes life a little too seriously.

  Beldaran ran to me with her arms outstretched, and I swept her up and kissed her.

  Polgara wouldn’t even look at me, but concentrated instead on one of her toys, a curiously gnarled and twisted stick – or perhaps it was the root of some tree or bush. My eldest daughter was frowning as she turned it over and over in her little hands.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Beldin apologized when he saw me looking at the peculiar toy. ‘Pol’s got a very penetrating voice, and she doesn’t bother to cry when she’s unhappy about something. She screams instead. I had to give her something to keep her mind occupied.’

  ‘A stick?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s been working on it for six months now. Every time she starts screaming, I give it to her, and it shuts her up immediately.’

  ‘A stick?’

  He threw a quick look at Polgara and then leaned toward me to whisper, ‘It’s only got one end. She still hasn’t figured that out. She keeps trying to find the other end. The twins think I’m being cruel, but at least now I can get some sleep.’

  I kissed Beldaran again, set her down, went over to Polgara, and picked her up. She stiffened up immediately and started trying to wriggle out of my hands. ‘Stop that,’ I told her. ‘You may not care much for the idea, Pol, but I’m your father, and you’re stuck with me.’ Then I quite deliberately kissed her. Those steely eyes softened for just a moment, and they were suddenly the deepest blue I’ve ever seen. Then they flashed back to grey, and she hit me on the side of the head with her stick. ‘Spirited, isn’t she?’ I observed to Beldin. Then I set her down, turned her around, and gave her a little spank on the bottom. ‘Mind your manners, Miss,’ I told her.

  She turned and glared at me.

  ‘Be well, Polgara,’ I said. ‘Now go play.’

  That was the first time I ever kissed her, and it was a long time before I did it again.

  Spring came grudgingly that year, spattering us with frequent rain-showers and an occasional snow-squall, but things eventually began to dry out, and the trees and bushes started tentatively to bud.

  It was on a cloudy, blustery spring day when I climbed a hill on the western edge of the Vale. The air was cool, and the clouds roiled titanic overhead. It was a day very much like that day when I’d decided to leave the village of Gara. There’s something about a cloudy, windy spring day that always stirs a wanderlust in me. I sat there for a long time, and that unrealized decision I’d made toward the end of winter finally came home to roost. Much as I loved the Vale, there were far too many painful memories here. I knew that Beldin and the twins would care for my daughters, and Poledra was gone, and my Master was gone, so there was nothing really holding me here.

  I looked down into the Vale, where our towers looked like so many carelessly dropped toys and where the herds of browsing deer looked like ants. Even the ancient tree at the center of the Vale was reduced by distance. I knew that I’d miss that tree, but it had always been there, so it probably still would be when I came back – if I ever did come back.

  Then I rose to my feet, sighed, and turned my back on the only place I’d ever really called home.

  I skirted the eastern edge of Ulgoland. I hadn’t exercised my gift since that dreadful day, and I wasn’t really sure if I still could. Grul had probably healed by now, and I was fairly sure that he’d be nursing a grudge – and that he wouldn’t let me get close enough to knife him again. It would have been terribly embarrassing to try to gather my Will only to discover that it just wasn’t there anymore. There were also Hrulgin, Algroths, and an occasional Troll up in those mountains, so prudence suggested that I go around them.

  My brothers tried to make contact with me, of course. I dimly heard their voices calling me from time to time, but I didn’t bother to answer. It would just have been a waste of time and effort. I wasn’t going back, no matter what they said to me.

  I went up through western Algaria and didn’t encounter anyone. When I judged that I was well past the northern edge of Ulgoland, I turned westward, crossed the mountains, and came down onto the plains around Muros.

  There was a sleepy little village of Wacite Arends where Muros now stands, and I stopped there for supplies. Since I didn’t have any money with me, I reverted to the shady practices of my youth and stole what I needed.

  Then I went down-river, ultimately ending up in Camaar. Like all seaports, there was a certain cosmopolitanism about Camaar. The city was nominally subject to the Duke of Vo Wacune, but the waterfront dives I frequented had as many Alorns and Tolnedrans and even Nyissans in them as they did Wacites. The locals were mostly sailors, and sailors out on the town after a long voyage are a good-natured and generous lot, so it wasn’t all that hard to find people willing to stand me to a few tankards of ale.

  As is usually the case in a pre-literate society, the fellows in the taverns loved to listen to stories, and I could make up stories with the best. And that was how I made my way in Camaar. I’ve done that fairly frequently over the years. It’s an easy way to make a living, and you can usually do it sitting down, which was a good thing in this case, since most of the time I was in no condition to stand. To put it quite bluntl
y, I became a common drunkard. I apparently also became a public nuisance, since I seem to remember being thrown out of any number of low waterfront dives, places that are notoriously tolerant of little social gaffes.

  I really couldn’t tell you how long I stayed in Camaar – two years at least, and possibly more. I drank myself into insensibility each night, and I never knew where I’d wake up in the morning. Usually it was in a gutter or some smelly back-alley. People are not particularly interested in listening to stories first thing in the morning, so I took up begging on street-corners as a sideline. I became fairly proficient at it – proficient enough at any rate to be roaring drunk by noon every day.

  I started seeing things that weren’t there and hearing voices nobody else could hear. My hands shook violently all the time, and I frequently woke up with the horrors.

  But I didn’t dream, and I had no memories of anything that had happened more than a few days ago. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I was happy, but at least I wasn’t suffering.

  Then one night while I was comfortably sleeping in my favorite gutter, I did have a dream. My Master probably had to shout to cut through my drunken stupor, but he finally managed to get my attention.

  When I woke up, there was no question in my mind at all that I’d been visited. I hadn’t had a real dream for years. Not only that, I was stone cold sober, and I wasn’t even shaking. What really persuaded me, though, was the fact that the heavenly perfume wafting from the tavern I’d probably been thrown out of the previous evening turned my stomach inside out right there on the spot. I amused myself by kneeling over my gutter and vomiting for a half-hour or so, much to the disgust of everyone who happened by. I soon discovered that it wasn’t so much the stink of that tavern that set my stomach all a-churn, but the stale, sour reek exuding from the rags I wore and from my very skin. Then, still weakly retching, I lurched to my feet, stumbled out onto a wharf, and threw myself into the bay with the rest of the garbage.