Guardians of the West

  ‘Would you just look at that?’ Ce’Nedra said angrily to Garion one morning shortly after they had arisen.

  ‘At what, dear?’ he replied mildly.

  ‘At that!’ She pointed disgustedly at the window. ‘It’s snowing again.’ There was a note of accusation in her voice.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Did I say that it was?’ She turned awkwardly to glare at him. Her tininess made her swollen belly appear all the larger, and she sometimes seemed to thrust it out at him as if it were entirely his doing.

  ‘This is just absolutely insupportable,’ she declared. ‘Why have you brought me to this frozen—’ She stopped in mid-tirade, a strange look crossing her face.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ Garion asked.

  ‘Don’t “dear” me, Garion. I—’ She stopped again. ‘Oh, my,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘What is it?’ He got to his feet.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Ce’Nedra said, putting her hands to the small of her back. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘Ce’Nedra, that’s not very helpful. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I think perhaps I’d better go lie down,’ she said almost absently. She started across the room, moving at a stately waddle. She stopped. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said with much more vehemence. Her face was pale, and she put one hand on a chair back to support herself. ‘I think that it mght be a good idea if you sent for Lady Polgara, Garion.’

  ‘Is it—? I mean, are you—?’

  ‘Don’t babble, Garion,’ she said tensely. ‘Just open the door and scream for your Aunt Pol.’

  ‘Are you trying to say that—?’

  ‘I’m not trying, Garion. I’m saying it. Get her in here right now.’ She waddled to the bedroom door and stopped again with a little gasp. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ she said.

  Garion stumbled to the door and jerked it open. ‘Get Lady Polgara!’ he said to the startled sentry. ‘Immediately! Run!’

  ‘Yes, your Majesty!’ the man replied, dropping his spear and sprinting down the hall.

  Garion slammed the door and dashed to Ce’Nedra’s side. ‘Can I do anything?’ he asked, wringing his hands.

  ‘Help me to bed,’ she told him.

  ‘Bed!’ he said. ‘Right!’ He grabbed her arm and began to tug at her.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Bed,’ he blurted, pointing at the royal four-poster.

  ‘I know what it is, Garion. Help me. Don’t yank on me.’

  ‘Oh.’ He took her hand, slipped his other arm about her, and lifted her off her feet. He stumbled toward the bed, his eyes wide and his mind completely blank.

  ‘Put me down, you great oaf!’

  ‘Bed,’ he urged her, trying with all the eloquence at his command to explain. He carefully set her back down on her feet and rushed on ahead. ‘Nice bed,’ he said, patting the coverlets encouragingly.

  Ce’Nedra closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Just step out of my way, Garion,’ she said with resignation.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Why don’t you build up the fire?’ she suggested.

  ‘What?’ He stared around blankly.

  ‘The fireplace—that opening in the wall with the burning logs in it. Put some more wood in there. We want it nice and warm for the baby, don’t we?’ She reached the bed and leaned against it.

  Garion dashed to the fireplace and stood staring at it stupidly.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’

  ‘Wood,’ he replied. ‘No wood.’

  ‘Bring some in from the other room.’

  What an absolutely brilliant suggestion she had just made! He stared at her gratefully.

  ‘Go into the other room, Garion,’ she said, speaking very slowly and distinctly. ‘Pick up some wood. Carry it back in here. Put it on the fire. Have you got all that so far?’

  ‘Right!’ he said excitedly. He dashed into the other room, picked up a stick of firewood, and dashed back in with it. ‘Wood,’ he said, holding the stick up proudly.

  ‘Very nice, Garion,’ she said, climbing laboriously into the bed. ‘Now put it on the fire and go back out and bring in some more.’

  ‘More,’ he agreed, flinging the stick into the fireplace and dashing out the door again.

  After he had emptied the woodbin in the sitting room room—one stick at a time—he stared around wildly, trying to decide what to do next. He picked up a chair. If he were to swing it against the wall, he reasoned, it ought to break up into manageable pieces.

  The door to the apartment opend, and Polgara came in. She stopped to stare at the wild-eyed Garion. ‘What on earth are you doing with that chair?’ she demanded.

  ‘Wood,’ he explained, brandishing the heavy piece of furniture. ‘Need wood—for the fire.’

  She gave him a long look, smoothing down the front of her white apron. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be one of those. Put the chair down, Garion. Where’s Ce’Nedra?’

  ‘Bed,’ he replied, regretfully setting down the polished chair. Then he looked at her brightly. ‘Baby,’ he informed her.

  She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. ‘Garion,’ she said, speaking carefully as if to a child, ‘it’s much too early for Ce’Nedra to be taking to her bed. She needs to walk around—keep moving.’

  He shook his head stubbornly. ‘Bed,’ he repeated. ‘Baby.’ He looked around and picked up the chair again.

  Polgara sighed, opened the door, and beckoned to the sentry. ‘Young man,’ she said, ‘why don’t you take his Majesty here down to that courtyard just outside the kitchen? There’s a large pile of logs there. Get him an axe so that he can cut up some firewood.’

  Everybody was being absolutely brilliant today. Garion marveled at the suggestion Aunt Pol had just made. He set down the chair again and dashed out with the baffled sentry in tow.

  He chopped up what seemed like a cord of wood in the first hour, sending out a positive blizzard of chips as he swung the axe so fast that it seemed almost to blur in the air. Then he paused, pulled off his doublet, and really got down to work. About noon, a respectful cook brought him a slab of freshly roasted beef, a large chunk of bread, and some ale. Garion wolfed down three or four bites, took a couple of gulps of the ale, and then picked up his axe to attack another log. It was altogether possible that he might have finished up with the woodpile outside the kitchen and then gone in search of more trees had not Brand interrupted him shortly before the sun went down.

  The big, gray-haired Warder had a broad grin on his face. ‘Congratulations, Belgarion,’ he said. ‘You have a son.’

  Garion paused, looking almost regretfully at the remaining logs. Then what Brand had just said finally seeped into his awareness. The axe slid from his fingers. ‘A son?’ he said. ‘What an amazing thing. And so quickly, too.’ He looked at the woodpile. ‘I only just now got here. I always thought that it took much longer.’

  Brand looked at him carefully, then gently took him by the arm. ‘Come along now, Belgarion,’ he said. ‘Let’s go up and meet your son.’

  Garion bent and carefully picked up an armload of wood. ‘For the fire,’ he explained. ‘Ce’Nedra wants a nice big fire.’

  ‘She’ll be very proud of you, Belgarion,’ Brand assured him.

  When they reached the royal bedchamber, Garion carefully put his armload of wood on the polished table by the window and approached the bed on tiptoe.

  Ce’Nedra looked very tired and wan, but there was, nonetheless, a contented little smile on her face. Nestled beside her in a soft blanket was a very small person. The newcomer had a red face and almost no hair. He seemed to be asleep; but as Garion approached, his eyes opened. Gravely, the crown prince looked at his father, then sighed, burped, and went back to sleep.

  ‘Oh, isn’t he just beautiful, Garion?’ Ce’Nedra said in a wondering little voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Garion replied with a great lump coming up into his throat. ‘And so are you.’ He knelt beside the bed and put
his arm about them both.

  ‘Very nice, children,’ Polgara said from the other side of the bed. ‘You both did just fine.’

  The following day Garion and his newborn son went through a very ancient ceremony. With Polgara at his side in a splendid blue and silver gown, he carried the baby to the Hall of the Rivan King, where the nobles of the island kingdom awaited them. As the three of them entered the Hall, the Orb of Aldur, standing on the pommel of Iron-grip’s sword, blazed forth with a great shimmer of blue light. Almost bemused, Garion approached his throne. ‘This is my son, Geran,’ he announced—in part to the gathered throng, but also, in a peculiar way, to the Orb itself. The choice of his son’s name had not been difficult. Though he could not remember his father, Garion had wanted to honor him, and no way seemed more appropriate that to give his son his father’s name.

  He carefully handed the baby to Polgara, reached up, and took down the great sword. Holding it by the blade, he extended it toward the blanket-wrapped infant in Polgara’s arms. The shimmering glow of the Orb grew brighter. And then, as if attracted by that light, Geran stretched forth his tiny pink hand and put it on the glowing jewel. A great aura of many-colored light burst from the Orb at the infant touch, surrounding the three of them with a pulsating rainbow that illuminated the entire Hall. A vast chorus filled Garion’s ears, rising to an enormous chord that seemed to shake the whole world.

  ‘Hail Geran!’ Brand boomed in a great voice, ‘heir to the throne of Iron-grip and keeper of the Orb of Aldur!’

  ‘Hail Geran!’ the throng echoed in a thunderous shout.

  ‘Hail Geran,’ the dry voice in Garion’s mind added quietly.

  Polgara said nothing. She did not need to speak, since the look in her eyes said everything that needed saying.

  Although it was winter and the Sea of the Winds was lashed by storms, the Alorn Kings all journeyed to Riva to celebrate the birth of Geran. Many others, friends and old acquaintances, joined with Anheg, Cho-Hag, and Queen Poreen on the journey to Riva. Barak was there, of course, accompanied by his wife Merel. Hettar and Adara arrived. Lelldorin and Mandorallen came up from Arendia with Ariana and Nerina.

  Garion, now somewhat more sensitive to such things, was amazed at how many children his friends had produced. No matter which way he turned, there seemed to be babies, and the sound of little boys and girls running and laughing filled the sober halls of the Citadel. The boy-king Kheva of Drasnia and Barak’s son Unrak soon became the closest of friends. Nerina’s daughters romped with Adara’s sons in endless games involving much giggling. Barak’s eldest daughter, Gundred, now a ravishing young lady, cut a broad track through the hearts of whole platoons of young Rivan nobles, all the while under the watchful eye of her huge, red-bearded father, who never actually threatened any of his daughter’s suitors, but whose looks said quite plainly that he would tolerate no foolishness. Little Terzie, Gundred’s younger sister, hovered on the very brink of womanhood—romping one moment with the younger children and looking the next with devastating eyes at the group of adolescent Rivan boys who always seemed to be around.

  King Fulrach and General Brendig sailed over from Sendaria about midway through the celebration. Queen Layla sent her fondest congratulations, but she did not make the trip with her husband. ‘She almost got on board the ship,’ Fulrach reported, ‘but then a gust of wind made waves break over the stones of the quay, and she fainted. We decided not to subject her to the voyage at that point.’

  ‘It’s probably best,’ Garion agreed.

  Durnik and Errand came up from the Vale, naturally, and with them came Belgarath.

  The celebration went on for weeks. There were banquets and formal presentations of gifts, both by the visitors and by the ambassadors of various friendly kingdoms. And, of course, there were hours of reminiscences and a fair amount of serious drinking. Ce’Nedra was in her glory, since she and her infant son were the absolute center of attention.

  Garion found that the festivities, coupled with his normal duties, left him almost no free time at all. He wished that he could find an hour or two to talk with Barak, Hettar, Mandorallen, and Lelldorin; but no matter how he tried to rearrange his days, the time simply was not there.

  Very late one evening, however, Belgarath came looking for him. Garion looked up from a report he had been reading as the old sorcerer entered his study. ‘I thought we might want to talk for a bit,’ the old man said.

  Garion tossed aside the report. ‘I haven’t meant to neglect you, Grandfather,’ he apologized, ‘but they’re keeping my days pretty well filled up.’

  Belgarath shrugged. ‘Things are bound to settle down in a while. Did I ever get around to congratulating you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good. That’s taken care of, then. People always make such a fuss about babies. I don’t really care that much for them myself. They’re all squally and wet, most of the time, and it’s almost impossible to talk to them. You don’t mind if I help myself, do you?’ He pointed at a crystal decanter of pale wine standing on a table.

  ‘No. Go ahead.’

  ‘You want some?’

  ‘No thanks, Grandfather.’

  Belgarath poured himself a goblet of wine and then settled down in a chair across from Garion’s. ‘How’s the king business?’ he asked.

  ‘Tedious,’ Garion replied ruefully.

  ‘Actually, that’s not a bad thing, you know. When it gets exciting, that usually means that something pretty awful is happening.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Have you been studying?’

  Garion sat up quickly. ‘I’m glad you brought that up. Things have been so hectic that something sort of important had almost slipped my mind.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘How careful were people when they made copies of those prophecies?’

  Belgarath shrugged. ‘Fairly careful, I suppose. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I think that something got left out of my copy of the Mrin Codex.’

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘There’s a passage in there that just doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Maybe not to you, but you haven’t been studying all that long.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean, Grandfather. I’m not talking about an obscure meaning. What I’m getting at is a sentence that starts out and then just stops without going anywhere. I mean, it doesn’t have any ending the way it should.’

  ‘You’re concerned about grammar?’

  Garion scratched at his head. ‘It’s the only passage I found in there that breaks off that way. It goes, “But behold, the stone which lies at the center of the light shall—” And then there’s a blot, and it takes up again with “—and this meeting will come to pass in a place which is no more, and there will the choice be made.”

  Belgarath frowned. ‘I think I know the passage,’ he said.

  ‘The two just don’t fit together, Grandfather. The first part is talking about the Orb—at least that’s the way I read it—and the second part is talking about a meeting. I don’t know what word is under that blot, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how the two parts could be hooked together. I think there’s something missing. That’s why I was asking about how they went about copying these things. Could the scribe who was doing it have skipped a couple of lines?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Garion,’ Belgarath said. ‘The new copy is always compared with the old one by somebody other than the scribe. We are fairly careful about things like that.’

  ‘Then what’s under that blot?’

  Belgarath scratched at his beard thoughtfully. ‘I can’t quite recall,’ he admitted. ‘Anheg’s here. Maybe he remembers—or you can ask him to transcribe that part from his copy and send it to you when he gets back to Val Alorn.’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Garion. It’s only part of one passage, after all.’

  ‘There are a lot of things in t
here that are only one passage, Grandfather, and they turned out to be sort of important.’

  ‘If it bothers you so much, chase it down. That’s a good way to learn.’

  ‘Aren’t you the least bit curious about it?’

  ‘I have other things on my mind. You’re the one who found this discrepancy, so I’ll give you all the glory of exposing it to the world and working out the solution.’

  ‘You’re not being very much help, Grandfather.’

  Belgarath grinned at him. ‘I’m not really trying to be, Garion. You’re grown up enough now to solve your own problems.’ He looked over at the decanter. ‘I believe I’ll have just another little touch of that,’ he said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘. . . And they shall number twelve, for twelve is a number which is pleasing to the Gods. I know this to be true, for a raven once came to me in a dream and told me so. I have always loved the number twelve, and it is for this reason that the Gods have chosen me to reveal this truth to all the nations. . .’

  Garion scowled at the musty-smelling book. There had been some hope in the earlier pages—some obscure references to Light and Dark and a tantalizing fragment which had stated quite clearly that, ‘The holiest of things will always be the color of the sky, save only when it perceives great evil, and then will it burn hot with scarlet flame.’ When he had found that passage, he had read on avidly, convinced that he had stumbled across a genuine and hitherto undiscovered prophecy. The rest of the book, unfortunately, proved to be absolute gibberish. The brief biographical note at the beginning of the book indicated that its author had been a Drasnian merchant of some substance during the third millennium and that these secret jottings had been found only after his death. Garion wondered how a man with so disturbed a mind could have even functioned in a normal society.