Castle of Wizardry

  In the silence that followed his departure, Garion closely watched Vordai for some hint that her determination might not be as iron-hard as it seemed. It had occurred to him that if she were not blindly adamant, he might be able to explain the situation and persuade her to relent. The witch of the fens paced nervously about the room, picking things up absently and setting them down again. She seemed unable to concentrate her attention on any one thing for more than a moment.

  "This may ruin him, you know," Garion told her quietly. Bluntness perhaps might sway her where other attempts at persuasion had failed.

  "What are you talking about?" she demanded sharply.

  "He was very ill last winter," Garion replied. "He and Ctuchik fought each other for possession of the Orb. Ctuchik was destroyed, but Belgarath nearly died too. It's quite possible that his power was destroyed by his illness."

  Silk's gasp was clearly audible. "Why didn't you tell us?" he exclaimed.

  "Aunt Pol said that we didn't dare," Garion said. "We couldn't take any chance of word of it getting back to the Angaraks. Belgarath's power is the one thing that's held them in check all these years. If he's lost it and they find out, they'll feel free to invade the West."

  "Does he know?" Vordai asked quickly.

  "I don't think so. Neither one of us said anything to him about it. We couldn't let him think for a moment that anything might be wrong. If he has one single doubt, it won't work for him. That's the main thing about sorcery. You have to believe that what you want to happen is going to. Otherwise, nothing happens at all - and each time you fail, it gets worse."

  "What did you mean when you said that this might ruin him?" Vordai's face looked stricken, and Garion began to have some hope. "He may still have his power - or some of it," he explained. "But not enough to do what you've asked of him. It takes a tremendous effort to do even simple things, and what you've asked him to do is very difficult. It could be too much for him; but once he starts, he won't be able to stop. And the effort may drain his will and his life energy until he cannot ever recover - or until he dies."

  "Why didn't you tell me?" Vordai demanded, her face anguished.

  "I couldn't - not without his hearing me, too."

  She turned quickly toward the door. "Belgarath!" she cried. "Wait!" She spun back to Garion. "Go after him! Stop him!"

  That was what Garion had been waiting for. He jumped to his feet and ran to the door. As he swung it open and was about to call out across the rainy yard, he felt a strange oppression as if something were almost happening - almost, but not quite. The shout froze on his lips.

  "Go on, Garion," Silk urged him.

  "I can't," Garion groaned. "He's already begun to pull in his will. He wouldn't even hear me."

  "Can you help him?"

  "I don't even know exactly what he's trying to do, Silk," Garion replied helplessly. "If I went blundering in there now, all I'd do is make things worse."

  They stared at him in consternation.

  Garion felt a strange echoing surge. It was not at all what he expected, and so he was totally unprepared for it. His grandfather was not trying to move anything or change anything, but instead he was calling out - reaching across some vast distance with the voice of his mind. The words were not at all distinct, but the one word, "Master," did come through once quite distinctly. Belgarath was trying to reach Aldur. Garion held his breath.

  Then, from infinitely far away, Aldur's voice replied. They spoke together quietly for several moments, and all the while Garion could feel the force of Belgarath's will, infused and magnified by the will of Aldur, growing stronger and stronger.

  "What's happening?" Silk's voice was almost frightened.

  "He's talking with Aldur. I can't hear what they're saying."

  "Will Aldur help him?" Vordai asked.

  "I don't know. I don't know if Aldur can use his will here any more. There's some kind of limitation - something that he and the other Gods agreed to."

  Then the strange conversation ended, and Garion felt Belgarath's will mounting, gathering itself. "He's begun," Garion said in a half whisper.

  "His power's still there?" Silk asked.

  Garion nodded.

  "As strong as ever?"

  "I don't know. There's no way to measure it."

  The tension of it grew until it was almost intolerable. What Belgarath was doing was at once very subtle and very profound. There was no rushing surge or hollow echo this time. Instead, Garion felt an odd, tingling whisper as the old man's will was unleashed with agonizing slowness. The whisper seemed to be saying something over and over - something Garion could almost understand, but which tantalizingly eluded him.

  Outside, the young fenlings stopped their game. The ball dropped unnoticed as the players all stood, listening intently. Poppi and Tupik, returning hand in hand from their swim, froze in their tracks and stood with their heads cocked as Belgarath's whisper spoke gently to them, reaching down into their thoughts, murmuring, explaining, teaching. Then their eyes widened as if in sudden understanding.

  Belgarath emerged finally from the misty willows, his step heavy, weary. He walked slowly toward the house, stopping just outside to look intently at the stunned faces of the fenlings gathered in the dooryard. He nodded then and came back inside. His shoulders were slumped with exhaustion, and his white-bearded face seemed drained.

  "Are you all right?" Vordai asked him, her tone no longer neutral. He nodded and sank into a chair by the table. "It's done," he said shortly.

  Vordai looked at him, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  "No tricks, Vordai," he said. "And I'm too tired to try to lie to you. I've paid your price. If it's all right with you, we'll leave right after breakfast. We still have a long way to go."

  "I'll need more than just your word, Belgarath. I don't really trust you - or any human, for that matter. I want proof that you've paid."

  But there was a strange new voice from the doorway. Poppi, her furry little face contorted with the effort, was struggling with something. "M-m-m-m-," she stammered. Her mouth twisted, and she tried again. "M-m-m-m-." It seemed to be the hardest thing she had ever tried to do. She took a deep breath and tried once more. "M-m-m-motherrr," Poppi said.

  With a low cry, Vordai rushed to the little creature, knelt, and embraced her.

  "Mother," Poppi said again. It was clearer this time.

  From outside the cottage there came a growing babble of small, squeaky voices, all repeating, "Mother, mother, mother." The excited fenlings converged on the cottage, their voices swelling as more and more of them emerged from the swamps.

  Vordai wept.

  "You'll have to teach them, of course," Belgarath said wearily. "I gave them the ability, but they don't know very many words yet."

  Vordai looked at him with tears streaming down her face. "Thank you, Belgarath," she said in a faltering voice.

  The old man shrugged. "Something for something," he replied. "Wasn't that the bargain?"

  It was Tupik who led them from the fens. The little creature's chirping to his fellows, however, now had words mixed in with it - faltering, often badly mispronounced, but words nonetheless.

  Garion thought for a long time before he spoke, wrestling with an idea as he pushed on his pole. "Grandfather," he said finally.

  "Yes, Garion," the old man replied from where he rested in the stern of their boat.

  "You knew all along, didn't you?"

  "Knew what?"

  "That it was possible that you couldn't make things happen any more?"

  Belgarath stared at him. "Where did you get that idea?" he asked.

  "Aunt Pol said that after you got sick last winter, you might have lost all your power."

  "She said what?"

  "She said that."

  "I heard you." The old man was frowning, his face creased with thought. "That possibility never even occurred to me," he admitted. Suddenly he blinked and his eyes opened very wide. "You know, she might have been right.
The illness could have had that sort of effect. What an amazing thing."

  "You didn't feel any - well - weaker?"

  "What? No, of course not." Belgarath was still frowning, turning the idea over in his mind. "What an amazing thing," he repeated, and then he suddenly laughed.

  "I don't see what's so funny."

  "Is that what's been bothering you and your Aunt for all these months? The two of you have been tiptoeing around me as if I were made out of thin glass."

  "We were afraid the Angaraks might find out, and we didn't dare say anything to you because-"

  "Because you were afraid it might make me doubt my abilities?"

  Garion nodded.

  "Maybe in the long run it wasn't a bad idea at that. I certainly didn't need any doubts plaguing me this morning."

  "Was it terribly difficult?"

  "Moderately so, yes. I wouldn't want to have to try that sort of thing every day."

  "But you didn't really have to do it, did you?"

  "Do what?"

  "Show the fenlings how to talk. If you've still got your power, then between the two of us, you and I could have opened a channel straight through to the edge of the swamp - no matter what Vordai or the fenlings could have done to try to stop us."

  "I wondered how long it was going to be before that occurred to you," the old man replied blandly.

  Garion gave him an irritated look. "All right," he said, "why did you do it then, since you didn't have to?"

  "That question's rather impolite, Garion," Belgarath chided. "There are certain courtesies customarily observed. It's not considered good manners to ask another sorcerer why he did something."

  Garion gave his grandfather an even harder look. "You're evading the question," he said bluntly. "Let's agree that I don't have very good manners, and then you can go ahead and answer anyway."

  Belgarath appeared slightly injured. "It's not my fault that you and your Aunt were so worried. You don't really have any reason to be so cross with me." He paused, then looked at Garion. "You're absolutely going to insist?" he asked.

  "Yes, I think I really am. Why did you do it?"

  Belgarath sighed. "Vordai's been alone for most of her life, you know," he replied, "and life's been very hard to her. Somehow I've always thought that she deserved better. Maybe this makes up for it - a little bit."

  "Did Aldur agree with you?" Garion pressed. "I heard his voice when the two of you were talking."

  "Eavesdropping is really a bad habit, Garion."

  "I've got lots of bad habits, Grandfather."

  "I don't know why you're taking this tone with me, boy," the old man complained. "All right, since you're going to be this way about it, I did, as a matter of fact, have to talk rather fast to get my Master to agree."

  "You did all of this because you felt sorry for her?"

  "That's not exactly the right term, Garion. Let's just say that I have certain feelings about justice."

  "If you knew you were going to do it anyway, why did you argue with her?"

  Belgarath shrugged. "I wanted to be sure that she really wanted it. Besides, it's not a good idea to let people get the idea that you'll do anything they ask just because you might feel that they have a certain claim on you."

  Silk was staring at the old man in amazement. "Compassion, Belgarath?" he demanded incredulously. "From you? If word of this ever gets out, your reputation's going to be ruined."

  Belgarath looked suddenly painfully embarrassed. "I don't know that we need to spread it around all that much, Silk," he said. "People don't really have to know about this, do they?"

  Garion felt as if a door had suddenly opened. Silk, he realized, was right. He had never precisely thought of it that way, but Belgarath did have a certain reputation for ruthlessness. Most men felt that there was a kind of implacableness about the Eternal Man - a willingness to sacrifice anything in his single-minded drive toward a goal so obscure that no one else could ever fully understand it. But with this single act of compassion, he had revealed another, softer side of his nature. Belgarath the Sorcerer was capable of human emotion and feeling, after all. The thought of how those feelings had been wounded by all the horrors and pain he had seen and endured in seven thousand years came crashing in on Garion, and he found himself staring at his grandfather with a profound new respect.

  The edge of the fens was marked by a solid-looking dike that stretched off into the misty distance in either direction.

  "The causeway," Silk told Garion, pointing at the dike. "It's part of the Tolnedran highway system."

  "Bel-grath," Tupik said, his head popping up out of the water beside the boat, "thank-you."

  "Oh, I rather think you'd have learned to talk eventually anyway, Tupik," the old man replied. "You were very close to it, you know."

  "May-be, may-be-not," Tupik disagreed. "Want-to-talk and talk dif-ferent. Not-same."

  "Soon you'll learn to lie," Silk told him sardonically, "and then you'll be as good as any man alive."

  "Why learn to talk if only to lie?" Tupik asked, puzzled.

  "It'll come to you in time."

  Tupik frowned slightly, and then his head slipped under the water. He came up one more time some distance away from the boat. "Goodbye," he called to them. "Tupik thanks you-for Mother." Then, without a ripple, he disappeared.

  "What a strange little creature." Belgarath smiled.

  With a startled exclamation, Silk frantically dug into his pocket. Something a pale green color leaped from his hand to plop into the water.

  "What's the matter?" Garion asked him.

  Silk shuddered. "The little monster put a frog in my pocket."

  "Perhaps it was meant as a gift," Belgarath suggested.

  "A frog?"

  "Then again perhaps it wasn't." Belgarath grinned. "It's a little primitive perhaps, but it might just be the beginnings of a sense of humor."

  There was a Tolnedran hostel a few miles up the great causeway that ran north and south through the eastern edge of the fens. They reached it in the late afternoon and purchased horses at a price that made Silk wince. The following morning they moved out at a canter in the direction of Boktor.

  The strange interlude in the fens had given Garion a great deal to think about. He began to perceive that compassion was a kind of love broader and more encompassing than the somewhat narrow idea he had previously had of that emotion. The word love seemed, as he thought more deeply about it, to include a great number of things that at first glance did not seem to have anything whatsoever to do with it. As his understanding of this grew, a peculiar notion took hold of his imagination. His grandfather, the man they called Eternal, had probably in his seven thousand years developed a capacity for love beyond the ability of other men even remotely to guess at. In spite of that gruff, irritable exterior, Belgarath's entire life had been an expression of that transcendant love. As they rode, Garion glanced often at the strange old man, and the image of the remote, all-powerful sorcerer towering above the rest of humanity gradually faded; he began to see the real man behind that image - a complicated man to be sure, but a very human one.

  Two days later in clearing weather, they reached Boktor.

  Chapter Twenty

  THERE WAS AN open quality about Boktor that Garion noticed immediately as they rode through its broad streets. The houses were not for the most part over two storeys high, and they were not jammed up against each other as they were in other cities he had seen. The avenues were wide and straight, and there was a minimum of litter in them.

  He commented on that as they rode along a spacious, tree-lined boulevard.

  "Boktor's a new city," Silk explained. "At least relatively."

  "I thought that it has been here since the time of Dras Bullneck."

  "Oh, it has," Silk replied, "but the old city was destroyed by the Angaraks when they invaded, five hundred years ago."

  "I'd forgotten that," Garion admitted.

  "After Vo Mimbre, when the time came to rebuild,
it was decided to take advantage of the chance to start over," Silk continued. He looked about rather distastefully. "I don't really like Boktor," he said. "There aren't enough alleys and back streets. It's almost impossible to move around without being seen." He turned to Belgarath. "That reminds me of something, by the way. It probably wouldn't be a bad idea to avoid the central marketplace. I'm rather well-known here, and there's no point in letting the whole city know we've arrived."

  "Do you think we'll be able to slip through unnoticed?" Garion asked him.

  "In Boktor?" Silk laughed. "Of course not. We've already been identified a half dozen times. Spying is a major industry here. Porenn knew we were coming before we'd even entered the city." He glanced up at a second floor window, and his fingers flickered a quick rebuke in the gestures of the Drasnian secret language. The curtain at the window gave a guilty little twitch. "Just too clumsy," he observed with profound disapproval. "Must be a first-year student at the academy."

  "Probably nervous about seeing a celebrity," Belgarath suggested. "You are, after all, something of a legend, Silk."

  "There's still no excuse for sloppy work," Silk said. "If I had time, I'd stop by the academy and have a talk with the headmaster about it." He sighed. "The quality of student work has definitely gone downhill since they discontinued the use of the whipping post."

  "The what?" Garion exclaimed.

  "In my day, a student who was seen by the person he was assigned to watch was flogged," Silk told him. "Flogging's a very effective teaching technique, Garion."

  Just ahead of them a door to a large house opened, and a dozen uniformed pikemen marched out into the street, halted and turned to face them. The officer in charge came forward and bowed politely. "Prince Kheldar," he greeted Silk, "Her Highness wonders if you'd be so good as to stop by the palace."

  "You see," Silk said to Garion. "I told you she knew we were here." He turned to the officer. "Just out of curiosity, captain, what would you do if I told you that we didn't feel like being so good as to stop by the palace?"

  "I'd probably have to insist," the captain replied.