The Rivan Codex: Ancient Texts of The Belgariad and The Malloreon

(#litres_trial_promo)

When the snow melted and the frost seeped up out of the ground and the wind of spring began to blow again, I knew it was time to leave. I took no joy in the pampering of a multitude of grandparents and had no desire to become the pet of a host of crotchety old people who could not even speak a civilized language.

And so, early one spring morning, before the darkness had even slid off the sky, I sneaked from the camp and went south into a low range of hills where their creaky old limbs could not follow me. I moved very fast, for I was young and well-fed and quite strong, but it was not fast enough. As the sun rose I could hear the wails of unspeakable grief coming from the encampment behind me. I remember that sound very well.

I loitered that summer in the hills and in the upper reaches of the Vale to the south beyond them. It was in my mind that I might – if pursued by necessity – winter again in the camp of the old people. But, as it happened, an early storm caught me unprepared to the south of the hills, and the snow piled so deep that I could not make my way back across to my refuge. And my food was gone, and my shoes, mere bags of untanned hide, wore out, and I lost my knife, and it grew very cold.

In the end I huddled behind a pile of rock that seemed to reach up into the very heart of the snowstorm that swirled around me and tried to prepare myself for death. I thought of my village and of the grassy fields around it and of our small, sparkling river, and of my mother, and, because I was still really very young, I cried.

‘Why weepest thou, boy?’ The voice was very gentle. The snow was so thick that I could not see who spoke, but the tone made me angry.

‘Because I’m cold and I’m hungry,’ I said, ‘and because I’m dying and I don’t want to.’

‘Why art thou dying? Art thou injured?’

‘I’m lost,’ I said, ‘and it’s snowing, and I have no place to go.’

‘Is this reason enough to die amongst thy kind?’

‘Isn’t it enough?’ I said, still angry.

‘And how long dost thou expect this dying of thine will persist?’ The voice seemed mildly curious.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ve never done it before.’

The wind howled and the snow swirled more thickly around me.

‘Boy,’ the voice said finally, ‘come here to me.’

‘Where are you?’ I said. ‘I can’t see you.’

‘Walk around the tower to thy left. Knowest thou thy left hand from thy right?’

I stumbled to my half-frozen feet angrier than I ever remember having been.

‘Well, boy?’

I moved around what I had thought was a pile of rock, my hands on the stones.

‘Thou shalt come to a smooth grey rock,’ the voice said, ‘somewhat taller than thy head and broad as thine arms may reach.’

‘All right,’ I said, my lips thick with the cold. ‘Now what?’

‘Tell it to open.’

‘What?’

‘Speak unto the rock,’ the voice said patiently, ignoring the fact that I was congealing in the gale. ‘Command it to open.’

‘Command? Me?’

‘Thou art a man. It is but a rock.’

‘What do I say?’

‘Tell it to open.’

‘Open,’ I commanded half-heartedly.

‘Surely thou canst do better than that.’

‘Open!’ I thundered.

And the rock slid aside.

‘Come in, boy,’ the voice said. ‘Stand not in the weather like some befuddled calf.’

The inside of the tower – for such indeed it was – was dimly lighted by stones that glowed with a pale, cold fire. I thought that was a fine thing, though I would have preferred it had they been warmer. Stone steps worn with countless centuries of footfalls ascended in a spiral into the gloom above my head. Other than that the chamber was empty.

‘Close the door, boy,’ the voice said, not unkindly.

‘How?’ I said.

‘How didst thou open it?’

I turned to the gaping rock and quite proud of myself, I commanded, ‘Close!’

And, at my voice, the rock slid shut with a grinding sound that chilled my blood even more than the fierce storm outside.

‘Come up, boy,’ the voice commanded.

And so I mounted the stairs, only a little bit afraid. The tower was very high, and the climbing took me a long time.

At the top was a chamber filled with wonders. I looked at things such as I had never seen even before I looked at him who had commanded me and had saved my life. I was very young, and I was not at the time above thoughts of theft. Larceny even before gratitude seethed in my grubby little soul.

Near a fire which burned, as I observed, without fuel sat a man (I thought) who seemed most incredibly ancient. His beard was long and full and white as the snow which had so nearly killed me – but his eyes – his eyes were eternally young.

‘Well, boy,’ he said, ‘hast thou decided not to die?’

‘Not if it isn’t necessary,’ I said bravely, still cataloguing the wonders of the chamber.

‘Dost thou require anything?’ he asked. ‘I am unfamiliar with thy kind.’

‘A little food,’ I told him. ‘I have not eaten in three days. And a warm place to sleep. I shall not be much trouble, Master, and I can make myself useful in payment.’ I had learned a long time ago how to make myself agreeable to those who were in a position to do me favors.

‘Master?’ he said and laughed, a sound so cheerful that it made me almost want to dance. ‘I am not thy master, boy.’ He laughed again, and my heart sang with the splendor of his mirth. ‘Let us see to this thing of food. What dost thou require?’

‘A little bread perhaps,’ I said, ’– not too stale.’