Polgara the Sorceress

‘Not too bad,’ Poledra replied. ‘A little cold, though.’ Poledra was so literal sometimes.

‘What are the men-folk up to?’ Aunt Pol asked.

‘Garion and Durnik are out feeding the birds and animals,’ Poledra said. ‘He’s still asleep.’ Poledra almost never spoke her husband’s name. She set her tray down on the small table near the fireplace. ‘I think we need to talk,’ she said. She came to the bed, took up the twins, and deposited them back in the curiously constructed double cradle that Durnik had built for his children. Then she handed Polgara and Ce’Nedra each a cup of tea, took the remaining one up herself, and sat in the chair by the fire.

‘What’s so important, mother?’ Polgara asked.

Poledra pointed one finger at Ce’Nedra. ‘She talked with me yesterday,’ she said, ‘and I think she’s got a point we should consider.’

‘Oh?’

‘She said that her son – and his sons – will be leading the Rivans someday, and there are things they’ll need to know. The well-being of the Rivans might depend on their knowing. That’s a leader’s first responsibility, isn’t it? – whether he’s leading people or wolves.’

Ce’Nedra silently gloated. Her thrown-together arguments the previous morning had evidently brought Poledra over to her side.

‘Where are we going with this, mother?’ Polgara asked.

‘You have a responsibility as well, Polgara – to the young,’ her mother replied. ‘That’s our first duty. The Master set you a task, and you haven’t finished it yet.’

Polgara gave Ce’Nedra a hard look.

‘I didn’t do anything, Aunt Pol,’ Ce’Nedra said with feigned innocence. ‘I just asked for your mother’s advice, that’s all.’

The two sets of eyes – one set tawny yellow, the other deep blue – fixed themselves on her.

Ce’Nedra actually blushed.

‘She wants something, Polgara,’ Poledra said. ‘Give it to her. It won’t hurt you, and it’s still a part of the task you freely accepted. We wolves rely on our instincts; humans need instruction. You’ve spent most of your life caring for the young – and instructing them – so you know what’s required. Just set down what really happened and be done with it.’

‘Not all of it, certainly!’ Polgara sounded shocked. ‘Some of those things were too private.’

Poledra actually laughed. ‘You still have a great deal to learn, my daughter. Don’t you know by now that there’s no such thing as privacy among wolves? We share everything. The information may be useful to the leader of the Rivans someday – and to your own children as well – so let’s be sure they have what they need. Just do it, Polgara. You know better than to argue with me.’

Polgara sighed. ‘Yes, mother,’ she replied submissively.

Ce’Nedra underwent a kind of epiphany at that point, and she didn’t entirely like it. Polgara the Sorceress was the pre-eminent woman in the world. She had titles beyond counting, and the whole world bowed to her, but in some mysterious way, she was still a wolf, and when the dominant female – her mother in this case – gave an order, she automatically obeyed. Ce’Nedra’s own heritage was mixed – part Borune and part Dryad. She’d argued extensively with her father, the Emperor of Tolnedra, but when Xantha, Queen of the Dryads, spoke, Ce’Nedra might complain a bit, but she instinctively obeyed. It was built into her. She began to look at Polgara in a slightly different way, and by extension, at herself also in a new fashion.

‘It’s a start,’ Poledra said cryptically. ‘Now then, daughter,’ she said to Polgara, ‘it won’t be all that difficult. I’ll talk with him, and he’ll show you how to do it without all that foolishness with quill-pens and ink. It’s your obligation, so stop complaining.’

‘It shall be as my mother wishes,’ Polgara replied.

‘Well, then,’ Poledra said, ‘now that that’s settled, would you ladies like to have another cup of tea?’

Polgara and Ce’Nedra exchanged a quick glance. ‘I suppose we might as well,’ Polgara sighed.

Part One: Beldaran (#ulink_ea979dec-8821-55b2-8c64-3d5d9db4c86d)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_701b9b44-f347-5b37-ab5a-5cb2f77ac231)

This was not my idea. I want that clearly understood right at the outset. The notion that any one person can describe ‘what really happened’ is an absurdity. If ten – or a hundred – people witness an event, there will be ten – or a hundred – different versions of what took place. What we see and how we interpret it depends entirely upon our individual past experience. My mother, however, has insisted that I undertake this ridiculous chore, and I will, as always, do as she tells me to do.

The more I’ve thought about it, though, the more I’ve come to realize that when Ce’Nedra first broached the subject to me, and later to my mother, her obviously specious argument about ‘the well-being of the young’ actually had more merit than that devious little girl realized. One day Geran will be the Rivan King and the Guardian of the Orb, and over the centuries, I’ve found that people with at least a nodding acquaintance with true history make the best rulers. At least they don’t repeat the mistakes of the past.

If all Geran and his sons really needed to rule the Rivans were to be a flat recounting of the deeds of assorted rulers of assorted kingdoms in ages past, the tiresome repetition of the ‘and then, and then, and then’ that so delights the stodgy members of the Tolnedran Historical Society would be more than sufficient.

As my daughter-in-law so cunningly pointed out, however, the ‘and then’s’ of those Tolnedran scholars deal with only a part of the world. There’s another world out there, and things happen in that other world that Tolnedrans are constitutionally incapable of comprehending. Ultimately it will be this unseen world that the Rivan King must know if he is to properly perform his task.

Even so, I could have devoutly maintained that my father’s long-winded version of the history of our peculiar world had already filled in that obvious gap. I even went so far as to re-read father’s tedious story, trying very hard to prove to myself – and to my mother – that I’d really have nothing to add. Soon father’s glaring omissions began to leap off the page at me. The old fraud hadn’t told the whole story, and mother knew it.

In father’s defense, however, I’ll admit that there were events that took place when he wasn’t present and others during which he didn’t fully understand what was really happening. Moreover, some of the omissions which so irritated me as I read had their origin in his desire to compress seven thousand years of history into something of manageable length I’ll forgive him those lapses, but couldn’t he at least have gotten names and dates right? For the sake of keeping peace in the family, I’ll gloss over his imperfect memory of just who said what in any given conversation. Human memory – and that’s assuming that my father’s human – is never really all that exact, I suppose. Why don’t we just say that father and I remember things a little differently and let it go at that, shall we? Try to keep that in mind as you go along. Don’t waste your time – and mine – by pointing out assorted variations.

The more I read, the more I came to realize that things I know and father doesn’t would be essential parts of Geran’s education. Moreover, a probably hereditary enthusiasm for a more complete story began to come over me. I tried to fight it, but it soon conquered me. I discovered that I actually wanted to tell my side of the story.

I have a few suspicions about the origins of my change of heart, but I don’t think this is the place to air them.

The central fact of my early life was my sister Beldaran. We were twins, and in some respects even closer than twins. To this very day we’re still not apart. Beldaran, dead these three thousand years and more, is still very much a part of me. I grieve for her every day. That might help to explain why I sometimes appear somber and withdrawn. Father’s narrative makes some issue of the fact that I seldom smile. What’s there to smile about, Old Wolf?

As father pointed out, I’ve read extensively, and I’ve noticed that biographies normally begin at birth. Beldaran and I, however, began just a bit earlier than that. For reasons of her own, mother arranged it that way.

So now, why don’t we get started?

It was warm and dark, and we floated in absolute contentment, listening to the sound of mother’s heart and the rush of her blood through her veins as her body nourished us. That’s my first memory – that and mother’s thought gently saying to us, ‘Wake up.’

We’ve made no secret of mother’s origins. What isn’t widely known is the fact that the Master summoned her, just as he summoned all the rest of us. She’s as much Aldur’s disciple as any of us are. We all serve him in our own peculiar ways. Mother, however, was not born human, and she perceived rather early in her pregnancy that Beldaran and I had none of those instincts that are inborn in wolves. I’ve since learned that this caused her much concern, and she consulted with the Master at some length about it, and her suggested solution was eminently practical. Since Beldaran and I had no instincts, mother proposed to the Master that she might begin our education while we were still enwombed. I think her suggestion might have startled Aldur, but he quickly saw its virtue. And so it was that mother took steps to make certain that my sister and I had certain necessary information – even before we were born.

During the course of a normal human pregnancy, the unborn lives in a world consisting entirely of physical sensation. Beldaran and I, however, were gently guided somewhat further. My father rather arrogantly states that he began my education after Beldaran’s wedding, but that’s hardly accurate. Did he really think that I was a vegetable before that? My education – and Beldaran’s – began before we ever saw the light of day.

Father’s approach to education is disputational. As first disciple, he’d been obliged to oversee the early education of my various uncles. He forced them to think and to argue as a means of guiding them along the thorny path to independent thought – although he sometimes carried it to extremes. Mother was born wolf, and her approach is more elemental. Wolves are pack-animals, and they don’t think independently. Mother simply told Beldaran and me, ‘This is the way it is. This is the way it always has been, and always will be.’ Father teaches you to question; mother teaches you to accept. It’s an interesting variation.

At first, Beldaran and I were identical twins and as close as that term implies. When mother’s thought woke us, however, she rather carefully began to separate us. I received certain instruction that Beldaran didn’t, and she received lessons that I didn’t. I think I felt that wrench more keenly than Beldaran did. She knew her purpose; I spent years groping for mine.

The separation was very painful for me. I seem to remember reaching out to my sister and saying to her in our own private language, ‘You’re so far away now.’ Actually, of course, she wasn’t. We were both still confined in that small, warm place beneath mother’s heart, but always before our minds had been linked, and now they were inexorably moving apart. If you think about it a bit, I’m sure you’ll understand.

After we awoke, mother’s thought was with us continually. The sound of it was as warm and comforting as the place where we floated, but the place nourished only our bodies. Mother’s thought nourished our minds – with those subtle variations I previously mentioned. I suspect that what I was and what I have become is the result of that womb-dark period in my life when Beldaran and I floated in perfect sisterhood – until mother’s thought began to separate us.

And then in time there was another thought as well. Mother had prepared us for that intrusion upon what had been a very private little world. After my sister and I had become more fully aware and conscious of our separation and some of the reasons for it, Aldur’s thought joined with hers to continue our education. He patiently explained to us right at the outset why certain alterations were going to be necessary. My sister and I had been identical. Aldur changed that, and most of the alterations were directed at me. Some of the changes were physical – the darkening of my hair, for example – and others were mental. Mother had begun that mental division, and Aldur refined it. Beldaran and I were no longer one. We were two. Beldaran’s reaction to our further separation was one of gentle regret. Mine was one of anger.

I rather suspect that my anger may have been a reflection of mother’s reaction when my vagrant father and a group of Alorns chose to slip away so that they could go off to Mallorea to retrieve the Orb Torak had stolen from the Master. I now fully understand why it was necessary and why father had no choice – and so does mother, I think. But at the time she was absolutely infuriated by what, in the society of wolves, was an unnatural desertion. My somewhat peculiar relationship with my father during my childhood quite probably derived from my perception of mother’s fury. Beldaran was untouched by it, since mother wisely chose to shield her from that rage.

A vagrant and somewhat disturbing thought just occurred to me. As I mentioned earlier, father’s educational technique involves questioning and argumentation, and I was probably his star pupil. Mother teaches acceptance, and Beldaran received the full benefit of that counsel. In a strange sort of way this would indicate that I’m my father’s true daughter, and Beldaran was mother’s.

All right, Old Wolf. Don’t gloat. Wisdom eventually comes to all of us. Someday it might even be your turn.

Mother and the Master gently told my sister and me that once we were born, mother would have to leave us in the care of others so that she could pursue a necessary task. We were assured that we would be well cared for, and, moreover, that mother’s thought would be with us more or less continually, even as it had been while we were still enwombed. We accepted that, though the notion of physical separation was a little frightening. The important thing in our lives from the moment that our awareness had awakened, though, had been the presence of mother’s thought, and as long as that would still be with us we were sure that we’d be all right.

For a number of reasons it was necessary for me to be born first. Aldur’s alterations of my mind and my personality had made me more adventurous than Beldaran anyway, so it was natural for me to take the lead, I suppose.

It was actually an easy birth, but the light hurt my eyes right at first, and the further separation from my sister was extremely painful. In time, however, she joined me, and all was well again. Mother’s thought – and Aldur’s – were still with us, and so we drowsed together in perfect contentment.