‘Just a few days ago,’ Belkira answered. ‘Torak’s still at Mal Zeth, and he’s got Urvon and Zedar with him.’
‘We’ve still got some time, then. They aren’t going to be able to march the whole of Mallorea this way overnight.’
‘We’ll see.’ Belkira didn’t sound nearly as optimistic as father did.
Father and I went back to our house and I instructed Adana to circulate one of those ‘family emergency’ stories around Aldurford, and then we left for the Stronghold.
It rained almost steadily as we rode on down across the sodden plains of Algaria to that man-made mountain rearing up above the grassland. I’m sure that all that rain was good for the grass, but I didn’t care for it all that much.
The Algars have devoted eons to the construction of their stronghold, and it shows. The walls are incredibly thick and they’re so high that the place resembles a mountain. People throw the word ‘unassailable’ around without actually giving much thought to what it means. If precision of language interests you, drop on down to southern Algaria and take a look at the Stronghold. After that, you’ll know exactly what ‘unassailable’ involves. I rather imagine that even Torak quailed a bit when he first saw it.
When we arrived, father had a talk with Cho-Ram, the young Chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria. That’s a cumbersome way to say ‘king’, but it provides a certain insight into the Algar concept of government.
Cho-Ram’s family immediately ‘adopted’ Garel and his mother. Adana knew just exactly who her son was, so becoming a member of the royal family of Algaria didn’t seem all that peculiar to her. Garel was uncomfortable with his new-found status, however, and though he was really a bit young to know just who he really was, I decided to bend the rules a bit and have that obligatory ‘little talk’ with him right then rather than to wait.
Once they were settled in, father, Cho-Ram and I left for the Isle of the Winds.
I’ll apologize in advance for what will probably be a depressing overuse of the word ‘dreary’ in forthcoming pages. There are limits to language, though, and twenty-five years of almost continual rain will exhaust almost anybody’s vocabulary. I could fall back on some of uncle Beldin’s more colorful adjectives, I suppose, but this document might fall into the hands of children, and children aren’t supposed to know what those words really mean.
We rode north when we left the Stronghold, skirting the eastern frontier of Ulgoland, and we turned west when we reached the Sendarian mountains. Then we rode on down that long river valley to Camaar, took ship, and sailed across to the Isle of the Winds. Since it’s almost always raining in the City of Riva anyway, the climate change wasn’t quite so noticeable there.
Brand, the Rivan Warder, met us on the stone wharf when we made port, and I looked rather closely at this man who was to be one of the more significant ‘Children of Light’. He was a big man, broad in the shoulders and massive in the chest. In that regard he resembled a Cherek, but he didn’t behave like a Cherek. Chereks are boisterous, but Brand was soft-spoken. Chereks tend to be profane, but Brand’s speech was polished, urbane. Though there was very little in the way of physical resemblance, this particular Rivan Warder reminded me a great deal of the first one, my dear, dear friend, Kamion.
Uncle Beldin and my father have speculated endlessly about the peculiar repetitions which have cropped up over the eons, and they’ve come up with a theory to explain just why things keep happening over and over again. To boil it all down to its simplest terms, their theory holds that ‘the accident’ – that cataclysmic celestial explosion that disrupted the Purpose of the Universe – had stopped all progression, and we were doomed to unending repetition until somebody came along to set everything in motion again by correcting the mistake.
Brand appeared to be a repetition of Kamion – and also, in a peculiar sort of way, of Ontrose. I found that to be reassuring, since of all the men I’d known until then, either of those two was the most qualified to meet Torak in single combat.
Eldrig of Cherek and Rhodar of Drasnia hadn’t yet arrived at Riva, so father, Brand, Cho-Ram and I spent many hours conferring in that blue-draped council chamber high in one of the towers of the citadel. Brand was so startled that his urbane manner slipped just a bit when I told him that he was the one who was going to face Torak in Arendia.
‘Me?’ he said in a choked voice.
Then father recited the passage from the Mrin,’ “And let him who stands in the stead of the Guardian meet the Child of Dark in the domain of the Bull-God.”‘ Father gave him one of those infuriating little smirks he’s so fond of. ‘You’re standing in for the Rivan King at the moment, Brand,’ he said, ‘so I guess that means that you’ve been elected.’
‘I didn’t even know I was a candidate. What am I supposed to do?’
‘We’re not sure. You will be when the time comes, though. When you come face to face with One-eye, the Necessity’s going to take over. It always does in these situations.’
‘I’d be a lot more comfortable if I knew what was supposed to happen.’
‘We all would, but it doesn’t work that way. Don’t worry, Brand. You’ll do just fine.’
After Eldrig and Rhodar joined us, we got down to the business of mapping out our strategy, and after a few meetings, King Ormik of Sendaria joined us. Father uses the word ‘strategy’ as if it actually meant something, but the Alorns each knew what their traditional roles would be. The Chereks would be our navy, the Drasnians would be our infantry, and the Algars would be our cavalry. They already knew what to do, so all the bleak faces and ponderous talk were little more than a way to show off and to build morale.
After those grown-up children who ruled the northern part of the continent finished playing, the conference concluded, and I returned to the Stronghold. I lived quietly there despite the turmoil swirling around in the world. Turmoil or not, I still had my task. Garel was twenty-one years old when he married an Algar girl, Aravina, in the year 4860, and in 4861, I delivered Aravina of a son, Gelane.
As I almost always did after the delivery of one of the heirs, I held Gelane for a little while after he was born. Aravina might have been his mother, but my face was the first one he saw. It has something to do with our peculiar background, I think. Wolf-puppies are not exactly like ducklings, who automatically believe that the first moving thing they see is their mother, but there are some similarities. It might not really make any difference, but I always try to form that initial attachment – just to be on the safe side.