Guardians of the West

"Here," Errand said, pointing down at the deep, slow moving eddy near the bank.

"I think they'd be farther out, Errand," Durnik replied doubtfully.

"Here," Errand repeated, pointing again.

Durnik shrugged. "If you say so," he said dubiously, flipping his lure out into the eddy. "I still think they'd be out in the main current, though."

And then his pole bent sharply into a tense, quivering bow. He caught four trout in rapid succession, thick, heavy-bodied trout with silvery, speckled sides and curved jaws filled with needlelike teeth.

"Why did it take you so long to find the right spot?" Belgarath asked later that afternoon when they were back on the highway.

"You have to work that kind of pool methodically, Belgarath," Durnik explained. "You start at one side and work your way across, cast by cast."

"I see."

"It's the only way to be really sure you've covered it all."

"Of course."

"I was fairly sure where they were lying, though."

"Naturally."

"It was just that I wanted to do it the right way. I'm sure you understand."

"Perfectly," Belgarath said gravely.

After they had passed through the mountains, they turned south, riding through the vast grasslands of the Algarian plain where herds of cattle and horses grazed in that huge green sea of grass that rippled and swayed under the steady easterly breeze. Although Hettar strongly urged them to stop by the Stronghold of the Algar clans, Polgara declined. "Tell Cho-Hag and Silar that we may visit later," she said, "but we really should get to the Vale. It's probably going to take most of the summer to make my mother's house habitable again."

Hettar nodded gravely and then waved a brief salute as he and his clansmen turned eastward and rode off across the rolling grasslands toward the mountainlike Stronghold of his father, Cho-Hag, Chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria.

The cottage that had belonged to Polgara's mother lay in a valley among the rolling hills marking the northern edge of the Vale of Aldur. A sparkling stream flowed through the sheltered hollow, and there were woods, birch intermixed with cedar, stretching along the valley floor. The cottage was constructed of fieldstone, gray, russet, and earthy-brown, all neatly fitted together. It was a broad, low building, considerably larger than the word "cottage" suggested. It had not been occupied for well over three thousand years, and the thatching and the doors and windowframes had long since surrendered to the elements, leaving the shell of the house standing, bramble-filled and unroofed to the sky.

There was, nonetheless, a peculiar sense of waiting about it, as if Poledra, the woman who had lived here, had instilled in the very stones the knowledge that one day her daughter would return. They arrived in the middle of a golden afternoon, and Errand, lulled by a creaking wheel, had drifted into a doze.

When the wagon stopped, Polgara shook him gently awake. "Errand," she said, "we're here." He opened his eyes and looked for the first time at the place he would forever call home. He saw the weathered shell of the cottage nestled in the tall green grass. He saw the woods beyond, with the white trunks of the birch trees standing out among the dark green cedars, and he saw the stream. The place had enormous possibilities. He realized that at once. The stream, of course, was perfect for sailing toy boats, for skipping stones, and, in the event of failing inspiration, for falling into. Several of the trees appeared to have been specifically designed for climbing, and one huge, white old birch overhanging the stream promised the exhilarating combination of climbing a tree and falling into the water, all at one time.

The land upon which their wagon had stopped was a long hill sloping gently down toward the cottage. It was the kind of a hilldown which a boy could run on a day when the sky was a deep blue dotted with dandelion-puff clouds racing in the breeze. The knee-high grass would be lush in the sun, and the turf damply firm underfoot; the rush of sweet-smelling air as one ran down that long slope would be intoxicating.

And then he felt quite keenly a sense of deep sorrow, a sorrow which had endured unchanged for century upon century, and he turned to look at Belgarath's weathered face and the single tear coursing down the old man's furrowed cheek, to disappear in his close-cropped white beard.

In spite of Belgarath's sorrow for his lost wife, Errand looked out at this small, green valley with its trees and its stream and its lush meadow with a deep and abiding contentment. He smiled and said, "Home," trying the word and liking the sound of it.

Polgara looked gravely into his face. Her eyes were very large, and luminous, and their color changed with her mood, ranging from a light blue so pale as to be virtually gray to a deep lavender. "Yes, Errand," she replied in her vibrant voice. "Home." Then she put her arms about him to hold him softly, and there was in that gentle embrace all the yearning toward this place which had filled her down through the weary centuries that she and her father had labored at their task.

Durnik the smith looked thoughtfully at the hollow spread below in the warm sunshine, considering, planning, arranging and rearranging things in his mind. "It's going to take a while to get everything the way we want it, Pol," he said to his bride.

We have all the time in the world, Durnik," Polgara replied with a gentle smile.

"I'll help you unload the wagon and set up your tents," Belgarath said, scratching absently at his beard. "Then tomorrow I suppose I ought to go on down into the Vale -have a talk with Beldin and the twins, look in on my tower- that sort of thing."

Polgara gave him a long, steady look. "Don't be in such a hurry to leave, father," she told him. "You talked with Beldin just last month at Riva and on any number of occasions you've gone for decades without visiting your tower. I've noticed that every time there's work to be done, you suddenly have pressing business someplace else."

Belgarath's face assumed an expression of injured innocence. "Why, Polgara-" he started to protest.

"That won't work either, father," she told him crisply. "A few weeks -or a month or two- of helping Durnik isn't going to injure you permanently. Or did you plan to leave us abandoned to the winter snows?"

Belgarath looked with some distaste at the shell of the house standing at the foot of the hill, with the hours of toil it was going to take to make it livable stamped all over it.

"Why, of course, Pol," he said somewhat too quickly. "I'd happy to stay and lend a hand."