Polgara the Sorceress

‘Of course you do, dear,’ I said sweetly. ‘You have the absolute right to have me make your decisions for you.’

“That’s not fair!’

‘It wasn’t intended to be. Run along now. Tell all your friends goodbye and start packing. We’re leaving tomorrow morning.’

‘You can’t order me around.’

‘Actually, I can. I’m very good at ordering people around – and for some reason, they always end up doing exactly what I tell them to do. There’s the door. Use it – or would you rather have me throw you through?’

I’ve seldom had to take that position with any of Iron-grip’s heirs, but Gelane had somehow gotten out of control. As soon as he left, slamming the door behind him, I went through the echoing halls of the Stronghold to have a word with his mother, Aravina. It only took me a few minutes to discover the source of Gelane’s unruliness. Aravina was a very pretty Algar lady, but the untimely death of Gelane’s father had largely broken her spirit. She was so immersed in her own grief that she’d paid little or no attention to her son’s behavior. It’s a part of the nature of adolescents to test limits to see just how far they can go. The wise parent doesn’t permit that to get out of hand. Gentle firmness at the early stages of this testing is far kinder in the long run than the inevitable harshness that becomes necessary later on.

If you’re contemplating parenthood, take notes. There’ll be tests later on – and I won’t be the one who’ll grade those tests.

I chose to settle my family in Seline rather than Muros, Medalia, or Sulturn, largely because King Ormik had deployed the troops from the northern provinces of Sendaria along the coast to ward off any possible Angarak surprise attacks, and so there’d be few veterans of the Battle of Vo Mimbre living there. Father and I had been fairly visible at Vo Mimbre, after all, and I didn’t think it’d be appropriate to have some former comrades-in-arms invite me to share a few tankards of strong ale in the local tavern while we exchanged war-stories.

Gelane didn’t like Seline, and it showed. A more or less permanent sneer settled over his still beardless face as he walked about the rainy streets of his new home. Adolescent males tend to do that a lot. I’m sure they practice that expression of lofty disdain in front of a mirror every chance they get. I think that in a perfect society both strong drink and mirrors would be prohibited for adolescents. Gelane’s sneer disappeared quite abruptly one morning when he approached the reflective altar of his self-adoration and discovered that a very large, shiny pimple had mysteriously appeared overnight on the very tip of his nose.

The pimple went away eventually – almost as soon as Gelane’s expression became more sunny. I think it may have something to do with the body’s chemistry. A sour expression probably sours the blood, and everybody knows that sour blood makes one’s face break out.

I bought us a modest little house near the commercial district in Seline, and after a bit of constructive snooping among the local craftsmen, I located Osrig, a sober, sensible cooper of late middle age with no immediate heir. Osrig made good barrels, and his former apprentices were all successfully following the trade in nearby towns and villages, a clear indication that their former master was a good teacher. I spoke with Osrig one day, some money changed hands, and then I went home to advise my nephew that I’d made a decision about his life’s work.

‘Barrels?’ he protested. ‘I don’t know anything about barrels, Aunt Pol.’

‘I know, dear,’ I replied. ‘That’s why you start out as an apprentice. You have to learn how to make them before you can go into business for yourself.’

‘I don’t want to be a barrel-maker.’

‘It’s a useful product, Gelane, and barrels aren’t likely to go out of fashion, so you’ll have a secure future.’

‘But it’s so ordinary, Aunt Pol.’

‘Yes. That’s the whole idea. You want to be ordinary.’

‘No I don’t. Can’t we find something more interesting for me to do? Maybe I could be a sailor or something – or maybe go into the army. I think I’d like to be a soldier.’

‘I’ve seen your bedroom, Gelane. You wouldn’t make a very good soldier.’

‘What’s my bedroom got to do with it?’

‘A soldier has to make his bed every morning – and pick up all his dirty clothes. You’re a nice boy, but neatness isn’t one of your strong points. A soldier with dented armor and a rusty sword doesn’t impress his enemies very much.’

His expression grew mournful. ‘Barrels?’ He said it with a note of resignation.

‘Barrels, Gelane.’

“That’s not much of an occupation for a king, Aunt Pol.’

‘Don’t start polishing your crown until they put it on your head, dear. Stick to barrels instead.’

‘Torak’s dead, Aunt Pol. I don’t have to hide from him any more.’

‘No, dear. Torak’s not dead. He’s just asleep. Just as soon as you put on the crown of Riva and pick up the sword, he’ll wake up and come looking for you. We don’t want him to do that, so concentrate on barrels. Now, you’d better eat some supper and go to bed. You’ll be getting up early tomorrow morning. Osrig’s going to be expecting you at the shop as soon as it gets light.’

‘Osrig?’

‘Your master. He’s the one who’s going to teach you how to make barrels that don’t leak.’

I hate to use the word ‘chance’ here, since I’ve learned over the years that when we’re talking about my peculiar family, pure random chance seldom has much to do with how things turn out. This time, though, chance might have had a lot to do with it. I could have bought Gelane an apprenticeship to any one of a dozen or so craftsmen who followed entirely different trades. Osrig, however, fitted all my requirements. He was skilled, he was a good teacher, he was growing old, and he didn’t have a son waiting to inherit the family business. As soon as Gelane learned the trade, I could buy Osrig out and set my reluctant nephew up in business for himself. That was my goal. The end product of that business was really secondary. The important thing was to merge him into the general population to the point that he’d be invisible in the event that Chamdar came looking for him. We could always hope that Chamdar hadn’t survived the Battle of Vo Mimbre, but I’ve learned over the years not to depend too much on hope.