Guardians of the West

leagues to the east, was over. The vast armies that had been raised by the Princess Ce'Nedra to fight that war had returned to their homes, and there was peace once more in the Kingdoms of the West. Belgarion, King of Riva and Overlord of the West, sat upon the throne in the Hall of the Rivan King with the Orb of Aldur once again in its proper place above his throne. The maimed God of Angarak was dead, and his eons-old threat to the West was gone forever.
    The guards at the city gate paid scant attention to Errand's family as they passed, and so they left Camaar and set out upon the broad, straight imperial highway that stretched east toward Muros and the snow-topped mountains that separated Sendaria from the lands of the horse clans of Algaria.
    Flights of birds wheeled and darted in the luminous air as the wagon team and the patient mare plodded up the long hill outside Camaar. The birds sang and trilled almost as if in greeting and hovered strangely on stuttering wings above the wagon. Polgara raised her flawless face in the clear, bright light to listen.
    "What are they saying?" Durnik asked.
    She smiled gently. "They're babbling," she replied in her rich voice. "Birds do that a great deal. In general they're happy that it's morning and that the sun is shining and that their nests have been built. Most of them want to talk about their eggs. Birds always want to talk about their eggs."
    "And of course they're glad to see you, aren't they?"
    "I suppose they are."
    "Someday do you suppose you could teach me to understand what they're saying?"
    She smiled at him. "If you wish. It's not a very practical thing to know, however."
    "It probably doesn't hurt to know a few things that aren't practical," he replied with an absolutely straight face.
    "Oh, my Durnik." She laughed, fondly putting her hand over his. "You're an absolute joy, do you know that?"
    Errand, riding just behind them among the bags and boxes and the tools Durnik had so carefully selected in Camaar, smiled, feeling that he was included in the deep, warm affection they shared. Errand was not used to affection. He had been raised, if that is the proper term, by Zedar the Apostate -a man who had looked much like Belgarath. Zedar had simply come across the little boy in a narrow alleyway in some forgotten city and had taken him along for a specific purpose. The boy had been fed and clothed, nothing more, and the only words his bleak-faced guardian had ever spoken to him were, "I have an errand for you, boy"' Because those were the only words he had heard, the only word the child spoke when he had been found by these others was "Errand." And since they did not know what else to call him, that had become his name.
    When they reached the top of the long hill, they paused for a few moments to allow the wagon horses to catch their breath. From his comfortable perch in the wagon, Errand looked out over the broad expanse of neatly walled fields lying pale green in the long, slanting rays of the morning sun.
    Then he turned and looked back toward Camaar with its red roofs and its sparkling blue-green harbor filled with the ships of a half-dozen kingdoms.
    "Are you warm enough?" Polgara asked him.
    Errand nodded. "Yes," he said, "thank you." The words were coming more easily to him now, though he still spoke but rarely.
    Belgarath lounged in his saddle, absently rubbing at his short white beard. His eyes were slightly bleary, and he squinted as if the morning sunlight was painful to him. "I sort of like to start out a journey in the sunshine," he said. "It always seems to bode well for the rest of the trip." Then he grimaced. "I don't know that it needs to be this bright, however."
    "Are we feeling a bit delicate this morning, father?" Polgara asked him archly.
    He turned to regard his daughter, his face set. "Why don't you go ahead and say it, Pol? I'm sure you won't be happy until you do."
    "Why, father," she said, her glorious eyes wide with feigned innocence, "what makes you think I was going to say anything?"
    He grunted.
    "I'm sure you realize by now all by yourself that you drank a bit too much ale last night," she continued. "You don't need me to tell you that, do you?"
    "I'm not really in the mood for any of this, Polgara," he told her shortly.
    "Oh, poor old dear," she said in mock commiseration. "Would you like to have me stir something up to make you feel better?"
    "Thank you, but no," he replied. "The aftertaste of your concoctions lingers for days. I