spellsinger universe

"Names are like clothes, Durnik," Silk explained. "We put on what's

most suitable for the occasion. Honest men have little need to wear

strange clothes or strange names. Those of us who aren't so honest,

however, occasionally have to change one or the other."

"I don't find it amusing to hear Mistress Pol described as not being honest," Durnik said stifliy.

"No disrespect intended," Silk assured him. "Simple definitions don't

apply to Lady Polgara; and when I say that we're not honest, I simply

mean that this business we're in sometimes requires us to conceal

ourselves from people who are evil as well as devious."

Durnik looked unconvinced but let it pass.

"Let's take this street," Barak suggested. "I don't want to pass the Temple of Belar today."

"Why?" Garion asked.

"I'm a little behind in my religious duties," Barak said with a

pained look, "and I'd rather not be reminded of it by the High Priest of

Belar. His voice is very penetrating, and I don't like being called

down in front of the whole city. A prudent man doesn't give either a

priest or a woman the opportunity to scold him in public."

The streets of Val Alorn were narrow and crooked, and the ancient

stone houses were tall and narrow with overhanging second stories.

Despite the intermittent snow and the crisp wind, the streets seemed

full of people, most of them garbed in furs against the chill.

There was much good-humored shouting and the exchange of bawdy

insults. Two elderly and dignified men were pelting each other with

snowballs in the middle of one street to the raucous encouragement of

the bystanders.

"They're old friends," Barak said with a broad grin. "They do this

every day all winter long. Pretty soon they'll go to an alehouse and get

drunk and sing old songs together until they fall off their benches.

They've been doing it for years now."

"What do they do in the summer?" Silk asked.

"They throw rocks," Barak said. "The drinking and singing and falling off the benches stays the same, though."

"Hello, Barak," a green-eyed young woman called from an upper window. "When are you coming to see me again?"

Barak glanced up, and his face flushed, but he didn't answer.

"That lady's talking to you, Barak," Garion said.

"I heard her," Barak replied shortly.

"She seems to know you," Silk said with a sly look.

"She knows everyone," Barak said, flushing even more. "Shall we move along?"

Around another corner a group of men dressed in shaggy furs shufted

along in single file. Their gait was a kind of curious swaying from side

to side, and people quickly made way for them.

"Hail, Lord Barak," their leader intoned.

"Hail, Lord Barak," the others said in unison, still swaying. Barak bowed stitpy.

"May the arm of Belar protect thee," the leader said. "All praise to

Belar, Bear-God of Aloria," the others said. Barak bowed again and stood

until the procession had passed.

"Who were they?" Durnik asked.

"Bear-cultists," Barak said with distaste. "Religious fanatics."

"A troublesome group," Silk explained. "They have chapters in all the

Alorn kingdoms. They're excellent warriors, but they're the instruments

of the High Priest of Belar. They spend their time in rituals, military

training, and interfering in local politics."

"Where's this Aloria they spoke of?" Garion asked.

"All around us," Barak said with a broad gesture. "Aloria used to be

all the Alorn kingdoms together. They were all one nation. The cultists

want to reunite them."

"That doesn't seem unreasonable," Durnik said.

"Aloria was divided for a reason," Barak said. "A certain thing had

to be protected, and the division of Aloria was the best way to do

that."

"Was this thing so important?" Durnik asked.

"It's the most important thing in the world," Silk said. "The Bearcultists tend to forget that."

"Only now it's been stolen, hasn't it?" Garion blurted as that dry

voice in his mind informed him of the connection between what Barak and

Silk had just said and the sudden disruption of his own life. "It's this

thing that Mister Wolf is following."

Barak glanced quickly at him. "The lad is wiser than we thought, Silk," he said soberly.

"He's a clever boy," Silk agreed, "and it's not hard to put it all

together." His weasel face was grave. "You're right, of course, Garion,"

he said. "We don't know how yet, but somebody's managed to steal it. If

Belgarath gives the word, the Alorn Kings will take the world apart

stone by stone to get it back."

"You mean war?" Durnik said in a sinking voice.

"There are worse things than war," Barak said grimly. "It might be a

good opportunity to dispose of the Angaraks once and for all."

"Let's hope that Belgarath can persuade the Alorn Kings otherwise," Silk said.

"The thing has to be recovered," Barak insisted.

"Granted," Silk agreed, "but there are other ways, and I hardly think a public street's the place to discuss our alternatives."

Barak looked around quickly, his eyes narrowing.

They had by then reached the harbor where the masts of the ships of

Cherek rose as thickly as trees in a forest. They crossed an icy bridge

over a frozen stream and came to several large yards where the skeletons

of ships lay in the snow.

A limping man in a leather smock came from a low stone building in

the center of one of the yards and stood watching their approach.

"Ho, Krendig," Barak called.

"Ho, Barak," the man in the leather smock replied.

"How does the work go?" Barak asked.

"Slowly in this season," Krendig said. "It's not a good time to work

with wood. My artisans are fashioning the fittings and sawing the

boards, but we won't be able to do much more until spring."

Barak nodded and walked over to lay his hand on the new wood of a

ship prow rising out of the snow. "Krendig is building this for me," he

said, patting the prow. "She'll be the finest ship afloat."

"If your oarsmen are strong enough to move her," Krendig said. "She'll be very big, Barak, and very heavy."

"Then I'll man her with big men," Barak said, still gazing at the ribs of his ship.

Garion heard a gleeful shout from the hillside above the shipyard and

looked up quickly. Several young people were sliding down the hill on

smooth planks. It was obvious that Barak and the others were going to

spend most of the rest of the afternoon discussing the ship. While that

might be all very interesting, Garion realized that he hadn't spoken

with anyone his own age for a long time. He drifted away from the others

and stood at the foot of the hill, watching.