Disclaimer: The world and some of the characters in this story belong to
David Eddings.
Geran, Heir to the throne of Riva, walked slowly through the ruins of Belsambar's tower, thinking of the long-lost sorcerer who had been his grandfather's brother. Belgarath, of course, wasn't really his grandfather, since Father called him grandfather as well. But Geran figured it was better than saying, "great-great-great-great-great-great-great" again and again and again.
Belsambar had been an Angarak, Geran remembered. Mother had read part of grandfather's book to him, though she had read Aunt Pol's book more. Mother seemed to like Aunt Pol's book more. Geran wondered why. Maybe it was because they were both girls. Girls seemed to think in a certain way. Geran shrugged to himself as he picked his way around the massive blocks of stone strewn across the landscape, half-imbedded in the ground.
These stones were thousands of years old, Geran reminded himself. He was a little surprised they hadn't decayed by now. But maybe they were still bound by sorcery. Grandfather didn't like people to call it sorcery, though "magic" was even worse. Magic was something magicians did, like the Morindim. Geran shook his head as he thought of the Morindim invasion that had taken place when he was six. The Morindim were crazy. No wonder grandfather didn't like people calling it "magic". Then what did grandfather call it? Geran wondered. That was right. He called it, "The Will and the Word" or "our particular talent". Geran thought about it. Sure, "The Will and the Word" sounded better, but basically, it was just sorcery.
The Tolnedrans didn't believe in sorcery, Geran remembered. They thought it was some kind of trick. Geran thought that was pretty stupid, since the most important events in the world had been shaped by sorcery. Mother was an exception, of course. She had come to grips with that fact right about when Father had, and ever since then she didn't seem to have a problem. Father had said that she had been a bit startled when he turned into a wolf right in front of her eyes, though.
Geran yanked his mind back from his wandering, just in time to see a glint of brown catch his eye. It wasn't the brown like the dry grass or the earth, it was a rich, mahogany brown, like dark leather. Geran picked his way over. A strip of the stuff showed through a covering of rubble and dirt. How long had it lain there? Geran started to dig the stuff around it away with his fingernails, then got a sharp shard of rock to use. Soon he tugged a small book free, bound in brown leather. It didn't seem to be harmed from the time it was buried. In fact, the pages were only slightly yellowed.
Geran opened the book carefully, and read the first page. The letters were slanting and curved in a beautiful way, in dark ink that stood out against the pale page.
THE BOOK
Geran looked at the words for an instant, wondering whose it was. Then he shook himself for being so stupid. There was only one person who it could belong to.
His fingers trembling slightly, Geran turned the page of the tower's maker and began to read.
***
Ha ha. Didn't tell you about my other story. I got impatient to have more than one, and decided to put in this one, about the little-known Angarak disciple of Aldur.
Geran, Heir to the throne of Riva, walked slowly through the ruins of Belsambar's tower, thinking of the long-lost sorcerer who had been his grandfather's brother. Belgarath, of course, wasn't really his grandfather, since Father called him grandfather as well. But Geran figured it was better than saying, "great-great-great-great-great-great-great" again and again and again.
Belsambar had been an Angarak, Geran remembered. Mother had read part of grandfather's book to him, though she had read Aunt Pol's book more. Mother seemed to like Aunt Pol's book more. Geran wondered why. Maybe it was because they were both girls. Girls seemed to think in a certain way. Geran shrugged to himself as he picked his way around the massive blocks of stone strewn across the landscape, half-imbedded in the ground.
These stones were thousands of years old, Geran reminded himself. He was a little surprised they hadn't decayed by now. But maybe they were still bound by sorcery. Grandfather didn't like people to call it sorcery, though "magic" was even worse. Magic was something magicians did, like the Morindim. Geran shook his head as he thought of the Morindim invasion that had taken place when he was six. The Morindim were crazy. No wonder grandfather didn't like people calling it "magic". Then what did grandfather call it? Geran wondered. That was right. He called it, "The Will and the Word" or "our particular talent". Geran thought about it. Sure, "The Will and the Word" sounded better, but basically, it was just sorcery.
The Tolnedrans didn't believe in sorcery, Geran remembered. They thought it was some kind of trick. Geran thought that was pretty stupid, since the most important events in the world had been shaped by sorcery. Mother was an exception, of course. She had come to grips with that fact right about when Father had, and ever since then she didn't seem to have a problem. Father had said that she had been a bit startled when he turned into a wolf right in front of her eyes, though.
Geran yanked his mind back from his wandering, just in time to see a glint of brown catch his eye. It wasn't the brown like the dry grass or the earth, it was a rich, mahogany brown, like dark leather. Geran picked his way over. A strip of the stuff showed through a covering of rubble and dirt. How long had it lain there? Geran started to dig the stuff around it away with his fingernails, then got a sharp shard of rock to use. Soon he tugged a small book free, bound in brown leather. It didn't seem to be harmed from the time it was buried. In fact, the pages were only slightly yellowed.
Geran opened the book carefully, and read the first page. The letters were slanting and curved in a beautiful way, in dark ink that stood out against the pale page.
THE BOOK
Geran looked at the words for an instant, wondering whose it was. Then he shook himself for being so stupid. There was only one person who it could belong to.
His fingers trembling slightly, Geran turned the page of the tower's maker and began to read.
***
Ha ha. Didn't tell you about my other story. I got impatient to have more than one, and decided to put in this one, about the little-known Angarak disciple of Aldur.