Polgara the Sorceress (13 page)

Closely related to that trick is the trick of implanting false memories. When you use the two tricks in tandem you can significantly alter someone’s perception of what really happened during the course of any given event.

Mother also taught me how to ‘grow’ – to expand myself into immensity. I haven’t used that one very often, because it
does
tend to make one conspicuous.

Then, since every trick usually has an opposite, she taught me how to ‘shrink’ – to reduce myself down to the point of near invisibility. That one’s been
very
useful, particularly when I wanted to listen to people talking without being seen.

These two tricks are closely related to the change of form process, so they were quite easy to learn.

I also learned how to make people ignore my presence. This is another way to achieve a kind of invisibility. Since I was still infected with adolescence at the time, the notion of fading into the background didn’t appeal to me very much. All adolescents have a driving urge to be noticed, and virtually everything they do almost screams, ‘Look at me! See how important I am!’ Invisibility isn’t the best way to satisfy that urge.

The business of ‘making things’ – creation, if you will – was in some ways the culmination of that stage of my education, since, if looked at in a certain way, it encroaches on the province of the Gods. I started out by making flowers. I think that might be where all of us start. Creation is closely related to beauty, so that might explain it, although flowers are easy and making them is a logical place to begin. I cheated a little at first, of course. I’d wrap twigs with grass and then convert the object thus produced into a flower. Transmutation isn’t really creation, though, so I eventually moved on to making flowers out of nothing but air. There’s a kind of ecstasy involved in creation, so I probably overdid it, dotting that shallow swale where the Tree lived with whole carpets of brightly colored blooms.
I told myself I was only practicing, but that wasn’t entirely true, I guess.

Then one morning in the late spring of my eighteenth year, mother said,
‘Why don’t we just talk today, Pol?’

‘Of course.’ I sat down with my back against the Tree, waving off a few birds. I knew that when mother said ‘talk’, she actually meant for me to listen.

‘I
think it might be time for you to let your father know what you’re capable of doing, Polgara. He hasn’t fully grasped the idea of just how fast you’re maturing. You have things to do, and he’s just going to get in your way until he realizes that you’re not a child any more.’

‘I’ve mentioned that to him any number of times, mother, but I can’t seem to get the idea across to him.’

‘Your father deals in absolutes, Pol. It’s very hard for him to grasp the notion that things – and people – change. The easiest way to change his mind is to demonstrate your abilities to him. You’ll have to do it eventually anyway, and it’s probably best to do it now – before he gets his concept of you set in stone in his mind.’

‘What’d be the best way to do it, mother? Should I invite him to come outside and watch me show off?’

“That’s just a little obvious, don’t you think? Wouldn’t it be better just to do something during the normal course of events? An off-hand demonstration would probably impress him more than something that had clearly been carefully staged. Just do something without making a fuss about it. I know him, dear, and I know the best way to get his attention.’

‘I shall be guided by you in this, mother.’

‘Very funny, Polgara.’
Her tone wasn’t very amused, though.

I suppose we all have an urge to be theatrical, so my demonstration of my ability was rather carefully staged. I deliberately let father go hungry for a couple of days while I pretended to be deeply engrossed in a book of philosophy. He raided my kitchen until he’d exhausted the supply of everything remotely edible, and my father has absolutely no idea of where I store things. Eventually, he
had
to say something about his incipient starvation.

‘Oh, bother,’ I replied with studied preoccupation. Then,
without even looking up from the page I was reading I created a half-cooked side of beef for him. It wasn’t quite as pretty as a flower, but I know it got father’s attention.

It snowed on the eve of our eighteenth birthday, one of those gentle snows that settle softly to earth without making much fuss. Blizzards are very dramatic, I suppose, but there’s something restful about a quiet snow that just tucks the world in the way a mother tucks a small child into bed after a busy day.

I awoke early, and after I’d built up the fire, I stood at one of the windows brushing my hair and watching the last of the clouds move ponderously off toward the northeast. The sun mounted above those clouds to reveal a clean, white world unmarred by a single footprint. I wondered if it had snowed on the Isle of the Winds as well and what Beldaran might be doing on ‘our’ day.

Father was still asleep, but that wasn’t really unusual, since he’s never been an early riser. As luck had it, he wasn’t even snoring, so my morning was filled with a blessed silence that was almost like a benediction. I made a simple breakfast of porridge, tea, and bread, ate, and hung the pot on one of the iron hooks in the fireplace to keep it warm for father. Then I put on my fur cloak and went out to face the morning.

It was not particularly cold, and the damp snow clung to every limb of the widely scattered pines in the Vale as I trudged toward the Tree and my regular morning appointment with mother. A single eagle soared high over the Vale, flying for the sheer joy of it, since no other birds or animals had ventured out yet. ‘Polgara!’ he screamed his greeting to me, dipping his wings to show his recognition. I waved to him. He was an old friend. Then he veered away, and I continued on down the Vale.

The eternal Tree was dormant during the winter months, but he was not really asleep. I could sense his drowsy
awareness as I topped the rise and looked down into his protected little valley.

‘You’re late, Pol,’
mother’s voice noted.

‘I was enjoying the scenery,’ I explained, looking back at the single line of tracks I’d left in the newly fallen snow. ‘What’s Beldaran doing this morning?’

‘She’s still asleep. The Rivans held a ball in her honor last night, and she and Iron-grip were up quite late.’

‘Were they celebrating her birthday?’

‘Not really. Alorns don’t make that much fuss about birthdays. Actually they were celebrating her condition.’

‘What condition?’

‘She’s going to have a baby.’

‘She’s
what?’

‘Your sister’s pregnant, Polgara.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I just did.’

‘I meant, why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

‘What for? She’s mated now, and mated females produce young ones. I thought you knew all about that.’

I threw up my hands in exasperation. Sometimes mother’s attitude toward life drove me absolutely wild.

‘I
don’t know that you need to tell
him
about this. He’d start getting curious about how you came to find out about it. It’s easier just to keep quiet about these things than it is to invent stories. I think we should concentrate on something new this morning. Humans have a very well-developed sense of the awful. The things that frighten them the most always seem to lurk at the back of their minds, and it’s not very hard to tap into those thoughts. Once you know what a man’s truly afraid of, he’ll cooperate if you show it to him.’

‘Cooperate?’

‘He’ll do what you tell him to do, or tell you things that you want to know. It’s easier than setting fire to his feet. Shall we get started?’

I was melancholy for the rest of the winter. Beldaran’s pregnancy was but one more indication of our separation, and I saw no reason to be happy about it. I sighed a great deal when I was alone, but I made some effort to keep my feelings under wraps when father and the twins were
around, largely to keep mother’s ongoing presence in my mind a secret.

Then in the spring Algar and Anrak came to the Vale to bring us the news and to escort us to the Isle of the Winds.

It took us the better part of a month to reach the Isle, and Riva himself was waiting for us on the stone wharf that jutted out into the harbor. I noted that Beldaran had finally persuaded him to shave off his beard, and I viewed that as an improvement. Then we mounted the stairs to the Citadel, and I was reunited with my sister. She was awkward-looking, but she seemed very happy.

After they’d proudly shown us the nursery, we had a rather lavish supper and then Beldaran and I finally got the chance to be alone. She took me along the corridor that led from the royal apartments to a polished door that opened into those rooms Beldaran and I had shared before her wedding to Iron-grip. I noted that there had been a number of modifications. The hanging drapes that covered the bleak stone walls were almost universally blue now, and the golden lambskin rugs had been replaced with white ones. The furnishings were of heavy, dark-polished wood, and all the seats were deeply cushioned. The fireplace was no longer just a sooty hole in the wall, but was framed and mantled instead. Candles provided a soft, golden light, and it all seemed very comfortable. ‘Do you like it, Pol?’ Beldaran asked me.

‘It’s absolutely lovely,’ I replied.

‘These are your rooms now,’ she said. ‘They’ll always be here when you need them. I do hope you’ll use them often.’

‘As often as I can,’ I assured her. Then I got down to business. ‘What’s it like?’ I asked her as we seated ourselves on a well-cushioned divan.

‘Awkward,’ she replied. She laid one hand on her distended belly. ‘You have no idea of how often this gets in the way.’

‘Were you sick every morning? I’ve heard about that.’

‘Right at first, yes. It went away after a while, though. The backache didn’t come until later.’

‘Backache?’

‘I’m carrying quite a bit of extra weight, Pol,’ she pointed out, ‘and it’s in a very awkward place. About the best I can manage right now is a stately waddle, and even that puts a lot of pressure on my back. Sometimes it feels as if I’ve been this way forever.’

‘It’ll pass, dear.’

“That’s what Arell tells me. You remember her, don’t you?’

‘She was the lady who supervised all that dressmaking, wasn’t she?’

Beldaran nodded. ‘She’s also a very good midwife. She’s been telling me all about labor, and I’m not really looking forward to it.’

‘Are you sorry?’

‘About being pregnant? Of course not. I just wish it didn’t take so long, is all. What have
you
been doing?’

‘Getting educated. Father taught me how to read, and I’m reading my way through his library. You wouldn’t
believe
how much nonsense has accumulated over the years. I sometimes think the Tolnedrans and the Melcenes were running some kind of a race with absolute idiocy as the prize. Right now I’m reading “The Book of Torak”. The Master’s brother seems to have some problems.’

She shuddered. ‘How awful! How can you bear to read something like that?’

‘It’s not the sort of thing you’d choose for light entertainment. It’s written in old Angarak, and even the language is ugly. The notion of an insane God’s more than a little frightening.’

‘Insane?’

‘Totally. Mother says that he always has been.’

‘Does mother visit you often?’

‘Every day. Father tends to sleep late, so I go down to the Tree and spend that part of the day with mother. She’s teaching me, too, so I’m getting what you might call a well-rounded education.’

Beldaran sighed. ‘We’re getting further and further apart, aren’t we, Pol?’

‘It happens, Beldaran,’ I told her. ‘It’s called growing up.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘Neither do I, but there’s not much we can do about it, is there?’

It was rainy and blustery the following morning, but I put on my cloak and went down into the city anyway. I wanted to have a talk with Arell. I found her dress shop in a little cul-de-sac not far from the harbor. It was a tiny, cluttered place littered with bolts of cloth, spools of lace, and twisted hanks of yarn.

The bell on the door to Arell’s shop jingled as I entered, and she looked up from her needlework. ‘Polgara!’ she exclaimed, leaping to her feet and sweeping me up in a motherly embrace. ‘You’re looking well,’ she said.

‘So are you, Arell.’

‘Do you need a new dress? Is that why you came?’

‘No. Actually I’d like some information about Beldaran’s condition.’

‘She’s pregnant. I’m sure you noticed that.’

‘Very funny, Arell. What’s involved in giving birth?’

‘It’s painful, it’s messy, and it’s exhausting. You don’t want all the details, do you?’

‘Yes,
as a matter of fact I do.’

‘Are you thinking of setting up in business as midwife?’

‘Probably not. My interest is a little more general. Things happen to people – things that need to be fixed. I want to learn how to fix them.’

‘Women don’t become physicians, Pol. The men-folk don’t approve.’

‘That’s too bad, isn’t it? You can’t possibly imagine just how indifferent I am about the approval or disapproval of men.’

‘you’ll get yourself in trouble,’ she warned. ‘All we’re supposed to do is cook, clean house, and have babies.’

‘I already know about all that. I think I’d like to expand my knowledge just a bit’

Arell pursed her lips. ‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I think I am.’

‘I can teach you what you’ll need to know about childbirth, but–’ she broke off. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

‘Lots of secrets, Arell. I know about things my father hasn’t even dreamed of yet, and I’ve been keeping them from him for years now.’

“There’s a herbalist here in Riva. He’s grouchy, and he doesn’t smell very nice, but he knows which herbs to use to cure certain ailments. And then there’s a bone-setter over on the other side of town as well. He’s got hands the size of hams, but he’s got the right touch. He can twist and wrench a broken bone back into place with no trouble at all. Did you want to learn surgery as well?’

‘What’s surgery?’

‘Cutting people open so that you can fix their insides. I’m fairly good at that myself, though I don’t talk about it too often. There’s a surgeon here on the Isle as well as the herbalist and the bone-setter. He’s sort of fond of me because I taught him how to sew.’

‘What’s sewing got to do with cutting people open?’

She rolled her eyes upward and sighed. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘What do you do with a tunic after your father’s ripped it?’

‘Sew it up, of course.’

‘Exactly. You do the same thing to people, Pol. If you don’t, their insides are likely to fall out.’

I choked on that a little bit.

‘Let’s start out with childbirth,’ Arell suggested. ‘If that doesn’t make you sick to your stomach, we can move on to other specialties.’

I learned about ‘labor pains’, the ‘breaking of water’, and ‘afterbirth’. I also learned that there’s bleeding involved, but that it’s nothing to be alarmed about.

Then Arell took me around to introduce me to her three colleagues, passing me off as her pupil. Argak the herbalist had a tiny shop filled to the rafters with shelf after shelf of glass jars that contained his wares. The place was none too clean, but then neither was Argak. He reminded me a great deal of uncle Beldin in that regard. He was at least as grumpy and bad-smelling as Arell had told me he was, but I was there to learn from him, not to enjoy his company. A bit of flattery was about all it took to unlock his secrets, and I learned a great deal about alleviating pain and
suffering and how to control disease with various leaves, roots, and dried berries.

Salheim the bone-setter was actually a blacksmith, huge, bearded and very blunt. He was not above re-breaking an arm that had set wrong – usually by laying it across the anvil in front of his glowing forge and rapping it smartly with his hammer. Salheim fixed things that were broken – chairs, people’s legs and arms, wheels, and farm implements. Usually he didn’t even bother to take off his burn-spotted leather apron when he set a bone. He was, like all smiths, enormously strong. I once saw him literally pull a broken leg back into its proper position by bracing his foot against his anvil, taking hold of the offending limb and hauling on it. ‘Tie that board to his leg to hold it in place, Pol,’ he told me, straining to keep the twisted leg of his screaming patient in place.

‘You’re hurting him,’ I protested.

‘Not as much as having that broken bone jabbing up into his leg muscles will,’ he replied. “They always scream when I set a bone. It’s not important. Learn to ignore it.’

Balten the surgeon was actually a barber, and he had slim, delicate hands and a slightly furtive look on his face. Cutting people open – except for fun – was illegal in most Alorn societies in those days, so Balten had to practice his art in secret – usually on the cutting-board in his wife’s kitchen. Since he needed to know where things were located inside the human body, he also needed to open a fair number of the recently deceased so that he could make maps for reference purposes. I think he used a shovel in the local graveyard almost as often as he used his surgical knives in the kitchen. His anatomical studies were usually a bit hurried, since he had to return his subjects to their graves before the sun came up. As his student, I was frequently invited to participate in his ghoulish entertainment.

I’ll admit that I didn’t care much for that part of my medical studies. I rather like gardening, but the crops Balten and I dug up on those midnight excursions weren’t very appealing, if you want to know the truth.

There’s another of my ‘talents’, father. Did you know that your daughter’s quite a proficient grave-robber? Next time you come by, I’ll dig somebody up for you, just to show you how it’s done.

‘It’s best to get them drunk before you start cutting them open, Pol,’ Balten told me one evening as he filled a tankard with strong ale for our latest patient.

‘Is that to avoid the pain?’ I asked.

‘No. It’s to keep them from flopping around while you’re slicing them open, and when you get your knife into a man’s entrails, you want him to stay perfectly still. Otherwise, you’ll cut things you shouldn’t be cutting.’ He took hold of my wrist rather firmly as I reached out for one of his curved knives. ‘Be careful, Pol!’ he warned. “Those knives are very sharp. A sharp knife is the key to good surgery. Dull ones always make a mess of things.’