Z
In the early winter of that year, the Rivan Queen grew increasingly discontent, a discontentment and a waspish temper almost in direct proportion to her increasing girth. Some ladies might be uniquely suited for pregnancy; the Rivan Queen was uniquely not. She was snippy with her husband; she was short with her son; and on one occasion she even made an awkward attempt to kick the inoffending young wolf. The wolf nimbly dodged the kick, then looked with some puzzlement at Garion. ‘Has one somehow given offense?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Garion told him. ‘It is only that one’s mate is in some distress. The time of her whelping is approaching, and this always makes the she’s of the man-things uncomfortable and short-tempered.’
‘Ah,’ the wolf said. ‘The man-things are very strange.’
‘Truly,’ Garion agreed.
It was Greldik, naturally, who delivered Poledra to the Isle of the Winds in the middle of a howling blizzard.
‘How did you find your way?’ Garion asked the fur-clad seaman as the two of them sat before the fire in the low-beamed dining hall with tankards of ale in their hands.
‘Belgarath’s wife pointed the way.’ Greldik shrugged. ‘That’s a remarkable woman, do you know that?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Do you know that not one man in my whole crew took a single drink while we were at sea? Not even me. For some reason, we just didn’t want any.’
‘My Grandmother has strong prejudices. Will you be all right here? I want to go up and have a chat with her.’
‘That’s all right, Garion,’ Greldik grinned, patting the nearly full ale keg affectionately. ‘I’ll be just fine.’
Garion went upstairs to the royal apartments.
The tawny-haired woman sat by the fire, idly stroking the young wolf’s ears. Ce’Nedra was sprawled rather awkwardly on a divan.
‘Ah, there you are, Garion,’ Poledra said. She sniffed the air rather delicately. ‘I notice you’ve been drinking.’ Her tone was disapproving.
‘I had one tankard with Greldik.’
‘Would you please sit over there on the other side of the room then? One’s sense of smell is quite acute, and the odor of ale turns one’s stomach.’
‘Is that why you disapprove of drinking?’
‘Of course. What other reason could there be?’
‘I think Aunt Pol disapproves on some sort of moral grounds.’
‘Polgara has some obscure prejudices. Now then,’ she went on seriously. ‘My daughter is in no condition to travel just now, so I’m here to deliver Ce’Nedra’s baby. Pol gave me all sorts of instructions, most of which I intend to ignore. Giving birth is a natural process, and the less interference the better. When it starts, I want you to take Geran and this young wolf here and go to the extreme far end of the Citadel. I’ll send for you when it’s all over.’
‘Yes, Grandmother.’
‘He’s a nice boy,’ Poledra said to the Rivan Queen.
‘I rather like him.’
‘I certainly hope so. All right, then, Garion, just as soon as the baby’s born and we’re sure everything’s all right, you and I are going to return to the Vale. Polgara’s a few weeks behind Ce’Nedra, but we really don’t have too much time to waste. Pol wants you to be there when she gives birth.’
‘You have to go, Garion,’ Ce’Nedra said. ‘I only wish I could.’
Garion was a bit dubious about leaving his wife so soon after she was delivered, but he definitely did want to be in the Vale when Aunt Pol had her baby.
It was three nights later. Garion was having a splendid dream that involved riding down a long, grassy hill with Eriond.
‘Garion,’ Ce’Nedra said, nudging him in the ribs.
‘Yes, dear?’ He was still about half asleep.
‘I think you’d better go get your grandmother.’
He was fully awake immediately. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve been through this before, dear,’ she told him.
He rolled quickly out of bed.
‘Kiss me before you go,’ she told him.
He did that.
‘And don’t forget to take Geran and the puppy when you go off to the other end of the building. Put Geran back to bed when you get there.’
‘Of course.’
A strange expression came over her face. ‘I think you’d better hurry, Garion,’ she suggested.
Garion bolted.
It was nearly dawn when the Queen of Riva was delivered of a baby girl. The infant had a short crop of deep red hair and green eyes. As it had for so many centuries, the Dryad strain bred true. Poledra carried the blanket-wrapped baby through the silent halls of the Citadel to the rooms where Garion sat before a fire and Geran and the wolf slept in a tangle of arms, legs, and paws on a divan.
‘Is Ce’Nedra all right?’ Garion asked, coming to his feet.
‘She’s fine,’ his grandmother assured him, ‘a little tired is all. It was a fairly easy delivery.’
Garion heaved a sigh of relief, then turned back the corner of the blanket to look at the small face of his daughter. ‘She looks like her mother,’ he said. People the world over always made that first observation, pointing out the similarities of a new-born to this parent or that as if such resemblances were somehow remarkable. Garion gently took the baby in his arms and looked into that tiny red face. The baby looked back at him, her green-eyed gaze unwavering. It was a familiar gaze. ‘Good morning, Beldaran,’ Garion said softly. He had made that decision quite some time ago. There would be other daughters, and they would be named after a fair number of female relatives on both sides of the family, but it somehow seemed important that his first daughter should be named for Aunt Pol’s blond twin sister, a woman who, though Garion had seen only her image and then only once, was still somehow central to all their lives.
‘Thank you, Garion,’ Poledra said simply.
‘It seems appropriate somehow,’ Garion told her.
Prince Geran was not too impressed with his baby sister, but boys seldom are. ‘Isn’t she awfully little?’ he asked when his father woke him to introduce them.
‘It’s the nature of babies to be little. She’ll grow.’
‘Good.’ Geran looked at her gravely. Then, apparently feeling that he should say something nice about her, he added, ‘She has nice hair. It’s the same color as mother’s, isn’t it?’