Free Belgarath the Sorcerer by David Eddings Page A

of my own. I’ve slept in the woods, in ditches, and under haystacks, and the warm, friendly nature of my fellow-man has kept mepretty much constantly on the move. I think that just once, I’d like to have a place that nobody can throw me out of.’
    What could I possibly say to that? ‘You want some help?’ I offered.
    â€˜Not if my tower’s going to turn into something that looks like this one,’ he growled.
    â€˜What’s wrong with this tower?’
    â€˜Belgarath, be honest. This tower of yours looks like an ossified tree-stump. You have absolutely no sense of beauty whatsoever.’
    This? Coming from Beldin?
    â€˜I think I’ll go talk with Belmakor. He’s a Melcene, and they’re natural builders. Have you ever seen one of their cities?’
    â€˜I’ve never had occasion to go into the east.’
    â€˜Naturally not. You can’t pull yourself out of your books long enough to go anyplace. Well? Are you coming along, or not?’
    How could I turn down so gracious an invitation? I pulled on my cloak, and we went out into the rain. Beldin, of course, didn’t bother with cloaks. He was absolutely indifferent to the weather.
    When we reached Belmakor’s somewhat overly ornate tower, my stumpy little friend bellowed up, ‘Belmakor! I need to talk with you!’
    Our civilized brother came to the window. ‘What is it, old boy?’ he called down to us.
    â€˜I’ve decided to build my own tower. I want you to design it for me. Open your stupid door.’
    â€˜Have you bathed lately?’
    â€˜Just last month. Don’t worry, I won’t stink up your tower.’
    Belmakor sighed. ‘Oh, very well,’ he gave in. His eyes went slightly distant, and the latch on his heavy iron-bound door clicked. The rest of us had taken our cue from our Master and used rocks to close the entrances to our towers,but Belmakor felt the need for a proper door. Beldin and I went in and mounted the stairs.
    â€˜Have you and Belgarath had a falling out?’ Belmakor asked curiously.
    â€˜Is that any business of yours?’ Beldin snapped.
    â€˜Not really. Just wondering.’
    â€˜He wants a place of his own,’ I explained. ‘We’re starting to get under each other’s feet.’
    Belmakor was very shrewd. He got my point immediately. ‘What did you have in mind?’ he asked the dwarf.
    â€˜Beauty,’ Beldin said bluntly. ‘I may not be able to share it, but at least I’ll be able to look at it.’
    Belmakor’s eyes filled with sudden tears. He always was the most emotional of us.
    â€˜Oh, stop that!’ Beldin told him. ‘Sometimes you’re so gushy you make me want to spew. I want grace. I want proportion, I want something that soars. I’m tired of living in the mud.’
    â€˜Can you manage that?’ I asked our brother.
    Belmakor went to his writing desk, gathered his papers, and inserted them in the book he’d been studying. Then he put the book upon a top shelf, spun a large sheet of paper and one of those inexhaustible quill pens he was so fond of out of air itself, and sat down. ‘How big?’ he asked Beldin.
    â€˜I think we’d better keep it a little lower than the Master’s, don’t you?’
    â€˜Wise move. Let’s not get above ourselves.’ Belmakor quickly sketched in a fairy castle that took my breath away - all light and delicacy with flying buttresses that soared out like wings, and towers as slender as toothpicks.
    â€˜Are you trying to be funny?’ Beldin accused. ‘You couldn’t house butterflies in that piece of gingerbread.’
    â€˜Just a start, brother mine,’ Belmakor said gaily. ‘We’ll modify it down to reality as we go along. You have to do that with dreams.’
    And that started an argument that lasted for about sixmonths and ultimately drew us all into it. Our own towers were, for the