As soon as it was daylight, the two of them went in search of Belgarath. Errand could sense that Garion was troubled and he himself felt that the warning they had received concerned a matter of such importance that everything else must be set aside in the face of it. They had not really spoken much about it during those dark, silent hours while they sat together in the Hall of the Rivan King, waiting for the first light to touch the eastern horizon. Instead, they had both watched the Orb of Aldur closely, but the stone, after that one strange moment of crimson anger, had returned to its customary azure glow.
They found Belgarath seated before a recently rekindled fire in a low-beamed hall close to the royal kitchens. On the table not far from where he sat lay a large chunk of bread and a generous slab of cheese. Errand looked at the bread and cheese, realizing suddenly that he was hungry and wondering if Belgarath might be willing to share some of his breakfast. The old sorcerer seemed lost in thought as he gazed into the dancing flames, and his stout gray cloak was drawn about his shoulders, though the hall was not cold.
"You two are up early." he noted as Garion and Errand entered and came to join him by the fireside.
"So are you, Grandfather," Garion said.
"I had a peculiar dream," the old man replied. "I've been trying to shake it off for several hours now. For some reason I dreamed that the Orb had turned red."
"It did," Errand told him quietly.
Belgarath looked at him sharply.
"Yes. We both saw it, Grandfather," Garion said. "We were in the throne room a few hours ago, and the Orb suddenly turned red. Then that voice that I've got in here-" He tapped his forehead. "-said to beware of Zandramas."
"Zandramas?" Belgarath said with a puzzled look. "Is that a name or a thing or what?"
"I don't really know, Grandfather," Garion replied, "but both Errand and I heard it, didn't we, Errand?" Errand nodded, his eyes still on the bread and cheese.
"What were the two of you doing in the throne room at that hour?" Belgarath asked, his eyes very intent.
"I was asleep," Garion answered. Then his face flushed slightly. "Well, sort of asleep. Ce'Nedra and I talked until quite late. We haven't talked very much lately, and so we had a lot of things to say to each other. Anyway,he told me to get up and go to the throne room."
Belgarath looked at Errand. " And you?"
"He woke me up," Errand replied, "and he-"
"Hold it," Belgarath said sharply."Who woke you up?"
"The same one who woke Garion."
"You know who he is?"
"Yes."
"And you knowwhat he is?"
Errand nodded.
"Has he ever spoken to you before?"
"No."
"But you knew immediately who and what he is?"
"Yes. He told me that he needed me in the throne room, so I got dressed and went. When I got there, the Orb turned red, and the voice said to beware of Zandramas."
Belgarath was frowning. "You're both absolutely positive that the Orb changed color?"
"Yes, Grandfather," Garion assured him, "and it sounded different, too. It usually makes this kind of ringing noise -like the sound a bell makes after you strike it. This was altogether different."
" And you're sure that it turned red? I mean it wasn't just a darker shade of blue or something?"
"No, Grandfather. It was definitely red."
Belgarath got up out of his chair, his face suddenly grim. "Come with me," he said shortly and started toward the door.
"Where are we going?" Garion asked.
"To the library. I need to check on something."
"On what?"
"Let's wait until I read it. This is important, and I want to be sure that I've got it right."
As he passed the table, Errand picked up the piece of cheese and broke off part of it. He took a large bite as he followed Belgarath and Garion from the room. They went quickly through the dim, torchlit corridors and up a steep, echoing flight of narrow stone steps. In the past few years Belgarath's expression had become rather whimsical and touched with a sort of lazy self-indulgence. All trace of that was gone now, and his eyes were intent and very alert. When they reached the library, the old man took a pair of candles from a dusty table and lighted them from the torch hanging in an iron ring just outside the door. Then he came back inside and set one of the candles down. "Close the door, Garion," he said, still holding the other candle. "We don't want to be disturbed."
Wordlessly, Garion shut the solid oak door. Belgarath went over to the wall lifted his candle and began to run his eyes over the row upon row of dusty, leather-bound books and the neatly stacked, silk-wrapped scrolls. "There," he said, pointing to the top shelf. "Reach that scroll down for me, Garion -the one wrapped in blue silk."
Garion stretched up on his tiptoes and took down the scroll. He looked at it curiously before handing it to his grandfather. "Are you sure?" he asked. "This isn't the Mrin Codex, you know."
"No," Belgarath told him. "It isn't. Don't get your attention so locked onto the Mrin Codex that you ignore all the others." He set down his candle and carefully untied the silver tasseled cord binding the scroll. He stripped off the blue silk cover and began to unroll the crackling parchment, his eyes running quickly over the ancient script. "Here it is," he said at last. "'Behold,' '' he read, " 'in the day that Aldur's Orb burns hot with crimson fire shall the name of the Child of Dark be revealed.' "
"But Torak was the Child of Dark," Garion protested. "What is that scroll?"
"The Darine Codex," Belgarath told him. "It's not always as reliable as the Mrin, but it's the only one that mentions this particular event."
"What does it mean?" Garion asked him, looking perplexed.
"It's a bit complicated," Belgarath replied, his lips pursed and his eyes still fixed on the passage in question. "Rather simply put, there are two prophecies."
"Yes, I knew that, but I thought that when Torak died, the other one just -well-"
"Not exactly. I don't think it's that simple. The two have been meeting in these confrontations since before the beginning of this world. Each time, there's a Child of Light and a Child of Dark. When you and Torak met at Cthol Mishrak, you were the Child of Light and Torak was the Child of Dark. It wasn't the first time the two had met. Apparently it was not to be the last, either."
"You mean that it's not over yet?" Garion demanded incredulously.
"Not according to this," Belgarath said, tapping the parchment.
"All right, if this Zandramas is the Child of Dark, who's the Child of Light?"
"As far as I know, you are."
"Me? Still?"
"Until we hear something to the contrary."
"Why me?"
"Haven't we had this conversation before?" Belgarath asked drily.
Garion's shoulders slumped. "Now I've gotthis to worry about again -on top of everything else."
"Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself, Garion," Belgarath told him bluntly. "We're all doing what we have to do, and sniveling about it won't change a thing."
"I wasn't sniveling." .
"Whatever you call it, stop it and get to work."
"What am I supposed to do?" Garion's tone was just a trifle sullen.
"You can start here," the old man said, waving one hand to indicate all the dusty books and silk-wrapped scrolls. "This is perhaps one of the world's best collections of prophecy -western prophecy at least. It doesn't include the Oracles of the Mallorean Grolims, of course, or the collection that Ctuchik had at Rak Cthol or the secret books of those people at Kell, but it's a place to start. I want you to read your way through this -all of it- and see if you can find out anything at all about this Zandramas. Make a note of every reference to 'the Child of Dark.' Most of them will probably have to do with Torak, but there might be some that mean Zandramas instead." He frowned slightly. "While you're at it, keep an eye out for anything that has to do with something called 'the Sardion' or 'Cthrag Sardius."
"What's that?"
"I don't know. Beldin ran across the term in Mallorea. It might be important -or it might not."
Garion looked around the library, his face blanching slightly. "Are you telling me that this isall prophecy?"
"Of course not. A lot of it -most of it probably- is the collected ravings of assorted madmen, all faithfully written down."
"Why would anybody want to write down what crazy people say?"
"Because the Mrin Codex is precisely that, the ravings of a lunatic. The Mrin prophet was so crazy that he had to be chained up. A lot of very conscientious people went out after he died and wrote down the gibberish of every madman they could find on the off chance that there might be prophecy hidden in it somewhere."
"How do I tell the difference?"
"I'm not really sure. Maybe after you've read them all, you'll be able to come up with a way to separate them. If you do, let us know. It could save us all a lot of time."
Garion looked around the library in dismay. "But, Grandfather," he protested, "this could takeyears!"
"You'd probably better get started then, hadn't you? Try to concentrate on things that are supposed to happenafter the death of Torak. We're all fairly familiar with the things that led up to that."
"Grandfather, I'm not really a scholar. What if I miss something?"
"Don't," Belgarath told him firmly. "Like it or not, Garion, you're one of us. You have the same responsibilities that the rest of us do. You might as well get used to the idea that the whole world depends on you -and youalso might just as well forget that you ever heard the words, 'why me?' That's the objection of a child, and you're a man now." Then the old man turned and looked very hard at Errand. "And what areyou doing mixed up in all of this?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," Errand replied calmly. "We'll probably have to wait and see, won't we?"
That afternoon Errand was alone with Polgara in the warm comfort of her sitting room. She sat by the fire with her favorite blue robe about her and her feet on a carpeted footstool. She held an embroidery hoop in her hands and she was humming softly as her needle flashed in the golden firelight. Errand sat in the leather-covered armchair opposite hers, nibbling on an apple and watching her as she sewed.
One of the things he loved about her was her ability to radiate a kind of calm contentment when she was engaged in simple domestic tasks. At such quiet times her very presence was soothing.
The pretty Rivan girl who served as Polgara's maid tapped softly and entered the room. "Lady Polgara," she said with a little curtsy, "My Lord Brand asks if he might have a word with you."
"Of course, dear," Polgara replied, laying aside her embroidery. "Show him in, please." Errand had noticed that Polgara tended to call all young people "dear," most of the time without even being aware that she was doing it.
The maid escorted the tall, gray-haired Rivan Warder into the room, curtsied again, and then quietly withdrew.
"Polgara," Brand greeted her in his deep voice. He was a large, bulky man with a deeply lined face and tired, sad eyes and he was the last Rivan Warder. During the centuries-long interregnum following the death of King Gorek at the hands of Queen Salmissra's assassins, the Isle of the Winds and the Rivan people had been ruled by a line of men chosen for their ability and their absolute devotion to duty. So selfless had been that devotion that each Rivan Warder had submerged his own personality and had taken the name Brand.
Now that Garion had come at last to claim his throne, there was no further need for that centuries-old stewardship. So long as he lived, however, this big, sad-eyed man would be absolutely committed to the royal line -not perhaps so much to Garion himself, but rather to the concept of the line and to its perpetuation. It was with that thought uppermost in his mind that he came that quiet afternoon to thank Polgara for taking the estrangement of Garion and his queen in hand.
"How did they manage to grow so far apart?" she asked him. "When they married, they were so close that you couldn't pry them away from each other."
"It all started about a year ago," Brand replied in his rumbling voice. "There are two powerful families on the northern end of the island. They had always been friendly, but a dispute arose over a property arrangement that was involved in a wedding between a young man from one family and a girl from the other. People from one family came to the Citadel and presented their cause to Ce'Nedra, and she issued a royal decree supporting them."
"But she neglected to consult Garion about it?" Polgara surmised.
Brand nodded. "When he found out, he was furious. There's no question that Ce'Nedra had overstepped her authority, but Garion revoked her decree in public."
"Oh, dear," Polgara said. "Sothat's what all the bitterness was about. I couldn't really get a straight answer out of either of them."
"They were probably a little too ashamed to admit it," Brand said. "Each one had humiliated the other in public, and neither one was mature enough just to forgive and let it slide. They kept wrangling at each other until the whole affair got completely out of hand. There were times when I wanted to shake them both -or maybe spank them."
"That's an interesting idea." She laughed. "Why didn't you write and tell me they were having problems?"
"Belgarion told me not to," he replied helplessly.
"Sometimes we have to disobey that kind of order."
"I'm sorry, Polgara, butI can't do that."
"No, I suppose you couldn't."
She turned to look at Errand, who was closely examining an exquisite piece of blown glass, a crystal wren perched on a budding twig. "Please don't touch it, Errand," she cautioned. "It's fragile and very precious."
"Yes," he agreed, "I know." And to reassure her, he clasped his hands firmly behind his back.
"Well." She turned back to Brand. "I hope the foolishness is all past now. I think we've restored peace to the royal house of Riva."
"I certainly hope so," Brand said with a tired smile. "I would definitely like to see an occupant in the royal nursery."
"That might take a bit longer."
"It's getting sort of important, Polgara," he said seriously. "We're all a bit nervous about the lack of an heir to the throne. It's not only me. Anheg and Rhodar and Cho-Hag have all written to me about it. All of Aloria is holding its breath waiting for Ce'Nedra to start having children."
"She's only nineteen, Brand."
"Most Alorn girls have had at least two babies by the time they're nineteen."
"Ce'Nedra isn't an Alorn. She's not even entirely Tolnedran. Her heritage is Dryad, and there are some peculiarities about Dryads and the way they mature."
"That's going to be a little hard to explain to other Alorns," Brand replied. "Therehas to be an heir to the Rivan throne. The linemust continue."
"Give them a little time, Brand," Polgara said placidly. "They'll get around to it. The important thing was to get them back into the same bedroom."
Perhaps a day or so later, when the sun was sparkling on the waters of the Sea of the Winds and a stiff onshore breeze was flecking the tops of the green waves with frothy white-caps, a huge Cherek war boat maneuvered its way ponderously between the two rocky headlands embracing the harbor at Riva. The ship's captain was also more than life-sized. With his red beard streaming in the wind, Barak, Earl of Trellheim, stood at his tiller, a look of studied concentration on his face as he worked his way through a tricky eddy just inside one of the protective headlands and then across the harbor to the stone quay. Almost before his sailors had made the ship fast, Barak was coming up the long flight of granite steps to the Citadel.
Belgarath and Errand had been on the parapet atop the walls of the fortress and had witnessed the arrival of Barak's ship. And so, when the big man reached the heavy gates, they were waiting for him.
"What areyou doing here, Belgarath?" the burly Cherek asked. "I thought you were at the Vale."
Belgarath shrugged. "We came by for a visit."
Barak looked at Errand. "Hello, boy," he said. "Are Polgara and Durnik here, too?"
"Yes," Errand replied. "They're all in the throne room watching Belgarion."
"What's he doing?"
"Being king," Belgarath said shortly. "We saw you come into the harbor."
"Really impressive, wasn't it?" Barak said proudly.
"Your ship steers like a pregnant whale, Barak," Belgarath told him bluntly. "You don't seem to have grasped the idea that bigger is not necessarily better."
Barak's face took on an injured expression. "I don't make jokes aboutyour possessions, Belgarath."
"I don'thave any possessions, Barak. What brought you to Riva?"
"Anheg sent me. Is Garion going to be much longer at whatever he's doing?"
"We can go find out, I suppose."
The Rivan King, however, had concluded the formal audience for that morning and, in the company of Ce'Nedra, Polgara, and Durnik, had gone through a dim, private passageway which led from the great Hall of the Rivan King to the royal apartments.
"Barak!" Garion exclaimed, hurrying forward to greet his friend in the corridor outside the door to the apartment.
Barak gave him a peculiar look and bowed respectfully.
"What's that all about?" Garion asked him with a puzzled look.
"You're still wearing your crown, Garion," Polgara reminded him, "and your state robes. All of that makes you look rather official."
"Oh," Garion said, looking a bit abashed, "I forgot. Let's go inside." He pulled open the door and led them all into the room beyond.
With a broad grin, Barak enfolded Polgara in a vast bear hug.
"Barak," she said a trifle breathlessly, "you'd be much nicer at close quarters if you'd remember to wash your beard after you've been eating smoked fish."
"I only had one," he told her.
"That's usually enough." He turned then and put his bulky arms around Ce'Nedra's tiny shoulders and kissed her soundly.
The little queen laughed and caught her crown in time to keep it from sliding off her head. "You're right, Lady Polgara," she said, "he definitely has a certain fragrance about him."
"Garion," Barak said plaintively, "I'm absolutely dying for a drink."
"Did all the ale barrels on your ship run dry?" Polgara asked him.
"There's no drinking aboard theSeabird," Barak replied.
"Oh?"
"I want my sailors sober."
"Astonishing," she murmured.
"It's a matter of principle," Barak said piously.
"Theydo need their wits about them," Belgarath agreed. "That big ship of his is not exactly what you'd call responsive."
Barak gave him a hurt look.
Garion sent for ale, removed his crown and state robes with obvious relief, and invited them all to sit down.
Once Barak had quenched his most immediate thirst, his expression became serious. He looked at Garion. "Anheg sent me to warn you that we're starting to get reports about the Bear-cult again."
"I thought they were all killed at Thull Mardu," Durnik said.
"Grodeg's underlings were," Barak told him. "Unfortunately, Grodeg wasn't the whole cult."
"I don't exactly follow you," Durnik said.
"It gets a little complicated. You see, the Bear-cult has always been there, really. It's a fundamental part of the religious life of the more remote parts of Cherek, Drasnia, and Algaria. Every so often, though, somebody with more ambition than good sense -like Grodeg- gains control and tries to establish the cult in the cities. The cities are where the power is, and somebody like Grodeg automatically tries to use the cult to take them over. The problem is that the Bear-cult doesn't work in the cities."
Durnik's frown became even more confused.
"People who live in cities are always coming in contact with new people and new ideas," Barak explained. "Out in the countryside, though, they can go for generations without ever encountering a single new thought. The Bear-cult doesn't believe in new thoughts, so it's the natural sort of thing to attract country people."
"New ideas aren'talways good ones," Durnik said stiffly, his own rural background painfully obvious.
"Granted," Barak agreed, "but old ones aren't necessarily good either, and the Bear-cult's been working on the same idea for several thousand years now. About the last thing Belar said to the Alorns before the Gods departed was that they should lead the Kingdoms of the West against the people of Torak. It's that word 'lead' that's caused all the problems. It can mean many things, unfortunately. Bear-cultists have always taken it to mean that their very first step in obeying Belar's instructions should be a campaign to force the other Western Kingdoms to submit to Alorn domination. A good Bear-cultist isn't thinking about fighting Angaraks, because all of his attention is fixed on subduing Sendaria, Arendia, Tolnedra, Nyissa, and Maragor."
"Maragor doesn't even exist any more," Durnik objected.
"That news hasn't reached the cult yet," Barak said drily. "After all, it's only been about three thousand years now. Anyway, that's the rather tired idea behind the Bear-cult. Their first goal is to reunite Aloria; their next is to overrun and subjugate all of the Western Kingdoms; and only then will they start to give some thought to attacking Murgos and Malloreans."
"Theyare just a bit backward, aren't they?" Durnik observed.
"Some of them haven't even discovered fire yet." Barak snorted.
"I don't really see why Anheg is so concerned, Barak," Belgarath said. "The Bear-cult doesn't really cause any problems out there in the countryside. They jump around bonfires on midsummer's eve and put on bearskins and shuffle around in single file in the dead of winter and recite long prayers in smoky caves, until they get so dizzy that they can't stand up. Where's the danger in that?"
"I'm getting to that," Barak said, pulling at his beard. "Always before, the rural Bear-cult was just a reservoir of undirected stupidity and superstition. But in the last year or so, something new has been going on."
"Oh?" Belgarath looked at him curiously.
"There's a new leader of the cult -we don't even know who he is. In the past, Bear-cultists from one village didn't even trust the ones from another, so they were never organized enough to be any problem. This new leader of theirs has changed all of that. For the first time in history, rural Bear-cultists are all taking orders from one man."
Belgarath frowned. "Thatis serious," he admitted.
"This is very interesting, Barak," Garion said, looking a bit perplexed, "but why did King Anheg send you all the way here to warnme? From what I've been told, the Bear-cult has never been able to get a foothold here on the Isle of the Winds."
" Anheg wanted me to warn you to take a few precautions, since this new cult's antagonism is directed primarily atyou."
"Me? What for?"
"You married a Tolnedran," Barak told him. "To a Bear-cultist a Tolnedran is worse than a Murgo."
"That's a novel position," Ce'Nedra said with a toss of her curls.
"That's the way those people think," Barak told her. "Most of those blockheads don't even know what an Angarakis. They've all seen Tolnedrans though -usually merchants who deal quite sharply. For a thousand years, they've been waiting for a king to come and pick up Riva's sword and lead them on a holy war to crush all the Kingdoms of the West into subjugation, and when hedoes finally show up, the very first thing he does is marry an Imperial Tolnedran Princess. The way they look at it, the next Rivan King is going to be a mongrel. They hate you like poison, my little sweetheart."
"What an absolute absurdity!" she exclaimed.
"Of course it is," the big Cherek agreed. "But absurdity has always been a characteristic of the mind dominated by religion. We'd all be a lot better off if Belar had just kept his mouth shut.
Belgarath laughed suddenly.
"What's so funny?" Barak asked.
"Asking Belar to keep his mouth shut would probably have been the most futile thing any human being could even contemplate," the old sorcerer said, still laughing. "I remember one time when he talked for a week and a half straight without stopping."
"What was he saying?" Garion asked curiously.
"He was explaining to the early Alorns why it wasn't a good idea to start a trek into the far north at the beginning of winter. Sometimes in those days you really had to talk to an Alorn to get an idea through to him."
"That hasn't really changed all that much," Ce'Nedra said with an arch look at her husband. Then she laughed and fondly touched his hand.
The next morning dawned clear and sunny, and Errand, as he usually did, went to the window as soon as he awoke to see what the day promised. He looked out over the city of Riva and saw the bright morning sun standing over the Sea of the Winds and smiled. There was not a hint of cloud.
Today would be fine. He dressed himself in the tunic and hose which Polgara had laid out for him and then went to join his family. Durnik and Polgara sat in two comfortable, leather-upholstered chairs, one on each side of the fire, talking together quietly and sipping tea. As he always did, Errand went to Polgara, put his arms about her neck and kissed her.
"You slept late," she said, brushing his tousled hair back from his eyes.
"I was a little tired," he replied. "I didn't get much sleep the night before last."
"So I heard." Almost absently, she pulled him up into her lap and held him nestled against the soft velvet of her blue robe.
"He's growing a bit big for your lap," Durnik noted, smiling fondly at the two of them.
"I know," Polgara answered. "That's why I hold him as often as I can. Very soon he'll outgrow laps and cuddling, so I need to store up as much as I can now. It's all very well for them to grow up, but I miss the charm of having a small one about."
There was a brief tap on the door, and Belgarath entered.
"Well, good morning, father"' Polgara greeted him.
"Pol." He nodded briefly. "Durnik."
"Did you manage to get Barak put to bed last night?" Durnik asked with a grin.
"We poured him in about midnight. Brand's sons helped us with him. He seems to be getting heavier as he puts on the years."
"You're looking surprisingly well," Polgara observed, "considering the fact that you spent the evening at Garion's ale barrel."
"I didn't drink all that much," he told her, coming to the fire to warm his hands.
She looked at him with one raised eyebrow.
"I've got a lot on my mind," he said. Then he looked directly at her. "Is everything straightened out between Garion and Ce'Nedra?"
"I think so, yes."
"Let's be sure. I don't want things here to fly apart again. I'm going to have to get back to the Vale, but if you think you ought to stay and keep an eye on those two, I can go on ahead." His voice was serious, even decisive.
Errand looked at the old man, noting once again that Belgarath seemed sometimes to be two different people. When there was nothing of any urgency going on, he reveled in his leisure, amusing himself with drink, deception, and petty theft. When a serious problem arose, however, he could set all that aside and devote almost unlimited concentration and energy to solving it.
Polgara quietly put Errand down and looked at her father. "It's serious, then?"
"I don't know, Pol," he said, "and I don't like it when things are going on that I don't know about. If you've finished with what you came here to do, I think we'd better get back. As soon as we can get Barak on his feet, we'll have him take us to Camaar. We can pick up horses there. I need to talk with Beldin -see ifhe knows anything about this Zandramas thing."
"We'll be ready whenever you want to leave, father," she assured him.
Later that same morning Errand went to the stables to say good-bye to the frolicsome young horse. He was a bit sad to be leaving so soon. He was genuinely fond of Garion and Ce'Nedra. The young King of Riva was in many ways like a brother to Errand, and Ce'Nedra was delightful -when she was not going out of her way to be difficult. Most of all, however, he was going to miss the horse. Errand did not think of the horse as a beast of burden. They were both young and shared a wholehearted enthusiasm for each other's company.
The boy stood in the center of the exercise yard with the long-legged animal frisking about him in the bright morning sunlight. Then he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, turned, and saw Durnik and Garion approaching.
"Good morning, Errand," the Rivan King said.
"Belgarion."
"You and the horse seem to be enjoying yourselves."
"We're friends," Errand said. "We like to be together."
Garion looked almost sadly at the chestnut-hued animal. The horse came to him and curiously nuzzled at his clothing. Garion rubbed the pointed ears and ran his hand down the smooth, glossy forehead. Then he sighed. "Would you like to have him for your very own?" he asked Errand.
"You don't own friends, Belgarion."
"You're right," Garion agreed, "but would you like it if he went back to the Vale with you?"
"But he likes you, too."
"I can always come and visit," the Rivan King said. "There isn't really much room for him to run here, and I'm always so busy that I don't have the time to spend with him the way I should. I think it would be best for him if he went with you. What do you think?"
Errand considered that, trying to think only of the well being of the young animal and not of his own personal preferences. He looked at Garion and saw how much this generous offer had cost his friend. When he finally answered, his voice was quiet and very serious. "I think you're right, Belgarion. The Valewould be better for him. He wouldn't have to be penned up there."
"You'll have to train him," Garion said. "He's never been ridden."
"He and I can work on that," Errand assured him.
"He'll go with you, then," Garion decided.
"Thank you," Errand said simply.
"You're welcome, Errand."
"And done!"
Errand could hear the voice as clearly as if it had spoken in his own mind.
"What?"
Garion's silent reply was startled.
"Excellently done, Garion. I want these two to be together. They have things to do that need the both of them."
Then the voice was gone.